The Old Maids' Club. Israel Zangwill

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      "What is its name?"

      "It is anonymous—like the composer."

      "Who is he?"

      "I must not tell."

      "Can you give me a copy of the song?"

      He became embarrassed.

       "I would with pleasure, if it were mine. But the fact is—I—I—had no right to sing it at all, and the composer would be awfully vexed if he knew."

      "Original composer?"

      "He is, indeed. He cannot bear to think of his songs being sung in public."

      "Dear me! What a terrible mystery you are making of it," I laughed.

      "O r-really there is no abracadabra about it. You misunderstand me. But I deserve it all for breaking faith and exploiting his lovely song so as to drown my beastly singing."

      "You need not reproach yourself," I said. "I have heard it before."

      He started perceptibly. "Impossible," he gasped.

      "Thank you," I said freezingly.

      "But how?"

      "A little bird sang it me."

      "It is you who are making the mystery now."

      "Tit for tat. But I will discover yours."

      "Not unless you are a witch!"

      "A what?"

      "A witch."

      "I am," I said enigmatically. "So you see it's of no use hiding anything from me. Come, tell me all, or I will belabor you with my broomstick."

      "If you know, why should I tell you?"

      "I want to see if you can tell the truth."

      "No, I can't." We both laughed. "See what a cruel dilemma you place me in!" he said beseechingly.

      "Tell me, at least, why he won't publish his songs. Is he too modest, too timid?"

      "Neither. He loves art for art's sake—that is all."

      "I don't understand."

      "He writes to please himself. To create music is his highest pleasure. He can't see what it has got to do with anybody else."

      "But surely he wants the world to enjoy his work?"

      "Why? That would be art for the world's sake, art for fame's sake, art for money's sake!"

      "What an extraordinary view!"

      "Why so? The true artist—the man to whom creation is rapture—surely he is his own world. Unless he is in need of money, why should he concern himself with the outside universe? My friend cannot understand why Schopenhauer should have troubled himself to chisel epigrams or Leopardi lyrics to tell people that life was not worth living. Had either been a true artist, he would have gone on living his own worthless life, unruffled by the applause of the mob. My friend can understand a poet translating into inspired song the sacred secrets of his soul, but he cannot understand his scattering them broad-cast through the country, still less taking a royalty on them. He says it is selling your soul in the market-place, and almost as degrading as going on the stage."

      "And do you agree with him?"

      "Not entirely, otherwise I should never have yielded to the temptation to sing his song to-night. Fortunately he will never hear of it. He never goes into society, and I am his only friend."

      "Dear me!" I said sarcastically. "Is he as careful to conceal his body as his soul?"

      His face grew grave. "He has an affliction," he said in low tones.

      "Oh, forgive me!" I said remorsefully. Tears came into my eyes as the vision of the Norse giant gave away to that of an English hunchback. My adoring worship was transformed to an adoring matronly tenderness. Divinely-gifted sufferer, if I cannot lean on thy strength, thou shalt lean on mine! So ran my thought till the mist cleared from my eyes and I saw again the glorious Saga-hero at my side, and grew strangely confused and distraught.

      "There is nothing to forgive," answered Captain Athelstan. "You did not know him."

      "You forget I am a witch. But I do not know him—it is true. I do not even know his name. Yet within a week I undertake to become a friend of his."

      He shook his head. "You do not know him."

      "I admitted that," I answered pertly. "Give me a week, and he shall not only know me, he shall abjure those sublime principles of his at my request."

      The spirit of mischief moved me to throw down the challenge. Or was it some deeper impulse?

      He smiled sceptically.

      "Of course if you know somebody who will introduce you," he began.

      "Nobody shall introduce me," I interrupted.

      "Well, he'll never speak to you first."

      "You mean it would be unmaidenly for me to speak to him first. Well, I will bind myself to do nothing of which Mrs. Grundy would disapprove. And yet the result shall be as I say."

      "Then I shall admit you are indeed a witch."

      "You don't believe in my power, that is. Well, what will you wager?"

      "If you achieve your impossibility, you will deserve anything."

      "Will you back your incredulity with a pair of gloves?"

      "With a hundred."

      "Thank you. I am not a Briareus. Let us say one pair then."

      "So be it."

      "But no countermining. Promise me not to communicate with your mysterious friend in the interval."

       "I promise."

      "But how shall I know the result?"

      I pondered. "I will write—no, that would be hardly proper. Meet me in the Royal Academy, Room Six, at the 'Portrait of a Gentleman,' about noon to-morrow week."

      "A week is a long time!" he sighed.

      I arched my eyebrows. "A week a long time for such a task!" I exclaimed.

      Next day I called at the house of the Voice. A gorgeous creature in plush opened the door.

      "I want to see—to see—gracious! I've forgotten his name," I said in patent chagrin. I clucked my tongue, puckered my lips, tapped the step with my parasol, then smiled pitifully at the creature in plush. He turned out to be only human, for a responsive sympathetic smile flickered across his pompous face. СКАЧАТЬ