THE MASK
CAMILLA: You, sir, should unmask.
STRANGER: Indeed?
CASSILDA: Indeed it's time. We all have laid aside disguise but you.
STRANGER: I wear no mask.
CAMILLA: (Terrified, aside to Cassilda.) No mask? No mask!
_The King in Yellow, Act I, Scene 2_.
I
Although I knew nothing of chemistry, I listened fascinated. He picked upan Easter lily which Genevieve had brought that morning from Notre Dame,and dropped it into the basin. Instantly the liquid lost its crystallineclearness. For a second the lily was enveloped in a milk-white foam,which disappeared, leaving the fluid opalescent. Changing tints of orangeand crimson played over the surface, and then what seemed to be a ray ofpure sunlight struck through from the bottom where the lily was resting.At the same instant he plunged his hand into the basin and drew out theflower. "There is no danger," he explained, "if you choose the rightmoment. That golden ray is the signal."
He held the lily toward me, and I took it in my hand. It had turned tostone, to the purest marble.
"You see," he said, "it is without a flaw. What sculptor could reproduceit?"
The marble was white as snow, but in its depths the veins of the lilywere tinged with palest azure, and a faint flush lingered deep in itsheart.
"Don't ask me the reason of that," he smiled, noticing my wonder. "I haveno idea why the veins and heart are tinted, but they always are.Yesterday I tried one of Genevieve's gold-fish,--there it is."
The fish looked as if sculptured in marble. But if you held it to thelight the stone was beautifully veined with a faint blue, and fromsomewhere within came a rosy light like the tint which slumbers in anopal. I looked into the basin. Once more it seemed filled with clearestcrystal.
"If I should touch it now?" I demanded.
"I don't know," he replied, "but you had better not try."
"There is one thing I'm curious about," I said, "and that is where theray of sunlight came from."
"It looked like a sunbeam true enough," he said. "I don't know, it alwayscomes when I immerse any living thing. Perhaps," he continued, smiling,"perhaps it is the vital spark of the creature escaping to the sourcefrom whence it came."
I saw he was mocking, and threatened him with a mahl-stick, but he onlylaughed and changed the subject.
"Stay to lunch. Genevieve will be here directly."
"I saw her going to early mass," I said, "and she looked as fresh andsweet as that lily--before you destroyed it."
"Do you think I destroyed it?" said Boris gravely.
"Destroyed, preserved, how can we tell?"
We sat in the corner of a studio near his unfinished group of the"Fates." He leaned back on the sofa, twirling a sculptor's chisel andsquinting at his work.
"By the way," he said, "I have finished pointing up that old academicAriadne, and I suppose it will have to go to the Salon. It's all I haveready this year, but after the success the 'Madonna' brought me I feelashamed to send a thing like that."
The "Madonna," an exquisite marble for which Genevieve had sat, had beenthe sensation of last year's Salon. I looked at the Ariadne. It was amagnificent piece of technical work, but I agreed with Boris that theworld would expect something better of him than that. Still, it wasimpossible now to think of finishing in time for the Salon that splendidterrible group half shrouded in the marble behind me. The "Fates" wouldhave to wait.
We were proud of Boris Yvain. We claimed him and he claimed us on thestrength of his having been born in America, although his father wasFrench and his mother was a Russian. Every one in the Beaux Arts calledhim Boris. And yet there were only two of us whom he addressed in thesame familiar way--Jack Scott and myself.
Perhaps my being in love with Genevieve had something to do with hisaffection for me. Not that it had ever been acknowledged between us. Butafter all was settled, and she had told me with tears in her eyes that itwas Boris whom she loved, I went over to his house and congratulated him.The perfect cordiality of that interview did not deceive either of us, Ialways believed, although to one at least it was a great comfort. I donot think he and Genevieve ever spoke of the matter together, but Borisknew.
Genevieve was lovely. The Madonna-like purity of her face might have beeninspired by the Sanctus in Gounod's Mass. But I was always glad when shechanged that mood for what we called her "April Manoeuvres." She wasoften as variable as an April day. In the morning grave, dignified andsweet, at noon laughing, capricious, at evening whatever one leastexpected. I preferred her so rather than in that Madonna-liketranquillity which stirred the depths of my heart. I was dreaming ofGenevieve when he spoke again.
"What do you think of my discovery, Alec?"
"I think it wonderful."
"I shall make no use of it, you know, beyond satisfying my own curiosityso far as may be, and the secret will die with me."
"It would be rather a blow to sculpture, would it not? We painters losemore than we ever gain by photography."
Boris nodded, playing with the edge of the chisel.
"This new vicious discovery would corrupt the world of art. No, I shallnever confide the secret to any one," he said slowly.
It would be hard to find any one less informed about such phenomena thanmyself; but of course I had heard of mineral springs so saturated withsilica that the leaves and twigs which fell into them were turned tostone after a time. I dimly comprehended the process, how the silicareplaced the vegetable matter, atom by atom, and the result was aduplicate of the object in stone. This, I confess, had never interestedme greatly, and as for the ancient fossils thus produced, they disgustedme. Boris, it appeared, feeling curiosity instead of repugnance, hadinvestigated the subject, and had accidentally stumbled on a solutionwhich, attacking the immersed object with a ferocity unheard of, in asecond did the work of years. This was all I could make out of thestrange story he had just been telling me. He spoke again after a longsilence.
"I am almost frightened when I think what I have found. Scientists wouldgo mad over the discovery. It was so simple too; it discovered itself.When I think of that formula, and that new element precipitated inmetallic scales--"
"What new element?"
"Oh, I haven't thought of naming it, and I don't believe I ever shall.There are enough precious metals now in the world to cut throats over."
I pricked up my ears. "Have you struck gold, Boris?"
"No, better;--but see here, Alec!" he laughed, starting up. "You and Ihave all we need in this world. Ah! how sinister and covetous you lookalready!" I laughed too, and told him I was devoured by the desire forgold, and we had better talk of something else; so when Genevieve came inshortly after, we had turned our backs on alchemy.
Genevieve was dressed in silvery grey from head to foot. The lightglinted along the soft curves of her fair hair as she turned her cheek toBoris; then she saw me and returned my greeting. She had never beforefailed to blow me a kiss from the tips of her white fingers, and Ipromptly complained of the omission. She smiled and held out her hand,which dropped almost before it had touched mine; then she said, lookingat Boris--
"You must ask Alec to stay for luncheon." This also was something new.She had always asked me herself until to-day.
"I did," said Boris shortly.
"And you said yes, I hope?" She turned to me with a charming conventionalsmile. I might have been an acquaintance of the day before yesterday. Imade her a low bow. "J'avais bien l'honneur, madame," but refusing totake up our usual bantering tone, she murmured a hospitable commonplaceand disappeared. Boris and I looked at one another.
"I had better go home, don't you think?" I asked.
"Hanged if I know," he replied frankly.
While we were discussing the advisability of my departure Genevievereappeared in the doorway without her bonnet. She was wonderfullybeautiful, but her colour was too deep and her lovely eyes were toobright. She came straight up to me and took my arm.
"Luncheon is ready. Was I
cross, Alec? I thought I had a headache, but Ihaven't. Come here, Boris;" and she slipped her other arm through his."Alec knows that after you there is no one in the world whom I like aswell as I like him, so if he sometimes feels snubbed it won't hurt him."
"A la bonheur!" I cried, "who says there are no thunderstorms in April?"
"Are you ready?" chanted Boris. "Aye ready;" and arm-in-arm we raced intothe dining-room, scandalizing the servants. After all we were not so muchto blame; Genevieve was eighteen, Boris was twenty-three, and I not quitetwenty-one.
The King in Yellow Page 4