nses are the victims of my puppets. He has entered my
world and my madness creates for him, as it does for me, shadows that
deceive him. But there is no Mallare in him. Unlike me, he does not sit
in amused judgment upon himself.

"It is an interesting phenomenon--this strange mesmerism. It remains to
be studied. Goliath and I are mad brothers. This understanding arrived
in time. Or else I would have flung myself in despair upon the
ever-imploring bosom of my lugubrious sniveler.

"Rita was real to Goliath. I watched him excitedly and continued to
think. I addressed myself:

"'Observe,' I said, 'here you have a distressing visualization. Goliath,
your dwarf, mimics your madness. And it is not pleasant to look at. His
eyes roll with passion. His fat lips chew upon lewd expectations. His
fingers raise themselves like frightened blasphemies to her breasts. And
he watches you. Yes, his eyes sneak glimpses of you. For you are his
rival! You and this nigger monster are vaginal comrades. It is pleasant
to see that you have the decency to feel enraged.' Five infatuated
Mallares sputtered and wept and gnashed their teeth.

"As I talked I turned my attention to her. In my excitement over Goliath
I had ignored her. Her hands were fumbling with the clothes of this
doting rival. But her eyes were on me. They blazed.

"'This pantomime of shadows grows involved,' I thought. But I was
experimenting with rhetoric. For the thing was absurdly simple. Hate
still animated my phantom. And this was her revenge. She was about to
give herself to the black dwarf Goliath. She was about to commit sexual
hari-kari.

"I watched her hands remove his clothes, his red jacket, his fine shirt.
He jumped up and down like a distracted child, his own hands bewildered
with too many activities. They fondled her, they tugged at his trousers.
They became insane and flapped at his sides. She helped him, her eyes
still watching me.

"'At last I produce a horror worthy of myself,' I thought. 'The mist
dagger was melodrama to be smiled at. But this--ah, here we have a
refinement that reduces death to a minor obscenity. She attacks me now
with a weapon worthy my indifference. It is true, my senses writhe less
frightenedly. But I, Mallare--yes, Mallare the Supreme One--honor her
assault with a shudder.

"'Ah, who but Mallare could have invented so subtle a blasphemy, so
accomplished an enemy. It is an old theological quibble, but I
understand it now. God is