Chapter 3_THE ELDER ONE

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Time had flowed by since the peculiar exchange in Reginald Clarke's studio, and with the progression of spring, the meadows had donned their floral attire while the shelves of critics became heavy with new works of fiction. Ernest found some solace in reviewing these literary offerings, yet his own creative well remained barren; no poetic blooms sprang forth in response to the season's call. Only occasionally did a ripple of unrest disturb the otherwise still waters of his spirit.

The enigmatic aura of Reginald continued to cast a shadow over Ernest's thoughts, a labyrinth from which he seemed unable to escape. Even a brief visit from Jack, his friend from Harvard, did little to disentangle Ernest from the spell that Reginald had woven around him.

Lounging on a couch, Ernest watched the smoke from his cigarette drift towards Reginald, who was absorbed in his writing.

Reginald paused to acknowledge Ernest's presence. "Your friend Jack is quite charming," he said. "His dark hair makes a striking contrast with your golden locks. I would guess that you two are quite different temperamentally."

"Indeed we are," Ernest agreed, "but the bonds of friendship are strong enough to bridge such differences."

"How long have you been friends?"

"Since our second year at college."

"And what drew you to him?"

"Determining why we like someone isn't straightforward. Even the simplest organism can seem incredibly complex under a microscope. Trying to dissect our own souls, particularly when swayed by emotions, is like trying to see clearly through a darkened pane of glass."

"Personal emotions indeed color our view and can warp the lens through which we perceive the world," Reginald acknowledged. "Yet, we must not shy away from introspection. It's essential that we understand our inner workings to infuse our creations with life. Boldness in literature is key, and our quest should be to track down every subtle shade of feeling, capturing it for our art."

Ernest nodded thoughtfully. "It's precisely because I often turn my gaze inward that I'm aware of my complexity. I can't easily categorize my feelings. Different impulses pull me in different directions, and they don't cancel each other out. Human psychology is not as straightforward as physical laws. There were numerous qualities that drew me to Jack. He was more nuanced, more empathetic, more inherently understanding—perhaps more feminine—than my other college friends."

"Yes, I've noticed that about him," Reginald observed. "In fact, his eyes are quite gentle, almost womanly. Do you still feel a strong connection to him?"

"It's not about how much I care," Ernest explained. "We share a single life, in a sense."

"Like psychic Siamese twins?"

"In a way, yes. It's really quite simple. We've been nourished by the same influences—our hearts have taken root in the same ground, we've been stirred by the same winds, and basked in the same light that has fostered our friendship."

Reginald seemed skeptical. "He seemed, forgive me, rather ordinary."

"Jack has a subtlety and a depth that you only see when you truly know him. He's pursuing advanced studies at Harvard now, and though we haven't met in weeks, our shared experiences have woven a bond that would allow us to pick up right where we left off, even after years apart."

"You're quite youthful," Reginald remarked.

"What are you implying?"

"Ah, it's not important."

"Then, you don't believe that two hearts can truly beat as one?" Ernest questioned, perhaps sensing Reginald's cynicism.

"No, that's a misperception of synchrony. Even two clocks never tick perfectly together. There's always a slight difference, maybe minuscule, but it's there nonetheless," Reginald countered with a touch of philosophical finality.

Just then, the conversation was punctuated by the sharp sound of the doorbell. Soon after, an energetic, curly head popped in.

"Hey, Ernest! How's it going, buddy?" the newcomer called out cheerily, his voice tinged with the jovial ease of youth. Upon noticing Clarke, he extended a casual, yet firm handshake to the illustrious author, embodying the laid-back confidence typical of a young American well-versed in the social ease of college life.

Clarke seemed invigorated by the young man's presence, drawing a deep breath and moving towards the window, perhaps to hide the unexpected flush of energy that colored his cheeks.

Jack's entrance had brought with it a vivacity reminiscent of the spring itself. Youth has the charm of a fairy-tale prince, capable of breathing life into the wilted and inspiring a sense of revival in those touched by the weariness of time.

"I'm here to kidnap Ernest for the day," Jack declared with a grin. "He's looking a bit pale, and some fresh air will do wonders for his circulation."

"I trust you'll take excellent care of him," Reginald responded with a nod of approval.

"Where to?" Ernest posed the question with a distant air, his mind still swirling with the residue of Reginald's words.

Yet Ernest barely registered Jack's response, so deeply had Reginald's skepticism about the unity of hearts sunk into his consciousness, leaving an imprint he was reluctant to acknowledge even to himself.

The luminous orb of the moon bathed the world below in its ethereal glow.

Effortlessly, the vessel cut through the water, leaving a trail of shimmering froth in its wake.

The air was filled with the scent of youthful vitality. Laughter echoed around, a wild, carefree sound. The breathless strains of a pianola mingled with the rhythmic patter of dancing feet. Voices, thickened by indulgence and sweet with flirtation, rose and fell. The brash tones of crassness cut through the din. Waiters bustled about. Shop-girls out for a night of revelry, ordinary couples enjoying a moment of escape, families with their progeny in tow, some sleeping, some wide-eyed with the night's wonders. A vendor hawked sweets, his voice weaving through the sound of infants' cries.

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Atop the upper deck, the two companions sat enveloped in their raincoats against the evening chill.

Far off, the city's lights pierced the fog, a constellation of human ingenuity and aspiration.

"Ernest," Jack called out, breaking the silence, "why don't you recite some poetry, like in the old days? Have you lost your voice, or are you still haunted by the memories of Coney Island?"

"The wind has whisked those thoughts away," Ernest replied, his voice serene yet tinged with a distant melancholy. "I am cleansed, untouched. Life has graced me with a kiss, yet it has left me unmarked."

He turned to look at Jack, their hands coming together in a silent affirmation of their bond. They reveled silently in the splendor of the night, the depth of their friendship, and the distant allure of the city.

Then, with a quiet intensity, Ernest's lips began to move. A fervent, almost austere passion infused his words as he started to speak, his voice a trembling thread of sound in the vastness of the night.

"Huge steel-ribbed monsters rise into the air

Her Babylonian towers, while on high,

Like gilt-scaled serpents, glide the swift trains by,

Or, underfoot, creep to their secret lair.

A thousand lights are jewels in her hair,

The sea her girdle, and her crown the sky;

Her life-blood throbs, the fevered pulses fly.

Immense, defiant, breathless she stands there.

"And ever listens in the ceaseless din,

Waiting for him, her lover, who shall come,

Whose singing lips shall boldly claim their own,

And render sonant what in her was dumb,

The splendour, and the madness, and the sin,

Her dreams in iron and her thoughts of stone."

Ernest paused, and the silence stretched between them as the boat continued its steady course.

Finally, Jack broke the stillness. "Do you aspire to become the voice of the metropolis, to articulate its hidden desires, its dreams sculpted in iron and etched in stone?"

"No," Ernest replied with calm conviction, "not just yet. It's peculiar how the mind can react to different environments. Surrounded by the aura of Clarke's artistic treasures, I found myself bereft of inspiration. Yet, that chance encounter stirred something within me—a concept, grand and tangible."

"Does it involve her?" Jack asked, intrigued.

Ernest offered a faint smile. "No, not her personally. She's not the direct influence. It was the turmoil of it all—the blood pounding in my veins, the cerebral whirlwind. The atmosphere, the change, it's indescribable."

"What's it going to be about?" Jack's interest was piqued.

Ernest's eyes sparkled with the fire of a nascent creation. "A play—a magnificent play. And at its heart will be a princess, ethereal, veiled in yellow mystery."

"And the storyline?" Jack pressed, eager for more.

"That's my secret—for now. I won't reveal a word to anyone. It's going to take everyone by surprise, sweep the audience off their feet."

"So it's going to be something the theaters will want?"

"I'm quite confident," Ernest said, his voice laced with a buoyant assurance, "that you'll see it on Broadway within the year. And as a token of my esteem, I'll ensure you have two prime seats on opening night."

The idea of such a triumph brought a shared moment of joy and anticipation.

"I'm looking forward to seeing it completed," Jack said after a pause. "You haven't been very productive recently."

"That's true. You caught me at a time of despair when you visited yesterday. That explains the dark mood you found me in."

"And now?" Jack looked at Ernest, noting the change.

"But now," Ernest replied, his face alight with a fervor Jack hadn't seen before, "the tide of creation is rising within me. Yes, at times we are ensnared by the heat of passion, scorched by the fires of desire, but the deepest thrill comes from the act of creation itself. Thank God, my mind is now ablaze with the clear, luminous flame of an idea. The ecstasy of creating—that is the sublime pleasure which surpasses all others."