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Reginald Clarke strolled down Broadway with a spring in his step, savoring the crisp night air with an almost hedonistic pleasure. The city stretched before him, awash with brilliance and throbbing with the heartbeat of ceaseless activity.
His intellect, vast and encompassing as it was, found itself drawn to the eclectic bustle of the metropolis. On the streets, just like in the most sophisticated of gatherings, his presence commanded attention, moving through the throngs with the effortless grace of a blade parting waters.
After a few blocks, he paused, captivated by a jeweler's display. Gems of deepest green, fiery red, and oceanic blue glinted in the electric glare, their allure hinting at the serpentine. The luminous display before him morphed within the kaleidoscope of his mind into the seed of something grand, a kernel of inspiration that might someday blossom into verse.
Then his gaze shifted, landing on a gaggle of tiny dancers on the sidewalk, their movements choreographed to the gritty melody of a nearby hurdy-gurdy. He melded into the crowd of onlookers, spellbound by the spectacle of these small, pink-ribboned dancers swaying in harmony with the music. Among them, a slender girl with the hue of an eternal spring in her complexion captivated him. She danced as if she were a leaf, buoyant on a gentle breeze, possibly reminiscing of a dark-haired Savoyard flutist from her homeland.
Reginald watched her dance, transfixed by every sinuous curve and arc her body traced. But then, perhaps fatigued or disconcerted by his unwavering gaze, the music seemed to drain from her limbs. Her dance lost its fluidity, becoming stilted, awkward. The spark in Clarke's eyes dimmed, yet his body responded with an involuntary shiver, as if he had internalized the rhythm of the music and the dance.
He resumed his walk, seemingly aimless, yet his senses were sharply tuned to the diverse waves of humanity that coursed through Broadway in both directions. Like a mythic titan, drawing strength from the very earth, Reginald Clarke seemed to replenish his own creative force with each brush against the vibrant tapestry of life around him.
Reginald Clarke veered eastward on Fourteenth Street, an avenue where low-budget vaudeville shows hung like gaudy jewels around the neck of depravity. The raucous red of billboards screamed the night's entertainments, each more lurid than the last. To the doorman's astonishment at a particularly seedy music hall, Reginald didn't just linger in the foyer; he purchased a ticket, granting him passage into this den of garish spectacle.
The audience was a motley crew: street urchins, weary laborers, washed-up gamblers, and women whose faded beauty no amount of makeup could resurrect, even under the forgiving dimness of the venue's lights. Reginald, seemingly oblivious to the stir he caused, took a spot near the stage, casually ordering a cocktail and a program from an attentive waiter. The drink remained untouched, while his eyes hungrily scanned the program's offerings. Once he identified his quarry, he lit up a cigar, his attention drifting from the stage to take in the crowd with a casual, detached air, until 'Betsy, the Hyacinth Girl' made her appearance.
As she began her performance, his mind seemed elsewhere, unperturbed by the crude lyrics and the singer's thin, almost grating voice. But as the song reached its refrain, a transformation overtook Clarke. His cigar was abandoned, and he leaned forward, a man entranced, his gaze fixed intently upon her. For in the moment she unleashed the final note and cast the hyacinth petals from her hair, there was a poignant wail in her voice, a simple, raw earnestness that transcended the flaws of her technique and held the rough crowd in a silent thrall.
That same sorrowful cry had seized Clarke's soul, echoing the silent screams of the night's haunted victims, the prey of dark desires.
The songstress halted, feeling the weight of his stare. Her composure wavered, and she struggled to regain the melody. As she neared the opening lines of the concluding verse, a cryptic smile played across Clarke's lips. She caught his unyielding gaze and stumbled. When it was time for her to shoulder the song's emotional climax once more, her voice came out strained and coarse, stripped of the previous quiver that had so briefly elevated her performance.
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Before the time they had agreed upon had even arrived, Ernest found himself pacing restlessly in front of Reginald Clarke's imposing residence, with its commanding view of Riverside Drive.
The streets buzzed with misshapen automobiles that zipped by, ferrying the relentless energy and fervor of American life towards the soothing presence of the river. Yet, to Ernest, this cacophony and chaos were not deterrents but harbingers of the grand future that awaited him.
With Jack, his roommate and closest confidant, having moved away a month earlier, a shroud of solitude had wrapped itself around Ernest. His sensitive spirit struggled to fend off the shadowy terrors birthed by his overactive imagination, where soft, indistinct sounds skulked from hidden nooks and the stairs seemed to groan under the weight of invisible entities.
His soul, accustomed to the company of phantoms, craved the sound of a friendly voice to beckon him from the spectral valleys where he lingered too long. In moments of frailty, the gentle touch of fellowship restored his vigor and reignited the blazing sword of his creativity.
Nightly, he envisioned himself presenting his day's creative spoils to Clarke, laying his tributes—a mosaic of precious stones, wafts of incense, and rich tapestries—at the altar of this deity of the arts.
Happiness seemed assured. Guided by a heart that often dictates the path before the feet and lulled into complacency by dreams as colorful and beguiling as a troupe of dancers, Ernest soon found himself outside Reginald Clarke's door, stepping out of the elevator car with a mix of trepidation and exhilaration.
He was about to ring the bell, his hand already poised to summon his friend, when a sound from within the apartment brought him to a sudden halt.
"No, there's no help!" The voice that cut through the silence was Clarke's, and it carried a metallic sharpness, a cold finality.
A younger, softer voice responded, its exact words muffled but the tone unmistakably tinged with a deep sorrow that nearly made Ernest's eyes brim with empathy. It was clear to him that he was witnessing the last act of a drama, the final crumbling of a tragedy that had unfolded behind the closed doors before him.
Ernest retreated quickly, eager to avoid intruding on a private moment not intended for his ears. He surmised that the young voice belonged to Abel Felton, a promising lad whom Reginald had taken under his protective wing, presumably to nurture his burgeoning talent.
Back within the confines of the apartment, a heavy silence reigned briefly before Clarke's voice broke through once more, "It will return, perhaps in a month, a year, or even two."
"It's all vanished, gone!" The boy's voice was thick with tears, his despair palpable.
"You're just overwrought. But it is precisely for that reason we must go our separate ways. A single home cannot house two souls so frayed by nervous strain."
"Before I knew you, I was not the nervous wreck I've become."
"Am I to shoulder the blame for your morbid notions, your lavishness, the creeping onset of a nervous affliction, perhaps?"
"Who's to say? My thoughts are in turmoil. I can't make sense of anything—life, friendship, and you. I believed you cared about my future, and now you sever our ties without a second thought."
"We are each bound to the law of our nature."
"But those laws are ours to command, within our grasp."
"They are within us, yes, but they also transcend us. Our very biology—our brain structure, our neural cells—they chart our paths, lifting us to heights or casting us down."
"Our minds met in harmony, a companionship so exquisite it was fated to endure."
"The dream of youth is to believe in permanence, but nothing endures. Everything is in flux; panta rei. We are merely guests at a waystation on life's journey. Friendship, like love, is but a mirage. For one devoid of illusions, life has nothing to plunder."
"And nothing to bestow."
With that, they parted ways.
Just outside the door, Ernest encountered Abel.
"Where to now?" Ernest inquired, his curiosity piqued.
"Just off on a little jaunt for pleasure," Abel replied with an air of nonchalance.
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Ernest sensed the untruth in his words.
He recalled that Abel had been devoted to crafting a manuscript, be it a play or a novel. Curiosity nudged Ernest to ask about the progress on his work.
A wistful smile touched Abel's lips. "I'm not the one writing it."
"You're not?"
"It's Reginald who's writing it."
Ernest's brow furrowed in confusion. "I don't quite follow."
"Don't worry. In time, you will."
"Your visit brings me great joy," Reginald Clarke uttered warmly as he ushered Ernest into his studio, a space lavished with luxury and offering a panoramic view of the Hudson and Riverside Drive.
The room's splendor struck Ernest with a sense of awe and confusion. His gaze flitted from one piece to another, from the art adorning the walls to the statues that seemed to hold silent conversations across the room. Each detail, regardless of its apparent oddity, melded into a scene that exuded elegance and a unique flair.
On the mantelpiece, a satyr divulged lewd secrets to the ears of Saint Cecilia, while the classic lines of Antinous seemed to caress the fabric of Mona Lisa's robe. Tucked in a corner, a rococo figurine flirted with the stoic, stony gaze of an Egyptian sphinx. Across the room, the stern countenance of Napoleon challenged the pained serenity of the Crucified. Dominating this eclectic assembly, shrouded in the half-light of the draped chamber, stood two imposing busts.
"Shakespeare and Balzac!" Ernest voiced his recognition, tinged with a hint of astonishment.
"Yes," Reginald intoned, "they are my deities."
Clarke's gods—they offered a glimpse into the man's psyche. It is in the elevation of our own essence to its highest form that we find our gods.
The juxtaposition of Clarke with Shakespeare struck a chord of disquiet in Ernest. It felt almost sacrilegious to align a living writer, no matter how talented, with the colossal figure of the Bard, whose formidable legacy, cast against the tapestry of time, had grown to mythic proportions.
And yet, there was a thread of similarity to be drawn. Clarke's work, much like Shakespeare's, was marked by a universal scope and a masterful concealment of the artist within the artistry. The two shared a kinship in their craft. It would scarcely surprise Ernest if Shakespeare's serene visage were to materialize beside their host.
Perhaps, and who could tell, the very presence of Shakespeare's bust exerted an unseen influence over Reginald Clarke's life. The soul of a person, akin to the chameleon, adapts hues from its surroundings. Sometimes, even the minor details—the digits of an address, the shade of wallpaper in a room—might steer the course of one's fate.
Amidst the curios and art that surrounded him, Ernest's gaze absorbed the fantasticality of the studio, while Clarke watched him intently, as if trying to trace Ernest's musings through the winding mazes of his mind. For a fleeting moment, Ernest felt as if each object in the room held a mirror to Clarke's writing. In the porcelain figure of a long-queued Chinese mandarin, he thought he saw the whimsical lines of one of Clarke's poems come to life. And the mischievous smirk of a Hindu monkey-god on the writing desk seemed to leap into the peculiar meter of verses that had lingered in Ernest's memory for years.
Breaking the silence, Clarke inquired, "You like my studio?"
Snapped out of his reverie by the question, Ernest responded earnestly.
"Like it? It's incredible. It sparked a whole sequence of thoughts in me."
"I've been feeling rather whimsical myself tonight. Whimsy, unlike inspiration, can be contagious."
"What shape did your musings take?" Ernest asked, intrigued.
"I've been pondering if the objects that surround us daily could be molding our thoughts more than we realize. Even this little mandarin and the monkey idol, which I acquired from India, might be casting a subtle, yet tangible influence over my writing."
"God!" Ernest could hardly contain his astonishment, "I've had the exact same notion!"
"How peculiar that is!" Clarke remarked, feigning astonishment.
"It's often said, though it's a cliché, that great minds tread similar paths," Ernest noted, feeling a sense of pride.
"No," Clarke replied with a hint of depth, "but they arrive at the same destination, albeit by different routes."
"And you think there's real weight to this idea?" Ernest pressed, curious about Clarke's belief.
"Why not?"
Clarke's gaze had shifted, and now rested thoughtfully on the bust of Balzac.
"The measure of an artist's genius is his capacity to absorb the essence of life needed to complete his artistic vision. Balzac had this capacity to an extraordinary degree. Curiously, it was the darker aspects of life that he captured most vividly. He drew them in like a sponge soaks up water; perhaps because there was a scarcity of darkness within him. It's as if he purified the air for miles around him, by channeling all the malevolence lurking in the air and dormant in human souls into the tip of his pen.
"And he"—Clarke's gaze lingered on Shakespeare's likeness as one might regard a kindred spirit—"he was of similar mold. He epitomized the ideal artist. Nothing eluded his perception. His insights were gleaned from both life and literature, each time refashioned with the touch of a master craftsman. To create is a divine quality. Yet to re-create, to bring forth something even more astounding than the simple act of creation, is the domain of the poet. Shakespeare drew inspiration from a myriad of sources. That's the key to his grandeur, and why his works transcend even his own monumental presence. It's the only way to make sense of his singular legacy. Who was he really? What was his education, what chances did he have? Virtually none. Yet, his writings encompass the sagacity of Bacon, Sir Walter Raleigh's imaginings and discoveries, the thunderous language of Marlowe, and the enigmatic beauty of Mr. W.H."
Ernest hung on every word, spellbound by Clarke's resonant voice. Clarke was not merely a speaker but a conjurer, weaving the most extravagant of imaginations with threads of reality, lending the unbelievable a sheen of the plausible.
"Yes," Walkham, the sculptor, mused aloud, "it is indeed a peculiar thing."
"What is?" Ernest inquired, his attention returning from the inscrutable gaze of the Sphinx that, from its nook, watched him with the enigmatic air of ancient wisdom.
"The way our dreams from yesterday look upon us now as if we were strangers."
Reginald interjected with a different perspective. "Actually, it would be odd if they did recognize us. To expect constancy in vision would be against nature. The universe is in a state of constant flux. The very atoms within us oscillate at speeds beyond comprehension. Change and life are synonymous."
"It sometimes feels," Walkham pondered, "as if thoughts dissipated into thin air."
"Why not, if the conditions are right?"
"But where do they end up? They can't just vanish completely, can they?"
"That's the crux," Reginald replied. "Or rather, it's not even a question. Nothing truly vanishes in the realm of the spirit."
Ernest, curious about the catalyst for this conversation, asked, "What brings you to these reflections?"
"It's because," the sculptor explained, "I had a compelling inspiration, and it slipped away."
"Remember," he directed his words to Reginald, recalling a past encounter, "the sculpture of Narcissus I was crafting when you last visited my studio".
"Yes, I remember the piece was quite impressive. I can't quite recall it at the moment, though," Reginald admitted.
"It was a special commission. An unconventional young millionaire had promised me a handsome sum—eight thousand dollars—for it. The concept was entirely novel. Yet now, I find myself unable to bring it to fruition. It's as if the inspiration has been whisked away by the wind."
"That's a great pity," Reginald acknowledged.
"I would certainly think so," Walkham agreed, with a hint of exasperation.
Ernest offered a knowing smile. Walkham's personal life was somewhat of an open book—having appeared in the divorce courts more than once, he was currently sustaining the financial burden of three separate households.
Meanwhile, Walkham had settled himself at Reginald's desk and had begun to inadvertently peruse a typewritten document that lay there. With the typical impetuousness of a creative soul, he initially skimmed it without much focus, but soon his attention was captured so completely that he forgot the lack of etiquette in reading another's manuscript.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed suddenly. "What have we here?"
"It's a work about the French Revolution," Reginald answered, mildly taken aback by the sculptor's fervor.
"But, you see, I have found the motif I was missing in this!" Walkham declared.
"What do you mean?" Ernest asked, his gaze shifting between a potentially inspired Walkham and a silent Reginald, starting to wonder about the sculptor's state of mind.
"Listen to this!"
With a voice quivering with excitement, Walkham began to read aloud a passage from the manuscript. The rhythm of the words was music to Ernest's ears, but did nothing to shed light on Walkham's mysterious assertion.
Reginald remained silent, his expression unreadable, but the spark in his eyes indicated that, for once, his interest had been genuinely piqued.
Recognizing the blank looks on their faces, Walkham realized he needed to clarify his point.
"I forget that you don't think like a sculptor. My nature is such that all sensory experiences immediately translate into a spatial form. When I hear music, I don't just hear it—I see it ascend into domes and spires, stained glass windows, and elaborate patterns. The fragrance of a rose is almost something I can touch. And so, the rhythmic qualities of your prose, Reginald, evoked in my mind the very image of Narcissus that I had been struggling to capture in my sculpture."
Reginald appeared contemplative. "That's fascinating. I hadn't considered it."
Ernest, aiming to probe deeper but without exposing too much of his suspicion, said, "So you find nothing outlandish in this idea?"
"Not at all," Reginald responded. "It's entirely plausible. While I was writing that passage, the essence of your Narcissus might have been influencing me subconsciously. It wouldn't be surprising if the undercurrents of our own thoughts colored our writing."
"So, are you suggesting," Ernest pursued, "that a discerning psychologist could interpret from our writing not just the explicit content, but also the thoughts and emotions we haven't articulated?"
"Absolutely," Reginald confirmed.
"That would indeed be revolutionary for psychology," Ernest considered, "especially if we're unaware of these mental states while we're engaged in the process of writing."
"Indeed, that's true," Reginald concurred. "Only those with the key, the capability to decipher the concealed symbols, can truly understand the full breadth of our writings. It's a given that any mental activity, whether it crosses into our conscious mind or remains beneath it, must inevitably leave its mark, be it indistinct or distinct, on our actions."
Ernest nodded, adding, "That could be why some literature that seems utterly tedious to most can captivate a select few."
"Exactly," Reginald said. "It resonates with those who hold the key. I recall an instance when an uncle of mine abruptly ended a discussion on advanced mathematics, visibly embarrassed when his naive wife glanced at his notes. The author of the work he was reading was known for his promiscuity."
Walkham chimed in with a thoughtful observation, "So, even books that appear perfectly innocuous might, under the radar, plant seeds of vice in the minds of the young."
"Only if they are able to perceive it," Clarke replied, considering the idea. "I can imagine a text on calculus that's infused with lascivious undertones, or an account of a simple outing that conceals, to those unaware, the intense and tragic romance of Tristram and Iseult."