Complete weird tales of.., p.1211
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 1211
J’ai cru que c’était une amie;
Quand je l’ai comprise et sentie,
J’en étais déjà dégoûté.
Et pourtant elle est éternelle
Et ceux qui se sont passés d’elle
Ici-bas ont tout ignoré.
Dieu parle, il faut qu’on lui réponde;
Le seul bien qui me reste au monde
Est d’avoir quelquefois pleuré.
“That is all,” said the little maid.
“Sing, Diane,” I said, but I scarcely heard my own voice.
She laughed and bent above me with a graceful gesture. “Not that,” she said, “for you at least are not sad. There is a chansonnette, — shall I sing again? — then be very still, here at my feet. Do you not think my lute is sweet?”
“Je voudrais pour moi qu’il fut toujours fête
Et tourner la tête Aux plus orgueilleux;
Etre en même temps de glace et de flamme,
La haine dans l’âme,
L’amour dans les yeux.”
* * * *
“You, Diane?” I whispered; but she smiled, and the mystery of love veiled her dark eyes; and she sang:
Je ne voudrais pas à la contredanse,
Sans quelque prudence
Livrer mon bras nu
Puis, au cotillion, laisser ma main blanche
Trainer sur la manche
Du premier venu.”
* * * *
“Si mon fin corset, si souple et si juste,
D’un bras trop robuste Se sentait serré,
J’aurais, je l’avoue, une peur mortelle
Qu’un bout de dentelle
N’en fut déchiré.”
She looked at me with soft, unfathomable eyes and touched the lute. When I moved she started from her reverie with a gay little nod to me:
“Quand on est coquette, il faut être sage,
L’oiseau de passage
Qui vole à plein cœur
Ne dort pas en l’air comme une hirondelle,
Et peut, d’un coup d’aile
Briser une fleur!”
“Sing,” I said in a changed voice.
“I have sung,” she said, and laid her lute in my hands. But I knew nothing of minstrelsy and lay silent, idly touching the strings.
She had fashioned for her fair head a wreath of sweet-fern twined with clustered buds, white as snow and faintly perfumed.
“So I am crowned,” she said, “a princess in the Silent Land. Where I step, all things green shall flourish; where I turn my eyes, blossoms shall open in the summer wind; — am I not queen?”
“Will you not sing again, Diane?”
“No, it pleases me to hear a legend now. You may begin, Louis.”
“Which — the Were-wolf or the Man in Purple Tatters or the—”
“No, no — something new.”
“The Seventh Seal?”
“Begin it.”
“And when he opened the Seventh Seal there was silence in Heaven—”
“Dear Saints, have we not silence enough in the Silent Land? Tell me about battles.”
‘“And the sound of their wings was as the sound of chariots of many horses running to battle.’ I could tell you about battles, Diane.”
“Tell me, — don’t move your arm, — tell me of battles, Louis.”
“There was once a King in Carcosa,” I began. But the little maid was already asleep.
I thought I heard a step in the undergrowth and listened.
The forest was silent.
V.
WHEN we awoke it was night. Down from the dark heavens a great star fell, burning like a lamp. Above the low-hanging branches, sombre, drooping, heavy with fragrance, a misty darkness lay like a vast veil spread.
In the stillness I heard her quiet breathing, but we did not speak.
Silence is a Prophet, unveiling mysteries.
Then, through the forest, we heard the sound of wings, and as we moved, stepping together into the shadows, the moon rose above Lynx Peak, gigantic, golden, splendid.
So we passed out of the forest into the star-lit night.
VI
THE skies were leaden, the watery clouds hung low over the valley, and a wet wind blew from the west, ruffling the long pool where Diane stood. Kilted and capped in tweeds, creel swinging with every movement of the rod which swayed and bent with her bending wrist, she moved from ripple to shallow, wading noiselessly while the silken line whistled and the gay flies chased each other across the wind-lashed pool.
We spoke in a low voice, glancing at each other when the light cast struck the water.
“Under the alders Diane—” I said; “have you changed the Grey Dun for the Royal?”
“No, what is your new cast?”
“Emerald and Orange Miller — I shall tie an Alder-fly in place of the Miller. Do you think the water warrants a cast of three?”
“It is rough; I don’t know, — Louis, was that an offer?”
“I think it was the spray from the rapids. Shall we move up a little? Do you feel the chill of the water?”
“I am cold to my knees,” said the little maid, “the river is rising I think — ah, what was that?”
“Nothing, — you touched a floating leaf in the swirl.”
“Splash!” A great fish flopped over in the pool, a trout, lazy, unwieldy, monstrous.
“Oh! he missed it!” cried Diane, turning a little white.
“Cast again,” I whispered, tossing my rod onto the sandy beach and unslinging my landing-net.
Trembling a little with excitement she cast across the swirl, once, twice, twenty times, but the monster was invisible. Somewhere in the dusky depths of that amber well the fierce fish lay watching the lightly dropping flies, unmoved. Then we changed the cast; I emptied my fly-book, but nothing stirred except the hurrying water, curling, gurgling, tumbling through the rocks. Finally I broke the silence.
“Diane, it was the spinner that he rose to. He’s after something redder. Have you a Scarlet Ibis?”
“No — have you?”
I almost groaned, for Conroy’s flies had not arrived, and I hadn’t an Ibis in the world.
After a while she reeled in her silken line, and we waded to the sandy beach and sat down.
“Oh, the pity of it,” sighed Diane; “never have I seen such a trout before. I suppose it is useless, Louis.”
I sat moodily poking holes in the sand with the butt of my landing-net.
We spoke of other things for a time, sinking our voices below the roar of the river. Presently a sunbeam stole through the vapour above, lighting the depths of the dark pool. And all at once we saw the trout, hanging just above the pebbly bottom; we saw the scarlet fins move, the great square tail waving gently in the current, the mottled spotted back, the round staring eyes. The swelling of the gills was scarcely perceptible, the broad mouth hardly moved.
For a long time we sat silent, fascinated; then something stirred behind us on the beach and we slowly turned. It was Solomon.
“Ciel!” faltered Diane, “what is that?”
“My bird — an Egyptian Ibis,” I whispered, laughing silently; “he has followed me, after all.”
Solomon ruffled his scarlet plumes, blinked at me, scratched his head with his broad foot, pecked at a bit of mica, and took two solemn steps nearer.
“Diane,” said I, suddenly, “I’ll get a red fly for you; don’t move — the bird will come close to us.”
But Solomon was in no hurry. Inch by inch he sidled nearer, dallying with bits of moss and shining pebbles, often pausing to reflect, but gradually approaching, for his curiosity concerning Diane was great.
“He looks as if he had stepped off an obelisk,” murmured Diane; “I have seen hieroglyphics that resembled him. Oh, what a prehistoric head — so old, so old!”
“His name is Solomon,” I whispered. “Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. I’m going to have a small bit of Solomon’s glory — sh — h! ah! I’ve got him!”
It was over in a second, and I do not believe it was painful. There was a flurry of sand, a furious flapping of flame-coloured wings, a squawk! a smothered laugh — nothing more.
Mortified, furious, Solomon marched off, shaking the river sand from wing and foot, and Diane and I, with tears of laughter in our eyes, wound the scarlet feather about a spare hook, tied it close with a thread from my coat, and whipped it firmly to the shank. I looped the improvised fly to Diane’s leader, and she shook the line free. The reel sang a sweet tune as she drew the silk through the guides, and presently she motioned me to follow her out into the rippling shallows, and I went, swinging my landing-net to my shoulder. She cast once. The fly struck the swirl and sank a little, but she drew it to the surface and the current swept it under the alders. For a moment it sank again; then the ripples parted, and a broad crimson-flecked side rolled just below the surface of the water. At the same moment the light rod curved, deeply quivering, the reel screamed like the wind in the chimney, and the straining line cut through the water, moving up the pool with lightning speed.
“Strike!” I cried, and she struck heavily, but the reel sang out like a whistling buoy, and the fish tumbled into the churning water under the falls at the head of the pool.
“Now,” said Diane, with a strange quiet in her voice, “I suppose he is gone, Louis.”
But the vicious tug and long, fierce strain contradicted her, and I stepped back a pace or two to let her fight the battle to the bitter end.
The struggle was splendid. Once I believe she became a little frightened, — the rod was staggering under the furious fish, — and she spoke in a queer, small voice: “Are you there, Louis?”
“I am here, Diane.”
“Close behind?”
“Close behind.”
She said nothing more until the great fish lay floating within reach of my net.
“Now!” she gasped.
It was done in a second; and, as I bore the deep-laden net to the beach, I caught a fleeting glimpse of a figure among the trees on the bank above. Diane was kneeling breathlessly on a rock beside me; she did not see the figure. I did, for an instant. It was Ferris.
VII
DINNER was over. Ferris and I lingered silently over the Burgundy, and Howlett hovered in the corner with a decanter of port until Ferris shook his head.
It had been a silent dinner. Ferris tried to be cordial, and failed. Then he tried to be indifferent, with better success. We exchanged a word or two concerning a new keeper who was to be stationed at the notch in the north, and I spoke to Howlett about cleaning the lamps.
Neither of us mentioned rods or trout, although Howlett had served us a delicious sea-trout that evening which had fallen to Ferris’s rod, over which we ordinarily should have exulted.
Ferris of course knew that I had seen him among the trees on the bank above the long pool. It was my place to speak; we both understood that, but I did not. What was there to say? Suppose I should go back to the beginning and tell him — not all, but all that I was bound in honour to tell him. What would he think if I spoke of the Spirit-bird, of the Silent Land, of my long deception? An explanation was due him — I felt that with a vague sense of anger and humiliation. For weeks I had abandoned him; I never thought about his being lonely, but I knew now that he had felt it deeply. Oh, it was the underhand part of the business that sickened me, the daily deceit, the double dealing. Ferris was no infant. A word would have been enough. I had never by sign or speech spoken that word which would at least have set me right with him, and which I could have spoken honourably. And moreover, if I had spoken that word, — no, not a word even, a look would have been enough, — Ferris would never have entered the western forest belt.
We sat dawdling over our wine in the glow of the long candles while the fire crackled in the chimney place; for the evening was chilly, and Solomon brooded sullenly before the blaze. Howlett, noiseless and pompous, glided from side-board to table, decorously avoiding the evil jabs from Solomon’s curved bill, until Ferris woke up and told him he might retire, which he did with a modest “good-night, sir,” and a haughty glance at Solomon. A half hour of strained silence followed. I leaned on the table, my head on my hands, watching the candle light reflected on the fragile wine glasses. Myriads of little flames glistened on the crystal bowls, deep stained with the red wine’s glow. The fire snapped and sparkled on the hearth, and Solomon slept, his wizened head buried in the depths of his flaming plumage.
And as we sat there, there came a faint tapping at the curtained window. Ferris did not hear it I did, for it was the Spirit-bird.
“I must go,” said I, rising suddenly.
“Where?” said Ferris.
I looked at him stupidly for a moment, then sank back into my chair.
Solomon stirred in his slumber and I heard the wind rising in the chimney.
Ferris leaned across the table and touched my sleeve.
I looked at him silently.
“I must speak,” he said; “are you ready?”
I did not reply.
“Sadness and silence have no place here, between you and me. Shall I tell you a story I once read?”
“I am half asleep,” I muttered.
“This is the story,” he said, unheeding my words. “There was once a King in Carcosa—”
My hand fell heavily upon the table.
“ — And there was given unto him a mouth speaking great things and blasphemies—”
“For God’s sake, Ferris—”
“Yes,” he said, “for God’s sake.”
We sat staring at each other across the table, and if my face was as white as his I do not know, but my hand trembled among the glasses till they tinkled.
“I was born in France,” he said at last. “You did not know it, for I never told you. What do you know about me after all? Nothing. What have years of friendship taught you about my past? Nothing. Now learn. My father was shot dead by an inferior officer in Rouen. The assassin escaped to Canada where — I found him. He died by his own hand — from choice. I did not know he had a child.”
The dull fear at my heart must have looked from my eyes. Ferris nodded.
“Yes, you know the rest,” he said; “the shame and disgrace of the suicide drove the child away — anywhere to escape it — anywhere — here, into the wilderness the woman fled where she hath a place prepared of God.”
The Spirit-bird was tapping on the window, I heard the noise of wings beating against the pane.
“I must go,” I said, and my voice sounded within me as from a great distance.
“Vengeance is God’s,” said Ferris, quietly: “lam guilty.”
“I must go,” I repeated, steadying myself with my hand on the table.
The noise of wings filled my ears. I knew the summons.
“Do you not hear?” I cried.
“The wind,” said Ferris.
Then the door slowly opened from without, the long candles flared in the wind, and the ashes stirred and drifted among the embers on the hearth. And out of the night came a slender figure, with dark eyes wide, and timid hands outstretched — outstretched until they fell into my own and lay there.
“I came from the Silent Land,” she said; “the bird lead me; see, it has entered with me, Louis.”
“It is my wife who has entered,” I said quietly to Ferris, and the little maid clung close to me, holding out one slim hand to Ferris.
There was an interval of silence.
“Father Gregory will breakfast with us tomorrow,” said Ferris to me.
“A Priest?”
“Open the window,” smiled Ferris; “there is a small grey bird here.”
So I opened the window and it flew away.
“Good-night,” whispered the little maid, and kissed her hand to the open window.
“Diane!”
She came to me quietly. Ferris had vanished; Solomon peered dreamily at us with filmy eyes.
“The Spirit-bird has gone,” she said.
Then, with her arms about my neck, I raised her head, touching her white brow with my lips.
* * * *
When my wife read as far as you have read, she picked up the embroidery which she had dropped beside her on the table.
“Do you like my story?” I asked.
But she only smiled at me from under her straight eyebrows.
The next morning I received her ultimatum; I am to cease writing about beautiful women of doubtful antecedents who inhabit forest glades, I am to stop making fun of Howlett, I am to curb my passion for rod and gun, and, if I insist on writing about my wife, I am to tell the truth concerning her. This I have promised Ysonde to do, and I shall try to, in “The Black Water.”
THE BLACK WATER.
“LORSQUE LA COQUETTE Espérance
Nous pousse le coude en passant,
Puis a tire-d’aile s’élance,
Et se retourne en souriant;
“Où va l’homme! Où son coeur l’appelle!
L’hirondelle suit le zephyr,
Et moins légère est l’hirondelle
Que l’homme qui suit son désir.”
THE BLACK WATER
“Oh! could you view the melodie
Of ev’ry grace,
And musick of her face,
You’d drop a teare,
Seeing more harmonie
In her bright eye,
Then now you heare.”
LOVELACE.
I.
YSONDE swung her racquet. Her laughter was very sweet. A robin on the tip of a balsam-tree cocked his head to listen; a shy snow-bird peered at her through the meadow grass.
“What are you laughingat?” I asked, uneasily. I spoke sharply — I had not intended to. The porcupine on the porch lifted his head, his rising quills grating on the piazza; a drab-coloured cow, knee deep in the sedge, stared at me in stupid disapproval.
“I beg your pardon, Ysonde,” I said, sulkily, for I felt the rebuke of the cow. Then Ysonde laughed again; the robin chirped in sympathy, and the snow-bird crept to the edge of the tennis-court.
“Deuce,” I said, picking up a ball, “are you ready?”
