All these people were so selfishly precise with each other that they were identical. Their skin was mere polish; they had the immaculate fanaticism of glass. Each of them lived in a triangular house, the narrowest wall of which was a mirror, the other two (of open glass) converging sharply to a door just wide enough to pass through walking out backwards. In the heart of the mirror was an ever-ancient memory of Miss Banquett, to which they groomed themselves glassily and with cruel, laughing reverence. Each of them wore a black wig, because it was the shiniest of wigs, and each a white coat, because it was the coldest of coats, and each slippers of gilded glass, because these were the brightest and most precise slippers possible, and also the most beautifully impossible to walk in; so that, instead of walking, each stood fastidiously at the door of his house, his back to all the others, ill-temperedly pattering golden footsteps of the heavy, clear resonance of glass, which mingled with their laughter and made it neither merry nor sad.
Miss Banquett, or rather the image of Miss Banquett, saw everything from her shining hill; for the roofs of these houses were of glass as well as the walls. She saw their heartless pantomime within, and she heard their heartless laughter and pattering when they stood without, and she was coldly happy in these mandarins who hated one another for her sake and who also hated her with shrewd courtesy.
She was their Ancestress. She was of glass and in pieces, but fitted into a whole, from courtesy. And it was obvious that in this situation she must couple, if she was ever to get out of it: she must take some part in it, if she was ever to extricate herself from it. And she chose what seemed to her the yellowest of the mandarins (though all were alike) and made a marriage with him. We may call Miss Banquett's yellow husband Mandarin E. Immediately after the marriage, which occurred by Miss Banquett's fiat, without even the attendance of the bridegroom himself, a great change came over this portion of Cosmania. Without warning Mandarin E was suddenly attacked by all his fellows, though they never looked at him, on the ground that he had made himself yellower and sharper and brighter than themselves, which they declared to be an impossible thing. They fell upon him, and then fell away; and he was gone, and his house, and every sign that he was or was not. And it came to them to look up to Miss Banquett; and she too was gone. Then, in their astonishment, they looked for the first time at themselves, which set up in them a laughter greater than any before, in which violence was added to cruelty. From which they soon fell to weeping, and from weeping they went into a yellow study, and from this into a laughter so unlike laughter that Mandarin E and Miss Banquett, on the other side of the shining hill, shivered in their nuptial conference.
"These," whispered Miss Banquett to Mandarin E, "are a cruelly literal-minded people." "Yes," replied Mandarin E, "they will make history of all this. They will say that you fell among them in pieces of glass, and that they put you together and set you on top of the shining hill, to be worshipped in a way appropriate to your antiquity; and that you loved among them a certain Mandarin E, who might have been any one of them and whom for this reason they destroyed; that by his destruction they became an immortal people; and that the contemplation of their Ancestress, Miss Banquett, was by this event turned inward upon themselves. And their minds will grow long, sharp, thin nails, as it were, which will dig into their thought of you and mark upon it precise stigmata, which will be painless to you and to them." "And you?" asked Miss Banquett. "I," he answered, "am only Mandarin E, their heartless but ever-ancient love of you. If you fall asleep in my arms, you will wake alone, and that is all that there is to be said of me."
At this, Miss Banquett, struck by the humour of her position, began to laugh. She had, in disappearing from the top of the shining hill, lost much of her glassiness but little of her gaiety. Mandarin E held her fast, for she had (in truth) been but lately mended; and, as she went on laughing, her seams knit together loosely, and a drowsy liveliness circulated through her whole body, and she fell asleep. And while she slept the shining hill removed from her, and everything behind it. And she awoke alone.
"There is nothing remarkable," said Miss Banquett, "in my awakening alone." When she was thoroughly persuaded of this, which did not take long, since she was awake and alone, she said to herself: "Indeed, there can be nothing remarkable in anything."
4
For by a god-like effort of will she was indeed alone, and by an almost humanly capricious phrasing of her state she was alone with herself in a world of her own where all was as she pleased, and therefore in perfect order in no matter what order, and therefore not remarkable. Here Miss Banquett had supplanted the knowledge of her beauty, which was only knowledge, with her beauty itself, which was she herself—and therefore not remarkable. She had refined her mind from the equivocal largeness of a world of others to an absolute size—which permitted her to carry it all in her own head.
"How homely, how not remarkable everything is here," she said to herself. "In fact, it is just what you—that is, I—would expect."
"O lolly, lolly, lolly-o," at this moment arose all around Miss Banquett. It was a numerous but not disorderly crowd sitting at her feet in an attitude of petition.
"Beautiful Miss Banquett," they said murmurously, which immediately put her at her ease, "we prayed for you to come among us, and you have come. We are the cloudy people, and this is the cloudy country. We are the vapour of your breath, which is your beauty's spirit of generosity, O Benefactress who have cloudily bestowed on each of us a damp, grateful soul. We are grateful, but beyond gratitude we are powerless. For we are unsubstantial and hence unnumbered among ourselves, and our praise of you is a mere mingling, a barometric jargon."
"Dear people," replied Miss Banquett in great happy breaths, "you are the spirit of my spirit, and I would not have you otherwise. I will not add substance to you but take away substance. I will perfect you in what you are."
And she blew in among them in the shape of a monster woman-cloud, scattering them away from one another in pious panic; and she passed to the other side of them like a storm, and hung there solicitously, ready to disappear as soon as all was well. When this had happened and the cloudy people had recovered from their panic, they discovered in themselves certain differences that had not previously existed; and by these differences they arranged themselves in three ranks, choir-like; and the differences were the three inflections of gratitude; and the result was a harmonious music in Miss Banquett's ears, and a harmonious fragrance in her nostrils, which was all that could be desired, either by themselves or by her.
The first inflection was produced by an eccentricity of form in the first third of them: these now had, in addition to their general formlessness, an elephantine proboscis, which enriched the vague murmur of their gratitude with a note of whimsy. The second inflection was produced by an eccentricity of form in the second third of them: these now had, in addition to their general formlessness, a duck-like bill, which enriched the vague murmur of their gratitude with a note of resolution. And the third inflection was produced by an eccentricity of form in the third third of them: these now had, in addition to their general formlessness, a lionish jaw, which enriched the vague murmur of their gratitude with a note of boldness.
And the result was, as has been said, a harmonious music in Miss Banquett's ears, and a harmonious fragrance in her nostrils. But as she had blown in among them in the shape of a monster woman-cloud, so they now addressed themselves to her in the shape of a monster whimsical, resolute, bold man-voice, which was but their old murmurousness become something more of a spokesman. "Dear Benefactress," he said to her hydra-headedly, "we are the cloudy people, and this is the cloudy country, and you are a beautiful monster woman-cloud, and I love you."
Whereupon Miss Banquett, in the shape in which he perceived her, permitted herself to be embraced. And all was well. And she disappeared in a sunset of emotions which later in the cloudless dark she found to be her own.
"All is well, all is well," rang a harmonious music in her ears, while a har
monious fragrance filled her nostrils, ecstatically suffocating. And she said, "All is well, all is well. I am beautiful and love myself dearly, but without horrid envy of anyone else. No one could call me aggressive."
She was content. She smoothed out her skirt, rumpled by self-analysis, travel, and religion, and walked up and down in the dark for as long as she should remain undisturbed— which, considering the general situation, could not be for very long.
5
Scarcely any time at all could have passed, when Miss Banquett was suddenly seized by unknown hands and carried hurriedly through hard snow into the country of the tawny-faced. And she did not consider this experience irregular, since she had, after all, anticipated everything that might happen here by creating it beforehand in the large; the particulars leaped not insanely out of the methodical surprise for which, her work being done, she now had endless leisure. Nevertheless, it cannot be denied that in spite of herself she was a little taken aback by this rough kidnapping. And, what is more, she fainted, as was perhaps best in the circumstances.
She came to herself in a small snow-house. A worried, tawny- faced woman was bending over her.
"Great Physician," she said, "we do not like to disturb you, but we are all very, very ill."
"My dear Sister," replied Miss Banquett, "what is the matter with you?"
"We worship you, great Physician, in the way appointed, but we are still very, very cold."
Miss Banquett considered. "I am afraid," she said, "that I cannot change you, for you represent the solemn, indeed gloomy, indeed obstinate, side of my beauty. Is not this so, Sister?"
"It is indeed so, great Physician," replied she whom we may call Sister Snow.
"It is therefore clear that I may do nothing to make you happier. But I shall think what can be done to make you more comfortable without changing your nature."
"Your will be done, great Physician," said Sister Snow. And she withdrew from Miss Banquett's presence. Without, a certain number of tawny-faced women awaited her (the entire population of this country, in fact), all looking very, very ill— because so very, very cold; and they knew from the expression on Sister Snow's face (she being their Sister Superior) that something would be done for them which would not, however, really change things. So they bowed their heads with their usual solemnity. And their faces were as tawny as ever. And they looked gloomily down upon their girdles of frozen green myrtle and longed without hope for coats of fur.
"I cannot," said Miss Banquett, appearing before them, "permit you to grow fur, as you must realize: it would be contrary to your nature, which is to be cold and miserable, and so to that side of my beauty, and therefore do discredit both to you and to me." At which they bowed their heads as always with that resigned air characteristic of obstinate people.
"But I can, as I promised Sister Snow, make you a little more comfortable than you are," she continued. "I will marry you all to polar bears."
To which the tawny-faced women made no reply or change of countenance but persisted in their characteristic attitude of ceremonial discomfiture. Miss Banquett turned and left them (not for long) to go in search of polar bears. And they were not hard to find, for all that she might wish for was here; she had but to look about her, and her will was done. For she willed in that incontrovertible language which we might call dynamic description.
In a few moments Miss Banquett returned with a certain number of polar bears, all insensible to her beauty but ready to do her command, which was all that was required of them. They were in first-class spirits, moreover, as became the occasion, and without specific instructions danced up each one of them to a tawny-faced woman and hugged her sincerely, to which gruff embrace none of the women responded, they sinking only more deeply (though perhaps now more comfortably) into their accustomed melancholy inertia. The bears, however, were not to be so easily repulsed. In fact, they took very little notice of the melancholy inertia of the tawny-faced women, tumbling them to the ground and forcing upon them various bearish endearments; which the tawny-faced women did not exactly resist, but which, on the other hand, they did not exactly encourage. And, as Miss Banquett had promised, they were no happier, but a little more comfortable. And when the hurly-burly of the bears had somewhat subsided, she performed a simple nuptial rite upon all of them, which consisted in transferring the girdle of frozen green myrtle which each tawny-faced woman wore about her middle, to the neck of the polar bear with whom she had coupled. And after this, all except Miss Banquett fell into a sound sleep, each tawny-faced woman in her snow-house warmed by a fond bear whom she did not exactly encourage in his furry facetiousness, but whom, on the other hand, she did not exactly repulse. And it is a fact that after this procedure they no longer complained of feeling very, very ill (because so very, very cold), although no change of expression could have been detected on their tawny, expressionless faces. It even seemed that the more comfortable the bears made them, the more sullen they became.
"But," said Miss Banquett, "I cannot permit this to go too far. I must retain at least one of the tawny-faced in a state of sulky communion with me, or they will all forget me, to their discredit and mine." For the tawny-faced women, although they had lost none of their sulkiness, were no longer as eloquent as they had been. Sexual experience had a disorganizing effect on them, as it has on everyone. The best way, Miss Banquett decided, would be to deprive one of them of her bear, in order that she might remind the others of The Classical Period.
Her choice naturally fell upon Sister Snow, who had been the first to complain, and who had originally emboldened herself to kidnap Miss Banquett. Now Sister Snow's bear was the burliest bear of them all. So Miss Banquett appeared to him in the guise of a tawny-faced woman sunk in an inertia so extremely melancholy as to be irresistible. And the bear deserted Sister Snow and seized Miss Banquett and carried her off. And Sister Snow was left crying: "O great Physician, I am very, very ill." But as the other tawny-faced women had nothing to complain of, she could not this time embolden herself to kidnap Miss Banquett. And so she became a ghost of the past and kept the others mindful of what they had been—what they really were. And in this way they did not lose hold. It would have caused great confusion all round if they had become detached from Miss Banquett. They would have become silly, lively, gruesome harpies of no particular place; in sum, there would have been a hell in Miss Banquett's world, which would have meant that the rest of it was merely a sentimental experiment. It is always well to include even the most frigid friends in one's sphere of intimacies, for otherwise they turn into dumb, unanswerable challengers and make one's most glowing experiences seem all rather affected. Thus do the polar regions have a peculiar psychological value for the rest of the world.
But, as things turned out, the shock of the bear's embrace threw Miss Banquett into another faint, and she awoke, as might be expected, alone.
6
Yes, indeed, Miss Banquett now led a very odd life—odd precisely because it was as she wished it. Yet not odd: it was her life. It was like a book that she had written to please no one but herself; and now she was sitting down to read it at her leisure. We might say that she had read her previous life out of a book. But that was a book written by everybody and anybody, not by herself, and so expressing their beauty rather than her own. As for being beautiful, she might read of it there in her own familiar name; but she had to guess that her name meant herself, since it was only a name in the book, not herself. Here all was different. For, although she read out of a book, it was a book of her own making. She knew that her name meant herself. Or, we might say, in the one book her beauty was factual—that is, of others' making, and therefore false; while in the other it was fictional—that is, of her own making, and therefore true. But it was indeed a very odd life that she now led. And yet not odd.
And next she went among her blue people, whose calling might be said to be the same as her own. But what a time she had! You see, they were really not- blue, but rather blue-in-the- face; for t
hey were authors. They represented the outspoken but cautious side of her beauty, and she rightly felt that they had strong claims upon her. For what was outspokenness in her was ambition in them, and what was cautiousness in her was timidity in them. They would, indeed, all have been nervous wrecks had she not conscientiously imbued them with a critical sense—the feeling that there was still a great deal more to be written. Their hands, with which they wrote, were a-tingle, but their feet, with which they hesitated, were numb, and their faces, with which they regretted what they wrote, as being not the last word on their subject, were blue. And so they went on, hoping to write something that would not disappoint them, but growing continually more and more disappointed and therefore more and more blue-in-the-face. And being all in Miss Banquett's pay, so to speak, they were of course obliged to write more or less in the same way, and to keep more or less to Miss Banquett's pace, and to advance more or less her meaning. Yet they had, as well, to keep a little behind her meaning, in order to preserve their individualities. For once they wrote the last word they would all be Miss Banquett. They all wanted to write the last word—in that, and only in that, lay true glory; but equally they did not want to write it, since true glory would dissolve them in Miss Banquett's glory. Miss Banquett's glory lay in the perfect realization of herself which she was achieving. They, too, were trying to achieve a perfect realization of her. But because they loved their work they did not want it to stop; and the only way to keep it going was to achieve always a somewhat imperfect realization of Miss Banquett. And yet, equally, because they loved their work, they were bound to regret the imperfect quality of their achievements.
Progress of Stories Page 16