Complete weird tales of.., p.860
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 860
“Yes — here.”
“It is Germany, of course?”
“Yes, the menace comes from—” he cast a quick glance toward the east, “ — from over there.... Perhaps diplomacy may regulate the affair. It is always best to hope.”
“Yes, it is best always — to hope,” she said serenely.... “Thank you, Mr. Halkett. Mr. Warner is a friend of mine. Perhaps you may have time to visit our school with him.”
“I’ll come,” said Halkett.
She smiled and nodded; he opened the heavy green door for her, and Sister Eila went out of the golden world of legend, leaving the flowers and young trees very still behind her.
CHAPTER VI
WARNER DISCOVERED HIM there in the garden, seated once more on the stone trough, the grey cat dozing on his knees.
“Hello, old chap!” he said cheerfully. “Did you sleep?”
Halkett gave him a pleasant, absent-minded glance:
“Not very well, thanks.”
“Nor I. Those damn nightingales kept me awake. Has your man arrived?”
“Not yet. I don’t quite understand why.”
Warner sauntered up and caressed the cat.
“Well, Ariadne, how goes it with you?” he inquired, gently rubbing her dainty ears, an attention enthusiastically appreciated, judging by the increased purring.
“Ariadne, eh?” inquired Halkett.
“Yes — her lover forsook her — although she doesn’t seem to mind as much as the original lady did. No doubt she knows there’s a Bacchus somewhere on his way to console her.”
The other nodded in his pleasant, absent-minded fashion. After a moment he said:
“I’ve been talking to a Sister of Charity here in the garden.”
“Sister Félicité?”
“No; Sister Eila.”
“Isn’t she the prettiest thing!” exclaimed Warner. “And she’s as good as she is beautiful. We’re excellent friends, Sister Eila and I. I’ll take you over to her school after breakfast.”
“It’s the Grey Sisterhood, isn’t it?”
“St. Vincent de Paul’s Filles de la Charité; not the Grey Nuns, you know.”
“I supposed not. Of course these nuns are not cloistered.”
“They are not even nuns. They don’t take perpetual vows.”
Halkett looked up quickly.
“What!” he demanded.
“No. The vows of these Sisters of Charity are simple vows. They renew them annually. Still, it is a strict order. Their novitiate is five years’ probation.”
“Oh! I supposed — —” He remained silent, his thoughtful gaze fixed on space.
“Yes, our brave gentle Sisters of Charity remain probationers for five years, and then every year they renew their vows of chastity, poverty, and obedience. The annual vows are taken some time in March, I believe. They have no cloister, you know, other than a room in some poor street near the school or hospital where they work. Did you ever hear the wonderful story of their Order?”
“No.”
So Warner sketched for him the stainless history of a true saint, and of the Filles de St. Vincent de Paul through the centuries of their existence; and Halkett listened unstirring, his handsome head bent, his hand resting motionless on Ariadne’s head.
A few minutes later a fresh-faced peasant girl, in scarlet bodice and velvet-slashed black skirts, came out into the garden bearing a tray with newly baked rolls, new butter, and café-au-lait for two. She placed it on the iron table in the little summerhouse, curtseyed to the two young men, exchanged a gay greeting with Warner, and trotted off again in her chaussons — the feminine, wholesome, and admirable symbol of all that is fascinating in the daughters of France.
Halkett placed Ariadne on the grass, rose, and followed Warner to the arbor; Ariadne tagged after them, making gentle but pleased remarks. There was an extra saucer, which Warner filled with milk and set before the cat.
“You know,” he said to Halkett, “I like to eat by myself — or with some man. So I have my meals served out here, or in the tap room when it rains. The Harem feeds itself in the dining-room — —”
“The what?”
“My class, I mean. An irreverent friend of mine in Paris dubbed it ‘the Harem,’ and the title stuck — partly, I suppose, because of its outrageous absurdity, partly because it’s a terse and convenient title.”
“They don’t call it that, do they?”
“I should say not! And I hope they don’t know that others do. Anyway, the Harem dawdles over its meals and talks art talk at the long table where Madame Arlon — the Patronne — presides. You’ll have to meet them.”
“Do you criticise your — Harem — this morning?” inquired Halkett, laughing.
“Yes; I give them their daily pabulum. Do you want to come about with me and see how it’s done? After the distribution of pap I usually pitch my own umbrella somewhere away from their vicinity and make an hour’s sketch. After that I paint seriously for the remainder of the day. But I’ll take you over to Sister Eila’s school this morning if you like.” He fished out a black caporal cigarette and scratched a match.
Halkett, his cigarette already lighted, lounged sideways on the green iron chair, his preoccupied gaze fixed on Ariadne.
“Annual vows,” he said, “mean, of course, that a Sister renews such vows voluntarily every year; does it not, Warner?”
“Yes.”
“They usually do renew their vows, I suppose.”
“Almost always, I believe.”
“But — a Sister of Charity could return to the — the world, if she so desired?”
“It could be done, but it seldom is, I understand. The order is an admirable one; a very wonderful order, Halkett. They are careful about admitting their novices, but what they regard as qualifications might not be so considered in a cloistered order like the Ursalines. The novitiate is five years, I believe; except for the head of the order in Paris, no grades and no ranks exist; all Sisters are alike and on the same level.” He smiled. “If anything could ever convert me to Catholicism, I think it might be this order and the man who founded it, Saint Vincent de Paul, wisest and best of all who have ever tried to follow Christ.”
Ariadne had evidently centered her gentle affections upon the new Englishman; she trotted at his heels as he sauntered about in the garden; she showed off for his benefit, playfully patting a grasshopper into flight, frisking up trees only to cling for a moment, ears flattened, and slide back to earth again; leaping high after lazy white butterflies which hovered over the heliotrope, but always returning to tag after Halkett where he roamed about, a burnt-out cigarette between his fingers, his eyes dreaming, lost in speculations beyond the ken of any cat.
The Harem came trooping into the garden, presently, shepherded by Warner. They all carried full field kit — folding easels, stools, and umbrellas slung upon their several and feminine backs; a pair of clamped canvases in one hand, color-box in the other.
Halkett was presented to them all. There was Miss Alameda Golden, from California, large, brightly colored, and breezy; there was Miss Mary Davis, mouse-tinted, low-voiced, who originated in Brooklyn; there was Miss Jane Post, of Chicago, restlessly intense and intellectually curious concerning all mundane phenomena, from the origin of café-au-lait to the origin of species; and there was Miss Nancy Lane, of New York, a dark-eyed opportunist and an observer of man — sometimes individually, always collectively. And there was Miss Peggy Brooks, cosmopolitan, sister of Madame de Moidrey who lived in a big house among the hills across the meadows — the Château des Oiseaux, prettily named because the protection and encouragement of little birds had been the immemorial custom of its lordly proprietors.
And so the Harem, fully equipped to wrestle with the giant, Art, filed out of the quiet garden and across the meadows by the little river Récollette, where were haystacks, freshly erected and fragrant, which very unusual subject they had unanimously chosen for their morning’s crime.
To perpetrate it upon canvas they pitched their white umbrellas, tripod easels, and sketching stools; then each maiden, taking a determined grip upon her charcoal, squinted, so to speak, in chorus at the hapless haystacks. And the giant, Art, trembled in the seclusion of the ewigkeit.
Warner regarded them gloomily; Halkett, who had disinterred a pipe from his pockets, stood silently beside him, loading it.
“They’ll paint this morning, and after luncheon,” said Warner. “After dinner they all get into an omnibus and drive to Ausone to remain overnight, and spend tomorrow in street sketching. I insist on their doing this once every month. When they return with their sketches, I give them a general criticism.”
“Will these young ladies ever really amount to anything?” inquired Halkett.
“Probably never. Europe, the British Isles, and the United States are dotted all over with similar and feminine groups attempting haystacks. The sum-total of physical energy thus expended must be enormous — like the horsepower represented by Niagara. But it creates no ripple upon the intellectual serenity of the thinking world. God alone knows why women paint haystacks. I do my best to switch them toward other phenomena.”
The rural postman on his bicycle, wearing képi and blue blouse, came pedaling along the highway. When he saw Warner he saluted and got off his wheel.
“Letters, Grandin?”
“Two, Monsieur Warner.”
Warner took them.
“Eh, bien?” he inquired, lowering his voice; “et la guerre?”
“Monsieur Warner, the affair is becoming very serious.”
“What is the talk in Ausone?”
“People are calm — too calm. A little noise, now, a little gesticulation, and the affair would seem less ominous to me — like the Algeciras matter and the Schnaeble incident before that — Monsieur may remember?”
“I know. It is like the hush before a tempest. The world is too still, the sunlight too perfect.”
“There seems to me,” said the little postman, “a curious unreality about yesterday and today — something in the cloudless peace overhead that troubles men.”
Being no more and no less poet than are all French peasants, this analysis sufficed him. He touched his képi; the young men lifted their hats, and the postman pedaled away down the spotless military road.
Warner glanced at the envelope in his hand; Halkett looked at it, too. It was addressed in red ink.
“It’s for me, old chap,” said the Englishman.
The other glanced up, surprised.
“Are you sure?”
“Quite — if you don’t mind trusting me.”
Warner laughed and handed him the letter.
“It’s addressed very plainly to me,” he said. “You’ve got your nerve with you, Halkett.”
“I have to keep it about me, old chap.”
“No doubt. And still I don’t see — —”
“It’s very simple. I sent two telephone messages last night. One letter should have arrived. It has not! The man who wrote this letter must have gone miles last night on a motor cycle to mail it so that your little postman should hand it to me this morning — —”
“Intriguer!” interrupted Warner, still laughing. “He handed it to me! I see you’re going to get me in Dutch before I’m rid of you.”
“I don’t comprehend your Yankee slang,” retorted Halkett with a slight grin, “so if you don’t mind I’ll sit here on the grass and read my letter. Go on and criticize your Harem. But before you go, lend me a pencil. They stole even my pencil in the Cabaret de Biribi.”
Warner, amused, handed him a pencil and a pad, and strolled away toward the industrious Harem to see what they might be perpetrating.
Halkett seated himself on the grass where, if he chose to glance up, he had a clear view all about him. Then he opened his letter.
It was rather an odd sort of letter. It began:
DEAR GREEN:
A red wagon, red seat, orange rumble, red mudguards, blue steering-wheel, red bumpers, blue wheels, red engines, red varnish, red open body, red machinery, red all over, in fact, except where it isn’t — is for sale.
So much of this somewhat extraordinary letter Halkett very carefully and slowly perused; then, still studying this first paragraph intently, he wrote down on his pad the following letters in the following sequence, numbering each letter underneath:
R O Y G B I V S W A
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0
The letters represented, up to and including the letter V, the colors of the solar spectrum in their proper sequence: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet. The letter S, which followed the letter V, stood for schwarz, which in German means black. The letter W stood for weiss, white; the letter A for argent. Every letter, therefore, represented some color or metallic luster; and these, in turn, represented numbers.
And now Halkett took the opening salutation in the first paragraph of his letter— “Dear Green.” The color green being numbered 4, he found that the fourth letter in the word “dear” was the letter R. This he wrote down on his pad.
Then he took the next few words: “A red wagon, red seat, orange rumble, red — —” etc.
The first and only letter in the word “A” he wrote down. The next word after “wagon” was “red.” The color red indicated the figure 1. So he next wrote down the first letter of the word “wagon,” which is W.
Then came the word “seat.” The word “orange” followed it. The color orange indicated number 2 in the spectrum sequence. So he found that in the word “seat” the letter E was the second letter. This he wrote.
Very carefully and methodically he proceeded in this manner with the first paragraph of the letter, as far as the words “all over,” but not including them or any of the words in the first paragraph which followed them.
He had, therefore, for his first paragraph, this sequence of letters:
RAWERUSEWEVOM.
Beginning with the last letter, M, he wrote the letters again, reversing their sequence; and he had:
MOVEWESUREWAR.
These, with commas, he easily separated into four words: “Move,” “we,” “sure,” and “war.” Then, again reversing the sequence of the words, he had two distinct sentences of two words each before him:
WAR SURE! WE MOVE!
Always working with the numbered color key before him, taking his letter paragraph by paragraph, he had as a final remainder the following series of letters:
EDIHUOYERADELIARTTIAWDROWOTDEECORPSIALAC.
Reversing these, checking off the separate words, and then reversing the entire sequence of words, he had as the complete translation of his letter, including the first paragraph, the following information and admonition:
“War sure. We move. Hide. You are trailed. Wait word to proceed Calais.”
“War sure!” That was easily understood. “We move.” That meant England was already mobilizing on land and sea. And the remainder became plain enough; he must stay very quietly where he was until further instructions arrived.
He read through his notes and his letter once more, then twisted letter, envelope, and penciled memoranda into a paper spiral, set fire to it with a match, and leisurely lighted his pipe with it.
When the flame of the burning paper scorched his fingers, he laid it carefully on the grass, where it was presently consumed. The charred remnants he ground to dust under his heel as he got up and brushed a spear or two of hay from his clothing.
Then he looked at the Harem, all busily committing felony with brush and colors; and, as he gazed upon them, he politely stifled a yawn.
CHAPTER VII
WARNER, CONSCIENTIOUS BUT not hopeful, circulated among the easels of the Harem. Halkett strolled at his heels.
Stopping in front of Alameda Golden’s large canvas, which was all splashed with primary and aggressive colors, he gazed, uncomforted, upon what she had wrought there. After a few moments he said very patiently:
“You should not use a larger canvas than I have recommended to the class. Mere size is not necessarily a synonym for distinction, nor does artistic strength depend upon the muscular application of crude paint. A considerable majority of our countrymen comprehend only what is large, gaudy, and garrulous. Bulk and noise only can command their attention. On the other hand, only what is weak, vague, and incoherent appeals to the precious — the incapables and eccentrics among us. But there is a sane and healthy majority: enroll yourself there, Miss Golden!
“Be honest, reticent, and modest. If you have anything to say in paint, say it without self-consciousness, frankly, but not aggressively. Behave on canvas as you would bear yourself in the world at large, with freedom but with dignity, with sincerity governed by that intelligent consideration for truth which permits realism and idealism, both of which are founded upon fact.”
Miss Golden pouted:
“But I see haystacks this way!” she insisted. “I see them in large and brilliant impressions. To me nothing looks like what it is. Haystacks appear this way to my eyes!”
“My dear child, then paint them that way. But the popular impression will persist that you have painted the battle of Trafalgar.”
Miss Golden wriggled on her camp chair.
“Everything,” she explained, “is one monstrous, gaudy, and brutal impression to me. I see a million colors in everything and very little shape to anything. I see only cosmic vigor; and I paint it with a punch. Can’t you see all those colors in those haystacks? To me they resemble gigantic explosions of glorious color. And really, Mr. Warner, if I am to be true to myself, I must paint them as I see them.”
Warner, horribly discouraged, talked sanely to her for a while, then with a pleasant nod he passed to the next easel, remarking to Halkett under his breath:
“It’s a case for a pathologist, not for a painter.”
And so for an hour he prowled about among the Harem, ministering to neurotics, inspiring the sluggish, calming despair, gently discouraging self-complacency.
“Always,” he said, “we must remain students, because there is no such thing as mastery in any art. If ever we believe we have attained mastery, then our progress ceases; and we do not even remain where we are; we retrograde — and swiftly, too.
