The Project Gutenberg EBook of Sylvia & Michael, by Compton Mackenzie This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license Title: Sylvia & Michael The later adventures of Sylvia Scarlett Author: Compton Mackenzie Release Date: May 9, 2012 [EBook #39660] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SYLVIA & MICHAEL *** Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images available at The Internet Archive) images of the book's cover SYLVIA & MICHAEL BY THE SAME AUTHOR SYLVIA & MICHAEL PLASHERS MEAD SYLVIA SCARLETT ———— Harper & Brothers Publishers AUTHOR'S NOTE I need scarcely say that in 1915 there was no Passport Office in Bucharest, and that so far as I am aware there are no portraits in this book. If any of the characters achieve the effect of portraits, it may be due to their wearing uniform, which makes every one look alike. Further I should like to emphasise that this volume is really Book Three of Sylvia Scarlett, and is only published separately on account of the difficulties of production. SYLVIA & MICHAEL THE LATER ADVENTURES OF SYLVIA SCARLETT By COMPTON MACKENZIE Author of "SYLVIA SCARLETT" "PLASHERS MEAD" ETC. colophon HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS NEW YORK AND LONDON SYLVIA & MICHAEL Copyright, 1919, by Harper & Brothers Printed in the United States of America Published July, 1919 TO THE MEMORY OF MY FATHER AND IN DEEP AFFECTION TO MY MOTHER SYLVIA & B MICHAEL Sylvia & Michael CHAPTER I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII CHAPTER I Y the time that Sylvia reached Paris she no longer blamed anybody but herself for what had happened. Everything had come about through her own greed in trying simultaneously to snatch from life artistic success and domestic bliss: she had never made a serious attempt to choose between them, and now she had lost both; for she could not expect to run away like this and succeed elsewhere to the same degree or even in the same way as in London. No doubt all her friends would deplore the step she had taken and think it madness to ruin her career; but after so much advertisement of her marriage, after the way she had revealed her most intimate thoughts to Olive, after the confidence she had shown in Arthur's devotion, there was nothing else but to run away. Yet now that the engagement had been definitely broken she felt no bitterness toward Arthur: the surprising factor was that he should have waited so long. Moreover, behind all her outraged pride, behind her regret for losing so much, deep in her mind burned a flickering intuition that she had really lost very little, and that out of this new adventure would spring a new self worthier to demand success, and more finely tempered to withstand life's onset. Even when she was sitting beneath the mulberry-tree in the first turmoil of the shock, she had felt a faint gladness that she was not going to live in Mulberry Cottage with Arthur. Already on this May morning of Paris with the chestnuts in their flowery prime she could fling behind her all the sneers and all the pity for her jilting; and though she had scarcely any money she was almost glad of her poverty, glad to be plunged once again into the vortex of existence with all the strength and all the buoyancy that time had given her. She thought of the months after she left Philip. This was a different Sylvia now, and not even yet come to what Sylvia might be. It was splendid to hear already the noise of waters round her, from which she should emerge stronger and more buoyant than she had ever imagined herself before. Immediately upon her arrival—for with the little money she had there was not a day to be lost—Sylvia went in this mood to visit her old agent; like all parasites, he seemed to know in advance that there was little blood to suck. She told him briefly what she had been doing, let him suppose that there was a man in the case, and asked what work he could find for her. The agent shook his head; without money it was difficult, nay, impossible to attempt in Paris anything like she had been doing in London. No doubt she had made a great success, but a success in London was no guaranty of a success in Paris, indeed rather the contrary. It was a pity she had not listened to him when she had the money to spend on a proper réclame. "Bref, il n'y a rien à faire, chère madame." There was surely the chance of an engagement for cabaret work? The agent looked at Sylvia; and she could have struck him for the way he was so evidently pondering her age and measuring it against her looks. In the end he decided that she was still attractive enough and he examined his books. She still sang, of course, and no doubt still enjoyed dancing? Well, they wanted French girls in Petersburg at the Trocadero cabaret. It would work out at four hundred and fifty francs a month, to which, of course, the commission on champagne would add considerably. She would have to remain on duty till 3 A.M., and the management reserved the right to dispense with her services if she was not a success. "Comme artiste ou comme grue?" Sylvia demanded. The agent laughed and shrugged his shoulders; he was afraid that there was nothing else remotely suitable. Sylvia signed the contract, and so little money was left in her purse that from Paris to Petersburg she traveled third class, an unpleasant experience. The change from the Pierian Hall to the place where she was now singing could scarcely have been greater. For an audience individual, quiet, attentive, was substituted a noisy gathering of people that was not an audience at all. It had been difficult enough in old days to sing to parties drinking round a number of tables; but here to the noise of drinking was added the noise of eating, the clatter of plates, and the shouting of waiters. In a way Sylvia was glad, because she did not want anybody to listen to the song she was singing; she preferred to come on the small stage as impersonally as an instrument in the music of the restaurant orchestra, and retire to give way to another singer without the least attention being paid either to her exit or her successor's entrance. Sylvia wished that the rest of the evening could have passed away as impersonally; she found it terribly hard to endure again, after so long, the sensation of being for sale, of being pulled into a seat beside drunken officers, of being ogled by elderly German Jews, of being treated as an equal by waiters, of feeling upon her the eyes of the manager as he reckoned her net value in champagne. There were moments when she despaired of her ability to hold out and when she was on the verge of cabling to England for money to come home. But pride kept her back and sustained her; luckily she had to do nothing at present except talk in order to induce her patrons to buy champagne by the dozen. She knew that it could not last, that sooner or later she should acquire the general reputation of being no good for anything except to sit and chatter at a table and make a man spend money on wine for nothing, and that then she should have to go because nobody would invite her to his table. She was grateful that it was Russia and not America or France or England, where a quicker return for money spent would have been expected. When Sylvia first arrived at Petersburg, she had stayed in solitary misery at a small German hotel that lacked even the merit of being clean. After she had been performing a week, one of her fellow-artistes recommended her to a pension kept by an Englishwoman, the widow of a chancelier at the French Embassy; it was a long way from the cabaret, beyond the racecourse, but there was the tram, and one would always find somebody to pay for the droshky home. Sylvia visited the pension, which was a tumble-down house in a very large garden of the rankest vegetation, a queer embrangled place; but the first impression of the guests appealed to her, and she moved into it the same afternoon. Mère Gontran, the owner, was one of those expatriated women that lose their own nationality and acquire instead a new nationality compounded of their own, their husband's, and the country they inhabit. She was about fifty-five years old, nearly six feet in height, excessively lean, with a neck like a turkey's, a weather-beaten veinous complexion, very square shoulders, and thin, colorless hair done up in a kind of starfish at the back. Her eyes were very bright, of an intense blue, and she had a habit of wearing odd stockings, which, like her hair, were always coming down, chiefly because she used her garters to keep her sleeves above her elbows. One of the twin passions of her life was animals; but she also had three sons, loutish young men who ate or smoked cigarettes all day and could hardly speak a word of English or French. Their mother, on the contrary, though she had come to Petersburg as a governess thirty-five years ago, and had lived there ever since, could speak hardly any Russian and only very bad French. Mère Gontran's animals were really more accomplished linguists than she, if it was true, as she asserted, that a collie she possessed could say "good- by," "adieu," and "proschai." Sylvia suggested that the Russian salute had really been a sneeze, but Mère Gontran defied her to explain away the English or the French, and was angry at any doubts being cast on what she had heard with her own ears. In addition to Samuel, the talking collie, there was a senile bulldog called James, who on a pillow of his own slept beside Mère Gontran in her bed, which was in a hut two hundred yards away from the house, at the other end of the garden. High up round the walls were hung boxes for nine cats; into these they ascended by ladders, and none of them ever attempted to sleep anywhere but in his own box, an example to the rest of the pension. There were numerous other animals about the place, the most conspicuous of which were a pony and a goat that spent most of their time in the kitchen with the only servant, a stunted Tartar who went muttering about the house and slept in a cupboard under the stairs. Mère Gontran's other great passion was spiritualism; but Sylvia did not have much opportunity to test her truthfulness in this direction, because at first she was more interested in the guests at the pension, accepting Mère Gontran as one accepts a queer fact for future investigation at the right moment. The outstanding boarder in Sylvia's eyes was a French aviator called Carrier, who had come to give lessons and exhibitions of his skill in Petersburg. He was a great bluff creature with a loud voice and what at first seemed a boastful manner, until one realized that his brag was a kind of game which he was playing with fate. Underneath it all there lay a deep melancholy and a sense of always being very near to death; but since he would have considered the least hint of this a disgraceful play of cowardice, he was careful to cover what he might do with what he had done, which was, even allowing for brag, a great deal. It was only when Sylvia took the trouble to make friends with him that he revealed to her his fierce ambition to finish with flying as soon as possible, and with the money he had made to buy a little farm in the country. "Tu sais, la terre vaut mieux que le ciel," he told her. He was superstitious, and boasted loudly of his materialism; venturing upon what was still largely an unknown element, he relied upon mascots, while preserving a profound contempt for God. "I've not ever seen him yet," he used to say, "though I've flown higher than anybody." His chest of drawers was covered with small talismans, some the pledges of fortune given him by ladies, others picked up in significant surroundings or conditions of mind. He wore half a dozen rings, not one of which was worth fifty francs, but all of which were endowed with protective qualities. By the scapulars and medals he carried round his neck he should have been the most pietistic of men, but however sacred their inscriptions, they counted with him as merely more portable guaranties than the hideous little monkeys and mandarins that littered his room. "When I've finished," he told Sylvia, "I shall throw all this away. When I'm digging in the good earth, my mascot will be my spade, nothing else, je t'assure." Sylvia asked him why he had ever taken up flying. "When I was small I adored my bécane; afterward I adored my automobile. On arrive comme ça. Ah, if the fools hadn't invented biplanes, how happy I should be." Then perhaps a few moments later he would find himself in the presence of an audience, and one heard him at his boasting: "Bigre! I am sorry for the man who cannot fly. One has not lived if one has not flown. The clouds! One would say a feather-bed beneath. To-morrow I shall loop the loop at five thousand mètres. One might say that all Petersburg will be regarding me." There were two young acrobatic jugglers staying at the pension, who performed some extremely dangerous acts, but who performed them with such ease that they seemed like nothing, especially as the acrobats themselves were ladylike to a ludicrous degree. "Oh, Bobbie, say, wouldn't it be fine to fly? Would you be terribly frightened? I should. Oh, I should be frightened." "Don't you ever feel s-sick?" Bobbie asked the aviator. For these two young men Carrier reserved his most hair-raising tales, which always ended in Willie's saying to Bobbie: "Oh, Bobbie, I s-s-imply can't listen to any more. So now! Oh, it does make me feel so funny! Doesn't it you, Bobbie?" Then arm in arm, giggling like two girls, they used to trip out of hearing, and Carrier would spit in bewilderment. Once he invited Bobbie to accompany him on a flight, at which Willie screamed, flung his arms round Bobbie's neck and created a scene. Yet that same evening they both balanced themselves with lamps on a high ladder, until the audience actually stopped eating for a moment and held its breath. Sylvia found the long hours of the cabaret very fatiguing; even in old days she had never thought the life anything but the most cruel exaction made by the rich man for his pleasure. She was determined to survive the strain that was being put upon her, but she had moments of depression during which she saw herself going under with the female slaves round her. Her fatigue was increased by having to take the long tram-ride to the cabaret, when the smell of her fellow-passengers was a torture; she could not afford, however, to pay the fare of a droshky twice in one day, and she did not always find somebody to pay for her drive home. The contract with the management stipulated that she should be released from her nightly task at three o'clock; but she was very often kept until five o'clock when the champagne was flowing and when it would have been criminal in the eyes of the management to break up a profitable party. She found that the four hundred and fifty francs a month was not enough to keep her in Petersburg; it had sounded a reasonably large salary in Paris, but it barely paid the board at Mère Gontran's; she was, therefore, dependent for everything above this on the commission of about five francs she received on each bottle of champagne opened under her patronage. Fortunately it seemed to give pleasure to the wild frequenters of this cabaret when a bottle was knocked over on the floor; yet with every device it was not always possible to escape drinking too much. One day at the beginning of July, Sylvia discussed the future with Carrier, and he advised her to surrender and return to England; he even offered to lend her the money for the fare. It was a hot day, and she had a bad headache; she called it a headache, but it was less local than that: her whole body ached beneath a weight of despair. Sylvia had taken Carrier into her confidence about her broken marriage and explained why it was impossible to return to England yet awhile; he contested all her arguments, and in the mood that she was in she gave way to him. They spoke in French, and arguments always seemed more incontestable in a language that refused to allow anything in the nature of a vague explanation; besides, her own body was responding against her will to the logic of surrender. "Pride is all very well," said Carrier. "I am proud of being the greatest aviator of the moment, but if I fall and smash myself to pulp, what becomes of my pride? It's impossible for you to lead the life you are leading now without debasing yourself, and then where will your pride be? Listen to me. You have been at the cabaret very little over a month, and already it is telling upon you. It is very good that you are able even for so long to keep men at a distance, but are you keeping them at a distance? For me it is the same thing logically if you drink with men or—" He shrugged his shoulders. "You sell your freedom in either case. N'est pas que j'ai raison, ma petite Sylvie? For me it would be a greater pride to return to England and walk with my head in the air and laugh at the world. Besides, you have a je ne sais quoi that will prevent the world from laughing, but if you continue you will have nothing. When I fall and smash myself to pulp, I sha'n't care about the world's laughter. Nor will you." Indeed he was right, Sylvia thought. That first impulse of defiance seemed already like a piece of petulance, the gesture of a spoiled child. "And you will let me, as a good copain, lend you the money for your fare back?" "No," Sylvia said. "I think I can just manage to earn it by going once more to-night to the cabaret. I've arranged to meet some count with an unpronounceable name, who will probably open at least twenty-four bottles. I get my week's salary to-night also. I shall have, with what I have saved, enough to travel back as I came, third class. It has been a thoroughly third-class adventure, mon vieux. A thousand thanks for your kindness, but I must pay my pride the little solace of earning enough to get me home again." Carrier shrugged his shoulders. "It must be as you feel. That I understand. But it gives me much pleasure that you are going to be wise. I wish you de la veine to-night." He pressed upon her a mascot to charm fortune into attendance; it was a little red devil with his tongue sticking out. Sylvia went down to the cabaret that evening with the firm intention of its being the last occasion; her headache had grown worse all the afternoon and the gloom upon her spirit was deepening. What a fool she had been to run away with so much assurance of having the courage to endure this life, what a fool she had been! For the first time the thought of suicide presented itself to her as a practical solution of everything. In her present state she could perceive not one valid argument against it. Who had attacked existence with less caution than she, and who had deserved more from it in consequence? Had she once flinched? Had she once taken the easier path? Yes, there had been Arthur; that was the first time she had given way to indecision, and how swiftly the punishment had followed. Was it really worth while to seek now to repair that mistake? Was anything worth while? Except to go suddenly out of it all, passing as abruptly from life to death as she had passed from one society to another, one tour to another, one country to another. She would abide by to-night's decision; if fortune put it into the head of the count with the unpronounceable name to buy enough bottles of champagne to make up what was still wanting to her fare, she would return to England, devote herself to her work, turn again to books, watch over her godchildren, and live at Mulberry Cottage. If, on the other hand, the fare should not be made up on this night, why, then she should kill herself. To-night should be a night of hell. How her body was burning; how vile the people smelled in this tram; how wearisome was this garish sunset. She took from her velvet bag the red devil that Carrier had given her; in this feverish atmosphere it had a certain fitness, a portentousness even; one could almost believe it really was a tribute to fate. The cabaret was crowded that evening; never before had there been such a hurly-burly of greed and thirst. Sylvia, by good luck, was feeling thirsty; for the dust from the tram had parched her mouth, and her tongue was like cork; so much the better, because if she was going to win that champagne she must be able herself to drink. The tintamarre of plates, knives, and forks; the chickerchack as of multitudinous apes; the blare and glare would have prevented the loudest soprano in the world from sounding more than the squeak of a slate-pencil; and Sylvia sang with gestures alone, forming with her lips mute words. "I'm paid for my body, not for my voice; so let my body play the antic," she muttered, angrily. When her turn was over, Sylvia came down and joined the two young Russians, who were waiting for her with another girl at a table on which already the bottles of champagne were standing like giant pawns. "Ils ont la cuite," the girl whispered to Sylvia. "Alors, il faut briffer, chérie; autrement ils seront trop soûlés." This seemed good advice, because if their hosts were too drunk too soon they might get tired of the entertainment; and Sylvia proposed an adjournment to eat, though she had little enough appetite. As a matter of fact, the men wanted to drink vodka when supper was proposed, and not merely to drink it themselves, but to make Sylvia and the other girl keep them company glass by glass. In Sylvia's condition to drink vodka would have been to drink liquid fire, and she managed to plead thirst with such effect that the count benevolently ordered twenty-four bottles of champagne to be brought immediately for her to quench it. The other girl was full of admiration for Sylvia's strategy; if the worst came to the worst, they would have earned seventy-five francs each and could boast of a successful evening. Sylvia, however, wanted a hundred and fifty francs for herself, and invoking the little red devil she showed a way of breaking a bottle in half by filling it with hot water, saturating a string in methylated spirits, tying the string round the bottle, setting light to it, and afterward tapping the bottle gently with a knife until it broke. The count was delighted with this trick, but thought, as Sylvia hoped he would think, that the trick would be much better if practised on an unopened bottle of champagne. In this way twenty-six bottles were broken in childish rage by the count, because the trick only worked with the help of hot water. He was by now in a state of drunken obstinacy, and, being determined to show the superiority of the human mind over matter, he ordered twenty-four more bottles of champagne, as a Roman emperor might have ordered two dozen slaves to test an empirical method of execution. By a fluke he managed to succeed with the twenty-fourth bottle, and having by now gathered round him an audience, he challenged the onlookers to repeat the trick. Other women were anxious for their hosts to excel, particularly with such profit to themselves; soon at every table in the cabaret champagne-bottles were being cracked like eggs. The count was afraid that there might not be enough wine left to carry them through the evening, and ordered another two dozen bottles to be held in reserve for his table. Sylvia, though she was feeling horribly ill by now, was nevertheless at peace, for she had earned her fare back to England. Unluckily, she could not quit the table and go home, because, unless she waited until three, she would not be paid her commission on the champagne. She felt herself receding from the noise of breaking glass all round her, and thought she was going to faint, but with an effort she gathered the noise round her again and tried to believe that the room still existed. She seemed to be catching hold of the great chandelier that hung from the middle of the ceiling, and fancied that it was only her will and courage to maintain her hold that was keeping the cabaret and everybody in it from destruction. "Tu es malade, chérie?" the other girl was asking. "Rien, rien," she was whispering. "Le chaleur." "Oui, il fait très-chaud." The laughter and shouts of triumph rose higher; the noise of breaking glass was like the waves upon a beach of shingle. "Pourquoi il te regarde?" she found herself asking. "Personne ne me regarde, chérie," the other girl replied. But somebody was looking at her, somebody seated in one of the boxes for private supper-parties that were fixed all round the hall, somebody tall with short fair hair sticking up like a brush, somebody in uniform. He was beckoning to her now and inviting her to join him in the box. He had slanting eyes, cruel eyes that glittered and glittered. "Il te regarde. Il te regarde," said Sylvia, hopelessly. "Il te veut. Oh, mon Dieu, il te veut! Quoi faire? Il n'y a rien à faire. Il n'y a rien à faire. Il t'aura. Tu seras perdue. Perdue!" she moaned. "Dis, Sylvie, dis, qu'est-ce que tu as? Tu me fais peur. Tes yeux sont comme les yeux d'une folle. Est-ce que tu as pris de l'ethère ce soir?" It seemed to Sylvia that her companion was being dragged to damnation before her eyes, and she implored her to flee while there was still time. Somebody stood up on a table and shouted at the top of his voice: "Il n'y a plus de champagne!" The count was much excited by this and demanded immediately how they were going to spend the money they had brought with them. If there was no more champagne, they should have to drink vodka, but first they must play skittles with the empty bottles that were not already broken to pieces. He picked a circular cheese from the table and bowled it across the room. "Encore du fromage! Encore du fromage!" everybody was shouting, and soon everywhere crimson cheeses were rolling along the floor. "The cheeses belong to me," the count cried. "Nobody else is to order cheeses. Garçon! garçon! bring me all the cheeses you have. The cheeses are mine. Mine! Mine!" His voice rose to a scream. "Mon Dieu! ils vont se battre à cause du fromage" cried the other girl, holding her hand to her eyes and cowering in her chair. By this time the management thought it would soon lose what it had made that evening and ordered the cabaret to be closed. The girls, who were anxious to escape, ran to be paid for their champagne. Sylvia swayed and nearly fell in the rush; her companion kept her head and exacted from the management every copeck. Then she dragged Sylvia with her to a droshky, put her in, and said good night. "Tu ne viens pas avec moi?" Sylvia cried. "Non, non, il faut que j'aille avec lui." "Avec l'homme qui te regardait du loge?" "Non, non, avec mon ami." She gave the address of the pension to the driver and vanished in the confusion. Sylvia fancied that this girl was lost forever, and wept to herself all the way home, but without shedding a single tear; her body was like fire. There was nobody about in the pension when she arrived back; she dragged herself up to her room and lay down on the bed fully dressed. It seemed that all reality was collapsing fast, and she clutched the notes stuffed into her corsage as the only solid fact left to her, the only link between herself and home. Once or twice she vaguely wondered if she were really ill, but her mental state was so much worse than the physical pain that she struggled feebly to quieten her nerves and kept on trying to assure herself that her own unnatural excitement was nothing except the result of the unnatural excitement at the cabaret. She found herself wondering if she were going mad, and trying to piece together the links of the chain that would lead her to the explanation of this madness. "What could have made me go mad suddenly like this?" she kept moaning. It seemed that if she could only discover the cause of her madness she should be able to cure it. All her attention was soon taken up in watching little round red devils that kept rising out of the floor beside the bed, little round red devils that swelled and ripened like tomatoes, burst, and vanished. Her faculties concentrated upon discovering a reasonable explanation for such a queer occurrence; many explanations presented themselves, hovered upon the outskirts of her brain, and escaped before they could be stated. There was no doubt in Sylvia's mind that a reasonable explanation existed, and it was tantalizing never to be able to catch it, because it was quite certain that such an explanation would have been very interesting; at any rate, it was a relief to know that there was an explanation and that these devils were not figments of the imagination. As soon as she had settled that they had an objective existence, it became rather amusing to watch them; there was a new variety now that floated about the floor like bubbles before they burst. Suddenly Sylvia sat up on the bed and listened; the stairs were creaking under the footsteps of some heavy person who was ascending. It must be Carrier. She should go out and call to him; she should like him to see those devils. She went out into the passage dove-gray with the dawn, and called. Ah, it was not Carrier; it was that man who had stared from the box at her friend! She closed the door hurriedly and bolted it; every sensation of being ill had departed from her; she could feel nothing but an unspeakable fear. She put her hand to her forehead; it was dripping wet, and she shivered. The devils were nowhere to be seen; dawn was creeping about the room in a gray mist. The door opened, and the bolt fell with a clatter upon the floor; she shrank back upon the bed, burying her face in the pillow. The intruder clanked up and down the room with his sword, but never spoke a word; at last, Sylvia, finding that it was impossible to shut him out by closing her eyes and ears to his presence, sat up and asked him in French what he wanted and why he had broken into her room like this. All her unnatural mental excitement had died away before this drunken giant who was staring at her from glazed eyes and leaning unsteadily with both hands upon his sword; she felt nothing but an intense physical weariness and a savage desire to sleep. "Why didn't you wait for me at the cabaret?" the giant demanded, in a thick voice. Sylvia estimated the distance between herself and the door, and wondered if her aching legs would carry her there quickly enough to escape those huge freckled hands that were silky with golden hairs. Her heart was beating so loudly that she was afraid he would hear it and be angry. "You didn't ask me to wait," she said. "It was my friend whom you wanted. She's still there. You've made a mistake. Why don't you go back and look for her?" He banged his sword upon the floor angrily. "A trick! A trick to get rid of me," he muttered. Then he unbuckled his sword, flung it against a chair, and began to unbutton his tunic. "But you can't stay here," Sylvia cried. "Don't you understand that you've made a mistake? You don't want me. Go away from here." "Money?" the giant muttered. "Take it." He put his hand in his pocket, pulled out a bundle of notes, and threw them on the bed, after which he took off his tunic. "You're drunk or mad," Sylvia cried, now more exasperated than frightened. "Go out of my room before I wake up the house." The giant paid not the least attention, and, seating himself on a chair, bent over to unlace his boots. Sylvia again tried to muster enough strength to rise, but her limbs were growing weaker every moment. "And if you're not the girl I wanted," said the giant, looking up from his boots, "you're a girl, aren't you? I've paid you, haven't I? A splendid state the world's coming to when a cocotte takes it into her head to argue with a Russian officer who pays her the honor of his attentions. The world's turning upside down. The people must have a lesson. Come, get off that bed and help me undo these boots." "Do you know that I'm English?" Sylvia said. "You'll find that even Russian officers cannot insult Englishwomen." "A cocotte has no nationality," the giant contradicted, solemnly. "She is common property. Come, if you had wished to talk, you should have joined my table earlier in the evening. One does not wish to talk when one is sleepy." The English acrobats slept next door to Sylvia, and she hammered on the partition. "Are you killing bugs?" the giant asked. "You need not bother. They never disturb me." Sylvia went on hammering; her arms were getting weaker, and unless help came soon she should faint. There was a tap on the door. "Come in," she cried. "Come in at once—at once!" Willie entered in purple silk pajamas, rubbing his eyes. "Whatever is it, Sylvia?" "Take this drunken brute out of my room." "Bobbie! Bobbie!" he called. "Come here, Bobbie! Bobbie! Will you come? You are mean. Oh, there's such a nasty man in Sylvia's room! Oh, he's something dreadful to look at!" The drunken officer stared at Willie in amazement, trying to make up his mind if he were an alcoholic vision; his judgment was still further shaken by the appearance of Bobbie in pajamas of emerald-green silk. "Oh, Willie, he's got a sword!" said Bobbie. "Oh, doesn't he look fierce? Oh, he does look fierce! Most alarming I'm sure." The intruder staggered to his feet. "Foutez-moi le camp," he bellowed, making a grab for his sword. "For Heaven's sake get rid of the brute," Sylvia moaned. "I'm too weak to move." The two young men pirouetted into the middle of the room, as they were wont to pirouette upon the stage, with arms stretched out in a curve from the shoulder and fingers raised mincingly above an imaginary teacup held between the first finger and thumb. When they reached the giant they stopped short to sustain the preliminary pose of a female acrobat; then turning round, they ran back a few steps, turned round again, and with a scream flung themselves upon their adversary; he went down with a crash, and they danced upon his prostrate form like two butterflies over a cabbage. The noise had wakened the other inhabitants of the pension, who came crowding into Sylvia's room; with the rest was Carrier and they managed to extract from her a vague account of what had happened. The aviator, in a rage, demanded an explanation of his conduct from the officer, who called him a maquereau. Carrier was strong; with help from the acrobats he had pushed the officer half-way through the window when Mère Gontran, who, notwithstanding her bedroom being two hundred yards away from the pension, had an uncanny faculty for divining when anything had gone wrong, appeared on the scene. Thirty-five years in Russia had made her very fearful of offending the military, and she implored Carrier and the acrobats to think what they were doing: in her red dressing-gown she looked like an insane cardinal. "They'll confiscate my property. They'll send me to Siberia. Treat his Excellency more gently, I beg. Sylvia, tell them to stop. Sylvia, he's going—he's going—he's gone!" He was gone indeed, head first into a clump of lilacs underneath the window, whither his tunic and sword followed him. The adventure with the drunken officer had exhausted the last forces of Sylvia; she lay back on the bed in a semi-trance, soothed by the unending bibble-babble all round. She was faintly aware of somebody's taking her hand and feeling her pulse, of somebody's saying that her eyes were like a dead woman's, of somebody's throwing a coverlet over her. Then the bibble-babble became much louder; there was a sound of crackling and a smell of smoke, and she heard shouts of "Fire!" "Fire!" "He has set fire to the outhouse!" There was a noise of splashing water, a rushing sound of water, a roar as of a thousand torrents in her head; the people in the room became animated surfaces, cardboard figures without substance and without reality; the devils began once more to sprout from the floor; she felt that she was dying, and in the throes of dissolution she struggled to explain that she must travel back to England, that she must not be buried in Russia. It seemed to her in a new access of semi-consciousness that Carrier and the two acrobats were kneeling by her bed and trying to comfort her, that they were patting her hands kindly and gently. She tried to warn them that they would blister themselves if they touched her, but her tongue seemed to have separated itself from her body. She tried to tell them that her tongue was already dead, and the effort to explain racked her whole body. Then, suddenly, dark and gigantic figures came marching into the room: they must be demons, and it was true about hell. She tried to scream her belief in immortality and to beg a merciful God to show mercy and save her from the Fiend. The somber forms drew near her bed. From an unimaginably distant past she saw framed in fire the picture of The Impenitent Sinner's Deathbed that used to hang in the kitchen at Lille; and again from the past came suddenly back the text of a sermon preached by Dorward at Green Lanes—Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow. It seemed to her that if only she could explain to God that her name was really Snow and that Scarlett was only the name assumed for her by her father, all might even now be well. The somber forms had seized her, and she beat against them with unavailing hands; they snatched her from the bed and wrapped her round and round with something that stifled her cries; with her last breath she tried to shriek a warning to Carrier of the existence of hell, to beg him to put away his little red devils lest he, when he should ultimately fall from the sky, should fall as deep as hell. Sylvia came out of her delirium to find herself in the ward of a hospital kept by French nuns; she asked what had been the matter with her, and, smiling compassionately, they said it was a bad fever. She lay for a fortnight in a state of utter lassitude, watching the nuns going about their work as she would have watched birds in the cool deeps of a forest. The lassitude was not unpleasant; it was a fatigue so intense that her spirit seemed able to leave her tired body and float about among the shadows of this long room. She knew that there were other patients in the ward, but she had no inclination to know who they were or what they looked like; she had no desire to communicate with the outside world, nor any anxiety about the future. She could not imagine that she should ever wish to do anything except lie here watching the nuns at their work like birds in the cool deeps of a forest. When the doctor visited her and spoke cheerfully, she wondered vaguely how he managed to keep his very long black beard so frizzy, but she was not sufficiently interested to ask him. To his questions about her bodily welfare she let her tired body answer automatically, and often, when the doctor was bending over to listen to her heart or lungs, her spirit would have mounted up to float upon the shadows of sunlight rippling over the ceiling, that he and her body might commune without disturbing herself. At last there came a morning when the body grew impatient at being left behind and when it trembled with a faint desire to follow the spirit. Sylvia raised herself up on her elbow and asked a nun to bring her a looking-glass. "But all my hair has been cut!" she exclaimed. She looked at her eyes: there was not much life in them, yet they were larger than she had ever seen them, and she liked them better than before, because they were now very kind eyes: this new Sylvia appealed to her. She put the glass down and asked if she had been very ill. "Very ill indeed," said the nun. Sylvia longed to tell the nun that she must not believe all she had said when she was delirious: and then she wondered what she had said. "Was I very violent in my delirium?" she asked. The nun smiled. "I thought I was in hell," said Sylvia, seriously. "When are my friends coming to see me?" The nun looked grave. "Your friends have all gone away," she said at last. "They used to come every day to inquire after you, but they went away when war was declared." "War?" Sylvia repeated. "Did you say war?" The nun nodded. "War?" she went on. "This isn't part of my delirium? You're not teasing me? War between whom?" "Russia, France, and England are at war with Germany and Austria." "Then Carrier has left Petersburg?" "Hush," said the nun. "It's no longer Petersburg. It's Petrograd now." "But I don't understand. Do you mean to tell me that everybody has changed his name? I've changed my name back to my real name. My name is Sylvia Snow now. I changed it when I was delirious, but I shall always be Sylvia Snow. I've been thinking about it all these days while I've been lying so quiet. Did Carrier leave any message for me? He was the aviator, you know." "He has gone back to fight for France," the nun said, crossing herself. "He was very sorry about your being so ill. You must pray for him." "Yes, I will pray for him," Sylvia said. "And there is nobody left? Those two funny little English acrobats with fair curly hair. Have they gone?" "They've gone, too," said the nun. "They came every day to inquire for you, and they brought you flowers, which were put beside your bed, but you were unconscious." "I think I smelled a sweetness in the air sometimes," Sylvia said. "They were always put outside the window at night," the nun explained. The faintest flicker of an inclination to be amused at the nun's point of view about flowers came over Sylvia; but it scarcely endured for an instant, because it was so obviously the right point of view in this hospital, where even flowers, not to seem out of place, must acquire orderly habits. The nun asked her if she wanted anything and passed on down the ward when she shook her head. Sylvia lay back to consider her situation and to pick up the threads of normal existence, which seemed so inextricably tangled at present that she felt like a princess in a fairy tale who had been set an impossible task by an envious witch. In the first place, putting on one side all the extravagance of delirium, Sylvia was conscious of a change in her personality so profound and so violent, that now with the return of reason and with the impulse to renewed activity, she was convinced of her rightness in deciding to go back to her real name of Sylvia Snow. The anxiety that she had experienced during her delirium to make the change positively remained from that condition as something of value that bore no relation to the grosser terrors of hell she had experienced. The sense of regeneration that she was feeling at this moment could not entirely be explained by her mind's reaction to the peace of the hospital, in the absence of pain, and to her bodily well-being. She was able to set in its proportion each of these factors, and when she had done so there still remained this emotion that was indefinable unless she accepted for it the definition of regeneration. "The fact is I've eaten rose leaves and I'm no longer a golden ass," she murmured. "But what I want to arrive at is when exactly I was turned into an ass and when I ate the rose leaves." For a time her mind, unused since her fever to concentrated thinking, wandered off into the tale of Apuleius. She wished vaguely that she had the volume so inscribed by Michael Fane with her in Petersburg, but she had left it behind at Mulberry Cottage. It was some time before she brought herself back to the realization that the details of the Roman story had not the least bearing upon her meditation, and that the symbolism of the enchanted transformation and the recovery of human shape by eating rose leaves had been an essentially modern and romantic gloss upon the old author. This gloss, however, had served extraordinarily well to symbolize her state of mind before she had been ill, and she was not going to abandon it now. "I must have had an experience once that fitted in with the idea, or it would not recur to me like this with such an imputation of significance." Sylvia thought hard for a while; the nun on day duty was pecking away at a medicine-bottle, and the busy little noise competed with her thoughts, so that she was determined before the nun could achieve her purpose with the medicine-bottle to discover when she became a golden ass. Suddenly the answer flashed across her mind; at the same moment the nun triumphed over her bottle and the ward was absolutely still again. "I became a golden ass when I married Philip and I ate the rose leaves when Arthur refused to marry me." This solution of the problem, though she knew that it was not radically more satisfying than the defeat of a toy puzzle, was nevertheless wonderfully comforting, so comforting that she fell asleep and woke up late in the afternoon, refreshingly alert and eager to resume her unraveling of the tangled skein. "I became a golden ass when I married Philip," she repeated to herself. For a while she tried to reconstruct the motives that fourteen years ago had induced her toward that step. If she had really begun her life all over again, it should be easy to do this. But the more she pondered herself at the age of seventeen the more impossibly remote that Sylvia seemed. Certain results, however, could even at this distance of time be ascribed to that unfortunate marriage: among others the three months after she left Philip. When Sylvia came to survey all her life since, she saw how those three months had lurked at the back of everything, how really they had spoiled everything. "Have I fallen a prey to remorse?" she asked herself. "Must I forever be haunted by the memory of what was, after all, a necessary incident to my assumption of assishness? Did I not pay for them that day at Mulberry Cottage when I could not be myself to Michael, but could only bray at him the unrealities of my outward shape?" Lying here in the cool hospital, Sylvia began to conjure against her will the incidents of those three fatal months, and so weak was she still from the typhus that she could not shake off their obsession. Her mind clutched at other memories; but no sooner did she think that she was safely wrapped up in their protecting fragrance than like Furies those three months drove her mind forth from its sanctuary and scourged it with cruel images. "This is the sort of madness that makes a woman kill her seducer," said Sylvia, "this insurgent rage at feeling that the men who crossed my path during those three months still live without remorse for what they did." Gradually, however, her rage died down before the pleadings of reasonableness; she recalled that somewhere she had read how the human body changes entirely every seven years: this reflection consoled her, and though she admitted that it was a trivial and superficial consolation, since remorse was conceived with the spirit rather than with the body, nevertheless the thought that not one corpuscle of her present blood existed fourteen years ago restored her sense of proportion and enabled her to shake off the obsession of those three months, at any rate so far as to allow her to proceed with her contemplation of the new Sylvia lying here in this hospital. "Then of course there was Lily," she said to herself. "How can I possibly excuse my treatment of Lily, or not so much my treatment of her as my attitude toward her? I suppose all this introspection is morbid, but having been brought up sharp like this and having been planked down on this bed of interminable sickness, who wouldn't be morbid? It's better to have it out with myself now, lest when I emerge from here—for incredible as it seems just at present I certainly shall emerge one fine morning—I start being introspective instead of getting down to the hard facts of earning a living and finding my way back to England. Lily!" she went on. "I believe really when I look back at it that I took a cruel delight in watching Lily's fading. It seemed jolly and cynical to predestine her to maculation, to regard her as a flower, an almost inanimate thing that could only be displayed by somebody else and was incapable of developing herself. Yet in the end she did develop herself. I was very ill then; but when I was in the clinic at Rio I had none of the sensations that I have now. What sensations did I have, then? Mostly, I believe, they were worries about Lily because she did not come to see me. Strange that something so essentially insignificant as Lily could have created such a catastrophe for Michael, and that I, when she went her own way, let her drop as easily as a piece of paper from a carriage. The fact was that, having smirched myself and survived the smirching, I was unable to fret myself very much over Lily's smirching. And yet I did fret myself in a queer, irrational way. But what use to continue? I behaved badly to Lily, and I can't excuse my attitude toward her by saying that I behaved badly to myself also." The longer Sylvia went on with the reconstruction of the past the more deeply did she feel that she was to blame for everything in it. "I'm so sorry, Sister; I was talking to myself. I think I must really be very much better to-day." The nun hastened to her bedside and asked her what she wanted. "And yet I had the impudence to resent Arthur's treatment of me," she cried. The nun shook her forefinger at Sylvia and retired again to her table at the end of the ward. "Why, I deserved a m...