Painted Veils - James Huneker

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was partly visible. Ugh! Easter didn't like hairy men. She shocked her mother when a growing girl by declaring she would never marry, because she wouldn't be able to endure the sight of her husband's hairy legs when he got out of bed in the morning. Her mother shrugged despairing shoulders. I've hatched out a queer bird, this Yankee child of mine, said the Frenchwoman. But she re-doubled her watch on the girl's goings and comings. No such feeble excuse as spending the night with a school-girl friend imposed upon this experienced woman. Strange to relate that Easter was as strictly chaperoned as if living on the continent. She, American born, was brought up like a French provincial miss.

      In the space of Victor Lapoul's room Easter sang. She had boasted to the amused Stone that her operatic repertoire began with Pinafore and ended with Isolde. Sweet Little Buttercup and Isolde! It was too much for his gravity. He said so and she was annoyed. A characteristic. The slightest contradiction and she became belligerent. She accompanied herself in "Good Night" by Dvorak. Madame was all smiles. A diplomatic girl, this, to first sing a composition by the reigning Director of the institution. Lapoul, his arms melodramatically folded, struck an attitude at the end of the instrument. He was apparently more absorbed in the face of the singer than by her singing. He made no comment when she finished. Stone cynically regarded the tenor. "Cabotin" he whispered to the patronne, who never budged. She was accustomed to his carping tongue. Easter had expected tumultuous acclaim. The silence chilled her a trifle, but she didn't lose courage. Oh! well, I'll try them with something classic, and began Isolde's Liebestod. Lapoul threw up his arms: "Suffering Jesu," he cried, "not that, not that accursed requiem of a tomcat howled over by a tabby."

      "You see, he doesn't care much for Wagner," interposed Madame.

      "Care much is good," laughed Stone. Lapoul left the room. "Sing something French. I'll bring him back," whispered Madame. "It is still 1870 for him." She dashed out. Stone looked at Easter, she looked at Stone. "Sing anything French," he finally commanded, but he could hardly keep his face straight. "M. Escargot will run in." "Why do you call him Escargot? His name is not Snail." Easter was all smiles as she began that classic of barber-shop and bar-room, "Les Rameaux." Lapoul tip-toed in, followed by Madame. The music suited the full-bodied tones of her voice, and, as Easter knew the composition she got through with some sense of triumph. "Rotten," was all that Stone ejaculated. The tenor applauded. A very magnificent, extraordinary, beautiful, lovely, wonderful soprano. Ah! one year in his class. Mademoiselle would be a marvellous artiste. Ravishing. Overwhelming. The Metropolitan Opera House would gladly throw open its doors to such genius. All the while he uttered this hyperbolical praise he persistently fastened his bold staring eyes upon the girl. Stone noted that he made swallowing movements as if he were about to taste a bonne-bouche. His offer left the company cold. His scheme didn't suit the plans of either Madame Mayer beer or Alfred Stone. "Fursch-Madi," said Madame. "She goes to Ash or no one," muttered Stone. Why the girl is amateurish. She has no steady production, she phrases like a fool. Madame Frida will soon fix all that. They moved out. Lapoul called to Easter. "A moment, charming demoiselle." She returned to the room and his arms clasped her and hot moist kisses were deposited on her cheek. She didn't stir. "But you are adorable. Pardon, a thousand pardons," he begged. She didn't answer. Stone outside the door winked at Madame, who indulgently smiled. A Frenchman could do no harm in her eyes. "Cochon," exclaimed Stone. Easter re-appeared as cool as a dew-pearled June rose, but she wasn't blushing. "Great God! how glacial are these American misses," moaned Lapoul, when alone. But he didn't mean what he said.

      III

      After promising to return early the next morning Easter shook hands with Madame Mayerbeer and went away with Stone. As they descended the flight of steps a clean-shaven young man dashed past them. "Hallo Alfred!" he cheerily cried. He saluted, but did not glance at the girl. He was in a hurry and Stone smilingly turned to his companion: "Jewel is always late. He doesn't give a hang for the clock." Her legs shook so much that she had to lean on Stone's arm. "What's the matter?" he sharply asked. "My ankle turned. I thought I'd fall. Who was that young man with the blue eyes?" Stone looked at her. She was pale and her expression far from amiable. "Blue eyes," he echoed, "what sharp eyes are yours Miss Brandès. I'm sorry about the ankle. Does it still hurt?" They were now arrived at Union Square. "What name did you call him?" she demanded obstinately. "Oh, Jewel—that is, Ulick Invern is his whole name. He lectures on music every week at the Cosmopolitaine—or every other week, just as it suits his lordship. Madame is fond of him. That's his misfortune—his popularity. You are living in his rooms." He paused and asked permission to re-light his eternal cigarette. She repeated the name:

      "Ulick Invern. So that's his name." There was something so strange in her intonation that Stone stopped. "Why? Did you ever meet him? Or have you heard of his variegated behaviour?" She marched in silence by his side. Getting rid of him at 23rd Street pleading an urgent visit to one of the shops she left him standing in an amazed stupour, and quickly vanished. "Damn them for the selfish beasts they all are. They are like two peas in a pod these singers. Ungrateful animals." He went into Valkenberg's for a drink, his vanity thoroughly ruffled. …

      But she didn't go to the shops, instead hurried home by way of 6th Avenue. Once in her room, with the lock turned on the outer world she sank into a fauteuil and pressed her burning face into her hands. "Ulick Invern. Ulick Invern. That's his name—at last. What a coward to give me a false one." When she arose her eyes were glittering, but not with tears. They were as dry as her heart and that was like a cinder in her bosom. …

      THE SECOND GATE

      At the second gate, the warder stripped her; he took the pendants from her ears. …

      I

      Ulick Invern preferred the short cut down the hill to the smoother roundabout road, which, though shaded, was dusty. It was the last week of his vacation, much needed, little desired. He was loath to leave New York, best-beloved city after Paris; but his doctor advised him to try New Hampshire to relieve his hay-fever. As he went across the fields of the Forest Hills park he was forced to admit that the fortnight in Franconia had put him on his feet. No sneezing, no insomnia, no writing, lots of reading. Such reading. He had made up his mind that no fiction, either frivolous or serious, would he fetch in his trunk; not even his adored Flaubert. Nothing but books dealing with the origins of religious beliefs, mystic books; Thomas à Kempis, Apollo, by Reinach, several Cardinal Newman volumes, the Old Testament, Browning, and as a concession to his profane leanings, a copy of Petronius in the original. Ulick was a fair latinist; his literary tastes versatile. This serene September forenoon he pondered the idea of a new religion. He had been reading in Reinach's Apollo of the mushroom swiftness with which any crazy silly superstition grows overnight in proper soil. The more ignorant the mob the easier it is to convince with some insane doctrine. Witness the growth of Mormonism or the new cult in America which already boasted a female pope and a big following.

      "A new religion" he said aloud. "Well, why not? the time seems ripe. Everything is unsettled. We are on the verge of something tremendous, a world-war, a social revolution, and yet we have never been seemingly more prosperous—I mean the entire earth. We must be entering into a new constellation; perhaps Mars is in the ascendant; or the sullen house of Saturn. … " Ulick wasn't a star-worshipper, he liked to flirt with astrology as he flirted with a belief in the Fourth Dimension of Space. He was a well set-up young man still in the twenties, vigourous mentally and physically, nervous rather than muscular, yet capable of great powers of resistance. His friends, and he had many, said he was too volatile to compass distinction; he couldn't stick at anything over a month. This mania for the study of comparative religions was not new—he had only revived an old interest. Christianity with its stems deep in Judaism, Asiatic legends, Alexandrian mysticism; with its taboos, fetishes, totems, animism and magic, its lofty belief in the idealism of Jesus and its mumbo-jumbo conjurations and incredibly absurd miracles—this welter of old-world faiths and debasing superstition, a polytheistic judaism, held his fancy, for, as a former student of theology, he saw more clearly the polyphonic criss-crossing of ideas and ceremonies than the majority of critics. A palimpsest, rather, many palimpsests, was this religion, which in less than two thousand years has undergone more radical changes than any that preceded it. A chameleon among religions, compared

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