III

THE CIRCUS OF CANDLES

Comme d'autres esprits voguent sur la musique,
Le míen, ô mon amour! nage sur ton parfum.

--BAUDELAIRE.

He was not dreaming, for he saw the woman at the bowl, saw her
apartment. But the interior of his brain was as melancholy as a lighted
cathedral. A mortal sadness encompassed him, and his nerves were like
taut violin strings. It was within the walls of his skull, that he
saw--his mundane surroundings did not disturb his visions. And the waves
of dolour swept over his consciousness. A mingling of tuberoses,
narcissus, attar of roses, and ambergris he detected in the air--as
_triste_ as a morbid nocturne of Chopin. This was followed by a blending
of heliotrope, moss-rose, and hyacinth, together with dainty touches of
geranium. He dreamed of Beethoven's manly music when whiffs of
apple-blossom, white rose, cedar, and balsam reached him. Mozart passed
roguishly by in strains of scarlet pimpernel, mignonette, syringa, and
violets. Then the sky was darkened with Schumann's perverse harmonies as
jasmine, lavender, and lime were sprayed over him. Music, surely, was
the art nearest akin to odour. A superb and subtle chord floated about
him; it was composed of vervain, opoponax, and frangipane. He could not
conceive of a more unearthly triad. It was music from Parsifal. Through
the mists that were gathering he savoured a fulminating bouquet of
patchouli, musk, bergamot, and he recalled the music of Mascagni. Brahms