Evening Star Newspaper, June 16, 1935, Page 84

4_ Magazine Section scene and said the cow had died. The parson began to cry, thinking that he wasn't going to get his roof, but the farmer said: ‘Cheer up, we will be honest, and still keep the wet off the altar.” So to the man who had drawn the winning ticket, he returned the five shillings he had paid for it, saying: ‘The cow has died, but at least now you're no worse off than you were before.' And to the hundred others he said: ‘You didn't draw the winning number, s0 you lose money in any case, whether the cow is alive or dead.' So you see the money went to the parson, the roof was on the church, everyone had had his gamble, nobody had been cheated, and nobody had lost."” Hebe argued: ‘“Well, but the farmer who was giving his cow, it died, but he'd have lost it anyhow."” *‘Oh, no. The cow didn’t die, you see. He had sold it secretly the day before the raffle. A very profitable sale. Naturally he thought it was a pity to keep it, only to have to give it away."” “How dishonest!” cried Hebe, quivering with indignation. She could not bear a grossly material point of view, and had been one of the first to up- braid Monsieur Hippolyte Aubertin for his callous meanness in finishing his dinner. “Dishonest? Why?" “‘Sebastian!" “‘He had kept his word to the parson: he had conjured money out of space, and the church had its roof. It wasn't up to him to atone by his own loss for what the wilful, wanton lightning had done. I think he was a quick-witted fellow." “You can't! You can't possibly admire him! A lying trickster — "' “He knew human nature.” He grew cooler as she expostulated in hot anger. ‘“The people in that neighborhood could only be reconciled to giving five shillings each as long as they could also be deluded that there-in-space was a cow which might become their cow-in-fact — "' Sebastian went on, extravagantly embroid- ering his fancy; talking through his twenty hats, his decorated and specious hats; plau- sibly persuading himself and the universe as “Dangerous? Rubbish. It’s much easier to climb without all that silly equipment”’ THIS WEEK he talked; for that was Sebastian's way! But obstinately Hebe continued to take him seriously, to take him literally, to fight for high principles, morality, ethics and up- right behawvior. Had she the subtlety, the ironic humor to appreciate Sebastian’s nature, she would have known she was wasting her breath; for there was a farmer-in-space as well as a cow-in-space. Sebastian had spontane- ously invented a gay, absurd story out of the raffle and the sight of the procession of cows passing in dark silhouette along the mountain path at milking-time. But Hebe went on, trampling on fantasy, solidifying imagination. “It’s getting cold out here,” said Sebastian gently. “Let’s go inside.” Go where there were bright unshaded lights, where he could see Hebe, see how beautiful she was, The next afternoon, just before the raffle was to take place, it was discovered that the valuable object which Sebastian had con- tributed, the platinum cigarette case with the tiny symbolic eagle on it in diamonds had disappeared. Again he and Hebe faced each other on the veranda, this time in the blaze of a summer aftermoon. And she said: “So that's what you're like? No wonder you admired your farmer." “If T had the remotest idea what you were talking about — " “You had to contribute the most showy present of them all; you had to be so splendid and impulsive and lavish. but you couldn't bear to lose your cigarette case. You stole back vour own present. Isn’t that a thousand times meaner than if you had never given it?"’ The poet leant against the veranda rail and looked thoughtfully across at Mont Luison, pine-covered except on its highest peak, where the bare brown rock showed patches of dirty snow. He was terribly unhappy and growing unhappier every moment, so he laughed and said in a light tone, not looking at Hebe: “I shall never get used to the blue in a gentian, even if they grew in my own back- garden in Bloomsbury. One could eventually get used to tiger-lilies and parrot-flowers and even an oleander bush in full flame, but never to gentian blue.” “Third lesson in botany?" asked Hebe, trailing her voice disdainfully over what seemed to be wanton irrelevance, designed to show how indifferent he was to her censure. “My goodness. what do you want me to say? If I were going to plan a secret theft on those lines, is it likely that I would have told you the farmer story?"’ “Yes. Yes, it's the sort of twist that you'd think funny. You're always thinking things funny that everybody else knows are just wrong and indecent.” “Now that's a bit unfair. I do think it funny that, after having told that anecdote, my own cigarette case should disappear like this, but I wouldn’t think it in the least funny to have stolen the thing myself.” “No. You see, it isn't a church roof that's in question this time. It's a peasant woman with three young children and a dead hus- band.” “All mean men are sentimentalists.” “I don't like being called a mean man," said Sebastian, still speaking gently and look- ing away from her towards the heartless peak of Mont Luison; “but I like it much more than that you should suppose I could think it a joke to have stolen my own cigarette case from the raftle.” “It’s typical. One day vou'll joke once too often, and the joke will turn against you.”’ “‘Perhaps. Goodbye." “Goodbye?" She was puzzled. He strolled towards the outside staircase of the veranda. “Farewell, if you prefer it. Sentimentalists always say farewell." ‘Sebastian, where are you going?"’ “For a short stroll, my darling. Where did you suppose? Into the roaring torrent? I'm simply going to look for something.” “For the cigarette case?" For a fleeting few seconds she wondered whether she had been wrong. Then she re- membered that she was never wrong, which was an extraordinary comfort. ““No, for some more sand to bury my head in. One grows used to sand. And when it wears Illustration by Harry L. Timmins June 16, 1935 k“ thin - Man is first cousin to the Ostrich.” | “I don't understand you.” He looked round, and laughed again. “No, that's just it."” He ran down the steps and down the sheer little street towards the river. Hebe could not help thinking that he looked rather handsome in his old flannels, his faded blue cardigan, his strong bare throat, bitter features and un- covered black hair. From the valley, the mountains rode up in new perspective, the giants brown and bare above the pine-covered slopes to the east. Sebastian looked up at Sovrel, decapitated now because he stood immediately at her feet. The road to the little village of St. Maure rose winding among the rocks. He could see the church tower of St. Maure silhouetted far up, as though it crowned a wall. He took the steep road and rejoiced in it. Presently he heard a voice calling after him, and running footsteps. At first he did not stop, but it was a child's voice, gasping now from the chase. “What is it, Sonny?"’ Sonny Brown waited to recover his breath. Then: “You're to come back," he said. “Why?" “Your cigarette case “Where?" “It isn't where. It's who stole it? It was that Camille Rouvier.” “Oh?" Sonny began to find these laconic mono- syllables discouraging. He tried to work up dramatic atmosphere: ‘“‘He's been crying, crying ever so. Nobody made him tell. He told by himself. He said the old chap didn't give him enough money. He said he was tempted,”” added the small boy importantly. I see. Thanks." Sebastian turned to go on, but the boy cried out: “Aren’t you coming back? Hebe Cranfield says it'll make all the difference."” And again, Sebastian demanded: “Why?" And strode on up the mountain path. it's been found.” It did not matter. He was delivered now, delivered after two years with his head in the sand. What did he care who had taken his cigarette case? Though it was strange that Rouvier, the only member of the family at the Aubertin table who had been too sensitive to go on with his dinner after the tragedy, was also the only one who could steal, so to speak, from the funds of charity; whereas the old man who had roared at him to fill his belly with the good spaghetti which had been paid for, and not talk sentiment, the brutal old Aubertin had bought more tick- ets for the raffle than any other guest in the hotel; and he was not rich, either. Strange how things got mixed and jostled. . . . Then was there any reason why ostriches shouldn't fly to the peak of Mont Luison? No, nor why eagles should not be found hiding their heads in the dry sands of the desert? Suddenly it seemed to Sebas- tian, rushing up the mountain path, as though all poetry were liberated from the evil and neces-| sary constriction of sense. Visions,] beautiful, preposterous, showed/ him the streets of London, the! home of horses, sparrows and! terriers, transfigured with pranc- ing dolphins drawing vans, phoenixes perched on the edge ofl drinking fountains, unicorns fol- lowing at their masters’ heels, and answering to the call otl “Fido” or *Jock.” For the fabu’ list kingdom and the real king- dom were interchangeable, as’ well as the brutalities and char- ities of Monsieur Aubertin and” his meagre little son-in-law. And~ he, Sebastian, now no longer an ostrich, but freed by agency of a® tiny diamond eagle above a plainf of thin platinum, he had the name of a saint, and Hebe th name of a pagan. Yet she was a saint, a silly, silly saint, and herl the pagan. . . * Names; what were names? In" (Continued on page 15)