PAINTED VEILS

BY

JAMES HUNEKER

La Vérité toute nue...
Je vomis mes maîtres
Steeplejack

Boni and Liveright

Publishers New York

1920

PAINTED VEILS

Toward the immutable land Istar, daughter of Sin, bent her steps, toward the abode of the dead, toward the seven-gated abode where He entered, toward the abode whence there is no return.

At the first gate, the warder stripped her; he took the high tiara from her head.

At the second gate, the warder stripped her; he took the pendants from her ears.

At the third gate, the warder stripped her; he took off the precious stones that adorn her neck.

At the fourth gate, the warder stripped her; he took off the jewels that adorn her breast.

At the fifth gate, the warder stripped her; he took off the girdle that encompasses her waist.

At the sixth gate, the warder stripped her; he took the rings from her feet, the rings from her hands.

At the seventh gate, the warder stripped her; he took off the last veil that covers her body.

Istar, daughter of Sin, went into the immutable land, she took and received the Waters of Life. She gave

the Sublime Waters, and thus, in the presence of all, delivered the Son of Life, her young lover.

EPOPÉE D'IZDUBAR (6th Chant)
(Englished by W. F. ABTHORP)

THE SEVEN DEADLY VIRTUES

Now the Seven Deadly Virtues are: Humility, Charity, Meekness, Temperance, Brotherly Love, Diligence, Chastity. And the Seven Deadly Arts are: Poetry, Music, Architecture, Painting, Sculpture, Drama, Dancing.

This Parable, with its notations and evocations of naked nerves and soul-states, is inscribed in all gratitude to the charming morganatic ladies, les belles impures, who make pleasanter this vale of tears for virile men. What shall it profit a woman if she saves her soul, but loseth love?

"La pudeur? belle vertu! qu'on attache sur soi avec des épingles."

Madame d'Epinay

"L'amour cette forme meilleure de la charité."

Catulle Mendès

"Lo! the Lesbians, their sterile sex advancing...."

Steeplejack

... "Down from the waist they are Centaurs,
Though women all above:
But to the girdle do the gods inherit,
Beneath is all the fiend's;
There's hell, there's darkness, there's the sulphurous pit,
Burning, scalding, stench, consumption; fie, fie, fie!..."

"King Lear." Act IV, scene VI

THE FIRST GATE

At the first gate, the warder stripped her; he took the high tiara from her head....

I

Until the day of her death Easter never forgot that first night in New York. It was the initial twist of her ship's wheel, and the commonplace happenings which followed her entrance into the Maison Felicé were to give force and direction to her entire life.

The journey from Washington had been stupid. An early November afternoon sky heavy with threatening snow, her nerves tense with expectation, made the girl feel that the big city once reached her troubles would be over; but at Jersey City they began. After a few blunders she reached the 23rd Street ferry and noted the snow falling in the foggy river. Her baggage had been checked to the hotel and she had nothing to do but climb into a hansom and direct the driver to west 25th Street. She made a tentative bargain with the man. Easter was prudent because she had little money. The hotel—it was in reality two old-fashioned houses with high steps and brown stone façades, the conventional residence of the early eighties—did not impress her; besides, it was snowing so thickly that she could hardly distinguish anything, and when she was admitted into the hall the light dazzled her eyes. She felt lonely, timid, uncomfortable. A tall, portly lady saluted her.

"You are Mlle. Esther Brandès? I am Madame Felice." Her room had been engaged for a month ahead through the aid of a common friend. Her heart beat faster when the Frenchwoman politely said:

"I am sorry, Mlle. Brandès. Your room is occupied for a few days. We did not expect you till next week." The look of dismay on the newcomer's face must have appealed, for Madame added:

"But I shall put you in another room, a splendid apartment on the ground floor. You will like it. It will cost you only five dollars a day, tout compris. Do you speak French?" Easter nodded. She was so appalled at the price that she was speechless.

"But—but—" she stammered.

"Yes, I know," continued Madame in her native tongue and more pleasantly, "yes, I know, but it is only for one week and if Mlle. Brandès could see our waiting list!" That settled the matter. She bowed her head and soon a maid had her handbag open in a small bedroom adjoining a large well-furnished room, containing a grand pianoforte. There were three windows at the side. "The piano, it is the property of Monsieur Invern. He is away till next week," said the too confidential gossip. Easter handed her a tip and she bowed herself out. The chandelier gave plenty of light. There were bookcases. Much music. On the walls hung photographs of composers. Evidently the apartment of a musical person. She looked out of a window. An extension with skylights, and a noise of clattering dishes coupled with certain odours, not disagreeable to her nostrils, told her that the cuisine of the establishment was beneath. What she saw was the roof of the dining-room. Maison Felicé was one of those semi-hotels with table d'hôtes so popular in New York two or three decades ago. The cookery was French and notoriously good. Its fame spread to Virginia, where a friend of her mother's had secured, after the funeral of the poor woman, a letter of introduction to Madame Felicé. It was not easy to get into the hotel as a permanent guest.

Easter should have accounted herself lucky. She didn't. She was too miserably homesick for a home that no longer existed to bother about the exclusiveness of an hotel. Her glance traversed the lighted roof of the dining-room, and through the fast dropping snow it was arrested by a gloomy wall. Again her heart sank.

"My God!" she cried. "What a dismal prospect!" Without parents and in her wallet a hundred dollars she was alone in New York. The situation was almost melodramatic. That snowstorm viewed in the aperture between two buildings, and from the windows of a hired apartment, made an ineradicable impression. For the first time in her life she felt absolutely friendless.

Madame had told her the hour for dinner—7 till 8 p.m.; the luncheon was till 2 o'clock; and breakfast eaten in the room. A foreign atmosphere permeated the house. She turned away from the depressing night, lighted all the gas-burners, pulled down the shades and proceeded to make a modest toilette. Her trunk hadn't arrived, so she must eat her first meal in street clothes. No gong had sounded. Summoning courage she pressed a button. No answer, but from the sounds of talking and general bustle she knew that dinner was served. Another embarrassment. How to enter a dining-room full of strangers? Easter was a well-bred young woman, but not accustomed to the world; above all, to a Bohemian world. At the Maison Felicé, she had been informed, that the guests were celebrated. Singers, painters, actors, musicians there congregated. A perfect Bohemia where she would rub elbows, even speak to the people she most