Fantazius Mallare Part 9

"It is curious that of all the Mallares he alone is speechless. The others keep up their incessant babbling and screaming--true citizens of Bedlam. But this dumb one who attached himself to me in the snow, even his lips have stopped moving now, except to form my name slowly as he blubbers on my shoulder.

"I am kind to him and forgiving. I smile. I even coax him to speak, to move his lips once more. In the snow when he followed me home I was able to detect words his silence spoke.

"'Blood on your hands,' he repeated. 'Think, think, Mallare.'

"I humored him and looked at my hands. They were clean. And I answered him soothingly.

"'You are an interesting quirk,' I said. 'My senses that fancy they have killed a woman have given birth to an illusion of guilt. And you are that illusion. My madness dresses itself in logic like a fishwife hanging rhinestones in her hair.

"'Be calm,' I said, 'Mallare has slain only a phantom, and the murder of illusions is a highly respectable privilege whose exercise is rewarded on earth as well as in heaven.'

"But this creature was not to be diverted from himself.

"'He is another one of them,' I thought. 'He walks and implores and wrings his hand and babbles, 'blood, blood that was real.' And there is nothing to be done with him. Another pathologic symptom asks the hospitality of Mallare, and I must make the proper pretense of graciousness and cordiality.

"'But first I must identify my guest. Take his measure out of the corner of my eye and understand him. Very well, I have been the victim of a hallucination which my senses accepted as real. And which I was able to murder only by pretending I too believed it real. Therefore, having committed this illusory crime, there results this illusory sense of guilt.'

"And thus we walked home, this dumb one and I, his absurd grief confusing me. I will confess. My name on his lips frightened me at first. As it sometimes does now. For he has become more than an illusion of guilt. He is, this sly fellow, a memory, inarticulate and envious.

He envies me because I am clever enough to laugh at my madness. However, I will consider him later, in his various guises, for of all the Mallares, dumb though he is and ludicrous with inane tears, he interests me the most.

"We walked home and I finally fell to belaboring him. A pest, a mendicant, a croaking idiot--I cursed him out roundly and refused him further attention. This is the wisest course sometimes. It is dangerous to humor too carelessly these sprawling Mallares. They are slyly at war with my omnipotence. I can understand the anger of G.o.d. Sacrilege confuses Him. And We are all alike--We G.o.ds. We are forced into an att.i.tude of indifference in order that We may keep Ourselves intact. Thus We look down with Consummate dispa.s.sion upon Our hallucinations--Our worlds. And it is this dispa.s.sion that men worship in Us, unable to understand Our lack of interest and terrified by Our aloofness they prostrate themselves before an infinite mystery.

"Yet, though the theology of G.o.d has become the secret of My unreason, I find Myself dangerously susceptible. It is when I seek to appease My loneliness by raising one of the babbling ones to My side. He enters My black heaven with a pretense of grat.i.tude, fawning before Me and accepting My fellowship with humility. There follows then a moment of insidious diversion. Slowly a confusion fills Me. Yes, even I am open to confusion. It is a pity I have for the babbling one.

"I listen to his complaints. The sad-eyed Mallare staring at intolerable visions. Mallare, the dark chatterer. Or this other one--My friend the weeping lodge brother. Yes, I pity them and soothe them. But I find Myself singularly moved. Their prayers move Me. They begin to whisper that I return with them. I am tempted to follow them, to let them take My hand and lead Me into their strange houses.

"But I smile in time and My smile, fixed and profound, overcomes them.

They prostrate themselves once more before the mystery of My indifference. And I remain the G.o.d of Mallare.

"On this day the dumb one sprawled along home with me, there were many curious things happened. I had walked all night in the snow weary with hunger. Rita, who had driven me into a moment of fury--I had destroyed her for the time. A strange destruction during which I pummelled the air like a veritable madman. But the ruse had served to rid me of the hallucination for the night. Finally, tired with walking and hunger, I fell from a bench in the park.

"When I awoke I recalled at once the grotesque struggle of the night.

And with this dumb, weeping creature d.o.g.g.i.ng my steps, I returned home.

She was still with me. I smiled, although I confess there was despair in my thought. For I had fancied the miserable business of the night had put an end to the hallucination. No, she was still there. She was waiting for me on the couch.

"But my mind had not deceived itself. It was as I had thought. I had planned to rid myself of her by hating this phantom until my hate had darkened it. Then there would be nothing but an imperceptible shadow of her remaining, one with which my senses could no longer seduce themselves.

"And when I came into the room I saw my plot was working. For her eyes no longer gleamed. A radiance had left her.

"'My hate begins to operate upon this chimera,' I thought. I frowned at her and sat down, worn out with the walking of the night.

"'I have undermined the infatuation of this phantom,' I thought. I would have been elate but it occurred to me there was an inconsistency. This dumb one, this sniveling one, persisted. 'And how should he, who was dependent upon her death for his existence, persist in her presence?'

This was a question for Mallare, the indifferent one. This was a query to answer.

"Ah, I will write more about this blubberer, for the answer to him is piquantly involved. It is like a head with too many hats. But not now--I will not write about him now. I will only bear him in mind.

"She watched me from the couch and I became aware of something. I studied her cautiously. Her eyes no longer gleamed with love. There was a radiance absent.

"'Aha,' I thought, 'she hates. Mallare recovers the strings to his Frankenstein. His puppet dances again to his will. See, my senses no longer leap to her. They tremble warily before the hate in her eyes.'

"I watched her as she watched me. And then an incredible thing happened.

She arose from the couch and came slowly toward me and she held a knife in her hand. She came toward me with the knife at her side.

"'Clever,' I thought. 'In fact, a miracle of cleverness. This phantom has gone mad. It is madder than I. It fancies itself able to slay me. It advances upon me with its dagger of mist and it intends to fall upon me.

This mysterious logic that grows of itself like a fungus in darkness, where will it end? Already it towers around me--a monstrous weed rising out of my madness, and I am chilled by its shadow.'

"And I continued to think:

"'I desired to be rid of her. My desire finally overleaped my befuddled senses. And now this desire has become a new soul for my phantom. Yet I planned no details in my desire. I did not will this melodramatic denouement. Then it is obvious that my desire is like a seed filled with hidden life. I blow a thought into my phantom and that thought develops and hatches. This is a phenomenon to be written about.'

"As I thought she came closer and finally stood over me. Her eyes, I observed, were completely mad. Yes, they were like horrible fires. And her face was a marvel of mimicry. The cleverness of my thought appalled me. I said nothing, however, and watched her. She began to talk. I had become used to this phase of the hallucination. But this time my senses shuddered at her words. They who had been so eager to sate themselves in the possession of this chimera and who had betrayed my omnipotence, they now suffered the penalty of their blindness. For it was evident that to them, this chimera was still real. She was an avenger towering with a knife above them.

"But Mallare smiled.

"'See,' he murmured aloud, 'here is the reward of your folly. You would philander with this shadow. You would disport yourself in abominable fornications with this hallucination. Very well, I am amused at your clownish terror even more than I was amused at your burlesque ecstasies.

Tremble now for here is a Medusa, a Messalina come to destroy you.

Whimper and grovel, but observe in your idiot cowardice how Mallare, the indifferent one, sits and smiles--still supreme, still a spectator ravished by the dark comedy.'

"I could not resist this moment of triumph. I laughed although there was no one to enjoy my laughter. And I watched her. She was still talking, deep, meaningless words. For it was her habit to talk in the gypsy language when moved. Often this fact baffled me. But I perceive now that my thought was a seed containing my omniscience in microcosm. G.o.d does not invent languages but He understands them since it is unnecessary for Him to know, in His indifference, what they are saying. And the language my phantom spoke, although foreign to me, was nevertheless an integral part of my thought--another of the manifestations with which G.o.d naively astounds Himself. It is His only diversion.

"I was curious concerning the effect upon my senses of this illusory attack. And, I must confess these things simply, there came to me the idea that Mallare might be slain by the cowardice of his senses. There would be nothing illogical in that. For if this chimera had been able to trick them into the illusion of love, it was entirely natural that it should be able to trick them now into the illusion of death. With the exception that death is an illusion even Mallare, the indifferent one, might not survive.

"Ah, Mallare, Mallare! He wanders pensively amid treacherous shadows--Mallare--an image debating subtly the existence of its mirror.

I sigh. But it is one of the relaxations of G.o.d--to pity Himself His uselessness.

"Her talk came to an end and she raised her knife. Die or not, the thing was too incredible a farce to leave me unmoved. Yes, I laughed out of sheer delight. The drollery of this phantom hacking at Mallare with a non-existent dagger ... a mad windmill charging Don Quixote! Superb!

"I perceive now a moral in the situation that I did not think of at the time. Sacrilege is a vital danger to G.o.d. His omnipotence is dependent upon the submission of His creatures. And they who, inspired with the quaint illusion of their own reality, turn upon Him--ah, they destroy themselves. But their destruction impoverishes their G.o.d.

"At the time, however, the spectacle alone and not its significances, preoccupied me. I laughed and reached my hand to the dagger. A s.a.d.i.s.tic gesture, for I desired to give my senses a taste of its reality and thus enjoy their squirming. Marvelous dagger! The point of it was sharp.

Mallare can invent daggers, beautiful daggers that poise melodramatically over his heart, that move slowly in quest of his life's blood! S'death, a property man of parts!

"'Clever dagger,' I murmured. 'Do you enjoy the illusion of yourself as much as this chimera wielding you quivers with the illusion of impending murder?'

"It paused before me and I nodded. My laughter had halted it. It was evident that my thought operating in this phantom was confused by my laughter. I nodded again.

"'It would be logical and extremely pleasant,' I thought, 'if this creature, shrinking before the sacrilege of destroying its creator, turned on itself and accomplished a more probable a.s.sa.s.sination.'

"She stood before me and I was pleased to see her hatred increase. It was amazingly vivid. I observed the viciousness of her features. Her face had become contorted. Its fury was like a mask. But she had dropped the knife. I could not refrain smiling an encouragement at her--the naive applause an author bestows upon his puppets.

"But the plot still contained surprises. Yes, astonishing denouements began to crowd the stage. For she started to undress. Here was a trick that baffled Mallare. I winced with distaste.

"'The consistency which I have hitherto admired in my madness seems rather dubious.' I thought. 'The melodrama of illusions grows too improbable. This fine tragedy crumbles into the ludicrous. She forgets her hate. She is again Rita, the infatuated one. A lightning change that smacks of inferior vaudeville. She is about to undress and resume her deplorable a.s.saults upon my idiot senses. A poorly written business. I have a notion to walk out.'

"But I remained smiling at the absurdity, too tired to leave my chair. I was pleased to notice that her nudity did not this time appeal to my doting madness. This marked an improvement--a foretaste of victory. The disintegration had begun.

"Her body was interesting. It was covered with bruises. There were stains on its flesh. At the sight of them the lodge brother, the sniveling one who had followed me home in the snow, set up a veritable caterwauling. Here was terrible evidence of the fellow's guilt. The bruises of course. An accomplished penitent, this blubberer, able to transform himself from a Sense of Homicidal Guilt into a mere feeling of General Remorse.

"She was not dead. Yet he lingered. And now, at the sight of her bruises, he rushed forward with inferior regrets. He will bear study, this weeping one. Of all the sprawling Mallares, he alone lacks logic.