"I will look into the matter," said Gud. And he did.... Then he looked again into the iridescent eyes of the ever-changing woman and said to her: "It is useless, for I have searched the soul of that fellow Spain and he is not an inspired writer but only a disgruntled hack who could not possibly write anything that you could not understand."

Whereupon the woman was vexed with disappointment so that she began to weep, and in the small compa.s.s of each tear she shed was the iridescence of a tiny rainbow. As Gud saw her tears, that they were beautiful, his heart overflowed with tenderness, and he said with a gentle voice: "I will try again."

And now Gud searched the soul of Hersey. His search was not without reward and when he returned again to the beautiful woman she ceased to weep, for in his hand she saw that Gud held a poem. Seating himself beside her, he read her this poem that Hersey had written in the white heat of inspiration:

Chapter LXVIII

She stood there carelessly arrayed All in jewelled dress, And leaning on the bal.u.s.trade She wept with bitterness, For facing her there stood a maid Of rival loveliness.

Once she had been indifferent To languishment or guile, But when I argued with intent To hold her by a smile, Upon my eyes her own were bent For quite a little while.

The lady raised her fluttering hands.

"The night is cold," she said, "For tropic men in northern lands, For old maids still unwed, And for the evil one who stands In heaven when he's dead."

She turned and gazed upon that face As lovely as her own, The poise of beauty and of grace That matched her grace alone....

And in that close and silent place I heard the lady moan.

I held the lady to my breast And kissed her mouth and eyes.

She sighed and snuggled down to rest Without the least surprise, While I told tales of sweet unrest That sounded very wise.

"They say I'm mad," she whispered then, "I weep for dear despair, No matter where I go, dark men Follow me everywhere...."

To quiet her I kissed again Her locks of golden hair.

"Great G.o.d!" she cried with finished grace, "That woman whom I hate."

I looked and in a mirror's face I saw the lady's mate.

Then quiet men of that strange place Came down the halls of state.

They took the lady tenderly Away from sound and sight.

I answered not. It seemed to me As though they must be right.

So I smashed the mirror utterly And fled into the night.

Chapter LXIX

And when Gud had finished reading the woman asked: "Is that all?"

And Gud looked at the poem in his hand and said sorrowfully, "That is all."

"But that is quite comprehensible," said the woman, "for it is merely one of Hersey's usual plagiarisms--a twittering parody of Rossetti's 'THE BLESSED DAMOSEL', and it is so simple."

"Do you understand it?" asked Gud.

"Of course, it merely means that the love of man is insufficient to satisfy the yearning of woman, and so she must look into the mirror of her own soul in search of greater spiritual joys. But alas, she is shadowed by her s.e.x consciousness as reflected in her beauty of the flesh, and she can not escape that haunting shadow which finally drives her mad. Is that not simple?"

To D. S.: I protest. This interpretation is entirely erroneous.--H. H.

To H. H.: Good G.o.d, I know it! but if you had seen what I first wrote about it you would keep still.--D. S.

"I should say," said Gud, "that it is beautiful simplicity."

"That is just the trouble with all that these chaps are writing. They are so keen on the obvious. You see, I can understand all that these men have written, for it is all explainable by psychoa.n.a.lysis. It is merely the symbolism of a suppressed wish to be famous. And, oh Gud, how I do crave true mystery!"

"Then," said Gud, "you shall have it, for am I not Gud the Great?"

"If you are, why do you not inspire these men who are writing this book about you to put something into the book that no one can understand?

Indeed, if you cannot do that I shall be tempted to believe that you are not Gud, but only a mere figment of fancy conceived in the brains of two conceited young egotists who are seeking a cheap notoriety by shocking decent people with blasphemous literature."

"I fear you are right."

"Oh," cried the woman, "then you admit that you are what I said?"

"Not at all. I merely admit that he is what you said."

"Really, Gud, you ought to have had some well-known writer do this book about you--some one who had already been suppressed, or, better yet, a Russian."

"Who are the Russians?" asked Gud.

"They are the supremists in dancing, the theorists in politics, the idealists in economics and the realists in literature. But you are romantic, aren't you, Gud?"

"I think so. At least I feel so--did you always wear your hair that way?"

"Oh, no, indeed. You see, I used to wear it shorn like that of a boy, for that fashion was once the insignia of the female intelligence. But all the fat bankers' wives aped us, so now our only chance for distinction is to ape our mothers, and I wear my mother's hair. See, I will take it off and show it to you."

"It is very lovely," said Gud, as he fingered her mother's hair. "I think I should have loved your mother, and it is very sweet of you to wear this hair in remembrance of her. Most women who have risen to your intellectual heights forget their mothers."

"It is very kind of you to say that, but distinction is in being different, and so we ultra-intelligent women are again showing respect for our mothers to distinguish us from the mob of the commonplace intellectuals who came flopping into the pool of progress and muddied the water.... It is a great race, dear Gud, this struggle to keep ahead of the apings of the stupid."

"Yes, yes, so I find it. Little up-start muddling G.o.ds have quite fogged up the milky way with their nebulous creations--but pardon me if I suggest that I would rather that you put your mother's hair back on."

She had some difficulty in putting her mother's hair on straight; so Gud reached over, and with a few deft touches, arranged it for her. Then, plucking a b.u.t.ton from his robe, he burnished it on his sleeve until it shone silvery bright, and then he held it before her. She looked into the mirroring silver and gave a little rapturous cry of joy, for the hair of her mother, on which they had both wasted so much henna, had been turned into a brilliant shade of fluorescent opalescence--a color that no artist of the Latin Quarter had ever painted and that no artist of the Village had ever imagined.

"Oh, Gud," she cried, "now I know that I love you, for they will go mad about it and I shall be the queen of the studios."

"I would rather that you remain just a woman as you have so sweetly shown yourself to be."

"Never!" cried she who wanted something that no one could understand, "never, never, will I be content to be just a woman! I must be, oh so much more. I must have super-personality, and hyper-yearnings, and ultra-strivings and transcendent seekings after ultimate mysteries--really I don't think you understand me at all!"

"Has any one ever understood you?" asked Gud.

"No," she breathed in soft expectancy.

"Only a little while ago you were searching for something that no one could understand--have we not found it in yourself?"