CHAPTER IX

I had made no reference to my luncheon and I must admit that I was considerably perplexed as to what course to pursue. Due to the abrupt interruption of my tête-à-tête with Dianne, we had been unable to agree upon a story. Of Mag I felt reasonably sure, for to betray me would be to implicate herself, but what if Dianne herself should make a slip before I could warn her? However, my short experience with that fascinating person had revealed to me enough of the eternal feminine to trust to her ingenuity.

My confidence was not misplaced for Dianne immediately on entering remarked:

“My dear Acquilla, I should be a thousand miles away from here, but the opportunity to talk a second time to your strange visitor from another world was too tempting, even if I am going to quarrel with him over my interpretation.”

I received this as a hint for my future attitude and answered militantly:

“We shall quarrel certainly, for you have done dreadful things to poor Tristan!”

I advanced and held out my hand.

“What is that for?” said Dianne, staring at it.

“Don’t you shake hands any more?” I replied perplexed in turn.

“What a funny custom. Let me try it,” said Dianne, glancing at Acquilla. “Gracious, how strong and vibrant your hand is! Why do you suppose people ever greeted each other like that? And your face is all covered with hair, like a wild animal.”

I was explaining my predicament when Dulcina and Carrilla entered, the last a statuesque blonde with a wig of flaming purple hair. When Dulcina approached and kissed me on the cheek in the accepted modern style, I purposely returned it with more warmth than I had shown.

Acquilla, to my delight, immediately began to consider the famous aesthete with marked aversion, and to further aggravate her suspicions, I confess that during the evening, I pretended to be greatly attracted. Again, I must refer to a curious phenomenon. With Dianne I felt always the traditional male superiority; but with Acquilla, despite every effort, I felt myself constantly resorting to those devious ways of concealment that left me with a bewildered sense of a transmuted sex.

Our dinner, needless to say, was of the same high order of gastronomic delicacy as my first. The four Amazons were of faultless beauty, slender and regal in their graceful limbs and tinted headdresses, so that my imagination mellowed by the exquisite vintages, pictured myself in the court of some mythological divinity surrounded by her nymphs. Yet the fascination that Dianne had imposed on my senses from the first view, was imperative and exclusive of all other desires. Dinner over, the conversation naturally developed into a series of cross-examinations on the habits and manners of the twentieth century, which I sustained with spirit. Dulcina was particularly interested in the aesthetic life of my sex.

“Is it true, Bogardus,” she said, “at a time when certainly women must have discarded the absurdities of hoop-skirts, corsets and powdered headdresses that you men continued to dress in the livery of your butlers?”

“Dulcina, I shall not attempt to defend myself. On this point I admit you score heavily. Nothing could have been more absurd than the clothes to which we were subjected. In fact, in an age when societies for the prevention of cruelty to animals flourished, no one ever thought of a society for the prevention of cruelty to men.”

“I have seen curious drawings of the times,” said Dulcina, “but I confess I cannot comprehend them. Explain please, Bogardus, the strange way you dressed.”

“It is easier to explain how, than why,” I continued. “In the first place when women’s dress did not weigh more than two to three pounds, we were staggering about in clothes that weighed five to six times as much. We wore heavy stiff hats, like inverted kettles and almost as heavy, that shut out all air from our heads. We wore collars as rigid as boards about our necks that strangled our throats in a way no human being would have treated a dog, and at night we placed another rigid white board over our chests and for some mysterious reason exposed it proudly to the public view. But worst of all, while we encouraged our women to display themselves in bright colors, exquisitely blended and designed, we confined ourselves to browns and greys and went into mourning each night.”

“And yet in the past--you had Rome and Athens! Even in the middle ages, you men in your dress rivalled the male plumage in nature. How could such an absurdity happen then? And why did you endure it so long without a revolt?”

I shook my head.

“It has been described as a product of democracy.”

“Yet the women were never affected, Bogardus.”

“Perhaps,” said Acquilla maliciously, “it may have been that women never really accepted democracy.”

“I make no defence,” I said shrugging my shoulders again. “I have suffered too much.”

“Wouldn’t it be fair to say, Bogardus,” said Acquilla slyly, “that this is another proof that men were traditional and women the pioneers of the imagination?”

As I felt myself cornered again, I evaded the answer by saying:

“Yet the curious thing, Dulcina, is that the great designers of the fashions were always men.”

“It is so today.”

“Really?”

“Certainly. In certain things, Bogardus, we freely admit that the talents of men have remained supreme.” There was some objection to this, but Dulcina persisted, “Who are the great chefs today? Men. Who sets the fashions? The men of Paris. Who are the great producers of masques and spectacles? Men. And of course, when you come to the great composers and painters--”

“How about mathematics? In my day, though women distinguished themselves in every other field--higher mathematics was a closed door.”

“Yes,” Acquilla admitted grudgingly. “In that one branch of science we admit the natural talent of the male mind. When you go to the Astrodrome you will see how we use it. But after all it is a deductive quality, rather than a creative one.”

“It produced an Einstein,” I said warmly. “By the way, in your stupefying progress, have you succeeded in understanding the Einstein theories?”

“That exploded theory is taught in the primary schools as a scientific curiosity,” Acquilla responded crushingly. But after a glance at the irritation which must have been evident on my face, she said, with that new solicitude her voice took on when she spoke to me. “However, Bogardus, we would be most ungenerous if we devoted the evening to an attack on the civilization of our guest. You have a treat before you, Carrilla has promised to give us the great Stars Symphony by Fliederfeldt, the famous composer of the twenty first century!”

The thought that came to me instantly was that my ears were now about to be assailed by a cacophony of strident noises along the lines of that modern school which in my day had gone over to the rhythm of locomotives and trip hammers.

“The orchestron was not known to you,” said Acquilla, motioning me to a seat on the couch beside her. “I think you have a surprise waiting for you.”

Carrilla who had been unusually silent, gazing at me with that entranced concentration I was learning to expect, allowed herself to be persuaded after the manner of all great artists, before going to a large instrument which resembled more an organ than a piano. At the first bars, I exclaimed in surprise:

“But it’s impossible! She is not playing herself. It is the record of a great symphony orchestra!”

“It is an orchestra, true,” said Dulcina, gratified by my astonishment, “but it is played by a single performer.”

I rose and approached the instrument incredulously.

“Forgive me this interruption, my dear Carrilla,” I said, “but before you begin, explain to me how it is possible for you to produce on a keyboard, not only the sounds of wind instruments which our organs did imitate, but the clear and definite notes of violins and cellos.”

“After all, it is quite simple,” Carrilla said, indicating to me an elaborate keyboard. “If anyone had thought of it in your day, I’m sure they would have invented it. There is but one gamut and all the orchestron does is to reproduce the notes of all instruments. You see, here are the strings and these delicately adjusted instruments are the bows. As for the flutes and the horns, if a human mouth can blow into them, surely a mechanical device can do so.”

“It is wonderfully designed,” I said, staring into the intricate mechanism, “but how are you able to control these multiple instruments under one direction, particularly when one part of your orchestra is playing one theme against another?”

“It is a complicated art, of course,” said Carrilla proudly, “and certain mechanical devices are necessary. For instance, when the strings are carrying the theme, this device insures the repetition of the motif. Music is after all only the mathematics of melody. It has its repetitions, iterations and progressions. I indicate the theme on the keyboard while underneath by these different pedals I throw it into the different instruments I desire. Do you see? So. Here are the flutes, now I close the flutes and bring up the cellos, now both mingle and now one plays this simple theme against the other. Is it clear?”

“Clear as the suspension of the solar system in space. Since we see it, it is so, but just as miraculous.”

“Recline and I shall play--just for you,” she said in a low voice, pressing my hand.

I returned and placed myself between Acquilla and Dianne, agreeably intoxicated by their fragrant personalities, while Carrilla began to play. Even now I cannot believe the testimony of my senses. All I can say is that apparently Carrilla at the keyboard seemed to play upon an invisible orchestra as deftly as though she were rendering a simple performance on the pianoforte. Possibly the orchestron was merely a glorified organ. The thought occurred to me. But if so, it was unlike any organ I had ever listened to and there was not the faintest note of the piping tremolo I associated with that instrument.

After this divine music, Dianne without rising, sang to Carrilla’s accompaniment, the air of Elsa from Lohengrin (Wagner alone seemed to have survived) and another that resembled somewhat the salute to the sun in Coq d’Or. She was so close that I could almost feel the passing of the lovely liquid notes against my cheek. Once in an impassioned burst I felt her hand slip into mine and lie there all tremulous with emotion. My own senses were now in such a whirl by the magnetism of her nearness that fearing to betray myself, I sat up at the conclusion of her song and said:

“Carrilla and Dianne, for pity’s sake, no more! If I listen any longer to your ravishing music, I shall feel myself back on Calypso’s island bewitched by the songs of sirens. And you know what happened to those who listened?” I drew a long sharp breath and to recover some calm added, “Oh, by the way, I have one complaint to make, but that is a serious one. Who emasculated the rôle of Tristan in the otherwise perfect performance I witnessed yesterday?”

The Amazons glanced at one another in surprise.

“Emasculate? Just what do you mean, Bogardus?” said Acquilla at length.

“While it is true that the passion of love overwhelms each at the drinking of the love potion, Tristan is a magnificent male, a hero of a hundred battles, one of the famous knights of legend. But you make him a pliant shrinking personality dominated by Isolde.”

“But after all, Tristan is a man!” exclaimed Dianne, after a chorus of exclamations.

“Even a love potion could not have made the regal Isolde fall in love with an invertebrate like that.”

“Historically he is right,” said Dulcina, “I have always maintained that we should produce the opera to represent the times.”

“The public would never understand it!” said Acquilla.

“Where could you find a man today to play the part differently!”

“My dear ladies, let me tell you frankly that what you defend is nothing but nature faking. Why, in the second act,” I continued, boiling at the recollection, “in the sublimest love scene of all drama, how do you represent it? By Isolde putting her arm around Tristan and pillowing his head on her shoulder! If you don’t see the absurdity of that, there is no sense of humor left in the world. No, really it is too funny!”

At this memory, and the blank seriousness of their looks, I was seized with a sudden uncontrollable spasm of hilarity. I laughed, holding my sides until the tears ran down my cheeks.

“There he is doing it again,” said Acquilla in a whisper.

“Are you in such dreadful pain,” cried Dianne, seizing my arm with a warmth that should have betrayed her personal interest, while Dulcina and Carrilla stood frightened and helpless staring at me.

“Pain, no! I am laughing,” I managed to cry out.

“Laughing, that’s what he called it,” Acquilla explained. “No, I assure you he is not suffering. He will be quite normal in a moment!”

I mastered my emotion, but the ludicrousness of their perplexed concern for me so overcame me, that again I doubled up. When at last I was master of myself, I said:

“It is true you have abolished laughter! What a revelation!” I cried, struck by a sudden enlightenment. “It must be true then, that women never really had a sense of humor and only counterfeited our inexplicable amusement!”

“But why do you laugh, Bogardus?” said Dulcina, curiously.

“How can I explain the nature of laughter to those who have never laughed? And yet, wise women of the twenty-second century, don’t you realize that laughter has overthrown kings and gods? When men slunk in the woods and feared the night and the storm and shivered under the tyranny of fear and superstition, it was the first man who dared to laugh at a clay god, who made men gods of men themselves. You want to know what it is to laugh?” I concluded. “I will teach you as we taught our babies!”

“I am willing to try,” said Acquilla, nerving herself in the interest of science.

“Very well. Slip off your sandal--so. Put out your foot.”

Wondering, Acquilla obliged, while the others craned about us.

I took the lovely ankle firmly in my hand and ran my fingertips lightly over the sole of her foot.

“Oh! Oh!” cried Acquilla, with a convulsive shiver.

“It is not painful, is it?” I demanded, maliciously.

“No--but it’s very strange. No, Bogardus, let go of my foot. I can’t stand any more. It--it--”

“Tickles?”

“Oh how--oh, how it tickles!” she cried and suddenly began to laugh. “Oh, how funny--how queer--but oh, how delightful. I do, I do like it!”

Dulcina, Carrilla and Dianne each in their turn clamored for the experiment, and each was hilariously initiated into the lost art.

“There,” I exclaimed, pointing to Acquilla, who was laughing at their first contortions, “now she is laughing at you.”

“I am laughing because they are making such strange faces,” said Acquilla, wiping the tears from her eyes.

At this moment Mag entered with a tray. I waited my moment and suddenly pulled the rug from under her. The four women burst out laughing at the sudden sprawling descent. But all at once Acquilla frowned and with a gesture of dismissal to the maid, said:

“Bogardus, is laughter then so cruel!”

I saw my mistake and tried to rectify it.

“Laughter in that case was simply an atavistic sense of superiority. It was because Mag was placed in a ludicrous light, that our self-superiority expressed itself in a laugh. But that is only a trivial and a very obvious side.”

“Wait!” Acquilla stopped me with a frown. “You have done a daring and it may be an unwise thing, Bogardus. There are illimitable consequences to what you have taught us. Perhaps this is what was meant by the fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.”

“Acquilla, how ridiculous!” exclaimed Dulcina, and to my horror began to giggle.

“There you see,” said Acquilla sombrely. “The poison has already begun to act! Bogardus, answer my question.”

When Acquilla was in this mood the effect was terrifying. A sudden hush ensued and I caught an admonishing glance from Dianne.

“You say, Bogardus, that laughter has overthrown tyrannies and superstitions. That is good. But answer me truthfully: has it never destroyed the reputation of a genius or caused the decadence of a great civilization?”

“You are thinking of some particular instance?” I said, to gain time.

“Of many, Bogardus. Was not Pericles driven out by ridicule and weren’t the greatest of the Greek tragedians made the butt of the coarse humor of Aristophanes and his school? And in a larger sense, did not the most brilliant of your civilizations lapse into an intellectual and political decadence when the Athenians had learned to turn everything into ridicule?”

“You are ascribing to one cause what must have been the result of many. And I may remind you that Æschylus, Euripides and Sophocles have remained among the immortals.”

“You are adroit, Bogardus, but you are temporizing. Let us go further. Answer me honestly. Was not the spirit of irony directed against your most sacred institutions? And wasn’t the object of your so-called humorists to ridicule everything you held by; the family relationship, marriage, the established church, your statesmen, your professors and your traditions?”

“True. Our satirists and comedians amused themselves at the expense of marriage, love, fidelity, domestic bliss, the older generation; but Acquilla,” I added artfully, “was the attack unjustified? And since you have abolished marriage and the home, and parentage and romance, is it not fair to ascribe some part in the new enlightenment to that same masculine spirit of irony which undermines with ridicule what you have destroyed with your logic?”

“You argue glibly,” said Acquilla, in the usual feminine way, “but one thing is clear from your own words--this thing you exalt as laughter, which I call the spirit of irony, has been a cruel and destructive force, and when it dominates a society it destroys it. I see the danger now, and Dulcina, Carrilla, Dianne, I expressly enjoin on you that what has happened here tonight, through a careless whim, must go no further.”

“Really, my dear,” said Dulcina, laughing, “you are just a little put out by the brilliant exposition of a mere man and trying to magnify into an affair of state what is a game for children.”

“I think Bogardus has argued brilliantly and revealed to us a surprising breadth of view. I am more of a masculinist than ever,” said Carrilla, coming to me and looking deep into my eyes. “And if he displeases you I shall be delighted to take him home with me.”

“Carrilla, you are frivolous,” said Dianne, rising angrily. “I quite agree with Acquilla, and I am confident that when Bogardus has had time to become acquainted with our institutions he will be the last to advocate the introduction of any spirit of criticism.”

“Why, I thought you stood for the regeneration of men,” said Dulcina, turning on Dianne. “At least you have said so a hundred times. It is you who are inconsistent! I agree with Carrilla--Bogardus has convinced me. The suppression of the male sex as it is carried on today is contrary to nature and justice!” She turned to me and taking my hand added: “Bogardus, all you say interests me intensely, and I invite you now to return with me and let me personally act as your guide.”

“Why, the idea!” said Carrilla acidly. “I asked him first.”

“Suppose we leave the choice to Bogardus himself,” said Dianne, looking angrily at the other two.

Acquilla, who had watched this scene with frowning brow interrupted with a peremptory gesture. “For shame! We are acting like a group of silly men! Enough! When I need advice or assistance I shall know where to find it.” She rose, ending the evening. “It is late and Bogardus is still in need of strength and sleep. Good night!”

Carrilla and Dulcina shrugged their shoulders and embraced me, with a warmth that had been entirely lacking in their first contact, but when I felt the lovely arms of Dianne about me, my pulse began to race.

“Be careful, Jacko,” she whispered in my ear. “You went too far. Acquilla is alarmed and Acquilla is implacable. Good night, my adorable one!”

The sensation of having thrown the apple of discord among these beautiful creatures was, I confess, humorously satisfactory to my vanity. But heeding Dianne’s warning look, and intimidated by the angry fire in the eyes of Acquilla, I resolved that discretion was the better part of valor. When we were left alone, I held out my hand and said, smiling:

“Dear Acquilla, I see that even now discussions are dangerous between the sexes, but since we are alone, let me admit that I see a great deal for serious consideration in what you have said.”

“They are only Histriones and Æsthetes,” said Acquilla, her brow clearing, “and their faculties are all emotional. You are a man of such sound sense that I am confident of your final judgment. But meanwhile no more such experiments as tonight, Bogardus.”

“I promise,” I replied, smiling a relieved smile. “So it’s understood we shall laugh no more!”

“Oh, well,” replied Acquilla, looking at me with a tender light in her eyes. “I don’t say never. It wasn’t so painful. But only when we are alone, dear.”

She came toward me with a radiant smile, opening her arms.

Again I felt a swift metamorphosis.

“When you look at me like that,” I said, with assumed dizziness, “my head goes round. I--I feel--”

Acquilla sprang forward and lifted me clear in her strong arms as I pretended to reel and fall.

“Poor dear! You are still not strong!” she said, holding me as a child, and bending over my eyes. “Forgive me! I must take better care of you. Better, dear?”

“Yes, but--but, I don’t understand why I am so weak.”

Thanks to my duplicity, I was carried upstairs and put to bed, but the kiss that Acquilla laid on my lips burned into me. Again I lay awake a long time dreaming of Dianne and Acquilla, realizing all at once the dangers and perplexities with which my situation was now fraught;--I, of the now decidedly weaker sex, alone and unprotected, at the mercy of this resplendent but ruthless and unmoral Amazon.