Erik Dorn

hing incessantly for a week, and that he would continue to laugh forever. His thought played delightedly

as if the shadow of a disease had come into his blood. On top of this moodiness a violen

abulary desired to empty itself before Rachel. His garrulity amazed him. Everything had to be talked about. There was a desperate need for talk. And when there was nothing to talk

ecorations about the wild body of a dancer, becoming a dance in themselves, deriving a movement and a meaning beyond themselves. Then the end of concealment. An exhausted voc

reet toiling through a dismantled world. Their hands together, they paused and remained staring as if at a third person. He h

do you

re to conceal. His vocabulary sighed as if admitting defeat and uselessness. At a corner grown noisy with wagons and trucks Rachel stopped. Her eyes ope

ve months in fear of that. The only reason he hadn't embraced, kissed, and protested a

dy else saying an "I love you" to a woman. Perhaps he should unsay it. Again, a dreamy laugh. But it made him happy. A drifting, childish happiness. He looked at her. Her eyes struck him as marvelously large and bright. Yet in a curious way he seemed unaware of her. No excitement came to him. Decidedly there was something unsensual about his love-if it was love. It might be somethi

rk street, running from him. She had said good-bye. He awoke and cursed. A bewildering sensation of being still at her side as if he had gone out of himself and were following her. He remained thus watching

ad suddenly ceased to exist and left behind her an unexistence. It was this emptiness outside that for the moment annoyed and then frightened him. An emptiness that had something to give him now. His senses reached eagerly toward the figures of people and buildings and received nothin

ew notion had planted itself in him. Whatever happened, Anna must not be made unhappy. Love was not a reality. Anna and her happiness were the realities that must

s wife, "and I feel sad. I am incomplete without you. Dear o

d as he sealed the envelope. "It must be an old instinct," he thought.

o talk. He would talk to him in circles that would

e is to have a dream behind the hours.

son. Some

outlines. There comes a contact. One is a part o

A rather cynical idea. He laughed and beamed at Isaac Dorn. Did it matter much whom one kissed as long as one had a desire for kissing? In fact, his desire for Rachel seemed at an end, now that he had mentioned it to her. A handclasp, a silence trembling with emotion, a sudden light in the heart-properly speaking, this was all there was to love. The rest was

the streets beside her, Dorn mused, "Undoubtedly the thing is over. It begins even to bore a bit." He noted curiously that he was unconsc

re was a paradox about the situation. He was obviously somewhat bored. Yet to leave her, to put an end to their strolling through the strange

stood looking at hi

ri

mal about her step. Yes, he would laugh forever. Lord, what a jest! Like water coming out of a stone. Laugh at the crowds and buildings that desired to annoy him by sweeping toward him the memory of Rachel saying "

ting and directing at the extras and replates, he vaguely forgot her. Word had come from the chief to hold the paper open until nine o'clock. If Paris failed to f

Warren, "if it's got to fall. Let it fall for the morning papers

opy, if there is any. A history of Paris out o

-plate: "Germans Bombard Paris ..." and then a bank in smaller type: "French Capital Silent.

d. Babylon Falls.... Civilization on Its Knees. The City Wall of Jericho Collapses. Carthage Reduced to Ashes. Rome Sacked by Huns. Yes, there had been magnificent headlines in the past. Now a new headline-Paris. There would be a sudden flurry; boys running between desks; Crowley trying to shout and achieving a frightful whisper; a smeared printer announcing some ghastly mistake in the compos

ught a telegram. He

ing away

eethearts. He stuffed the message into his pocket. On second thought he tore it up. An

minute

an editor's chair. Dorn scr

will call for you at seven o'clock Thursday.

the laughter persisted. There was a jest in the world.

ters of Paris are sayi

answered. "I'll tell you a secret. W

home in the evening he endeavored to avoid his wife. His letters to her during her visit in Wisconsin had brought her back violently joyous. She desired love-making. He listened to her pour out ardent phrases and wondered why he felt no sense of betrayal toward her. "Conscience," he thought, "seems to be a vastly over-advertised commodity." He sat beside Anna, caressing her hand, smiling back into her passion-filled eyes, and gently checking an impulse in him to confide to her that he was in love w

ting Rachel elated him. The thought that she was leaving and that he would not see her again seemed a vague thing. He put

hter. Also, now that he was going to see her, there was again the sense of fullness. An unthinking calm, complete and vibrant, wrapped him in

ust a smile, a sigh, a kiss...." A sort of revenge, as if his vocabulary with its intricate verbal sophistications were avenging itself upon interloping emotions. And, too, because of a vague shame which inspired him to taunt his surrender; to combat it with an irony such as lay in the ridiculous phrases. This irony gave him a sense of being still outside his emotions and not a submissive part of them. "I am still Erik Dorn, master of my fate and captain of my soul," he smiled. But perhaps it was most of all the reaction

They left her

e had had nothing to talk about had he been able to talk? And now when there was something, there seemed

annoyed. It was ungrateful for her to look like weeping. But she was going from him. He tried to think of her

er's arms. Immemorial tableau. Laughter, love, and song against the perfect backgr

There was something he should talk to her about-the causes of her departure. Plans. Their future. Was

feel like one. Heedless. Irresponsible. You've given me s

ys and never dreamed of you loving." She had become melting, as if her sadness were disso

n silence with their arms together. A sleep descended. Their faces

s painted themselves on the shadows of the city. The lovers walked unaware of the street. The snow crowded gently about them, moving patiently like a white and silent dream over their he

through the blur of window rays. Beneath, the pavements opened like white and narrow fans in a far-away ha

t, had never existed; as if in the snow and night they had become an unreality, walking deeper into mists-yet never quite vanishing but growing only more unreal. Snow and two lovers wal

existed nothing but the dark vagueness of despair-the despair of things that die with their eyes open and questing. Faces drifting like circles of light in

im. A moment of happiness halted them both as if they had been embraced. A wond

ve. Beyond this there were no gestures to make, nowhere to go. They had come to a horizon-an end. Here was ecstasy. What else? Nothing. Everything,

Rachel was murmuring. He

him beyond his emotions seemed suddenly to have cast him into the fury of them. He would say mocking things-absurd phrases to which he might cling. Or else he must weep because of the pain in him. "Two waifs adrift in a storm, peering into a

and blubbering before the gingerbread vision of joys behind a lighted window. The whine of a barrel-organ. The sentimental whimpering of a street-corner Miserere. And he must weep because of it-he who h

a broken barrel-organ lullaby to them. Life shone upon them out of the lighted window and behind it the world of rocking-chairs and fireplaces

They brought a dim gladness. His phrases had finally capitulated to his love. He could talk now without the artifice of ba

side said, "I love you

tongue. The pain in him had found words. Th

ury our love behind lighted windows, but left it to wande

you so!"

d. Lovers who grow old together live only in their yesterdays. And their yesterdays are only a moment-till the time comes when their

in for him. "I don't know the

things. A saying good-by to things that no longer exist. We part with living things, and so keep them, somehow. Your face makes life for the moment familiar. Visions bloom like sad flowers in my heart. Your body against mine brings a torment even into my

remember things I say. I mustn't say t

would have remained. Curious, how he acquiesced in her going. A sense of drama seemed to demand it. When he had received her message the night in the office he had agreed at once. Why? Because he was not in love? This too, a m

istance. A spectral summer painted itself upon the barren lilac bushes. Beneath, the lawn slopes raised moon f

park gleamed as if under the swinging light of blue and silver lanterns. The night, lost in a dream wandered

d suddenly wi

d. She remained as i

of clothes, they came toiling across the unbroken white of the park, an air of intense destinations about them. Above the desolate

you see? People wandering toward me. Horrible strangers. Oh, I know, I know!" She laughed. "My grandmother was a gy

ers. Dorn sighed, relieved. He had caught a strange foreboding sense out of the tableau of the white field

he would fall back into the pattern of streets and faces, watching as before the emptiness of life make geometrical figures of itself. Yes, it was better to have her go-simpler. Perhaps a desire would remain, a b

w-covered wall he paus

ilent as he removed her overcoat. He droppe

or a minute agai

nd become mist. Slowly he became aware of her touch,

a shrine to you. And whenever you want me

ist of her would be gone. "Rachel.... Rachel. I love

No words. Her kiss alone lived on his lips. She was looking at him with burning w

remember you! I have never looked at you. I have never seen you. I

rew marvelously brig

f. Oh, yes, their coats together in the snow. A symbol. He stumbled and a sudden terror engulfed him. "Her face," he mumbled, "like a mirror of stars."

r face. In the trees it drifted, haunting him. The print of a face was upon the world.

mbled, "her face