THE VIOLINIST
upon the great square, menacing and hideous. There was a
tearing shriek above the melody.
Before her, his hands upon her hips, stood a boy. Golden
haired he was, and red were his young lips, and blue his eyes.
But his body was ethereal like a film of dew upon a glass,
or rust clinging to an airy garment; and all was stained
hideously with black.
“My Remenu!” she said. “After so long!”
He whispered in her ear.
The light behind her flickered and went out.
The spirit laid her violin and bow upon the ground.
The music went on—a panting, hot melody like mad
eagles in death struggle with mountain goats, like serpents
caught in jungle fires, like scorpions tormented by Arab girls.
And in the dark she sobbed and screamed in unison. She
had not expected this: she had dreamt of love more pas-
sionate, of lust more fierce-fantastic, than aught mortal.
And this?
This real loss of a real chastity? This degradation not of
the body, but of the soul? This white-hot curling flame—ice
cold about her heart? This jagged lightning that tore her?
This tarantula of slime that crawled up her spine?
She felt the blood running from her breasts, and its foam
at her mouth.
Then suddenly the lights flamed up, and she found herself
standing—reeling—her head sagging on his arm.
Again he whispered in her ear.
In his left hand was a little ebony box, a dark paste was
in it. He rubbed a little on her lips.
And yet a third time he whispered in her ear.
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