On the evening of May 5th, Claude Ignatius Hix found only a dollar eighty-seven in his collection box.

  He sighed and counted the worn nickels, the dull little coppers once more. He put them down carefully into a rusty tin box and locked it.

  The Temple of Eternal Truth of the Spirit needed an organ so badly. Well, he would still get it. He would go without that reconditioned car he had been waiting to buy for such a long time; he could ride the trolleys a little longer, but he would get the organ.

  He blew out the two tapers on the pulpit, tall, white, real tapers which he always lit for the services. He closed the windows. He took a broom from a corner and swept the floor carefully, between the long rows of narrow, backless, unpainted benches. The broom swished in the silence of the long, dim barn and the electric bulb in the middle of the ceiling threw his lonely shadow across the benches.

  He stood at the open door and looked at the sky, which was clear with a bright moon; it would not rain tomorrow. He was glad. The roof of the Temple of Eternal Truth of the Spirit leaked badly between its unpainted beams.

  Rain would spoil the long cotton bands nailed to the dark walls inside the Temple; bands with careful, even letters of red and blue, which he himself had painted for so many long, weary, painstaking hours.

  BLESSED ARE THE MEEK: FOR THEY SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH.

  BLESSED ARE THE POOR IN SPIRIT: FOR THEIRS IS THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN.

  HE THAT LOVETH HIS LIFE SHALL LOSE IT AND HE THAT HATETH HIS LIFE IN THIS WORLD SHALL KEEP IT UNTO LIFE ETERNAL.

  Claude Ignatius Hix walked slowly up the aisle. His tall lean body was always carried erect, as if an old-fashioned photographer had clamped an iron vise to his back, to keep it faultlessly straight. His thick black hair was beginning to recede off his high forehead and white streaks were growing slowly on his temples. His head was carried high, and his long, thin face was stern, patient, serene in its haughty calm with its dark eyes, fiery and young among the first, dry little wrinkles. His clothes were always black and he carried his long, white fingers entwined on his chest, and his clothes made one think of somber, floating garments, even though his white collar was slightly wilted and his nails were not always clean.

  He sat down on the steps of his old pulpit and his forehead fell wearily into the palm of his hand. He could no longer hide from himself the dim, growing anguish of his heart. The Temple of Eternal Truth of the Spirit did not fare so well anymore. His congregation was slipping away from him, slowly, steadily, like a thin trickle of sand from an old, leaking jug. Fewer faces were raised to his pulpit at each service, fewer hearts were there to receive the cherished, passionate words he had toiled so devotedly to prepare for them.

  He knew well the reason. A rival had moved into his neighborhood, not six blocks away, and he had seen the old faces he knew so well in the new Church of the Cheery Corner, the Little Church with the Big Blue Dome, where the Reverend Essie Twomey “guided in glory.” The Reverend Essie Twomey had chestnut curls worn down her neck and buds of Cecile Brunner roses in her curls. The Church of the Cheery Corner had shingled walls painted a thick, glossy white and a real dome of baby blue. Claude Ignatius Hix would not have minded it if his flock had found consolation and spiritual food outside of his Temple; but he did not believe in Sister Twomey’s sincerity.

  He had attended one of her sermons announced as “The Service Station of the Spirit” in big red letters over the door of her church. Sister Twomey had had a whole service station built behind her pulpit, with tall glass pumps labeled: PURITY, DEVOTION, PRAYER, and PRAYER WITH FAITH UNSURPASSED; and tall, slender young boys stood in attendance, dressed in white uniforms with gold wings on their shoulders, and white caps with gold visors and gold letters that said: CREED OIL INC. She had preached a long sermon to the effect that when you travel the hard road of life, you must be sure that your tank is filled with the best gas of Faith, that your tires are full of the air of Kindness, that your radiator is cooled with the sweet water of Temperance, that your battery is charged with the power of Righteousness, and that you beware of treacherous Detours which lead to perdition. She had warned against blasphemous road hogs, and given long, vigorous samples of their blasphemy, as contrasted to the manner of a driver pure in heart. The congregation had laughed happily, and sighed thoughtfully, and dropped crackling bills into the collection box in the shape of a gasoline can.

  Claude Ignatius Hix sat alone on his pulpit steps. Beyond his open door the night was dark and soft, and a lonely streetcar rattled somewhere in the silence.

  This had been the evening when, for the first time in his life, he had not finished his sermon. It had been the best sermon he had ever written; he had squeezed, out of the depth of his soul, the most delicate, the most eloquent, words his faith could command. But when he had stood on the pulpit and looked down at the rows of gray, empty benches, at the white eyes of a blind old woman, the bowed neck of a lanky tramp who drew patterns with his toe in the dust of the floor, the nodding bald head of a beggar who had fallen asleep, the few stooped, frayed, weary, huddled bodies scattered through the room, his words had died on his lips. He had cut the sermon short, given his blessing, and watched them file out slowly, holding in his hand, guiltily, the tin cup with their humble donations.

  He knew well why his Temple had been deserted that evening. The Reverend Essie Twomey was conducting one of her famous midnight services: “The Night Life of the Angels.” It was a daring innovation that kept her humble parishioners up at a later hour than they had ever stayed before and it had proved to be Sister Twomey’s greatest success. Claude Ignatius Hix had seen it: there was a bar built behind her pulpit, a glittering bar of tinsel and gold foil, with a bartender in flowing white robes, with a big white beard, vaguely reminiscent of Saint Peter, except for the fact that he had neglected to remove his pince-nez; there were angels in white garments, with white, powdered faces and lips painted a deep pink, sitting on tall stools, holding cocktails in the form of long paper scrolls with mixed quotations from the scriptures. The Reverend Essie Twomey, small and plump in a Grecian tunic of silver gauze, her white, round arms bare and loaded with calla lilies, talked for many hours, swaying, closing her eyes, moaning softly, chanting hoarsely, screaming triumphantly, her round cheeks stretched into a radiant smile.

  He could not fight it. He had failed. He had nothing left but to move out of the neighborhood, to give up the poor souls for whom he had fought so desperately. He had failed.

  He rose heavily from the pulpit steps and threw his shoulders back, and walked steadily down the aisle to the door. He pressed a button to light the electric cross on the wall, over his pulpit. That cross was his greatest pride, the most expensive fixture of his Temple, erected at the cost of many sacrifices, many privations through many long years. He lit it at night, when he went home, leaving the Temple door wide-open. Over the entrance was a sign, THIS DOOR NEVER CLOSES, and all night long in the depth of the dark, narrow barn a white cross of fire flamed on a blank wall.

  Claude Ignatius Hix walked slowly across a desolate backyard to his home, a forlorn shack behind the Temple. The backyard was a dreary stretch of ruts and dried weeds, lighted red and blue by the thick spurts of steam billowing over a neon sign on a yellow brick laundry next door.

  Halfway to his house, Claude Ignatius Hix stopped suddenly. He heard steps behind him, very light, hurried steps, and he turned to see the tall, dark shadow of a woman disappearing into the Temple.

  He stood still, perplexed. He had never seen a visitor at such a late hour. And the stranger seemed well dressed; not the type of worshipper he had ever met in the neighborhood. He should not disturb her; but perhaps she needed advice in the secret sorrow that had sent her, long past midnight, to this lonely place of worship. He walked resolutely back to the Temple.

  The woman stood under the cross. Her long black suit was severe as a man’s; her golden hair rose like a halo over her face, the pale face of a saint. For the flash of a second, he thought suddenly, crazily, that a statue of the Madonna stood there, at his altar, in the rays of the cross.

  He took a step forward. Then he stopped short. He knew her face, but he could not believe it. He passed his hand over his eyes. He gasped:

  “You . . . you’re not . . .”

  “Yes,” she answered. “I am.”

  “Not . . . Kay Gonda?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Kay Gonda.”

  “To what . . .” he stuttered, “to what do I owe this honor, the rare honor of . . .”

  “To a murderer,” she answered.

  “You don’t mean . . . you don’t mean that it’s true, those rumors . . . those vile rumors . . .”

  “I’m hiding. From the police.”

  “But . . . how . . .”

  “Do you remember a letter? A letter you wrote me?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s why I’m here. May I stay?”

  Claude Ignatius Hix walked slowly to the open door and locked it. Then he came back to her. He said:

  “That door has not been closed for thirteen years. It will be closed tonight.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You are safe here. You are safe as in that kingdom beyond where no human arrow can reach you.”

  She sat down and took off her hat and shook her blond hair.

  He stood looking down at her, his fingers entwined on his chest.

  “My sister,” he said, and his voice trembled, “my poor misguided sister, it’s a heavy burden that you’ve taken upon your shoulders.”

  She looked up at him and in her clear, blue eyes was a sorrow no screen had ever shown to the world.

  “Yes,” she answered, “a heavy burden. And sometimes I do not know how much longer I want to carry it.”

  He smiled sadly. But in his heart it seemed to him that the long years of toil were light on his shoulders; in his heart was a great joy, such as he had never known. And he felt guilty.

  He felt as if he were taking something to which he had no right, even though he could not name what it was nor how he was taking it. On the dark wall, the flaming cross looked at him with accusation, and the dozens of white bulbs were as dozens of eyes, fixed, stern, condemning.

  Then he knew what it was that he had forgotten.

  He turned away from her. His head was high and his fingers were tense and grim on his chest. He said softly, “You are safe here, sister. No one will follow you here. No one will reach you, but one person only.”

  “And who is that?”

  “Yourself.”

  She looked up at him, her head bent to one shoulder, her eyes curious.

  “Myself?”

  “You may escape the judgment of the world. But the judgment of your conscience will follow you wherever you go.”

  She said softly:

  “I do not understand you.”

  His eyes were blazing. He stood over her, grim, austere as a judge.

  “You have committed a sin. A mortal sin. You have broken a Commandment. You have taken a human life. Will you carry that on your conscience to the end of your days?”

  “But what can I do?”

  “Great is the power of our Father. And great is His kindness. And forgiveness awaits the darkest of sinners who offers his penitence and confession from the depth of his soul.”

  “But if I confess, they will put me in jail.”

  “Ah, my sister, would you rather go free? What would you be profited if you shall gain the whole world and lose your own soul?”

  “And of what account is a soul without a world to gain?”

  “Ah, my child, pride is the greatest of our sins. Verily the greatest. Did not His Son say unto us: ‘except ye be converted and become as little children, ye shalt not enter into the kingdom of heaven’?”

  “But why should I want to enter it?”

  “If you know of a life that is supreme joy and beauty—how can you help but want to enter it?”

  “How can I help but want it here, here?”

  “Ours is a dark, imperfect world, my child.”

  “Why is it not perfect? Because it can’t be? Or because we don’t want it to be?”

  “Ah, my child, who among us doesn’t want it? We all have that lost hope, that ray of light in the darkest one of us, that shining dream of something better than our lives, which it is not given us to reach.”

  “We all want it?”

  “Yes, my child.”

  “And if it came, we would see it?”

  “Yes.”

  “But would we want to see it?”

  “Who among us would not give his life gladly for a glimpse of it? But ours is a world of tears and iniquity. And paltry are its best rewards. Yet eternal happiness awaits us there, beyond, and eternal beauty such as our poor spirits can never conceive. If only we renounce our sins and repent before Him. And you have sinned, my child. You have sinned heavily. But He is kind and merciful. Repent, repent with your whole heart, and He shall hear you!”

  “Then you want me to be hanged?”

  “My sister! My poor, lost, anguished sister! Do you not know that it is a greater sacrifice I am making than you are? Do you not know that I am wrenching my own heart out at the altar of our duty? That I would rather take you away and flee to the end of the world, and protect you with my last dying breath? Only it’s a poor service I would be doing you. I would rather save your soul and see mine writhing in the worst of all mortal agonies!”

  She rose and stood before him, fragile, helpless, and her eyes were wide, frightened and she whispered:

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Take upon your shoulders, bravely and willingly, the cross of your punishment. Confess! Confess your crime to the world! You are a great woman. The world lays its homage at your feet. Humble yourself. Go out into the very crowd on the marketplace and shout to the hearing of all men that you have sinned! Do not be afraid of what punishment may await you. Accept it humbly and joyously.”

  “Now?”

  “Right now!”

  “But there is no crowd anywhere at this hour.”

  “At this hour . . . at this hour . . .” He knew suddenly the thought that had been growing dimly somewhere in his mind. “My sister, at this very hour, a large crowd is gathered in a temple of error, not six blocks away, a poor, eager crowd searching for salvation. That’s where we’ll go! I’ll take you there. I’ll bring you in to show those poor, blind souls what real faith can do. To them you will confess your crime. For their sake will you offer your great sacrifice, for your brother men!”

  “My brother men?”

  “Think of them, my child. You have a great duty to your brothers on earth, as you have to your Father in Heaven, for all are His children. Look at them! They suffer in sin and in sin do they perish. You have a great chance, verily a blessed chance, to show them the true light of the Spirit. Great is your fame and your name will be heard to the four corners of the earth. They will know of the woman I rescued, the great woman who heard the call of the Truth, and they will follow your example.”

  He was thinking of the broad white hall, dim with the breaths of thousands, thousands of eager eyes fixed hopefully on a gilded, tinsel altar. Right into the den of the enemy would he bring her, his greatest conquest, right before those faces that had turned from him, and let them all know what he could do, in his modest efforts for the glory of God. Kay Gonda! The great name, the magic name! Somewhere, beyond the tinsel bar, he could hear a flutter of white wings, of white wings and white newspaper sheets with letters of flame! “Minister Converts Kay Gonda! Evangelist saves the greatest murderess that ever . . .” They would come to him, rich and poor, from the farthest corners of the land; they would flock to him; they would . . . He felt himself reeling a little.

  “Ah, my sister, they will repent even as you have repented. Your great crime will pave the way for a great miracle. Verily, great are the ways of our Lord and unfathomable is His wisdom!”

  She put on her hat and tilted it lightly, carelessly, over one eye, as if she were ready for the signal of a camera. She tightened the metal clasp of her collar, lightly, with the tip of the straight finger, as if she had just finished a fitting in the studio wardrobe. She asked, and her voice surprised him in its light calm, “It’s six blocks to that place, isn’t it?”

  “Why . . . yes.”

  “You do not want me to be seen walking in the street. Get a taxi.”

  He emptied the dollar eighty-seven from his tin box into his trembling hands. He ran, hatless, through dark streets, looking for a taxi. He found one, and leaped in, and rode back, his head throbbing.

  The taxi stopped at the Temple and he made the driver blow his horn. No one answered. Then he saw that the door was wide-open. The Temple was empty. A white cross flamed over the pulpit, on a black wall.

  6

  Dietrich von Esterhazy

  “Dear Miss Gonda,

  There are not many things which I can boast of having never done, and writing to a film star being the last one left to me, I am taking advantage of it, to complete the record. I am sure this letter can be of no interest to you, among the thousands you get every day, but I want to add this drop to the ocean, if for no other reason than that I want to do it, and it is the last thing left to me which I can still want.

  I will not tell you how much I have enjoyed your pictures, because I have not enjoyed them. I think they have been as tawdry as one can expect the world of today to welcome. I am afraid it is an ungracious admirer who greets you here. I hesitate on the word admirer, for admiration is a virtue long since buried, and that which bears its name today can only insult its object. I cannot speak of your great beauty, for beauty is a dangerous curse to a world prostrate in worship at the feet of more hideous ugliness than the past centuries could ever have dreamt possible. I cannot tell you that you are the greatest actress living, for greatness is the target at which all the greatest of this age are aimed, and their aim is precise, inexorable.

  I have seen all of life there is to see, and I feel now as if I were leaving a third-rate show on a disreputable side street, staged by a manager of very poor taste, and played by awkward amateurs. I have drunk to the last drop that which some call, presumptuously, the “cup of life,” and I found that it contained nothing but a thin, badly cooked soup without salt, which leaves one with a sickly taste in one’s mouth and hungrier than when one started, but without any desire to eat further.