curiosities, as fossils. They seemed to reclaim their former semianimation, to desire to be the properties of an actual drama, to long to sympathize with joy and sorrow, as they had dumbly sympathized long ago.
I felt myself becoming a dramatic personage, but with no rôle yet assigned.
“Here is the stage,” I thought. “Here is the scenery. Here is such a hall as conspirators, when there were conspirators, would have held tryst in. But the vindictive centuries are dead and gone. There is no Vehm to sit here in sombre judgment. And if there were a Vehm, the age of crime is over. I dare say I shall lead a commonplace life enough here,—study, smoke, sleep, just as if the room were not thirty feet square, dimly lighted with mullioned windows, and hung with pictures grim with three centuries of silent monitorship.
“Lucky that I’m not superstitious!” my thought continued. “I never shall peer behind the bed for ghosts, or for fiends into the coal-bin. A superstitious man might well be uneasy here. If I wanted to give a timid fellow the horrors, I would shut him up in this very room for a single night without light and without cigars. I don’t believe a guilty man could stand it at all. If one had fathered villain purposes, those bastards of the soul’s begetting would be sure to return and plague their parent in these lodgings. No, a guilty man could never live here a day.
“Densdeth, now,—how would he like to be quartered in Rubbish Palace? I forget that he does occupy the next room. By the way, I will see whether the door to his dark room is fast on my side.”
I crowded between the piles of packing-cases in Stillfleet’s lumber-closet to examine. Unless Densdeth were a spirit, and could squeeze through a keyhole, I was safe from a visit by that entrance. Stillfleet had screwed on this door a grand piece of ancient ironmongery, a bolt big enough to hold the gate of a condemned cell.
As I stooped to admire the workmanship of the old bolt, I was aware of the faint fragrance of a subtle and luxurious perfume. Stillfleet’s boxes were musty enough. The scent was only perceptible at the door. It must come from the other side.
“Odor of boudoir, not store-room,” I thought. “But perhaps he keeps a box of some precious nard stored here, and it has sprung a leak. Never mind, Mr. Byng; keep your nose for your own Cologne-bottle. Boudoir or magazine, remember it is Densdeth’s, a man you mistrust.”
I shut the closet-door, left the coffins of Stillfleet’s Old Masters in their dark vault, and returned to my work.
In another half-hour all my traps had found their places. Everything, from boots to Bible, was where it would come to hand at need. I laid my matches so that I need not grope about in the formidable dimness of my chamber when I entered at night.
It was five o’clock. I felt a great want of society, and an imperative appetite for dinner.
“Why not venture,” I asked myself, “to knock at Mr. Churm’s door up-stairs? Perhaps he will dine with me at the Chuzzlewit, or show me a better place. He will not think me impertinent, I am sure, in making myself known anew to him.”
I took the nearest staircase for the floor above, expecting to find there another corridor running the whole length of the building, as below. A locked door, however, at the left of the landing obstructed my passage towards Churm’s side of Chrysalis. At the right also was a door, cutting off that portion of the corridor. It stood ajar.
As I was turning to descend, and find my way by the other staircase to Churm’s lodgings, the question occurred to me, “Have I a neighbor overhead? Densdeth beside me,—who is above? By what name shall I chide him, if in dancing his breakdowns he comes crashing through the centre-piece of my ceiling? I should be glad to have a fine fellow close at hand to serve me as a counterblast to Densdeth. I must have friends, and if I can find one in my neighbor, so much the better.”
I pushed open the door, and entered the little hall; it was lighted, as below, by a narrow mullioned window,—only half-lighted at that hour of a winter’s afternoon.
A lonely, dismal place. The ceiling, instead of showing a tidy baldness under recent combings by a housemaid’s broom, was all hairy with cobwebs. I was surprised that no spider had slung himself across the doorway, making the lobby a cave of Adullam.
There were two doors on the right. Each was labelled “To Let.” The light was so faint by this time that I was obliged to approach close to satisfy myself that “To Let” was not the name of a tenant.
On the left the same unprofitable nonentity occupied the room over Densdeth’s. The fourth door, corresponding to my own, remained. I inspected that in turn.
An ordinary visiting-card was tacked to the door. It bore a name neatly printed by hand.
I deciphered it with difficulty by the twilight through the grimy window: —
CECIL DREEME,
PAINTER.
A modest little door-plate. Its shyness interested me at once. Some men force their name and business on the world’s eye, as the vulgar and pushing announce their presence by a loud voice and large manner. A person of conscious power will let his works speak for him. Take care of the work, and the name will take care of itself.
“Mr. Cecil Dreeme,” I said to myself, “is some confident genius, willing to have his name remain in diminutive letters on a visiting-card until the world writes it in big capitals in Valhalla. Here he lurks and works, ‘like some poet hidden in the realm of thought.’ By and by a great picture will walk out through this cobwebby corridor.
“Cecil Dreeme,” I repeated. “My neighbor overhead has a most musical, most artistic name. Dreeme,—yes; the sound, if not the spelling, fits perfectly. A painter’s life, if common theories be true, should be all a dream. Visions of Paradises and Peris should always be with him. No vulgar, harsh, or cruel realities should shatter his placid repose. Cecil, too,—how fortunate that those liquid syllables were sprinkled upon him by the surplice at the font. Tom or Sam or Peter would have been an unpardonable discord.”
Cecil Dreeme! The melodious vagueness of the name gently attracted me. It was to mine what the note of a flute is to the crack of a rifle.
Cecil Dreeme—Robert Byng.
“There is a contrast to begin with,” I thought. “Our professions, too, are antagonistic. Chemistry—Art. Formulas—Inspirations. Analysis—Combination. I work with matter; he with spirit. I unmake; he makes. I split atoms, unravel gases; he grafts lovely image upon lovely image, and weaves a thousand gossamers of beauty into one transcendent fabric.”
As these fancies ran through my brain, I began to develop a lively curiosity in my neighbor overhead.
Remember that I was a ten years’ absentee, without relatives, without sure friends, wanting society, and just now a thought romanticized by the air and scenery of Rubbish Palace.
I began to long to be acquainted with this gentleman above me, this possible counterblast to Densdeth, this possible apparition through my ceiling at the heel of a breakdown.
“Does he, then, dance breakdowns?” I thought. “Is he perhaps a painter of the frowzy class, with a velvet coat, mop of hair and mile of beard, pendulous pipe and a figurante on the bowl, and with a Düsseldorf, not to say Bohemian, demeanor. Is he a man whose art is a trade, who paints a picture as he would daub the side of a house? Or is he the true Artist, a refined and spiritualized being, Raphael in look, Fra Angelico in life, a man in force, but with the feminine insight,—one
