Читать книгу Painted Veils - James Huneker - Страница 7

Ulick Invern preferred the short cut down the hill to the smoother roundabout road, which, though shaded, was dusty. It was the last week of his vacation, much needed, little desired. He was loath to leave New York, best-beloved city after Paris; but his doctor advised him to try New Hampshire to relieve his hay-fever. As he went across the fields of the Forest Hills park he was forced to admit that the fortnight in Franconia had put him on his feet. No sneezing, no insomnia, no writing, lots of reading. Such reading. He had made up his mind that no fiction, either frivolous or serious, would he fetch in his trunk; not even his adored Flaubert. Nothing but books dealing with the origins of religious beliefs, mystic books; Thomas à Kempis, Apollo, by Reinach, several Cardinal Newman volumes, the Old Testament, Browning, and as a concession to his profane leanings, a copy of Petronius in the original. Ulick was a fair latinist; his literary tastes versatile. This serene September forenoon he pondered the idea of a new religion. He had been reading in Reinach's Apollo of the mushroom swiftness with which any crazy silly superstition grows overnight in proper soil. The more ignorant the mob the easier it is to convince with some insane doctrine. Witness the growth of Mormonism or the new cult in America which already boasted a female pope and a big following.

"A new religion" he said aloud. "Well, why not? the time seems ripe. Everything is unsettled. We are on the verge of something tremendous, a world-war, a social revolution, and yet we have never been seemingly more prosperous—I mean the entire earth. We must be entering into a new constellation; perhaps Mars is in the ascendant; or the sullen house of Saturn. … " Ulick wasn't a star-worshipper, he liked to flirt with astrology as he flirted with a belief in the Fourth Dimension of Space. He was a well set-up young man still in the twenties, vigourous mentally and physically, nervous rather than muscular, yet capable of great powers of resistance. His friends, and he had many, said he was too volatile to compass distinction; he couldn't stick at anything over a month. This mania for the study of comparative religions was not new—he had only revived an old interest. Christianity with its stems deep in Judaism, Asiatic legends, Alexandrian mysticism; with its taboos, fetishes, totems, animism and magic, its lofty belief in the idealism of Jesus and its mumbo-jumbo conjurations and incredibly absurd miracles—this welter of old-world faiths and debasing superstition, a polytheistic judaism, held his fancy, for, as a former student of theology, he saw more clearly the polyphonic criss-crossing of ideas and ceremonies than the majority of critics. A palimpsest, rather, many palimpsests, was this religion, which in less than two thousand years has undergone more radical changes than any that preceded it. A chameleon among religions, compared with which Buddhism is a rock of eternal certitude. But sentimentality always ends by wrecking a religion, or a nation, and Christianity is first sentimental, the romantic as opposed to the classic faiths of the Greeks and Romans.

He debouched into the road leading to Zaneburg, after a plunge down the hill. Shade-trees bordered the avenue upon which stood pretty bungalows. There were an unusual number of people walking and riding; perhaps because of Saturday, or, and he suddenly remembered, because the Hillcrest Hotel was to be sold at public auction that very noon, with all its contents. Country folk are keen on buying something for nothing. Invern flicked golden-rod, abhorred of hay-fever sufferers, and decided to go with the crowd. But first I'll stop at Zaneburg and get a drink of cider. Nothing stronger in the state; indeed, nothing could be stronger than New Hampshire cider. He was thirsty, which pleasant condition he laughingly set down to his constellation; he had been born under the sign of Aquarius the Water-Carrier.

He entered the village and made for the Inn which bore the resounding title: At the Sign of the Golden Buck. He had hardly reached the post-office, also the general store, when noisy, discordant music struck his unwilling ears. A critic of music, once upon a time, he suffered from his sensitive hearing. He averred it was the false intonation of singers, whether in opera or concert that had driven him from professional criticism into the theatre; from the frying-pan into the fire, he lamented. So the horrible conglomeration of noises which assailed his tympani set him to wondering—and cursing. There were the banging of big drums, tambourine thumping, tooting of fifes coupled with hideous howling without tune or rhythm; just the howling of idiots penned-up behind bars, or the screeching of hyenas on a desert plain beneath the rays of a sultry midnight moon. He looked around for a path to escape, and then decided to see the show—probably some circus. A crowd had quickly formed. Borne along he soon saw an irregular procession chiefly composed of women dancing, screaming, beating tambourines. Hysteria was in the air. Two figures, detached from the others, focussed his attention. A gigantic noseless negro wearing a scarlet turban and dressed in a gaudy gown like a woman's wrapper, headed the throng. His big eyes rolled, and at intervals he emitted a roar as he struck an exotic gong with a hammer.

"De Holy Yowlers is here!" he boomed in a formidable basso. "Welcome de Holy Yowlers. Services at de rotunda in ten minutes. Entrance free. Come one, come all. Welcome all. Hear de Holy Yowlers." A young woman walking behind this giant and carrying a banner shrieked: "Holy Yowlers. Save your dirty souls. Dance into paradise. Holy Yowlers." Her pretty eyes were bloodshot. She staggered under the grievous burden. Her face was bloated with enthusiasm as she cursed the evil of rum-drinking. The Holy Yowlers was a prohibition organization, evidently, as the woman's words and behaviour indicated. Ulick examined her with curiosity. Here's the beginning of my new religion, he cogitated. Lots of noise, a few incomprehensible phrases, plenty of rum—and it's enough to start anything from a political party to the second advent of some sheep-god. I forgot to add fornication. The twin pillars of all religions have been, still are and ever shall be, superstition and fornication; faith in the imbecile doctrines and fornication—else the membership would dwindle. His reverie was interrupted by a voice that whispered: "It's Roarin' Nell, sartain. She's on one of her regular sprees. Nuthin' stops her. Just look at that big nigger, how he handles her. He ought to get his derned ugly head punched. Nell used to be pretty. Too much rum and religion got the best of her." It was a farm-hand who spoke. Ulick asked him questions. Nell joined them. She planted her banner—blazoned with the device of a cross and crescent on a red ground—the initials H. Y.—before him, and casually remarked:

"It's as hot as the hinges of hell. Buy a drink for me mister."

"Surely," he answered. "I'm going to the Inn. Come along." She held back. "They wunt be selling me any drink. I'm forbidden." "How forbidden?" "Well, see here. It's this way. When I drink I don't know when to stop—" "Yes stick to cider—" She burst into hysterical laughter. "Cider? That's the worst ever. It's a temperance drink, too. Them teetotallers just dote on cider." The procession had been halted. The coloured person had temporarily lost his zeal. Burning sunrays concentrated on his woolly skull. He vaguely passed thick fingers across his blubber lips. His eyes were soft and appealing as he gazed at Ulick. Roarin' Nell made significant motions. She threw back her head, whose shapeliness was concealed by a sunbonnet and placed a finger on her mouth. The thirst was in her and had insidiously attacked the citadel of the invading host. Brother Rainbow couldn't get any further. "Go back to de rotunda!" he bellowed to the faithful disciples, and as he once more struck the metallic gong he added: "In ten minutes, beloved brethren, de Holy Yowlers will attack de rum-devil and put him to flight." "Come along," impatiently cried Ulick, "I'm dying with thirst." "Go behind the barn, we can get what we want," cautioned Nell.

Oblivious to criticism the trio marched to a road at the side of the Inn and disappeared. The villagers winked and smiled. The motley gang of worshippers dispersed in irregular groups, slowly moving toward the rotunda, an ancient wooden structure originally destined to house circuses, theatrical companies, musical festivals, but now crowded with the odds and ends of agricultural implements. It was not so easy to get the coveted cider at the Inn; Invern soon found that out. The landlord was in a rage over something. To the request of the young man he snarled: "Nary a drink for Roarin' Nell or for that dam coon of hers. I've been warned by the judge over at Middletown. You can have all you want, not a drop for them others." Invern was disconcerted. He was thoroughly interested in his companions and didn't like to leave them; besides, he determined to attend their service and see the queer brand of religion they would serve. A minute or two had shown him that Brother Rainbow was not a fool; rather, a cunning imposter glib of speech. He didn't bother about the psychology of Nell. She was a poor deluded drunken creature under the control of this monstrous African. He irresolutely paused, then turned his back on the churlish inn-keeper. As he dawdled across to the barn, where his fellow-conspirators waited, he was dazzled by the vision of a tall beautiful girl in white, framed by an old New England doorway, clustered with honeysuckles. "God!" he ejaculated, "where did that dream come from?" He rubbed his eyes, but the dream did not fade from the spot of blazing sunshine and honeysuckles. She beckoned to him: "I was in the parlour," she said in contralto tones that made him vibrate, "and I heard how the old humbug lied to you. Tell your friends to come right in here. It's my room. I board at the Inn. I'll give you something better than cider." Hardly stopping to note that the girl was dark and that her smile was fascinating Ulick called to Brother Rainbow and Roarin' Nell and introduced them as he inquisitively regarded the new hostess.

"Names don't matter," she declared. "I'm Miss Richmond." "And I'm Mr. Paris," added Ulick, using the first name that occurred to him. She bade them be seated and then left the room. Brother Rainbow looked mighty solemn. Nell was like a cat in a strange cellar. Her roving eyes saw the flowers in the window-box, the white dimity curtains, the few scattered feminine ornaments. The photograph of a sweet-faced lady was on the bureau. She stared at it, and then, as if secretly, drew a hand across her eyes, and afterward the same hand across her mouth. She could have wept from sentiment and her tormenting thirst. Invern was vastly amused. Firm footsteps announced the return of the young woman. She was flushed, but triumphant. "He dared to refuse me, but I threatened to leave. I pay well. This is supposed to be the best room in the house, so here's your cider." She put down the tray with its pitcher and glasses and went to her trunk. "Here's the chaser." She held out a large liquour flask for their astonished inspection. Ulick openly admired her, and, with that easy Celtic assurance of his, he confessed his admiration.

"I'm a Southerner, born and bred down there," she confided, "I'm not ashamed of a whisky-flask. I never drink. It's full, as you see, but I hate good folks like you to go dry. Here's to!" She poured a goodly drink into each of the glasses, except her own. "I prefer cider," she explained. They drank in silence. The cider followed. Nell was all eyes. Never had she been so close to such a lovely woman. Such a gown. Invern thought the reverse. A pretty girl, but hoper lessly provincial. Their gaze collided. She smiled. He closed his eyes. He seemed to have seen sparks. Perhaps it was only the whisky. Then he thought of the time. He consulted his watch. "Hello there Brother Rainbow! You're twenty minutes late. Let's go to the rotunda. Come along, do Miss—Richmond?—I think we shall have lots of fun." She nodded, and carefully locking the door she followed the others into the hot sunlight. Brother Rainbow again sounded his exotic gong as he shouted: "De Holy Yowlers. We fight de rum devil!" And his voice was more unctuous and appealing than before, possibly because the whisky hailed from Kentucky.

In single file they entered the rotunda. The building was not crowded. Although midday a rusty chandelier was lighted. The Holy Yowlers believed in mystery. The gas-jets were to illuminate the collection platter, nothing more. A murmur greeted them and a solitary female voice shrilled: "He comes. The High Holiness comes. Bless the name of the Holy Yowlers." This signalled an outburst of yells as the black pontiff conducted his guests to the platform where were several wooden benches and a table. After looking with unaffected longing at the white girl, who mocked him, Brother Rainbow struck the mystic gong and harangued his flock. "I'se de new prophet of de Lord. Who follows me will see de Lord. Bless de name of de Holy Yowlers. Let us dance." Instantly the audience was in an uproar. The howling began. Whirling in pairs or alone, men and women behaved as if possessed by devils. Ulick had seen camp-meeting revivals, yet they were a mere hymn carnival compared with this orgy of sound and motion. And as a Southern girl the sight could not have been altogether unfamiliar to his companion, who, her face pale, held his arm as if seeking protection. He pressed that arm and he felt the pressure returned. Roarin' Nell lay outstretched on a bench. She was red in the face, her eyes closed. Brother Rainbow banged his gong, his shrewd eyes showing their whites, a sinister grin on his noseless face.

Suddenly he commanded: "Lights out!" and darkness supervened. The whirling and the howling ceased. Ulick was pinioned by a pair of arms, violently embraced and pushed to the floor. As his knees gave way, a moaning cry in his ear made his blood freeze. He tried to shake off the importunate lascivious embrace of a woman. In vain. The moaning ceased. From the pit below came a rutilant groaning and sharp exclamations of pain and ecstasy. Scrambling to his knees Ulick put out his hands and seized a figure. It relaxed in his arms and then came in stentorian tones: "Lights!" In the dim atmosphere he saw that he held a fainting woman, Miss Richmond. Nell sprawled on the floor next to them like a drunken drab: "Get us out of here, quick, you damned scoundrel or I'll shoot you full of holes." Ulick made a movement. But the serenity of the grand Panjandrum was undisturbed. He calmly viewed the room with its recumbent and exhausted men and women and slowly answered:

"De young lady will be all right in a moment. She has had true religion. She is now one of de Holy Yowlers." Outside the glaring sunlight stabbed his eyeballs, yet it seemed a black sun. Supporting the limp girl he set her at the edge of an old well in the yard. The dipper was in the bucket and he scooped some water which he gave her. Her olive skin was drawn and yellow, her lips a sanguinary purple. Her great eyes were narrowed to slits and their hazel fire was like a cat's eyes in the dark. She looked straight in front of her as if she were watching a horrible play. He almost felt sorry for the irreparable. Was it his fault? What extraordinary caprice of the gods had guided his footsteps to this spot, there to meet and mingle with a girl he had never seen before … and then the devilish whisky … did they know what they were doing? The girl stirred. "Darling," he whispered, "it can't be helped. I love you. Let's go away … to New York." She started as if stung. "You beast! … " she cried, and "you beast!" With the words came a blow in the face that blinded him and she instantly fled away. It was like a bad dream. In the rotunda the Holy Yowlers were howling their pious noise punctured by the gong-strokes of Brother Rainbow. I've witnessed the birth of a new religion, muttered Ulick Invern, as he made his way across the low-lying Franconian hills, misted by the approach of a peaceful September evening. …