Complete weird tales of.., p.1267
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 1267
“Welcome to Pandemonium!” yelled the crowned personage, as he banged Fradley over the head with a bladder; “and may I ask, Monsieur, if you generally come into a Royal Presence on your head?”
Before Fradley could reply, a Nautch Girl caught him around the neck and swung him into the crush of dancers. He struggled violently.
“What! you won’t dance?” she cried, with a stamp of her bangled sandals.
“No, I won’t!” cried Fradley, perspiring with terror.
“You shall!” she insisted.
Then a clown with his face all white, came squealing and tumbling along, neatly floored him in an unexpected flip-flap, picked him up, and laying his chalky face on his shoulder, shrieked and sobbed, “oh, mon frère! mon frère!” This was the last straw. With a wrench and a twist he freed himself and fled to the gallery, where he found a vacant table and sat down to collect his thoughts. Little by little his fright gave way to anger. A waiter dusted-the chalk from his coat and told him that there was a mirror behind the musicians’ box. Here he smoothed his hair and rebuttoned his collar, keeping a suspicious eye on two young ladies of the ballet who were practising strange steps before an adjoining mirror.
“Monsieur,” said one of them, “have the goodness to tell me whether I do the “grand écart,” as well as “La Goulu.”
“What is the “grand écart,” asked Fradley stiffly.
He was instructed, and he withdrew in haste to his table in the gallery.
A quadrille was in progress below. He stood on his chair to see and then sat down again, not to see. This manœuvre he repeated at intervals and ended by remaining on his chair, “For,” he argued, “it’s life, — and an artist must be broad.”
Before the quadrille ended, he was playfully toppled from his chair by a Spanish dancer, who took his place and offered to reward him with a kiss which he refused. After a while the dancer skipped off with an Arab, and a feeling akin to loneliness took possession of Fradley.
The dull red and blue woodwork of the Bullier was hung with the banners of all nations. In the musicians’ gallery, Conor and his orchestra banged away at the “March into Hell,” and the tables trembled with the crash of the brass. The floor was crowded to suffocation. Imbecile shrieking clowns in ruffles and powder, went madly bounding about, Turks footed it with Russian peasant girls, gendarmes wearing false noses and enormous moustaches locked arms with “ces messieurs” of the Vilette who wore the charming costume of that quarter including “favoris” and “rouflaquettes.” Students in evening-dress galloped about playing circus, and a pretty Cupid, mounted on one young gentleman’s shoulders, challenged a shepherdess, mounted on another, to a race, so away they went, crying “Allons! houp! houp!” From a near corner a monotonous chanting arose, where some thirty students were squatting in a ring beating upon drums with their hands. It was the rhythmic air of an Egyptian dance which was being executed in the middle by a willowy white-veiled girl who swung two gilded scimitars. Like sheet lightning the broad blades of the swords flashed above the silver-flecked veil, as her slender, supple figure swayed to the music.
“Brava! Bis! Bis!” they cried, and the girl, with eyes like stars above her veil, whirled the scimitars into circles of flame. Suddenly she stood rigid, there came a clash of steel, the swords lay crossed before her, and, as the minor air swelled out, she whipped off her veil and sent it floating and billowing above her head while her little feet began to move to and fro among the swords, blade upward on the floor. The applause was deafening as she tossed back her head and said with the merriest laugh, “Je veux bien boire un bock!”
Clifford jumped up from the floor and picking up the swords presented them on one knee.
“Tiens! c’est toi, mon ami?”
“Yes. Forgive me the cab, Cécile,” he murmured, drawing her half resisting arm through his.
“I can’t forgive you. It was too ridiculous to sit there, — and somebody holding the hind wheels.”
“Oh, Cécile—”
“No — no!”
“Ma petite Cécile—”
“By Jove, she’s going to forgive him,” said Elliott to Rowden who was dancing attendance on the pretty Cupid.
“Mr. Rowden, I insist,” pouted the Cupid, shaking her curls.
“But I don’t enjoy playing circus,” pleaded Rowden, as Boissy pranced proudly by, his epaulettes over his ears, bearing Sara as Diana, who prodded him on with a silver-gilt arrow.
Then Cupid became petulant and signified her intention of seeking another steed, and presently Elliott became the pleased spectator of his friend careering about in company with similarly burdened youths.
“I’m not in it,” sighed Elliott, until he spied Margot, who stamped her foot and called for a steed. Shortly afterwards he joined the rest in feats of the haut-école.
To say that Fradley was enjoying himself is not strictly true. Once every ten minutes he subdued some bound of a tortured conscience with the thought; “artists must be broad;” but except for these encounters with his doubts he found it all secretly thrilling and pleasant. He was lonely, in a way, yet he hardly knew what he would want of company. As for speaking to any of those brighteyed young persons who now and then slapped his face with a rose or rattled a tambourine over his hat, — that was out of the question. No, indeed! He would look on, “because an artist must be broad,” but he had no desire to contaminate himself with a word or a smile from such as they. No, indeed! No! No! There seemed to be some need of repeating this frequently to himself, but curiously enough it did not assuage his loneliness. Once a black-eyed Mephistopheles poked her pointed red feather into his eyes and then begged pardon with an irresistible smile which, fortunately for history, came several centuries too late for St. Anthony.
What Fradley might have done had not the girl been carried off by Garland, nobody can tell. He felt a thump in his throat and a murderous feeling toward Garland, and yet he was sure that he had been about to wither temptation with a frown. Carrington spoke in his car.
“Look at Sara! Magnificent!” Fradley turned.
Seated upon a table in the gallery with the air of an Empress, Sara received the homage of the Quarter. Behind her Cécile and Clifford waved gaudy fans and imbibed champagne in tall goblets. The curly-headed Cupid and the black-eyed Mephistopheles were endangering their silken hose by sliding down the balustrade, aided and applauded by a Japanese maid and three fairies.
Fradley had eyes for Sara only. “Vulgar,” he said.
“Yes,” said Carrington doubtfully. A great wave of loneliness swept over Fradley.
“Shameless!” he gasped.
Then Sara’s strange grey eyes met his across the whirl of the carnival; he saw her throw up her haughty head and send to him a wonderful smile, — a smile that scorched and yet healed, and in an agony of doubt he opened his lips to cry again to Carrington — to the world, “shameless!” but his lips were dry, and his voice died in his throat with a click.
The music clashed; Cécile dropped her glass and clasped Clifford’s hand; Sara sprang into Boissy’s arms, — there was a rush, a tempest of cheers, and Fradley, jostled and hustled clung to a pillar, — clung a moment only, then was swept away, into the throng.
“Dance!” cried a breathless voice behind him, and, “dance!” cried another voice beside him. He tried to stem the tide, — he shut his eyes, but soft arms were around his neck and a puff of perfume smote him like a blow in the face, and “dance! dance!” cried a voice in his ear. He knew the voice, his eyes flew open and he cried out, but “dance! dance! dance!” she panted, and her burnished hair flew in his face. He saw the crescent on her brow, he saw the strange grey eyes below it. Each separate hair in the fiery mane flashed like a perfumed flame, and he reeled and steadied himself with a soft hand that sought his own, while the orchestra thundered and the rosy ring of faces floated away, away, into an endless rosy chain.
When it was that he drank something, he could not remember. He was very thirsty, and iced champagne was but a temporary relief.
“Good!” cried Boissy with a stare, “so you’re going in for it!”
Fradley looked at him, but Sara dropped her hand on his arm saying, “Toi, tu sais bien danser,” and turning scornfully to Boissy, “go away. You dance like a gendarme!”
The music began again, and with the music bedlam broke loose. There was no pretence of sets. After a couple had danced themselves into exhaustion, they climbed over the balcony and watched the others. Cécile tossed her veil into the human whirlpool below, laughing delightedly as the silver stars were rent from it and sent scaling into the air. Rowden howled through the din for Clifford to pledge him, and smashed glass after glass in a vain effort to make him hear, while the black-eyed Mephistopheles, perched on Garland’s shoulders, poured out goblet after goblet of gold-dust and flung it over the throng until heads and shoulders glittered with the golden scales. Elliott had climbed into the orchestra with a bottle of champagne, and while the grateful musicians were quenching their thirst, he pounded on the spare cymbals until the handles came off and Monsieur Conor ejected him.
Then in the height of the delirium, Arizona shook the walls with his war-cry. “Aw! I’m bad! b-b-a-a-d! Me teeth is choke-bored an’ a hair-trigger works both feet!” Fradley heard that cry and trembled. It came nearer and nearer.
“Pick up the dead! Pick up the dyin’, an’ git the souvenir!”
Sara cried: “Arizona, va t ‘en!” but it was too late. With a howl from Arizona and a scream from Fradley, they clinched and fell, Arizona on top. He remembered that he punched Arizona and in turn received a tap on the ear which made him forget that he was alive. Garland picked him up, and when consciousness returned he saw Sara, furious, withering Arizona with her scorn.
“Go!” she cried, pointing to the door.
Arizona, humbled and dishevelled, went.
It needed much cooling liquid to put Fradley back where he had been prior to Arizona’s assault, and that condition was far from normal. He proffered menaces, he attempted to divest himself of his coat, but Sara, very pale, and paler still after each goblet in which she pledged the exalted Fradley, took possession of him with all the blindness of sudden caprice.
Fradley felt that his hour, — the hour of the truly great, had struck. Dimly he recalled that other Fradley, the normal one, timid as a rabbit, dreading battle, loathing brute force. Vaguely he remembered that other and normal Fradley, moral, temperate in all but feeding. And he scorned him! Buried forever let him be, that other recreant Fradley! And all the while he went on talking with the others, capering when they capered, drinking when they drank, returning gibe for gibe, defending his own, claiming and pushing his claim with threats — warlike threats, and all the time, dimly, dully commiserating, scorning that other, — that normal Fradley.
Later he revived enough to have a pang of fright as the cold air of the boulevard blew in his face, but the cab was warm and cosey and he sank back to the cushions with a sigh of content. As in a dream he heard the rattle of wheels and the cries of the driver. Other cabs passed — endless lines of them. It seemed centuries before his cab stopped and when it did he objected to leaving it, but Sara had her way, alas now as hazy as his own, and the porter who opened the door for them at the Café Sylvain, winked solemnly at the ancient cabby, who only shook his white head and drove slowly away.
ENVOI.
THE ROCK-RIBBED PLANET drifts across the Sun, Swarming with creatures creeping on the crust, Freighted with fears, and tears, and human dust, Speaking the blank star-beacons, one by one.
Tossed on the ocean of Ten Million Nights, The Moon a battered battle-lantern swings; A Meteor a battle-pennant flings, Lost in the ocean of Ten Million Lights.
Down to the Sea in Ships! Who knows? — Who knows What Unseen Thing shall climb the mist-hung shrouds And set the spread of splendid crowding clouds, And light the signals set in starry rows?
Deep in the Black Crypt of the Universe A feeble thing stood sobbing on a star; “I live! I live. ’Tis mine to make or mar!” And Silence was the Answer and the Curse.
Bee-haunted blossoms bud and bloom at Noon; Bird-haunted meadows belt the Seven Zones; And under all lie bedded human bones, And over all still swings the tarnished moon.
On Men and Haunts of Men — if all Light dies, — And, where a million stars hang tenantless Whence the last ray is fled, — yet — none the less A Million Lamps are trimmed for other Skies.
Believe it, O my soul! Arise and go Forth among Men and seek the Haunts of Men; — Nor shalt thou, O my soul, return again To tell thou knowest naught; We know! We know!
R. W. C.
April, 1896.
A Young Man in a Hurry
First published in 1904, this series of non-supernatural tales are all set in America, drawing not only on Chambers’ talent for descriptions of landscape, but also on his love of fishing and hunting. All of the stories have a light, romantic feel and the title story is an especially atmospheric vignette depicting a snow-covered New York City at night.
Title page of the first edition
CONTENTS
A YOUNG MAN IN A HURRY
A PILGRIM
THE SHINING BAND
ONE MAN IN A MILLION
THE FIRE-WARDEN
THE MARKET-HUNTER
THE PATH-MASTER
IN NAUVOO
MARLITT’S SHOES
PASQUE FLORIDA
Illustration, depicting a scene from the title story
TO
MARGERY
A YOUNG MAN IN A HURRY
“SOYEZ TRANQUILLES, MESDAMES.… Je suis un jeune homme pressé.… Mais modeste.” — Labiche.
AT ten minutes before five in the evening the office doors of the Florida and Key West Railway Company flew open, and a young man emerged in a hurry.
Suit-case in one hand, umbrella in the other, he sped along the corridor to the elevator-shaft, arriving in time to catch a glimpse of the lighted roof of the cage sliding into depths below.
“Down!” he shouted; but the glimmering cage disappeared, descending until darkness enveloped it.
Then the young man jammed his hat on his head, seized the suit-case and umbrella, and galloped down the steps. The spiral marble staircase echoed his clattering flight; scrub-women heard him coming and fled; he leaped a pail of water and a mop; several old gentlemen flattened themselves against the wall to give him room; and a blond young person with pencils in her hair lisped “Gee!” as he whizzed past and plunged through the storm-doors, which swung back, closing behind him with a hollow thwack.
Outside in the darkness, gray with whirling snowflakes, he saw the wet lamps of cabs shining, and he darted along the line of hansoms and coupés in frantic search for his own.
“Oh, there you are!” he panted, flinging his suit-case up to a snow-covered driver. “Do your best now; we’re late!” And he leaped into the dark coupé, slammed the door, and sank back on the cushions, turning up the collar of his heavy overcoat.
There was a young lady in the farther corner of the cab, buried to her nose in a fur coat. At intervals she shivered and pressed a fluffy muff against her face. A glimmer from the sleet-smeared lamps fell across her knees.
Down-town flew the cab, swaying around icy corners, bumping over car-tracks, lurching, rattling, jouncing, while its silent occupants, huddled in separate corners, brooded moodily at their respective windows.
Snow blotted the glass, melting and running down; and over the watery panes yellow light from shop windows played fantastically, distorting vision.
Presently the young man pulled out his watch, fumbled for a match-box, struck a light, and groaned as he read the time.
At the sound of the match striking, the young lady turned her head. Then, as the bright flame illuminated the young man’s face, she sat bolt upright, dropping the muff to her lap with a cry of dismay.
He looked up at her. The match burned his fingers; he dropped it and hurriedly lighted another; and the flickering radiance brightened upon the face of a girl whom he had never before laid eyes on.
“Good heavens!” he said. “Where’s my sister?”
The young lady was startled, but resolute. “You have made a dreadful mistake,” she said; “you are in the wrong cab—”
The match went out; there came a brief moment of darkness, then the cab turned a corner, and the ghostly light of electric lamps played over them in quivering succession.
“Will you please stop this cab?” she said, unsteadily. “You have mistaken my cab for yours. I was expecting my brother.”
Stunned, he made no movement to obey. A sudden thrill of fear passed through her.
“I must ask you to stop this cab,” she faltered.
The idiotic blankness of his expression changed to acute alarm.
“Stop this cab?” he cried. “Nothing on earth can induce me to stop this cab!”
“You must!” she insisted, controlling her voice. “You must stop it at once!”
“How can I?” he asked, excitedly; “I’m late now; I haven’t one second to spare!”
“Do you refuse to leave this cab?”
“I beg that you will compose yourself—”
“Will you go?” she insisted.
A jounce sent them flying towards each other; they collided and recoiled, regarding one another in breathless indignation.
“This is simply hideous!” said the young lady, seizing the door-handle.
“Please don’t open that door!” he said. She tried to wrench it open; the handle stuck — or perhaps the strength had left her wrist. But it was not courage that failed, for she faced him, head held high, and —
“You coward!” she said.
Over his face a deep flush burned — and it was a good face, too — youthfully wilful, perhaps, with a firm, clean-cut chin and pleasant eyes.
