Complete weird tales of.., p.969
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 969
All Greek now, pagan, beautiful, the girl’s whole body was quivering with rage and grief. And I knew enough to hold my tongue.
While the fierce storm swept her, bending her like a sapling with gusts of passion, I stood silent, awaiting the rain of tears to end it.
None came to break the tension, though the gray eyes harbored lightning and her brow remained dark.
“As Naxos falls, so falls the world,” she said. “The eyes of civilization are on her; the fateful writing runs like fire across God’s heaven! Let the world heed what passes! The doom of Naxos is the doom of freedom and of man!”
I, personally, had scarcely looked at it in that light. It did not strike me that the hub of civilization rested on Naxos. Nor do I believe the world was under that impression. But I was not going to say so to this excited young Naxosienne — or Naxosoise — or Naxosette, — whichever may be the respectful and properly descriptive nomenclature.
And so, standing near the window, I watched the tempest wax, wane, and gradually pass, leaving her at last silent, seated on her couch, with one arm across her knee and her head bent like the “Resting Hermes.”
When I walked over and stood looking down at her she reached out and, without looking, took my hand.
“It is your turn now, Michael; and I already know what question you mean to ask.”
“Shall I ask it, Thusis?” After a silence her hand closed convulsively in mine.
“I do love you.... I am not — free — to marry you.”
“Could you tell me why?”
She slowly shook her head: “You will learn why, some day.”
“Is there no chance, Thusis?”
Again she shook her head. Presently her hand slipped out of mine and she rested both elbows on her knees, covering her face.
I dropped onto the couch near her, framing my own head in both hands.
The world had become sunless and quite empty except for human pain.... And so, thought I in a dull sort of way, this ends my romance with The Laughing Girl.... The Laughing Girl of Naxos..... Not laughing now, but very much subdued, brooding beside me with both hands covering her face, and the splendid masses of her hair now loosened to her shoulders like a hood hiding the bowed features.
“Don’t grieve, Thusis,” I whispered, forgetting my own pain; but she suddenly huddled up and doubled over, crying:
“If you speak to me that way I — can’t — endure it — —” Her voice broke childishly for the first time, and I saw her shoulders quiver.
We had a rotten time of it — self-restraint on my side, and on hers — a hard, sharp shower of tears — terrifying to me because of her silence; not a sigh, not a sob, not even one of those undignified gulps which authors never mention — but which nevertheless usually characterize all lachrymose feminine procedure, and punctuate its more attractive silences.
It resembled a natural rainstorm in April — abrupt, thorough; and then the sun. For after considerable blind fumbling, she suddenly leaned forward and dried her eyes with the edge of the bed-sheet.
“There,” she said, “is an intimate act which ought to breed mutual contempt!”
We both laughed. She found a fresh section of the sheet and used it.
“You are an adorable boy,” she said, keeping her face turned away but busy, now, with her sagging hair.
“It’s got to come right some day,” I said with the fatuous stupidity characteristic of the stymied swain.
“It won’t,” she remarked, “but let’s pretend it will.... Is my nose red, Michael?”
“I can’t see it when you turn your face away.”
“I don’t wish you to see it if it’s red.”
“But how can I judge — —”
We burst into that freer laughter which welcomes the absurd when hearts are heavy laden.
Her dresser was within reach. I gazed at her back while she powdered her nose.
“My eyes are red,” she observed calmly.
“No, they’re gray; it’s your hair that is red, Thusis.”
It was silly enough to invoke the blessed relief of further laughter. But when Thusis finally turned toward me there was a new shyness about her, exquisite, captivating, that held me quiet and very serious.
“What a dreadfully sober gentleman,” she said. “The storm’s all over, and it isn’t going to rain again.”
I quoted: “It rains — in my heart — —” And she laid a quick, impulsive hand on my arm:
“Have I not confessed that I love you?”
“Yes — —”
“Very well. Is it a reason for rain — in your heart or anywhere else?”
“No — —”
“Well then! ... You may touch my hand with your lips.”
Only her lips could be sweeter than the soft hand I kissed, long and closely, until she withdrew it with a tremulous little laugh of protest.
“We’re becoming infamous; we’re a scandal, Michael. Have you anything further to say to me? If not, please go home to bed.”
Casting about in my mind for an excuse to linger I recollected the advent of Eddin Bey; and I told her about it.
“What a barnyard full!” she said scornfully, “all the creatures, now, — Turk, Bulgarian, Bolshevik, and boche! ... To see them here — and the two principal scoundrels almost within my grasp! I don’t believe I can stand it,” she added breathlessly. “Smith or no Smith, and his exasperating majesty the King of Italy to the contrary, I think something is going to happen to Tino and Ferdie as soon as the pass is cleared.”
“One thing more,” I said; “do you believe there really was a bomb in the room next to the Princess Pudelstoff’s?”
“Do you mean, Michael, that those murderous Russians might possibly suspect Clelia, Josephine, Raoul, and me?”
“Oh no, I don’t think that. But possibly they had other assassinations in mind and were trying out a new species of bomb — experimenting with some untried fuse. That’s what occurred to me — unless the fat Princess really did dream it all.”
“When I make the beds to-morrow,” remarked Thusis, “I shall search very carefully. The only trouble is that those Bolsheviki seldom leave their rooms except to eat. And then I’m obliged to wait on table.”
I nodded, a little troubled. But it was unthinkable that these treacherous Reds should even dream of bomb-murder in Switzerland. Whom might they desire to slaughter, unless it were the poor, fat Princess? And they would scarcely blow up an entire establishment in a neutral country for the purpose of scattering portions of the Princess over the adjacent Alps.
And yet I began to feel oddly uneasy, now. Of what such vermin might be capable I could not guess, with the frightful example of the two arch-traitors Lenine and Trotzky staring a sickened world in the face, — a world already betrayed twice since its sad history began — once by Judas, once by Benedict Arnold.
Judas would have sold the souls of all mankind: Lenine and Trotzky sold only one hundred and fifty million bodies to the anti-Christ. Things were improving on earth after all.
I said: “Smith is a good man to have here at such a time. He’s a wonderfully level-headed fellow. I don’t believe we need worry.”
“I ought to dislike him. But I don’t,” remarked Thusis.
“Dislike Smith?”
“He’s turned my sister’s head!”
“But — good heavens! — if she cares for him — —”
“I care for you!” she cut in crisply. “But I haven’t lost my head or my sense of proportion — —”
“I wish you had.”
She looked at me in silence almost hostile. Suddenly she blushed furiously:
“I wish I had, too! I care for you as much as my sister cares for Mr. Smith! More! Much more! I’m — I’m quite hopelessly in love! But I don’t — don’t — forget that — that — —”
She shook her head but sat looking at me out of tragic eyes — suffered me to press her lovely hands to my lips, watching me all the while.
“You had better go, Michael.”
I laid her hands in her lap. She clasped them so tightly that the delicate nails whitened.
“It will come out right,” said I, rising.
“It never will.... I — I love you.”
At the door I hesitated. But she did not speak. And I opened it and went out.
XXI. SUS SCROFA
FOR TWO EXASPERATING weeks, now, the Schwindlewald pass had remained hermetically sealed with snow, utterly isolating the valley. It is true that a Swiss airplane had appeared overhead and had dropped several tons of bread which we did not require, and a message couched in hysterical language reminding us that God would protect us while several score of sweating Swiss dug us out.
Personally I didn’t care except for the highly objectionable colony of boches with whom I was obliged to share an imprisonment which otherwise would never have bored me.
But the royal circus was a dreadful visitation — kings, queen, lesser fry, and Bolsheviki became almost unendurable, even when, during the first week of our captivity, they flocked by themselves and conspired to their hearts’ content.
Had this condition endured, the situation might have been borne with a certain philosophy. But the inevitable, of course, happened: one week of exclusive gregariousness was enough for these people: they began to bore one another.
It showed first, characteristically, at table. Tino and spouse, always engaged in continual bickering to the vast discomfort of everybody, now had it out in star-chamber proceedings; and the King, badly battered but jaunty, appeared at table with one eye partly closed and a mouth so swollen that he could not comfortably manipulate a cigarette. He explained that he had bumped his head in the dark. But it was perfectly understood who had bumped it.
King Ferdinand became moody, and his cunning, furtive features often bore a white, scared expression. He developed, too, a morbid mania for a most depressing line of conversation — celebrated assassinations being his theme, — and he ransacked the history of all times in search of examples, Eddin Bey slyly assisting him.
Sluggish livers and piggish feeding probably accounted for the sullen lethargy of Von Dungheim and Bummelzug. Their ever latent and brutal tempers blazed at absurd trifles, involving usually the bad manners and lack of respect shown them by the Bolsheviki, who chattered back at them like enraged monkeys, terrifying the Princess Pudelstoff who had never forgotten her “dream.”
Admiral Lauterlaus, whose personal habits were always impossible, now spent most of his time bullying the wretched Secretary Gizzler or, with a telescope such as chamois-hunters carry, squatted on the veranda steps and swept the Bec de l’Empereur for “gamps,” and heaven knows what else.
Only the Countess Manntrapp and Eddin Bey appeared to retain their good humor. The Turk, a handsome fellow of distinguished manners and gay address, evidently possessed a lively eye for pulchritude. He lost no time at all in paying his sly court to my servants, beginning with Thusis, progressing to Clelia, and ending with Josephine Vannis in the kitchen: and he accepted defeat with such cheerful and humorous alacrity that they all forgave him, I think, and his perfectly frank suggestions that they return to Adrianople with him and honor him by becoming the nucleus for a zenana.
He found, however, a pretty bird of his own vivacious and volatile temperament in the exceedingly bored Countess Manntrapp. And they were often together and apparently having a jolly flirtation, being cleverly aware of each other’s character and entertaining no delusions.
Except for these two at table and on the veranda, and except for the companionship of Smith, and now and then an opportunity for a few cautious words with Thusis, those days would have been insupportable for me. A hungry hun is bad enough; an ill-tempered one is worse; but a bored boche! — imagine a penful of them with time heavy on their hoofs!
The old story— “What’s time to a hawg!” — has no significance among the Sus scrofa or the “Bosch Vark.” Bored, the embers of that dull, slumbering rage glow hotter; the sulky silence is broken by grumbling, then by quarrels; the blind, senseless instinct to brutalize and rend obsesses. Small wonder the boche desires a place in the sun where his herds can spread out from the constricted and common wallow!
Tino had again appeared at luncheon with the other eye done in thunderous tints of purple, taupe, and an exquisite mauve. Parallel scratches adorned his nose; some of his mustache was missing. But I must admit he took it jauntily enough, and his bland explanation — something about tripping over a rock in the woods — was accepted by all and believed by none.
The queen, still somewhat pasty and pinched from the effects of this ritual in camera, ate haughtily, disdainful of what anybody might really think, and calm in her conviction that the Hohenzollern is responsible to Gott alone for whatever a Hohenzollern may choose to do.
That she had done plenty to Tino was painfully visible: but he was in a jocose and waggish humor, and his barrack-room quips and jests were plainer than usual. In fact, they became so coarse that even the Admiral bristled his beard and eyebrows, sniffing lack of respect for himself in the loud-mouthed levity of the King.
And I was getting madder and madder, Thusis and Clelia being present to wait on table as usual, and I was on the point of making a sharp observation to King Tino, when a sudden burst of applause from the other end of the table checked me. The Countess Manntrapp was speaking. She continued:
“This enforced imprisonment is becoming exceedingly dull for everybody. Why not divert ourselves? Has anybody any suggestions to offer?”
“A mountain party,” rumbled Admiral Lauterlaus. “I, in my time, a famous hunter of ‘gamps’ have been.”
“We don’t wish to break our necks to divert ourselves,” sneered the queen.
“A fishing party!” exclaimed Von Dungheim. “If there is a good big net we can all help draw it and clean out every trout in the stream!”
“Droly,” expostulated Tino, “you have such wholesale ideas! Our host might possibly object, you know.”
At the very idea of anybody objecting to the destructive wishes of a Prussian officer, General Count von Dungheim glared at me.
“Why not give a baby-party?” inquired Smith, blandly.
“A — a baby-party!” repeated Baron Bummelzug vacantly, in English; “what perhaps iss it a baby-party?”
Thusis, serving me, bent over and whispered in my ear: “Not the sort of baby-parties they gave in Belgium; there are no babies.” And she moved serenely to serve the queen, her beautiful face placid and inscrutable.
The Princess Pudelstoff began to clap her pudgy hands excitedly:
“A baby-party! A baby-party! That’ll be fun! That’ll be great! And we’ll have a feed and a spiel — —”
“Ach wass!” shouted the Admiral exasperated. “Tell us once what it iss a baby-party, und stop your noises yet!”
But the excited Princess had become uncontrollable, and she began to hammer on the table with her fat fists, shouting:
“A feed and a spiel! For God’s sake somebody start something in this hellofa hole!”
Amid her clamor and the ominous roaring of the infuriated Admiral, I tinkled my goblet with my fork and presently secured comparative silence for Smith.
In a few pleasant phrases he explained to them the simple intricacies of the American baby-party.
“I’ll come!” cried the Countess Manntrapp, delighted.
“I also!” echoed Eddin Bey.
Tino was visibly enchanted at the prospect, and he clapped King Ferdinand on his elephantine back exultingly:
“We’ll go as twins!” he cried. “This is most agreeable to me! Eh, Sophy? I’m half dead for a bit of a frolic! Everybody must come. Nobody is to be excused. Desperate cases require desperate remedies. Ennui is what is killing us; diversion is what we need!”
He was pounding the breath out of King Ferdinand who began to cough and dodge and blink wildly at everybody out of his little wild-pig’s eyes, when I stood up giving the signal.
“The party,” announced Smith, “is for to-night! There will be games, a dance, and a supper. All are politely invited!”
“My God,” said Secretary Gizzler to me, rubbing his bony hands together, “to what foolishness does noble company resort in order that ennui may be escaped.”
The Princess Pudelstoff overheard him:
“Crape-hanger!” she said, giving him a vigorous dig in the ribs which almost disarticulated his entire and bony frame.
The majority, however, trooping out to the veranda where they could teutonically enjoy their coffee and cognac “im grünen,” appeared desirous of engaging in the proposed diversion.
Even the queen deigned to inquire of me whether there was, in the house, material with which to construct a pair of ruffled panties for her husband.
Only the Bolsheviki remained aloof, chattering and mouthing together and waving their soiled fingers at each other and, presumably, at the bourgeois world in general.
Later, Smith came into my room whither I had retired to resume my series of poems to Thusis, — a rather melancholy occupation yet oddly comforting, too.
“Why the devil,” said I, “did you suggest such a party?”
“I don’t know. It occurred to me. I’m rather tired of their wrangling.”
“But a baby-party!”
He laughed: “You see how they take to the idea. Anything to dissipate this sullen, ugly atmosphere. It gets on my nerves.”
“Are you going?”
“Certainly.”
“In costume?”
“Of course.”
“Good heavens, Smith! I didn’t think you had it in you to frivol.”
“Why — I don’t know,” he said, smilingly. “I’m intensely happy.”
I eyed him gloomily: “Yes,” said I, “no doubt you are — winning the affections of the girl you wish to marry. By the way, has she been civil enough to tell you who she really is?”
“No,” he replied cheerfully.
