Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “Well — —” He hesitated. She said:

  “Autocracy in heaven is as unthinkable, as unbelievable, and as obnoxious to me as is autocracy on earth. There is no such thing as divine right, here or elsewhere, — no divine prerogatives for tyranny, for punishment, for cruelty.”

  “How did you happen to embrace such a faith?” he asked, bewildered.

  “I was sick of the scheme of things. Suffering, cruelty, death outraged my common sense. It is not in me to say, ‘Thy will be done,’ to any autocrat, heavenly or earthly. It is not in me to fawn on the hand that strikes me — or that strikes any helpless thing! No! And the scheme of things sickened me, and I nearly died of it — —”

  She clenched her hand where it rested on the table, and he saw her face flushed and altered by the fire within. Then she smiled and leaned back in her chair.

  “In you,” she said gaily, “dwells a god. In me a goddess, — a joyous one, — a divine thing that laughs, — a complete and free divinity that is gay and tender, that is incapable of tyranny, that loves all things both, great and small, that exists to serve — freely, not for reward — that owes allegiance and obedience only to the divine and eternal law within its own godhead. And that law is the law of love.... And that is my substitute for the scheme of things. Could you subscribe?”

  After a silence he quoted: “Could you and I with Him conspire — —”

  She nodded: “‘To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire — —’ But there is no ‘Him.’ It’s you and I.... Both divine.... Suppose we grasp it and ‘shatter it to bits.’ Shall we?”

  “‘And then remould it nearer to the heart’s desire?’”

  “Remould it nearer to the logic of common sense.”

  Neither spoke for a few moments. Then she drew a swift, smiling breath.

  “We’re getting on rather rapidly, aren’t we?” she said. “Did you expect to lunch with such a friendly, human girl? And will you now take her to inspect this modest house which you hope may suit her, and which, she most devoutly hopes may suit her, too?”

  “This has been a perfectly delightful day,” he said as they rose.

  “Do you want me to corroborate you?”

  “Could you?”

  “I’ve had a wonderful time,” she said lightly.

  CHAPTER VI

  John Estridge, out of a job — as were a million odd others now arriving from France by every transport — met James Shotwell, Junior, one wintry day as the latter was leaving the real estate offices of Sharrow & Co.

  “The devil,” exclaimed Estridge; “I supposed you, at least, were safe in the service, Jim! Isn’t your regiment in Germany?”

  “It is,” replied Shotwell wrathfully, shaking hands. “Where do you come from, Jack?”

  “From hell — via Copenhagen. In milder but misleading metaphor, I come from Holy Russia.”

  “Did the Red Cross fire you?”

  “No, but they told me to run along home like a good boy and get my degree. I’m not an M.D., you know. And there’s a shortage. So I had to come.”

  “Same here; I had to come.” And Shotwell, for Estridge’s enlightenment, held a post-mortem over the premature decease of his promising military career.

  “Too bad,” commented the latter. “It sure was exciting while it lasted — our mixing it in the great game. There’s pandemonium to pay in Russia, now; — I rather hated to leave.... But it was either leave or be shot up. The Bolsheviki are impossible.... Are you walking up town?”

  They fell into step together.

  “You’ll go back to the P. & S., I suppose,” ventured Shotwell.

  “Yes. And you?”

  “Oh, I’m already nailed down to the old oaken desk. Sharrow’s my boss, if you remember?”

  “It must seem dull,” said Estridge sympathetically.

  “Rotten dull.”

  “You don’t mean business too, do you?”

  “Yes, that’s also on the bum.... I did contrive to sell a small house the other day — and blew myself to this overcoat.”

  “Is that so unusual?” asked Estridge, smiling,” — to sell a house in town?”

  “Yes, it’s a miracle in these days. Tell me, Jack, how did you get on in Russia?”

  “Too many Reds. We couldn’t do much. They’ve got it in for everybody except themselves.”

  “The socialists?”

  “Not the social revolutionists. I’m talking about the Reds.”

  “Didn’t they make the revolution?”

  “They did not.”

  “Well, who are the Reds, and what is it they want?”

  “They want to set the world on fire. Then they want to murder and rob everybody with any education. Then they plan to start things from the stone age again. They want loot and blood. That’s really all they want. Their object is to annihilate civilisation by exterminating the civilised. They desire to start all over from first principles — without possessing any — and turn the murderous survivors of the human massacre into one vast, international pack of wolves. And they’re beginning to do it in Russia.”

  “A pleasant programme,” remarked Shotwell. “No wonder you beat it, Jack. I recently met a woman who had just arrived from Russia. They murdered her best friend — one of the little Grand Duchesses. She simply can’t talk about it.”

  “That was a beastly business,” nodded Estridge. “I happen to know a little about it.”

  “Were you in that district?”

  “Well, no, — not when that thing happened. But some little time before the Bolsheviki murdered the Imperial family I had occasion to escort an American girl to the convent where they were held under detention.... An exceedingly pretty girl,” he added absently. “She was once companion to one of the murdered Imperial children.”

  Shotwell glanced up quickly: “Her name, by any chance, doesn’t happen to be Palla Dumont?”

  “Why, yes. Do you know her?”

  “I sold her that house I was telling you about. Do you know her well, Jack?”

  Estridge smiled. “Yes and no. Perhaps I know her better than she suspects.”

  Shotwell laughed, recollecting his friend’s inclination for analysing character and his belief in his ability to do so.

  “Same old scientific vivisectionist!” he said. “So you’ve been dissecting Palla Dumont, have you?”

  “Certainly. She’s a type.”

  “A charming one,” added Shotwell.

  “Oh, very.”

  “But you don’t know her well — outside of having mentally vivisected her?”

  Estridge laughed: “Palla Dumont and I have been through some rather hair-raising scrapes together. And I’ll admit right now that she possesses all kinds of courage — perhaps too many kinds.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “She has the courage of her convictions and her convictions, sometimes, don’t amount to much.”

  “Go on and cut her up,” said Shotwell, sarcastically.

  “That’s the only fault I find with Palla Dumont,” explained the other.

  “I thought you said she was a type?”

  “She is, — the type of unmarried woman who continually develops too much pep for her brain to properly take care of.”

  “You mean you consider Palla Dumont neurotic?”

  “No. Nothing abnormal. Perhaps super-normal — pathologically speaking. Bodily health is fine. But over-secretion of ardent energy sometimes disturbs one’s mental equilibrium. The result, in a crisis, is likely to result in extravagant behavior. Martyrs are made of such stuff, for example.”

  “You think her a visionary?”

  “Well, her reason and her emotions sometimes become rather badly entangled, I fancy.”

  “Don’t everybody’s?”

  “At intervals. Then the thing to do is to keep perfectly cool till the fit is over.”

  “So you think her impulsive?”

  “Well, I should say so!” smiled Estridge. “Of course I mean nicely imp
ulsive — even nobly impulsive.... But that won’t help her. Impulse never helped anybody. It’s a spoke in the wheel — a stumbling block — a stick to trip anybody.... Particularly a girl.... And Palla Dumont mistakes impulse for logic. She honestly thinks that she reasons.” He smiled to himself: “A disturbingly pretty girl,” he murmured, “with a tender heart ... which seems to do all her thinking for her.... How well do you know her, Jim?”

  “Not well. But I’m going to, I hope.”

  Estridge glanced up interrogatively, suddenly remembering all the uncontradicted gossip concerning a tacit understanding between Shotwell, Jr., and Elorn Sharrow. It is true that no engagement had been announced; but none had been denied, either. And Miss Sharrow had inherited her mother’s fortune. And Shotwell, Jr., made only a young man’s living.

  “You ought to be rather careful with such a girl,” he remarked carelessly.

  “How, careful?”

  “Well, she’s rather perilously attractive, isn’t she?” insisted Estridge smilingly.

  “She’s extremely interesting.”

  “She certainly is. She’s rather an amazing girl in her way. More amazing than perhaps you imagine.”

  “Amazing?”

  “Yes, even astounding.”

  “For example?”

  “I’ll give you an example. When the Reds invaded that convent and seized the Czarina and her children, Palla Dumont, then a novice of six weeks, attempted martyrdom by pretending that she herself was the little Grand Duchess Marie. And when the Reds refused to believe her, she demanded the privilege of dying beside her little friend. She even insulted the Reds, defied them, taunted them until they swore to return and cut her throat as soon as they finished with the Imperial family. And then this same Palla Dumont, to whom you sold a house in New York the other day, flew into an ungovernable passion; tried to batter her way into the cellar; shattered half a dozen chapel chairs against the oak door of the crypt behind which preparations for the assassination were taking place; then, helpless, called on God to interfere and put a stop to it. And, when deity, as usual, didn’t interfere with the scheme of things, this girl tore the white veil from her face and the habit from her body and denounced as nonexistent any alleged deity that permitted such things to be.”

  Shotwell gazed at Estridge in blank astonishment.

  “Where on earth did you hear all that dope?” he demanded incredulously.

  Estridge smiled: “It’s all quite true, Jim. And Palla Dumont escaped having her slender throat slit open only because a sotnia of Kaladines’ Cossacks cantered up, discovered what the Reds were up to in the cellar, and beat it with Palla and another girl just in the nick of time.”

  “Who handed you this cinema stuff?”

  “The other girl.”

  “You believe her?”

  “You can judge for yourself. This other girl was a young Swedish soldier who had served in the Battalion of Death. It’s really cinema stuff, as you say. But Russia, to-day, is just one hell after another in an endless and bloody drama. Such picturesque incidents, — the wildest episodes, the craziest coincidences — are occurring by thousands every day of the year in Russia.... And, Jim, it was due to one of those daily and crazy coincidences that my sleigh, in which I was beating it for Helsingfors, was held up by that same sotnia of the Wild Division on a bitter day, near the borders of a pine forest.

  “And that’s where I encountered Palla Dumont again. And that’s where I heard — not from her, but from her soldier comrade, Ilse Westgard — the story I have just told you.”

  For a while they continued to walk up and down in silence.

  Finally Estridge said: “There was a girl for you!”

  “Palla Dumont!” nodded Shotwell, still too astonished to talk.

  “No, the other.... An amazing girl.... Nearly six feet; physically perfect; — what the human girl ought to be and seldom is; — symmetrical, flawless, healthy — a super-girl ... like some young daughter of the northern gods!... Ilse Westgard.”

  “One of those women soldiers, you say?” inquired Shotwell, mildly curious.

  “Yes. There were all kinds of women in that Death Battalion. We saw them, — your friend Palla Dumont and I, — saw them halted and standing at ease in a birch wood; saw them marching into fire.... And there were all sorts of women, Jim; peasant, bourgeoise and aristocrat; — there were dressmakers, telephone operators, servant-girls, students, Red Cross nurses, actresses from the Marinsky, Jewesses from the Pale, sisters of the Yellow Ticket, Japanese girls, Chinese, Cossack, English, Finnish, French.... And they went over the top cheering for Russia!... They went over to shame the army which had begun to run from the hun.... Pretty fine, wasn’t it?”

  “Fine!”

  “You bet!... After this war — after what women have done the world over — I wonder whether there are any asses left who desire to restrict woman to a ‘sphere’?... I’d like to see Ilse Westgard again,” he added absently.

  “Was she a peasant girl?”

  “No. A daughter of well-to-do people. Quite the better sort, I should say. And she was more thoroughly educated than the average girl of our own sort.... A brave and cheerful soldier in the Battalion of Death.... Ilse Westgard.... Amazing, isn’t it?”

  After another brief silence Shotwell ventured: “I suppose you’d find it agreeable to meet Palla Dumont again, wouldn’t you?”

  “Why, yes, of course,” replied the other pleasantly.

  “Then, if you like, she’ll ask us to tea some day — after her new house is in shape.”

  “You seem to be very sure about what Palla Dumont is likely to do,” said Estridge, smiling.

  “Indeed, I’m not!” retorted Shotwell, with emphasis. “Palla Dumont has a mind of her own, — although you don’t seem to think so, — —”

  “I think she has a will of her own,” interrupted the other, amused.

  “Glad you concede her some mental attribute.”

  “I do indeed! I never intimated that she is weak-willed. She isn’t. Other and stronger wills don’t dominate hers. Perhaps it would be better if they did sometimes....

  “But no; Palla Dumont arrives headlong at her own red-hot decisions. It is not the will of others that influences her; it is their indecision, their lack of willpower, their very weakness that seems to stimulate and vitally influence such a character as Palla Dumont’s—”

  “ — Such a character?” repeated Shotwell. “What sort of character do you suppose hers to be, anyway? Between you and your psychological and pathological surmises you don’t seem to leave her any character at all.”

  “I’m telling you,” said Estridge, “that the girl is influenced not by the will or desire of others, but by their necessities, their distress, their needs.... Or what she believes to be their needs.... And you may decide for yourself how valuable are the conclusions of an impulsive, wilful, fearless, generous girl whose heart regulates her thinking apparatus.”

  “According to you, then, she is practically mindless,” remarked Shotwell, ironically. “You medically minded gentlemen are wonders! — all of you.”

  “You don’t get me. The girl is clever and intelligent when her accumulated emotions let her brain alone. When they interfere, her logic goes to smash and she does exaggerated things — like trying to sacrifice herself for her friend in the convent there — like tearing off the white garments of her novitiate and denouncing deity! — like embracing an extravagant pantheistic religion of her own manufacture and proclaiming that the Law of Love is the only law!

  “I’ve heard the young lady on the subject, Jim. And, medically minded or not, I’m medically on to her.”

  They walked on together in silence for nearly a whole block; then Estridge said bluntly:

  “She’d be better balanced if she were married and had a few children. Such types usually are.”

  Shotwell made no comment. Presently the other spoke again:

  “The Law of Love! What rot! That’s sheer hysteria. Follo
w that law and you become a saint, perhaps, perhaps a devil. Love sacred, love profane — both, when exaggerated, arise from the same physical condition — too much pep for the mind to distribute.

  “What happens? Exaggerations. Extravagances. Hallucinations. Mysticisms.

  “What results? Nuns. Hermits. Yogis. Exhorters. Fanatics. Cranks. Sometimes. For, from the same chrysalis, Jim, may emerge either a vestal, or one of those tragic characters who, swayed by this same remarkable Law of Love, may give ... and burn on — slowly — from the first lover to the next. And so, into darkness.”

  He added, smiling: “The only law of love subscribed to by sane people is framed by a balanced brain and interpreted by common sense. Those who obey any other code go a-glimmering, saint and sinner, novice and Magdalene alike.... This is your street, I believe.”

  They shook hands cordially.

  * * * * *

  After dining en famille, Shotwell Junior considered the various diversions offered to young business men after a day of labour.

  There were theatres; there was the Club de Vingt and similar agreeable asylums; there was also a telephone to ring, and unpremeditated suggestions to make to friends, either masculine or feminine.

  Or he could read and improve his mind. Or go to Carnegie Hall with his father and mother and listen to music of sorts.... Or — he could call up Elorn Sharrow.

  He couldn’t decide; and his parents presently derided him and departed music-ward without him. He read an evening paper, discarded it, poked the fire, stood before it, jingled a few coins and keys in his pocket, still undecided, still rather disinclined to any exertion, even as far as the club.

  “I wonder,” he thought, “what that girl is doing now. I’ve a mind to call her up.”

  He seemed to know whom he meant by “that girl.” Also, it was evident that he did not mean Elorn Sharrow; for it was not her number he called and presently got.

  “Miss Dumont?”

  “Yes? Who is it?”

  “It’s a mere nobody. It’s only your broker — —”

  “What!!”

  “Your real-estate broker — —”