I

von Robert W. Chambers

Even though I had no background in chemistry, I was completely captivated. Boris picked up an Easter lily that Geneviève had brought from Notre Dame that morning and dropped it into a basin filled with liquid. Instantly, the once-clear fluid turned cloudy. For a brief moment, the lily was surrounded by a milky foam that quickly vanished, revealing a shimmering, opalescent liquid. Shades of orange and crimson danced across the surface, and then, as if a beam of sunlight had pierced through from below, a golden ray illuminated the spot where the lily rested. At that moment, Boris plunged his hand into the basin and pulled out the flower.

“There’s no danger,” he explained. “You just have to choose the right moment. That golden ray is your signal.”

He held the lily out to me, and I took it in my hand. It had transformed into stone, pure marble.

“See?” he said. “It’s flawless. What sculptor could replicate this?”

The marble was as white as snow, but deep within, the veins of the lily were tinged with the faintest blue, and a delicate blush lingered in its heart.

“Don’t ask me why that is,” he smiled, noticing my astonishment. “I have no idea why the veins and heart are colored like that, but they always are. Just yesterday, I tried one of Geneviève’s goldfish—there it is.”

The fish appeared as if it had been carved from marble. Yet, when held up to the light, the stone revealed beautiful blue veins, and from somewhere inside, a rosy glow emerged, reminiscent of the hue found in an opal. I glanced back at the basin, which now seemed to be filled with crystal-clear liquid once more.

“What if I touch it now?” I asked.

“I’m not sure,” he replied, “but you probably shouldn’t.”

“There’s one thing I’m curious about,” I said. “Where did that ray of sunlight come from?”

“It did look like a sunbeam,” he admitted. “I don’t know why it happens, but it always appears when I immerse something alive. Maybe,” he added with a grin, “it’s the vital spark of the creature escaping back to its source.”

I could tell he was teasing, and I playfully threatened him with a mahl-stick, but he just laughed and changed the subject.

“Stay for lunch. Geneviève will be here soon.”

“I saw her heading to early mass,” I said. “She looked as fresh and lovely as that lily—before you turned it into stone.”

“Do you really think I destroyed it?” Boris asked, his tone serious.

“Destroyed or preserved, how can we know?”

We settled into a corner of his studio, near his unfinished sculpture of the “Fates.” He reclined on the sofa, twirling a sculptor’s chisel and squinting at his work.

“By the way,” he said, “I’ve finished that old academic Ariadne, and I suppose it will have to go to the Salon. It’s all I have ready this year, but after the success of the ‘Madonna,’ I feel embarrassed to send something like that.”

The “Madonna,” a stunning marble for which Geneviève had posed, had been the highlight of last year’s Salon. I looked at the Ariadne. It was technically impressive, but I agreed with Boris; the world would expect something more from him. Still, it was impossible to think about finishing the magnificent, haunting group of the “Fates” half-hidden in marble behind me in time for the Salon. That would have to wait.

We were proud of Boris Yvain. We claimed him, and he claimed us, based on his American birth, even though his father was French and his mother was Russian. Everyone at the Beaux Arts called him Boris, yet only two of us were addressed in that familiar way—Jack Scott and me.

Perhaps my feelings for Geneviève influenced his affection for me. We had never openly acknowledged it, but after everything was settled and she had tearfully confessed her love for Boris, I went to his house to congratulate him. The cordiality of that meeting didn’t fool either of us, though it was a great comfort to one of us. I don’t think he and Geneviève ever discussed it, but Boris knew.

Geneviève was stunning. The Madonna-like purity of her face seemed inspired by the Sanctus in Gounod’s Mass. But I always preferred when she shifted to what we called her “April Manœuvres.” She could be as unpredictable as an April day—serious and dignified in the morning, playful and capricious by noon, and in the evening, she was whatever you least expected. I preferred her that way, rather than in that tranquil Madonna-like state that stirred something deep within me. I was lost in thoughts of Geneviève when Boris spoke again.

“What do you think of my discovery, Alec?”

“I think it’s incredible.”

“I won’t use it for anything beyond satisfying my own curiosity, and the secret will die with me.”

“That would be quite a blow to sculpture, wouldn’t it? We painters lose more than we gain from photography.”

Boris nodded, fiddling with the edge of the chisel.

“This new, dangerous discovery would corrupt the art world. No, I’ll never share the secret with anyone,” he said slowly.

I couldn’t claim to be well-informed about such things, but I had heard of mineral springs so rich in silica that leaves and twigs dropped into them eventually turned to stone. I vaguely understood how it worked—how silica replaced the organic material, bit by bit, resulting in a stone replica of the original object. Honestly, I had never found this particularly fascinating, and the ancient fossils produced this way repulsed me.

Boris, however, seemed intrigued rather than disgusted. He had delved into the subject and, by chance, discovered a solution that attacked the submerged object with an intensity that could accomplish in seconds what would normally take years. That was about all I could grasp from the strange story he had just shared. After a long pause, he spoke again.

“I’m almost scared by what I’ve found. Scientists would go crazy over this discovery. It’s so simple; it practically revealed itself. When I think about that formula and the new element forming in metallic scales—”

“What new element?” I asked, intrigued.

“Oh, I haven’t even thought of a name for it, and I doubt I ever will. There are already enough precious metals in the world to cause trouble.”

I perked up. “Have you struck gold, Boris?”

“No, something even better. But listen, Alec!” He laughed, jumping up. “You and I have everything we need in this world. Ah! You look so greedy and suspicious already!” I laughed too and admitted that I was consumed by a desire for gold, suggesting we change the subject. So when Geneviève walked in shortly after, we turned away from the topic of alchemy.

Geneviève was dressed in shimmering grey from head to toe. The light danced along the soft waves of her fair hair as she turned her cheek toward Boris. Then she noticed me and returned my greeting. She had always blown me a kiss from the tips of her delicate fingers, so I immediately complained about her omission. She smiled and extended her hand, which fell away almost before it touched mine. Then, looking at Boris, she said, “You must ask Alec to stay for lunch.” This was a first; she had always asked me herself until today.

“I did,” Boris replied curtly.

“And you said yes, I hope?” She turned to me with a charming, conventional smile, as if I were just an acquaintance. I bowed slightly. “J’avais bien l’honneur, madame,” but instead of our usual playful banter, she murmured a polite invitation and disappeared. Boris and I exchanged glances.

“Should I head home?” I asked.

“Honestly, I don’t know,” he replied.

As we debated whether I should leave, Geneviève returned, this time without her bonnet. She was stunningly beautiful, though her complexion seemed a bit flushed and her bright eyes sparkled too intensely. She walked right up to me and took my arm.

“Lunch is ready. Was I being difficult, Alec? I thought I had a headache, but I don’t. Come here, Boris,” she said, slipping her other arm through his. “Alec knows that after you, there’s no one in the world I like as much as I like him, so if he sometimes feels ignored, it won’t hurt him.”

“À la bonheur!” I exclaimed. “Who says there are no thunderstorms in April?”

“Are you ready?” Boris chimed in. “Aye, ready!” And arm in arm, we dashed into the dining room, scandalizing the servants. After all, we weren’t entirely to blame; Geneviève was eighteen, Boris was twenty-three, and I was just shy of twenty-one.