Part 18 (1/2)
”I see light,” I said, ”white light, on a billowy sea of clouds, as from a flying plane.... And now I see the sun--it is sinking behind a rugged line of snowy peaks and the light is dimming.... It is gone now, but it is not dark, for moonlight, pale and silvery, is s.h.i.+mmering on a choppy sea.... Now it is the darkest hour, but it is never black, only a dark, dark grey, for the roof of the world is p.r.i.c.ked with a million points of light.... The grey of the east is shot with the rose of dawn.... The rose brightens to scarlet and the curve of the sun appears--red like the blood of war.... And now the sky is crystal blue and the grey sands of the desert have turned to glittering gold.”
I had ceased my poetic visioning and was looking into Marguerite's face.
The light of wors.h.i.+p I saw in her eyes filled me with a strange trembling and holy awe.
”And I saw only blackness,” she faltered. ”Is it that I am born blind and you with vision?”
”Perhaps what you call vision is only memory,” I said--but, as I realized where my words were leading, I hastened to add--”Memory, from another life. Have you ever heard of such a thing as the reincarnation of the soul?”
”That means,” she said hesitatingly, ”that there is something in us that does not die--immortality, is it not?”
”Well, it is something like that,” I answered huskily, as I wondered what she might know or dream of that which lay beyond the ken of the gross materialism of her race. ”Immortality is a very beautiful idea,” I went on, ”and science has destroyed much that is beautiful. But it is a pity that Col. h.e.l.lar had to eliminate the idea of immortality from the German Bible. Surely such a book makes no pretence of being scientific.”
”So Col. h.e.l.lar has told you that he wrote 'G.o.d's Anointed'?” exclaimed Marguerite with eager interest.
”Yes, he told me of that and I re-read the book with an entirely different viewpoint since I came to understand the spirit in which it was written.”
”Ah--I see.” Marguerite rose and stepped toward the library. ”We have a book here,” she called, ”that you have not read, and one that you cannot buy. It will show you the source of Col. h.e.l.lar's inspiration.”
She brought out a battered volume. ”This book,” she stated, ”has given the inspectors more trouble than any other book in existence. Though they have searched for thirty years, they say there are more copies of it still at large than of all other forbidden books combined.”
I gazed at the volume she handed me--I was holding a copy of the Christian Bible translated six centuries previous by Martin Luther. It was indeed the very text from which as a boy I had acquired much of my reading knowledge of the language. But I decided that I had best not reveal to Marguerite my familiarity with it, and so I sat down and turned the pages with a.s.sumed perplexity.
”It is a very odd book,” I remarked presently. ”Have you read it?”
”Oh, yes,” exclaimed Marguerite. ”I often read it; I think it is more interesting than all these modern books, but perhaps that is because I cannot understand it; I love mysterious things.”
”There is too much of it for a man as busy as I am to hope to read,” I remarked, after turning a few more pages, ”and so I had better not begin. Will you not choose something and read it aloud to me?”
Marguerite declined at first; but, when I insisted, she took the tattered Bible and turned slowly through its pages.
And when she read, it was the story of a king who revelled with his lords, and of a hand that wrote upon a wall.
Her voice was low, and possessed a rhythm and cadence that trans.m.u.ted the guttural German tongue into musical poetry.
Again she read, of a man who, though shorn of his strength by the wiles of a woman and blinded by his enemies, yet pushed asunder the pillars of a city.
At random she read other tales, of rulers and of slaves, of harlots and of queens--the wisdom of prophets--the songs of kings.
Together we pondered the meanings of these strange things, and exulted in the beauty of that which was meaningless. And so the hours pa.s.sed; the day drew near its close and Marguerite read from the last pages of the book, of a voice that cried mightily--”Babylon the great is fallen, is fallen, and is become the habitation of devils and the hold of every foul spirit.”
CHAPTER VIII
FINDING THEREIN ONE RIGHTEOUS MAN I HAVE COMPa.s.sION ON BERLIN
~1~
My first call upon Marguerite had been followed by other visits when we had talked of books and read together. On these occasions I had carefully suppressed my desire to speak of more personal things. But, constantly reminded by my own troubled conscience, I grew fearful lest the old doctor should discover that the books were the lesser part of the attraction that drew me to Marguerite's apartment, and my fear was increased as I realized that my calls on Zimmern had abruptly ceased.
Thinking to make amends I went one evening to the doctor's apartment.