XXIII
MAETERLINCK[1]
I
Let a solemn man with a black cat in his hands lead you into a dark room. Let him begin patiently to rub the cat’s fur the wrong way, singing a nonsense song sotto voce. If you don’t fall asleep too soon you will see sparks fly from the cat’s fur. Then the man will begin to talk to you about sparks. Speaking in the low tone that is used in incantations, he will tell you that sparks are products of animal electricity, but that they may well be reflections of the fires of Hell—unless forsooth they be glimmerings of a celestial illumination. The cat, in dread uncertainty, will purr a little, and every now and then will venture a languid meow or will spit in dismay. The solemn man, unmoved, will go on talking in his white and specious voice. He will direct your glance to the pale window, and try to persuade you that the points of light out yonder are stars lost in the sky, or else will-o’-the-
- ↑ Written à propos of Maeterlinck’s l’Hôte Inconnu, Paris, 1917.
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