omen are as a vast cathedral. Its gorgeous high
altars, its sounding gloom, its lofty arches are there; and perhaps a
tiny taper burns before an obscure votive shrine. Many pass through life
with this taper unlighted, despite the pomps and pleasures of the
conjugal comedy. But others carry in the little chapel of their hearts a
solitary glimmering lamp of love which only flames out with death. Zora
knows this glimmering light is not love, but renunciation. Is not she
the wife of a great artist?

THE DISENCHANTED SYMPHONY

The Earth hath bubbles--

--MACBETH.

Pobloff began to whistle the second theme of his symphony. He was a
short, round-bellied man with a high head upon which stood quill-like
hair; when he smiled, his little lunar eyes closed completely, and his
vast mouth opened--a trap filled with white blocks of polished bone;
when he laughed, it sounded like a snorting tuba.... Nature had
hesitated whether to endow him with the profile of Punch or Napoleon. He
was dark, not in the least dangerous, and a native of Russia, though
long a resident of Balak. Pobloff's wife dusted the music on the top of
his old piano. "In God's name, Luga, let my manuscript in peace," he
adjured her. She snapped at him, but he continued whistling. "More
original music?" She was ironically inquisitive as she danced about the
white porcelain stove, tumbled over scores that littered the apartment
as grass grown wild in a deserted alley; pushed violin cases that
rattled; upset an empty bird-cage and finally threw wide back the
metal-slatted shutters, admitting an inundation of sunshine.... It was
early May, but in Balak, with its southeastern Europe climate, the
weather was warm as a July day in Paris. "Hurrah!" Pobloff suddenly
bellowed, "I have it, I have it!" Luga glanced at him sourly. "I suppose
you'll set the world on fire this time for sure, my man; and then little
Richard Strauss will be asking for advice! What are you going to call
the new symphonic poem, Pobloff? Oh, name it after me!" She shrieked
down the passage way at a slouching maid, and ran out, leaving Pobloff
jolly and unruffled.

"Ouf!" he ejaculated, as her sarcasm finally penetrated his
consciousness, "I'll call it 'The Fourth Dimension'--that's what I will.
Luga! Where's that idle cat? Luga, some tea, tea, I'm thirsty." And he
again whistled the second theme of his new symphony.

I

Pobloff loved mathematics more than music--and he adored m