Chapter 5

"Where is Mallare who fancied himself a madman? Who sought to climb over his senses and found himself impaled by a tower of Babel? Where are his angers, his disgusts that were the noble shadows thrown by his egoism to blot out a world? Ballad of rhetorical questions. My vanity preens itself with reminiscences. I smile. I am depressed and content. Answers whisper. Mallare is on his feet. His experiments are ended. His mania to possess himself is a snow that falls forgotten in his past. Vale, the lunatic. Vale, the man in the moon. Ave, Mallare.

"It snows. I walk. I think. I smile. And this too for a time is a diversion--that people no longer distract me. I carelessly restore the world. Let there be people, I say. And, alas, there are. I abdicate. I hand my Godhood back to the race.

"Morning begins like another snow in the distance. Ah, here comes one tired-eyed out of a house. It is astounding to think that he is human like myself. He and I are actors in the same play, yet ignorant of each other's lines. But I may guess at his part. He is frightened. He looks furtively toward me. And he walks rather lamely. Aha, a fornicator! He has left a warm bed, illegally occupied for the night. A woman in a rumpled night dress moaned under him. The plot is simple. How pleasing it was for a moment. She came so close. She was like an incredibly intimate secret. He gasped physiological instructions. And--finis! The captains and the kings depart. The recessional of the douche! Do you love me yet, do you love me yet?

"And now he walks in the cold street. He must hurry away. There are complications, but they make a minor drama. Off stage business. He is aware of contrasts. A moment ago--her arms, her gasps. A moment ago warmth, intimacy. And now, the snow, the cold, and life. Memory like fool's gold jingles in his pocket. Life is real, life is earnest. He regrets his orgasms. They will interfere with business.

"The male rampant! What a sinister comedian! The mythical despoiler. Hm, his head bows down. The snow disturbs him. Sad, weary, remorseful, he drags himself home. He has lessened his virility and it worries him. There is a plot in this. Some day I will write it out--a love story of the sexes. Poor, weary one, he has enriched Delilah.

"Ah, I am amused. It will be pleasant to observe people once more. Sanity has its rewards. Its laughter is a charming hint of madness that one may enjoy harmlessly.

"What a lecherous spectacle a row of dark houses is! Bedrooms filled with bodies--incredible nudities. Bed springs creaking. The hour of asterisks. Window blinds down. Doors locked. Lights out. The city lingers in the snow like a feeble burlesque. Houses and shops and street car tracks gesture reprovingly. Civilization bows its head in the night like an abandoned bride. Man, like an ape hunting fleas, preoccupies himself again with his nerve centers.

"Darkened houses, silence--Rabelais and Boccaccio debate the immaculate conception. Eros, patron saint of the laundryman, conducts ancient rituals.

"Ah, these indefatigable and unctuous fornicators, rolling their eyes piously between orgasms; embroidering noble mottoes on their pleasure towels! [These prim exquisites, carefully and with raised eyebrows, folding their toilet paper into proper squares!] Who can be angry with them? God drove them out of Paradise--punishment enough. They revenge themselves with a monotonous enthusiasm. Ah, these fellatian moralists! It is folly to take their hypocrisies to heart. The plot is too delicious for tears. These two-fisted citizens, these purity braggarts masturbating with one finger unemployed and pointing scornfully at their neighbors!

"Charming street. It offers consolations, simple ones, to be sure. But nevertheless, consolations. My madness was not as mad as this dark street. This is a prettier witches' night than the one I aspired to. I am amused and my amusement is an insult that inspires me. If one cannot become God, one can at least sit and sneer happily at the handiwork of his rival.

"The dawn comes into my head. Poor Mallare, who must readjust his vocabulary to coherences. The night flies away. How simple this little scene becomes. Mysteries vanish. Doors open. Window blinds raise themselves. And now people stick their heads out into the cold. Wagons, trucks, crowds begin. They hurry to work, older by a night.

"My sanity laughs at them, but sadly. I detect an obligato to my mirth. The comedy is poignant only because I am a part of it. These hurrying ones with their tired faces and eager shoulders are my brothers and sisters sharing with me the spectacle they make. They are a disillusioning mirror in which I see myself a million times. Yes, they look back at me, and their weariness, their hopelessness saddens me. Man sees himself by gazing into the world--and is overcome. It is only a lunatic who can keep merry in the face of so monstrous an image.

"My happiness is without merriment. I return quickly. I have already the habit of coherence. In a few hours I will go back again and begin with canvas and paint once more. My madness is a lost argument. I am a little tired. But, alas, he who has danced and slept with Medusa goes home weary.

"It will take time before my amusement ripens into rages. And without rages work is impossible. I will wait. Now I am too indifferent for anything but happiness. It is easy to walk and forget one's self and one's senses. It will come back. Mallare will return and expend himself naively in decorations once more.

"When I am strong again I will hunt up a woman. Poor Rita, whom I have murdered twice, illustrating the paradox of possession. Man, the slave of his senses, possesses only what his five masters offer him as gifts.

"I will find a clever one this time whom jests do not frighten. One who does not burn incense before her vagina and cover it with an altar piece. How unctuously women embrace ideas which increase the value and importance of their urinal ducts! Modesty, morality, prurience, piety, are the effulgent underwear behind which they increase the mystery and charm of the mons veneris. Alas, they are the artists of sex and not men. Man has even thrown away the seductive cod-piece. The origins of ideas are varied and multiple. But whatever their origins, it is women who utilize them. What an incredible sex! Vaginomaniacs.

"I will hunt up a vulgar woman, one who does not piously regard her vulva as an orifice to be approached with Gregorian chants. I must be careful to avoid those veteran masturbators marching heroically under the gonfalons of virginity. It is a difficult business, finding a woman. A modest one will offend my intellect. A shameless one will harass my virility. A stupid one will be unable to appreciate my largess. An intelligent one will penetrate my impotency.

"But why women? The devil take them all. I am almost tired of the disillusions they have to offer. The homely ones go away grateful for something they never received. The pretty ones go away chuckling secretly over something they never gave. It is a confused and unintelligible waste of time. It will be enough to paint, to talk, to sip tea, to wander about proselyting in behalf of improvised Gods. I will divert myself, making love to women out of range of their bedrooms. I will engage them conversationally and ravish them with erect and quivering adjectives. It is not necessary to undress a woman to know her. She reveals herself almost as piquantly in moods. I will be the father of moods. And, as a recreation, I will sit and watch the days in their unchanging flight. I bristle with rhetoric. It is a symptom of sanity. I am grateful for this ability to bore myself."

It was morning. Mallare paused against a window. He stood, staring into the life of the street. His eyes were drawn and the corners of his wide, thin mouth smiled feebly.

Snow was falling. The morning dissolved itself. Traffic drifted busily and without sound behind the snow--an excited pantomime that filled the air with misplaced, ventriloquial whispers.

Mallare remained smiling into the gentle storm. Snow covered his head and shoulder.

"The snow falls," he thought tiredly. "It snows, snows. White flakes lose themselves and are grateful for the earth. An invisible ending that flatters them. Well, I have walked all night and rid myself of wisdoms. I am hungry. It's possible I haven't eaten for months. In order to eat, however, I need money."

He slipped one of the gloves from his hand and felt in his pocket. A satisfied smile came to his eyes.

"Excellent," he thought. "Or I would have celebrated my sanity by starving to death."

Withdrawing his hand from his pocket, he found himself regarding it. It grinned back at him like a stranger. It was red.

"Blood," he murmured. His eyes glanced quickly around and he replaced the glove. He continued to walk.

"Blood," he repeated to himself. The word made an ending in his thought. He walked slowly staring at it. His silence lifted. A voice crept into him and began to speak from a distance.

"Careful," it murmured. "Be cautious. Remember you were mad. You had almost forgotten. There is something to think about, now. You will walk slowly and think. It's not as easy as it seemed. Be careful.

"Your fists fought with a phantom. Blows, wild blows. The grotesque memory--the madman pummelling the air. That was you. And your hands are bruised. They've been bleeding. Her breasts and head were something else. Your fists struck mercilessly at chairs and walls. When your hands are washed you will find bruises over them that have been bleeding."

He walked on nodding his head slowly. Later he stopped. The snow was piling itself over the grass of a small park. The swollen shapes of trees and benches rested in the storm.

Mallare sat down on a bench and removed his gloves. Both hands were red. Smiling tiredly, he began to rub them with the snow. His eyes waited as the color dissolved. His hands were clean. He looked at them and nodded.

"There are no bruises," he murmured. "The blood came from something else."

He paused and watched the snow.

"It is curious," he whispered aloud. "Then I am still mad. Careful ... mad. For there was blood ... and not mine. So it would seem I have been seducing myself with optimisms. A true madman. Yes, a lunatic mumbling excitedly to himself in the snow all night, saying:

"Sane. Mallare is quite sane."

He laughed softly.

"Oh, yes. I'm too clever for you, Mallare. Very much too clever. You present a pair of red hands to me. I wash them carefully in the snow. They become white. Interesting phenomena."

He chuckled softly and stared at the snow and swollen trees.

"The old circle again," he murmured. "And I begin the absorbing hide and go seek with my senses. Who am I and where do I end? And who are they and where do they begin? Let us study the phenomenon of red hands. Primo--how do I know there was blood? My eyes said, 'blood.' And the snow is red. But that is only because my eyes, infatuated with an idea, repeat the information.

"But I, Mallare, who am no madman's pawn, no lickspittle secretary to my senses, I say, 'no blood.' I am the Pope. I excommunicate the phenomenon.

"Ah, if there is blood, I fought with one who could bleed. And even my cleverness could not supply arteries in a phantom. Ergo, there is no blood. I am still mad. I see that which is not. But it is nothing to be disturbed about. In fact, it is a diversion."

The snow slowly covered the figure of Mallare. His drawn eyes balanced themselves amid the flakes.

"It snows, snows," he murmured after a pause. "And I remember something. What is it I think! Rita ... Yes, there would be blood if Rita were ... Hm, the murdered one. There was something I didn't remember while I walked.

"I can't. Not that way. Careful, Mallare. Be careful. There are thoughts impossible to think. Yes, impossible."

Again silence filled him. His drawn eyes widened.

"Mallare," he whispered, "you are a madman. I know. This chokes. Yes. It was I--I, Mallare. It is I who have been mad. I have been mad myself. Not you. No, not you! But the God--the Strange Pose. I can't. An impossible denouement. My head breaks. Her blood ... Rita."

He stared open mouthed at a question that circled toward him out of the snow. Words babbled in his head. He shook himself away from them and stared.

"She was alive!" he cried aloud. "My phantom lived. It was I who was the phantom. And she--alive!"

His face whitened, his eyes remained inanimate and gleaming with terror. Then the figure of Mallare fell forward and lay curved in the snow.

[VIII]

_From the Journal of Mallare dated January._

"I am the one who contemplates. I am the Knowing One. There is nothing I do not know. It is amazing to be Mallare. I have triumphed over five worlds. I look down upon a rabble of Mallares. There are five Mallares--five sullen looking madmen. One of them sits and listens to voices. Another of them wanders about, staring with sad eyes at intolerable visions. Another of them lies on his back, babbling excitedly with the darkness. Another of them eats and sleeps like a prosperous grocer. And there is a fifth Mallare who weeps. A baffling rogue who puts his arms around me and blubbers on my shoulder like a lodge brother. He says nothing, and of them all I dislike him the most.

"His silence is mysterious. His tears are uncomfortable. A distressing ass, weeping, blubbering. He implores me. Aha, I have it. I know his secret. He is memory--a memory of myself following me around like a heart-broken mother a wayward son.

"Five Mallares, five sinister comedians to entertain me. And I, what can I call myself--pure reason? No, a disgusting title. Rather, Unreason, since I am after all the Indifferent One. But all this is a quibble inspired by modesty. I am God. I am that which men have worshipped--the aloof one, the pitiless and amused one.

"The five tribes of Mallare rage and curse beneath me, fill the air with profanations, weep and gibber in the night. But I sit inviolate and wait for them--even for that blubbering one whose tongue is thick with tears and whose idiot eyes implore me--and they return. They raise their faces to me, their God, and fall prostrate before my smile.

"Yes, it is the weeping one who causes me the most trouble. A reluctant worshipper who annoys me. He clings like another phantom. A meddlesome imbecile who keeps buttonholing me and pouring out tales of woe. And who keeps my name on his lips. I can see it moving on his lips. But he is dumb. I have his secret though. This dumb one came to me in the snow. I was faint. Hunger had thrown me to the ground. When I stood up he was beside me. His lips moved excitedly but they made no sound. And we walked home together.

"'Who is this pathetic intruder?' I thought. 'He walks beside me gesturing with his lips and weeping, weeping. He falls on my neck and embraces me. His eyes roll with panic. What new variant of madness is this?'

"It is curious that of all the Mallares he alone is speechless. The others keep up their incessant babbling and screaming--true citizens of Bedlam. But this dumb one who attached himself to me in the snow, even his lips have stopped moving now, except to form my name slowly as he blubbers on my shoulder.

"I am kind to him and forgiving. I smile. I even coax him to speak, to move his lips once more. In the snow when he followed me home I was able to detect words his silence spoke.

"'Blood on your hands,' he repeated. 'Think, think, Mallare.'

"I humored him and looked at my hands. They were clean. And I answered him soothingly.

"'You are an interesting quirk,' I said. 'My senses that fancy they have killed a woman have given birth to an illusion of guilt. And you are that illusion. My madness dresses itself in logic like a fishwife hanging rhinestones in her hair.

"'Be calm,' I said, 'Mallare has slain only a phantom, and the murder of illusions is a highly respectable privilege whose exercise is rewarded on earth as well as in heaven.'

"But this creature was not to be diverted from himself.

"'He is another one of them,' I thought. 'He walks and implores and wrings his hand and babbles, 'blood, blood that was real.' And there is nothing to be done with him. Another pathologic symptom asks the hospitality of Mallare, and I must make the proper pretense of graciousness and cordiality.

"'But first I must identify my guest. Take his measure out of the corner of my eye and understand him. Very well, I have been the victim of a hallucination which my senses accepted as real. And which I was able to murder only by pretending I too believed it real. Therefore, having committed this illusory crime, there results this illusory sense of guilt.'

"And thus we walked home, this dumb one and I, his absurd grief confusing me. I will confess. My name on his lips frightened me at first. As it sometimes does now. For he has become more than an illusion of guilt. He is, this sly fellow, a memory, inarticulate and envious. He envies me because I am clever enough to laugh at my madness. However, I will consider him later, in his various guises, for of all the Mallares, dumb though he is and ludicrous with inane tears, he interests me the most.

"We walked home and I finally fell to belaboring him. A pest, a mendicant, a croaking idiot--I cursed him out roundly and refused him further attention. This is the wisest course sometimes. It is dangerous to humor too carelessly these sprawling Mallares. They are slyly at war with my omnipotence. I can understand the anger of God. Sacrilege confuses Him. And We are all alike--We Gods. We are forced into an attitude of indifference in order that We may keep Ourselves intact. Thus We look down with Consummate dispassion upon Our hallucinations--Our worlds. And it is this dispassion that men worship in Us, unable to understand Our lack of interest and terrified by Our aloofness they prostrate themselves before an infinite mystery.

"Yet, though the theology of God has become the secret of My unreason, I find Myself dangerously susceptible. It is when I seek to appease My loneliness by raising one of the babbling ones to My side. He enters My black heaven with a pretense of gratitude, fawning before Me and accepting My fellowship with humility. There follows then a moment of insidious diversion. Slowly a confusion fills Me. Yes, even I am open to confusion. It is a pity I have for the babbling one.

"I listen to his complaints. The sad-eyed Mallare staring at intolerable visions. Mallare, the dark chatterer. Or this other one--My friend the weeping lodge brother. Yes, I pity them and soothe them. But I find Myself singularly moved. Their prayers move Me. They begin to whisper that I return with them. I am tempted to follow them, to let them take My hand and lead Me into their strange houses.

"But I smile in time and My smile, fixed and profound, overcomes them. They prostrate themselves once more before the mystery of My indifference. And I remain the God of Mallare.

"On this day the dumb one sprawled along home with me, there were many curious things happened. I had walked all night in the snow weary with hunger. Rita, who had driven me into a moment of fury--I had destroyed her for the time. A strange destruction during which I pummelled the air like a veritable madman. But the ruse had served to rid me of the hallucination for the night. Finally, tired with walking and hunger, I fell from a bench in the park.

"When I awoke I recalled at once the grotesque struggle of the night. And with this dumb, weeping creature dogging my steps, I returned home. She was still with me. I smiled, although I confess there was despair in my thought. For I had fancied the miserable business of the night had put an end to the hallucination. No, she was still there. She was waiting for me on the couch.

"But my mind had not deceived itself. It was as I had thought. I had planned to rid myself of her by hating this phantom until my hate had darkened it. Then there would be nothing but an imperceptible shadow of her remaining, one with which my senses could no longer seduce themselves.

"And when I came into the room I saw my plot was working. For her eyes no longer gleamed. A radiance had left her.

"'My hate begins to operate upon this chimera,' I thought. I frowned at her and sat down, worn out with the walking of the night.

"'I have undermined the infatuation of this phantom,' I thought. I would have been elate but it occurred to me there was an inconsistency. This dumb one, this sniveling one, persisted. 'And how should he, who was dependent upon her death for his existence, persist in her presence?' This was a question for Mallare, the indifferent one. This was a query to answer.

"Ah, I will write more about this blubberer, for the answer to him is piquantly involved. It is like a head with too many hats. But not now--I will not write about him now. I will only bear him in mind.

"She watched me from the couch and I became aware of something. I studied her cautiously. Her eyes no longer gleamed with love. There was a radiance absent.

"'Aha,' I thought, 'she hates. Mallare recovers the strings to his Frankenstein. His puppet dances again to his will. See, my senses no longer leap to her. They tremble warily before the hate in her eyes.'

"I watched her as she watched me. And then an incredible thing happened. She arose from the couch and came slowly toward me and she held a knife in her hand. She came toward me with the knife at her side.

"'Clever,' I thought. 'In fact, a miracle of cleverness. This phantom has gone mad. It is madder than I. It fancies itself able to slay me. It advances upon me with its dagger of mist and it intends to fall upon me. This mysterious logic that grows of itself like a fungus in darkness, where will it end? Already it towers around me--a monstrous weed rising out of my madness, and I am chilled by its shadow.'

"And I continued to think:

"'I desired to be rid of her. My desire finally overleaped my befuddled senses. And now this desire has become a new soul for my phantom. Yet I planned no details in my desire. I did not will this melodramatic denouement. Then it is obvious that my desire is like a seed filled with hidden life. I blow a thought into my phantom and that thought develops and hatches. This is a phenomenon to be written about.'

"As I thought she came closer and finally stood over me. Her eyes, I observed, were completely mad. Yes, they were like horrible fires. And her face was a marvel of mimicry. The cleverness of my thought appalled me. I said nothing, however, and watched her. She began to talk. I had become used to this phase of the hallucination. But this time my senses shuddered at her words. They who had been so eager to sate themselves in the possession of this chimera and who had betrayed my omnipotence, they now suffered the penalty of their blindness. For it was evident that to them, this chimera was still real. She was an avenger towering with a knife above them.

"But Mallare smiled.

"'See,' he murmured aloud, 'here is the reward of your folly. You would philander with this shadow. You would disport yourself in abominable fornications with this hallucination. Very well, I am amused at your clownish terror even more than I was amused at your burlesque ecstasies. Tremble now for here is a Medusa, a Messalina come to destroy you. Whimper and grovel, but observe in your idiot cowardice how Mallare, the indifferent one, sits and smiles--still supreme, still a spectator ravished by the dark comedy.'