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 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
And The 
 Sphinx Spoke 
 
 By 
 
 PAUL ELDRIDGE 
 
 II 
 
 Introduction by 
 Benjamin De Casseres 
 
 Cover Design by 
 Carlo De Fornaro \ 
 
 THE STRATFORD COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 
 Boston, Massachusetts 
 
 Hi 
 
r 
 
 
 Copyright 1921 
 
 The STRATFORD CO., Publishers 
 
 Boston, Mass. 
 
 y 
 
 The Alpine Press, Boston, Mass., U. S. A. 
 
 ©CI.A622625 ' 
 
 \ 
 
Bebtcatton 
 
 Jl Sylvia — T^etit Sphinx {Bizarre 
 
Contents 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Paradise Regained 1 
 
 The Chinese Doll 8 
 
 An Old Woman Falling Asleep . . . .14 
 
 The Golden Wedding ...... 18 
 
 A Culprit 23 
 
 Dead Leaves 32 
 
 Their Dreams . 37 
 
 Time 43 
 
 The Golden Apple 53 
 
 Words 59 
 
 Three Men . 68 
 
 Art ... ■ 71 
 
 Evil's Good .73 
 
 Crosses 76 
 
 Worms and Butterflies 78 
 
 Pastels : 
 
 Happiness 87 
 
 The Thinker . .89 
 
 Popularity 89 
 
 Chacun a Sa Maniere 90 
 
 Mouse Preaches on Heaven . . . .90 
 
 Grain of Dust . . 90 
 
 A Divine Jest 90 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 
 
 
 The Ocean in Labor 92 
 
 I Am the Coffin 
 
 
 
 . 92 
 
 Morituri Te Salutant 
 
 
 
 . 93 
 
 Icebergs 
 
 
 
 . 93 
 
 The Cat and His Shadow 
 
 
 
 . 94 
 
 Caterpillar and Butterly 
 
 
 
 . 95 
 
 Illusion .... 
 
 
 
 . 96 
 
 The Final Reckoning 
 
 
 
 . 97 
 
 Consolation or Sonr Grapes 
 
 
 
 . 97 
 
 Free Will 
 
 
 
 . 98 
 
 To Posterity 
 
 
 
 . 99 
 
Introduction 
 
 THIS would be a worthless world without intel- 
 lectual and artistic pessimists. They are the 
 supreme critics of life. From iEschylus to Joseph 
 Conrad they have pronounced the single word "Vani- 
 tas." They are the everlasting Nay-sayers. 
 
 The pessimists have created some of the greatest 
 works of literature of all time. From the "(Edipus 
 Kex" of Sophocles to "The Mysterious Stranger" of 
 Mark Twain — a roll call of the poets, prophets, novel- 
 ists and philosophers who have hurled their impre- 
 cations at Life and its Author would be a roster of 
 most of the geniuses of the ages. 
 
 There is something solid and substantial in pessi- 
 mistic poets and philosophers. Optimism is the easi- 
 est way. To bawl, "Cheer up! — all's right with the 
 world!" pays — witness Elbert Hubbard and Doctor 
 Crane. The solidity and substantiality of pessimists 
 is rooted in final thought and feeling. A great pessi- 
 mist is never a coward; an optimist is seldom any- 
 thing else. 
 
 Still, the paradox of the whole matter lies in this : 
 the cry of the pessimist against life is the cry of a 
 soul who has said Yea to life instinctively. He is so 
 full of vitality and vision and the will-to-live that 
 this earth and its baubles cannot satisfy him. He is 
 a super-consciousness, a militant mystic. The opti- 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 mist is really deficient in vitality and vision. He 
 cannot face Reality. He falls on his knees in fear 
 before the Inexorable and Implacable. So he evolves 
 a system, a mask, an organ of defence, a lie. He is 
 the supreme enemy of Truth. 
 
 Not that the pessimist necessarily knows the Truth. 
 Truth is only a temperament. But he dares to affirm 
 Evil. He is a challenge. He is Lucifer, and he wars 
 against the smug Jehovahs and the Tupper of the 
 Stars. 
 
 Pessimism, in a word, is the soul of man raised to 
 the highest zenith of embattled consciousness. 
 
 I first came across that perfect artistic pessimist, 
 Paul Eldridge, in "Vanitas," his first book of poems, 
 I believe. I saw in him a spirit as rare as Poe, or 
 Baudelaire, or Leopardi. Not that he has written 
 poems that are always the equal of these sublime 
 pessimists — that does not matter; but in his ex- 
 quisitely chiselled imprecations I recognized a man 
 who was of their high aristocratic lineage ; one who 
 existed on their spiritual and intellectual plane ; one 
 who was heir to the Dreadful Vision; one who had 
 ripped the veil from the face of Isis — and was not 
 afraid. 
 
 Paul Eldridge is as fine an artist as he is an incor- 
 rigible pessimist. The stories and prose poems in 
 this book are among the unique things in American 
 literature. They are allegories of life written by a 
 man who records mournfully and artistically — but 
 always artistically. 
 
 Who are his forbears ? Baudelaire, Anatole France, 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 Jules Laforgue, Ambrose Bierce, Swift — I know not. 
 One must have artistic forbears. 
 
 "The Chinese Doll," in my opinion, is one of the 
 most powerful and most perfect things in any litera- 
 ture. Neither Baudelaire nor Poe has ever done any- 
 thing better. To have read it — well, do so. 
 
 Introductions never mean much. This volume must 
 be read. It will appeal to that immortal Ten Thou- 
 sand which I believe Stendhal said always have ex- 
 isted on earth — the Ten Thousand worth writing for. 
 
 BENJAMIN DE CASSERES. 
 
And The Sphinx Spoke 
 
 (To Benjamin De Casseres) 
 
 rr^HE Sphinx squatted in the middle of the Earth, 
 JL and looked into infinite Space and across eter- 
 nal Time. The shadows of Life and Death danced 
 weird, fantastic chiaroscuro dances upon his brow, 
 and Truth, half-goddess, half-star, glittered in his 
 eyes. 
 
 The Centuries one by one knelt in awe before him, 
 and passed on. And the Earth, weary, deluded 
 Seeker, lamented in endless monotone: "The Sphinx 
 alone knows. He has gauged the mystery of Things. 
 Oh, if only his lips would open, and his mouth 
 relate ! ' ' 
 
 But the Sphinx was silent. He looked into infinite 
 Space and across eternal Time, and was silent. . . . 
 
 At last, the Sphinx raised his mighty paw into the 
 air, and the Earth knelt, and awaited his eternal 
 verdict. 
 
 Slowly, hoarsely, in a tremulous voice, the Sphinx 
 uttered the wisdom of the Centuries that passed to 
 the Centuries that will follow : 
 
 The . . . thand . . . ith . . . dry!" 
 
 i i 
 
grfmotoletrgment 
 
 THANKS AEE DUE TO THE EDITORS OP THE VARIOUS 
 
 MAGAZINES FOR PERMISSION TO REPRINT IN THIS 
 
 VOLUME SEVERAL OP THE MANUSCRIPTS 
 
 PREVIOUSLY PUBLISHED BY THEM. 
 
PARADISE REGAINED 
 
 CENTURIES had passed since Adam and Ms wife, 
 Eve, had been driven, as one should be driven 
 out of Paradise, disgraced, hungry and naked. Being 
 human, they had long forgiven and forgotten their 
 father's cruelty, and spoke of him to their countless 
 descendants as merciful, tender, and wise. 
 
 Though divine hearts pump slowly and coolly, 
 Yahweh, too, at last, relented. He sent a messenger 
 to the ancient pair, to invite them to return to Eden 
 as supreme monarchs of all things therein, including 
 this time the Tree of Knowledge, since they had 
 already eaten of it. 
 
 Although Adam and Eve had learned to love the 
 Earth, which they had beaten and broken into fields 
 and gardens, they always yearned to go back to their 
 native spot. They accepted, therefore, the invitation 
 with many thanks to the messenger, and countless 
 prayers and hallelujahs for their merciful Creator. 
 
 When they reached the portals of Paradise, their 
 hearts sank, for what they saw was but an iron fence, 
 not much taller than themselves, and red with the 
 rust. They looked at each other understandingly, but 
 kept silent. The two guardians, who had awed them 
 at their dismissal, were old sleepy angels, with moth- 
 eaten wings, and their mighty swords were dull- 
 edged, rusty bayonets, on the point of falling out of 
 their half-closed fists. 
 
 M 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 The couple thought how easy it might have been 
 for them, had they known it, to overcome these 
 guards, and return long ago. They greeted the two 
 angels cordially, nevertheless, but they received no 
 answer save a weary glance, as that from half- 
 awakened dogs. 
 
 "My dear," Eve whispered to Adam, and grasped 
 tightly his strong arm. He patted her hand gently. 
 
 The Garden smelt mouldy and sour, for nothing 
 died here, but everything got old, staid old, and be- 
 came older eternally. It was early morning, and 
 they expected to hear the birds sing; but the birds 
 perched upon the black branches, were dumb. They 
 looked at their masters, unconcerned, showing neither 
 joy nor regret. The wind stirred drearily the very 
 yellow leaves, and produced a rasping sound like the 
 sharpening of knives and scissors. The Sun was 
 neither warm nor cool, and shone in parts only like 
 muddy glass. 
 
 "Dearest — dearest," whispered pathetically the 
 Ancient Mother, and Adam, the tender Giant, kissed 
 her, and soothed her. 
 
 With difficulty they recognized the Tree of Knowl- 
 edge. They looked at it long and reminiscingly, as 
 it had been the very source of their tragedy. The 
 apples were yellow, creased, and shrunken to the size 
 of nuts. Adam touched one. It fell immediately to 
 the ground. He raised it, and bit into it. 
 
 ' ' You take the rest, dearest, ' ' he said to his beloved 
 wife, "so you shall no longer be called the guilty one, 
 — although you know how little I think of you as a 
 culprit." 
 
 M 
 
PARADISE REGAINED 
 
 She thanked him, looked into his kind eyes, and 
 ate the rest of the apple. They expected some pro- 
 found revelation, but there was nothing save an in- 
 stinctive motion to hide their nakedness. But they 
 were both dressed now, and so they smiled. 
 
 Adam whispered into her ear: "We have much 
 better ones in our orchard, haven't we, dear?" 
 'Yes." And she kissed his big, capable hands. 
 Slowly the Snake dragged himself to a sunny part 
 of the Garden. Eve saw him, and uttered a small 
 stifled cry. 
 
 "What is it, dear?" 
 
 She pointed to their arch-enemy of yore. Adam 
 looked, unwilling to believe. 
 "He? He?" 
 She nodded. 
 
 "How small, how thin, how stupid he looks ! Why, 
 he is not much bigger than the worms that the great- 
 grandchildren of our great-great-grandchildren use 
 for bait for the fine fish they catch in our lakes!" 
 
 The Serpent looked up, and seeing once more his 
 former masters, whom he had wronged so, turned 
 about himself as tightly as he could in shame and con- 
 trition, and hissed f eebly,<— ' ' Forgive me. ' ' 
 
 With the politeness of a man who has lived long 
 out of Paradise, Adam answered immediately: 
 "There is nothing to forgive you for,— nothing, my 
 friend. Is there, Eve?" 
 "No — nothing." 
 
 The Snake unwound again slowly, and dragged 
 himself away. 
 
 Animals of various kinds, wild and domestic, all 
 
 [3] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 old and. weary, passed them by like mourners fol- 
 lowing a hearse, — tails and trunks and feathers drag- 
 ging in the dust. Once in a while one looked up, 
 with eyes that were invariably yellow and extin- 
 guished. Only the monkey who claimed to be the 
 gay personage of the place, turned his tail in a 
 pathetic effort to be clownish. Adam and Eve, being 
 kind and polite, laughed. Their laughter, like a sud- 
 den thunder-clap, stirred for a fraction of a second 
 to joyous mortality the immortal ones. 
 
 By this time, the couple reached the inner Garden, 
 where the Angels dwelt. The same silence, the same 
 monotony, the same jaundiced appearance, prevailed 
 here. The ground was strewn with stringless harps, 
 mouse-gnawed, and sand-eaten. The angels, naked, 
 many one-winged and some entirely wingless, were 
 squatting, and looking drearily at the new-comers, 
 who bowed profoundly, considering them their su- 
 periors. No one made answer. Nothing stirred. 
 
 Suddenly they heard a voice coming from a neigh- 
 boring bush. They listened intently. They seemed 
 to recognize it, although it was much feebler, lisping 
 and inarticulate. Yahweh, always very formal, 
 thought it proper to speak to his prodigal children, 
 as of yore, through a bush, although the bush would 
 no longer shine with his presence. 
 
 Adam and Eve knelt before the bush, but being 
 unable to distinguish the weak sounds that filtered 
 through the leaves, they answered in clear, human 
 sounds: " Forgive us, Father, we cannot under- 
 stand!" 
 
 [4] 
 
PARADISE REGAINED 
 
 After another effort or two, Yahweh, finding it im- 
 possible to keep up his role, came out of the bush. 
 He was old and yellow-eyed like the animals and the 
 angels, and his voice rasped like the wind among the 
 sharp, hardened leaves; but there was something 
 about him that resembled Adam — an old, decrepit 
 Adam — and Eve burst into tears. 
 
 Yahweh spoke : "You are forgiven your sin, though 
 I had never meant to forgive you. Now you are mas- 
 ters once more over Eden, and all that is within it, 
 save the angels and Myself. Obey what the angels 
 command you, and what I command you, and you 
 shall never die, even as ourselves ! ' ' 
 
 And as though thoroughly wearied or disgusted, 
 Yahweh turned his back upon them, and walked 
 slowly off. 
 
 Adam rose. "The same as ever, — domineering and 
 harsh ! And always insisting upon obedience. But 
 weak, and much slighter than myself. Had I seen 
 him face to face the first time, he should never have 
 driven us out, foodless and naked. Come, dear, stop 
 crying. Get up ! " He helped her, and wiped her 
 tears. 
 
 "Now come, — let us hurry out of this place, before 
 we, too, become jaundiced with eternity. Let us rush 
 back to our beautiful Earth, which we have broken 
 into a garden where birds sing and animals run, and 
 children laugh to shake the trees with gladness. ' ' 
 
 Eve looked into his eyes sadly, and said nothing. 
 
 "I wonder — if Eden was always so — and we were 
 blind being within it ! I wonder. But let us hurry, 
 for something of this air is already clinging to you, 
 
 [5] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 my dearest." And as he spoke, he pulled Eve after 
 him. They passed the animals who were dragging 
 their tails or trunks in the dust; they passed the 
 Snake, who, remembering something of his former 
 flattery, hissed, — ' ' My beautiful masters. ' ' The birds 
 were still dumb ; the Sun had become lurid with some 
 rags of clouds. At the gate, the two guardians 
 blinked, their swords sliding out of their hands. 
 
 "I know. I have a cure for Eden. I know'" 
 
 Eve looked at him, more youthful with the Earth- 
 air. 
 
 "I will bring my sons, and their sons — and we 
 shall set fire to it. Everything shall burn like dry 
 hay — everything — every one ! ' ' 
 
 Eve shrieked. 
 
 "What's the matter?" 
 
 ' ' Never ! Never ! I shall never let you ! ' ' 
 
 Adam had never heard his wife contradict him. 
 He had never heard her shout. 
 
 "What do you mean, Eve?" 
 
 "I shall never let you. We must still worship 
 Yahweh and the angels ! ' ' 
 
 "How can you say that?" 
 
 ' ' We must tell our children and all our descendants 
 that Eden is beautiful — that the birds sing — that the 
 animals run about and are eternally happy — that the 
 Tree of Knowledge is luxuriant — that our Father is 
 mighty — that — ' ' 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "They must never know what our origin is!" 
 
 ' ' I shall tell them the truth ! ' ' 
 
 ' ' No, you shall not ! ' ' 
 
 [6] 
 
PARADISE REGAINED 
 
 Adam looked at Eve, overwhelmed by her 
 audacity. 
 
 Eve continued, softty, taking his hands into hers, 
 and kissing them. "My love is boundless for you, 
 my husband. My faithfulness has been more con- 
 stant than the Earth. Promise me, dearest, promise 
 me — you will never tell the truth. Promise to let me 
 tell them what is just and fitting. Else I shall turn 
 back — to Eden — I shall die of shame!" 
 
 Adam remained silent. Eve caressed him, smoothed 
 his face with her soft hand, reminded him of past 
 joys, promised him keener ones in the future. Adam 
 nodded at last. "I promise." 
 
 At once he regretted, but it was too late. He 
 thought: "This is the second time she has seduced 
 me. She brought upon the Earth, first the era of 
 pain, and now the era of lies." And he hated her. 
 But Eve continued to caress his face, and murmur 
 endless promises. His blood coursed hotly within 
 him, and his lips sought hers. 
 
 He thought: "Some one will be born, some one 
 stronger than I, who will burn Eden — who will burn 
 it to ashes." 
 
 [7] 
 
THE CHINESE DOLL 
 
 HER name used to be Pierette, but it seemed too 
 girlish for such an old woman, and so it was 
 shortened to Pierre, which made people laugh. The 
 gods blessed her with their greatest gift — life. She 
 was ninety-four years old, maybe a trifle older,— for 
 had she not perhaps long ago pretended to be a little 
 younger than she actually was, as most women do, — 
 and afterwards, forgetting, miscounted? 
 
 However, the number of years she lived mattered 
 but little, for she had forgotten everything — events, 
 emotions, thoughts, as a tree forgets the leaves it has 
 shed. People pitied her — "Not even a memory, it's 
 terrible ! ' ' How silly ! Memories are hideous, hideous 
 as the shadows of withered leaves that cling to trees, 
 sometimes, in winter. 
 
 "Pierre" lived with her grand-da,ughter, who was 
 very kind to her. When she could no longer use her 
 legs, they bought an invalid's chair, wrapped her up 
 tightly with a lap-robe, and rolled her to the window. 
 At the window she spent her days, looking vaguely at 
 the atmosphere, or dozing. Most of the time she dozed. 
 At night, she could not sleep. Her grand-daughter 
 struck upon a remedy. She stopped moving her from 
 the chair to her bed, kept a light burning the whole 
 night through, and the old woman looked vaguely 
 about and dozed. 
 
 It was difficult to ascertain whether she could still 
 
 [8] ■ 
 
THE CHINESE DOLL 
 
 speak. At times she would utter a few sounds, but her 
 tongue slipped over her black gums, and nobody 
 understood her. That she could hear was quite evi- 
 dent, for the family often tried her by striking hard 
 metals against each other, or shouting . She would 
 always turn her head, and look, and immediately 
 growing weary of the effort, she would close her eyes, 
 slowly, like a sleepy cat annoyed by a buzzing fly. 
 
 Neighbors and relatives always asked about her, and 
 her grand-daughter always answered — "As nice as 
 ever, thank you. ' ' They would look at her, smile, jest, 
 and pat her softly, afraid of crumbling her. A young 
 reporter of a local paper wrote a whole column about 
 her — discussing incidentally himself, his family, the 
 great personages dead since her girlhood, kings and 
 emperors throned and unthroned, and the wonderful 
 things invented. He concluded his article with ' ' What 
 a marvelous blessing to live so long ! " as LaFontaine 
 used to conclude his fables with a very useful moral. 
 
 Somehow it was rumored among the students of a 
 dental school that an old woman, a hundred years old 
 or more, had suddenly erupted a third dentition. 
 Two professors and several students came to see 
 "Pierre." They opened her mouth wide, looked in, 
 struck her gums with an instrument, talked and talked, 
 and left, disappointed, but still hopeful. . . . 
 
 At the age of three, Margie, "Pierre's" great- 
 grand-daughter, developed a passion for dolls. The 
 rooms were strewn with them — of all sizes and of all 
 materials — paper, rags, celluloid, wood. All that could 
 be broken or torn, lay pathetically about like dead and 
 
 [9] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 dying soldiers — armless, headless, open bellies, their 
 bowels of straw trailing underneath chairs, eyes still 
 hanging out of their sockets by bits of thread, back- 
 bones broken like those of acrobats, legs outspread 
 to the hips like clever danseuses. . . . 
 
 A friend of "Pierre's" grand-daughter remarked 
 one day to the latter: "Doesn't your grand-mother 
 look just like a doll, a Chinese doll ? ' ' 
 
 The grand-daughter looked, and was struck by the 
 truth of it. 
 
 1 ' She certainly does ! It never occurred to me 
 before. ' ' 
 
 "Did she always have such a flat nose, squinting 
 eyes, and yellow skin ? ' ' 
 
 "No — hardly — she is getting more and more that 
 way. I wonder if they all get that way — or — " 
 
 Margie listened attentively to the two women, and 
 thought and re-thought in her little head. Then, 
 suddenly, as though she had just made up her mind, 
 she walked over to her great grand-mother and tried 
 to lift her in her arms. Finding this impossible, she 
 began to play with her — pulling down her eye-lids, 
 raising and dropping her arms, opening her mouth* 
 The old woman looked, amazed at her descendant, and 
 tried to doze off, but the little girl was too insistent. 
 She stood up on her tip-toes, and tried to push her 
 thumb into the tearing eyes. The old woman moaned. 
 Her grand-daughter who was busy talking to her 
 friend, turned around. 
 
 "What are you doing there, Margie?" 
 
 "This ith my doll!" 
 
 [10] 
 
THE CHINESE DOLL 
 
 "Your what?" 
 
 "My thinese doll!" 
 
 The two women looked at each other, taken aback. 
 Then they burst out laughing. 
 
 ' ' That 's your Thinese doll, is it ? " asked the friend. 
 
 "Yeth." 
 
 Margie swept with her tiny feet all her dolls of rag, 
 wood and celluloid, and spent her time exclusively on 
 her new toy. It was a wonderful doll indeed — a doll 
 that could close and open its eyes, that could breathe, 
 and moan, that could open a black mouth, and stick 
 out a red tongue, and drink water, and eat bread — a 
 marvelous doll! 
 
 On Margie 's birthday, her mother bought her doll a 
 Chinese kimono, and she invited all her little friends 
 to see the wonderful toy. She showed them how she 
 could close and open her mouth, how she could breathe 
 and moan. The older folks laughed, the little children 
 stared in utter amazement. They all asked their 
 parents, if they, too, could get Chinese dolls, and these 
 were promised for some dim Christmas. Perhaps, 
 indeed, they would get them. One never can tell. 
 
 "Pierre" became accustomed to the gentle tortures 
 of her great grand-child, just as a kitten learns to 
 accept with resignation the pulling of her tail, the kick 
 in her side, the tickling of her nose. And Margie 
 compromising, learned to avoid pushing her thumb 
 into the eye of her ancestor and the tearing of the rare 
 threads of her colorless hair. She learned to fear 
 certain unpleasant circumstances, as she would have 
 learned to fear the kitten's claws. 
 
 ["] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 In exchange for her little cruelties, Margie fed her 
 doll on bits of candies and cakes, that the ancient 
 woman greatly relished, and that were not given her 
 by the older people, who feared indigestion. She 
 insisted upon helping her mother dress and wash her 
 doll. Never was more complete possession 'claimed by 
 any one over anything. 
 
 "It's Nature's way," explained a lady, "the child 
 feels the blood-relationship between herself and the 
 old lady." 
 
 The explanation spoiled a little the pleasure of one 
 of the hearers. 
 
 "I should like to think it's really the love of a child 
 for a doll. ' ' 
 
 ' ' That 's cruel, ' ' answered the lady. 
 
 One early morning, Margie carried to her doll a bit 
 of cake she had saved from the night previous by a fine 
 moral ' ' coup ' ' against her own great desire to eat it. 
 
 The doll was very still. Her head was sunk deeply 
 into her chest, and her mouth and eyes were wide open. 
 
 "Here — dollie — ith cake." The doll did not stir. 
 ' ' Here ! ' ' She shook her. But the doll was as un- 
 concerned about the cake as ever. Then Margie put 
 the cake into her mouth. The mouth did not close, 
 and Margie tried in vain to force upward the lower 
 jaw. 
 
 "You're a bad doll!" She poked her thumb into 
 her eyes, at first gently, being afraid, then more and 
 more deeply. The doll did not ward her off as usually. 
 She struck her, but she did not budge. She pulled her 
 hair and ear. But the doll was very still. 
 
 [12] 
 
THE CHINESE DOLL 
 
 Margie burst into tears, and stamped her little feet. 
 "You bad, bad doll. I'll tell ma." 
 
 Her mother was still in bed, her eyes closed. Margie 
 shook her gently. 
 
 "What's the matter?" 
 
 "Dolly is a bad doll." 
 
 "Sh! Let me sleep." 
 
 "Dolly won't eat cake, and won't move." 
 
 ' ' I told you not to take cake to her. Do you want to 
 get your dolly sick f ' ' 
 
 * ' She ith a naughty doll. I poked here eyeth. ' ' 
 
 "I told you not to do that. I'll spank you for it." 
 
 "I hate my doll. I'll take the thithersh, and cut 
 her up, " and she went off to make her threat a reality. 
 
 "Come back here! Come back here!" And the 
 mother was forced to get up, and run after the little 
 girl. 
 
 "It was foolish of us to let the child think her a 
 doll. She '11 hurt her some day. ' ' 
 
 [13] 
 
AN OLD WOMAN FALLING ASLEEP 
 
 THE old woman sits for hours at the window. She 
 does not find it monotonous. At the window she 
 can see houses, the sky with its changing phenomena, 
 clouds, moon, sun-set, people, animals, for the old 
 woman can still see, although one eye is entirely 
 covered with a cataract, and the other is tearing 
 steadily. At the window she can hear, for she is not 
 totally deaf, the louder noises, — automobile-horns 
 warning pedestrians, coal sliding into cellars, huck- 
 sters shouting their wares, their hands placed at the 
 edges of their mouths, forming sounding-boards. 
 
 Frequently, however, the old woman closes her 
 eyes, and thinks. For years now the order of her 
 thinking has been the same. She begins by recalling 
 the dead who once were her relatives and acquaint- 
 ances. She tries not to omit one. She places them 
 from left to right in rows, about ten in a row. The 
 rows multiply, becoming in the distance smaller and 
 smaller, dimmer and dimmer, until they vanish out 
 of sight ; but she knows that behind her horizon there 
 are more and more. She sighs and nods several times. 
 
 Then she thinks of the work she has done, — for she 
 used to be a splendid house-keeper, praised by all her 
 neighbors, and shown off as a model to their wives by 
 dissatisfied husbands. She thinks of the loaves of 
 bread she baked, — every day two large ones, and she 
 piles them up on the ground, loaves on loaves, rising 
 
 [14] 
 
AN OLD WOMAN FALLING ASLEEP 
 
 higher and higher until they become a little hillock, 
 then a hill, then a mountain. 
 
 She thinks of the meat she cooked. Her family was 
 always large, and they all liked meat, from the very 
 tiniest to the oldest. Yes, — she has cooked much meat, 
 — roasts, and soups, and steaks, — and she puts the 
 pieces of meat together until they form oxen and pigs 
 and fowls of all kinds — enormous flocks — tramping 
 on, bellowing, screaming, screeching, — a crazy army 
 that makes her laugh. 
 
 And the vegetables she used with these? Carrots 
 and parsnips and peas, and corn, and potatoes, and 
 tomatoes, — that break the Earth like a volcano, and 
 grow into monster trees, and colossal leaves, 
 smothering the world with their shadows. And she 
 thinks of a knife large enough to peel that mountain of 
 a potato — a knife with a blade as wide as the street, no, 
 two streets, ten streets, and sharp, sharp as the light- 
 ning that she saw setting ablaze her cousin's house, 
 years, years ago, — and she shudders. She always 
 hated knives, and hatchets, and hammers. Her fingers 
 and nails were always bruised and cut. 
 
 She suddenly recollects that she has not included the 
 fish. She used to like fish ! Now she does not dare to 
 eat them. She cannot see the tiny bones, and her 
 hands tremble too much. A thin fluid courses down 
 her throat, leaving a pleasurable taste behind. Twice 
 a week for fifty years she cooked and baked and broiled 
 fish — every kind obtainable and every size, from tiny 
 ones like matches to enormous ones, heavy as pigs, 
 whose lifting hurt the muscles of her back. She 
 
 [i5] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 tightens her eyes, and she can see them alive — thou- 
 sands of them, crowded uncomfortably together in a 
 vast basin that resembles her grandchild's gold-fish 
 aquarium- — the small ones swimming on the backs of 
 the larger ones, that open and close their mouths like 
 petulant women. 
 
 She always remembers the laundering she has done. 
 What a task ! how her head used to swim and her back 
 hurt ! Dense vapors rise as though the Earth were 
 being boiled, and the old woman coughs, little coughs 
 like the hammering of tacks. Yes, if sheet were sewed 
 to sheet it would make a bag large enough to put in a 
 mountain, the whole Earth. 
 
 When she has finished thinking of her work, she 
 thinks of her off -spring. She counts them and names 
 them in order of their age — six sons, twenty grand- 
 children, twelve great-grandchildren. She arranges 
 them like a photographer, — in front the tiny ones sit- 
 ting on the ground, behind them the larger ones sitting 
 on chairs, and last of all her sons, standing — two al- 
 ready old, two turning, gray, two still young. 
 
 She thinks how good they are to her, how sweetly 
 one grandchild sings, how successful another is, and 
 her eyelids paste with tears. She is satisfied. She has 
 done her duty. She is happy. The children and 
 grand-children, and great grand-children overlap one 
 another; they become fluid; they recede — and her 
 head sinks on her bony chest, her lower jaw falls, and 
 she begins to dream — cemeteries and loaves of bread 
 rising point on point, like an endless pyramid, and 
 oxen with faces of chickens, and chickens with big 
 
 [16] 
 
AN OLD WOMAN PALLING ASLEEP 
 
 cloven hoofs — and little children— and fish — tiny fish 
 like matches — and large ones, heavy as pigs, that make 
 her back ache, and she moans. . . . 
 
 [i7] 
 
THE GOLDEN WEDDING 
 
 MR. AND MRS. LATOUR, having been married 
 for fifty years, their children insisted upon a 
 "Golden-wedding." The two daughters who lived in 
 the same city decorated the home of the old folks. 
 Wherever possible, yellow things, in imitation of 
 gold, were used. The old woman had a dress made, 
 with a long train, and gold lace, like a royal official ; 
 the old man wore his full-dress, but the younger 
 daughter insisted that he wear upon his lapel a golden 
 flower she had embroidered. 
 
 On the day of the celebration the four children with 
 their consorts and their children, as well as some 
 relatives, crowded the apartment of the bride and bride- 
 groom. A grand-daughter played the Mendelssohn's 
 "Wedding-March," and the old folks, amidst much 
 laughter and applause, walked up and down the 
 parlor, arm in arm, the poor thin bride stepping often 
 with her flat rheumatic feet on the endless train of her 
 dress. Then four grandchildren, the oldest and the 
 youngest included, recited four more or less appro- 
 priate recitations, which made the bride weep, the 
 groom nod incessantly, and the rest of the guests 
 suitably serious. A photographer was called in to 
 take pictures. Several bottles of champagne (the sur- 
 prise-gift of the oldest son) were opened; toasts, some 
 over-serious, and some smartly suggestive, were deliv- 
 ered, and the guests left, ' ' to permit the newly wedded 
 
 [18] 
 
THE GOLDEN WEDDING 
 
 couple to retire," as one son-in-law reputed for wit, 
 remarked. 
 
 The two daughters promised to return the next 
 morning, and clean up, and warned the old folks not 
 to attempt to do anything themselves. 
 
 Mr. Latour, still gay, led his bride chivalrously to 
 a large armchair, and then seated himself near her. 
 
 "Well, dear," he said, "you enjoyed yourself, 
 didn't you?" 
 
 ' ' Yes, but I am very tired. ' ' 
 
 "Of course, a little bride like you would get tired. 
 How did you like the baby reciting?" 
 
 "She's a dear." 
 
 "We can't deny it, — God has blessed us with splen- 
 did children." 
 
 The table covered with the remains of the feast, 
 and the broken echoes that seemed still to run vaguely 
 through the rooms, seemed as pathetic as the old 
 couple themselves. 
 
 The old man, always given to sentimental medita- 
 tion, thought : ' ' Life is a dream that grows old, and 
 crumbles, and turns to sand. Life is gilded dust, but 
 the gilt is rubbed off, and the dust remains. ' ' 
 
 To ward off a chill that began to shake him, he 
 poured himself out a glass of champagne. The wine, 
 coursing through his old veins, warmed him, and he 
 felt merrier. He approached his wife, and patted her 
 big gnarled hands, that seemed to be covered with a 
 kind of sand-paper. 
 
 "Dear, our life has been a happy one, considering 
 what happiness one can get out of life. ' ' 
 
 [19] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 "Yes, dear." 
 
 "You have been a fine little wife to me. Have I 
 been bad to you?" 
 
 "No, never. You have been a good husband, as 
 good a husband as I should want my daughters to have 
 always. ' ' 
 
 "You know, dear, I have never betrayed you." 
 
 Pie watched the old woman. He expected a caress 
 and praise for his remark, but the old woman rubbed 
 her feet, and moaned. 
 
 "Do you remember Jennie — what's her second 
 name — I can 't seem to recollect — she 's been dead now 
 twenty years at least. ..." 
 
 "Oh yes, I remember. You mean the one with the 
 reddish hair?" 
 
 "That's right. Well, she was a pretty girl, wasn't 
 she?" 
 
 ' ' Yes, very pretty. ' ' 
 
 "Well, she was dead in love with me; and I liked 
 her too — a lot — as I think of it now — but I spurned 
 her love — I didn't want to betray you. She was so 
 heart-broken, — she married an old widower who used 
 to beat her. ' ' 
 
 ' l Yes, she was pretty, ' ' the old woman repeated, as 
 she continued rubbing her flat rheumatic feet. 
 
 "And there was Annie. You didn't know her. 
 Her I really loved. But I said to myself and her : ' I 
 have promised to be faithful to my wife, and will be 
 so to the end of my days. ' It wasn 't easy, though. I 
 can say it calmly now, but then — I really had to fight 
 a hard battle — and the poor girl — " 
 
 [20] 
 
THE GOLDEN WEDDING 
 
 "Dear, bring me some of the ointment. You made 
 me walk so much, and now my feet torture me. ' ' 
 
 The old man brought the ointment, and she rubbed 
 her callous feet, blue with the swollen veins. The 
 ointment exhaled a smell of garlic and mustard, and 
 the old man turned his face away. She put her stock- 
 ings on again, feeling relieved. 
 
 ' ' The best ointment I Ve ever used. You '11 have to 
 get me another bottle. It's almost gone. ' ' 
 
 Now that the pain had ceased, she felt pleasantly 
 drowsy, and began to yawn, widely and repeatedly, 
 showing pale uneven gums, with a black tooth here 
 and there. 
 
 "Yes, there is nothing like being faithful," the old 
 man insisted. He was in his sentimental mood, in- 
 creased by the champagne he had drunk, and he longed 
 for commendation. 
 
 The old woman's eyes closed slowly, and her mouth 
 opened. One or two flies buzzed across her face, and 
 she shook her head to ward them off. 
 
 The old man was seized with disgust. He drank 
 another glass of champagne, and seated himself 
 deeply in an arm-chair. The women he had loved, but 
 renounced, appeared before him, young and pretty, 
 as he had seen them in his youth, and taunted him 
 with smiles, and pouting lips. He tried to embrace 
 them, but they vanished, and in their place he saw 
 opposite him, his wife, her withered head on her 
 sunken chest, snoring, and twisting her open mouth, 
 trying to drive off the flies. 
 
 "And all for this hag!" the old man thought, ex- 
 
 [21] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 cited by the champagne. An impulse to go and choke 
 her overwhelmed him, but his feet were too heavy, 
 and his head was swimming. 
 
 "All for this hag!" he repeated; "life is mud!" 
 His eyes closed, his mouth opened, — a big mouth, 
 with half a dozen teeth on the lower jaw, — and he be- 
 gan to snore. Flies buzzed about his face, and he shook 
 his head to ward them off. . . . 
 
 In a distant house some one played Mendelssohn's 
 "Wedding-March". . . . 
 
 22 
 
A CULPRIT 
 
 FRANC 01 SE was dozing on a bench on the Bid. 
 Montmartre, dreaming indistinctly of dishes, 
 brooms, and her employers. Suddenly she awoke, 
 and began to rub her left leg as though it had been 
 asleep or stiff with rheumatism. She raised her skirt 
 and tapped from the ankle to the buttock. Then 
 rapidly she did the same with her right leg. Her face 
 twitched, and she shivered. ' ' I am robbed ! ' ' she 
 screamed. ' ' Police ! Police ! ' ' 
 
 In a moment she was surrounded by a crowd, watch- 
 ing her tapping and rubbing her legs. 
 
 " What's the matter?" a few asked at one time. 
 
 "I've been dozing here a bit — I was so hot — and 
 when I got up — I didn 't find my money. ' ' And obliv- 
 ious of propriety, Francoise in her despair, raised 
 again her skirt to prove to herself and to the people 
 about her that she was right. The people laughed, a 
 few whispered obscene remarks into their neighbors' 
 ears. 
 
 1 ' Did anybody sit near you ? ' ' 
 
 "I don't know. I fell asleep." And she moaned, 
 rubbing violently her face. "I am robbed! Three 
 hundred and eighty francs ! My God ! ' ' 
 
 "Three hundred and eighty francs!" exclaimed 
 many voices in the crowd. 
 
 Francoise pushed the people aside, and being near- 
 sighted, bent her face almost to the ground, seeking 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 and sniffing, like some dog that seeks traces of his 
 master. She brushed aside bits of paper with her 
 big knotted hands. 
 
 11 Three hundred and eighty francs can't hide under 
 that cigarette-stub ! ' ' remarked some one, and made 
 several laugh. 
 
 1 ' Three hundred and eighty francs — she is crazy ! ' ' 
 
 "Impossible!" 
 
 ' ' How much did you say, — three francs eighty ? ' ' 
 
 Francoise did not answer, but continued to scan 
 the ground, pushing now and then the feet of the. 
 people that interfered with her. 
 
 A policeman recognizing that there was nothing 
 of a risky nature, approached. His left thumb stuck 
 in his belt, he dispersed the people majestically with 
 his right hand. He watched Francoise for a moment 
 as she was seeking, sweeping the side-walk with her 
 open palms. Then, tapping her back, he asked, 
 ' ' What 's the trouble ? ' ' Francoise continued to brush 
 the ground. He tapped her more forcibly, and asked 
 more imperatively, — ' ' Hey, what 's the trouble there ? ' ' 
 
 Francoise looked up, and seeing a policeman, re- 
 mained stockstill, her toothless mouth wide open. The 
 people laughed . 
 
 ' ' What 's the matter ? What are you looking for ? ' ' 
 
 Francoise stood up, and stammered, — "I am — 
 robbed — robbed, — ' ' 
 
 The policeman looked around severely, as if to 
 detect at one glance the culprit. The people answered 
 his look by perfect silence, as if allowing themselves 
 to be searched, knowing that they were innocent. 
 
A CULPRIT 
 
 ' " I dozed a bit here, monsieur, and when I got up, 
 my money was gone." 
 
 ' ' Where did you keep your money ? ' ' 
 
 1 1 In my stocking. ' ' 
 "And did you feel anybody meddling with your 
 stocking while you were dozing 1 ' ' 
 
 "No, monsieur." 
 
 ' ' Is there a hole in your stocking ? ' ' 
 
 Francoise raised her skirt up to her knees, and 
 looked at her legs. The people laughed, and friends 
 slapped each other's backs. There were indeed a few 
 large holes in both her stockings. 
 
 1 ' I never knew my stockings were so torn. ' ' 
 
 ' ' It must have fallen through one of those holes. ' ' 
 
 "My God! My G-od! All my money! All my 
 money ! ' ' And she burst into tears. 
 
 ' ' I think you 'd better come to the station, and make 
 your complaint to the authorities." 
 
 The policeman, straight as a fir-tree, and Francoise 
 bent as a reed by rain and wind, walked to the head- 
 quarters. As they passed the streets, people made way 
 for them, and some more curious than the rest, fol- 
 lowed them. 
 
 "She must be drunk." 
 
 "No. She walks straight enough. I rather think 
 she must have stolen something. ' ' 
 
 " It 's a disgrace for a woman of her age to be dragged 
 to the police-station. ' ' 
 
 ' ' She 's crazy. Can 't you see it in her eyes ? ' ' 
 
 "What does she scratch her legs like that for all 
 the time ? ' ' 
 
 l>5] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 " Nervousness. Sure sign of guilt." 
 
 Jfc dft. JB» JUm 
 
 W W VE" T? 
 
 When the required preliminaries had been made by 
 the officer, the magistrate asked: "Your name and 
 occupation ? ' ' 
 
 "Francoise Deland — servant at M. Latour, 42 Rue 
 D 'acier. ' ' 
 
 ' ' How old are you ? ' ' 
 
 "About fifty-two." 
 
 ' ' What did you do on the Boulevard ? ' ' 
 
 "I was dozing, Monsieur, dozing a bit- — being very 
 tired." 
 
 ' ' Did your master allow you to go out ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' Yes, monsieur, I was very hot, and a bit sick. ' ' 
 
 * ' And you dozed — and — ' ' 
 
 ' * When I woke up, my money was gone ! ' ' 
 
 ' i Your money ? How much was it ? " 
 
 "Three hundred and eighty francs, Monsieur." 
 
 i i Three hundred and eighty francs ! Three hundred 
 and eighty francs ! Your employer 's money ? ' ' 
 
 "No, Monsieur, my own — my own — my savings for 
 all the years." 
 
 ' ' Three hundred — and eighty — francs — your own — 
 savings — " 
 
 The magistrate looked at the woman, his eyebrows 
 knit to a sharp point. Francoise trembled, 
 
 "Why do you tremble?" 
 
 "I don't know, Monsieur. I am sick. All my 
 money gone ! ' ' 
 
 "All your money gone! Do you mean to tell me 
 that you would keep so much money in your stocking ? 
 
 [26] 
 
A CULPRIT 
 
 Are there no banks in this city ? ' ' 
 
 ' i Yes — Monsieur — but I was always afraid of banks. 
 You can 't be sure — when they are robbed — and a poor 
 woman like me — " 
 
 "Poor woman — with three hundred and eighty^ 
 francs! Look here, Francoise Deland, one of two 
 things — either you did not lose three hundred and 
 eighty francs — or you stole that money — confess now. ' ' 
 
 Francoise opened wide her mouth and eyes. 
 
 "Come — confess now — or there will be trouble for 
 you ! ' ' 
 
 Francoise began to weep. "Monsieur — I swear — I 
 swear — it was my money — three hundred and eighty 
 francs — and I lost it ! " 
 
 The magistrate stamped his foot, and struck his 
 desk with his fist. ' ' Did you hear me 1 Confess — or — " 
 
 Francoise did not answer. She hid her face in her 
 palms, and sobbed. 
 
 "Officer, go at once to Monsieur Latour, 42 Rue 
 D'acier, and bring him here, also Madame Latour, if 
 she is there. ' ' 
 
 The officer left. Francoise looked up, not under- 
 standing. 
 
 "Now sit in there. We shall soon find out the 
 mystery of the three hundred and eighty francs." 
 Francoise was pushed into an adjoining little room by 
 a policeman, and the door closed upon her. 
 
 M. M. M. M. 
 
 W W "JP W 
 
 Monsieur and Madame Latour arrived out of breath, 
 being stout both of them, and over-excited. The 
 magistrate bowed to them, and explained in very suc- 
 
 [27] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 cinct terms the situation. He believed, he said, from 
 his wide study of faces, that Francoise must be dis- 
 honest, a thief, or a liar. Besides, she had trembled 
 before him, and wept at the wrong moment — infallible 
 symptoms. 
 
 Mme. Latour at once recollected that some silver 
 spoons were missing, that two francs had disappeared 
 one day quite mysteriously, and that Francoise al- 
 ways rubbed her legs, saying that she suffered with 
 rheumatism, when she probably was feeling for her 
 money. Monsieur Latour recollected nothing in par- 
 ticular. He had always thought Francoise a good old 
 woman. 
 
 "You always trust people", Mme. Latour com- 
 plained. "Monsieur — my husband is the easiest man 
 in the world." 
 
 "But, my dear, when you have no reason to mis- 
 trust." 
 
 "No reason, indeed!" she exclaimed, "See, where 
 your easy ways lead you to ! " 
 
 "One should always suspect, Monsieur," added the 
 magistrate. 
 
 ' ' Thank you Monsieur for telling him this. Maybe 
 your words will have a greater influence over him 
 than mine." 
 
 "You don't think though that she had three hun- 
 dred and eighty francs or that she stole that money 
 from you ? ' ' asked the Magistrate. 
 
 "Where is the money, Monsieur, I might recognize 
 it. I remember the two francs had a spot — " 
 
 "No, no, you did not understand me, Madame. "We 
 
 [28] 
 
A CULPRIT 
 
 have no money here. She claims she lost it. ' ' 
 
 "Oh! I thought the money was found — and you 
 wished me to identify it. For in that case — " 
 
 The magistrate smiled. "No, Madame." 
 
 ' ' Perhaps, ' ' said Monsieur Latour, ' ' perhaps Fran- 
 coise has really lost some money — and said three hun- 
 dred and eighty francs purposely — thinking the gov- 
 ernment would refund it — she is a simple woman, 
 Monsieur. 
 
 "Again you trust people, dear!" 
 
 "But, my dear — " 
 
 "Bring in the culprit," ordered the magistrate to 
 an officer. Francoise bent like an octogenarian, her 
 face all muddy from tears, appeared. 
 
 "Your employers do not seem to be sure whether 
 it was their money that you lost or not. Won't you 
 confess, Francoise?" 
 
 She looked, dazed, at the magistrate, then at her 
 employers, and opened her mouth several times, but 
 could not articulate any sound. 
 
 "Well, tell us." 
 
 "Come, Francoise", added M. Latour, gently, "tell 
 us." 
 
 "You need not be soft with her, dear. Francoise, 
 was that money ours ? ' ' 
 
 Francoise shook her head. 
 
 "Monsieur", Monsieur Latour exclaimed suddenly, 
 beaming with his thought, "perhaps Francoise has 
 only dreamt that she had the money and lost it. She 
 did not feel well to-day. Eh, Francoise, is that right ? ' ' 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 Francoise tapped her legs again, and stared at Mon- 
 sieur Latour. 
 
 "Madame Latour, do you charge this woman with 
 theft ? ' ' asked authoritatively the magistrate. 
 
 "I — don't — know — I must look around the house." 
 
 "But, my dear, we never had three hundred and 
 eighty francs at home. 
 
 ' ' What are you meddling in for ? And how do you 
 know that I never had three hundred and eighty francs 
 at home ? As much attention as you pay to the house- 
 hold!" 
 
 ' ' Will you keep Francoise in your custody, Madame 
 Latour, until you have made a close examination of 
 your belongings — or shall we imprison her until 
 then?" 
 
 "We'll keep her, Monsieur, we will", interposed 
 Monsieur Latour. 
 
 "Don't be so easy about it. And supposing she 
 did steal, and supposing she should steal again? — " 
 
 "She won't— she won't — will you Francoise?" 
 
 Francoise did not answer. 
 
 "I'll keep her, but on condition that she won't get 
 any pay until I have examined and investigated 
 closely everything." 
 
 "Well, then, Francoise Deland — you are fortunate 
 in having such employers. Go with them, and don't 
 disappoint their trust", said the magistrate fatherly. 
 
 "Come, Francoise", added Monsieur Latour, seeing 
 that the old servant did not budge, come". And he 
 took her arm. 
 
 [30] 
 
A CULPRIT 
 
 "You need not be so easy, dear. He spoils all my 
 servants. ' ' 
 
 The magistrate and the officers winked at one 
 another, interpreting "spoiled" in their own fashion. 
 
 "And if the money should be found", added 
 Madame Latour from the door, "please notify me at 
 once, that I might identify it." 
 
 "Yes, Madame." 
 
 3iJ 
 
DEAD LEAVES 
 
 THE old woman lay outstretched in the unpol- 
 ished coffin. She seemed straight now and tall, 
 although when alive two days ago, she was tiny and 
 bent, her head always scanning the earth, disproving 
 thus man's majesty, that he alone of all animals looks 
 directly into God's million eyes, the stars. Her face 
 showed unpleasantly the contour of her skull; in- 
 deed, it was already a skeleton, but covered with thin 
 yellow leather not to hurt the sight of the living, 
 and there was nothing about her toothless lips to 
 indicate that divine smile generally accorded to the 
 dead. 
 
 The room was still very neat. The old woman had 
 always been a fine housekeeper. She would raise her 
 bony, bent body as some thin dog that stands on his 
 hind legs, and would clean every speck upon the 
 walls and the humble furniture. When she lay dying 
 on her bed, her eyes, which were sharp and far- 
 sighted, noticed some unclean spot upon the ceiling. 
 She raised her hand feebly, and made a motion as 
 though cleaning the place; her old husband and an 
 aged neighbor who was there, whispered to each 
 other that she probably saw the Angel of Death com- 
 ing down upon her, and she tried to drive him off. 
 It was then that they knew in all certainty that she 
 was dying. Now her poor closed eyes rested forever 
 from the annoyance of this muddy planet, and a 
 
 [32] 
 
DEAD LEAVES 
 
 few flies felt at liberty to buzz undaunted about the 
 room, even at times touching their dead enemy's eye- 
 lids or sharp almost needle-like nose. 
 
 Within an hour or two the undertaker was to come, 
 and remove the corpse. Meanwhile two old women, 
 next door neighbors, were sitting at the window, 
 whispering to each other. 
 
 "Yes, she was a good soul, and cleaner than any 
 old woman I've ever known." 
 
 "I remember when I was sick last year, she kept 
 her own house and mine, and never seemed tired 
 out." 
 
 ' ' She had a wonderful constitution. You know, I 
 thought many times — 'This crippled little body will 
 outlive another generation of strong people.' And 
 now, here she is dead. ' ' And she sighed a long sigh 
 that fills the lungs to the apex, and cheers one. 
 
 "I should not be surprised to see her get off, and 
 begin clean around." 
 
 The husband of the deceased sat in a dark corner 
 of the room, a yellow-faced man, bald to the neck, 
 and shaking incessantly his head, as if to say to all 
 things, "No, no." His eyes were widely open, but 
 he saw nothing at all. Of all the seventy-five years 
 that he had lived, it seemed nothing had remained. 
 A mocking wind had blown away the debris of mem- 
 ory immaculate, as mocking autumn winds whirl 
 around the dried, twisted leaves of withering trees, 
 and whistle them far off, leaving the ground spotless. 
 For more than a half-century that little body in the 
 coffin had been his faithful wife; for more than a 
 
 [33] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 half-century they loved each other, first passionately, 
 then as the years passed on, quietly like brother and 
 sister. It was a fire that first burst in long tongues 
 of flame, then gradually subsided, covered itself with 
 a hillock of ashes, but never died out, and always 
 kept warm. They had a little son, wlro died many 
 years ago ; they had friends, who were all buried ; 
 they had money which was lost ; they had laughter, 
 and tears, and hopes, and disillusions, — but all these 
 things, this kaleidoscope of life had been washed off 
 the screen, and the screen crumpled up, and 
 thrown away. . . . And the old man sat huddled up 
 in the large chair, the straw of which was coming 
 out of its heavy belly, and saw nothing, knew nothing 
 of seventy-five years. 
 
 "I don't know why people want to live many 
 years," whispered one of the old women to the other. 
 
 "I suppose it's' because they've never known what 
 it is to be old. Now, what do you think her old man 
 will do without her?" 
 
 ' ' She was a wonderful wife to him. ' ' 
 
 "He was never so easy to get along with, — very 
 irritable." 
 
 "I suppose he'll be taken care of by the charities." 
 
 "The charities!" exclaimed the other, and laughed 
 like the nerve-racking tearing of fuzzy cloth, show- 
 ing two long yellow teeth, one in either jaw. "Don't 
 you know what the charities are ? ' ' 
 
 "I don't think he has any relatives. I never saw 
 any come up." 
 
 "No, it was rather a mysterious couple, — never 
 talked of themselves." 
 
 [34] 
 
DEAD LEAVES 
 
 "Who knows what their life has been?" 
 Then each woman's mind painted on a swiftly 
 turning canvas a life for the silent corpse and her 
 silent husband. These were, in general, unpleasant 
 lives, suspicious, vulgar, obscene, crowded with pain 
 and disillusion,— lives that old disappointed women 
 like old disappointed gods could create. 
 "You can never tell who people are." 
 ' ' Yes, it 's true, — you can 't. ' ' 
 'When is the undertaker supposed to come?" 
 "Should be here by this time." 
 "I am getting chilled. I should like to go in and 
 make me a cup of warm coffee." 
 
 "I guess we better wait, anyhow. He seems all 
 upset today." 
 
 Then there was silence again. The old woman lay 
 eternally still in her coffin; her old husband, weary, 
 fell asleep in the large chair, whose straw was drip- 
 ping slowly; the flies buzzed dreamily about the 
 corpse, the old women were looking out of the win- 
 dow and thinking of their kitchens, of warm clothes, 
 of coffee, of dead old women, and poor old men. 
 
 The undertaker came, the coffin was sealed, and 
 carried out: The old women followed, shedding a 
 few cold tears. The door was closed with a bang. 
 The old man deep in his chair was forgotten. He was 
 not supposed to follow the hearse, anyway. He had 
 heard no noise, and was sleeping on. Then he awoke 
 and looked about him. It seemed to him that some- 
 thing strange had taken place ; he tried to recollect 
 for a few minutes, but the canvas of life was being 
 
 [35] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 washed incessantly clean of all pictures. He rose, 
 walked to the cupboard, took some coffee, that his 
 wife had made, for she made coffee for a week at a 
 time, warmed it, and drank, while his head, bald to 
 the neck, shook and shook, saying to all things "No, 
 no." . . . 
 
 The wind, the master piper, whistled his eternal 
 Te Deum through the chimney. . . . 
 
 [36] 
 
THEIR DREAMS 
 
 JERROLD WILSON'S back was gradually acquir- 
 ing the bent of his profession, though his thin face, 
 colorless and drawn, and his dull blue eyes already 
 indicated what he had done for fifteen years. For 
 fifteen years, six days a week, and fifty weeks a year 
 (for his employer was a kindly man, who freed him 
 for two weeks at each revolution of the earth around 
 the sun) Jerrold bent over gigantic ledgers, and read 
 within the mysterious position of numbers, the losses 
 and profits of his firm. 
 
 He had not meant to work as a bookkeeper for so 
 long a period of time ; he had had several plans. He 
 might become the superintendent of the concern; he 
 might go into business for himself; he might engage 
 in a totally different work. But all these plans 
 gradually vanished in the icy embrace of daily needs, 
 even as the seeds of some of the prettiest flowers are 
 frozen by the evening's chilly caress. Jerrold, like 
 the millions of Jerrolds that had preceded him, and 
 like the millions of Jerrolds that shall follow him into 
 dim futurity, gradually passed from the period of 
 hope to that of rebellion, and from that of rebellion 
 to that of dull acceptance. It is so rare indeed that 
 a caged beast after a number of years either tries 
 to break the iron bars or devour the keeper. Thus, 
 Jerrold and the gigantic ledgers became two sides of 
 one single object, and neither in his waking hours 
 nor in his dreams, could they be separated. 
 
 [37] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 Jerrold Wilson was now thirty-three, and for the 
 last four years married to a good little woman, who 
 accepted him with his dull blue eyes and his growing 
 hump, as well as with his ledgers, his high desk, his 
 fifty weeks of yearly labor. If Jerrold had pictured 
 himself at any time a superintendent oj? a president 
 of a large concern, Anna, his wife, could never think 
 of him other than what he actually was. And she 
 was content, for she had seen what evil consequences 
 ambition might bring, as in the case of her own 
 father, who never could remain a full year in one 
 occupation or two years in the same city, and whose 
 family was either on the point of being dispossessed 
 or starving; or in the dreams of her father on the 
 point of gaining a million. 
 
 It was June, and as rare a day as any poet might 
 have a yearning for. When Jerrold left the office, 
 it was still full daylight, and even the heart of the 
 city of New York was by some magic filled with a 
 phantom smell of grasses and flowers, and two 
 butter-flies, white, as newly-wedded brides, dashed 
 through Broadway. And the warm sun unpasted 
 Jerrold from his ledgers, and he began to dream and 
 to plan as he had not dreamed and planned for 
 months, for years, perhaps. He was a superintendent, 
 he was a member of a large firm, he was a farmer 
 owning his garden and his home, and his little Anna 
 was the gay mother of his daughter and son, and he 
 was straight and stalwart, a prominent member of 
 the community,— a mighty architect building his 
 castles in Spain. 
 
 [38] 
 
THEIR DREAMS 
 
 Jerrold walked fast, and his heart was a drum 
 upon which the Future beat her victory marches with 
 silver sticks. He yearned to reach home, to embrace 
 his Anna, to tell her of his hopes, to picture to her 
 wealth and joy ; he could not keep so much happiness 
 within himself, — he needed to proclaim it to all the 
 world. Oh, that he might shout aloud across Broad- 
 way ! 
 
 Anna was a good little woman, plump, dully con- 
 tent, living in the present, forgetting the past, fear- 
 ing to think of the future. She clung to her husband 
 faithfully, — should not a wife do so? She was a 
 splendid manager of her home, and intolerably clean. 
 She could see specks of dust hidden behind tightly 
 nailed woodwork, and detect ashes of atomic size 
 upon a dark carpet. She had a manner of walking 
 through her rooms that did not touch anything, that 
 hardly disturbed the spotless sleepy air. Anna's 
 judgment of a person was primarily his cleanliness 
 and neatness, and though Jerrold could never have 
 been considered a careless man by any manner of 
 means, it took Anna months to train him to that 
 perfection of cleanliness which should make him 
 worthy of her. 
 
 Though Anna was not romantic, she had experi- 
 enced about three months of that condition of the 
 soul, two and a half months of the courtship, and 
 the first two weeks of her married life. And this 
 beautiful day of June, as she sat at the window to 
 rest, she longed to be courted once more, and relive 
 the first two weeks of her marital existence. With 
 
 [39] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 this yearning at heart, she looked innumerable times 
 at the clock upon the mantelpiece, and accelerated in 
 her imagination the eternal tick-tick of Time. 
 
 Jerrold entered quickly into the house, and in his 
 enthusiasm, forgetting all the instructions he had re- 
 ceived at Anna 's hands for four years, threw his hat 
 upon the table, his newspaper upon a chair, and 
 twisted the table-cloth sadly out of the center. He 
 was going to embrace his wife tightly, when the lat- 
 ter, seeing the disaster he had caused, forgetting her 
 visions, her courtship, everything, screamed: — "Oh, 
 oh, Jerry, Jerry, what are you doing ? What are you 
 doing?" 
 
 Jerrold stopped, chilled, and asked hoarsely, — 
 "What am I doing?" 
 
 "Look at the table-cloth, your hat, your paper, the 
 carpet!" 
 
 It was all over. Jerrold awoke, — but not fully, and 
 like one who is not fully awake, he was petulant, and 
 either to avenge himself or simply in an unconscious 
 effort to awake entirely, he pulled off the table-cloth 
 and threw it angrily upon the floor. 
 
 "There you are, pesky woman!" he shouted. 
 
 Anna had never seen him in this mood, and never 
 heard him use such adjectives before her noun. 
 
 He continued, — "It's because of your petty, stupid 
 cleanliness that I shall die in the harness." He did 
 not really know what to say ; he was no longer angry, 
 and wished to excuse himself by accusing her. 
 
 Anna could not answer. She burst into tears. 
 Jerrold would not yet wholly give in. He left the 
 
 [40] 
 
THEIR DREAMS 
 
 table-cloth upon the floor, and began walking up and 
 down the room. His dreams had vanished, his, plans 
 had been scattered in the winds, the ironic winds 
 which blow on forever, and he felt his very appetite 
 which came to him so regularly, change into an un- 
 pleasant sensation in his stomach. 
 
 Anna wept, and through her tears, she said : — 
 
 "Just because I loved you, just because I saw you 
 again courting me, and I was longing to see you, and 
 jump upon your neck, and kiss you, kiss you — " 
 
 Jerrold stared at her. 
 
 Anna continued — "That's what I get for my 
 love!" 
 
 He was on the point of telling her what he had 
 thought, what he had dreamed, why he had come in 
 in that fashion, — but it seemed so long, so useless, so 
 intricate, — that he only moaned. 
 
 He picked up the table-cloth, carefully covered the 
 table, hung his hat upon the rack, and folded his 
 newspaper. He had become himself once more, mild, 
 dull, stupidly content. The ledgers pasted them- 
 selves tightly once more upon his back which was 
 turning into a gentle hillock. Anna, seeing him ar- 
 range things, stopped weeping, grew reconciled once 
 more, forgot her romantic mood, and rose to prepare 
 supper. 
 
 As they were eating, Jerrold thought, — "When we 
 both dream again, shall we both be rudely awakened 
 again? I think it were best we'd never dream, at 
 least not at the same time." Anna was thinking, — 
 "Why are men so careless? I wonder if he really 
 
 [4i] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 straightened every tassel of the table-cloth. 1 must 
 go and see. ..." 
 
 142] 
 
TIME 
 
 HIS wife's death made Arthur disconsolate. 
 Though he was only a little over forty, he con- 
 sidered himself very old, and unable to form new con- 
 nections. For many years he and his wife had led a very 
 secluded life, and the philosophy he had formulated 
 about people and friendship made him too mistrustful 
 to seek sympathy from others. He sought sympathy, 
 therefore, in the memories of his wife and his past 
 life. Emma's childish face looked at him whimsically 
 out of eternity, and he could feel her pouting lips 
 press kisses on him — she loved to kiss like a little 
 maniac, incessantly — and he could hear her loud 
 voice — a spoiled child's voice — call him endless pet 
 names, — names of all sorts of animals, and birds and 
 things, impossible sounds, inverted words — he could 
 hear her stamp rapidly, like some miniature engine, 
 her left foot, tiny as a little girl 's whenever she would 
 become impatient over his ignorance of household 
 matters. Yes, he had been very happy with Emma — 
 Emma was a wonderful woman, and faithful, faith- 
 ful as a dog or a child — faithful, except for one epi- 
 sode in her life. Arthur remembered that episode 
 very distinctly, in fact, he remembered it better now 
 than he realized it then. It was a year or two after 
 their marriage that Emma began to correspond with 
 Fred. He lived in the West, and had come to New 
 York for a short visit, during which time — he made 
 
 [43] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 the acquaintance of the young couple. He was very 
 intelligent, rather handsome, and very lonesome. When 
 he returned West he begged of his new friends to write 
 to him. Arthur wrote one or two letters, then very 
 indolent by nature, stopped; Emma, on the other 
 hand, continued to write — long, half-lyrical, half 
 philosophic letters, — always about love, and life, and 
 virtue, and morality, and immorality. Fred answered 
 even oftener — a letter a day, sometimes two, in the 
 same vein, arguing or admitting, coloring everything 
 with descriptions of the beautiful Nature which sur- 
 rounded him. 
 
 Arthur remembered that at first he found this per- 
 fectly proper, but that after a time, something like a 
 worm or snake began to munch at his entrails ; that he 
 felt heavy and miserable, that he begged his wife to 
 stop her correspondence, that she refused, that they 
 began to quarrel, long, endless quarrels. . . Emma 
 must have written of these quarrels to her friend, who 
 thinking himself a knight of old, came to New York 
 to rescue the lady. . . . Then followed a week's deser- 
 tion, a stifled scandal, a repentance, a forgiveness, and 
 long, long, sleepless nights, miserable nights, eternal 
 nights, — and then gradually an acquiescence to 
 fatality, a slow forgetfulness — a complete oblivion — 
 it was many years ago — fifteen, sixteen, almost seven- 
 teen — and now Emma was dead — and he was alone — 
 remembering. . . He did not bear her ill will for her 
 youthful escapade, — had he not learnt enough to 
 understand life and things ? He only longed for her, 
 for her dear presence. ... If he had only some one to 
 
 [44] 
 
TIME 
 
 talk to of her, to relate her charm and her tenderness ! 
 He knew too well that people wonld listen and laugh, 
 and think him a bore. Who is interested in a widower's 
 sorrow ? 
 
 But as he was remembering, a desire to see his old 
 rival Fred overcame him. Fred would be interested 
 to hear of Emma ; they would talk over a cigar about 
 her love and wonderful personality. There was no 
 reason for jealousy any more, — they were both old 
 now, and Emma was dead. And Arthur began to love 
 Fred, the only living thing that united him to his 
 wife. He decided to go West, and see him, and if 
 agreeable to both, to establish himself there, and live 
 like two brothers. Certainly, Fred could have nothing 
 against him, since HE was willing to forgive. . . . 
 
 After much trouble, Arthur found Fred's address, 
 and one evening he boarded a train that would take 
 him to his former rival and present dearest friend. A 
 thin, constant rain was dirtying the windows of the 
 car, and Arthur, chilly, huddled in a corner, and tried 
 to think, to plan, to remember, — but his brain was like 
 a hollow shell, that lies still and dumb pressed against 
 the sands of the shore. . . . 
 
 Arthur reached his destination in the morning, — a 
 beautiful rose-colored autumn morning. He took this 
 for a good omen, — for no matter how skeptical we 
 might be about life and divinity, there still lurks in us 
 the vague thought or hope that some one is leading us 
 by the hand, and aright. 
 
 Arthur found Fred home alone. He was mending a 
 bicycle on the verandah. Arthur recognized him at 
 
 [45] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 once, although something struck him at the heart to 
 see the havoc the years had done,— the hair torn out, 
 the face creased and re-creased, the heavy bags be- 
 neath the eyes, the useless load of flesh and fat. 
 ' ' Don 't you recognize me, Fred ? " he asked. 
 Fred recognized him, but by an ancient instinct, 
 which tells us to hide our heads in the sand, that we 
 might not be seen, he answered, — "No sir. Who are 
 you?" 
 
 "Come, look at me closely." 
 
 He looked closely, and shook his head. He had just 
 read some Italian story, a vendetta affair, and wished 
 to gain time, to prepare himself for a fair combat. 
 
 Arthur felt he was recognized, but feared, and wish- 
 ing to put an end to this theatrical situation, he 
 grasped Fred's hand, and said, — 
 
 "Come, I am Arthur. Don't be uneasy to see me. 
 I am the best friend you have, and I have come on a 
 most friendly mission." 
 
 "Oh, is it you, Arthur? I did not recognize you. 
 You have changed a lot. We are pretty old. Well, 
 such is life. What can you do?" He spoke quickly, 
 wishing to hide his previous emotions. 
 "Come in, Arthur." 
 
 Fred preferred to speak with him in private. Who 
 knows, after all, what a man may have to say after so 
 many years of separation ? 
 
 They seated themselves at a table, and remained 
 silent for a while. When, Arthur, wishing to speak of 
 his object at once, and ease his friend's mistrust, said 
 abruptly, and without preparation : 
 
 [46] 
 
TIME 
 
 "Emma is dead." 
 
 ' ' Is that so ? When did she die ? " 
 
 1 ' About a year ago. ' ' 
 
 "What was the trouble with her?" 
 
 "I don't know, — her heart probably. She was 
 getting weaker steadily, and then one day, she col- 
 lapsed." 
 
 Fred tried in vain to remember Emma. She had 
 slipped his mind many years ago. He only remembered 
 that she had a very small foot, and on her right cheek 
 a tiny black spot. With these premises it was indeed 
 hard to reconstruct her whole person. 
 
 1 ' How old was she ? ' ' 
 
 ' You ought to know Fred. It 's now seventeen years 
 about since you haven't seen her, and she was about 
 twenty when you knew her,— that makes thirty-seven. 
 Yes, thirty-seven." 
 
 "That's right, thirty-seven. Life is cruel. Such a 
 young person — " 
 
 He wished to continue, but he did not know what 
 to say. And then — what was the proper attitude to 
 take? Should he be very sorry? Should he show 
 contrition ? 
 
 "Yes, she was a wonderful person," continued 
 Arthur, "a wonderful little woman, and I have been 
 left very lonesome. ' ' 
 
 "Yes, it must be hard to be a widower. Have you 
 any children ? ' ' 
 
 "No." 
 
 This relieved Fred, for he still feared this visit was 
 not a friendly one, — and who knows, perhaps the 
 
 [47] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 object of it was to find out whether a certain child 
 was her husband's or her lover's? Glad about it, 
 he said, "Well, it's a good thing, — no child has re- 
 mained motherless." 
 
 ' ' No, Fred, it 's a very sad thing, for I am dreadfully 
 lonesome. A child of hers would have consoled me." 
 
 Fred was afraid to say anything to this. He did 
 not know at all what was proper under the circum- 
 stances. 
 
 "Yes, I am very lonesome, and that is why I have 
 come here ; you see, for years after her love for you — 
 no, Fred, you need not worry about this — I haven't 
 come to scold you, as you will soon see — well, as I was 
 saying, for years we led a very secluded life — and now 
 I have no friends — no one — and I long to have some- 
 body to speak to about her — one who knew how dear 
 and charming she was — and you are the only person — 
 you who shared for a short time her love — let's see — 
 for just one week — it began on a Saturday evening, 
 and ended the next Saturday morning — you would be 
 the only person, I thought, who would understand me, 
 and be willing to speak about her." 
 
 At this moment, a woman's gruff voice was heard 
 from the verandah scolding some child. 
 
 Fred shivered. 
 
 Arthur continued:" You may have some cherished 
 memories that I should be happy to hear. Her name 
 even would be welcome to me. I like to hear it. I 
 speak to myself for hours together, and call her, — 
 "Emma — Emma— Emma — a dear name for her, don't 
 you think? You must have called her many a time, 
 
 [48] 
 
TIME 
 
 and must have thrilled at it. I confess years ago I 
 despised you for this — I could have killed you — but 
 now, I love you for it — I am happy she gave you a bit 
 of her affection — otherwise I'd be so lonesome now. 
 Believe me, Fred, I mean it." 
 
 The woman 's gruff voice continued to scold. 
 
 "You are like a brother to me now, and I should 
 want you to feel the same way about me. I mean to 
 stay with you — you need not fear — I have money. ' ' 
 
 ' ' I know, I know, I don 't fear. ' ' 
 'We shall spend many. hours talking of Emma, as 
 our cigars shall burn out, one after another — like her 
 dear life." 
 
 "I don't smoke." 
 
 ' ' Oh, don 't you ? Well, that 's a pity. Then over a 
 glass of wine or beer — you know — to make us 
 dream — " 
 
 "I don't drink." 
 
 " Oh is that so ? How is that ? ' ' 
 
 "I am the President of the Moral League of our 
 City." 
 
 "So? Is that true?" Arthur became uneasy, and 
 his thoughts were disturbed, as though loud bells had 
 been suddenly struck. 
 
 The woman's voice still scolded,— long, moral pre- 
 cepts about good and bad, wickedness and righteous- 
 ness, heaven and hell, the lord and the devil, of tongues 
 being pulled out, and hands chopped off. And now 
 and then, a thin voice answered, wailingly, — ' ' Excuse 
 me mother, excuse me. ' ' 
 
 [49] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 Arthur remained silent, trying to gather back his 
 thoughts. 
 
 "I might as well tell you", said Fred, " after the 
 little affair — with — your wife — I realized my great 
 sin — and I repented — and turned good — that's the 
 truth of it." 
 
 "What do you mean — you turned good? And you 
 call that a little affair?" 
 
 "Well, wasn't it? I was only a young man — I 
 made a mistake — " 
 
 "It might have been a mistake — but the memory of 
 it — we are only dealing in memories — Emma is dead — 
 and we are both old." 
 
 "That's exactly what I mean — we are old — I am 
 married — I have children — " 
 
 Arthur stared at him. And the thoughts that he 
 tried hard to gather back, scattered again, and he re- 
 mained silent. 
 
 "My wife is the daughter of a very devout Chris- 
 tian — a retired minister — and as I told you I am the 
 President of the Moral League of our City." 
 
 "Have you never spoken to your wife about 
 Emma?" 
 
 "Of course not. I did not see why I should speak 
 to her — of — your wife. She is the purest woman in 
 the world — and — such things — " 
 "And Emma — Emma?" 
 
 "Come now, don't be angry. But you know as well 
 as any one that if a woman does what she has done — " 
 "You dare to speak in this manner of Emma? Of 
 Emma ? ' ' 
 
 [5o] 
 
TIME 
 
 "Now please, don't shout! My wife is on the 
 verandah, and she might hear— I told you that I have 
 repented — and I am now old — and — " 
 
 "Well, did I come to scold you about it? Did I 
 come to blame you? I told you I have come to live 
 here, to be as a brother to you— to talk with you — " 
 
 "And I am repeating that I am now a married man 
 with children — and my responsibilities — both to the 
 family and to society — " 
 
 The woman's gruff voice stopped, and she appeared 
 in person, — a short, heavy individual, with very red 
 eye-lids. Seeing a stranger, she was taken aback. 
 
 'Why didn't you tell me you expected some one, 
 Fred ? Look at me, not dressed, not combed. ' ' 
 
 "I didn't know, dear. I didn't expect — " 
 'You always have unexpected visits, — always work- 
 ing for the good of others. I'd like to see what 
 reward — " 
 
 "No, dear, this gentleman is not on charity busi- 
 ness." 
 
 Meanwhile, a little boy, his face muddy from tears, 
 came in, and his mother, disgusted with him, dragged 
 him out by the arm. 
 
 "Come, I'll wash your face, and if you disobey 
 again — " 
 
 Arthur stood up. 
 
 "Well, it's true, Fred, I understand — you are 
 married — you have children — how many, by the 
 way ? ' ' 
 
 "Four." 
 
 [5i] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 ' ' Four — well, it 's quite a business to raise them, I 
 suppose. ' ' 
 
 "You can hardly realize it. You ought to consider 
 yourself happy for not having had this trouble, ' ' 
 
 "There is another train leaving for the East at 
 two, I believe, isn't there? Well, I still have time to 
 look about the city, and get to the station. ' ' 
 
 "Don't go yet. You'll have dinner with us. I'll go 
 and tell my wife. She hates unexpected things — her 
 heart — you know. But she is a wonderful woman — 
 the purest woman — " 
 
 "No, no, don't take the trouble, my friend. For a 
 woman with four children it's too much to receive 
 guests for dinner. ' ' 
 
 "She works so hard, the poor woman." 
 
 "Fred! Fred!", the gruff voice called from the 
 kitchen, impatiently. 
 
 "All right dear, just a minute please." 
 
 "Well, good-bye, Fred." 
 
 "Good-by." 
 
 When Arthur was on the street, he began to laugh 
 loudly, again and again. Passers-by thought the 
 gentleman was a trifle "off." He himself could not 
 understand why he laughed. . . . 
 
 [52] 
 
THE GOLDEN APPLE 
 
 THE Princess vowed before the Altar of the God- 
 dess of Love and Motherhood that never would 
 she marry a man unless he brought her the golden 
 apple which grows upon the golden tree at the Edge 
 of the World on the Brink which separates Death 
 from Life. 
 
 Princes and Kings, young and handsome and fam- 
 ous in battles, from all the five corners of the Earth 
 came to place at her tiny feet their hearts and their 
 fortunes, for her great beauty was known very far 
 and very wide. But without even glancing at her 
 suitors, she would ask, simply, nonchalantly, as if it 
 were merely the time of the day, — ' ' Have you brought 
 me the golden apple of the golden tree ? ' ' 
 
 Some, despaired, stabbed themselves in her pres- 
 ence; others, braver, promised to obtain the golden 
 fruit, even if the tree had already toppled over into 
 the Land of Death ; others, braver still, mocked her 
 and called her a witch, and went home to marry 
 kindlier lasses, and live happily ever after or dream 
 of the cruel princess, and curse her. 
 
 Years passed, and no prince returned with the 
 golden apple, and one day as the Princess looked at 
 herself in the small silver mirror she noticed two 
 wrinkles, one at the outer edge of each eye. She 
 shivered, and thought with regret of her vow. She 
 remembered the countless youths who had come to 
 
 [53] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 beg her hand, handsome, and strong, and famous. 
 For a long time now no one had knocked at the gate. 
 She sighed deeply and straightened out with her 
 small white fingers the two wrinkles at the outer 
 edges of her eyes. 
 
 A month later, the young Prince of who 
 
 had been held prisoner for many years by his ene- 
 mies, and who, therefore, only recently had heard 
 about the Princess and her wonderful beauty, was 
 kneeling at her feet, offering his heart and all his 
 domains. 
 
 The Princess asked him kindly, reluctantly, with a 
 tumult in her breast, — "Have you brought the golden 
 apple of the golden tree ? ' ' 
 
 He looked up, dismayed. She spoke quickly, fear- 
 ing ill consequences, — "But there is enough time to 
 speak of it, Prince. Meanwhile you are my guest 
 and my father's." 
 
 The Prince replied,- — "0 Princess, whatever you 
 desire shall be yours !" 
 
 That very day, the Princess ordered the three most 
 famous goldsmiths of her Capital to appear before 
 her. When they had made the twenty-four genu- 
 flexions, she began: "At the eastern corner of my 
 Estate there is a precipice. On the edge of the preci- 
 pice, there is an apple-tree. That tree and one of the 
 apples, I order you to gild heavily, so that they shall 
 seem of pure gold, and natural. The rest of the 
 apples shall be destroyed. Within three days, the 
 work must be finished. No one save you and myself 
 must hear the faintest whisper of this. Meanwhile 
 
 [54] 
 
THE GOLDEN APPLE 
 
 you are my prisoners. My faithful slave shall bring 
 you all the tools and the gold you need." 
 
 They made twenty-four genuflexions, and the Prin- 
 cess clapped her beautiful hands for the faithful 
 slave. 
 
 Three days later, at the edge of the precipice of 
 the Princess' Estate, there stood dazzling in the Sun, 
 a golden tree, and on it hung one golden apple, too 
 heavy to be shaken by the winds. 
 
 The three goldsmiths having finished their task so 
 splendidly, that they might not brag of it, were 
 choked by the faithful slave. But the Princess, being 
 charitable, gave their widows three handsome hus- 
 bands, and three small bags of gold coins. The gold- 
 smiths, understanding perfectly the logic of the 
 Princess, being promised a fine monument to immor- 
 talize them as the greatest artists of the ages, were 
 very grateful. Thus, the Princess should not be con- 
 sidered cruel by the ultra-modern ladies and gentle- 
 men, who see but the surface of things, and think 
 that Good and Evil are two straight lines instead of 
 most complex and elaborate geometric figures. 
 
 The Prince was ready for the great voyage to the 
 golden tree. The Princess pointed to the East, and 
 said, — "This way, my Prince." 
 
 Several hours later, as the Sun was sinking in the 
 West, the Prince came suddenly upon the golden 
 tree. He thought at first it might be the rays of the 
 setting Sun, but soon convinced himself that the tree 
 was of pure gold, for the work of the artists had 
 indeed been perfect, and they really merited the 
 
 [55] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 promised monument. And there upon the highest 
 bough the golden apple hung. One blow of the 
 Prince's sword brought it to the ground. He turned 
 it in his hands, weighed it, — it was indeed gold ! At 
 first he thought of rushing back to the palace, to 
 place the fruit at the pretty feet of the Princess, 
 but he reconsidered the matter, and resolved to post- 
 pone his return for a whole month, that it might not 
 seem so easy to win so beautiful a woman. He hid 
 the apple carefully, and asked lodging of a poor 
 widow in a neighboring village. The widow was 
 half-blind, so that she could not recognize in him 
 a prince. He remained with her a whole month, saw 
 the moon become a crescent, then a half-moon, and 
 finally a full resplendent face, — and he knew it was 
 time to return. He dipped his sword in the blood 
 of a pig, and let it rust; he battered with a hatchet 
 his helmet and his breast-plate ; he scarred himself 
 lightly on the chest, — and he set out. 
 
 The Princess, meanwhile, had ordered the tree to 
 be chopped down and turned to ashes by her faithful 
 slave, who was also ordered to watch the Prince's 
 whereabouts, that he might not suffer or be in need 
 of things. . . . 
 
 There was great rejoicing in the Palace and 
 throughout the land when the Prince returned with 
 the golden apple. The great poet laureate immedi- 
 ately composed a very long poem — which afterwards 
 became an epic — in which he re-told the great ex- 
 ploits of the Prince, — the dragons he fought, the hiss- 
 ing serpents a half-mile long and nine-souled that he 
 
 [56] 
 
THE GOLDEN APPLE 
 
 chopped, the witches he choked, — all, all, the marvel- 
 lous deeds of heroism, until he reached the golden 
 tree — a thousand feet in height, on the peak of which 
 the golden apple dangled — how the Prince climbed 
 the tree, the monkeys and squirrels and cats he en- 
 countered upon it, the tiniest three times the size of 
 man — how he killed them, and snatched the apple 
 — his return trip — the oceans he had to swim, the 
 forests to cut down — until — at last — he reached the 
 feet of the beautiful Princess ! The rusty sword and 
 the battered helmet and breastplate were placed in a 
 museum; the scars upon his chest were soaked with 
 healing oils. 
 
 A week later, the wedding took place. The feast 
 lasted for thirty days and thirty nights. Such rev- 
 elry had never been before and never more will be. 
 The number of flocks of sheep and pigs and the 
 schools of fish consumed, and the great kegs of wine 
 drunk and spilled, the hills of dough turned into 
 cake and bread, the number of fiddles used up, and 
 bagpipes burst, and shoes worn off by the dancing, 
 together with many other interesting details might 
 be read in the 175th Canto of the great bard's mas- 
 terpiece. . . . 
 
 At the end of the honeymoon, the Princess went 
 to the Temple of the Goddess of Love and Mother- 
 hood, and kneeling before the Altar, she spoke thus : 
 "0 Goddess of Love and Motherhood, I have brought 
 you the golden apple, as I had vowed years before. You 
 know that it is not really gold, that it was not really 
 plucked from the golden tree which grows at the 
 
 [57] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 edge of the World, on the thin Brink which separates 
 Death from Life, — bnt does it not glitter beautifully? 
 Did it not grow upon the tree which was upon the 
 edge of the precipice ? Is not a precipice a thin brink 
 between Death and Life? And who knows where 
 the end of the World really is? Accept then, 
 great and immortal Goddess, my apple ; accept, too, 
 these great diamonds, more valuable than a whole 
 golden tree !" 
 
 The High-Priest, who was hidden behind the God- 
 dess of Love and Motherhood, whispered something 
 into the ears of the immortal One, and she accepted 
 the golden apple, and the great diamonds. 
 
 The Princess was happy ever after, as far as we 
 know. As for the Prince, he never suspected the 
 trick played on him — for what prince, or even com- 
 moner, can delve into the mysteries of his marriage ? 
 In time he began to consider the Great Epic as truth, 
 and even corrected somewhat the bard in certain 
 minute details of his great voyage. 
 
 [58] 
 
WORDS 
 
 WILLIAM RAND loved Elizabeth, but the words 
 in which he expressed his passion were weak 
 and unconvincing. He realized himself the great 
 difference between what he felt and what he said. 
 He understood why Elizabeth would not believe him. 
 In his despair, he would become over-eloquent, and 
 then his words sounded like hammer strokes upon 
 empty drums ; angered at his failure, he would turn 
 cold and formal, even cruel. 
 
 "What things are words — what mocking things!" 
 he would exclaim. 
 
 "When one feels intently, one expresses oneself 
 intently," would always be Elizabeth's answer. She 
 believed in words. She had read poetry and novels, 
 and passions always found there passionate words. 
 
 At last William remained silent. But his silence 
 was as unconvincing as his speech. The features of 
 his face would not assume the pain of his dumbness. 
 They stared meaningless into a meaningless vacancy. 
 
 And Elizabeth wept in the night's silences. 
 
 And William Rand walked his way sick with lone- 
 someness. 
 
 • 
 
 Among all the young women he knew, William 
 liked probably least Miss Donald. She was intelli- 
 gent, and not homely, but an inexpressible something 
 repelled him. It might have been the fact that she 
 
 [59] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 had the habit of twisting her nose at regular inter- 
 vals, or that her voice, generally soft, would now and 
 then unexpectedly turn to a scream for a few sec- 
 onds, or perhaps her nails, which seemed brittle and 
 gave the sensation of breaking off, setting the teeth 
 on edge. At any rate, it was a mere trifle, — a mere 
 trifle that is basic, and always remains the dominant 
 factor. 
 
 One evening, it was William's turn to take the 
 young lady home from a gathering. They walked in 
 silence for some time. Then suddenly William in 
 bitterness and irony conceived the notion of making 
 love to Miss Donald. 
 
 "Let me see what devilish things words might 
 be!" 
 
 And abruptly, as if moved by a sudden great im- 
 pulse, William told the young woman of his long 
 love, told of his deep, pent-up passion. His words 
 were like songs and like perfumes. He took the 
 heavens for witness, and quoted verse after verse, 
 that he never thought he remembered. And all the 
 while, in the back of his head, rolled a mocking laugh. 
 "What words! What words!" it said, as it rolled. 
 
 The young woman made no answer. She only 
 looked and listened. William felt that these were the 
 words he had meant for Elizabeth, that love should 
 express itself in this manner. 
 
 At last, they reached their destination. William 
 remained silent, and his silence as his words was 
 eloquent. His face assumed a profound sorrow, and 
 a passionate appeal. He grasped her hands and 
 
 [60] 
 
WORDS 
 
 kissed them several times, without feeling the least 
 thrill, as though he had been kissing gloves. But it 
 was part of the game, and harmonized perfectly with 
 the words. 
 
 Miss Donald first turned her face away, as though 
 very much moved, and then looked into his eyes 
 deeply once, and entered the house. 
 
 William bent upon himself and laughed, long and 
 repeatedly. He laughed at his listener, he laughed 
 at himself, at love, at words, at kisses. But slowly 
 this humor deserted him, and he felt a very unpleas- 
 ant chill in his entire body, as though he had sud- 
 denly left a warm room where there was much 
 amusement, and found himself alone under a cold 
 autumn rain without an overcoat or umbrella. 
 
 "What was the sense in my having acted so stu- 
 pidly ? What will she think of me ? And she — of all 
 women! How absolutely calm I was all the time! 
 What was I thinking of all the while? Ah, yes, that 
 I was getting hungry, that she lived so far and the 
 walk would never come to an end, that a man is but 
 a large stomach carried from one place to another 
 on two crutches, that the moon follows one in what- 
 ever direction he may choose to go, as the dog's tail 
 follows the dog, that— that — Elizabeth— that Eliza- 
 beth—" 
 
 Disgusted, William threw himself on his bed, and 
 passed from one nightmare to another. He was 
 drowned, he was stabbed, he had to walk long 
 marches upon ice with bare feet, while words with 
 small sharp teeth nibbled at his face. 
 
 [61] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 The next day he received a letter from Miss 
 Donald. She told him how she had not slept the 
 entire night, how his magic words sang in her ears, 
 and made her heart dance with joy, how he had 
 awakened in her the wonders of a sudden summer, 
 how his lips upon her hands intoxicated her like 
 divine nectar. And that despising prudery and lies, 
 she acknowledged at once that she loved him as pas- 
 sionately as he loved her, and that already she 
 dreamed of some far-off land where they two — they 
 alone — should listen to the nightingales, and watch 
 the myriad stars twinkle in merriment. They alone 
 — . She signed the long letter by her first name, and 
 beneath it the words ' 'Forever Yours." 
 
 William was dumbstruck. Being so utterly cold 
 in the matter, he had expected the girl would either 
 feel as little as he, or in her modesty or mock- 
 modesty, criticize him and drop the affair. 
 
 He did not know whether to laugh or to take it 
 seriously. But somehow, he felt as in the dream, a 
 multitude of words nibbling at his face. He wiped 
 his face, and tried to dispel the sensation. While he 
 was thinking what to do, he received another letter. 
 This one was from Mrs. Donald. She explained that 
 her daughter, who was also her friend, had confessed 
 their love, and that she wished to tell him how happy 
 she herself was, for she had always liked William, 
 and she knew that no better love, no greater love 
 can be than that of her daughter. 
 
 William rebelled. He swore against the two 
 women, against his stupid whim, against his words, 
 
 [62] 
 
WORDS 
 
 against all words that mock and destroy. He wrote 
 to the mother a short letter, in which he stated that 
 he wonld come upon a certain evening to explain. 
 He received an answer the next day, praising him 
 for the simple fashion in which he expressed him- 
 self, and yet so full of sentiment. In the letter he 
 found a small card with Miss Donald's name, and 
 underneath it the words "As upon that wondrous 
 night ! ' ' 
 
 William could not understand why his letter did 
 not half explain the women's mistake; why, on the 
 contrary, it added to their illusion. He thought he 
 had written it so coldly, so formally. His words 
 seemed doomed to so much misunderstanding. 
 
 "Why could I never write anything convincing to 
 Elizabeth? Why were my words to her so stilted — - 
 and to this one — " 
 
 He had promised to be at the house of the young 
 lady in three days. When he came that evening, he 
 was determined to beg forgiveness for the wrong im- 
 pression he had made by frankly and sincerely stat- 
 ing the entire truth. His face assumed an air of 
 meekness, and was rather pale. So that, when Mrs. 
 Donald opened the door to let him in, she squeezed 
 his hand tightly, and said: "Don't worry, my boy; 
 love makes everybody a little pale, but it's a wonder- 
 ful thing, nevertheless. The little one looks a little 
 bad, too, today, but it becomes her. You are a lucky 
 dog, even if I say it ! " 
 
 William's plans were upset, and he muttered: 
 : 'You must forgive me for—" Mrs. Donald was 
 
 [63] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 slightly deaf, and could not hear what he said. 
 
 In the parlor, William fonnd a few intimate 
 friends of the family, also some relatives. Each one 
 was delighted, happy to meet the young man. Each 
 interrupted the other, telling of love in general, now 
 in jest, now in its serious import, and always winding 
 up with the marvellous qualities of Miss Donald. 
 
 A half-hour later, the young woman entered. As 
 though she had appeared upon the stage, the prima 
 donna of the evening, everybody rose and applauded. 
 She blushed, shook hands with every one, and then a 
 tight, long handshake with William, who was dazed 
 at all this, and stood stiffened near his chair — the 
 most comfortable in the house. 
 
 Toward midnight, everybody at once became hun- 
 gry. A little supper was prepared for them, the 
 mother and daughter excusing themselves frequently, 
 saying they had not been prepared for so lovely a 
 company. William sat listless and despondent. He 
 felt as though he was being squeezed gradually into 
 a wall that was being built, as he had read in some 
 legend of old, and that already the bricks had 
 reached his throat, — and he began to cough. The 
 guests whispered to one another, loudly enough to 
 be heard by William, how love makes one lose one's 
 appetite, and makes one cheerless the first time, — 
 but then — Miss Donald sighed innumerable times. 
 Mrs. Donald embraced her daughter as though she 
 had not seen her for months. A cynical gentleman 
 very corpulent, swore against all love. His wife cov- 
 ered his mouth and threatened she would tell every- 
 
 [64] 
 
WORDS 
 
 body how passionate a wooer he had been in his 
 youth, and for that matter, how passionate he still 
 was. 
 
 When the party dispersed and William remained 
 alone with the two women, he was on the point of 
 confessing, but he was showered with so much atten- 
 tion by the mother, and looked at with such utter 
 delight and tenderness by the daughter, that he 
 thought he would rather write. 
 
 He did not know how to begin his letter or to 
 which of the two women to address it, and vacillated 
 a few days, during which time he received letters 
 glowing with passion and love. He also found that 
 many of his friends were congratulating him. Every- 
 body, it seemed, had known it for a very long time, 
 everybody thought it was a splendid and most appro- 
 priate match, — a wonderful girl, a fine mother. 
 
 "To break now," thought William, "would be a 
 crime to the girl" — let alone that he did not know 
 how to go about it. "Besides, no one would believe 
 me, anyhow. And then she loves me. But why can't 
 I love her? What is it? No, I can't throw away a 
 woman's love and honor in this fashion. Maybe I 
 could learn to love her, after all." 
 
 William Rand married Miss Donald. He strove in 
 vain to love her. That same mere trifle that hindered 
 his affections before marriage became even more ac- 
 centuated after the marriage. But his words, which- 
 ever way he said them, spoke love to her, or at least 
 a love that was hurt. His silence was as eloquent. 
 Her answers were always in tune. 
 
 [65] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 And the years passed. . . . One night, the couple 
 were looking out of the window, watching the sky 
 and the stars, which appeared unusually tiny. Mrs. 
 Rand turned to her husband and said in a smooth, 
 soft tone, never reaching a shrill note, as was usual 
 with her : 
 
 " Aren't words strange, dear? They are beings 
 quite apart from thoughts. They lead their own 
 lives. And what tricks they play ! How often they 
 rule us ! They bewitch our tongues, and our tongues 
 turn one way and another, and we are doomed ! But 
 the strangest part is that our faces and our acts 
 will endeavor to correspond to our words. Once the 
 word is uttered, we obey it like abject slaves. We 
 would rather undo an act than a word. In fact, an 
 act withers and dies; a word is a perennial thing. 
 Yes, words are strange, and they lord over us!" 
 
 And then she laughed a short laugh, and sighed 
 deeply, and began to count aloud the stars. 
 
 William stared at her long. A sensation of intense 
 bitterness lodged itself in his throat, as though he 
 had taken a large dose of quinine and could not 
 swallow it. He questioned himself again and again, 
 — ''Is it possible that she — she — too — " 
 
 And Elizabeth, who had long been dead, and whom 
 he had forgotten, appeared before him, and he heard 
 her say : 
 
 "Intense emotions always find words to express 
 them." 
 
 And he laughed loudly, almost cheerfully. 
 
 1 ' Why do you laugh, William ? ' ' asked his wife. 
 
 [66] 
 
WORDS 
 
 "Did you see how tiny the stars are this evening? 
 Like the glass pegs I bought to hang the pictures 
 on," he answered. 
 
 m 
 
THREE MEN 
 
 THREE men were siting near the broad window in 
 their club-room, watching a chilly rain fall 
 slowly, shabbily upon the face of the City. They were 
 smoking and thinking, — thinking shabby, slow 
 thoughts. At last one of them, tilting his pipe to one 
 end of his mouth, said: "You two have never known 
 the meaning of lonesomeness. ' ' The others sighed and 
 answered nothing. He continued: "No. You have 
 not known its meaning." It seemed as though he 
 would sink back again into silence ; instead, however, 
 he took his pipe out of his mouth, and re-commenced : 
 "You are both married, and there is nothing more 
 wonderful in the whole wide world than to have a 
 mate. For the lack of a mate, many are the things I 
 did, — for the lack of her, or perhaps simply in search 
 of her.'" 
 
 ' ' There is nothing easier than to find a wife ' ', said 
 one of the other two. 
 
 "Not for me", re-commenced the first. "Not for 
 me, unfortunately. And now I am over fifty, and 
 lonesome as this ragged rain. I have looked for my 
 mate in twenty different countries, — among the rich 
 and the poor ; the good and the bad ; the beautiful and 
 the homely, — but I have never found her. Once or 
 twice I imagined I had come across her, but soon I 
 realized that it had only been a fata morgana, the 
 desert reflecting the woman I sought. ' ' 
 
 [68] 
 
THREE MEN 
 
 ' ' But you have seeu the world ' ' 
 'Yes, I have seen the world. I have wandered 
 across the face of the Earth, I have learned the ways 
 of men and women, I have learned their baseness, and 
 occasionally their nobility,— but all this,— how shall 
 it compare to a mate, to a woman that knows, that 
 cherishes you? When it rains, as it does now, she 
 blossoms like a flower for you; in the winter, she is 
 the bright fire-place ; in the summer she is the music of 
 birds." He stopped suddenly, puffed strongly at his 
 pipe, and it blazed again. 
 
 The rain, half-asleep, fell, limping. 
 
 The second man began, slowly and dragging. ' ' There 
 is nothing easier than to find a wife, nothing; but 
 there is nothing more difficult than to continue to love 
 her year in and year out. My wife is a good com- 
 panion; she is gentle and faithful, but I'd rather sit 
 with you here, watching the rain. I 'd rather walk for 
 hours than to face her, than to feel her arms around 
 my neck. She is very affectionate, and I am courteous. 
 How should I push her away from me ? And yet her 
 lips are like sour wax on mine. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Oh, to be loved by a woman ! ' ' exclaimed the First 
 Man. 
 
 "I have betrayed her by three women", re-com- 
 menced the Second Man, — "three women who were 
 neither as pretty nor as gentle as she. And none of 
 them loved me half as well. I have betrayed her, and 
 every betrayal was a torture and an unbearable 
 humiliation for me. All the lies, the tricks, the fears, — 
 but who can love a woman year in, year out ? ' ' 
 
 [69] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 He tapped nervously on the window-sill. The rain 
 exhausted, fell at irregular intervals, and irritated 
 the Earth. 
 
 "To love and to be loved in return, — that is death", 
 began the Third Man. "I love my wife, and my wife 
 loves me. For twenty-five years we have been together, 
 each the tyrant of the other. What have we accom- 
 plished, what have we seen or learned ? We hide from 
 the world, to flatter and caress each other. Any man 
 or woman is a hindrance; we drive away all possible 
 friends. I am here with you now, but I long for her, 
 and I know she pines for me. I shall not even wait 
 until the rain stops, but hurry home. You have seen 
 the world, you have known other women, you have 
 tasted sweet and bitter. I have tasted only sweet, 
 sweet, — until I am sick and overcome with nausea. 
 
 The three Men looked at one another, puffed strongly 
 at their pipes, but remained silent. 
 
 The rain, like the spittle of some disdainful giant 
 cat, was bespattering the sullen Earth. . . . 
 
 [70] 
 
ART 
 
 ISHIJIMA 'S poems were sung and recited by all the 
 lovers in the Empire. He expressed in golden 
 words the pain and the joy and the trickery of the 
 great Passion. Everybody said, — "Many must be 
 the poet's love affairs!" Men said it with a pang of 
 jealousy, women with a sudden yearning to be em- 
 braced by him. But Ishijima was very lonesome and 
 he had never known love. Out of his dreams and his 
 desires he fashioned his golden poems. 
 
 At last, however, Ishijima met the woman that 
 seemed to him more beautiful than his dreams, and he 
 married her. And people said, — "Now he will write 
 poems about his beautiful wife." Men said it with a 
 sigh of relief; women with a pang of jealousy. 
 
 Ishijima loved his wife and was loved by her, and 
 their love was greater and more beautiful than his 
 dreams. 
 
 Ishijima could not write any more. His brush 
 traced languidly meaningless characters upon the 
 gorgeous silk. What was there to write? He had 
 neither dreams nor desires, save the lips of his wife, 
 and the lips of his wife were more delightful than any 
 words in any language. Therefore he did not write. 
 
 And people gossiped, — "Ishijima, does not write 
 any more. He does not love his wife. Therefore he 
 does not write. ' ' Men said it mockingly ; women with - 
 infinite compassion. 
 
 [71] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 Ishijima thought: "Happiness is the death of 
 poetry." And he mourned the loss of his art, and 
 yearned for his former illusions and pains. 
 
 In his despair, Ishijima pondered and ruminated: 
 "The death of love is the resurrection of art", — and 
 he took the soft throat of his wife between his fingers, 
 and pressed, and pressed, until her little body, finer 
 than a carven statuette, lay still and pathetic upon the 
 soft couch, covered with glistening silk on which were 
 embroidered the greatest poems of Ishijima. 
 
 But Ishijima could not write. The meaning of 
 words had vanished like colored flames which are 
 extinguished by an evil wind. He sat on his thres- 
 hold, and drew long parallel lines with his dry brush. 
 
 The people talked. And some said, — "Because of 
 a mere woman, the great poet will never write again. ' ' 
 
 Others : * ' His hatred for her robbed him of his 
 reason. ' ' 
 
 Others : " - Her cruel ghost has stolen his words. ' ' 
 
 Others : ' ' She was unfaithful, and her lips had be- 
 come sour to him. Therefore he killed her. ' ' 
 
 Others: "Without constant love poets cannot 
 write. ' ' 
 
 One thought, but never said aloud: "Love is the 
 death of poetry. He loved her too much. Therefore 
 he strangled her. He loves her still more now. How 
 then, shall he think of words? It is best he draws 
 parallel lines with his dry brush, — for who knows 
 what he would say if his brush were wet, and he re- 
 membered the meaning of words?" 
 
 [72] 
 
EVIL'S GOOD 
 
 THE man who had fallen out of the window lay 
 like a bundle of rags on the asphalt floor of the 
 courtyard. A policeman having covered his face and 
 hidden the puddle of blood with bunting, was wait- 
 ing for the ambulance, warding off meanwhile the 
 crowd. It was uncertain whether the man had com- 
 mitted suicide or had fallen out by accident. As 
 explained by the neighbors either theory was correct, 
 and even perhaps a little of both. He had been out of 
 work, that would be reason enough for self-destruc- 
 tion ; on the other hand, it seemed he had never been a 
 hard-working man, and nothing could have pleased 
 him more than idleness. He had been suffering lately 
 a great deal from vertigo, it seemed, but it also seemed 
 that his windows were never or nearly never open. 
 And also perhaps the vertigo in combination with the 
 lack of work, and the rarity of his bending out of 
 windows — who knows? 
 
 A young lady passing by stopped for a moment, 
 shivered at the account given by an elderly gentleman, 
 and recollected how meanly she had treated her lover 
 that morning. ' ' What if he should commit suicide ? ' ' 
 she thought. ' ' He is capable of that, — proud as he is ! 
 I am so very sorry for what I have told him. It was 
 all my fault, any way. I shall be good to him from 
 now on, — very good ! ' ' And she walked off, reformed. 
 
 A mother going to market with her darling four- 
 
 [73] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 year old son, upon hearing the story pointed her fore- 
 finger in the direction of the corpse, and said, — ' ' See, 
 dear, what happens if you bend out of the window ? 
 See ? Will you promise not to bend out again ? ' ' The 
 child, fully impressed, promised. The mother squeezed 
 his little hand, feeling he belonged to her more than 
 ever, and remembered having studied psychology, that 
 the best way of teaching is by objective demonstration. 
 
 A minister of the gospel whose sermons had become 
 so intolerably dry one almost choked physically, upon 
 hearing them, was struck as if by the wings of an 
 angel, and instantly composed a magnificent perora- 
 tion on the "Terrors of Suicide" or "Bending Out of 
 the Window of Sin", based upon the Sermon of the 
 Mount. 
 
 A cynic who had been feeling despondent for some 
 time, looked at the rags that erstwhile was man, and 
 felt cheered, — ' ' At last I am convinced once more that 
 life is mud ! And being only mud, — what reason have 
 I to feel sick at heart?" And he walked straight to 
 the house of his dearest friend, the priest, and feasted 
 the whole day, tipped handsomely the young cook, 
 pinching her soft cheek until she screamed, and when 
 he returned home, he distributed fifty dollars in 
 charity. 
 
 A poet, long neglected, and misunderstood, im- 
 mediately perceived the similarity between a man fall- 
 ing out of a window and a falling moon, and losing 
 himself in celestial speculation, composed a beautiful 
 poem. "If the editors don't accept this poem they are 
 asses — as for that matter, they are asses, anyhow." 
 
 [74] 
 
EVIL'S GOOD 
 
 Two weeks later he received a cheek for it. . . . 
 
 The ambulance arrived, and the means of gentle 
 inspiration was removed, except that the undertaker 
 could keep his promise to his wife about a fur-coat, and 
 that the grave-digger's little daughter obtained the 
 big doll she had been praying to God for. . .And as 
 to myself — had not my pen been idle for weeks, and 
 was I not worrying that I should never again be able 
 to write another line, and am I not happy now, feel- 
 ing Pegasus underneath me? . . 
 
 In truth, the pains and misfortunes of OTHERS 
 should be encouraged and rewarded, and artificially 
 produced, if Nature should ever grow old and weary 
 of her whimsical and merry farces. . . 
 
 In a society composed of intellectuals, I am certain, 
 this would be the case. 
 
 [75] 
 
CROSSES 
 
 AS my friend undressed, my attention was rivet- 
 ed upon his chest, a broad, massive chest, 
 tattooed with many crosses. 
 
 "Well?" he asked quietly. 
 
 "The crosses — " 
 
 "The crosses? It's about time you had several on, 
 too." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Young fool! Aren't we Christians? Shouldn't 
 we put crosses upon the graves of those that died? 
 Should we let their bodies rot without this simple 
 courtesy ? ' ' 
 
 Not understanding, I looked on. 
 
 "You don't understand? Well — am I not over 
 fifty years old? Was I not a baby once; a little boy 
 that could walk ; a big boy that could fight and shout 
 to pierce your ears; a young man that first became 
 conscious of woman; a young man that loved; a 
 young man that was disillusioned; a mature man; 
 a man no longer so young ; a man verging on middle- 
 age? Well — where are they all, — the boy, the young 
 man, the mature man? Aren't they all dead, deader 
 than those you nail coffins over, and lower into deep 
 graves ? Aren 't they all buried in here, here ? ' ' He 
 struck his powerful chest with his heavy fist. "Aren't 
 they all rotting? Aren't they being washed away by 
 the flood of days ? Haven 't they the right to demand 
 
 [76] 
 
CROSSES 
 
 crosses — bits of symbols proving that they once lived 
 and flourished?" 
 
 I was overwhelmed by this unexpected tirade. I 
 felt that my mouth had opened very wide, and my 
 eyelids had rolled upward tightly against their 
 sockets. 
 
 He walked up and down a few times, then said, 
 calmly: "Whenever you are ready for the crosses, 
 you tell me. I know an expert, and his price is 
 really very low. You don't need yet as many as I, 
 of course, you are twenty years younger." 
 
 [77] 
 
M 
 
 WORMS AND BUTTERFLIES 
 
 R. NORTON filled again the glasses with wine, — 
 his and his young friend's. They had been 
 silent now for several minutes, watching themselves 
 in the mirrors facing them. Mr. Norton with his sad, 
 sentimental eyes that gazed so ludicrously out of his 
 big, fleshy face, scarred lightly in one or two places, 
 and Harold with his small delicate features that con- 
 tradicted a heavy, sensuous mouth. 
 
 Mr. Norton had known Harold for several years, 
 from his childhood, in fact. He was very fond of the 
 young man, and though fifteen years his senior, liked 
 to spend a few hours with him now and then, talking 
 over a glass of wine in the back-room of a cafe which 
 he claimed to have discovered, and which had become 
 prosperous ever since. Indeed, the owner acknowl- 
 edged the claim, and treated his guest accordingly. 
 
 "You young fellows talk about woman, but you 
 know nothing about her. You must live a long time 
 with one to understand her. A butterfly knows noth- 
 ing about a flower. It takes a worm who is devouring 
 the stem and all to understand it. You see a pretty 
 face, and you jump to conclusions — that's a passion- 
 ate woman, and your dreams run wild. But you are 
 generally wrong, dead wrong. ' ' 
 
 The young man listened, smiling ironically. He was 
 very certain he understood woman quite as well as Mr. 
 Norton. 
 
 "The quality of woman is not in how she responds 
 
 [78] 
 
WORMS AND BUTTERFLIES 
 
 to the eye, but to the other senses. "What are looks? 
 You heard it so often said that all cows look black at 
 night. ' ' 
 
 Harold laughed. The older man laughed also, and 
 drank his wine, smacking his lips many times. 
 
 11 It 's only a fool that advises a fellow to marry this 
 girl or that, because he is bound to judge by the face 
 or the words, and if faces do not tell the truth, words 
 are a hundred-fold greater liars. A woman may speak 
 as passionately as a geyser, and be as cold as an icicle ; 
 or she may affect a nun 's prayers, and be boiling with 
 desire. ' ' 
 
 Harold sipped his wine slowly, and thought his own 
 thoughts. 
 
 ' ' I may be frank with you, Harold. I have known 
 you since you were a child, and now you are an intelli- 
 gent man, and can understand. I have always loved 
 you, you know, ' ' and his eyes filled with tears. Wine 
 always made him exceptionally sentimental and ten- 
 der. He wiped his face with his handkerchief, and re- 
 commenced. 
 
 "Yes, I'll be frank with you, and tell you what I 
 haven 't told another soul ; and, of course, it won 't go 
 beyond yourself, it 's quite understood. ' ' 
 
 The young man made a sign of assurance. 
 
 ' ' Well, it 's a matter of years since I have been un- 
 able to touch my wife without a sense of disgust, with- 
 out feeling my whole body drenched as though by a 
 cataract of ice-water. Now, you know, she is a pretty 
 woman — and I wager she appears to men as a passion- 
 ate, perhaps voluptuous, woman. Am I right?" 
 
 "I don't know— I—" 
 
 [79] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 1 ' Well, you 're an old friend, and you may not have 
 dared to think of her at all in that light. Well, what's 
 the trouble with her ? I have tried to analyze the mat- 
 ter with the care of a scientist — you know how I am 
 when I tackle anything. Not that she is cold in the 
 sense that she repels me, when I approach her — on 
 the contrary — she always appears — pretends, perhaps, 
 to be passionate, you understand — she has even the 
 ways of a passionate woman — but — maybe it's all 
 psychological — and maybe it's all physical — her hand 
 is always chilly — her lips — her embrace — there is 
 something peculiar — I can't explain — one must ex- 
 perience it — to understand me — and as you will 
 not—" 
 
 Mr. Norton drank another glass of wine, and 
 laughed, and Harold sipped his, and smiled to keep 
 in tune. 
 
 ' ' What I mean is — that you can 't tell the nature of 
 a woman, unless you've known her for many years. 
 And so, when you marry, marry a woman whom you've 
 known, and who has stood the test. ' ' The older man 
 burst out into a long, stupid laugh, which might have 
 been bitter or simply lascivious. "And if you don't 
 get the right wife — well, you know — there might be 
 other women who — " and he continued laughing. 
 
 The young man looked at him long, and thought 
 his own thoughts. 
 
 Mr. Norton took out his gold watch, and stood up 
 with a bound. "I am quite late. I'll see you again, 
 I hope, in the near future. You are a delight to be 
 with. Well — ' there is truth in wine/ as the old 
 Romans used to say; but, my dear, a friend knows 
 
 [80] 
 
WORMS AND BUTTERFLIES 
 
 how to forget as well how to remember." 
 "Trust me." 
 "I do." 
 
 TP W W 
 
 An hour later, Harold was admitted into Mrs. 
 Norton's apartment. Mrs. Norton opened the door 
 slowly and cautiously for him. She was a woman of 
 about thirty-three, plump, white-skinned, with a lan- 
 gorous air. 
 
 "My dear, you are late. I feared you wouldn't 
 come any more. ' ' 
 
 "I was detained by a very important personage." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 ' ' Your husband. ' ' 
 
 Harold laughed, as he put away his coat and hat. 
 
 Mrs. Norton then embraced the young man, look- 
 ing the while tenderly into his eyes. 
 
 1 ' You seem upset, dearest. ' ' 
 
 "Upset? No. You must see me strangely amused. 
 Your husband told me a very funny story. ' ' 
 
 "You know what we agreed upon — never to speak 
 about any person, except yourself and me. So — " 
 
 She took his arm, and they walked over to the soft, 
 many-cushioned sofa, near the window. A little 
 canary bird imprisoned in a cage on the wall opposite 
 sang his sweet, monotonous notes. 
 
 "See, dearest, our bird sings you welcome. Every- 
 thing here opens its arms to you. ' ' 
 
 She reclined, and drew his head upon her breast. 
 They remained silent for a few minutes. 
 
 "Yes, it was funny, the story — really/' and he 
 laughed. 
 
 [81] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 ' ' Please forget it, love. ' ' 
 
 "I should have never believed it — never." 
 
 Mrs. Norton put her plump hand over his mouth. 
 He shivered a little. 
 
 ' ' You are so unkind today, sweetheart. ' ' 
 
 As she kept pressing her hand over his mouth, he 
 drew his face away. 
 
 ' ' What ails you today ? ' ' 
 
 " Nothing at all, my dear. Simply it's strange how 
 certain words ring long afterwards in your ears, and 
 louder than when you actually heard them." 
 
 "I am getting worried about it. Did he speak 
 about us ? " 
 
 ' ' Oh, no, he never suspects us. ' ' 
 
 She drew him nearer to herself, stretched his legs 
 out, covered his face with her arms, and they lay 
 quietly thus for some time. 
 
 "Do you love me, dearest?" she asked softly, like 
 the fall of a feather. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Forever, dearest?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 ' ' You will not betray me?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 Harold felt choked beneath her arms, and he raised 
 his head to cough a few times. Instead of replacing 
 his head beneath the soft yoke, he put it on one of the 
 pillows, and breathed rapidly and deeply. 
 
 "You don't feel right, love. What ails you?" 
 
 1 ' Nothing, I assure you. ' ' 
 
 "It can't be his funny story that — " 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 [82] 
 
WORMS AND BUTTERFLIES 
 
 She became suddenly very tender, and grasped his 
 head, and kissed it again and again. When she grew 
 tired, she released him, and he breathed with joy the 
 fresh air. 
 
 "You don't love me a bit today — not a bit," she 
 whimpered. "Even our little bird has stopped sing- 
 ing. She is hurt, too." 
 
 The romantic allusion to the bird made her appear 
 very ludicrous in his eyes. ' ' A big woman like that, ' ' 
 he thought, and he looked at her closely, and saw, it 
 seemed to him, for the first time, several deep creases 
 around the eyes — "what do they call them?" he 
 thought, — "yes, crow's feet — " 
 
 Tears gathered in her eyes, and she buried her face 
 in his chest. The thick hair gave him a sensation of 
 being choked. ' ' Did he say anything about the hair ? ' ' 
 he thought. 
 
 She raised her head. ' ' You must promise me never 
 to leave me — not even to get married. ' ' 
 
 "I shall never marry. You never can tell whom 
 you marry, anyhow — words and faces — " He tried 
 to think of Mr. Norton's exact statement. He could 
 not get it, but he felt its full import. 
 
 "It's true. You can't go by appearance, dearest. 
 In men, the same way. ' ' 
 
 "No, you must live with a person. You must be, so 
 to say, a worm, not a butterfly. ' ' 
 
 "You know, sweetheart, I never told you, because 
 we promised never to speak about other people than 
 ourselves — but I must tell you — why shouldn't you 
 know everything? — well, my husband — you wouldn't 
 call him homely — " 
 
 [83] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE - 
 
 "No." 
 
 "And you wouldn't call him cold, would you?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 ' ' Well, when he approaches me- — I shiver with chills. 
 But, he thinks it's because I'm passionate — " 
 
 Harold laughed long. 
 
 "Why are you laughing?" 
 
 "It's funny — very funny — " 
 
 "What's the trouble with you today, sweetheart?" 
 
 " It 's funny, you know, how men mistake chill — for 
 passion — it's like touching ice, and you think it's 
 fire." 
 
 "But when you touch me, dear — ," and she buried 
 her head into his chest, deeply, deeply, so that she 
 could hardly breathe. 
 
 And Harold was thinking: "No, it's wrong to be a 
 worm — it's better to be a butterfly. Only the butter- 
 flies are happy — but for the sake of the butterflies, 
 there must be worms, it seems." 
 
 [84] 
 
PASTELS 
 
HAPPINESS 
 
 The Angel, whom Jehovah sent to alleviate the 
 sufferings of mankind, walked dejected and weary 
 through the streets of the Earth. All his efforts and 
 sacrifices had proved either futile or positively evil. 
 The happier he tried to make man, the more miserable 
 he made him. He was on the point of spreading out 
 his vast white wings, to fly back to Heaven, — when 
 he suddenly heard a man singing most lustily a very 
 joyful song. He had heard people sing before, but 
 never quite in such manner. He looked around, and 
 noticed that the singer was a very poor man — a beg- 
 gar, probably — one-legged, hopping on two crutches. 
 
 "Good morning, brother," said the Angel. "I am 
 glad to see you so happy this morning. I like to see 
 happy people." 
 
 "Good morning, sir. I am indeed happy this 
 morning. ' ' 
 
 "And what makes you so happy?" 
 
 "What, — don't you see?" and he pointed at some- 
 thing moving in front of them. 
 
 "No, what's that?" asked the angel. 
 
 "Don't you see the fellow who shoves ahead on 
 his knees?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, indeed — poor man." 
 
 "Well, I say to myself, — ' Here's a fellow who is 
 cut in two, while you can still walk, as tall as God 
 made you, although you only have one leg' — and this 
 
 [87] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 makes me happy. I thank the Lord for his mercy, 
 and I sing." 
 
 The Angel looked at him, a bit dazed. 
 
 "And for that matter, this fellow ought to feel 
 pretty happy himself. I've once seen a man with 
 neither arms nor legs. And I think it's even worse 
 to be blind. Deaf isn't so bad, although yon can't 
 hear your own voice." 
 
 The Angel continued to be silent. 
 
 "The only thing that makes me feel unhappy is 
 people dancing. I think they are positively immoral, 
 don't you?" 
 
 The Angel, who could think very rapidly, beamed 
 with a great joy. Without stopping to give the 
 beggar alms, fearing that he might make him miser- 
 able, as he had made all whom he had wished to 
 help, he spread out his great white wings, — and dis- 
 appeared. . . . 
 
 When the usual greetings were over, the Angel 
 spoke to Jehovah, in this manner: "0 Mighty Lord 
 of All Things, — after much useless effort and many 
 bitter disillusions, I have at last found what will 
 make men happy." 
 
 "Whatever thou sayest shall be done." 
 
 "Man is only happy when his neighbor is unhappy. 
 Send, Lord, all kinds of plagues and sorrows upon 
 the Earth, — first on one-half of mankind, that the 
 other might be happy; then on the other half, that 
 the first might be consoled and grow cheerful. Thus 
 Man shall sing his p^an of joy, and his hallelujahs 
 to You forever, Lord. ' ' 
 
 [88] 
 
PASTELS 
 
 Jehovah embraced his dear Son, and promised to 
 do as he suggested. 
 And the promises of Jehovah are never broken. 
 
 THE THINKER 
 
 Amid the heavy-laden trees, he stands, naked and 
 branchless, save for two stumps, one on either side 
 a black cross, on which he himself is crucified. The 
 winds do not shake him, the rain trickles down his 
 bark, and soon leaves him perfectly dry; the sun can 
 make no fantastic shadows,— only a thin black cross, 
 thrown beyond the road-way. He watches the stars 
 and the moon unhampered by the romance of leaves 
 which capture their rays, and dance with them. He 
 knows they are cold and blind. He stands black, and 
 gaunt, and crucified, knowing the meaning of Sum- 
 mer and the meaning of Winter. And always in his 
 heart there is a great hollowness. 
 
 POPULARITY 
 
 The Great Oak, the incomparable Giant of the 
 Forest, lay, struck by lightning, rotting in the road- 
 way. A million ants and numberless worms were 
 creeping and crawling upon him. They praised him, 
 calling him noble and generous. Birds, however, 
 were rocking themselves, and singing upon the 
 branches of other trees. 
 
 [89] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 CHACUN A SA MANIERE 
 
 The Thunder crashed and roared across Infinity. 
 The Worm, slowly, unconcerned, crept on, in its tiny 
 bits of undulations. ... A leaf rolled by — the "Worm, 
 scared, hid among the grasses, curled for a long time, 
 and pretended death. 
 
 MOUSE PREACHES ON HEAVEN 
 In Heaven the mighty spirits of mice, golden- 
 clawed, shall capture the puny, trembling spirits of 
 Cats. They shall roll them on the endless floor of 
 the endless Cellar, and choke them, and bleed them. 
 And the spirits of Cats shall meouw in everlasting 
 agony, for they shall neither die nor ever escape. 
 Thus shall Justice denied Mice on Earth be granted 
 them abundantly in Heaven. For the mercy of 
 KIRIKI, God of the Four Cellars, is limitless and 
 perfect. AMEN! 
 
 Grain of Dust: To be a mountain you must com- 
 promise. You must accept millions of other grains. 
 You must let them press against you, stifle you, de- 
 stroy you. You are no longer a grain of dust. You 
 are a mass, a monster. I shall stand alone, conscious 
 of my own identity. I do not fear the winds. Let 
 them whirl me and dash me about! 
 
 A DIVINE JEST 
 The Wind, the god of Wander-lust had just re- 
 
 [90] 
 
PASTELS 
 
 turned from his trip around and within the world. 
 The gods, squatting upon dead stars, were drinking 
 out of silver moons the nectar which is eternal youth. 
 They were laughing in mighty thunder claps at the 
 colossal jests about stars and skies and strange divin- 
 ities, that the Wind was telling them in his inimitable 
 fashion. . . . 
 
 "And what about the Earth?" asked one. 
 
 "The Earth? The Earth?" 
 
 "Every morning and every evening strange sounds 
 arise from there." 
 
 ' ' Strange sounds ? " 
 
 "Some of us have thought they might be prayers 
 offered us." 
 
 "Prayers?" 
 
 "Morning and evening." 
 
 The Wind puffed his mighty cheeks and thought. 
 Suddenly he understood. And he laughed, and 
 laughed, and rolled in whimsical somersaults. 
 
 "What you call the Earth is but the dust my feet 
 raise in circles; and the prayers are my footsteps 
 and their echoes — morning and evening — that is the 
 time between a footstep and the death of its echo — 
 for I am a mighty god. Earth and Prayers ! 
 Ha ha ha ha ! " 
 
 The gods, being wise, recognized their silliness, 
 and laughed uproariously at themselves and quaffed 
 multitudes of moons. 
 
 TP TP 
 
 The Wind has since related the jest about the 
 Earth and its Prayers to all the stars and in all the 
 
 [9i] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 skies, and has made Infinity roar with laughter. . . . 
 
 THE OCEAN IN LABOR 
 
 The Ocean was in labor. She tossed in great agony 
 upon her measureless bed. Her tumultuous cries 
 terrified sailors and fishermen. And the poets of .the 
 Earth thought: "Wonderful will be the things the 
 Ocean will give birth to — scarlet lands of corals, 
 great sunken cargoes of gold and diamonds, seaports 
 drowned centuries before, and kept intact within her 
 deep sands, moons that loved her and died and fell 
 within her — new young oceans that will crack the 
 Earth and flow, more gaily, more passionately than 
 herself. . . . 
 
 The Ocean was still, save for the gentle rocking of 
 the clownish moon; and her murmur was sweet and 
 comforting to sailors and fishermen, and their women 
 at many ports. . . . 
 
 On the warm yellow sands lay the offspring of her 
 torturous travail — empty shells, slimy weeds, some 
 young gulls. . . . 
 
 I AM THE COFFIN 
 I am the Coffin. I am the treasure-box of the Earth. 
 Within me are placed, gently, tenderly, jewels most 
 cherished — things kissed and petted and pressed 
 against the heart — laughter frozen on white lips, — 
 tears coagulated like great pearls — dreams colored 
 like fantastic rainbows. 
 
 [92] 
 
PASTELS 
 
 I am the Coffin. I am the Sacred Keeper of the 
 Sacred Things. I close silently, like a weary mouth. 
 No hand dares to open me — no thief approach. 
 
 I am the Coffin. I am the soft arms of Sleep. 
 
 I am the song of endless Silence. I am the River of 
 Oblivion. 
 
 I am the Coffin. I am the laughter of the gods. I 
 am the heavy shadow of Truth. ) 
 
 I am the Coffin. I am the treasure-box of the Earth. 
 Within me are placed jewels most cherished — rotting 
 flesh, broken dreams, tears frozen into stones, laughter 
 coagulated into muddy pools. 
 
 I am the Coffin. I am the great toothless Mouth. I 
 am the large Hand rattling dice of bones. I am the 
 sacred Keeper of the Sacred Things. 
 
 MORITURI TE SALUTANT 
 
 We who sit at the curbstones of the streets, old and 
 decrepit, glaring with dull envy at the passing youth, 
 insolent with new strength, radiant with recent beauty, 
 throwing us in derision bits of coins, — we — the dy- 
 ing — salute you, Jehovah, old and decrepit God, 
 sitting on the edges of the stars, glaring with passion- 
 ate envy at the young Gods, passing, mighty and 
 beautiful, and dropping upon your trembling lap in 
 derision tiny earths and dead moons. 
 
 MORITURI TE SALUTANT! 
 
 ICEBERGS 
 The Iceberg glides on, slowly, ponderously, re- 
 
 [93] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 membering vaguely and in bitterness that lie had once 
 believed the Sun a God, — a God that would melt him 
 into a great, passionate Sea, roaring and beating 
 against mighty flanks of sand, and juggling upon his 
 foamy finger-tips giant whales and colossal boats, and 
 drowning in tender playfulness stars an# moons. He 
 has long ago learned that the Sun, too, is but an Ice- 
 berg, the glaring Shadow of himself, gliding ponder- 
 ously across the sky, remembering vaguely and in 
 bitterness that he had once hoped to be melted into a 
 great sea of stars, balancing upon long blue finger- 
 tips giant earths and flaming moons. . . . The Iceberg 
 glides on, slowly, ponderously, dragging broken waves 
 of foam, and above, the Sun, the glaring Shadow of 
 himself, follows him ponderously, slowly, dragging 
 small crumbling earths and coagulated moons. . . . 
 
 THE CAT AND HIS SHADOW 
 The cat rose slowly. The dim lamp-light threw 
 a great shadow on the wall. The cat watched it keenly. 
 He yawned ; the shadow opened its immense jaws. He 
 stretched ; the shadow lengthened its lithe body, taking 
 a menacing posture. He sprang; the shadow leaped 
 across the whole room, swallowing in its black maw 
 half of the furniture. He stood still; the shadows 
 shivered back in a great, motionless statue. Dreams 
 of dark forests and mighty combats with lions and 
 elephants crowded into his head, and his claws crept 
 out of their silken sockets; the shadow stretched out 
 gigantic paws ready to capture and tear. "I am a 
 
 [94] 
 
PASTELS 
 
 tiger! I am a tiger!" meawed clamorously the cat; 
 the shadow's immense jaws opened and closed, as if 
 devouring lions and elephants. A little dog next door 
 barked in his dream. . . The cat cowered ; the shadow 
 shrank, and became a shapeless mass. Forests and 
 lions and elephants vanished, and his heart struck 
 sharp, frightened beats against his chest. He spat; 
 the shadow shivered. He lay down again ; the shadow 
 spilled upon the floor, between the leg of the chairs, 
 and underneath the lounge. 
 
 "I am but a cat", he thought bitterly, and meawed 
 pathetically. He huddled together, the shadow under- 
 neath him, and fell asleep. 
 
 CATERPILLAR AND BUTTERFLY 
 When he was a caterpillar, he considered himself 
 brother to the worm and the ant. He loved the solid 
 earth, and the hard bark of trees. He hated passion- 
 ately all winged things, — butterflies, and bees, and 
 birds, — all those that loved the dainty air more than 
 the homely earth. He despised buzzing and humming 
 and singing. He loved silence. In silence all great 
 things were accomplished, — feeding, battling, hoard- 
 ing. Stalks and trunks were faithful and honest; 
 leaves and petals were fickle and treacherous. In 
 time, he was quite certain, the flying things — butter- 
 flies, and bees, and birds, would be exterminated, — 
 while worms and ants and caterpillars would con- 
 tinue to multiply until the earth would bend beneath 
 their weight. 
 
 [95] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 When lie became a butterfly, he considered himself 
 brother to the bee and the sparrow and the eagle. 
 He loved the air that rocked like a sea, and had waves 
 and tides. The black earth he did not deign to look 
 upon. He alighted upon the perilous tips of petals 
 and leaves. He loved the buzzing of bees, the music 
 of birds, the gentle clatter of his own wings. All that 
 crawled — ants and caterpillars and worms, — the ver- 
 min of the world, he despised. He loved things that 
 lived intensely, and died over night — perfume, and 
 honey, and color. He hated things that lived for- 
 ever — bark of trees, and stalks and thorns. He was 
 certain that before the end of Summer the vermin of 
 the world would be crushed by hooves or eaten by the 
 beaks of birds; and that upon the endless Sea of Air 
 that rocked and had waves and tides, the winged 
 things of the earth would sail in mighty hordes. . . . 
 
 ILLUSION 
 
 The grey little mouse with pink eyes and three tiny 
 threads of beard, looked timidly up from his trap, and 
 addressed the golden canary, which hopped about in 
 his cage and sang his usual morning song — something 
 about the Sun knocking at the window with golden 
 knuckles, and a red rose he had dreamt during the 
 night, and a great tree he dimly remembered. 
 
 "How can you sing so cheerfully, — being a pris- 
 
 oner?" 
 
 "A prisoner, I? I am the king of birds, and this is 
 my forest. Therefore, I sing." Then the grey little 
 
 [96] 
 
PASTELS 
 
 mouse with pink eyes and three tiny threads of beard, 
 thought and thought, and it seemed to him that per- 
 haps, he too, was not a prisoner, but the king of mice, 
 and his trap a great black cellar, — and so, he began to 
 turn around rapidly, avoiding the sharp points. 
 
 "That is well", said the canary, "I shall sing and 
 you will dance. It will be very cheerful here." 
 
 And when I raised the trap to drown the little 
 mouse, the latter whirled madly about, and the canary 
 sang so loud, he grew hoarse. 
 
 THE FINAL RECKONING 
 
 Some day, the divine Janitor, who has been loafing 
 for a long time, fearing a general inspection, will be- 
 come over-industrious. He will throw the Earth, 
 which is the cosmic rubbish, — the lands, the seas, the 
 mountains, mankind, bugs, flees, everything, into a 
 bag, and dump it into some divine lake. Everything 
 will be drowned forever. But many dreams and many 
 thoughts being lighter than water, will float on the 
 surface. Young godlets fishing gold and diamond 
 fishes, will clap their hands in great delight, — ' ' Look, 
 look, baby stars sailing on the lake ! ' ' 
 
 CONSOLATION OR SOUR GRAPES 
 
 The Ocean: The Sand may hold me in his em- 
 brace, — but I spit on him — I gurgle my throat and 
 spit on him — ceaselessly. . . . 
 
 The Sands : The ocean may spit on me — may gurgle 
 
 [97] 
 
AND THE SPHINX SPOKE 
 
 her throat, and spit on me — but I hold, her tightly in 
 my embrace — tightly. . . . 
 
 FREE WILL 
 
 The Weathercock ■ — I am the master of the winds ! 
 I order their course ! I call to them : ' ' Now — to the 
 East — now to the West!" I turn about them, and 
 tighten the reins around their necks. When I grow 
 weary, I order them to stop. Like exhausted steeds, 
 they fall at my feet, and sleep. . . . 
 
 [98] 
 
PASTELS 
 
 To Posterity 
 
 I do not believe in you, Posterity. I do not make 
 you the judge of my generation. I am not elated 
 thinking of the statues you will raise to some of us : 
 my vengeance is not assuaged by the evil names you 
 will heap upon others. Time will not be a perspective 
 for you, even as it is not for us. Time will be but the 
 thick dust raised by the hooves of the galloping years. 
 
 I do not believe in you, Posterity, as I do not believe 
 in my own generation. You, too, will lie, misinter- 
 pret, be puffed up with vanity; you, too, will prefer 
 falsehood to truth, evil to good, superstition to wisdom. 
 
 I do not believe in you, Posterity. I am not chagrined 
 that I shall be forever still beneath you. I do not 
 regret that I shall not be able to battle with you for 
 food and liberty. I do not envy your beauty, your 
 knowledge, you virtues. They will be like my own 
 generation's, — the kneaded refuse of the past — our 
 hallucinations made sacred and divine. 
 
 I do not believe in you, Posterity. I do nofc bequeathe 
 anything to you. Not even a blade of grass that may 
 shiver above my grave ; nor a cordial salutation from 
 the outer rim of Infinity ; nor even a wink of recogni- 
 tion from the blue peak of a white star. I offer you 
 as I offer my own generation — my thumb wriggling 
 upon the tip of my nose. 
 
 [99] 
 
St? 
 
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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