soldiers commissioned by the Anti-War Association. None of my so-called Symphonies in Black were wrought by my hand—but I can tell you what became of the models who were unfortunate enough to pose for me!
My real work is perhaps no better than that of a rank novice, although up to that fatal afternoon I had honestly believed myself capable of great work as a sculptor some day.
But I am an impostor. You want a statue of me, you say in your cablegram, done in the mysterious black stone which has made me so famous? Ah, gentlemen, you shall have that statue!
I am writing this confession aboard the S. S. Madrigal, and I shall leave it with a steward to be mailed to you at our next port of call.
Tonight I shall take out of my stateroom the hideous thing in its black box which has never left my side. Such a creature, contrary to all nature on this earth of ours, should be exterminated. As soon as darkness falls I shall stand on deck and balance the box on the rail so that it will fall into the sea after my hand has touched what is inside.
I wonder if the process of being turned into that black rock is painful, or if it is accompanied only by a feeling of lethargy? And McCrea, Paul Kennicott, and those unfortunate models whom I have passed off as "my work"—are they dead, as we know death, or are their statues sentient and possessed of nerves? How does that jelly creature feel to the touch? Does it impart a violent electrical shock or a subtle emanation of some force beyond our ken, changing the atom-structure of the flesh it turns into stone? Many such questions have occurred to me often in the small hours when I lie awake, tortured by remorse for what I have done.
But tonight, gentlemen, I shall know all the answers.
TheOld House on the Hill
From the wide valley, I looked up and saw
The house upon the hill, that I had seen
So many times before. By every law
It should have seemed, just what it long had been,
An old house that someone, with loving care,
Had painted white; at doors and windows hung
Green-painted shutters. But it had an air
Of difference, today. The wind had flung,
Or some hand closed, the shutters on the doors,
French-doors, with windows over them; the trim
Between shone white, through pines and sycamores,
To form two crosses, and my eyes grew dim.
I thought, "There is no home without its cross
Hidden about it somewhere; pain—or loss."
