But his eyes
were turned away to the stage. Valentine pushed his chair a little
backwards. He was watching them, and when he saw the movement of Julian's
arm, he laughed to himself. The classical Sabbath sprang into view, and
it seemed to be just then that the feet of the hours first began to move
in the opening steps of their great dance of that night. Was it the
magnificent Cleopatra that gave them the signal? Or did Venus herself
whisper in their ears that the time for their _f?te_ was come at length,
that the paid vagaries of the stage demanded companionship, and that the
audience, too, must move in great processions, whirl in demon circles,
rise up in heart to the clash of cymbals, bow down before the goddesses
of the night, the women who gave to modern men the modern heaven that
they desire in our days? The stage was a waving sea of scarlet, through
which one white woman floated, like a sin with pale cheeks in the midst
of the rubicund virtues. She was, perhaps, not beautiful, but she was
provocative and alluring, and her whiteness made her as voluptuous as
innocence is when it moves through the habitations of the wicked. Julian
watched her come to Faust and win him from the scarlet dancers and from
the arms of Cleopatra, and the strange rejuvenation of this philosopher
who had been old, and known decaying faculties, and the flight of the
heart from the warm closes of the summer to the white and iron winter
plains, filled him with sympathy.
Pages:
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297