Flames | Page 8

familiarity that
was more majestic than any reserve. Yes, Valentine loved this Christ,
and Julian knew it well. Often, late at night, Julian had leaned back
lazily listening while Valentine played, improvising in a light so dim as
to be near to darkness. And Julian had noticed that the player's eyes
perpetually sought this picture, and rested on it, while his soul, through
the touch of the fingers, called to the soul of music that slept in the
piano, stirred it from sleep, carried it through strange and flashing
scenes, taught it to strive and to agonize, then hushed it again to sleep
and peace. And as Julian looked from the picture to the player, who
seemed drawing inspiration from it, he often mutely compared the
imagined beauty of the soul of the Christ with the known beauty of the
soul of his friend. And the two lovelinesses seemed to meet, and to
mingle as easily as two streams one with the other. Yet the beauty of
the Christ soul sprang from a strange parentage, was a sublime
inheritance, had been tried in the fiercest fires of pity and of pain. The
beauty of Valentine's soul seemed curiously innate, and mingled with a
dazzling snow of almost inhuman purity. His was not a great soul that
had striven successfully, and must always strive. His was a soul that
easily triumphed, that was almost coldly perfect without effort, that had
surely never longed even for a moment to fall, had never desired and
refused the shadowy pleasures of passion. The wonderful purity of his
friend's face continually struck Julian anew. It suggested to him the
ivory peak of an Alp, the luminous pallor of a pearl. What other young
man in London looked like that? Valentine was indeed an unique figure
in the modern London world. Had he strayed into it from the fragrant
pages of a missal, or condescended to it from the beatific vistas of some
far-off Paradise? Julian had often wondered, as he looked into the clear,
calm eyes of the friend who had been for so long the vigilant, yet
unconscious guardian of his soul.
To-night, as Valentine sat looking at the Christ, a curious wonder at
himself came into his mind. He was musing on the confession of Julian,
so long withheld, so shyly made at last. This confession caused him, for
the first time, to look self-consciously upon himself, to stand away
from his nature, as the artist stands away from the picture he is painting,

and to examine it with a sideways head, with a peering, contracted gaze.
This thing that protected a soul from sin--what was it like? What was it?
He could not easily surmise. He had a clear vision of the Christ soul, of
the exquisite essence of a divine individuality that prompted life to
spring out of death for one perfect moment that it might miraculously
reward a great human act of humanity. Yes, that soul floated before
him almost visibly. He could call it up before his mind as a man can
call up the vision of a supremely beautiful rose he has admired. And
there was a scent from the Christ soul as ineffably delicious as the scent
of the rose. But when Valentine tried to see his own soul, he could not
see it. He could not comprehend how its aspect affected others, even
quite how it affected Julian. Only he could comprehend, as he looked at
the Christ, its imperfection, and a longing, not felt before, came to him
to be better than he was. This new aspiration was given to him by
Julian's confession. He knew that well. He protected his friend now
without effort. Could he not protect him more certainly with effort?
Can a soul be beautiful that never strives consciously after beauty? A
child's nature is beautiful in its innocence because it has never striven
to be innocent. But is not an innocent woman more wonderful, more
beautiful, than an innocent child? Valentine felt within him that night a
distinct aspiration, and he vaguely connected it with the drooping
Christ, who touched with wan, rewarding lips the ardent face of the
merciful knight. And he no longer had the desire to know desire of sin.
He no longer sought to understand the power of temptation or the joy
of yielding to that power. A subtle change swept over him. Whether it
was permanent, or only passing, he could not tell.
A tingling cry from the electric bell in the passage told of Julian's
arrival, and in a moment he entered. He looked gay, almost rowdy, and
clapped Valentine on the shoulder rather boisterously.
"Why on earth are you in here?" he exclaimed. "Have you been
playing?"
"No."
"Are you in an exalted state