Margery Verner Reed

“ The marble Angel that was to have been his masterpiece! His last gift to man was now his hated treasure.
Night came on and with it the fury of the storm increased—and still the mad artist now implored, now threatened. The Angel smiled and looked Heavenward.
When I chose a model for my masterpiece, he murmured, she was beautiful, but had not the face of that Angel. How came I to copy the image in my heart and not the living one that for months was each day here in my studio. ”

“ It is night—a moonlight night in the Orient—
The earth is flooded in mystic beauty—
Midnight songbirds in the trees.
And the Palace of the Sultan—great marble halls—fountains of running water—moonlight shining in.
Strange, weird music of the desert played by slaves.
It is the picturesque setting of a strange tale—a tale of inward struggle.
The Sultan—lying amid splendor, vivid coloring of the East—softened by the night's mysterious light. ”

“ Dasha filled her days with joy. The joy of being alive, of being freed from herself—
She saw the sky and heard the laughter of children in the street—
Somehow—in New York—when she had belonged to the orchestra she had never noticed the sky. A few months more and the snow would come—
A winter in Russia—
The early summer months passed quickly—until that first terrible day of August, 1914, when all the horrors of the world were set loose and the monsters from the under-world of men's minds were stalking unashamed. ”

“ Not a bleak light, but an enchanting one, which dazzled in the cold, brisk air. Into the woods walked the Spirit of Art. As he gazed at the surrounding beauty he grew sad, and wondered why he had never reproduced such splendor—the moon—the snow—Oh, he must try again—Tomorrow he would do better. ”

“ O Miriam, come to me, I need you more now than ever before. Come, I am waiting with outstretched arms.
Yes, she is coming. I see the yet distant form of the one I love. She is approaching, coming ever nearer. Miriam, what happiness we shall yet have together, in the dusk of our lives, what pleasant hours here by the fire—
Death, kindly death, come now to me. She passed by my shop and turned the corner and went toward the station. Her heart then is still cold as stone. ”

“ Then a hospital. Afterward all had been darkness, a horrible groping amid a thousand broken memories, phantoms which had shrouded him. But now it was over. He was sane—life, life! Oh what joy to live again, as one risen from the tomb—he would travel out into the world—far from his studio.
The attendant entered bringing lunch to the mad artist and found him dead, his lips pressed to the marble ones of his Angel, the image of Louise. ”

“ Ever following—pursuing, is the other self—the gentle nature, which understands neither passion nor envy. The self which still fears and loves—yet—has no courage for prayer. And the spirit of this gentle nature whispers to the dominant one—
Lift yourself up and come away—I will lead you far from the moonlight—the overpowering perfumes—into the bleak light of day—peace will find you. ”

“ But now—sorrow has played on the chords of my heart—to teach me these deeper tones—to teach me music for the Passion—for the Crucifixion.
You must learn, my child, that through sorrow men accomplish great things.
When they weep they send out tones into the world that men remember and cherish. ”

“ The thrills of youth are no more, novelty is a forgotten word, and things that once would have made my heart leap now leave me cold. Old age indeed is in itself a punishment for the follies of youth and sad is it to await alone the coming of death without some loved face near. ”

“ The storm raged without, and within the artist groped for light, clung to the shreds of memory. His madness was increasing, his head seemed miles away. What had he been thinking of just then, had he seen a woman rise from a tomb—no, it was the Angel. [42]
He must get to work and finish it. But it was finished. Vaguely he remembered dismissing his model.
Speak—with a faint cry of anguish he rushed to the statue. Speak, image of my lost Louise! But no, you are cold marble, you have no life, no warmth—
Still, it must be the girl I loved. It is her mouth, her eyes. ”

“ The mad artist wept, and groped for light, for memory. Vaguely he could see, 'way back in some half-forgotten period, a nurse leaning over his cot. The noise of battle still rang in his ears—but that was all past, in his other life—now there were phantoms and the image in his heart of the lost Louise. Why had he chosen that name. That name made him think of running water. Where was reverie—Oh yes, it was the statue—well it must die. Never should men see his masterpiece that had cost him all the joy of life. For he had likened the features of the Angel after Louise. ”

“ To kill
Pillage
Only a few days before the lighted candles of a chapel. A young monk in prayer. Quietude in his soul. The brown habit—the crucifix lay forgotten.
The maddening din of battle. Its fury burned his soul.
He had been left an orphaned child. At the monastery.
His name was Igor. Some whispered he was the son of a great nobleman.
None knew for sure.
At first his clean soul rebelled at the thought of war, his dark eyes flashed.
Thou shalt not kill called from afar—but the cannons deafened him
They entered the courtyard—into the castle hall. ”

“ He looked into its depths—
at the sky—at the moon—
and felt the cold night air on His Face.
A great sadness had overcome Him.
God had reflected a corner of Heaven to men on Earth—
and they did not pause in pleasure or in sorrow—
no one felt the beauty of those mountains.
He stood alone by the lake—
again looked into its depths—
What peace—what beauty—
Down below—
[69] men grappled with death
not beautiful death
but hatred—lust—filled their souls. ”

“ The three Spirits returning from their wandering all too soon forgot the magic spell of the woods—the snow—the Moon—and fell to work once more among the sordid things of the day; making Art and History and Philosophy only grayer—darker—
And in the woods where all was beauty, the Moonbeams shone only for the fairies as they danced under the trees, and now and then for a wistful human soul that had strayed into the splendor of the night.
[3]
THE DREAM MUFF [To I. K. McF.]
One more day of horror had ended for Russia. ”

“ For one by one the friends of bygone days have dropped by the roadside and I have been left alone to follow my weary way. Happy they who die while still young and do not know the solitude of a lonely old man. ”

“ Very softly Janet crept to the organ loft—softer still she played to the moonlight.
He was rapidly improving. His wounds had not been serious. Something—very soft, faint—woke him. For a minute he could not recall his surroundings—and he rose up—but a sharp pain in his shoulder brought back the memory of the trenches, of the horror—
I must be dying—I hear faint music——
The moon shone on something white—
An angel—
Fully awakening to his surroundings Hugh Brandon realized that it was not death—not an angel—
He would go and find out for himself—
Janet barely touched the keys. ”

“ Her inner self was pleading—Katherine—live again!
Presently the Adeste Fidelis sounded—throbbed—filled the church
How beautiful—she murmured.
The memory of the Sultan rose and fell each time at the sight of the candles, the acolytes in prayer. A vision so fierce and lustful could not live in this sacred place.
My child—advised the old Priest—pray—pray always for forgiveness—for enlightenment—for guidance. One who seeks these things as fervently as you do always finds. ”

“ But here—among the dying—blood, privation, life divested of its mantles and laid bare—the true love sprang up between these two. Something more than love. A perfect understanding of each—like the treble and the base of a symphony—
In the still hours of twilight Hugh and Janet would sit in the organ loft together, speaking the enchanted language only lovers know—made dearer by the [32] phantom of separation ever near them. ”

“ For how many times in sleep has not the same dream come to me as a whispered message from another world, from her grave even—and on awakening I always seemed to know that her journey through life was at an end. ”

“ Day after day, as I sit behind my counter, or warm my old hands by the cheerful blaze of the fire, do customers come to me to buy something or perhaps to sell some loved relic in order that they may live. ”

“ It was there that one by one all the passions of love—hatred—revenge had torn my heart. He married and came to England—I followed—repulsed, ignored.
My only weapon against him—was to contrive—the death—of his little son.
But to kill a child [63] —
She caught a shuddering breath.
I could not—
I hid it securely.
Once again I visited Madeira. On the steps of the Church I stabbed my enemy among the flowers in that land of beauty—a crime to darken its perfection. ”

“ War—
Horror—dismay
She waited
His eyes were aghast—eyes that had seen death—murder—horror—side by side—
There was no more laughter. He took Anna into his arms. Then the report was not true. He had not given his right arm.
Anna, he whispered, My brave Anna
I have been thinking of Algiers, she murmured. We planned to have sunshine—and roses—even among the snows of our country. But we faced blood—blood on the snows of our forests—
Ivan, it is bitter cold. ”

“ From a distant street came the sound of music—gay—lively—a Neapolitan street song.
How could there be joy. The sound was agony. An organ might have soothed.
Had there ever been a time when gay music delighted. [15]
O Sole mio sang the clear voices of the street singers. They drew nearer—and stopped under the window.
Monica's wounded inward self cried out for silence
The world was drear. There should be no joyful singing.
She looked down absently. A young girl stood a little apart from the singers. Monica noticed her—and their tearful eyes met.
Then singers also could know sorrow. ”

“ On the deck they had become engaged—the moonlight shone on them.
Dusk and bitter cold. A young woman paced up and down in the snow, waiting the coming of a train.
It was a small town in the Interior of Russia—of the Russia torn by wars and rebellions at home. A sorrow-stricken land. ”

“ How warm—how kind of the Princess to send the muff.
Maybe mother will soon be home from work—we can have supper—
Boris will come from school—
But Boris lay dying—prisoner in the enemy's land.
When a pale sun struggled to shine down on the dirty streets—on the confusion and sorrow of that Russian city—an old Priest—dying with all the rest—of sorrow for his land—found the frozen body of a little girl—with hands clasped over her heart—a faint smile on her upturned face.
[5]
ROSE PETALS
Thirty years had passed. ”

“ Slowly Janet walked through the darkening streets. The words of the organist filled her mind. She felt prophetically her heart must pass through fire.
Would she be strong enough—or would weakness—desire for joy—conquer and kill the power within.
II
The homesick girl of seventeen has given place to a worldly wise young woman of twenty-five.
No more longing for the land across the seas. The power within still sleeps—Paris. ”

“ She was only one of his many phantoms.
[44]
OLD SCORES
A night of untold beauty.
Cobwebs on the heavens.
A gray winter sky, brightened by the moon shining through it.
Bare branches of hundreds of trees interlacing their silvery boughs.
And a cottage with thatched roof and square leaded panes—a setting for romance, for dreams of visionary splendor.
Is the master at home, asked a strange woman of the old man servant. ”

“ The Dream Muff
Rose Petals
In a Field
Incalculable
A Neapolitan Street Song
In Algiers
Candles
Igor
Two Had Lived
The Fifth Symphony
The Mad Artist
Old Scores
The Last
Ashes
Nancy Turner
The Pawn Shop Keeper
Something Provincial
Conflict
That Night His Sorrow Was Lifted
[1]
MOONBEAMS [To V. Z. R.]
It was a glorious winter's night. Through a blue haze one saw the ground, covered with snow, shining under the magical moon. And the trees of the forest were also covered with snow; great clusters glistened in their branches. Almost as light as day. ”

“ Take on a woman's voice.
The storm had ceased and the sun shone brightly on the wet grass and the flowers of a day in June. One ray peeped in at the window of the studio and saw the [43] Angel broken by hammer and chisel on the floor. ”