Madame Zilensky and the King of Finland-2

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    Affairs in the music department were running smoothly. Mr. Brook did not have any serious embarrassments to deal with, such as the harp teacher last year who had finally eloped with a garage meic. There was only this nagging apprehension about Madame Zilensky. He could not make out what was wrong in his relations with her or why his feelings were so mixed. To begin with, she was a great globe-trotter, and her versations were ingruously seasoned with refereo far-fetched places. She would go along for days without opening her mouth, prowling through the corridor with her hands in the pockets of her jacket and her face locked iation. Then suddenly she would buttonhole Mr. Brook and launch out on a long, volatile monologue, her eyes reckless and bright and her voice warm with eagerness. She would talk about anything or nothing at all. Yet, without exception, there was something queer, in a slanted sort of way, about <big></big>every episode she ever mentioned. If she spoke of taking Sammy to the barbershop, the impression she created was just as fn as if she were telling of an afternoon in Bagdad. Mr. Brook could not make it out.

    The truth came to him very suddenly, and the truth made everything perfectly clear, or at least clarified the situation. Mr. Brook had e home early and lighted a fire itle grate in his sitting room. He felt fortable and at peace that evening. He sat before the fire in his stog feet, with a volume of William Blake oable by his side, and he had poured himself a half-glass of apricot brandy. At ten oclock he was drowsing cozily before the fire, his mind full of cloudy phrases of Mahler and floating half-thoughts. Then all at once, out of this delicate stupor, four words came to his mind: &quot;The King of Finland.&quot; The words seemed familiar, but for the first moment he could not place them. Then all at once he tracked them down. <tt>.t>He had been walking across the campus that afternoon when Madame Zilensky stopped him and began some preposteramarole, to which he had only half listened; he was thinking about the stack of s turned in by his terpoint class. Now the words, the iions of her voice, came ba with insidious exactitude, Madame Zilensky had started off with the following remark: &quot;One day, when I was standing in front of a patisserie, the King of Finland came by in a sled.&quot;

    Mr. Brook jerked himself up straight in his chair and put down his glass of brandy. The woman athological liar. Almost every word she uttered outside of class was an untruth. If she worked all night, she would go out of her way to tell you she spent the evening at the ema. If she ate lunch at the Old Tavern, she would be sure to mention that she had lunched with her children at home. The woman was simply a pathological liar, and that ated for everything.

    Mr. Brook cracked his knuckles and got up from his chair. His first rea was one of exasperation. That day after day Madame Zilensky would have the gall to sit there in his offid deluge him with her eous falsehoods! Mr. Brook was intensely provoked. He walked up and down the room, then he went into his kitette and made himself a sardine sandwich.

    An hour later, as he sat before the fire, his irritation had ged to a scholarly and thoughtful wonder. What he must do, he told himself, was tard the whole situation impersonally and look on Madame Zilensky as a doctor looks on a sick patient. Her lies were of the guileless sort. She did not dissimulate with any iion to deceive, and the untruths she told were never used to any possible advahat was the maddening thing; there was simply no motive behind it all.

    Mr. Brook finished off the rest of the brandy. And slowly, when it was almost midnight, a further unde<dfn></dfn>rstanding came to him. The reason for the lies of Madame Zilensky ainful and plain. All her life long Madame Zilensky had worked -- at the piano, teag, and writing those beautiful and immewelve symphonies. Day and night she had drudged and struggled and thrown her soul into her work, and there was not much of her left over for anything else. Being human, she suffered from this lad did what she could to make up for it. If she passed the eveni over a table in the library and later declared that she had spent that time playing cards, it was as though she had mao do both those things. Through the lies, she lived vicariously. The lies doubled the little of her existehat was left over from work and augmehe little rag end of her personal life.

    Mr. Brook looked into the fire, and the faadame Zilensky was in his mind -- a severe face, with dark, weary eyes and delicately disciplined mouth. He was scious of a warmth in his chest, and a feeling of pity, protectiveness, and dreadful uanding. For a while he was in a state of lovely fusion.

    Later on he brushed his teeth and got into his pajamas. He must be practical. What did this clear up? That French, the Pole with the piccolo, Bagdad? And the children, Sigmund, Boris, and Sammy -- who were they? Were they really her children after all, or had she simply rouhem up from<q>.9９ｌｉｂ.</q> somewhere? Mr. Brook polished his spectacles and put them oable by his bed. He must e to an immediate uanding with her. Otherwise, there would exist in the department a situation which could beost problematical. It was two oclock. He glanced out of his window and saw that the light in Madame Zilenskys workroom was still on. Mr. Brook got into bed, made terrible faces in the dark, and tried to plan what he would say  day.

    Mr. Brook was in his office by eight oclock. He sat hunched up behind his desk, ready to trap Madame Zilensky as she passed down the corridor. He did not have to wait long, and as soon as he heard her footsteps he called out her name.

    Madame Zilensky stood in the doorway. She looked vague and jaded. &quot;How are you? I had such a fine nights rest,&quot; she said.

    &quot;Pray be seated, if you please,&quot; said Mr. Brook. &quot;I would like a word with you.&quot;

    Madame Zilensky put aside her portfolio and leaned back wearily in the armchair across from him. &quot;Yes?&quot; she asked.

    &quot;Yesterday you spoke to me as I was walking across the campus,&quot; he said slowly. &quot;And if I am not mistaken, I believe you said something about a pastry shop and the King of Finland. Is that correct?&quot;

    Madame Zilensky turned her head to one side and stared retrospectively at a er of the window sill.

    &quot;Something about a pastry shop,&quot; he repeated.

    Her tired face brightened. &quot;But of course,&quot; she said eagerly. &quot;I told you about the time I was standing in front of this shop and the King of Finland --&quot;

    &quot;Madame Zilensky!&quot; Mr. Brook cried. &quot;There is no King of Finland.&quot;

    Madame Zilensky looked absolutely blank. Then, after an instant, she started off again. &quot;I was standing in front of Bjarnes patisserie when I turned away from the cakes and suddenly saw the King of Finland --&quot;

    &quot;Madame Zilensky, I just told you that there is no King of Finland.&quot;

    &quot;In Helsingfors,&quot; she started off again desperately, and agai her get as far as the King, and then no further.

    &quot;Finland is a democracy,&quot; he said. &quot;You could not>藏书网</a> possibly have seen the King of Finland. Therefore, what you have just said is an untruth. A pure untruth.&quot;

    Never afterward could Mr. Brook fet the faadame Zilensky at that moment. In her eyes there was astonishment, dismay, and a sort of ered horror. She had the look of one who watches his whole interior world split open and disie.

    &quot;It is a pity,&quot; said Mr. Brook with real sympathy.

    But Madame Zilensky pulled herself together. She raised her  and said coldly, &quot;I am a Finn.&quot;

    &quot;That I do not question,&quot; answered Mr. Brook. On sed thought, he did question it a little.

    &quot;I was born in Finland and I am a Finnish citizen.&quot;

    &quot;That may very well be,&quot; said Mr. Brook in a rising voice.

    &quot;In the war,&quot; she tinued passionately, &quot;I rode a motorcycle and was a messenger.&quot;

    &quot;Your patriotism does er into it.&quot;

    &quot;Just because I am getting out the first papers --&quot;

    &quot;Madame Zilensky!&quot; said Mr. Brook. His hands grasped the edge of the desk. &quot;That is only an irrelevant issue. The point is that you maintained aified that you saw -- that you saw --&quot; But he could not finish. Her face stopped him. She was deadly pale and there were shadows around her mouth. Her eyes were wide open, doomed, and proud. And Mr. Brook felt suddenly like a murderer. A great otion of feelings -- uanding, remorse, and unreasonable love -- made him cover his face with his hands. He could not speak until this agitation in his insides quieted down, and then he said very faintly, &quot;Yes. Of course. The King of Finland. And was he nice?&quot;

    An hour later, Mr. Brook sat looking out of the window of his office. The trees along the quiet Westbridge street were almost bare, and the gray buildings of the college had a calm, sad look. As he idly took in the familiar se, he noticed the Drakes old Airedale waddling along dowreet. It was a thing he had watched a huimes before, so what was it that struck him as strahen he realized with a kind of cold surprise that the old dog was running along backward. Mr. Brook watched the Airedale until he was out of sight, then resumed his work on the s which had been turned in by the class in terpoint

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