in the woman
that puzzled Lenyard. Scheff lounged on the window-sill. "Now, Neshevna,
be a good girl! Don't forget Moscow or your old adorer."

She answered him with sarcastic emphasis: "You fat fool, you and your
clerical friend there, what do you both want spying upon Illowski like
police?" Her voice became shrill as she rapidly uttered these questions,
her green eyes seemed shot with blood. "If you think I'll tell either of
you anything concerning the new music--"

"That's all we are here to learn."

"All? Imbeciles! As if you or your American could understand Illowski
and his message!"

"What message?" Lenyard's grave face was not in the least discomposed by
the Cossack passion of the woman. "What message has Illowski? I've heard
queer stories, and cannot credit them. You are in his confidence. Tell
us, we ask in humility, what message can any man's music have but the
revelation of beauty?"

Lenyard's diplomatic question did not fail of its mark. Neshevna pushed
back her flamboyant gray hair and walked about the room.

"Mummies!" she suddenly cried. "As if beauty will content a new
generation fed on something besides the sweetmeats and pap of your
pretty, meaningless music! Why, man, can't you see that all the arts are
dead--save music? Don't you know that painting, literature, creeds--aye,
and the kingdoms are dying for want of new blood, new ideas? Music alone
is a vital force, an instrument for rescuing the world from its moral
and spiritual decay. Nietzsche was a potent force in the nineteenth
century, but not understood. They condemned him to a living death.
Lingwood Evans, poet, prophet, is now too old to enforce his message--it
is Illowski, Illowski alone who shall be the destructive Messiah of the
new millennial. 'He cometh not to save; not peace, but blood!'"

The fire of fanaticism was in her eyes, in her speech. She grasped
Lenyard by the elbow: "You, you should serve the master. Scheff is too
fond of pleasure to do anything great. He is to give the signal--that's
glory enough for him. But you, discontented American, have the stuff in
you to make a martyr. We need martyrs. You hate me? Good! But you must
worship Illowski. Art gives place to life, and in Illowski's music is
the new life. He will sweep the globe from pole to pole, for all men
understand his tones. Other gods have but prepared the way for him. No
more misery, no more promises unfulfilled by the rulers of body and
soul--only music, mu