For
what he loved must worship where he worshipped, and the majesty of
those tremendous effigies had fired his imagination to the creative
point where expression was imperative. Then suddenly, at the very moment of delicious capture, the dream
turned horrible, becoming awful with the nightmare touch. The sky lost
all its blue and sunshine. Far, far below him the little dove enticed
him into nameless depths, so that he flew faster and faster, yet never
fast enough to overtake it. Behind him came a great thing down the air,
black, hovering, with gigantic wings outstretched. It had terrific
eyes, and the beating of its feathers stole his wind away. It followed
him, crowding space. He was aware of a colossal beak, curved like a
scimitar and pointed wickedly like a tooth of iron. He dropped. He
faltered. He tried to scream. Through empty space he fell, caught by the neck. The huge spectral
falcon was upon him. The talons were in his heart. And in sleep he
remembered then that he had cursed. He recalled his reckless language. The curse of the ignorant is meaningless; that of the worshipper is
real. This attack was on his soul. He had invoked it. He realised
next, with a touch of ghastly horror, that the dove he chased was,
after all, the bait that had lured him purposely to destruction, and
awoke with a suffocating terror upon him, and his entire body bathed
in icy perspiration. Outside the open window he heard a sound of wings
retreating with powerful strokes into the surrounding darkness of the
sky. The nightmare made its impression upon Binovitch's impressionable and
dramatic temperament. It aggravated his tendencies. He related it next
day to Mme. de Drühn, the friend of Vera, telling it with that somewhat
boisterous laughter some minds use to disguise less kind emotions. But he received no encouragement. The mood of the previous night was
not recoverable; it was already ancient history. Russians never make
the banal mistake of repeating a sensation till it is exhausted;
they hurry on to novelties. Life flashes and rushes with them, never
standing still for exposure before the cameras of their minds. Mme. de
Drühn, however, took the trouble to mention the matter to Plitzinger,
for Plitzinger, like Freud of Vienna, held that dreams revealed
subconscious tendencies which sooner or later must betray themselves in
action. "Thank you for telling me," he smiled politely, "but I have already
heard it from him." He watched her eyes for a moment, really examining
her soul. "Binovitch, you see," he continued, apparently satisfied with
what he saw, "I regard as that rare phenomenon--a genius without an
outlet. His spirit, intensely creative, finds no adequate expression. His power of production is enormous and prolific; yet he accomplishes
nothing." He paused an instant. "Binovitch, therefore, is in danger of
poisoning--himself." He looked steadily into her face, as a man who
weighs how much he may confide. "Now," he continued, "_if_ we can find
an outlet for him, a field wherein his bursting imaginative genius
can produce results--above all, _visible_ results"--he shrugged his
shoulders--"the man is saved. Otherwise"--he looked extraordinarily
impressive--"there is bound to be sooner or later----"

"Madness?" she asked very quietly. "An explosion, let us say," he replied gravely. "For instance, take
this Horus obsession of his, quite wrong archæologically though it is. _Au fond_ it is megalomania of a most unusual kind. His passionate
interest, his love, his worship of birds, wholesome enough in itself,
finds no satisfying outlet. A man who _really_ loves birds neither
keeps them in cages nor shoots them nor stuffs them. What, then, can he
do? The commonplace bird-lover observes them through glasses, studies
their habits, then writes a book about them. But a man like Binovitch,
overflowing with this intense creative power of mind and imagination,
is not content with that. He wants to know them from within. He wants
to feel what they feel, to live their life. He wants to _become_ them. You follow me? Not quite. Well, he seeks to be identified with the
object of his sacred, passionate adoration. All genius seeks to know
the thing itself from its own point of view. It desires union. That
tendency, unrecognised by himself, perhaps, and therefore subconscious,
hides in his very soul." He paused a moment. "And the sudden sight
of those majestic figures at Edfu--that crystallisation of his _idée
fixe_ in granite--took hold of this excess in him, so to speak--and is
now focusing it toward some definite act. Binovitch sometimes--feels
himself a bird! You noticed what occurred last night?" She nodded; a slight shiver passed over her. "A most curious performance," she murmured; "an exhibition I never want
to see again." "The most curious part," replied the doctor coolly, "was its truth." "Its truth!" she exclaimed beneath her breath. She was frightened by
something in his voice and by the uncommon gravity in his eyes. It
seemed to arrest her intelligence. She felt upon the edge of things
beyond her. "You mean that Binovitch did for a moment--hang--in the
air?" The other verb, the right one, she could not bring herself to use. The great man's face was enigmatical. He talked to her sympathy,
perhaps, rather than to her mind. "Real genius," he said smilingly, "is as rare as talent, even great
talent, is common. It means that the personality, if only for one
second, becomes everything; becomes the universe; becomes the soul
of the world. It gets the flash. It is identified with the universal
life. Being everything and everywhere, all is possible to it--in that
second of vivid realisation. It can brood with the crystal, grow with
the plant, leap with the animal, fly with the bird: genius unifies
all three. That is the meaning of 'creative.' It is faith. Knowing
it, you can pass through fire and not be burned, walk on water and
not sink, move a mountain, fly. Because you _are_ fire, water, earth,
air. Genius, you see, is madness in the magnificent sense of being
superhuman. Binovitch has it." He broke off abruptly, seeing he was not understood. Some great
enthusiasm in him he deliberately suppressed. "The point is," he resumed, speaking more carefully, "that we must try
to lead this passionate constructive genius of the man into some human
channel that will absorb it, and therefore render it harmless." "He loves Vera," the woman said, bewildered, yet seizing this point
correctly. "But would he marry her?" asked Plitzinger at once. "He is already married." The doctor looked steadily at her a moment, hesitating whether he
should utter all his thought. "In that case," he said slowly after a pause, "it is better he or she
should leave." His tone and manner were exceedingly impressive. "You mean there's danger?" she asked.