Chapter IV: Part 4

Ronald, Duke of Middlebottom, had taken a furnished house on West Twelfth Street for the summer, against the advice of friends who had urged the advantages of Sutton Place. The owner of this property, a woman, had individual taste, somewhat influenced by the Italian of various epochs and styles, and the Duke had added his own touches here and there. The drawing-room, a vast chamber on a level with the street-door, approached by a flight of steps, extended the full depth of the house. The walls of this room were stained a curious olive-green, and the windows were curtained with stiff draped silver-grey taffeta, bound with narrow bands of turquoise-blue. Silver and crystal candelabra were placed at convenient intervals along the walls, but no central chandelier depended from the ceiling. On the marble mantelshelf stood two Venetian glass Ethiopians, clad in white, clasping baskets of multi-coloured crisp glass flowers, from the midst of which emerged white wax candles. On a long, polished walnut table there were more glass figures, capricious examples of the art of the verrier, a Spanish Infanta of rosso Murano and black, a white-spotted black deer, a saucy red-lipped Columbine. The chairs and divans, possibly of Italian renaissance design, were covered for the season with a gay Derryvale linen. A few pictures hung on the walls: a bowl of zinnias by Florine Stettheimer, orchids by Charles Demuth, and magnified, scarlet cannas by Georgia O’Keeffe. The hallway, painted a bright Italian blue, sprinkled with tiny blue stars, ran parallel with the drawing-room from the front to the back of the house, leading down a flight of steps into the garden in the rear, where a shell-walk wandered in and out between tiny beds of azure flowers, planted under symmetrical chestnut-trees and catalpas with their heart-shaped leaves and ridiculously long and slender seed-pods, to a fountain in the middle of the back wall, a fountain inspired by Nijinsky’s interpretation of Mallarmé’s faun. A huge umbrella, striped orange and black, almost like the canopy of a pavilion, protected a black table and chairs from the sunglare. The dining-room was in the basement and it had been the happy fancy of its mistress to hang the walls with an old-fashioned paper, printed in pink and white stripes after the manner of stick candy. On these walls she had fastened by means of pins a few ribald covers torn off Le Rire and La Vie Parisienne. The prim little black marble mantelshelf held half a dozen painted sugar statuettes, ravished from a Houston Street pasticceria, representing Sicilian banditi, not unmenacing, and bland shepherdesses with thick ankles, guarding shapeless sheep. The table, at dinner, was usually a confusion of fragile, opaque Bristol Glass, with decorations of birds and flowers, old Staffordshire china, and ornaments of artificial grapes and crystal, laid on the bare walnut board. Sometimes a great bronze Buddha panted on his back in a bowl of nasturtiums, his hexagonal belly looming high above the posies.

The second floor was divided into two bedrooms, the walls of one of which were hung with an old eighteenth century paper, depicting rather fanciful South Sea Islanders enjoying themselves in the shade of great palm-trees, while other cannibals with formidable spears navigated the sea in extravagant canoes. This was the back chamber, and because it overlooked the garden and was free from the noises of the street, the Duke had chosen it for his own. When the Duke moved into a hotel room, the decorations of which were distasteful to him, he frequently sent for a paper-hanger and ordered the room repapered. He did not go so far in this instance, but he had contrived to conceal a good part of the pseudo-Marquesan landscape with shungwa, a special class of Japanese prints, erotic and often obscene. The room was always in the uttermost disorder, as most of his personal belongings and the books and pictures and knick-knacks which he was constantly picking up were littered within its four walls. A gate-legged table in the corner served as an uneasy resting place for a bronze torso by Dujam Penic, the Serbian sculptor, a pair of yellow-green glass candlesticks in the shape of inverted dolphins, De Berg van Licht by Louis Couperus, boxes of cravats from Charvet, consignments of pleasant odours from Bichara, and a hand-illuminated quotation from Goethe:

Hätte Gott mich anders gewollt,
Er hätte mich anders gebaut;

neatly framed in gold. As the Duke had a fancy for frequently changing his clothes, it was well-nigh impossible for the Ceylonese servants, tall, brown fellows with combs in their straight ebony hair, to put away the procession of trousers, coats, boots, and stockings which marched over the floor and the chairs. The front chamber was a serene little Louis XIV room, and always gave the appearance of never having been occupied, even after some one had been living in it for several days. These apartments were connected by the bath, panelled in alternating squares of malachite and lapis lazuli, with a tub of rose-jade with golden faucets. The floor was paved with diamond-shaped bloodstone flags. Two full-length mirrors, set in the wall, were backed with black instead of quicksilver. The long dressing-table, gilded, and surmounted by an oval, black mirror, held a mysterious array of luxurious objects and a profusion of crystal bottles with gold tops. The Duke admitted frankly that he had taken the house for the sake of this bathroom, and confessed that he passed most of his time there when he had no guests. It may be added, however, that the Duke was seldom alone. The third floor the owner had transformed--old New York houses are as capable of countless metamorphoses as Ovidian gods--into a miniature theatre, the walls of which had been decorated by Paul Thévenaz with dying stags, agile monkeys, wriggling serpents, gorgeous macaws, iridescent humming-birds, mad huntsmen, bayaderes, odalisques, and Hindu Rajahs. The drop-curtain was of silver cloth into which had been woven an infinity of semi-precious stones, in a conventional Persian design. It was in this theatre that the Duke proposed to give New York its season of summer opera.

* * * * *

On a sultry day, late in July, Campaspe, in a clinging garment of chartreuse swiss, with a Lucie Hamar hat of geranium-red, flesh-coloured stockings, and ivory kid shoes with vermilion heels, sat with the Duke and Paul under the great umbrella in the garden, discussing plans for the opera. Out of Jacobite ale-glasses with air-twist stems they were sipping that pleasant hot-weather mixture, gin and ginger beer, cooled with ice and flavoured with limes. A bowl of chopped ice, several unopened stone bottles of Idris, and a blue pitcher half-full of Gordon gin stood on the table between them. The Duke’s suit, too, was of blue, the coolest of colours, he explained, exactly the colour to compete with the sirocco. And, he went on, as was his wont, exactly the wrong colour for a theatre. A theatre should never be blue, for a theatre must be warm; even in summer, the effect of a theatre should be warm.

Ronald dear, I agree with you, said Campaspe. We cannot discuss that. Anyway _your_ theatre isn’t blue, so there would be nothing to discuss even if I felt argumentative. But the opera....

Well, of course, the Duke began tentatively, I don’t mean exactly an opera. Rather a p-p-p-play, b-b-b-but the kind of play you don’t see in New York. Not modern either. Whenever I hear the word I think of Cocteau’s phrase, a nigger prostrate before the telephone. Everything one called modern a year or two ago is old-fashioned: Freud, Mary Garden, Einstein, Wyndham Lewis, Dada, glands, the Six, vers libres, Sem Benelli, Clive Bell, radio, the Ziegfeld Follies, cubism, Sacha Guitry, Ezra Pound, The Little Review, vorticism, Marcel Proust, The Dial, uranians, Gordon Craig, prohibition, the young intellectuals, Sherwood Anderson, normalcy, Guillaume Apollinaire, Charlie Chaplin, screens in stage d-d-d-d-decoration, Aleister Crowley, the Russian Ballet, fireless cookers, The Chauve Souris, Margot Asquith, ectoplasm, Eugène Goossens, the tango, Jacques Copeau, Negro dancing! Let’s not be modern. Let’s turn back to the great period around 1910--even a trifle earlier.

The Frogs? suggested Campaspe.

Oh! No croaking.

Lysistrata?

That’s an idea. You are warmer.

Less blue.

Redder. Oranger. Lysistrata! Perhaps. But I should prefer something more curious. I like B-B-B-Bacon’s phrase: There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the p-p-p-proportion.... He appeared to ponder.... I have it! Rachilde’s l’Araignée de Cristal.

The Crystal Spider.

Firebird! You understand French.

I seem to foresee this play: cold and perverse.

Blood.

Cold blood.

There’s a mother and a boy who is afraid of mirrors. I will play the b-b-boy and you will p-p-p-play the mother.

Frozen blood. No mother for me! Out! What else?

Ronald Firbank’s Princess Zoubaroff is perhaps more colorado.

Oh! Firbank.

I hear, hopefully put in Paul, who did not understand Spanish, that he is an indecent writer.

Every alternate line is decent, exclaimed the Duke. A master of wordcraft! He’s writing something new--I forget the name--: Mackerel Fishing in the Bois de Boulogne; perhaps that’s it--or Cocktails.

Is it about America? asked Paul.

Possibly. Le vit est dur partout.

Campaspe ended this: The Princess Zoubaroff is an idea. If we give that we must ask all New York.

And cable Ronald to come over to make bows.

Ronald cables Ronald.

The Duke grinned at the possibility as he lifted his glass automatically to search for the rough pontil mark. The group was now disturbed by a sudden raucous tumult at the other end of the garden. The white dachshund and the golden Pomeranian were engaged in a noisy dispute. Presently two Ceylonese servitors appeared and, separating the combatants, bore them yelping into the house.

Terrible d-d-d-dogs! remarked the Duke. I call them Dédé and Eskal Vigor. Ils ont de mauvaises mœurs. He returned to the subject under discussion: I’ve really made up my mind.

I was sure of it, Campaspe declared. What is it?

Nozière’s l’Après-midi Byzantine.

I don’t know it.

Certainly, you don’t. It’s in one act and no costumes: cool for the actors, and hot for the spectators. Grues and a charioteer and a boy. La scène est à Byzance. Le principal meuble est un siège bas qui ressemble à un lit.

You will play the boy.

I will play the charioteer. In Paris a girl played the b-b-b-boy: Madeleine Carlier. It is b-b-better so. It makes the piece more perverse.

And what am I to play?

Xantippe or Myrrha.... Zimbule must play the boy, Clinias.

You seem more interested in casting Zimbule than in arranging a part for me, Campaspe bantered.

You shall play Myrrha. It is the b-b-b-best rôle.

Do I have scenes with you?

With me, with Zimbule, with everybody. There are two servants, but their parts present no difficulty, and a dancer. I can arrange that. A Byzantine Afternoon! What an opera for New York! July is already the season.

If you can get an audience, put in Paul.

Ah! They will come in f-f-from the mountains. They will rush over from London. The Aquitania will b-b-bulge.

There’s no part for me, I take it, Paul remarked.

You can be a stage-hand; Harold, an electrician.

He will have to join the union, said Campaspe. Then, more seriously, There’s something there. None of you understands Harold. I like the boy.

So do I, said Paul.

Firebird, we all d-d-do, protested the Duke. And I understand him. He is like a silver flamingo.

A silver flamingo?

Yes, glowing, glamorous, shining--like Galahad in armour--and strange, aloof; he d-d-does not mate with the rose flamingos.

Campaspe smiled and smoothed out her frock. You are describing yourself, Ronald, she said.

You, Firebird, he went on, paying no heed to her interruption as he was in the mood for similizing, you are the crystal spider. You draw them all into your net: these Harolds and Bunnies and Zimbules. What a crew! Where do you find them?

It’s my life to find them, but I never hunt.

He was, apparently, bent on comparison, for he continued, ponderingly, A catalyst, perhaps.... Yes, certainly, a catalyst.

What, asked Paul, is a catalyst?

An agent which effects a chemical reaction while appearing to take no part in it, the Duke replied.

Campaspe enjoyed talking nonsense with the Duke. She wondered if they all were aware how different she was with each of them, how she reflected their respective temperaments. It was one of her purposes in life to act the part of mirror. Was it a black mirror today? she questioned herself.

* * * * *

Plans for the play progressed. The Duke thought of Drains, who, it appeared, had a talent for light magic. He could make rabbits appear from hats, and balance an eel on his left ear. Zimbule was delighted to assist. Her initial adventure in the theatre had proved sufficiently diverting. She had been rehearsing with a brown-haired star who objected that Zimbule’s hair was too near her own colour. At the next rehearsal Zimbule appeared in a yellow wig. The star now developed a decided aversion to wigs. Zimbule dyed her hair. The star discharged her. I don’t blame the dame, the girl said. She’s forty-five and she looked ninety ’side o’ me. I showed her up. At any rate, Zimbule was now free to appear in the Duke’s opera.

The Duke began to exhibit a lively interest in the composition of the audience. There should be an audience of tired business men, he announced, American business men. It will amuse them; it will wake them up, he explained.

You have such romantic ideas about America, Campaspe expostulated. Is there such a thing as a business man in America? I suppose so. Cupid, even, does something down town. But we try to keep that sort of thing in the background. We try not to be aware of it. It is the smart thing to do nothing, or, at any rate, to appear to do nothing. It is even a trifle démodé to write or paint. Of course, she observed in conclusion, there are people from Chicago who might do.

Oh! those furtive people from Chicago! Paul exclaimed. Those wicked, rich Chicagoans, who come to New York to be naughty, like American sophomores in Paris. Once here, you would imagine that they devote their whole lives to libidinous adventures. But if you see them back in Chicago, I am told, they are respectable fathers of families who dine at home every night, and eat breakfast across the table from their wives. Those middle-western group breakfasts! And if a word is used that the very children speak in the streets of Vienna, these Chicago business men blush.

Why, Paul! Campaspe cried, you must feel about Chicago business men the way Laura feels about Jews. When did you meet these monsters?

Meet them! Paul shrieked, waving his jade cigarette-holder about in the air. Meet them! How did you get such an idea? Meet them, indeed!

The Duke, slightly bewildered by this discourse, attempted to pull the conversation back into its proper channel.

You know perfectly well what I mean, he said. I want a reaction. I don’t want a lot of b-b-b-b-bored lollers out in front.

You’d better ask the Brooklyn Elks, Paul suggested.

Or the Campfire Girls, put in Campaspe.

Or the Academy of Arts and Letters, alternated Paul.

I don’t think, the Duke asseverated solemnly, that you and Paul appreciate your great country. The Hackensack meadows always remind me of the Roman Campagna, and yet I find that no one drives about in them.

What are you going to have to eat? Campaspe asked by way of creating a diversion.

Pickled walnuts, p-p-p-p-potted b-b-blackbirds, plovers’ eggs....

Paul began, unreasonably, to grin. I don’t know what reminds me, he said, but have you heard about Bunny? He’s had Zimbule’s name tattooed on his person so cunningly that it can only be deciphered under certain conditions.

* * * * *

The rehearsals were very strange. A friend of Paul’s had been called in to play Xantippe. After the cast was arranged the Duke remembered that he had not yet translated the play. He began to do so, and then he conceived the idea of leaving his own part in French.

I will play the charioteer in French, while the other characters play in English, he announced. It will add a fillip!

But Zimbule objected to this proposal, refusing point-blank to play her scene with him in any such manner.

The Duke began to enjoy directing the piece.

Firebird, please say that line again; a little more emphasis on the word love.... Miss O’Grady, please stand down centre d-d-during this scene.

But this was unnecessary. Zimbule was always standing down centre. It was difficult, if not impossible, to persuade her to stand anywhere else. She took the best position as naturally as an old stock star would have taken it.

When the Duke, enamoured of directing, dropped out of the cast, Harold was drafted to fill his place. Never having acted before, the boy was appallingly self-conscious, all arms and legs, nor can it be said that he was an ideal choice for the rôle of a debauched athlete of the arena, bent on persuading his mistress to deceive him. He was serious, however, and came to his second rehearsal letter-perfect. A new phenomenon caught the eye of the observant Mrs. Lorillard: Zimbule, seemingly having exhausted Bunny’s attractions, appeared to be developing an interest in Harold. Campaspe took her on another shopping tour.

Never, she was explaining, wear clothes with designs in the cloth. You are much too beautiful for that. Wear the plainest, simplest things. Give your face a chance.

But you ... began Zimbule.

I am not beautiful, Campaspe replied. I can wear what I please. Even so, I am careful. I once owned a watch, the case of which was cut from a single sapphire. I christened it at a dinner in Rome, but I never wore it again thereafter. It was too marvellous. I could not compete with it.

Zimbule gazed at her with admiration. The girl was extremely adaptable, took everything in. In a month she had learned more about dressing, walking, standing than some women ever know. Even her speech was improving.

Never keep your rooms too dark, Campaspe continued. Bright rooms are best. Bright lights. Always sit facing the window. Then there will be no shadows and shadows across the face make even the youngest of us look old. So few women know this.

Zimbule drove away from Bendel’s in a new Lanvin frock, black and severely plain. With her yellow hair and green eyes, she was sufficiently striking but she instinctively knew how to wear clothes, and was not even lacking in a certain kind of distinction. Campaspe, on the whole, was proud of her.

In the motor Campaspe ventured a question, What is Bunny doing?

Oh! Bunny! I don’t know. Writing music, I suppose. There was a touch of petulance in the reply.

Nice boy.

Is he? Zimbule, obviously, was uninterested. There was a short pause before she said, Mrs. Lor--Campaspe, do you know Harold very well?

I’ve known him such a short time, Campaspe parried.

But what a kid!

I applaud you.

I like him.

Campaspe veiled her curiosity. So do I, was all she said.

At rehearsal that evening she observed that Zimbule had begun her siege. Bunny, brought thither to arrange or compose the music for the Duke’s opera, sulked in a corner. The Duke had evolved the idea of reviving music by Salvatore Viganò, music entirely antipathetic to the mood of the piece. Bunny, on the contrary, wanted to fit the play with music by Arthur Honegger, or possibly something by himself.

The Duke shrugged his shoulders. Zimbule was whispering to the embarrassed Harold in a corner.

I think, growled Bunny, I’d like to write some modern jazz for this show.

The Duke began to brighten. That, he remarked, would be as good as music by Viganò. Jazz for a B-B-B-Byzantine play! He urged Bunny to carry out his idea.

Bunny scowled. He had no idea. His temper was one of opposition, and he had given voice to the first contradiction that had surged into his brain. His mind, on the whole, was not on jazz. Zimbule was wearing a gown of rose charmeuse, without a single decoration or ornament. Her movements and gestures were all quick and abandoned. She buzzed about Harold like a brilliant humming-bird hovering over a tropical flower. The tropical flower, it was perceivable, belonged to the vegetable kingdom. It made no false effort to enter into the movement. It sat quietly awaiting the attack, perhaps even unconscious that there would be an attack, but dimly aware that some unnatural phenomenon was in process of accomplishment. Quite suddenly, casting off the semblance of the radiant bird, Zimbule became as colubrine as one of her ex-serpents, and coiled as if to strike. Campaspe watched her, fascinated; Bunny watched her, glowering.

* * * * *

The great night arrived. There had been more discussion about the spectator-guests.

Ask your friends, Campaspe had suggested, mocking despair.

I have no f-f-f-friends, retorted the Duke, only people that amuse me, and people I sleep with.

Well ... ask them.

The people that amuse me are all in the p-p-p-play.... The theatre isn’t b-b-b-b-b-big enough to hold the others.

Still, from somewhere, he had gathered an audience, a splendid, showy throng. Campaspe, through the folds of the curtain, watched them file into the theatre. Some of the faces she recognized; others were unknown to her; but the assembling of such a representative collection on a hot night in July was a feat which she appreciated. As she looked out over the house, a fluttering, fragrant acervation of luminous colour, like the flower-beds at Hampton Court, she was irresistibly reminded of an opera night at Covent Garden, and this, she recalled, had been the Duke’s idea, to give New York an unseasonable opera. Ronald had a faculty for arranging things, and Campaspe loved efficiency. Whatever he put his mind to, she began to believe, happened. It was seldom enough, however, that one could be altogether certain what he was putting his mind to. Even now....

In the little balcony reserved for it, the orchestra was tuning up, discordantly. Presently, the leader lifted his bâton, and the men began to perform Bunny’s overture. It was a new kind of music, she told herself at once, contrapuntal jazz, in which saxophones whistled and shrieked and groaned like hysterical school-girls telling lewd experiences, while the violins and double-basses vamped rhythmically. Flutes cried out in the tones of insane criminals. There was an indescribable clatter of tambourines, bones, triangles, castanets, gongs, drums, tomtoms, cow-bells, cymbals, wood-blocks, and rooster-crows. Listening behind the folds of the silver curtain, Campaspe realized that at last she was hearing the music of the future. Ornstein, Prokofieff, Schönberg would sound, in comparison, like a minuet by Luigi Boccherini. There was a rush, a push, an extravagant primitive quality in this music. If I listen to this music, I shall forget my rôle, she confessed to herself, and it occurred to her to wonder if Bunny was, after all, a genius. Anybody must be a genius who could stir her as this music was stirring her. She was drenched, nay submerged, in merciless floods of clang-tints: unnamable sins obsessed her consciousness. She exerted her will, and peeping between the folds of the curtain, gazed at the assemblage. The ladies’ faces were drawn taut and pale; some of them were contorted by strange grimaces. Bosoms rose and fell in a shuddering, broken rhythm. The men looked hard and cold, like men who had just had their toes chopped off, but who were too stoical to scream. Suddenly, with one shrill blast from the saxophones, one crisp screech from the flutes, the band saw purple and cavorted into obsolete keys, neglecting its duties towards the tempered scale. Then, swiftly, with a tortured snatch of parody of I’ll build a stairway to paradise, the overture ended. The men were now flushed and restless, seemingly ashamed to look at their companions. The ladies, as if to recover their poise, began to chatter affectedly. There was no applause.

A triumph! A complete triumph! Campaspe turned to the Duke.

Rather! he admitted. And I wanted this man to arrange some of Viganò’s p-p-p-paltry tunes. He’s better than Stravinsky!

Campaspe was reflective. He never wrote like this before. I wonder if it is Zimbule who has inspired him?

He has seen something. It is the last wail of a d-d-discarded mule in hell.

Zimbule, in her boy’s costume, approached.

Say, what is it?

Bunny’s overture, Campaspe muttered.

Sounded like a stale calliope at Coney. Where’s Harold?

Clear the stage, shouted Paul in his capacity as stage-manager.

They obeyed him and, as the silver folds parted, out into the void before a yellow satin drop walked Oliver Drains in a suit of purple tights which terminated only in a white-ruffed collar. For some time Drains had fancied himself arrayed à la John Barrymore in The Jest. He had seized his opportunity. The orchestra played Some sunny day. There was a ripple of applause for the performer. Drains bowed. He began by tossing gold balls in the air. He continued the ritual. White mice were discovered harboured in the kinky wool of a recalcitrant coon. Artificial mango bushes bloomed from empty jars. An otiose table suddenly offered support to a bowl of swimming goldfish, which, apparently, had come out of the air. The orchestra played Dear old southland. The spectators seemed to have regained their equilibrium. Only one woman, far in the back, gazed about furtively in an attempt to discover if any one recalled what her condition had been but a few brief moments earlier.

May I borrow a hat? Drains called out.

The hats were piled in the Louis XIV bedroom. One of the Duke’s Ceylonese servants descended in search of the demanded article. There was a flutter of fans through the heated chamber. An old gentleman already suffered from a sad and correct drunkenness. Two young men strolled out, feeling their hips. This recognition scene became more general.

After Drains’s number absinthe was served in goblets.

Next came the acrobats, four brothers from the halls, professionals in pink fleshings, with spangled ruching about their middles. The orchestra played I’m just wild about Harry. The fans pursued their endless game. After this turn the Ceylonese servants served arrack in crystal bowls, and passed cigarettes with lighters on beaten copper trays.

Now the glow in the auditorium was extinguished. The Ceylonese boys set fire to braziers and the odour of Narcisse Noir permeated the atmosphere. Again, the orchestra played Bunny’s music, the incidental music he had composed for Nozière’s baroque comedy, l’Après-midi Byzantine, music which began with a faint roll of drums, which grew louder and louder and then died away. Now a clarinet, solo, played a plaintive, incestuous melody in a scale much higher than that which is usually associated with this instrument. The saxophone took up the thread, playing a few bars, and when the saxophone had finished, the double-bass had something indelible to say. Then, quite unreasonably, the piano held a soliloquy. Campaspe was glad that she was not looking at the audience. She could imagine the faces. Her hands, she felt, were as cold as fresh spring water.

The silver curtains parted anew and the play proceeded. The first great moment was the appearance of the Cambodian dancer, a slender, full-bosomed bayadere, clad, like Moreau’s Salome, only in jewels. Sparkling with light, her face as expressionless as a Noh mask, she stood on a small round platform in a miniature circle of illumination. Her movements were slow and insinuating; there was no abandon, no swift grace, in this dance. But she contrived to invest her slightest gesture with a leste significance, and when, seated, cross-legged, she bent her long fingers back until they touched her fore-arms, her face remaining the face of an unwrapped mummy, she suggested, irrevocably, the expiatory pain of a supreme sin.

Zimbule, too, tossed by the intricate intrigue of the play into the arms of one character after another, exhibited a nonchalance and rare perversity which lifted her performance into the realm of something rich and strange. In her scene with Harold, the scene of the charioteer with the boy-sculptor, a scene written in a mocking, cynical spirit, she far transcended anything, however curious, that the author had imagined. To this episode, in which Clinias, betrayed with the mistress of Hippolyte, attempts to conciliate the burly athlete, she gave a touch of mystic sensuality, aided by Bunny’s music, which, in its definite contradictions, its wholly inappropriate rightness, wailed on. Harold, naturally, was lamentably bad. The curtain fell in silence, but, almost immediately, there rose a great storm of applause.

It belongs to Zimbule and Bunny, said Campaspe. Let them take the calls. Bunny, morbid with grief and chlorosis, and yet transfigured with excitement, was discovered hovering in a corner. As the curtains parted again, Paul pushed him on to the stage. Zimbule strolled on unconcernedly from the other side, dragging the reluctant Harold in her wake. Bunny groaned and buried his face in his hands. There were cries of Bravo! and Brava!

There has never been anything like it, Ronald, Campaspe exclaimed. I don’t feel as if I had been part of it at all. I was so occupied looking and listening. Did I remember my lines?

You were perfect, Firebird. The Duke was distrait.

Strange. I don’t remember having spoken a single word.

* * * * *

Drains had departed. The acrobats were dressing. The actors in their costumes mingled with the throng. Many of the guests, like sharks after a slain leviathan, crowded into the dining-room for supper, chaud-froid, truffle salad, spumoni.... Others lingered in the theatre. In the garden a little group of lanky, pale youths, demi-puceaux, congregated. The silent Ceylonese passed, expertly, up and down, through and about, with cigarettes and trays laden with minuscule glasses and fat bottles of Danziger Goldwasser.

Little by little, the excitement dwindled, and there were signs that the New York season would soon come to an end. One of these was the demeanour of the Duke who, from time to time, frankly yawned, making no effort to conceal his dehiscent jaw. Bunny had disappeared shortly after his tragic curtain call. Zimbule accepted her encomiums as if she found them exceedingly tiresome. She seemed exalted, disembodied. Campaspe, conscious of impending drama, hovered in her wake.

With a fiercer intensity Harold felt that a fatality assembled the elements which made up his life. He had begun to think of himself as an automaton, set up and wound to give pleasure ... to whom? Not to himself. Not too much, apparently, to these others. Was he giving, then, some form of pleasure to his father. Was his father taking a perverse joy in watching him struggle in these nets of silk and gilt. At least, and at last, he was free of Zimbule. Once the curtains had fallen she had released his hand and left his side.

Campaspe, in her clinging blue robe, followed Zimbule down the stairs, listening to the re-echoing Remarkable! Marvellous! Divine! Extraordinary! Kolossal! Epatante! The crowd had seen something, heard something, tasted something, touched something, smelled something. And Campaspe, as always, had experienced the reflex of the crowd. That was about all there was left, she admitted to herself, but it was wonderful when it happened. Zimbule seemed tired and listless, petulant even. She shook hands and received compliments languidly, without any interest, Campaspe thought, and yet she still sensed a strange vibrancy in the girl, a curious electrical quality, preserved for future transmission. Where, and to whom? Campaspe looked about for Harold. He was nowhere to be seen. The Duke, too, had disappeared, and several escaping guests shook hands with Campaspe, mistaking her for the hostess. She asked Zimbule if she would like to change, and the girl assented, almost eagerly, Campaspe noted. They installed themselves in the magnificent bathroom and Campaspe dispatched Frederika to the top floor for their dresses. Meanwhile, she watched Zimbule, as the child quickly divested herself of her ivory tunic and the single protective piece she wore beneath this, and soon stood in her sandals, rose and perspiring in her nudity, before the black mirrors. How wonderful it was that this girl, who had never taken any care of her body, should possess such a perfect body, perfect in its proportions, perfect in its details. Women with beautiful bodies never suffer from modesty or a sense of shame, Campaspe said to herself, and she remembered that some man had told her recently that he had been married for five years but had never seen his wife’s feet. He had been certain that her feet were ugly or deformed or that they suffered from one of the diseases that feet suffer from. Looking at this child, exquisite in her lack of shame, her natural ignorance of an occasion for it, Campaspe assured herself that the man had judged his wife justly.

You are lovely, she said.

Zimbule, already silent for some time, said nothing now, but her face brightened with an appreciative smile, and there was something interrogative also in her expression.

I wonder if he will think so, she breathed at last.

Frederika had returned with their white evening gowns, and she helped them to don them. Campaspe, dressed first, directed her maid to draw on Zimbule’s stockings and her little satin shoes.

Shall I ask you both to my house tomorrow? was her suggestion.

Zimbule threw her a swift glance of gratitude. I shan’t wait till tomorrow, she said, the colour mounting to her cheeks. She had rubbed off the last vestige of make-up, but she was still as rosy as a country milk-maid.

Tomorrow, too, if you like, Campaspe encouraged.

Oh! well! We’ll be in bed, I hope.

Some one was pounding on the door.

Who’s there? Campaspe demanded.

Ronald, came the reply. They’ve all g-g-g-gone, and I want to go to b-b-b-bed.

Campaspe opened the door.

We’re dressed, she said. Ronald, the opera was a success. New York has had a summer season. I can pass the autumn in Sicily with perfect safety.

Did you like it? was his indifferent query. It bored me. It was fun to plan, but stupid to do....

Where’s Harold? Zimbule asked.

Harold? repeated the Duke, alarmed by the idea that there might be still others who had not departed.

Mr. Prewett, he dress upstairs, volunteered one of the Ceylonese servants.

Good God! Not gone yet, groaned the Duke.

_We’re_ going now, said Campaspe.

Good-night, Firebird, and thank you.... He kissed her.... Good-night, little O’Grady. You shone.

Thanks. Good-night, Mr. Ronald. Zimbule could never be persuaded to call the Duke anything else.

They went on down the stairs, Frederika following with their bags.

Can I drive you home? asked Campaspe.

No, thank you. I have a taxi waiting. I ordered it some time ago.

At the foot of the stairs an obstruction appeared: Bunny.

Zimbule was direct: I’m not going home with you, Bunny.

You can’t do that to me! His tone was appealing rather than threatening.

I’m not going home with you. Don’t make a row. It won’t do any good. I’m roosting with Campaspe.

Oh! God! Zimbule, what have I done? What’s the matter? The boy began to weep.

Cut that! You haven’t done anything.... I’m going home with Mrs. Lorillard.

She was determined: this much was apparent even to a vision obscured by tears. Bunny stepped back, splashing himself like an ugly blot against the blue wall, and the three women made their way out.

Good-night, Campaspe, whispered Zimbule, as she kissed her friend. Good-night.

She slipped into the waiting taxi, after a direction to the chauffeur, uttered in too low a voice for Campaspe to catch it, and the vehicle shot away into the black night.

* * * * *

Harold was the last to leave, for Bunny had slunk out as soon as he caught the sound of departing wheels. Harold did not even meet the Duke in the corridor and, as the door of his bedroom was closed, he refrained from knocking. After hesitating a moment in the deserted street, he decided to walk home; it was so hot and so quiet. Turning into Fifth Avenue, brilliantly lighted in spite of the late hour, he walked north until he touched Eighteenth Street.

Soon he was home. Ascending to his floor, he took out his key and prepared to open the door. To his amazement, he found a key already in the lock. Oliver? But Oliver did not stay here nights. Thieves, assuredly, would never leave a key in the door. Still, for a second or two he hesitated, pondering as to whether he should go back for Pedro, the hall-boy. Then he turned the key and entered.

The apartment was perfectly dark. He pressed a button which illuminated the living-room. Nobody there. Passing into the bedroom he pressed another button. His eye fell first on a chair on which was heaped a congeries of feminine apparel. Then he turned to his bed. Curled up, quite uncovered in the heat, sound asleep, in much the same attitude that he had seen her assume with Bunny, lay Zimbule.

Harold stared at her for a moment. Then, his heart beating violently with rage and fear, he pressed the button extinguishing the light. He tip-toed to the hall, pressed the other button, and passed out, closing the door softly behind him.

As he descended in the elevator, Pedro blinked and eyed him curiously, and as Harold rushed out the front entrance, slamming the door violently, the boy whistled softly to himself. Then, with a smile, Pedro lit a cigarette and, like Madama Butterfly, sat down to wait for the dawn.

_Chapter VIII_

The next day began for Campaspe about one o’clock in the afternoon. The sun was high and bright, but the atmosphere was refreshingly cool; it was one of those charming days with a gentle sea breeze which alternate with sultry, humid weather in any New York summer. Campaspe sipped her coffee in bed, and glanced over her mail. There were letters from her two boys who were passing the summer with their grandfather at Southampton. These she opened first. Esmé had caught a blue-fish and Basil wanted a cowboy’s suit with chaps, a red-flannel shirt, a sombrero, and a lariat. Both of them desired to see their mother. Wasn’t she coming down? She tapped an envelope against her open lips as she thought of her sons. Campaspe loved her children, and occasionally she had them with her. It was constitutional of her, however, to believe that she was only doing her best for others when she entirely pleased herself. She had decided, quite wisely, events had proved, not to leave New York again this summer. In the fall she would see the boys before she went to Europe and they were sent to boarding-school. It was better so. Boys, she felt, developed more rapidly and more individually if they did not live too much with their parents. Their grandfather, she knew, would permit them to do anything they wanted to do, and she was satisfied that this was the only way to bring children up successfully. Cupid, to be sure, went down to Southampton about twice a month. He was romantically attached to his sons and cherished a father’s conventional ideas, but he, as much as their grandfather, could be depended upon not to interfere with their wishes. He wanted them to love him, and Campaspe felt certain that he would never thwart their desires for fear of sacrificing that love. Ironically enough, the boys loved their mother more than they did their father. This, in a way, justified her course of action; not that Campaspe ever sought justification for her acts, but sometimes it gave her a certain human amount of pleasure to realize that she was right.... Later, in boarding-school, there would be interference, of course, but that was external interference of the kind the boys might afterwards expect in life and consequently good for them; it had nothing to do with the family.

The next letter she opened was from Laura, who was spending the summer in the Berkshires. She, too, wanted Campaspe to join her. All the world, it would seem, was calling for Campaspe, but this was invariably true, she realized, when one was enjoying oneself. It was only when one felt lonely and bored that nobody asked one to do anything or to go anywhere. The thought came to Campaspe that she was seldom lonely, seldom bored nowadays. Only in her extreme youth had she experienced these and kindred unpleasant emotions. She had a practical nature; she hated the ineffectual. She had conquered fear; she conquered any feeling that annoyed or troubled her. She had mastered a formula for handling life, made life her slave, and this formula infrequently failed her.

After her bath, she donned a dressing-gown of pale green crêpe de chine, purfled in silver frogs, their legs extended in queer swimming postures, and sat down before her little writing-desk.

Dear Laura, she wrote:

You are bored in the Berkshires. I am amused in New York. Why
should I go to you. Return, rather, to me. I know, of course, you
can’t or won’t. You always consider the feelings of your children
or your husband and, as a consequence, always keep them unhappy or
uncomfortable. If you lived your own life, they would adjust their
lives to yours. I suppose, as a matter of fact, that you are living
your own life, doing what you really want to do, just as much as I
am. People who suffer usually like to suffer and talk about it. There
is Wilson Goodward, for instance, always complaining about his hard
knocks, his consistently bad luck, always insisting that nothing ever
comes out right for him. He likes to suffer and he likes to talk about
his suffering. It is his way of making himself important. He cannot
impose his personality on others in any positive way, he cannot work
his will with life, and so he employs negative tools. Naturally, I
don’t mean all this for you. What I really think about you is that you
are domestic, that you love your family, and that you adore excursions
into the country with them, but before your more sophisticated
friends, Laura, you feel ashamed of your true emotions and you believe
it is necessary to apologize for your natural feelings. In time,
probably, you will cease to do this and begin to lecture me as,
perhaps, I seem to be lecturing you now! But I am not, really. I am
merely chattering, as I would chatter if you were here. I am too happy
to give advice to any one.... I am deliriously happy!

Such a summer! Ronald is here--you know, the Duke of Middlebottom;
at least, you have heard me speak of him. He’s done such an amusing
thing: taken a town house in New York in July to transfer the London
season here. At least that’s what he says he has been doing; I think
he may have other reasons for being here. At any rate, he has carried
his masked purpose far enough to give New York a July “opera season.”
Only one night, but what an opera! It really wasn’t an opera at all,
but there was music, which Bunny wrote, thereby convincing me that
he is a genius. There was one moment when all veils were rent. You
should have seen Mrs. Pollanger! But _all_ of them sat naked,
just as they will again in hell. That was _my_ moment: I felt
that Bunny, unconsciously, had done that for me. Certainly, nobody
else appreciated it. It made no impression whatsoever on the person he
_thought_ he had done it for. She is a snake-charmer, or was for
a day or so, really the most unusual and nicest child--she is nearly
seventeen--I have ever met. She follows her instincts, actually
follows them; not the way I do, consciously and scrupulously,
after years of trying to do something else, but involuntarily,
automatically, and she has done so from birth, I should imagine....
I have had great fun teaching her how to dress, how to walk, how to
speak, not too apparently; just a hint here and a hint there, which
she accepts and takes advantage of, makes her own, so to speak,
only too greedily. She is a born duchess, _natural_ like a
duchess--never alarmed lest she be doing something that others will
consider wrong or in bad taste--and, consequently, an aristocrat,
entirely free from vulgarity. For you know it is my belief that only
those are vulgar who make pretensions to be what they are not. Perhaps
you would consider her vulgar. Some day, it is entirely possible, I
may consider her vulgar myself. I can see her in the future, driving
past me without bowing, when she reaches a social station in life
which she regards as higher than mine. At present, she is only
concerned with love, but she will doubtless go beyond that. She will
be disappointed and disillusioned by love, as all of us are some time
or other, and she will probably marry a rich man and live unhappily
ever after, because, au fond, she is an animal, and she will only be
happy so long as she lives like an animal, naturally and a little
libidinously. She is just through with Bunny, who adores her.

And that brings me to Paul, who is the only person I never really
worry about. Paul is so good and kind and amusing and helpless and
_lucky_. At present, he is being taken care of by a rich and
eccentric old gentleman, who has put his son in Paul’s charge, for
a new kind of education. Harold Prewett--that is the boy’s awful
name--is, I should imagine, undergoing a course in worldliness. His
father must believe that he is a prig. Harold is by no means a
prig. He is a boy with fine instincts, who has been compelled by
circumstances, as I see it, to lead a secluded life. Paul’s way of
living, and mine, do not suit him at all, and I think he must be very
unhappy. He is not, however, as dependent upon fate as Paul. Harold is
still young; some day he will assert himself. Indeed, even while I am
writing these words, it has occurred to me that it may be his father’s
grim intention to develop the boy’s character in this ruthless fashion
so that he will assert himself the sooner. How, where, or when, I have
no idea. But this is one of the reasons I have no wish to leave New
York. I cannot afford to miss the scène à faire.

There are, I have discovered, and I insert the discovery
parenthetically for what it may be worth, two kinds of people in this
world, those who long to be understood, and those who long to be
misunderstood. It is the irony of life that neither is gratified.

I am perfectly frank with you, dear Laura, always; there seems to
be no other reason for writing long letters. You know that I seek
my thrills in a curious, vicarious way. You know that what befalls
others is of more interest to me than what befalls myself. Indeed, you
must be aware by now that I do not care to have anything happen to me
at all. If I can prevent it, things never do happen to me, and _I
can prevent it_. I have even arranged it so that I do not suffer
physical pain when it is inconvenient for me.

This is a very long letter about matters in which you will,
conceivably, take only a vague interest, but I am clearing my mind for
the day, revealing myself to myself, revolving my ideas so that I may
the more fully enjoy them.
Now that I have written this letter, indeed, there seems no real
occasion for sending it, but I will not deprive you of such small
amusement as you may derive from a perusal of its pages.

love from your,
+CAMPASPE+.

Having finished the letter and addressed the envelope, Campaspe dipped her fingers into a shallow bowl of water-lilies that stood on the desk and with the moistened tips wet the gum of the envelope and pressed the flap closed. Leaving the letter for Frederika to post, she rose and descended to the garden.

Campaspe’s garden, at the rear of the house, was enclosed in high brick walls on which were trained espaliered fruit-trees. Dwarf shrubs forced their miniature trunks between the mossy crevices of the flagstones of various sizes and colours that paved the ground. Over these a quaint tortoise of considerable size and incredible age, named Aglaë, wandered in a disconsolate manner. There were a few comfortable chairs and, in one corner, under the shade of a spreading crab-apple tree, a table. In the opposite corner rose a rococo fountain which Campaspe, entranced at first sight, had purchased in an antiquary’s shop in Dresden. This fountain gave the atmosphere to the whole place. On a low pedestal, in the midst of a semi-circular pool, a marble Eros, blindfold, knelt. His bow drawn taut, the god was about to discharge an arrow at random. Beneath him, prone on the marble sward, a young nymph wept. The figures were surrounded by a curving row of stiff straight marble narcissi, the water dripping from their cups into the pool below, in which silver-fish played.

Charmed by the sun and the contradictory coolness of the day--nature, she had noted, could be as contradictory and perverse as life itself--, Campaspe, propped up against cushions, lay back in a comfortable chaise-longue. Frederika had followed her with a pile of books, which she placed on a table by the side of her mistress, but, for the moment, Campaspe did not disturb these. She closed her eyes and half-dreamed in the bliss of her security. She hoped that no one would call. She had too much to think about. Campaspe enjoyed being alone. In fact, it was essential to her happiness that she be alone for at least a part of every day, occasionally for the whole day, and sometimes for a period of two or three days. It was during these self-imposed isolations that she most thoroughly enjoyed the hours in which she was not alone. Retrospection, revery, was her pleasure, her desire, her vice. She had no other. Yet, today, she did not give orders that she was not receiving.