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But with your aid, Goliath, I will continue tenaciously mimicking an outward sanity so that people, when they see me, will go away happy in the assurance that I am as stupid as they." Rising from his chair Mallare attacked, one by one, the canvases and statues.
"Mallare," he whispered, "you are a madman. I know. This chokes. Yes. It was I I, Mallare. It is I who have been mad. I have been mad myself. Not you. No, not you! But the God the Strange Pose. I can't. An impossible denouement. My head breaks. Her blood ... Rita." He stared open mouthed at a question that circled toward him out of the snow. Words babbled in his head.
At last I perceived myself behind the logic of this Frankenstein. For it was I I, Mallare that was attacking myself with this hatred. It was Mallare who was arranging this little plot for himself. And why? Because then the head of Mallare, nauseated by the vileness of the assault, would disgorge forever the hallucination of Rita.
"Who but Mallare could have done this?" he whispered aloud to her. "Mallare, infatuated with himself, desires still a further adoration. So he creates infatuated phantoms. I am tired now. My hands are tired. Return, little one, to the couch of my madness and sleep for a time in its shadows." Mallare shut his eyes and his hands dropped to his side. Rita arose and smiled at him.
During the writing of them Mallare was engaged in a desperate pursuit of himself. He was escaping. He perceived his thoughts racing from his grasp like Maenads down a tangled slope. The dread of finding himself abandoned brought his will into life. If he were to go mad he would leap upon his mania and ride it quietly into darkness. He would be a gay rider astride his own phantoms.
But he cannot recover the illusion whose memory haunts his dark soul. He suffers. He beats his head and his tears are futile. For she was mine. Mallare created her. Mallare destroyed her. There is a temptation at times to return her not to Mallare but to this poor dwarf who expires under his grief. "I am tempted by his madness. Goliath has found no God in his black heaven.
You expect something else. You expect Mallare to fall at your feet and embrace you. I can see that in your eyes a monotonous expectation that grows ludicrous. Yes, your tears grow ludicrous. I tolerate you for only one purpose. You are a problem that diverts me. For if I desired I could do with you as I did with Rita. There are ways to make you too nauseous.
There is nothing I do not know. It is amazing to be Mallare. I have triumphed over five worlds. I look down upon a rabble of Mallares. There are five Mallares five sullen looking madmen. One of them sits and listens to voices. Another of them wanders about, staring with sad eyes at intolerable visions. Another of them lies on his back, babbling excitedly with the darkness.
This is a memory of him that has wandered onto the scene of my madness. "Here my thinking ended. I sat contemplating the imbecile, the blubberer. He pressed himself upon me with his shameless importunings. He snivelled and his lips moved with my name. I watched them say, 'Mallare' and repeat 'Mallare' till I grew dizzy with the pantomime of my name.
His thought labored for a moment, scratching in silence at doors swinging slowly shut. His thought withdrew and Mallare was alone. He stood up tall and stern in a darkened chamber. His eyes stared intently at the figure of Rita. Her face, pale and alive, smiled imploring in the mendicant's place. He talked, but the beggar, still patient, heard no sound.
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