THERE are times in a number of days when my friend Annabel Lee and I enjoy a cigarette together. My friend Annabel Lee, with her cigarette, her petite much-colored form wrapped round in clouds of thin, exquisite gray, is more than all suggestive and inscrutable. She leans her two elbows on something and looks out at me.
I with my cigarette am nothing but I with my cigarette. I enjoy it, but am not beautiful with it, nor fascinating.
But my friend Annabel Lee is all that my imagination can take in. Under the influence of the thin, exquisite gray she grows fanciful, and subtly and indefinitely she meets me somewhere, and extends me her hand for a moment.
"Don't you know," said my friend Annabel Lee, with her cigarette, "that old song that goes:
And Mary Beaton,
And Mary Carmichael,
And me'?
I think it is Mary Stuart of Scotland who says that. And a fair good song it is. But just now, for me, if I were Mary Stuart of Scotland, you poor miserable little rat, I should say:
And Mary MacLane,
And Mary MacLane,
And me.'
For aren't we two together here, calmly smoking—and doesn't the world spin round?"
I was enchanted. How few are the times when my friend Annabel Lee is like this, warm and friendly and lightly contemptuous and inclined to grotesquerie.
'Tis so that she becomes human and someway near to me.
"Yes, I should say Mary MacLane, and Mary MacLane, and Mary MacLane, and me," said my friend Annabel Lee from her gently-puffed clouds. "There are times when you are soft and satisfying as a gray pussy-cat. If I stroke you, you will purr. If I give you cream, you will lap it up. And then you will curl up warmly in my lap and sleep and purr and open and shut your little fur paws.
And give her some food,
And pussy will love me
Because I am good.'
I looked at her. Certainly she was good. Just then she had a look of angels.
"Do you love me?" said my friend Annabel Lee, with her cigarette.
"Oh, yes," said I.
"Look at me again—am I evil?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"I presume you are," I replied, for then she looked vindictive and vicious.
"And do you hate me?"
"No," said I.
"Then you are very bad and wicked yourself, you poor, miserable, little rat," said my friend Annabel Lee, with her cigarette, "and the world and all good people will condemn you."
"I fear," said I, with my cigarette, "that the world and all good people already do that."
"Ah, do they!" said my friend Annabel Lee. "Never mind—I will take care of you, you poor, miserable, little rat; I will make all soft for you; I will keep out the cold; I will color the dullness; I will fight off the mob."
"And I," I replied, "if for that reason you do so, will thank the world and all good people for condemning me."
"That was neatly said," said my friend Annabel Lee. "But let me tell you, when the world grows soft, I will grow hard—hard as nails."
"Then let the world stay hard," I said—"hard and bitter as wormwood, if it will, so that you come indeed thus friendly to me through these gray clouds."
"That, too, was very neat," said my friend Annabel Lee; "but mostly it goes to show that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. What literature is more literature than the proverbs? What is a bird in the hand worth?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"Two in the bush," said I.
"Where does charity begin?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"At home," said I.
"What does it cover?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"A multitude of sins," said I.
"What's a miss as good as?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"A mile," said I.
"What makes the mare go?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"Money," said I.
"Whom does conscience make cowards of?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"Us all," said I.
"What does a stitch in time save?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"Nine," said I.
"When are a fool and his money parted?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"Soon," said I.
"What do too many cooks spoil?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"The broth," said I.
"What's an idle brain?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"The devil's workshop," said I.
"What may a cat look at?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"A king," said I.
"What's truth stranger than?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"Fiction," said I.
"What's there many a slip betwixt?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"The cup and the lip," said I.
"How do birds of a feather flock?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"Together," said I.
"What do fools do where angels fear to tread?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"Rush in," said I.
"What does many a mickle make?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"A muckle," said I.
"What will the pounds do if you take care of the pence?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"Take care of themselves," said I.
"What do curses do, like chickens?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"Come home to roost," said I.
"What is it that has no turning?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"A long lane," said I.
"What does an ill wind blow?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"Nobody good," said I.
"What's a merciful man merciful to?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"His beast," said I.
"What's better to do than to break?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"Bend," said I.
"What's an ounce of prevention worth?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"A pound of cure," said I.
"What's there nothing half so sweet in life as?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"Love's young dream," said I.
"What does absence make?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"The heart grow fonder," said I.
"How would a rose by any other name smell?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"As sweet," said I.
"How did the Assyrian come down?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"Like a wolf on the fold," said I.
"What were his cohorts gleaming with?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"Purple and gold," said I.
"What was the sheen of their spears like?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"Stars on the sea," said I.
"When?" said my friend Annabel Lee.
"When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee," said I.
"All of which proves," said my friend Annabel Lee, "that I've but to fiddle and you will dance, you poor, miserable, little rat. And my thought is, what is it better to be than second in Rome?"
"First in a little Iberian village," said I.
"But I'm not sure whether it is or not," said my friend Annabel Lee. "Some day you and I will go out into the great, broad world. Then we shall see who will be first and who will be second. The great, broad world is the best place of all wherein to find ourselves. And no matter how we were situated before, we shall certainly be situated differently in the great broad world. In the great broad world there will be apples—apples enough for you and for me. But, who knows? you poor miserable little rat; it may be that your lot will be all the sweet, juicy apples, whilst I shall be given the cores. In the great broad world there will be ripe-red-raspberry shortcake—enough for you and for me. But, who knows? you poor miserable little rat; it may be that your lot will be all the ripe red raspberries, whilst I shall be given the crusts. In the great broad world there will be cigarettes—cigarettes enough for you and for me. But, who knows? You poor miserable little rat; it may be that your lot will be all the fine Egyptian tobacco and rice paper and clouds and clouds and clouds of pearl gray, soft pearl gray, to wrap you round, whilst I shall go looking in empty boxes all day long, and never a cigarette. In which case mine will be by far the better lot in the end," said my friend Annabel Lee, "according to the law of compensation."
"Oh, dear!" said my friend Annabel Lee, petulantly; "why do you sit there stupidly staring? Talk and amuse me, why don't you? Make me feel sweet and content."
"If I were but that myself, Annabel Lee," said I. "I can not talk interestingly, but if you like I will ask you the proverbs and you may answer them. That amused me much—and it gave me a wonderful feeling of satisfaction, quite as if I were seven years old and knew my lesson perfectly."
"You ask and I answer?" said my friend Annabel Lee. "Very good. But I don't know my lesson perfectly. Begin."
"What's a bird in the hand worth?" said I.
"A pound of cure," said my friend Annabel Lee.
"What does a stitch in time save?" said I.
"Two in the bush," said my friend Annabel Lee.
"Where does charity begin?" said I.
"Betwixt the cup and the lip," said my friend Annabel Lee.
"What may a cat look at?" said I.
"The broth," said my friend Annabel Lee.
"What does many a mickle make?" said I.
"A multitude of sins," said my friend Annabel Lee.
"What do too many cooks spoil?" said I.
"Us all," said my friend Annabel Lee.
"Whom does conscience make cowards of?" said I.
"Dead men and fools," said my friend Annabel Lee.
"What is it that has no turning?" said I.
"A full stomach," said my friend Annabel Lee.
"What fortifies a stout heart?" said I.
"A stitch in time," said my friend Annabel Lee.
"What does money make?" said I.
"An ill wind," said my friend Annabel Lee.
"What will the pounds do if you take care of the pence?" said I.
"Come home to roost," said my friend Annabel Lee.
"Where is there many a slip?" said I.
"Where angels fear to tread," said my friend Annabel Lee.
"What's sharper than a serpent's tooth?" said I.
"The pen," said my friend Annabel Lee.
"What's mightier than the sword?" said I.
"A rich man," said my friend Annabel Lee.
"What makes the mare go?" said I.
"A fool and his money," said my friend Annabel Lee.
"What should they do who live in glass houses?" said I.
"Draw down the blinds," said my friend Annabel Lee.
"What's a man's castle?" said I.
"The devil's workshop," said my friend Annabel Lee.
"What's better to do than to break?" said I.
"Rob Peter," said my friend Annabel Lee.
"What's the wind tempered to?" said I.
"The camel's back," said my friend Annabel Lee.
"What do many hands make?" said I.
"A shorn lamb," said my friend Annabel Lee.
"What can't you make out of a pig's ear?" said I.
"A gift-horse," said my friend Annabel Lee.
"What should you never look in the mouth?" said I.
"A silk purse," said my friend Annabel Lee.
"What's half a loaf better than?" said I.
"Chickens before they are hatched," said my friend Annabel Lee.
"But let's not play this any more," said my friend Annabel Lee. "I'm languid and weary. Can't you talk to me—and talk so that I may feel rested and comfortable? And don't stare!"
"I fear I can't amuse you. I am sorry," said I. "You may envy me, Annabel Lee. You have not Annabel Lee to took at. Would not life look rich and full to you if you could see before you your own vague, purple eyes, and your red red lips, and those hands of power and romance—you, with your scarlet gown and the gold marguerites coming near and fading away in mist?"
"No, not particularly," said my friend Annabel Lee. "I rather like your looks," she added, and her purple eyes became less vague—"sitting there in your small black frock; and you puff at that tobacco much like a toy engine. Come, you amuse me—you please me. Come near me."
She held out one of her hands and the purple eyes changed suddenly into something that was rarely and indescribably friendly.
I felt much from life.
My friend Annabel Lee rested the hand she had held out upon my shoulder.
"When we go into the great, broad world, Mary MacLane," she said, "and you have all the apples, and all the ripe-red-raspberry shortcake, and all the cigarettes, then perhaps will you share them with me?"
I said I would.