A. Merritt's Fantasy Magazine, October 1950 — page 60: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE ELIXIR OF HATE 59 bed, stretched, breathed deeply, and felt with an immense joy the perfect response of his revivified muscles, the lithe play of his strongly graceful body. Quickly he washed and dressed. Upon him lay the imperative demand for break- fast, for tobacco, for exertion—for life! All his black and ugly thoughts, : whether of personal fear, or of suspicion relative to the caves, dislike of Lombard, hatred of Il Vecchio—all these, all, every one, was for the moment swept away in the blight, glad outburst of his new-born life that sang within him, greeting another radiant y. Far back the pendulum of anxiety, of introspection, and spying doubt had swung. Now the reaction was carrying him into enthusiastic pleasure in the mere animal enjoyment of his strength, in the marvelous glow and warmth of that new day upon the enchanted coast of the Riviera. “Till take a hand at the gardening my- self, today,” thought he, humming an old love-tune. “It’s been twenty years, if it’s been a day, since I’ve dug the good black earth. Gad! The smell of it beats any perfume in this world!” Eagerly he scented the breeze, as he stood there at the window overlooking that sunbathed quietude of the walled estate. New instincts were awakening, old long-forgotten ones reviving in his breast. ‘Give me a mattock or a spading- fork,” quoth he, “and I'll soon make the dirt fly!” Some minutes later, Il Vecchio greeted him in the olive-grove with a smile and an outstretched hand which Dennison warmily pressed. “Well, and how are we this morning ?”’ asked the old man very kindly. “The little nervous upset of last night, I see, has quite gone by. Your eye is clear and firm, color excellent, hand steady as a rock Health, in short, absolutely perfect, is it not? Ah, my friend, if only more men would do as you are doing—quit their cares and wor- ries for a while, and seek retirement from the world! Seek nature, in her never- failing youth and joy! Like Antaeus, the fabled giant of old, who rose nine times stronger every time he was thrown to earth by Hercules, so can men, even to- day, find life and strength thus.” ee he nodded at his long- handled spade, to which the dark, rich Mediterranean soil clung thickly. Neither in look nor tone lay any slightest remin- iscent hint of the wrong that Dennison had done him, nor yet of any ulterior thought whatsoever. And, as though washed away by some subtle, quiet power, impossible to understand or to resist, the apprehensions and distrusts of Dennison —already greatly weakened—seemed to disappear. It was less that any problem had been solved than that all questionings for the time merely faded into other, brighter, happier thoughts. And Dennison, looking at the old man (apparently so simple, so unaffected) as he stood there in the check- ered, moving shadows, leaning upon his spade, smiled back with joy. He filled and lighted the pipe which he had bought in the village, took a long inhalation, and, with a light-hearted laugh, exclaimed : “Come! Give me some tools! The call of mother earth is on me, strong, this morning. I haven’t heard it since Heaven knows when; but I hear it now. And I obey! To work!” That was a day of days for the Ameri- can; a morning such as few men ever know. The air, sun, sky—a turquoise bowl inverted on the green—bird-songs and breeze all blended to a symphonic wonder of sound, light, color, and emotion; and, like a counter-bass to everything, now rose, now fell the far, low, booming threnody of surf. Together, speaking or in silence, the two men gladly labored, with Lombard doing the bidding of Il Vecchio for all the coarser toil. And as Dennison delved, smoked, felt once more the thrilling touch of earth—our all-mother—or, resting a moment, stood up, dashed the sweat from his glowing forehead and looked abroad across that summer sea, _ white-flecked with felucca-sails, so glad his heart was within him that it almost burst for joy. Song rose to his lips; and through his soul welled the floodtides of perfect hap- piness. Perfect? Not quite. Though no ex- haustion followed his toil, though it was godlike bliss to feel the strong, resilient an) (C 6)(0)©) Ss (C(O)