The King in Yellow
grinned, dusting the chalk from my black cloak.
“You see,” he said, “Truth is an honest thief, she brings you back your
mirror.”
All eyes were turned on me.
“Arrest Truth!” I cried, forgetting it was not a mirror but a purse I
lost, standing with Pierrot, there, where the throng was thickest in
the street.
THE JESTER
“Was she fair?” I asked, but he only chuckled, listening to the bells
jingling on his cap.
“Stabbed,” he tittered. “Think of the long journey, the days of peril,
the dreadful nights! Think how he wandered, for her sake, year after
year, through hostile lands, yearning for kith and kin, yearning for
her!”
“Stabbed,” he tittered, listening to the bells jingling on his cap.
“Was she fair?” I asked, but he only snarled, muttering to the bells
jingling on his cap.
“She kissed him at the gate,” he tittered, “but in the hall his
brother’s welcome touched his heart.”
“Was she fair?” I asked.
“Stabbed,” he chuckled. “Think of the long journey, the days of peril,
the dreadful nights! Think how he wandered, for her sake, year after
year through hostile lands, yearning for kith and kin, yearning for
her!”
“She kissed him at the gate, but in the hall his brother’s welcome
touched his heart.”
“Was she fair?” I asked; but he only snarled, listening to the bells
jingling in his cap.
THE GREEN ROOM
The Clown turned his powdered face to the mirror.
“If to be fair is to be beautiful,” he said, “who can compare with me
in my white mask?”
“Who can compare with him in his white mask?” I asked of Death beside
me.
“Who can compare with me?” said Death, “for I am paler still.”
“You are very beautiful,” sighed the Clown, turning his powdered face
from the mirror.
THE LOVE TEST
“If it is true that you love,” said Love, “then wait no longer. Give
her these jewels which would dishonour her and so dishonour you in
loving one dishonoured. If it is true that you love,” said Love, “then
wait no longer.”
I took the jewels and went to her, but she trod upon them, sobbing:
“Teach me to wait—I love you!”
“Then wait, if it is true,” said Love.
THE STREET OF THE FOUR WINDS
“Ferme tes yeux à demi,
Croise tes bras sur ton sein,
Et de ton cœur endormi
Chasse à jamais tout dessein.”
* * * *
“Je chante la nature,
Les étoiles du soir, les larmes du matin,
Les couchers de soleil à l’horizon lointain,
Le ciel qui parle au cœur d’existence future!”
I
The animal paused on the threshold, interrogative, alert, ready for
flight if necessary. Severn laid down his palette, and held out a hand
of welcome. The cat remained motionless, her yellow eyes fastened upon
Severn.
“Puss,” he said, in his low, pleasant voice, “come in.”
The tip of her thin tail twitched uncertainly.
“Come in,” he said again.
Apparently she found his voice reassuring, for she slowly settled upon
all fours, her eyes still fastened upon him, her tail tucked under her
gaunt flanks.
He rose from his easel smiling. She eyed him quietly, and when he
walked toward her she watched him bend above her without a wince; her
eyes followed his hand until it touched her head. Then she uttered a
ragged mew.
It had long been Severn’s custom to converse with animals, probably
because he lived so much alone; and now he said, “What’s the matter,
puss?”
Her timid eyes sought his.
“I understand,” he said gently, “you shall have it at once.”
Then moving quietly about he busied himself with the duties of a host,
rinsed a saucer, filled it with the rest of the milk from the bottle on
the window-sill, and kneeling down, crumbled a roll into the hollow of
his hand.
The creature rose and crept toward the saucer.
With the handle of a palette-knife he stirred the crumbs and milk
together and stepped back as she thrust her nose into the mess. He
watched her in silence. From time to time the saucer clinked upon the
tiled floor as she reached for a morsel on the rim; and at last the
bread was all gone, and her purple tongue travelled over every unlicked
spot until the saucer shone like polished marble. Then she sat up, and
coolly turning her back to him, began her ablutions.
“Keep it up,” said Severn, much interested, “you need it.”
She flattened one ear, but neither turned nor interrupted her toilet.
As the grime was slowly removed Severn observed that nature had
intended her for a white cat. Her fur had disappeared in patches,
from disease or the chances of war, her tail was bony and her spine
sharp. But what charms she had were becoming apparent under vigorous
licking, and he waited until she had finished before re-opening the
conversation. When at last she closed her eyes and folded her forepaws
under her breast, he began again very gently: “Puss, tell me your
troubles.”
At the sound of his voice she broke into a harsh rumbling which he
recognized as an attempt to purr. He bent over to rub her cheek and
she mewed again, an amiable inquiring little mew, to which he replied,
“Certainly, you are greatly improved, and when you recover your plumage
you will be a gorgeous bird.” Much flattered, she stood up and marched
around and around his legs, pushing her head between them and making
pleased remarks, to which he responded with grave politeness.
“Now, what sent you here,” he said—“here into the Street of the Four
Winds, and up five flights to the very door where you would be welcome?
What was it that prevented your meditated flight when I turned from my
canvas to encounter your yellow eyes? Are you a Latin Quarter cat as I
am a Latin Quarter man? And why do you wear a rose-coloured flowered
garter buckled about your neck?” The cat had climbed into his lap, and
now sat purring as he passed his hand over her thin coat.
“Excuse me,” he continued in lazy soothing tones, harmonizing with
her purring, “if I seem indelicate, but I cannot help musing on this
rose-coloured garter, flowered so quaintly and fastened with a silver
clasp. For the clasp is silver; I can see the mint mark on the edge,
as is prescribed by the law of the French Republic. Now, why is this
garter woven of rose silk and delicately embroidered,—why is this
silken garter with its silver clasp about your famished throat? Am
I indiscreet when I inquire if its owner is your owner? Is she some
aged dame living in memory of youthful vanities, fond, doting on you,
decorating you with her intimate personal attire? The circumference of
the garter would suggest this, for your neck is thin, and the garter
fits you. But then again I notice—I notice most things—that the
garter is capable of being much enlarged. These small silver-rimmed
eyelets, of which I count five, are proof of that. And now I observe
that the fifth eyelet is worn out, as though the tongue of the clasp
were accustomed to lie there. That seems to argue a well-rounded form.”
The cat curled her toes in contentment. The street was very still
outside.
He murmured on: “Why should your mistress decorate you with an article
most necessary to her at all times? Anyway, at most times. How did
she come to slip this bit of silk and silver about your neck? Was it
the caprice of a moment,—when you, before you had lost your pristine
plumpness, marched singing into her bedroom to bid her good-morning? Of
course, and she sat up among the pillows, her coiled hair tumbling to
her shoulders, as you sprang upon the bed purring: ‘Good-day, my lady.’
Oh, it is very easy to understand,” he yawned, resting his head on the
back of the chair. The cat still purred, tightening and relaxing her
padded claws over his knee.
“Shall I tell you all about her, cat? She is very beautiful—your
mistress,” he murmured drowsily, “and her hair is heavy as burnished
gold. I could paint her,—not on canvas—for I should need shades and
tones and hues and dyes more splendid than the iris of a splendid
rainbow. I could only paint her with closed eyes, for in dreams alone
can such colours as I need be found. For her eyes, I must have azure
from skies untroubled by a cloud—the skies of dreamland. For her lips,
roses from the palaces of slumberland, and for her brow, snow-drifts
from mountains which tower in fantastic pinnacles to the moons;—oh,
much higher than our moon here,—the crystal moons of dreamland. She
is—very—beautiful, your mistress.”
The words died on his lips and his eyelids drooped.
The cat, too, was asleep, her cheek turned up upon her wasted flank,
her paws relaxed and limp.
II
“It is fortunate,” said Severn, sitting up and stretching, “that we
have tided over the dinner hour, for I have nothing to offer you for
supper but what may be purchased with one silver franc.”
The cat on his knee rose, arched her back, yawned, and looked up at him.
“What shall it be? A roast chicken with salad? No? Possibly you prefer
beef? Of course,—and I shall try an egg and some white bread. Now for
the wines. Milk for you? Good. I shall take a little water, fresh from
the wood,” with a motion toward the bucket in the sink.
He put on his hat and left the room. The cat followed to the door, and
after he had closed it behind him, she settled down, smelling at the
cracks, and cocking one ear at every creak from the crazy old building.
The door below opened and shut. The cat looked serious, for a moment
doubtful, and her ears flattened in nervous expectation. Presently she
rose with a jerk of her tail and started on a noiseless tour of the
studio. She sneezed at a pot of turpentine, hastily retreating to the
table, which she presently mounted, and having satisfied her curiosity
concerning a roll of red modelling wax, returned to the door and sat
down with her eyes on the crack over the threshold. Then she lifted her
voice in a thin plaint.
When Severn returned he looked grave, but the cat, joyous and
demonstrative, marched around him, rubbing her gaunt body against his
legs, driving her head enthusiastically into his hand, and purring
until her voice mounted to a squeal.
He placed a bit of meat, wrapped in brown paper, upon the table, and
with a penknife cut it into shreds. The milk he took from a bottle
which had served for medicine, and poured it into the saucer on the
hearth.
The cat crouched before it, purring and lapping at the same time.
He cooked his egg and ate it with a slice of bread, watching her busy
with the shredded meat, and when he had finished, and had filled and
emptied a cup of water from the bucket in the sink, he sat down, taking
her into his lap, where she at once curled up and began her toilet.
He began to speak again, touching her caressingly at times by way of
emphasis.
“Cat, I have found out where your mistress lives. It is not very far
away;—it is here, under this same leaky roof, but in the north wing
which I had supposed was uninhabited. My janitor tells me this. By
chance, he is almost sober this evening. The butcher on the rue de
Seine, where I bought your meat, knows you, and old Cabane the baker
identified you with needless sarcasm. They tell me hard tales of your
mistress which I shall not believe. They say she is idle and vain and
pleasure-loving; they say she is harebrained and reckless. The little
sculptor on the ground floor, who was buying rolls from old Cabane,
spoke to me to-night for the first time, although we have always bowed
to each other. He said she was very good and very beautiful. He has
only seen her once, and does not know her name. I thanked him;—I don’t
know why I thanked him so warmly. Cabane said, ‘Into this cursed Street