e and weeps. He waits beside a
couch as if it were another Mallare able to give birth to a phantom.
Poor dwarf, unlike Mallare he has not learned that suffering is an
illusion, that couches and Medusas are illusions. Unlike Mallare there
is no smile hanging its star above him.

"Sleep comes. A forgotten world babbles with shadows outside my windows.
It is time to say goodnight to my friend, the lodge brother. Turn your
tears to the cold moon, my friend. Mallare goes away. Far away into a
house where he is alone."

[Illustration: Ninth Drawing]

[IX]

_The last entry in the Journal of Mallare--undated._

"Talk to me, Mallare. Tell me. Where am I? He grows larger, this dumb
one. He moves away, growing larger. He defies distance. He grows too
large to see. But his tears remain.

"Whisper to me, Mallare. He vanishes and I must sneak after him. Call me
back. He is strange. His darkness lures me out of my heaven. A little
whisper will save me. You will say to me, 'Here is God.' I will come
back.

"My words tire of him. He will not listen. His tears! dear God, are You
so human that they silence You? He has come into my loneliness. And
there is no use debating with him any longer. Since he followed me home
in the snow his weeping has never wavered. I must talk not to him but to
Mallare. I must debate with Mallare. But where is he, this Supreme One?
Mallare, where art thou?

"Yes, my madness becomes an increasing novelty. I remain. But I grow
smaller. I am too small. Where is my smile? It hides from me. But his
tears fall. This dumb one knows how to weep. Alas, I drown.

"Come to my side. I will whisper. I am in love. Yes, do not be
astonished. I am in love with her. You recall her? She was like a
curtain fluttering before the door of enchantments. Her breasts were
like little blind faces raised in prayer. Yes, Rita, my radiant one. The
phantom I constructed. The Phoenix that arose in my soul. And that I
slew again. I am in love. But my magic no longer works. She does not
return.

"I will whisper. I kneel with Goliath beside the couch. Ah, Mallare,
Mallare--I am mad with love. I weep and beat my head. And this other one
calls me away. His shape grows larger and his darkness lifts me toward
it. He pulls me from the couch. Talk to me, Mallare. I am mad, but talk
to me and I will understand. Dear, shining Mallare ... Tell me 'no' and
I will break my love. I will put my fist through the window out of which