Changeling, and Other Stories
it now swirled, now weltered the tropic river, on its way to join the
Amazon, greatest of waters.
And yet somehow the bridge loitered, refused to be finished, brooded,
sulked. So much did it fight against him that had it not been for his
wife Cecily, time and time again Lovat would have lost heart.
But she was there with him, and in some hidden mystical way she had to
do with the bridge. One look at her, one touch of her, and he regained
courage and patience. Silently and strong she moved by his side, by
day in her man's breeches and gaiters and sport coat, by night in her
dark-blue garment with its rolling collar of white, somehow like a
monk's but of line and beauty. Very like a flower she was, a Northern
flower, straight and slender and supple and velvety, and strong. Yes,
she had to do with the bridge, for he had only to look into her serious
smiling eyes, and to him, through her, out of somewhere, flowed
strength and wisdom.
Yes, she had to do with the bridge, he knew. Her being here was not
fortuitous. That she was a young bride on her honeymoon in an
enchanted land, was not, as it is to most women, the only thing in the
world. They were two lovers, but they were oblivious of all things,
sympathized with by all things. The bridge was there. And between him
and her and the bridge there existed some strange link of destiny.
There were three of them. Two of them were happy, but the bridge was
sullen. Two of them were uncertain, but the bridge was sure.
VII
Out of dumb rock and lifeless iron the bridge arose. First these were
only amorphous objects, and then through the fire of genius was evoked
an entity. The bridge had a personality strong as a man's, as houses
have personalities, and some trees. It rose there strong and slim and
beautiful and of use to men, but terrible as an army with banners. And
though Simon Lovat and his wife Cecily said nothing to each other about
it, yet there arose in both their minds that the bridge demanded and
needed something. And ancient lore of bridges came to them in
lightning flashes of memory--old stories of terror that told of human
sacrifice before a bridge would stand. What ancient mysticism made the
priests of the Pons Sublicius of olden Rome throw dummies of human
beings into the Tiber on festal days? What horror of old made British
Vortigern build his castle over the dead body of a murdered boy? Even
in China of to-day, a pig was thrown into the river in times of flood,
that the bridge should hold. And gnarled old masons told tales....
Old wives' tales! Ancient vile superstition! And yet, what wisdom had
departed from the world since ancient days! Not spiritual wisdom alone
but material wisdom. How were the great blocks of the pyramids raised?
We were n't certain of that! The mighty things of Easter Island, yes,
and the great stone legacies of the Incas! We did n't know. And the
progress of the world was not spiritual. It was material. And we were
n't even certain of material things.
Why did they do it, Lovat pondered! Was it a sacrifice to the bridge
itself? A tribute to the idol they had made with their own hands?
Hardly! For that would be the idea of barbarians, and barbarians never
built great bridges. Was it a sacrifice to the cruelty of the great
elements that might endanger the bridge? Possibly. And yet storm was
so powerful and so cruel when it felt that way that nothing would
hinder it. What was it? He did n't know.
And yet the bridge demanded, needed something.
Cecily felt it,, too, he knew, for she spoke one evening in the
lamplight, with averted eyes.
"Dearest one, it sounds a silly question, but why are you building the
bridge?"
"Because it's my work, Cecily, to build bridges." He felt what she
meant.
"Dearest one, if the bridge were to fall, you would be heartbroken,
would n't you?"
"I 'm afraid I should, Cecily."
"Why, dearest one? Is it because you are proud of your bridge? That
you want generations to remember you by your bridge?"
"No, Cecily," he thought seriously, "it is n't that. I--I 'm just a
helper of the Master Mason, and if the bridge were to fall, I should
feel I was a poor, an unworthy helper. That's how I feel, Cecily.
That's why I should be heart-broken."
She put down the sewing work she was doing, and came to him, her eyes
misty. She took his hands. She knelt by his side.
"I know, my lover," she whispered, a little huskily, "but your bridge
will never fall. Believe it, dearest one. Believe it night and day."
But the bridge bothered him. And all her wise courage could not still
its silent clamor. He could watch the ant-like battalions of men as
they laid stone on stone, chanting in the guttural Chibcha as the
bridge-builders of Persia chanted when they built the Perl-i-Khaju at
Ispahan. But above their voices came the silent voice of the bridge,
loud as thunder. Until he could stand it no longer.
"What is it you want? In God's name what do you want?"
"You know."
"I don't know."
"Ta-wak knew when he builded the great wall of China."
"I don't know."
"King Cheops knew when he builded his great pyramid at Ghizeh."
"But I don't know."
"The Romans knew when they raised the bridges of Gaul. You know,
building me."
"I don't know. I won't know." Lovat broke from the place, his
forehead damp with perspiration. And as he went toward his cottage, it
seemed to him that the jungle and the mountains and all the creatures
of the wilds were watching with their inhuman apathetic eyes the
Titanic struggle between himself and the thing he had conceived into
being, out of lifeless iron and dumb stone.
VIII
For two days in the South American city Lovat now raged like a madman,
now was limp and gray as if all life had left. The storm crashed like
artillery. The wind swirled in terrific outshoots of uncontrolled
power. Rain whorled like a water-burst. And all the time there ran
through Lovat's head the unending, pounding rhythm: "The bridge! The
bridge is down! Is down! The bridge! The bridge is down!" Statesmen
and ministers looked at him in pity, forgetting the country's loss in
the great grief of the artist.
Cecily he was n't worried about. He knew she was all right. There was
an army to take care of her there, and their home was solid, would last
against the deluge.
Three days ago and no warning of this cataclysm.
And now, to-day! To-day was like the Day of Judgment. To be sure, a
half-crazy astronomer had predicted the end of the world, and sane
scientists had pooh-poohed it, saying that there might be bad weather
from the stellar conjunctions, but outside of that--nothing. And then,
suddenly, this immensity of flood. Down in the lowlands, on the shore
of the Caribbees, there had been havoc past imagining. Whole towns
were swept away. There had been no chance of getting in touch with the
bridge. All telegraph wires were down.
Now it was Wednesday, and on Sunday he had left to discuss some details
of the opening with the ministry and he had asked Cecily to come with
him, but she would not go.
"Lover, no," she had said; "I would rather stay here by the bridge."
"But, Cecily, you have n't been away from here in two months. Would
n't you like to come to the city? There 'll be clothes to buy and
people to see, and an opera from Madrid. Come, Cecily."
"Dearest one, no!" she had refused. She smiled. "One of us must stay
by the bridge."
"But, Cecily--"
"No! No!"
She loved the bridge as much as he.
On the little platform of the working railroad station he had said
good-by to her. The train started and she ran alongside.
"Stop the train!" she cried.
He pulled the emergency cord.
"What is it, Cecily? Changing your mind?"
"Dearest one, I just want to kiss you again before you go. Just once
more. I 'm a silly woman."
"Come with me, Cecily. Come as you are. We can get you clothes in
town."
"No, lover. I must stay and take care of your bridge. I don't mind
who 's looking, lover. Just--kiss me again."
Had she some premonition of the disaster? Did that spiritual wisdom
which we call intuition, tell her of ruin that was hovering like a
hawk? Poor Cecily! How heartbroken she'd be. Her eyes, her poor
eyes, would be burnt with crying. Poor Cecily! Perhaps he could make
her believe it did n't matter. Nothing mattered so long as he had her.
Ah, but it did! He would never build another bridge. He might do
mighty structures of iron and cement, immense feats of engineering, but
never a great stone bridge again. Never again!... Poor Cecily!
IX
He had steeled himself to see it all, and on Saturday when the storm
had subsided, and the little train started up the mountainside, his
face was a gray mask, and the nearer the top he came, the more
impassive, the grayer was his face. A little turn of a boulder and he
knew he 'd see the ruin. A few piles and the welter of the swollen
river attacking them. His eyes were open, but he saw nothing. The
official beside him suddenly screamed.
"My God! Excellency! The bridge!"
"Yes, I know. The bridge is down."
"The bridge is there. Excellency, the bridge is there!"
All Lovat could do was to laugh, a vacant laugh. Yes, it was there.
But it was so impossible. The sun suddenly flashed behind it, and he
saw the arrogant white structure soar like a bird, joining green hill
to green hill. Beneath it rolled an unknown river, not the tumbling,
snarling river of a week before, but a brown concave current, become
gigantic, flying northward to the greatest of waters and carrying on
its thewed back death and desolation. There was something that looked
like a man and then an ox. And here was the wreckage of a homestead.
And there was a jaguar and here was a great serpent of the jungle, and
now a horse and here a gigantic tree. But the bridge spurned the
river, floated on it like a swan. Lovat jumped off on the platform.
"It holds! It stays!" he cried exultantly. He rushed toward the
house. "Cecily, it holds!"
But he felt, as he flung open the door, that the house was empty.
"Cecily! Where are you, Cecily?"
There was no one there but a weeping, terrified maid.
"Where is Madame? Where is your señora?"
But she only wept and wrung her hands. Lovat, half crazy, yanked her
to her feet, and shook her.
"Where is Madame?
"Cecily! Cecily!"
He ran outside. It suddenly occurred to him that all his men had made
way for him from the station, with silent pitying eyes. Why, they
should have been cheering, too, but for something--
"Cecily! Cecily!" He ran around the little house.
One of the big Inca foreman detached himself from a standing group, and
stood in front of the frenzied man.
"Excellency," he said, "there's no good calling Madame. Madame has
left us."
"Left us? What do you mean?"
"Excellency--" the big Indian threw his hands toward the river--"the
bridge is there, but Madame has left us. Don't you understand?"
With numbing force the blow descended on Lovat.
"The bridge took her, you mean."
"No, señor. She left us."
Lovat suddenly straightened up.
"Mason, what do you mean?"
"Señor, when the wind came and the flood, the men quit. The wind
shrieked through the arches. The river rose and attacked the piers.
And the bridge groaned, and we left. It was the will of God, we
thought. He did n't want this chasm joined.
"And I came up toward your house, señor, to see if everything was right
there. I met Madame on the path. She had her big black cloak on.
"'You had better go back, señora,' I said.
"'I am going to the bridge,' she said.
"'But it is growing black as night, señora; you had better go back.'