 Part one, chapters nine and ten of Perkins the Faker, A Travesty on Reincarnation by Edward S. Van Zyl. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. When Reginald was Caroline, chapter nine, Afternoon Callers. Still in dreams it comes upon me that I once on wings did soar, but o'er air my flight commences this my dream must all be o'er. From the Persian. As I look back upon it now, that afternoon wears the aspect of a variegated nightmare from which I could not awaken. What will Madame wear this afternoon? Suzanne had asked me when I returned to my apartments above stairs. I kit viciously at the empty air with one of Caroline's dainty feet. The time had come evidently for Suzanne to change my costume again. Should I take a ride, or a walk, or remain at home? If I went for a ride I should have only my own bitter thoughts for company. If I took a stroll up the avenue almost anything unpleasant might happen to me. If I stayed in the house I must receive callers. No one of these alternatives was alluring but I was forced to choose the latter. For a number of rather vague reasons I did not dare to cut off my line of communication with Caroline. She had become, as it were, a flying column not yet out of touch with headquarters. And she ought to be shot for disobedience to orders, I amused aloud. Pardon me, madame," exclaimed Suzanne interrogatively. "'Né porte, girl,' I answered testily, "'I shall remain at home, Suzanne. Give orders downstairs that I have a headache and can receive no one.' "'But madame is looking so much better,' protested Suzanne. "'And the debutants will call to-day. It is madame's afternoon.' "'Well, do your worst, then,' I grumbled discontentedly. "'Can you get me some clothes, Suzanne?' An hour later I entered the drawing-room after a perilous descent from the second story to confront three young women who I had gathered from Suzanne held Caroline in high esteem as a chaperone. I had committed their names to memory before leaving the dressing-room, but the effort to get downstairs without spraining my wife's ankles had obliterated from my mind all traces of its recent acquisition. I stood, flushing painfully, gazing into the smiling faces of three handsome, modish girls who were wholly strangers to their vicarious hostess. "'Oh, Mrs. Stevens, what a charming day. How lovely you are looking! Wasn't that cramped and dance perfectly stunning? Mr. Van Tromp made such a pretty epigram about your costume. Just a moment, uh, girls,' I gasped, seating myself awkwardly and inclined to lose my temper. "'There's a painful lack of method about all this. Suppose we begin at the beginning. You were saying, uh, my dear,' I remarked to the commist of the trio. The latter exchanged puzzled glances with her companions. "'I was speaking of the compliment that Mr. Van Tromp paid to you,' explained the maiden rather dolefully. "'He's a bad lot, that young Van Tromp,' I exclaimed impulsively. Perhaps I ought not to talk against another man, uh, behind her, I mean, his bag. But Van Romeo's too easy, girls.' He writes poetry. I have no doubt that he makes puns. Charming, ah, day, isn't it?' My beautiful collars had lost their vivacity. One of them, a pretty little brunette, had grown pale. "'What about the coaching-party, Mrs. Stevens?' The one I took to be the eldest of the three ventured to ask presently. "'It's all arranged, uh, my dear,' I answered recklessly. "'Were to have a dozen cases of champagne and a brass band of ten pieces. "'I'm up for all day, you see.' If little Van Tromp praised my executive ability, ah, girls, he'd have a career open to him. "'Merrily we'll bowl along, bowl along, I'm to handle the reins, you know.' There were now three pallid maidens confronting me. In the eyes of the eldest I saw a gleam of mingled suspicion and fear. "'I must be going,' she gasped. "'Don't go,' I implored her, overacting my hospitable role a bit. There flashed through my mind a scene from a Gilbert Sullivan opera, the Mecado, and I caught myself humming the air of three little girls from school, are we. Jones to my consternation stalked into the drawing-room as if about to reprove me for my lack of dignity. "'Pardon me, madame,' said my bait-nois pompously, but Mr. Stevens insists upon your coming to the telephone. My callers were on their feet instantly. They appear to be glad of an excuse for leaving me and also somewhat astonished at the butler's choice of words. "'Don't let us keep you a moment,' cried the eldest. "'Remember me to Mr. Stevens,' urged the little brunette mischievously. "'Goodbye. We are so grateful to you, Mrs. Stevens,' exclaimed the third with a sigh of relief. "'Be good,' I answered gaily. "'Come again, young ladies. Don't mind Jones, you'll get used to him. "'Come again next month, won't you? Ta-ta!' I stumbled over my skirts as I stepped forward and the little flock of debutants hurried away in a fright, glancing over their shoulders at me in a manner that suggested gossip to come. "'Hello,' I shouted through the phone when I had managed to reach the library. "'Is that you, uh, Reginald? Where are you?' "'Yes, this is Reginald.' I heard my voice in answer. "'I'm at the Varsity Club, charming place. Nice boys here. You seem to be popular, my dear. "'Here's to you, good as you are, and here's to me, bad as I am. But as good as you are and as bad as I am, I'm as good as you are, bad as I am.' "'Good Lord, uh, uh, Reginald,' I faltered, horror-stricken. "'Don't worry, Caroline,' came my voice soothingly. "'It's all right. I know when to stop. "'Had any callers? This is your day at home, is it not?' "'I'll send the coupé for you at once, uh, Reginald,' I said, with great presence of mind. "'Go easy till it arrives, will you?' "'What do you mean to imply, Caroline?' growled my wife, a note of anger in my voice. "'I'm going to walk home by and by. You needn't bother about the coupé. I hear the boys calling to me. "'Here's to you, my dear. Good-bye.' "'Before I could utter another word, Caroline had cut me off and I turned from the phone despondently. For a moment it seemed to me that the library was surrounded by an iron grating and that I wore a ball and chain attached to my legs. Caroline and the old crowd. I am forced to confess that the hot tears came into my wife's eyes as I seated myself in a reading-chair and found myself face to face with a loneliness that was provocative of despair. Jones was hot on the scent. He strode into the library and bore down upon me relentlessly, carrying a tray upon which rested two calling-cards. "'They are in the drawing-room, madame,' said the butler, indifferently. "'Caroline's toast came ringing to my ears. "'Here's to you, good as you are, and here's to me, bad as I am. And here I sat, bullied by Jones and the plaything of a lot of light-headed women of all ages. For one wild, feverish moment the thought of revolt darted through my mind. I might faint or have a fit, and Jones would be forced to dismiss my callers. But I quickly realized that I was not up to a brilliant histrionic effort. Even as it was I was playing another's role with but in different success. Two elderly women, richly garbed, arose as I re-entered the drawing-room. "'I'm so glad to see you, ah, my dears,' I said in a voice pitched to indicate cordiality. One of my callers tossed her head hotly while the prim mouth of her companion fell open. This was not encouraging, and I remained silent. We stared at each other for a long, agonizing moment. How do you do?' I began again with much less assurance. Go away, little girls, kept running through my mind from that diabolical, tinkling, micado. "'We are very well, I believe,' remarked Mrs. Martin, as she proved to be, coldly. I think I may answer for Mrs. Smyth's health.' "'I am in perfect health,' exclaimed Mrs. Smyth, with emphasis staring at me in a superior kind of way. "'There's nothing like perfect health, ah, my friends,' I said in a high almost hysterical falsetto. "'Who is it who says that a man is as old as he feels and a woman as old as she looks?' "'Whoever said it, Mrs. Stevens, did us a great injustice,' commented Mrs. Martin, with some warmth. "'I am as young in spirit as I was ten years ago, but I don't look it.' "'No, you don't look it,' I hastened to remark cordially. But my comment was not well received. Mrs. Martin glanced at Mrs. Smyth, and they stood erect on the instant. "'You're not going, ah, my dears?' I cried, thinking it too good to be true. "'You will pardon the liberty that I am about to take, Mrs. Stevens,' began Mrs. Martin sternly. "'But it seems only fair to you that we should ask a question before leaving you. You are out of sorts to-day. Not quite yourself, are you?' "'Not quite,' I answered, drawing myself up to Caroline's full height, and struggling against an inclination to give vent to wild, feverish laughter. "'I may say, Mrs.—ah, my dear, that I'm not quite myself. Not quite. It'll pass off. I have every reason to believe it'll pass off. But you're right. I'm not quite myself.' My frankness, which appalled me as I thought of it afterwards, seemed to have a soothing effect upon my collars. "'You really do too much, Mrs. Stevens,' remarked Mrs. Smyth in a motherly way. You should try to get a nap at once.' "'Your nerves are affected,' Mrs. Martin added, speaking gently. "'You are overdoing things. Did you ever try the rest cure?' "'Yes, I've been giving it a chance to-day,' I confessed. But it doesn't work. I can't sleep in the daytime.' "'Bear that in mind, ah, my dear. Don't talk to me about a nap.' As I said to Caroline, ah, Reginald, I'm up for all day. But you know what nerves are, do you not?' Mrs. Martin again glanced furtively at Mrs. Smyth, and without more ado they swept out of the drawing-room. I dropped into a chair a feeling of relief mingled with self-disgust sweeping over me. I realized that I had been making a sad botch of the part that I had attempted to play. At that moment heavy footsteps behind me aroused me from my black and white reverie. Two large, hot hands were placed over my eyes, and the end of a beard tickled Caroline's forehead. Guess who it is? I heard my deep voice saying, here's to you good as you are. Caroline, I exclaimed, conflicting emotions agitating my soul. "'Guess again, little woman,' said my wife, playfully in my voice. They call me Reggie at the club." Chapter 10. Recriminations. We know these things are so, we ask not why, but act and follow as the dream goes on. Milne's. Yes, I've had a simply perfect day, my dear, remarked Caroline frankly as we left the library to ascend to our second-story suite. I've made $20,000 by not taking your advice, and as to the old crowd at the Varsity Club, I think they're really charming. I've been doing a good deal of miscellaneous thinking, my dear, and I'm convinced that women have a great future before them. What women? I cried impatiently as I tripped against the top stair and caught my better half by the tail of my coat. You'll do better with practice, remarked Caroline soothingly. I'm sure you enjoyed the day. Who has been here? That'll keep, I answered, resisting an inclination to tweak my own nose. Where's Jenkins? Caroline indulged in a hoarse chuckle. Jenkins has gone to Hoboken. He won't be back for at least a month. I think I can get on without a man. How's Suzanne? We had come to a standstill in the upper hall just outside of the main door to our private rooms. How you'll manage to dress for dinner? I asked, gazing at my flushed, triumphant face with sharply contrasted emotions. I was glad to see it again, but I did not like Caroline's way of using it. I'm very quick to learn, answered my voice tauntingly. You must admit, my dear, that I've been a success today. You don't think that I'm to be overcome by a man's dinner costume? A chill ran through me and Caroline's voice trembled as I said. What do you think I'd better wear tonight? Suzanne will ask me presently. A jovial laugh greeted my words. The humorous side of our horrible plight seemed to be always apparent to Caroline. You must be sure to do me credit, my dear boy, said my wife gruffly. You've glanced over my wardrobe, have you not? The hot blood came into my adopted cheeks of the suggestion. I've been too busy to look into the matter, I faltered. Damn it, Caroline, don't be so confoundedly superior. I'm crushed and discouraged. That's straight. Give me a word of advice, will you? What shall I wear tonight? I don't want to make a fool of myself before Suzanne. Poor Suzanne, growled Caroline somewhat irrelevantly, I thought. She must have had a day of it. Tell her you'll wear the dress I wore at the Leonard's dinner party last week. You needn't say much about my hair. Suzanne'll know what to do with it. Her hand, or rather mine, was on the knob of the door when a hideous and persistent horror that had haunted me for some time forced me to say, in Caroline's most insistent treble. Why, oh, why did you allow Edgerton to ask that infernal Yamama to come here tonight? It was madness, Caroline. Call me Reginald, interposed my wife coolly. It was madness, I say, Reginald. It was that, or worse. My heart beat fast in Caroline's bosom. What do you mean? Asked my wife, thrusting my face forward and transfixing me with my own eyes. You've enjoyed the day, haven't you? I asked, my temper overcoming my prudence. Well, I haven't. I've been driven nearly crazy by a lot of full women while you've had the time of your life. I don't follow you, remarked my wife severely. That's just it, I cried angrily. You lead me and I'm forced to follow you. I tell you frankly that I've grown suspicious. You've been studying Oriental mysticism. You've been to lectures and seances and for all I know you may be a favorite pupil of this chocolate-drop Yamama. My wife drew herself up to my full height and gazed down at me freezingly. You mean to imply, Mrs. Stevens? She remarked with studied coldness that I was deliberately responsible for what happened this morning or last night. Don't dare to call me Mrs. Stevens, Caroline. I whispered, shaking with futile rage. If I have suspected you, have I not had sufficient circumstantial evidence? Mrs. Taunton tells me that this rascally faker Yamama turns people into pigs, frogs, any old thing. And you've allowed Edgerton to bring him here tonight. I don't believe that you have the slightest desire to, uh, change back again. My wife laughed aloud in my most disagreeable manner. Here's to you good as you are and here's to me bad as I am. She cried with most untimely geniality and without more due through open the door to our apartments. In the center of the room stood Suzanne pale but self-contained awaiting my advent. For a moment a mad project tempted me. If I rushed downstairs and had a fit in the lower hall I might escape many of the horrors that the evening threatened to bring with it. But if I took this heroic course a doctor would be called in. On the whole I preferred Suzanne to a physician. I realized clearly enough that I lacked the ability to keep or reject data with the unerring judgment of the professional storyteller. I should like to give to my testimony a somewhat artistic structure but I am hampered in this inclination by the necessity of following the actual sequence of events. Being neither a novelist nor a scientist I am in danger of making an amorphous presentment of facts that shall fail either to convince the psychologist or entertain the idle reader of an empty tale. On the whole I am prone to make sacrifices in behalf of the latter. My natural inclination is toward art rather than toward science and for this reason I shall remain silent regarding the petty episodes of the hour that followed my talk with Caroline. As it is my narrative is over-weighted with what may be called details of the toilet. At half after six my wife and I entered our drawing room under a flag of truce. The annoyances that had hampered Caroline's unaided efforts to don my evening clothes had had a beneficial effect upon her exultant overbearing tendencies. She was subdued in manner to the verge of gloom. Why are you so downhearted, my dear? I asked. Don't you like, uh, my appearance? Which appearance? Growled Caroline glaring at me. Are the studs in the right place? Of course they are, I answered cheerfully. I never looked better, I'm sure. I congratulate you. And Suzanne tells me that this costume is very becoming to you. The one I have on, I mean. Have you noticed, Caroline, what an infernal nuisance pronouns have become? I'm glad our nouns have no gender. What did you say to young Van Tromp at the Crompton Stance? My beard seemed to fairly bristle with Caroline's anger and astonishment. Van Tromp, she exclaimed in a surly basso. What has he been doing now? Horrid little thing. He's not one of the boys, is he, my dear? I had seated myself with some difficulty, annoyed at Suzanne for lacing Caroline so tightly, but rather pleased inwardly at my feminine beauty and Parisian costume. Caroline stood not far away, six feet tall, broad-shouldered, a manly figure in black and white. Van Tromp, I remarked in the soft musical tones that had at last reconciled me to my borrowed voice. Van Tromp is a wandering minstrel, a tubidor out of his time, an age and Romeo, who haunts Juliet's balcony at all hours of the day and night, playing a hurdy-gurdy and reciting his own rhymes. Van Tromp is the one bright gleam in a black and starless night. He would atone for a dreary day where not Yamama coming, too. I don't understand you, Caroline, growled my wife, shifting my feet uneasily. You haven't told me what Van Tromp said to you at the Crompton Stance, I said relentlessly. I'll return to the subject later on. Now, tell me, Reginald, what you know about Yamama. You intimated, unless I am mistaken, that my suspicions as to your collusion with this oriental faker were unfounded. Unfounded, exclaimed my wife scornfully. Absurd, ridiculous! Do you imagine that I would choose this clumsy body of yours in preference to mine? Look at me, and then glance at the mirror, my dear. I'll admit that I've had a very enjoyable day. But I assure you I know little more about Yamama than you do. I am very nervous about him. I don't know what he'll do to us. But I have a horrible fear that he will read our secret at a glance. If he does, Caroline, I cried excitedly, slug him. Never mind about hospitality. Hit him a crack on the nose. You can apologize to Edgar turn afterward. That's just like a man, grumbled Caroline. You think you can defeat esoteric Buddhism with your fists? I'm rather ashamed of you, my dear. I felt the blood coming into Caroline's cheeks. It won't do, of course, I murmured presently. We must use diplomacy not force in dealing with this oriental nuisance. Perhaps Yamama will find little Van Trump sufficiently amusing to enable us to escape detection. I'm inclined to think that Van Trump is the outward and visible sign of a love sick tadpole. His sister, the debutante, is not so bad. I suppose she'll fall to Edgar turn at dinner. We must have a rehearsal, you and I. We marked Caroline gruffly. I escort Mrs. Edgar turn, of course, and you'll take Van Trump's arm. You'll like that. Do you see these violets? Reginald, I cried dramatically, making a gesture toward Van Trump's floral offering now bedecking my corsage. He sent them to you. What was Van Romeo's little game? You were to wear the violets tonight if you really meant what you said to him at the Crompton Stance. As you always mean what you say, my dear, I have hung out the sign of your veracity, so to speak. There's more to come, of course. There's a poem for one thing. I'll read it out when we get our coffee. I saw that my heavy face was flushed and that my eyes glowed with anger as I glanced upward at my wife. She strode toward me menacingly and laid a heavy hand upon her bare shoulder. Seizing Van Trump's violets before I could recover from my astonishment, she tore them from their fastenings and hurled them toward a remote corner of the drawing room. You carry a joke too far. She growled menacingly. If you dare to read that poem, I'll tell Yamama the whole story when he comes. I know what to say to him and he'll do what I ask him to do. I give you fair warning. I fell back in my chair cold and disheartened. My worst suspicions seemed to be confirmed. Caroline was in league as I had feared with that sunburnt faker from the Far East. At that moment, Jones entered the room. Mr. and Mrs. Edgerton, he announced, and an instant later, Miss Van Trump, Mr. Van Trump. End of part one, chapters nine and 10. Part one, chapters 11 and 12 of Perkins the Faker, a travesty on reincarnation by Edward S. Van Zile, this Libra Vox recording is in the public domain. When Reginald was Caroline, chapter 11, a dinner and a discussion. Yesterday this day's madness did prepare to moral silence, triumph, or despair. Drink, for you know not once you came nor why. Drink, for you know not why you go nor where. Omar Kayam. It is always under the best of conditions uncertain how a dinner party will go off. People are not unlike the ingredients of a salad dressing. The smoothness of the dressing depends upon a mysterious chemical affinity that is recognized by the salad maker but never wholly understood. All the arts are closely related to each other. A dinner party, a salad dressing, or an epic poem demands creative effort and is successful in so far as its creator has made an effective fusion of its separate parts. Caroline had been inclined to believe that her fame as a dinner giver was no more than her due. She had reached an altitude as a triumphant hostess from which she could make experiments of a more or less interesting kind. She enjoyed bringing together around our board seemingly antagonistic social molecules to see if they would fuse. She had planned tonight's dinner much as a chemist prepares his materials for a novel combination. Edgerton and Mrs. Edgerton, Van Tromp and Miss Van Tromp, formed the basis for an experiment that might produce either a perfume or an explosion. What the result would have been had Caroline's effort not been hampered by a sole transposition that made many things awkward to us that were unobserved by our guests, I cannot say. A large portion of the function, especially its earlier stages, is a blur and a buzz in my memory. It had been like this from the first whenever I had come into the butler sphere of influence. Van Tromp and Edgerton were not especially terrifying. I knew their limitations, but Jones impressed me as a mystery concealing in a wooden exterior most frightful possibilities for mischief. I did not fully recover my self-control if such it could be called until after the fish had been served. By that time the situation in the dining room was about as follows. Caroline, playing the role of host, was doing nicely, but was, I feared, inclined to overact the part a bit. Little Van Tromp, a blue-eyed, insignificant-looking man with a tender mustache, pointed blonde beard and too much hair on his head, was low-spirited and inclined to wander in his talk. He would glance at my corsage and then cast a reproachful, languishing glance at Caroline's eyes into which I found it possible, now and then, to throw an expression of cockatry that revived the poet's drooping spirits for a time. Mrs. Edgerton, a handsome Monde, was always self-poised, animated and self-satisfied. Mrs. Van Tromp, unlike her sister, Mrs. Taunton was petite, vivacious and rather pretty, but somewhat in awe of her brother's genius. Edgerton was a typical New Yorker of the prosperous type, possessing blood, breeding and a pleasing exterior. Mrs. Edgerton thought that I looked somewhat fagged. I've had such a busy day, don't you know, my dear, I exclaimed, glancing at my face across the table and fleshing at the gleam of merriment that Caroline flashed at me from my eyes. You and Mrs. Edgerton really do too much, commented Edgerton politely. We are apt to underestimate a woman's cares and burdens, Reggie, he added, addressing Caroline. Indeed we are, Caroline asserted readily in my deep voice. I am inclined to think, Edgerton, she continued giving a splendid imitation of my most impressive manner, that we do scant justice to our wives while we are forever harping upon our own importance. Here, here, cried little Van Tromp playfully. I manfully resisted an inclination to hurl a wine glass at his two picturesque head. Mrs. Edgerton smiled at me. What has happened to Mr. Stevens, Caroline? She cried jocosely. Unless my memory is at fault, I have heard him say that you and I are long on leisure and short on work. An epigram, hyped the poet rolling his eyes in exaggerated rapture. Did I ever make that remark? I heard my voice asking in surprise. I am afraid, Mrs. Edgerton, that you have misrepresented the source of what Mr. Van Tromp has mistaken for an epigram. It sounds to me who never said it more like a Wall Street bull. I can't bear that. I ventured in Caroline's merriest tones and Miss Van Tromp giggled. The point at issue, as I understand it, began Edgerton genially. Is whether Reggie is making a confession? Did you cry pick-a-vie, old man? You are as great a sinner in this matter as I am, answered Caroline seriously, looking at Edgerton. How often have I heard you complain of overwork, my dear fellow? They were saying at the club this afternoon that you seldom reached there before four o'clock. A flush came into Edgerton's face and Mrs. Edgerton laughed aloud. Betrayed, betrayed, she exclaimed gleefully. Reggie has deserted you, hubby dear. This is absolutely shocking, cried Miss Van Tromp. I shall never marry. Let us change the subject, I suggested, suppressing a shudder as Jones glided past me. We have become a horrible warning to our two unmarried guests, Reginald. I am not easily frightened, Mrs. Stevens, the poet dared to say, looking at me courageously. Discretion is the better part of bachelorhood, I retorted, and Van Romeo collapsed at once. I am so excited at the prospect of meeting Yamama, said Mrs. Edgerton presently. He says such wonderful things. And does him too. I murmured under my breath and flashing a glance at my smiling face across the table. What does he say, asked Miss Van Tromp with youthful curiosity. Oh, I can't begin to tell you, protested Mrs. Edgerton and then began. He says that poetry suffices, that he cannot understand why prose was invented. Here, here, cried little Van Tromp with enthusiasm. He abhor his egotism. Intellectual self-satisfaction is hideous, he says. He ought to know, I exclaimed, and Caroline had the audacity to laugh. Go on, Mrs. Edgerton, cried the Van Tromp with one voice. Yamama tells us that our Western world is not only self-satisfied, but ignorant. We are contented with half-truths. Science makes a discovery as it imagines, and behold, it is something that the East has known for ages. But how about the famine in India? asked Edgerton argumentatively. If they know so much, these Eastern wise men, why don't they make grain grow in a dry season? They are great frauds, eh, Reggie? I don't agree with you, Edgerton. I heard my voice in answer. You fail to get their point of view. Betrayed again, Edgerton, laughed the poet. What's their point of view? Grumbled Edgerton, casting a glance of surprise at Caroline. If you believed in reincarnation, exclaimed my wife in my somewhat overbearing manner, you would look upon death as merely a stepping stone to a higher existence. A famine, don't you see, helps a large number of souls up the spiral. Mr. Stevens has become a theosophist, cried Mrs. Edgerton in exaggerated amazement. How perfectly lovely! commented Miss Van Tromp somewhat irrelevantly. I saw Jones pouring wine at the poet's corner, and I thought that his hand trembled. I'm sure that my voice was unsteady as I remarked. But, ah, Reginald, what about snakes and, ah, frogs? Starvation is bad enough, but you aren't going up a spiral if you are changed into something that squirms and crawls. It's not like climbing a ladder, answered my voice authoritatively. You may go down now and then, but as the ages pass, the general trend is upward. It's awfully interesting, reflected Miss Van Tromp, aloud. But how is it done? It isn't done, exclaimed Edgerton almost angrily. It's only half-baked. Of all the absurd nonsense that is talked, this oriental mysticism is the worst. That's why I was glad to get this man Yamamata to come here this evening. I want to prove to Mrs. Edgerton that he's just about as significant as a ballad. Do you think that Yamamata will be inclined to do, ah, stunts, Mr. Edgerton? I faltered, catching the butler's eye and wondering why Caroline's toes got cold so easily. What do you mean by stunts, my dear? Caroline asked, using my voice rather sternly. Yamamata, I imagine, would not understand the word. He is not here to play tricks. What is he here for, ah, my dear? I asked in a falsetto that was too shrill to be good form. Mrs. Edgerton looked annoyed and Edgerton said half-apologetically. Really, Mrs. Stevens, I thought you would be glad to have Yamamata come to us tonight. Frankly, I wanted to make a closer study of the man and your husband assured me that it would be pleasing to you to have him here. Don't think me inhospitable and ungrateful, Mr. Edgerton. I began in Caroline's smoothest manner. I shall enjoy meeting Yamamata, of course. But do you really think that a man who prefers poetry to prose can be trusted? Then Trump gasped and glanced vertically at Caroline. The latter raised her wine glass, smiled at me gaily, and I heard my voice crying. Here's to you, my dear, good as you are. What are you staring at, Jones? I asked angrily, turning sharply toward the butler. He continued his task of serving the course without noticing my reproof. My wife and guests were gazing at me in surprise. At toast, at toast, cried little Van Trump, almost hysterically. Edgerton laughed aloud. Let us drink to the mysterious east, he suggested, like one who bore an olive branch in his hand. To the secrets of the Orient and Yamamata, amended Caroline, showing my teeth to me in a cruel smile. Yamamata, Yamamata, murmured my guests. As we sipped our wine, I glanced at Jones. There was a flush on his phlegmatic face, but he appeared to be paying no attention to anything but his duties. Chapter 12, Yamamata, and release. Then dimness passed upon me, and that song was sounding o'er me when I woke to be a pilgrim on the nether earth. Dean Alford. On our return to the drawing room, I found myself annoyed by the attention of little Van Trump and appalled at the imminent advent of Yamamata. A new and most distressing dread had crept into my errant soul. I had begun to think that I should come to hate my wife unless she altered at once her mode of procedure. The fear was upon me that she had enjoyed the day's experience sufficiently to tempt her to make existing conditions permanent. Angry as I was with her, I realized that diplomacy was a better tool at present than denunciation. I must speak to her at once. I'm used aloud, glancing at my manly, patrician, well-groomed, outward seeming as Caroline stood at the further end of the room, chatting with Miss Van Trump and the Edgerton's. An exclamation beside me convinced me that little Van Trump was very wide awake. Shall I take you to her, Mrs. Stevens? There is no sacrifice that I would not make for you. You would go to Mrs. Edgerton? Mrs. Edgerton, I exclaimed, somewhat dazed for the moment. No, I was referring to a Reginald. Tell him I want to see him, will you, old man? These infernal skirts are such a nuisance. The poet's eloquent eyes recalled me to my senses. He was gazing at me in amazement, evidently wondering if I had drunk too deep a toast to Yamamata. What a pitiable fage is mine, murmured Van Romeo gloomily. I have been dreaming of this moment for days, and, aloh, you destroy my happiness by a word. Chasing a rainbow is so much more delightful than summoning your lesser half. Lesser half, indeed, I could not refrain from saying bitterly. My three quarters or more. Look here, Van Trump, if you don't move more rapidly, I shall read those silly verses of yours to Yamamata when he arrives, and he'll turn you into a green and yellow parrot. Good heavens, man, it's too late. There he is. Unannounced and unattended, Yamamata glided into the drawing-room. I recognized him at a glance, and Caroline's bosom heaved with a conflict of emotions. Little Van Trump had jumped to his feet. Isn't he stunning? He exclaimed, most unpoetically. Yamamata was, indeed, pleasing to the eye. His light-brown complexion, dark, brilliant eyes, and gorgeous costume made a picture that gave an oriental splendor to our drawing-room. He stood motionless for a moment, halfway between Caroline and me. Suddenly, it flashed upon me that I had a duty to perform. Caroline and I reached Yamamata at the same time. It was so kind of you to come to us, I heard Caroline saying to the adept, Mrs. Stevens was overjoyed to hear that you had consented to honor us. Yamamata's black, fathomless eyes smiled at me, like deep, dark pools touched by sunshine. The chill ran through me, but I found strength to say falteringly. Glad to see you, Mr. Yamamata. We're so interested. Reginald and I, in besoteric Buddhism. Glad to see you. Aren't we a reggie? I suspected that Caroline chuckled behind my beard. I am sure that the smile in Yamamata's eyes deepened. We had grouped ourselves around the adept who stood calm, picturesque, silent in the center of the room. The majesty and mystery of the brooding east seemed to fill the universe of a sudden. It was as some priceless oriental rug had become on the instant, not merely an ornament, but a creation of infinite, psychical significance. Does he talk? Edgerton whispered to me and I glanced at him reprovingly. Mrs. Edgerton was gazing awestruck at Yamamata. Presently the adept spoke, in a voice that drove from my fevered mind all thoughts of frogs, snakes, and tadpoles. Man is composed of seven principles, a unit but capable of partial separation. Well, rather, I could not refrain from saying, but Yamamata ignored my rudeness. He went on impressively while the group surrounding him listened eagerly, fascinated by his appearance and manner. The evolutionary process demands a number of planets corresponding to the seven principles. On each of these planets, a long series of lives is required before full circuit is made. Oh, wildly exciting, cried Miss Van Tromp. Yamamata smiled indulgently, then he said. Before reaching the perfection attainable, every soul must pass through many minor circuits. We are said to be in the middle of the fifth circuit of our fourth round and the evolution of this circuit began about a million years ago. It knocks the ferris wheel silly. I overheard Edgerton mutter to himself and I felt an unaccountable anger at his flippancy. I should so like to ask you a question, faltered Miss Van Tromp and Yamamata bowed his inspired head resignedly. How soon do we come back after we die? When a man dies, answered the adept in his low, soft musical voice, his ego holds the impetus of his earthly desires until they are purged away from that higher self, which then passes into a spiritual state when all the psychic and spiritual forces it has generated during the earthly life are unfolded. It progresses on those planes until the dormant physical impulses assert themselves and curve the soul around to another incarnation whose form is the resultant of the earlier lives. That's easy, muttered Edgerton at my shoulder. I've often felt that way, exclaimed Van Tromp gazing ecstatically at Yamamata. Are you making converts? asked Mrs. Edgerton. A haughty smile, dark red streaked with white against a brown background, the whole lighted by two eyes of marvellous power met our gaze. Only by soul itself is soul perceived, answered Yamamata, somewhat irrelevantly, I thought. You're out, my dear, whispered Edgerton playfully to his wife. May I trouble you, my dear sir, began Van Tromp pompously. May I trouble you to explain to a mind darkened by occidental erudition why it is that the West is so blind to the mighty truths that you teach. That's a touchdown, muttered Edgerton. Yamamata gazed fixedly at the poet for a time. Then he said, the West is not blind to the mighty truths of which you speak. You only imagine that you do not see them. Your great thinkers have taught what we teach. Schopenhauer, Lessing, Hegel, Leibniz, Herder, Vifta, the younger are with us. Your great poets sing the eternal verities. It is nothing new that which I bring to you from the East. Is there any reason to fear, I dare to ask, that when we change around again, I mean, get reincarnated, you see, that we become frogs or snakes, that is. If we don't, so to speak, stay put. My voice had been gradually ascending Caroline's scale until it hit the interrogation mark in a sharp falsetto. As Yamamata's eyes met mine, I thought for an instant that I had been struck by lightning. What his strange glance, cutting through me until I knew that I had no secrets left, meant I had no way of determining. I was like a rabbit fascinated by an anaconda. There is salvation for him who self-disappears before truth, whose will is bent upon what he ought to do, whose sole desire is the performance of his duty. The root of all evil is ignorance. Thus speak Yamamata whether an answer to my question I could not decide. What's the matter with the love of money? asked Edgerton in an unconventional tone of voice. His bump of reverence is not well developed. Tis but a small part of the ignorance that enfolds you like a worthless garment, answered the adept coldly. That's one on me, I heard Edgerton mutter while Mrs. Edgerton loved softly. The enlightened one went on Yamamata literally in a brown study, saw the four noble truths which point out the path that leads to nirvana or the extinction of self. Good eye, murmured Edgerton and his wife, whispered hush. As I glanced at Caroline, I saw that my face had undergone a change. She was watching the adept with my eyes, but the expression on my countenance was wholly her own. The attainment of truth, continued Yamamata, is possible only when self is recognized as an illusion. Righteousness can be practiced only when we have freed our mind from the passion of ecotism. Perfect peace can dwell only where all vanity has disappeared. I've known that for years, exclaimed Van Tromp, brushing his hair back from his forehead in a self-conscious way. I had begun to feel faint. Won't you be seated, Mr. Yamamata? I asked, hoping that he would observe my indisposition. Even as I spoke, I lost sight of him. The lights went out of a sudden and a sharp exquisite pain shot through me. I was surrounded by a fathomless gloom as if the universe had turned black at a word. I was conscious, but seemingly alone in a dark void. For a moment only was I cognizant of self. Then there came a flash of dazzling light and I knew no more. My testimony is at an end. A week has passed since Caroline and I awoke one morning to find our souls transposed. We are still confined to our rooms, suffering our physician tells us from acute nervous prostration, but Reginald's himself again. When we recovered our senses, for Caroline had fainted at the moment when Yamamata disappeared from my sight, we found ourselves restored to our respective bodies. But the shock of our psychical interchange had left us physically weak and depressed. I have not yet had the energy to compare notes with Caroline in regard to our uncanny experiences, but fearing that my memory might play me false, I have relieved the tedium of my convalescence by jogging down the foregoing presentment in the hope, as I have said before, that the data may prove of interest to mine's more erudite than mine and my wife's. Jenkins has returned from Hoboken or wherever he went and I have had him remove my beard. It had become a horror to me. Suzanne is very attentive to Caroline and seems to have recovered her spirits. One significant fact I have reserved for the last. It has caused me much uneasiness, not unmingled with a sense of relief. Jones has not been seen since the night of our weird dinner party. No trace of him has been found. I have advertised for a butler but have not yet received an application that appealed to me in my present super-sensitive condition. What I want is a butler as unlike Jones as possible. Unfortunately, he was a pattern of his kind. But I hate the very thought of him and so I shall drop my pen at this point and watch Suzanne and Caroline through the open door. I think I shall try to get down to the club tomorrow to see the boys. End of chapters 11 and 12 and end of part 1 when Majinold was Caroline. Part 2, chapters 1 and 2 of Perkins the Faker, a Travesty on Reincarnation, by Edward S. Vanzial. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Part 2, How Chopin Came to Remsen. There cometh evil to my house and none of ye have wit to help me know what the great gods portend ascending me this. The Light of Asia. Chapter 1, Chopin's Opus 47. It brings an instinct from some other sphere for its fine senses are familiar all and with the unconscious habit of a dream it calls and they obey. N. P. Willis. It has been with the greatest reluctance that I have agreed to submit to the public all the details so far as they are known to me of my husband's seemingly miraculous change from an average man into a genius. Poor Tom. He was so happy as a phlegmatic, well-balanced commonplace lawyer and clubman devoted to his wife, his profession and his friends. But now, alas, his amazing eccentricities demand from me a presentation of his case that shall change censure into sympathy and malicious gossip into either silence or truth. I am forced to admit at the outset that Tom is justified in attributing his present predicament to my own fondness for music. He had protested gently but firmly against the series of musicals that I had planned to give last season. They'll be an awful nuisance, my dear. He had remarked gloomily, gazing at me appealingly across the table at which we were dining on, ta-ta-ta. Why not substitute Bridge West in place of the music? Why you will insist on asking a crowd of people who don't care a rap for anything but rag time to listen to your high-priced soloists? A musical, whenever it is both expensive and tiresome. What a Philistine you are, Tom! I exclaimed, protestingly, knowing, however, that my dear old facaderm would not wince at the epithet I had hurled at him across the board. Tom's vocabulary is not large and possesses a legal rather than a biblical flavor. What's a Philistine? He asked, indifferently. If it's a fellow who objects to inviting a lot of people that he doesn't like to listen to a lot of playing and singing that they don't like, well, then I'm in. But what's the use of my getting out an injunction? If you've made up your mind to give these musicals, Winifred, I might as well quash my appeal. I have no standing in this court. One of the advantages of living with a man for 10 years is that one is eventually confronted by a most fascinating problem. Why did I marry him? It is the question that adds a keen zest to existence. We derive a new interest in life from the hope that the future may provide us with an answer to this query. I can remember now to my sorrow that I gazed across the table at Tom's heavy, immobile face and longed for some radical, perhaps supernatural change in the man that should render him more congenial to me, more sympathetic, less practical, matter of fact, commonplace. A moment later I felt ashamed of myself for the disloyalty of my wish. It may be that subsequent events were preordained as a punishment to me for the internal discontent to which I had temporarily succumbed. Tom doesn't look quite fat, my dear, remarked Mrs. Jack Van Corleer to me early in the evening of my first and last musical. Is he working too hard? Jack tells me that Tom has been made counsel for the Pepper and Salt Trust. It's not that, I answered lightly glancing at Tom and noting the unusual pallor of his too fleshy face. He's expecting an evening of torture, you know. He hates music. He can't tell a nocturne from a ballad and they both torment him. But he's a awfully good fellow, isn't he? See, he's trying to talk to Sr. Torino. I hope he'll remember that Verdi didn't write Lowengrin. I have been coaching Tom for several days but it's hard, my dear Mrs. Jack, to make a man who doesn't play or sing a note remember that the moonlight Sonata is not from Gunno's Faust and that it's bad form to ask Memoiselle Vanoni if she admires Flora Dora. My duties as hostess and the pronounced success of the earlier numbers of my program led me presently to forget Tom's existence. He had been cruelly unjust to my guests in asserting that they would prefer ragtime to the classics. The applause that had rewarded the efforts of both Torino and Vanoni had been spontaneous and genuine. Signorina Molatti had created an actual fur with her violin solo intensified no doubt by her marvelous beauty. It was Molatti's success that presently recalled Tom to my reluctant consciousness. As the dark-eyed, fervid young woman responded smilingly to an insistent encore, I caught a glimpse of my unimpressionable husband standing erect at the rear of the crowded music room and watching the girls every movement with eyes alight with interest and approval. I had not seen his unresponsive countenance so animated before in years. Mrs. Jag van Korlier had followed my glance and a mischievous smile was in her face as she leaned toward me. Perhaps Tom is more musical than you imagine, my dear, she whispered maliciously. Do you think it's the violin? I returned laughingly, ashamed of the feeling of annoyance that her playful pinprick had given me. Jealous of Tom? The idea was too absurd. I had so often wished to be, but his devotion to me had always been chronic and incurable. It's really bad form, I had once said to him. You're in difference to other women, Tom, cause his comment. Over-emphasis is always vulgar. You underscore our conjugal bliss, my dear boy, in a way that has become a kind of silent reproach to other people. You must really have a mild flirtation now and then, Tom. It seemed to me that the vivacious molatti had noted Tom's two apparent enthusiasm, for she smiled and nodded to him as she made ready to coax her Cormona into giving her silent auditors new proof of her most amazing genius. I, a lover of music, had been carried into unknown blissful realms by the magic of her bow, my whole being throbbing with the joy of strange weird harmonies that lured my errands all away from earth, away from my duties as a hostess, my worries as a wife. I came back to my music room with a thump. Something unusual out of the common was taking place, but at first I could not concentrate my faculties in a way to put me in touch with my environment. Presently I realized that Signorina Molatti had left the deus and could I believe my senses? That Tom, brazenly, nonchalantly, before the gaze of 200 wondering eyes had seated himself at the piano. What's the matter with him? whispered Mrs. Van Corleer to me in an awestruck tone. Wait, I answered irrelevantly. Maybe he won't do it. Do what? She returned almost hysterically. I don't know, I gassed, and the thought flashed through my mind that possibly Tom had been drinking. There lay the hush of expectancy on the astonished throng. Here and there, virtue-glances were cast at my program cards in search of Tom's name on a little list made up wholly of world-famous artists. But the large majority of my guests knew as well as I that Tom had never touched a piano in his life, that his ignorance of music was as pronounced as his detestation of it. But he might have been a patterapsky in his total absence of all awkwardness or self-consciousness as he sat in motionless at the instrument for a moment, coolly surveying us all, in very truth, like a master musician sure of himself and rejoicing in the delight that he was about to vouchsafe to his auditors. I cannot recall now without a shutter the sensation that cut through my every nerve as Tom raised his large, budgy hands over the keyboard, his small gray eyes turned toward the ceiling just above my throbbing head. He looked at that instant like the very incarnation of Philistineism poised to hurl down destruction upon the center of all harmonies. It's revenge, I groaned under my breath and felt Mrs. Jack's cold hand creep into mine. Down came the pause of nemesis and lo, the injustice that I had done to Tom was revealed to me. His touch was masterly. I could not have been more amazed that I seen an elephant threading a needle. The whole episode was strangely blended of the uncanny and realistic. I found myself noting the angle at which Tom held his chin. He always raised it thus when his man shaped him, his head thrown back and his eyes half closed. Then gradually it dawned on me that I was taking keen delight in his rendition of that marvelous ballad in a flat major that Chopin dedicated to Memoiselle de Noir. There is nothing more thoroughly Chopin-esque in all the master's works than this perfect exposition of the refined in art. Tom's rendering of the lovely theme in F major, one of the most delicate in the world of music, thrilled me with startled admiration. But a chill came over me. What would he do with this section in C sharp minor with its inverted dominant pedal in the right hand while the left is carrying on the theme? Without both skill and passion on the part of the performer, the interpretation of this passage is certain to be commonplace. But hardly had this doubt assailed me when I knew that Tom had triumph over every obstacle of technique and temperament that he was approaching the harmonic grandeur of the finale with the poise and power of genius in full control of itself and its medium. I have never fainted. Swooning went out of fashion long before my time and I am devoted to the modern cult of self-control. But if it hadn't been for Mrs. Jack who is really fond of me at times, I think that the last bar of Tom's opus 47 would have seen my finish. The room had begun to whirl in a circle like a merry-go-round in evening dress when she steadied me by whispering. It's all right, my dear. Tom wins by four lengths, well in hand. I came to myself in the very center of a storm of applause. Our guests had forgotten the conventionalities pertaining to a well-ordered musical. The men were on their feet cheering. The women waved bands and handkerchiefs and pelted Tom with violets and roses. The poor fellow sat at the piano in a half-dazed condition. A bunch of flowers, deftly thrown, struck him on the forehead and he put his gifted hand to his brow as if he had just been recalled to consciousness. Angkor, Angkor! cried our guests. Turino was gesticulating frantically while Mademoiselle Vanoni and Signorina Molati smiled and clapped their hands in exaggerated ecstasy. I was worried by the expression that had come into Tom's face and made my way quickly toward the piano. Are too well, my dear, I asked, bending toward him while the uproar behind me decreased a bit. What have I been doing, Winifred? He asked sheepishly like one who wakens from a dream. Get one of your damn dagos to sing, will you? I've got to have a drink or die. Standing erect abruptly, Tom cast a defiant glance at the chattering throng behind me and hurriedly made his way through a side door from the music room. As I turned away from the piano, I saw that Signorina Molati's eyes were fixed upon his retreating figure with an expression that my worldly wisdom could not interpret. There was more of wonder than of admiration in her gaze, a gleam of questioning and longing that might, it seemed to me, readily flame into hot anger. Chapter Two. Remzen confronts a mystery. From memories that come not and go not, like music once heard by an ear that cannot forget or reclaim it, a something so shy it would shame it to make it a show. James Russell Lowell. After saying good night to the last of my guests who had expressed regret at the rumor that my husband was seriously indisposed, I hurried to the smoking room, having learned that Tom had fled thither as a refuge from the curious and the congratulatory. As I came upon him, he was alternately puffing a cigar and sipping a brandy and soda. On the instant the conflicting emotions that had beset me during the evening became a wave of anger sweeping over me with irresistible force. Why have you deceived me, Tom Remzen? I cried, sinking into a chair and resting my aching head against its back as I scanned his pale, weary countenance attentively. You have always pretended that you had no knowledge of music. I have heard you say that you could not whistle even a bar of Yankee Doodle correctly. What a posile you have been! And tonight in a vulgar theatrical way you suddenly exhibit the most astonishing talent. There is not an amateur in the world, Tom, who can interpret Chopin with such sympathy, such perfection of technique, such reserved power as you displayed this evening. You have placed me in a ridiculous position and I can't conceive of any reasonable motive for your unnatural reticence. Why, Tom, answer me, why have you concealed from me the fact that you aren't accomplished? Yes, a brilliant musician. Think of all the pleasure that we have lost in the last 10 years by your deception and falsehoods, for that's what they were, Tom. My voice broke a little and I felt the tears creeping toward my eyes. You have been cruel, Tom. Knowing my passionate love for music, why did you choose to hide a talent that would have drawn us so close together? And your revelation? It was the very refinement of brutality, Tom Remsen, to place me in such an awkward attitude. How could I explain my ignorance of your genius to our friends? They must consider me either a fool or a liar, as for what they think of you, Tom. Stop it, Winifred, cried my husband hoarsely, putting up a hand, protestingly. I've had enough. I can't stand anything more tonight. If I tried to tell you the truth, you wouldn't believe it, so you'd better leave me. I'll smoke another cigar. I'll never get to sleep again, I fear. His last words sounded like a groan. My mood was softened by its evident distress. Do try to tell me the truth, Tom, I said gently. I'll believe what you say. There's a difference between positive and negative lying. I don't think you'd tell me a deliberate falsehood, Tom. There was something in his appearance at this moment that suggested to me a wounded animal at bay. Presently, he lighted a fresh cigar and gazing at me steadily, said. The cold hard truth is this, Winifred. I never touched the keys of a piano in my life until an hour ago. I remember being drawn irresistibly to the instrument. What happened afterward, I don't know. The first thing that I can recall was being hit in the head with some fool woman's bouquet. I remember saying, no flowers, please, in a silly kind of way, but what it all meant, I didn't know, and I don't know now, do you? I sat, speechless, gazing at Tom in amazement. He had never, in the 12 years of arbitrothal and marriage, told me an untruth. I had often caught myself envying women whose husbands spiced the realism of domestic life with a romantic tale now and again. I know a woman who derives great intellectual enjoyment from cross-questioning her lesser half every 24 hours in an effort to prove that nature designed her for a clever detective. She would have drooped and died as she married Tom. As I watched his honest face, pale now, and care worn, I realized that I was confronted by two explanations of the present crisis, either one of which was inconceivable. Tom had told me a deliberate lie or a miracle, to use an unscientific word, had been wrought through forces the existence of which I had always denied. No, Tom, I don't know what it means, I answered presently. How did you happen to choose a showpin ballad for your debut? I had not intended to hurt the poor fellow's feelings, but the change in his expression from weariness to wonderment failed me with remorse. I didn't choose anything, he muttered reproachfully. If I made a nest of myself when, if I was not responsible, what the deuce did I do? You haven't told me and I don't know. By an effort of will, I controlled the nervous chill that was threatening me and said quietly, Tom, you played Chape's ballad number three, Opus 47, in a way that would have satisfied showpin himself. No performer living could have equaled your rendition, it was masterly. Tom's mouth fell open in amazement. He closed it over a brandy and soda. I can't believe it, he cried, setting down his glass and gazing at the smoke curling up from his cigar. Why, Winifred, the thing's absurd. I never heard the, what do you call it, in my life. And if I listened to it every day for a year, I couldn't play it, I couldn't even whistle it. I laughed aloud hysterically. There was a ludicrous side to the situation, despite its uncanny features. What are you laughing at, Winifred? Demanded Tom angrily. Is there anything funny about all this? It seems if I can believe what you say that I made a kind of pianola of myself without knowing it. Is that a joke? I tell you, Winifred, it's peresis or something worse. Maybe I'll rob a bank next. And when I'm bailed out, I suppose I'll find you on a broad grin. I was too near the verge of nervous collapse to repress the feeling of unreasonable annoyance that came over me at Tom's words. I think you're very unjust, Tom, I exclaimed with great lack of judgment. Unjust, he echoed petulantly. Unjust to whom, to what? You're unjust to Schopen, I answered hotly realizing that I was talking in a distinctly childish way, playing one of his masterpieces is not quite like robbing a bank. Why not, he snapped. If I don't know how to play it, I certainly robbed those fool women of their flowers, didn't I? They pelted me with bouquets as if I were a boy wonder or a long haired bang the keys and I don't know the soft petal from the key of E. I wouldn't do Schopen an injustice. He's dead, isn't he? But you mustn't do me an injustice, Winifred. I can't stand anything more tonight. My heart seemed to come into my throat with a sob and I drew my chair close to Tom's and took his cold hand in mine. I'm sorry, Tom, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings but I've been sorely tried, you must admit. I'm not quite myself, I fear. Tom turned quickly and gazed squarely into my eyes. Don't you worry, Winifred, you're yourself all right, but who the dickens am I? If I'm Tom Remsen, I can't play Schopen and you say I did play Schopen. I don't say I didn't, but how did I do it? Tom Remsen couldn't do it. Look at my hands, Winifred. Could my fingers knock a pianissimo out of a minor chord if that's what that fellow Schopen does? I tell you, it's queer and I don't like it. A well-defined shutter shook Tom's heavy frame and his hand as it rested in mine trembled perceptibly. His voice had sunk to a whisper as he asked, do you think it possible, Winifred, I was hypnotized, Winifred? I never took any stock in hypnotism, but there may be something in it. That senior Torino has got a queer eye. I'm sure I don't know what to think, Tom, I admitted reluctantly. By abandoning the theory that Tom had deceived me for a dozen years, I was plunged into a tempestuous sea of mystery and conjecture. But come, my dear boy, you are fagged out. We'll talk it over in the morning. Perhaps our minds will be clearer after a few hours' sleep. I couldn't sleep now. He returned nervously glancing at his watch. Don't go yet, Winifred, it's only two o'clock. We sat silent for a time, hand-clasped in hand, like a youth and maiden awed by a sudden realization of the marvelous mysteries of existence. Presently Tom spoke again and I felt that it was a lawyer in full control of his nerves who questioned me. Did I look, uh, dazed or queer when I went to the piano, my dear? No, Tom, I answered after a pause. You, you now don't think me flippant. You look just as you do when you're being shaved. Before all those people, he gasped, what do you mean, Winifred? Your chin was up in the air, Tom, and your head was thrown back. But you didn't see any lather, he asked foolishly. Don't be silly, Tom, I cried petulantly. But I had done him another injustice. He had not intended to be jocos. And then what did I do? He asked eagerly. And then you played that ballad with the inspiration of genius and the technique of a master. It stumps me, he muttered. Winifred, is there anything about this fellow who's open in the library? Any books about him? Yes, Tom, several. But you'd better not look at them tonight if at all. Perhaps tomorrow you won't care to. Tom's heavy features assumed their most stubborn aspect. He stood erect, still holding my hand, and I was forced to rise. Come with me, Winifred. I'm going to solve this mystery before I sleep, even if it takes two days. Come. Without further protest, I accompanied Tom to the library. End of part two, chapters one and two. Part two, chapters three and four, of Perkins the Faker, a travesty on reincarnation by Edward S. Van Zyl. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. How Schopen came to Remsen, chapter three, biographical data. And to meet us, Nectar Fountain still poured forever forth their blissful rill, forcibly we broke the seal of things and to choose bright sunny hills our wings joyously were soaring. Schiller. It was a real relief to get into the library. Tom felt it and his face soon resumed its normal expression. The heavy shadows beneath his eyes remained, but there had come a flush into his cheeks and he carried himself with the air of a man who has a purpose in life and is in a fair way to accomplish it. I remember that the idea came into my mind that Tom had assumed the attitude of a lawyer who has been retained by the prosecution and has but little time in which to prepare his case. I had grown tactless, I fear in my change of mood, for I was indiscreet enough to say, as Tom seated himself beside the library table, leaving it to me to find the books that he wished to consult. In the case of Winifred Remsen and others against the late Frederick François Schopen, charged with housebreaking and breach of the peace, Tom turned instantly and a gleam of anger flashed in his eyes as they met mine. If you can not treat this matter with the seriousness that I think it deserves, Winifred, you would do well to retire. It's no joke. When I make a donkey of myself before a lot of perfectly respectable people, I consider it a matter of some importance. You don't seem to grasp the full horror of it all. I suppose that I'm liable to have another attack at any time. In fact, it may become chronic. I have, of late, come across very curious psychical phenomena in a professional way, Winifred, and I insist on taking every precaution before you are forced to place me in the hands of the alienists. Tom, I cried in horror and remorse. You mustn't talk like that. There's nothing the matter with your mind. I'll admit that I can't explain what happened tonight, but I'm sure that it was not caused by any mental trouble on your part. There is doubtless some very simple and commonplace explanation of your, your, call it seizure, suggested Tom curtly. What do you find there? I carried a little armful of books to the table and placed them within Tom's reach. Here's a life of Chopin by Nix, I said. Frederick Chopin by Franz Liszt. Here's Joseph Bennett and Karasowski and the Istvado Mevi by George Sand. And here are Willoughby and Madame Maudley, and I think I have. That'll do for tonight, remarked Tom, seizing the volume nearest to his hand. What kind of a chap was this Chopin anyway? He was simply fascinating, I remarked indiscreetly. Hmm, growled Tom angrily. Not very respectable, I suppose you mean. George Sand, she was a woman, wasn't she? How did she happen to write his life? What did she know about him? I have called Tom a Philistine. Perhaps that was too harsh a term to use, but I'm sure there is a good deal of the Puritan about him. She used to see a good deal of him, I answered rather lamely. They were great chums for a while. Hmm, growled Tom, throwing aside George Sand's work and opening another. Presently he began to read biographical scraps aloud for all the world like an angry police official drying up a sweeping indictment against a man of genius. The little Frederick duly received the name of Frederick Francois after the son of Count Charbeck who stood as his grandfather began Tom. We are told that he very soon showed a great susceptibility to musical sounds, although hardly in the direction which we would have expected for he howled lustily whenever he heard them. Tom looked up from the printed page and our eyes met. That's a curious coincidence, Winifred, he remarked musingly. It's a family tradition that I used to yell like a young Indian whenever they tried to sing to me in my babyhood. A rattle box would quiet me, but the sweetest lullaby always made me howl, but I must get on. Chopin began well, didn't he? There was silence for a time as Tom feverishly scanned the pages of his book. The Dickens listened to this, he exclaimed presently. During his ninth year he was invited to assist at a concert for the benefit of the poor. He played a piano forte concerto, the composition of Albert Girovets, a famous composer of the time. Tom placed the book on the table and held the pages open with his hand as he glanced at me over his shoulder. If he played that kind of thing at nine years of age, Winifred, there was something uncanny about it. It was just as unnatural as what happened to me tonight. I'm beginning to formulate a theory about this kind of thing, my dear. Tom placed the open book face downward and turned squarely toward me. Music, you see, may be like electricity imprisoned as it were in a universe of both conductors and non-conductors. It may be that a temperament like mine, for instance, that is permanently a non-conductor might, under given conditions, become temporarily a conductor. Chopin played like a master at nine years of age. He had become a conductor and remained so permanently. When he howled at music as a baby, he was still a non-conductor, just as I had been up to tonight, or rather last night. Possibly the conditions that made me a kind of spasmodic music box with the Chopin peg pulled out may never occur again. What do you think, Winifred? Doesn't all that sound reasonable? Before I could formulate a sensible answer to a not very sensible proposition, Tom had resumed the perusal of his book. He appeared to me like a man fascinated against his will by a line of investigation that he had begun as a disagreeable duty. But I was glad to see that he had regained full control of himself and that his countenance no longer displayed traces of intense mental disquietude. He was a pretty lively boy, remarked Tom a few moments later. Listen, Winifred, at school Frederick was a prime favorite and was always in the midst of any fun or mischief that was going on. His talent for mimicry was always extraordinary and has been commented on not only by George Sand and List, but by Balzac. Tom gazed at me musingly. Do you consider that significant, my dear? He asked with a seriousness that struck me as both ludicrous and pathetic. I was getting worried by Tom's persistence in this futile line of endeavor. It's nearly three o'clock, Tom Ramson. I cried standing erect. Come upstairs at once. It won't be fair to your clients for you to get to your office fagged out for lack of sleep. Sit down, Winifred, he said, peremptorily. It's little use I'll be to my clients until I find out what happened to me in the music room. Suppose that I should have an attack of, what shall I call it? Chopinitis in the courtroom. I should suddenly begin to sing, or perhaps whistle, a what do you call them? Piano forte concerto, what would the judge say? I'd be disbarred, Winifred, for indecent exposure of musical genius. No, I'm going to find out more about this strange affair here and now. I was forced to recede myself, protesting silently against Tom's absurd stubbornness. I endeavored in vain to shake off a feeling of uneasiness that was creeping over me, a sensation that was closely akin to fear of the phlegmatic man who sat before me motionless and calm, pursuing a course of study that had been inspired by a most untenable supposition. What had Chopin to do with the matter? What difference could it make to Tom, whether the latter had been one kind of man or another? It was ridiculous to assert that in Chopin's personality might be found an explanation of the curious incident that had made my musical so memorable. My prejudice against spiritualists, Christian scientists, theosophists, and other eccentrics had been I had believed shared by my husband. But there he sat at three o'clock in the morning trying to find among the biographical data before him some explanation of his recent seizure that must of necessity lean toward the occult. That a well-balanced rather materialistic lawyer whose mental methods were habitually logical should suddenly begin to dabble in psychical mysteries in this way frightened me the more the longer I weighed Tom's words and actions and all their bearings. Nevertheless, I was forced to admit to myself that he had never looked saner in his life than he did at that moment as he turned from his book again and gazed straight into my tired eyes. He was a very flirtatious chap, Winifred and very fickle. Listen to this. Although of a peculiarly impressionable and susceptible disposition and as a not unnatural consequence more or less fickle where women were concerned, Chopin's love affairs did on more than one occasion assume a serious aspect. He had conceived a fancy for the granddaughter of a celebrated master and although contemplating the matrimony with her, he had at the same time in his mind's eye, another lady resident in Poland, his loyalty being engaged nowhere and his fickle heart concentrated on no one passion. One day when visiting the former young lady in company with a musician who was at the time better known in Paris than he himself, she unconsciously offered a chair to his companion first. So Pete was he at what he considered a slight that he not only never called on her again but dismissed her entirely from his thoughts. Do you begin to see, Winifred, what a queer fellow he was. Really, I'm inclined to think. I was standing erect, gazing at him angrily. If you are joking, Tom, I exclaimed having lost all patience. I think you are displaying most wretched taste. If you are really an earnest, I'm very sorry for you. I am going to bed. I hope I'll find you fully recovered at breakfast. He did not seem to be at all impressed by my exhibition of temper. Wait just a moment, Winifred. He suggested his eyes fixed on his book. Here it is about George Sand, their first meeting, you know. Wait, I'll read it to you. I shall not wait, Tom Rampson, I cried. Chopin's love affairs are nothing to me and they should be nothing to you. Good night. This is my last word. Good night. As I reached the door, I glanced over my shoulder. Tom seemed to have forgotten my existence. He had plunged again into the dust heap of an old scandal that seemed to fascinate him. Tom Rampson, who had hitherto always deprecated and avoided that kind of research. Chapter four. Signorina Molati. And thou too, when on me fell thine eye, would disclose thy cheeks deep purple dye. Shiller. Two days went by and while I still pondered the great mystery and kept a close watch on Tom, I had begun to hope that the exactions of his profession had led him to abandon his effort to explain what he had called his seizure. He had been busy of late with the technicalities involved in the formation of a new trust and his mind seemed to be wholly engrossed by this gigantic task. By tacit consent, we had both avoided all reference to my recent musical and its weird and inexplicable outcome. At times I was almost inclined to believe that Tom had forgotten Chopin and all his works. As for myself, I could not recover a normal state of mind. For the first time in my life, I felt an admiration for the very characteristics of my husband's makeup that hitherto had annoyed and wearied me. His ability to rebound at once from the shock that he had sustained filled me with both envy and amazement. I had begun to realize that the mental poise of an unimpressionable, unimaginative man is a very desirable and praiseworthy possession. I regretted at times that I could not throw myself into some despotic occupation that should demand all my physical and mental energies. As yet, I had not found the courage to face the world and its questionings. For two days, I had denied myself even to my most intimate friends, not accepting Mrs. Jack Van Corleer, who had hurried to me on the day succeeding my musical. I knew that my callers were actuated by a not unnatural curiosity, and I lacked the nervous energy to face people who would politely claim the right to know why Tom had always concealed his genius as a pianist. I think I fully understand the set in which I move. We dearly love a new sensation. Without leaving my house or receiving a single visitor, I could readily grasp the fact that the leading topic of conversation in society at the moment revolved around Tom Remsen as a masterly interpreter of Schopen. Schopen, I had begun to hate the name, but I had not been able to resist the temptation to spend many hours in the library pouring over the books that dealt directly or indirectly with his personality and achievements. The temporary enthusiasm that Tom had displayed for research into the life of Frederick Schopen, bad fare to become a permanent passion in my case. I devoted whole afternoons to playing in my amateurish way, his waltzes, Mazurkas, nocturnes and ballads. One of the latter, his Opus 47, I had not the audacity to attempt. Somehow Tom's recent rendition of the piece seemed to stand as a barrier that it would be sacrilege for me to cross. Nevertheless, I longed to hear the ballad again and was almost tempted to ask Tom to play it to me alone. That he was wholly incapable of repeating his recent performance, my mind refused to believe. I had returned, almost unconsciously, to my first conviction that my husband had willfully deceived me for years regarding his musical ability. I sat pouring over an English criticism of Chopin's posthumous works late one afternoon when a card was brought to me in the library that tempted me to come out of my self-imposed retreat. It bore the name, Signorina Molati. In the half-light of the drawing room, the girl looked handsomer than in the glare of evening lamps. Her dark oriental beauty was at its best in the subdued glow of early twilight. She was dressed in a rich but quiet Parisian costume, and I felt that her attractiveness increased the further she was removed from Signor Torino, memoiselle Vanoni, and the other noted artist with whom she associated. Nevertheless, I realized that my manner was cold and unsympathetic as we seated ourselves and I awaited her pleasure. Having had business dealings with the Signorina, I was not willing to admit that she could assume the right to call on me as a social equal. But patrician blood must have flowed in Molati's veins, for she sat there silent and calm, and my skirmish line was driven back. I spoke first. The self-confidence in the girl's smile hurt me. It is a pleasure, Signorina, to have an opportunity I had not hoped for to thank you again for the great pleasure you afforded my guests the night before last. But it is a me, Signora, who is in the debt of you, said Molati in her soft, musical, broken English. I have a comma to you, to thank you, and to ask a little favor. Signora Ramson, oh, it was so wonderful, so vera-wonderful. I have a way to dull my little life for it. I stared at the girl in astonishment. Her enthusiasm, her gestures, the brilliant glow in her dark eyes offended me. And eat. What was eat for which she had waited all her life? Yes, I remarked interrogatively. Her fervor was not cooled by the iced water of my question mark. Listen to me, Signora. I have a worse sheaped Chopin since I was a little girl. I have heard all of the greater interpretations of the maestro. But I have never heard Chopin. In my dreams, see, Signora, but a never in my hours that are awake. But I comma here. Signora Ramson, he play a Chopin. Eat was a no dream. Eat was the soul of the maestro speaking to the soul of me. Eat was a wonderful, so ver a wonderful. Conflicting emotions warred within me. I hardly dared speak lest I should either laugh or cry hysterically. With lips compressed I sat motionless, staring at the girl into whose eloquent eyes there had come a pleading look that suggested tears. Signora Ramson, she murmured presently, like a devotee who breathed the name of an idol. Do you think, Signora, that he would let me hear him play again? Pity me, Signora. I cannot sleep. I cannot eat. I crave only the music of the maestro. Music that I have heard only once in my little life. Signora Ramson, if he would permit me just once to accompany him on my little violin. Oh, Signora, I could then die a happy. I should have lived a just a little while and then I would not care. But now I am so unhappy, so ver am miserable. I was too nervous to stand this kind of thing any longer. I rose and Molatti faced me erect at once. You pay my husband's talent a great compliment, Signorina, I said coldly. But I cannot take it on myself to answer you in his name. However, I shall present your request to him and that you know at once what he says. A diabolical impulse came over me and I added. Of course, Mr. Ramson would not wish you to starve, Signorina, nor to die a horrible death from insomnia. The girl spiked my guns if that be the right expression by a merry musical lap. You are so very kind, she cried. I kiss your lovely hand. Before I could prevent it, she had touched my outstretched hand with her red smiling lips. Then she took her departure. I returned to the library in a condition that verged dangerously on complete nervous collapse. At dinner that evening, Tom was unmountedly silent. As I glanced at him over my soup, there was something in his face that suggested thoughts not connected with the pepper and salt trust. I was soon to become accustomed to this expression and to identify it in my mind as a shop in Esk. Aren't you feeling well tonight, Tom? I ventured presently, noting that he was drinking more wine than usual. A bit tired, Winifred, he answered absently. Then his eyes met mine and I saw that he was worried. I had planned to fulfill conscientiously my promise to Signora Molatti, but the time seemed inopportune. I was glad presently that I had refrained from mentioning my collar and her mission. As we were sipping our coffee, Tom tossed an envelope across the table to me. I opened it with a chill miss giving. It ran as follows. Mr. Thomas Remson, dear sir, as it has come to the knowledge of the executive committee of the Shopen Society of New York that your rendition of the works of our master is unexcelled by any living performer, we humbly beg of you to accept the hospitality of our association at an early date to be chosen by you. Our members and their guests would consider it the highest of privileges could they be permitted to hear you play such selections from Shopen as you might wish to perform, thanking you in advance for the great joy that you will vouchsave to us by accepting this invitation, we remain, et cetera. There lay a one smile on Tom's face as he met my gaze. Kind, aren't they? He muttered. What the doosal I write to him, Winifred. You can't accept, of course, I said confidently. Then I hesitated, surprised at the queer gleam in Tom's eyes. Can you? I added weakly. I can, I suppose. He remarked with an effort at playfulness. There's no law against it. His answer struck me as strangely unlike him. If he had cried, the Shopen Society be damned. I should have felt more at ease less oppressed by a sensation of nameless dread. There was something distinctly uncanny in Tom's manner. It would be a good joke on him, wouldn't it, if I should accept their bid? He remarked as he lighted his cigar. Conn found their impudence. That's what they deserve. But, but Tom, would you try to, to play? I gasped in dismay. Tom laughed in a way that shocked my overwrought nerves. It was a shrill unnatural note of merriment that struck me as diabolical. Play, he repeated sardonically. Why not? Do you imagine, madam, that the marvelous genius of Thomas Remsen, interpreter of Frederick Francois Shopen, is to be confined strictly to your musicals? That would be a gross injustice to the music-loving world, would it not? But come into the library with me, Winifred. I must resume my duties as a student of the master. I followed Tom mechanically, fascinated by his gruesome mood. For the life of me, I couldn't tell whether he was joking or an earnest, whether it was his mind or mine that had lost its poise. End of part two, chapters three and four. Part two, chapters five and six of Perkins the Faker, a travesty on reincarnation by Edward S. Vanzile. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. How Shopen came to Remsen, chapter five. A Polish Fantasia. Ah, sure as Hindu legends tell, when music stones the bosom swell, the scenes of former life return. Dr. Layden. I made a clean rest of the whole matter to Mrs. Jack Van Corley or the next morning. I had sent for her early in the day saying that I was in trouble and needed advice and she came to me at once. It was a great relief to me just to look into her eyes and hold her hand. It's about Tom, she remarked sagely. Has he done it again? Her question made me realize fully the awkwardness of my position. Close as our friendship had been, I had never gossiped about Tom to Mrs. Jack. If there is anything more vulgar than what Tom had once called extra marital confidences between women, I don't know what is. But I was forced to talk about my husband's increasing eccentricity to somebody for endanger my own mental health. I knew that I should derive temporary nervous restoration from a heart to heart confab with a woman who has the reputation of being a mighty good fellow. I have heard people complain that Mrs. Jack was too horsey for their taste. But if you are seeking a friend who shall possess courage, reticence, and common sense, pick out a woman that rides. A fondness for horses seems to enlarge a woman's sympathies while at the same time it increases her discretion. He has not actually done it again, my dear, I answered, but he threatens to. He informed me at breakfast this morning that he intended to accept the invitation of the Chopin Society. Furthermore, he said he was going to send the society a check for their Chopin Monument Fund. Tom's a thoroughbred, isn't he? exclaimed Mrs. Jack with what struck me as ill-timed enthusiasm. But tell me more about Srina Molatti. Did you keep your promise to her? Yes, I told him this morning about her call. Do you know he seemed to be actually pleased? It wasn't like Tom at all. Young women always bore him, and he has a special abhorrence for people connected in any way with the stage. Now, Winniford, tell me honestly, has Tom never played a note in all the 12 years that you have known him? Never, never, never, I cried hotly. It was so hard to make even Mrs. Jack, who fully understands me, get at my point of view. And he wins a big handicap for the first time he starts, mused my confidant. It's miraculous. Is there a strain of music in his blood, my dear? Any of the Rempsons gifted that way? Not that I ever heard of, I answered rather petulantly. Mrs. Jack's surmises seem to be as unsatisfactory as my own solitary musings. Is he going to play for Malati? She asked presently. The blood rushed to my cheeks as I realized that this was the keynote to the whole conversation. He says he is, I confessed reluctantly. You may not believe it, but he actually joked about it. Said that it would be cruel on his part to withhold from a worthy young woman, what an expression, a pleasure that might restore her appetite and sleep. Mrs. Jack laughed aloud despite the frown on my brow. Give him the bit, my dear, she advised playfully. You aren't afraid of a little black filly over a distance, are you? But tell me, what does Tom say about it all? You tell me that he speaks of his recent rendition of the Chopin Ballad as a seizure. For nearly two days, my dear, I fondly imagined he had forgotten all about it. He didn't speak of it. But last night he went into the library and recommended his researches into the life of Chopin. I couldn't help laughing at some of the comments he made, but he wasn't dead earnest all the time. I am forced to believe Tom really thinks he is. It seems so absurd when one puts it into words. Think he is haunted by Chopin's spirit or something of that kind? Mrs. Jack's mood changed and the merriment in her face disappeared. Do you know, she remarked thoughtfully, I am sometimes inclined to think that we are awfully ignorant about some things. I have heard of so many queer occurrences of an uncanny nature lately and among the very nicest kind of people too. And it used to be really good form to have a family ghost, you know. Perhaps it's coming in again. Old fashions have a way of cropping up again, haven't they? I could not refrain from smiling at Mrs. Jack's peculiar attitude towards psychical mysteries. However, I refuse to be led into generalities. But just look at the ludicrousness of the idea, I began. Admitting, my dear, that Chopin's soul has grown uneasy and desires a temporary reincarnation, would he be likely to select Tom as a, what shall I call it, medium? Wouldn't he be more inclined to haunt a man who was naturally musical or at least loved music? But you know, Mrs. Jack, what Tom is. He hasn't the slightest liking for music of any kind. Unless he has been a great actor for many years, never for an instant for getting his role, I am sure of this. What can we know about the methods or longings of a disembodied spirit, argued my confidant logically enough? Perhaps Chopin was backing a long shot just for the excitement of the thing. I glanced at Mrs. Jack half angrily. I thought for a moment that she was inclined to poke fun at me. But her face was as serious as mine and I repented quickly of my unjust suspicion. And thus we talked in a circle for an hour or more. Mrs. Jack lunched with me and finally persuaded me to spend the afternoon with her, driving along the riverside. As we drew up in front of the house about five o'clock, I turned to her with gratitude in my heart and eyes and voice. Thank you so much, my dear, I said gratefully. I'll come to you in the morning if there are any new developments in the case. I had turned away when Mrs. Jack called me back. It's a problem that you and I can't solve, little woman, she said affectionately. If he has another attack or any new symptoms develop, what would you think of consulting a specialist? I'd go with you, of course. We needn't give out names, you know. A specialist in what? I asked, trying to repress a feeling of annoyance that I must conceal from a friend who had been all kindness to me at a crisis. Think it over, returned Mrs. Jack vaguely. I'm sure I don't know who is an authority on, what did Tom call it? Chopinitis. But come to me in the morning anyway. I may have something really practical to suggest. And don't touch him with the whip. Tom's a thoroughbred, you know, my dear. Goodbye. As I entered the hall, depressed by a quick reaction from my recent cheerfulness, I was roused from my self-absorption by a revelation that drove the blood to my head and made me dizzy for a moment. From the music room, always unoccupied at this hour of the day, came the weird searching harmonies of a Polish fantasia arranged for the piano and violin. The effect was marvelous. Softened by distance, the perfect accord of the two instruments bore testimony to the complete sympathy that existed between the pianist and the wielder of the bow. There was something in this half-barbaric music that set my veins on fire. Hardly knowing what I did and with no thought of what I intended to do, I crossed the drawing room quickly and noiselessly and stood motionless at the entrance to the music room. I remember now that I felt no sensation of astonishment at what I saw. It seemed to me that the picture before my eyes was just what I had come from a remote distance to gaze upon. Tom was seated at the piano, his back toward me. Beside him stood Srina Molati, her Cremona resting against her shoulder. They had not heard my footsteps and I realized that if I had yelled like a wild Indian, they would not have come to earth. They played like creatures in a trance and I felt the strange seductive hypnotism of the mad, sweet, feverish music that they made as I stood there voiceless, motionless, helpless, hopeless. Vainly I appealed to my pride. Vainly I strove to act as one worthy at the name of Mauden. The shock had been too sudden, too severe, and I could not trust myself. As silently as I had come, I crept away. Recrossing the drawing room, I encountered the butler in the hall. My face flushed with shame as I said to him. If Mr. Remson asks for me, James, say that I have not returned. Then I stumbled upstairs to my rooms, dismissed my maid curtly, and gave way like a foolish girl to foolish tears. Chapter six, consulting a specialist. An angel is too fine a thing to sit behind my chair and sing and cheer my passing day. Edmund E. Goss. But madam, the symptoms insofar as I can gather them are insufficient for an accurate diagnosis. You have stated the case clearly and in my new detail, but my experience in the new School of Medicine, if such it can be called, convinces me that you have inadvertently omitted some significant factor in the premises without which I can vouchsave to you nothing more valuable than sweeping generalities. In other words, you have given me an opportunity to lay before you a theory, but no chance to suggest to you a practical line of action. I looked helplessly at Mrs. Van Corleer and saw that she was scanning Dr. Emerson Woodruff's strong, thoughtful face attentively. Presently she glanced at me, as if asking my permission to speak, and I nodded to her in acquiescence. We have told you, doctor, began Mrs. Jack, that this friend of ours plays nothing but Chopin. That's important, of course. Exceedingly, remarked Dr. Woodruff impressively, his hands folded across his chest and his head bent forward. Even at that critical moment, I found myself wondering if all practitioners of the anti-materialistic school were large, dignified, magnetic men with majestic brows and bright, searching eyes. But he's not always a soloist, went on Mrs. Jack in a low but vibrant tone. He has shown an inclination of late to travel in double harness, piano and violin, you know. An enigmatic smile came into Dr. Woodruff's face for an instant. The man's intuition was so quick and keen that I had begun to fear I should find it difficult to maintain my incognita. You say, he asked presently turning toward me, that his general health remains good. He has no tendency towards melancholia, doesn't grow flighty at times in his talk. I have never seen him look so well as he does at present, I answered wearily. I had come to Dr. Woodruff against my will, succumbing weakly to Mrs. Jack's insistence. And now the whole affair appeared ridiculous and the doctor's questions irrelevant and futile. My interest in the séance, if that is the word for it, was reawakened, however, by the physician's next question. Who plays the violin for him? He asked curtly. Mrs. Jack answered him at once. Signorina Molati, you know her by reputation. Yes, he answered. I have heard her play. She has a touch of genius. They must make great music together, Molati and your friend. A lump came into my throat and I clutched the arms of my chair awkwardly. That Dr. Woodruff had noticed my emotion, I felt sure. Well, what is your explanation of all this, doctor? I asked impatiently. I was thoroughly out of harmony with myself, Mrs. Jack and the physician, and my pride revolted at the false position in which I had been placed. A skeptic who goes to a clergyman for guidance sacrifices both his logic and his dignity. Here I sat in Dr. Emerson Woodruff's office under an assumed name, telling a stranger weird tales about a supposititious acquaintance who was in reality my own husband. Had I not been unfair to Tom, Dr. Woodruff and myself, surely the road to truth is not through a zigzag lane of lies? My dear madam, began the doctor in his most pompous manner. The case, as you have stated it, is unique in the annals of what I take the liberty to call the new science, new that is to the Western world. To the brooding East, the introspective, sapient, miracle-working Orient, there would be nothing strange or inexplicable in what your err friend calls his seizure. I have seen in India phenomena that, should I describe them to you, would wholly destroy what little confidence you have in my veracity and common sense. May I ask why you have come to me, madam? You have no faith in the school to which I am devoted. His voice had grown suddenly stern and I avoided his gaze in confusion. The ease with which he had read my thoughts offended and frightened me. It's my fault, Dr. Woodruff, cried Mrs. Jack loyally. I persuaded her to come. I have been over the jumps before and I rather like the course. But it's pretty stiff going at first, you must acknowledge. To my surprise, Dr. Woodruff laughed aloud. His merriment restored my equilibrium and I hasten to explain. Won't you believe me, doctor, when I say that I have not come to you in an antagonistic mood? I am intensely interested in the problem we have laid before you and I feel sure you can help us to read the riddle. We have a friend who has no music in his soul. Suddenly he begins to play Chopin like a master. Then he develops a fondness for duets. We fear the future. Presently he will begin to neglect his business and his—and— and his wife, added the doctor, glancing at me quizzically. Then he turns sharply toward Mrs. Jack. Is this man fond of horses? Does he ride? Before he became so completely absorbed in his profession he was a marvel over timber, she answered with enthusiasm. I remember—she began reminiscently. From mind-ancient history I cried rather rudely. I really can't see, Dr. Woodruff, what his cross-country skill has to do with his Chopin seizure. As I understand it, madam, explained the physician evidently hurt by my petulance, as I understand it you are desirous of turning your, uh, friend's mind from music. You tell me that his professional duties have had no effect in this connection. To use an expression that is not often employed by psychologists, a counter-irritant is what I had in mind. It is not strictly scientific to prescribe a remedy before the diagnosis is completed, but as I gather from your words you wish to attempt a cure at once. I am sure there flashed a gleam of suspicion not unmingled with contempt from my eyes as I scanned the doctor's face. Surely it was absurd to suppose that if Tom was really the victim of some supernatural manifestation he could be restored to a normal condition by a resumption of his equestrian enthusiasm? Furthermore, what was I to gain by the line of treatment that this psychological posiles seemed to have in mind? Was it not just as well, for my peace of mind, to have Tom playing duets with Signorina Mulatti as chasing an aniseed bag across fields and ditches in company with Mrs. Jack Van Corleer or some other horsey woman? Do you think he has been hypnotized by Signorina Mulatti? I asked bluntly, anxious to pin the physician down to some explanation of Tom's eccentricities that should not offend against probability. Admitting the possibility of hypnotism in this instance, answered Dr. Woodruff gravely, it would seem to be much more likely that your friend had hypnotized Signorina Mulatti. Do you not agree with me? Taking all the circumstances into consideration, I was forced to admit to myself that his argument was sound. But I could not imagine Tom in the role of a swangali. Whichever way I turned I was at the horn of a dilemma. The fact is, madam, began Dr. Woodruff very seriously. The fact is that your reticence has placed me in a somewhat awkward position. While you have apparently made a clean rest of the whole affair, there are several gaps in your story that I must fill up before I can be of any great service to you. There are various explanations of your friend's remarkable outbreak that naturally suggest themselves. Most people would assert at once that he had deliberately concealed his musical ability for years, planning to make a sensational debut when occasion served. You have rejected this explanation as inconsistent with your knowledge of the man's character. I accept your view of the matter and lay aside as untenable the seemingly most reasonable solution of the problem. Practically, but two lines of conjecture remain open to us. Your friend may have been hypnotized, may have become the plaything of a harmless medium who possesses a sense of humor and enjoys a practical joke. But, I must admit, this explanation appears far-fetched and involves several very improbable hypotheses. The doctor paused for a time and eyed us musingly. I felt better disposed toward him than heretofore, recognizing the fact that I had been listening to the words of a well-balanced logical man who might tread lofty heights, but who always stepped with care. If Dr. Emerson Woodruff was a mystic and a dreamer, there was nothing in his outward seeming or his mental methods to indicate it. How many hurdles on the other track? asked Mrs. Jack abruptly. Pardon me, said the physician gently. I didn't get your meaning. There were two lines of conjecture open to us, explained Mrs. Jack. After we had agreed that, what shall I call him? The man with Chopinitis is not a liar. You don't accept the hypnotic theory, Dr. Woodruff. What's the other? Would you be shocked? asked the psychologist suavely. If I should suggest that your friend may be possibly under the direct influence of the spirit of the late Frederick François Chopin. That's what Tom thinks. I cried excitedly and then bit my tongue regretfully. Dr. Woodruff's penetrating eyes were fixed on me. I said that there were gaps in your narrative. He remarked reproachfully. Your friend, I take it that his name is Tom, believes then that he is under the control of Chopin. I think he does, I answered not very graciously. He has spent much time of late reading the details of Chopin's life. Ah, exclaimed the doctor, like one who comes gladly on a new symptom in a puzzling case, would it not be possible, madam, for me to see this man, unobserved, myself? If I could hear him play, it would be throwing a flood of light on the case. As it is, I am groping in the dark. And, and, in case, sir, that your worst fears are realized, I faltered, can you do anything for him? Can he be cured? You see, doctor, she didn't marry Chopin, naturally. The look I gave Mrs. Jack quieted her restless tongue, but the fat was in the fire. Yes, the murder's out, Dr. Woodruff, I confessed wearily. We've been talking about my husband. We were very happy together before his seizure, and, and now... And now his wife isn't one, two, three, cried Mrs. Jack excitedly, and it's a burning shame. Can you do something for him, doctor? Surely you don't think it's chronic, do you? The suspicion of a smile crossed the physician's face, and I felt the blood come into my cheeks. I had no intention of laying my marital misery before the keen eyes of this strangely powerful man, but somehow I felt a sense of relief now that he had come into possession of all the facts. If you think it advisable, doctor, for you to hear my husband play, I said presently, I'm sure it can be arranged. He has agreed to give a recital at the rooms of the Chopin Society tomorrow evening. He has asked us to go with him. Would you not obtain a card? He would not know, of course, why you were there. I have many friends among the Chopin idolaters. It is easily arranged, remarked Dr. Woodruff as he rose and ushered us toward the exit from his inner office. Meanwhile, madam, I shall make a close study of the case from the data already at hand. I am very grateful to you for coming to me, and I think I can safely promise to be of service to you. Au revoir. Good evening, at eight. As we seated ourselves in the carriage, I turned angrily to Mrs. Jack. Why did you betray me? I cried. It was cruel, cruel. Mrs. Jack smiled affectionately and seized my hand. Don't be annoyed at me, my dear. I was merely doing justice to Dr. Woodruff. It's absurd to try to put a thoroughbred over the water-jump with blinders. It's unfair to the horse to say the least.