The Lost Master - The Collected Works

by Stanley G. Weinbaum

  "Well," said Loring. "That's the first time I've heard that here!" Vanya bowed, smiled, and retired, ignoring the scattered invitations. 'That's what they like," declared Loring.

  "Doesn't she ever mingle?"

  "She used to."

  "Oh! She did!"

  "Don't get excited, comrade. She had a friend last year, a pearler named Bill Torkas. He was on the sexless side of sixty, and he liked her. He died three or four months ago."

  "No one else?"

  "`Not at any one else's table. What did you think of her singing?"

  "I thought she danced," said Mark evasively.

  "She will."

  Time passed; Mark and Loring consumed their drinks and reordered, though Mark was drinking little. Loring's potations seemed to affect him not at all; his speech and mind were apparently quite normal. Mark thought of the quart of trade whisky Loring had consumed two nights gone, and ceased to wonder.

  A flurry of excitement came when two members of the Ellice's crew, far gone in their cups, began a brawl over one of the girls. Mark was amused at the expert way in which the giant Pearly Shene expelled the two, leaving them to continue their argument in the open.

  The first girl sang and danced again, and so did her successor. Mark grew impatient.

  "In due time, my friend," soothed Loring. "Ah. Look there!"

  Mark looked. Vanya, wearing a long robe of some red-flowered material, was just emerging. Again came that strange emotion; Mark's eyes were simply riveted on the girl.

  She advanced to the dais beside the piano, and casually dropped the robe from her shoulders. Mark gasped and gripped the edge of the table. He felt his own face flush, half in anger at his own emotion, half in admiration.

  Vanya wore a loose crimson blouse that glowed ruby-like beneath her black hair, and tight black velvet shorts. Her legs—long, slim, rounded — were sheathed in black stockings, and tiny red dancing pumps covered her feet.

  "She's beautiful!" he muttered to Loring. "Her legs are exquisite!"

  "I don't watch white women's legs," said the beachcomber. "It makes one dissatisfied with the spindly shanks of the native girls."

  "But they're beautiful!" repeated Mark.

  "They are indeed—aesthetically long and graceful, and not too plump. But so, for that matter, is the rest of her figure."

  Vanya danced. The pianist swung into a melody that seemed reminiscent of some music Mark had heard; no matter—it had rhythm, and that was enough. Vanya needed no more than that to create a presence of beauty. Her dance was a wild gypsy sort of thing; to Mark, sophisticated as he was, the Russian motif was plain, like a breath of wind across the steppes. She was light and grace personified, and she danced with an abandon that seemed almost a passion. Mark noted her changed expression; in one movement she danced with head thrown back and closed eyes, and a smile on her lips that seemed ever so true. For that moment she seemed happy.

  Then it was over. The applause came; neither more nor less than the audience had granted the other performers. Vanya smiled and bowed, draped herself in her robe, and retired.

  "Why don't they stamp and cheer?” asked Mark irritably of Loring. "She earned it."

  "In your eyes," explained Loring. "They've all seen her before. So you approve?"

  "She's marvelous! And that in spite of my personal feelings toward her... As to the applause, I guess it's remarkable that she got any at all from this audience. These pearlers can't appreciate her."

  "Appreciation? Bah!" said Loring. "They were doing exactly what you were doing—looking at her legs!"

  "She's a great dancer, nevertheless."

  CHAPTER XVII

  "She's not a great dancer. A great dancer dances with her mind; her body is her medium and she uses it to carefully calculated effect. Vanya dances with her heart; she loves it, and therefore can never be anything but rather good."

  "Have it your way," said Mark. He turned to Loring. "I want to do something. I've acted like a cad to the girl. I want to make up to her somehow. Will you do me a favor?"

  "You're buying the drinks."

  "Ask her if she'll come to our table."

  "I'd do it gladly, but she won't come. She likes me less than you."

  "You're right. I'll send a note by Hong."

  "No," declared Loring. "Hong would be even worse. Write the note and I'll take it."

  Mark tore the back from an envelope and scribbled his message. "I'm sorry," he wrote. "I want to explain, and ask you only to grant me the opportunity. Will you come to my table?" He signed it, "Mark Talbot."

  Loring departed. Mark fidgeted impatiently for several minutes. Finally his companion emerged from the door behind the piano.

  "Well?" queried Mark eagerly. "Is she coming?"

  Loring smiled, and said nothing. A buzz of comment from the gathering caught Mark's ear; he turned.

  Still garbed in her enveloping flowered robe, looking neither to right nor left, Vanya was approaching the table.

  Mark rose as Vanya approached, and Loring followed his example, elaborately placing a chair for her. She gathered the flowered robe about her carefully as she seated herself; half the eyes in the room were on her. Mark resumed his seat, but Loring remained standing.

  "If you don't mind," he said, addressing Vanya, "I'll continue my indulgences at the bar. I have a desire to uncramp my legs."

  He looked at Mark, who gave him a glance of appreciation.

  "Carte blanche?" the beachcomber asked.

  "I owe you a quart," responded Mark, "but I'd rather you let payment rest. I don't want too much disturbance this evening."

  "Reasonable enough! A pint, I assure you, will cause you no trouble."

  Loring departed toward the bar, and Mark turned to Vanya, who simply regarded him questioningly. Once again he experienced that unaccustomed diffidence in her presence; his eyes persisted in centering themselves on her face, and his mind insisted on repeating to itself, "Beautiful! She is beautiful!"

  Vanya twisted nervously under his frankly admiring gaze. "Well?" she said finally.

  Mark started from his reverie. "I'm sorry! Will you have something to drink?"

  She shook her head silently.

  "Oh, come! Just as a symbol of burying the hatchet."

  "Burying the hatchet?"' she echoed with her same serious, questioning expression.

  "An American expression," Mark explained smilingly. "It refers to an Indian custom, I think. It means simply—well, ceasing to quarrel."

  Vanya nodded her understanding. "A glass of port, then," she said. Mark ordered; he noticed that both Hong and Shene had their eyes on the table, though Loring's back was turned.

  "I thought your dancing was—more than excellent," he remarked as the girl sipped her wine.

  "Thank you."

  "It deserves a better audience than this."

  "The audience is none of my choosing!"

  "I can well believe that," conceded Mark. "What puzzles me is why you don't leave all this."

  "Do you think I haven't tried?"

  "I know you've tried. I don't see why you failed."

  "There were reasons enough."

  "Implying that the reasons are, none of my business," said Mark. "And of course you're quite right. But would you consider it impertinent if I asked you the reasons?"

  "I don't see why I should tell you."

  "Again you're right. My actions haven't been calculated to win your confidence, I'll admit. I was hoping my apology would help."

  "You started another apology this morning, and it ended by hurting me—as deeply as one stranger could hurt another."

  "You hurt me, too," replied Mark, "and with more than a stranger's power. You see, you haven't been exactly a stranger to me since the first time I saw you—and I wonder if you know when that was."

  Vanya nodded, her serious eyes still fixed on Mark.

  "It wasn't on the Orient," he warned.

  "I know," Vanya admitted, with one of her rare, grave smiles. "It w
as on the dock at San Francisco. I passed you; you were arguing or quarreling with a tall man. I've wondered since if you quarrel with everyone you meet."

  "That was my brother; you do remember!" cried Mark.

  "I don't know why," continued Vanya. "I was utterly, hopelessly unhappy. But your face stood out for an instant; it was—the last glimpse I had of America."

  "Then why were you so particularly cold to my friendly advances on the boat?"

  "I was unhappy," she explained. "Both unhappy and seasick."

  "The seasickness is sufficient excuse by itself," said Mark. "But you weren't seasick on the point this morning."

  "I was still unhappy."

  "Why?"

  "That's a question not proper in the South Seas. People here are sensitive about personal questions."

  "I've noticed that," agreed Mark dryly. "No one has asked me my business since I've been in the islands."

  "And no one will. Therefore, why should I tell mine?"

  I should answer, I suppose, because I might be able to help."

  "And I'm sure you can’t! So we reach a deadlock.”

  "Listen to me," urged Mark. "I'm sot asking out of curiosity—that is, not from any ill-intentioned curiosity. I'm interested, and I'd really try to help you."

  "I know you couldn't."

  "If it's a question of money—."

  "It isn't! And I wouldn't accept charity if it were."

  "All right," said Mark. "Forget the offer of help. Is there any special reason why you shouldn't tell me your particular troubles?"

  "None whatever."

  "Well, then, why not?"

  Vanya laughed. It was the first time Mark had heard her do so; like her voice, the laugh was low in pitch, throaty. He was pleased to realize that the feeling of strain between them was vanishing; she had adopted an easier, bantering attitude.

  "Good heavens!" she exclaimed. "Your persistence does you credit. You're either inhumanly stubborn or you've an interest I don't as yet understand."

  "I'm stubborn, all right," allowed Mark. "It's a family trait. But as to the interest, what do you think brought me to Shene's Cove?"

  "I never stopped to wonder. People—men—circulate all through the islands."

  "Taulanga — yes," said Mark "Or even Nukualofa. But why Shene's Cove?"

  "Do you mean—me? How could you possibly have known?"

  "A dock-hand in Honolulu recognized the Porpoise," Mark replied. "Not much of a clue, but it served."

  Vanya looked at her American admirer with a half-quizzical, half, doubtful expression in her black eyes. She leaned back in her chair, fingering her scarcely-touched glass of port.

  "Do you know, I'm almost convinced—" she said, turning toward hint. With the movement her enveloping gown parted. "But I still don't see why,” she continued.

  Mark deliberately turned his gaze to the long, slim, silk-clad figure; exposed by her movement. She, flushed a trifle, and rearranged her, robe.

  "That's why!" he said tersely.

  "Oh, that's ridiculous!"

  "I don't mean your—er, looks. Even I would hardly chase a good-looker over the entire Coral Sea. I mean your—"

  He paused. Vanya was again staring at him with that intent, serious expression so characteristic of her.

  "I thought your appearance attractive on the San Francisco dock," he continued. "I still think so. I think even more than that now."

  "And you say you came here for such a reason?"

  "And am satisfied with the result, what's more!"

  Vanya continued her serious appraisal.

  "I almost feel that I owe you the story," she said. "Your compliments, though not exactly subtle, have considerable finesse for these parts of the world, at least.”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Suddenly a clang of chords from the piano diverted her attention.

  "I'm sorry—I have to go on," she remarked, rising.

  "Again?" asked Mark, rising with her.

  "As long as paying customers continue to pay." She glanced at her costume. "I intended to sing," she observed ruefully, "but I suppose I'll have to dance."

  "You'll come back to the table?" asked Mark.

  Vanya gave him a serious smile, but made no answer as she made her way among the tables toward the piano.

  Loring, a little red of eye but still steady, came over to join Mark.

  "Your bill is nominal," he said. "I've been very conservative.

  Mark made no answer. His eyes were fixed on Vanya as she dropped her robe, and stepped forth again in her revealing costume, trim, slender, and graceful.

  Her dance this time was a congeries of native steps and postures; the experienced sailors recognized its import and the drum-like rhythm, and marked time with stamping feet and clapping palms. But to Mark, the dance was negligible; it was the lithe grace of Vanya that held him, the agile poise of her body, the suppleness of her slim waist, the flash of her silk-clad limbs.

  The conclusion brought more than usual applause; the sound broke on Mark's ears as a startling concussion, so rapt had he become, so engrossed in the Venus-like vitality of Vanya.

  She bowed, draped her robe about her, and prepared to sing as an encore.

  "Did you notice Shene?" queried Loring.

  "I saw him watching us," Mark nodded. "For a while I thought he might interfere."

  'Not he! Your little exploit will be talked about in waterfront hangouts. Vanya's first friend under sixty; that's advertising!" The beachcomber grinned. "And that accounts for her improved reeeption, too. Wait until her song's finished."

  Another burst of applause greeted the conclusion of the girl's song. Shouted invitations rose from all parts of the hall. Vanya acknowledged the applause with bows and a puzzled smile. Amid the acclaim she walked quickly through the crowd to Mark's place.

  Again Loring departed as she seated herself.

  “I don't understand!" she exclaimed, looking at Mark with a puzzled frown. "Was this last attempt such an improvement?"

  "It's your sitting here," he told her. '"It's an admission that you're human."

  There began a noticeable thinning out of the crowd. Reeling sailors staggered one by one in the direction of the door.

  "How about that story?" queried Mark.

  "Why not, after all?" asked the girl. "If you've patience to listen, I've patience to tell."

  "All out!" bawled Pearly Shene at the bar, "I'm closing up!"

  "That needn't disturb us," assured Mark, as Shene's bellow of "All out" sounded. "We'll talk outside."

  "I don't know," said Vanya doubtfully. "I have a reputation to maintain. It's why Shene pays me a pittance more than the others."

  "Loring can chaperon us."

  "Not with my consent."

  "You don't like him, do you?"

  The girl shrugged. "We'll sit on the point. There's a moon, and we'll be in plain sight."

  Loring, taking a last drink at the bar, gave them a red-eyed grin. Mark felt an impatient disgust at the implication of the leer.

  "You're drunk," he observed in disfavor.

  "Only with liquor," sneered the other.

  "A beast!" said Vanya as they passed into the brilliant night.

  "No. A tragedy," replied Mark, , gazing at the luminous stars of the under-half of the sky. Like a crucifix of blue diamonds gleamed the Southern Cross, and the Clouds of Magellan, that galaxy of a million suns, swung over the restless ocean. They both scanned the luminous skies.

  "An illusion of peace," sighed the girl, dropping to a seat on a rock. "Only an illusion. Life can be very cruel under these skies."

  "No more cruel than under the North Star."

  Vanya dropped the robe from her shoulders, baring her throat to the sultry night breeze. Mark found himself gazing at her profile and thinking again of her beauty, and the way the moonlight etched it against the dark background of island hills.

  "Am I going to hear that story of yours?" asked Mark finally. He shifted his position, s
o that her head was against the sky.

  "Well," said Vanya slowly. "I was born in Russia. You must have guessed that, if only from my name."

  Mark nodded silently.

  "Actually I'm a Georgian. My home, where my family has always lived, was in Georgia—haven't you a Georgia in the United States?"

  "Yes," said Mark quietly.

  "Our Georgia is a splendid mountainous country like—like nothing I can think of in Europe. More glorious than Switzerland and the Alps. It's in Asia, you know, in Siberia."

  "Americans," said Mark, "think of Siberia as a cold, unfriendly region where prisoners are sent to horrible deaths in the salt mines."

  "That was in the North," said Vanya. "My home was in Georgia, in the South, not terribly far from the border of China. It was near Lake Baikal; we had a hunting lodge on the lake."

  "A hunting lodge!" exclaimed Mark.

  "Yes. My father was an ardent hunter. There were deer, and wolves, and great brown bears. I learned to ride and shoot before I was twelve years old, though he never let me go with him. I stayed at home in a great, towered, stone building. We called it Angarask; the Angara River ran through our lands."

  "Nobility, I suppose," said Mark cynically.

  "We had a title—you'd call it Count. Peasants worked the land, renting it from my father. I was I happier than I knew!"

  'Then what?" queried Mark. He hardly knew whether Vanya expected him to take her story seriously. He had heard more than one island dancer claim noble blood.

  "When I was fourteen they sent me to school, in England. I'd learned English and French from childhood on, of course; we all did. I was there just a year."

  "And then?"

  "Then the War. I had to hurry home, all the way across Europe, and half way across Asia. I was too late; when I got home my father had left for the Austrian front, and I never saw him again."

  "Lost in the war?"

  "I don't know. We had letters for two years, at intervals. The mails were in a terrible state, and finally you simply couldn't depend on them. He couldn't come home, either; it was a four thousand mile trip each way, and they couldn't give him a long enough furlough."

  "Lord!" said Mark. "That's as far away from home as I was in France."