Senora Barrios began lightly to play on the piano the transposed Kiowa song, emphasising the notes that represented the drum-beats.Strange as it may seem, the music translated itself into pure colour--and the rhythmic beating of the time seemed to aid the process.I thought of the untutored Indians as they sat in groups about the flickering camp-fire while others beat the tom-toms and droned the curious melody.What were the visions of the red man, I wondered, as he chewed his mescal button and the medicine man prayed to Hikori, the cactus god, to grant a "beautiful intoxication?"Under the gas-lights of the chandelier hung a cluster of electric light bulbs which added to the flood of golden effulgence that bathed the room and all things in it.I gazed next intently at the electric lights.They became the sun itself in their steadiness, until I had to turn away my head and close my eyes.
Even then the image persisted--I saw the golden sands of Newport, only they were blazing with glory as if they were veritable diamond dust: I saw the waves, of incomparable blue, rolling up on the shore.A vague perfume was wafted on the air.I was in an orgy of vision.Yet there was no stage of maudlin emotion.It was at least elevating.
Kennedy's experiences as he related them to me afterwards were similar, though sufficiently varied to be interesting.His visions took the forms of animals--a Cheshire cat, like that in "Alice in Wonderland," with merely a grin that faded away, changing into a lynx which in turn disappeared, followed by an unknown creature with short nose and pointed ears, then tortoises and guinea-pigs, a perfectly unrelated succession of beasts.When the playing began a beautiful panorama unfolded before him--the regular notes in the music enhancing the beauty, and changes in the scenes, which he described as a most wonderful kinetoscopic display.
In fact, only De Quincey or Bayard Taylor or Poe could have done justice to the thrilling effects of the drug, and not even they unless an amanuensis had been seated by them to take down what they dictated, for I defy anyone to remember anything but a fraction of the rapid march of changes under its influence.
Indeed, in observing its action I almost forgot for the time being the purpose of our visit, so fascinated was I.The music ceased, but not the visions.
Senora Mendez advanced toward us.The spangles on her net dress seemed to give her a fairy-like appearance; she seemed to float over the carpet like a glowing, fleecy, white cloud over a rainbow-tinted sky.
Kennedy, however, had not for an instant forgotten what we were there for, and his attention recalled mine.I was surprised to see that when I made the effort I could talk and think quite as rationally as ever, though the wildest pranks were going on in my mind and vision.Kennedy did not beat about in putting his question, evidently counting on the surprise to extract the truth.
"What time did Senor Guerrero leave last night?"The question came so suddenly that she had no time to think of a reply that would conceal anything she might otherwise have wished to conceal.
"About ten o'clock," she answered, then instantly was on her guard, for Torreon had caught her eye.
"And you have no idea where he went?" asked Kennedy.
"None, unless he went home," she replied guardedly.
I did not at the time notice the significance of her prompt response to Torreon's warning.I did not notice, as did Kennedy, the smile that spread over Torreon's features.The music had started again, and I was oblivious to all but the riot of colour.
Again the servant entered.She seemed clothed in a halo of light and colour, every fold of her dress radiating the most delicate tones.Yet there was nothing voluptuous or sensual about it.Iwas raised above earthly things.Men and women were no longer men and women--they were brilliant creatures of whom I was one.It was sensuous, but not sensual.I looked at my own clothes.My everyday suit was idealised.My hands were surrounded by a glow of red fire that made me feel that they must be the hands of a divinity.I noticed them as I reached forward toward the tray of little cups.
There swam into my line of vision another such hand.It laid itself on my arm.A voice sang in my ear softly:
"No, Walter, we have had enough.Come, let us go.This is not like any other known drug--not even the famous Cannabis indica, hasheesh.Let us go as soon as we politely can.I have found out what I wanted to know.Guerrero is not here."We rose shortly and excused ourselves and, with general regrets in which all but Torreon joined, were bowed out with the same courtly politeness with which we had been received.
As we left the house, the return to the world was quick.It was like coming out from the matinee and seeing the crowds on the street.They, not the matinee, were unreal for the moment.But, strange to say, I found one felt no depression as a result of the mescal intoxication.
"What is it about mescal that produces such results?" I asked.
"The alkaloids," replied Kennedy as we walked slowly along.
"Mescal was first brought to the attention of scientists by explorers employed by our bureau of ethnology.Dr.Weir Mitchell and Dr.Harvey Wiley and several German scientists have investigated it since then.It is well known that it contains half a dozen alkaloids and resins of curious and little-investigated nature.I can't recall even the names of them offhand, but I have them in my laboratory."As the effect of the mescal began to wear off in the fresh air, Ifound myself in a peculiar questioning state.What had we gained by our visit? Looking calmly at it, I could not help but ask myself why both Torreon and Senora Mendez had acted as if they were concealing something about the whereabouts of Guerrero.Was she a spy? Did she know anything about the loss of the half-million dollars?
