diff options
Diffstat (limited to 'old/295-h.htm.2017-08-23')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/295-h.htm.2017-08-23 | 6382 |
1 files changed, 6382 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/old/295-h.htm.2017-08-23 b/old/295-h.htm.2017-08-23 new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a698b62 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/295-h.htm.2017-08-23 @@ -0,0 +1,6382 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The Early Short Fiction of Edith Wharton, by Edith Wharton + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} +.smcap {font-variant:small-caps;} +.c {text-align:center;} +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Early Short Fiction of Edith Wharton, +Part 1 (of 10), by Edith Wharton + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Early Short Fiction of Edith Wharton, Part 1 (of 10) + +Author: Edith Wharton + +Release Date: July 12, 2008 [EBook #295] +[Last Updated: August 22, 2017] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EARLY SHORT FICTION *** + + + + +Produced by Judith Boss, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE EARLY SHORT FICTION OF EDITH WHARTON + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Edith Wharton + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h4> + A Ten-Volume Collection + </h4> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h3> + Volume One + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> KERFOL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> III </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> MRS. MANSTEY’S VIEW </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> THE BOLTED DOOR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> VII </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> THE DILETTANTE </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD HAND </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> IV </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + KERFOL + </h2> + <h3> + As first published in Scribner’s Magazine, March 1916 + </h3> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + “You ought to buy it,” said my host; “it’s just the place for a + solitary-minded devil like you. And it would be rather worth while to own + the most romantic house in Brittany. The present people are dead broke, + and it’s going for a song—you ought to buy it.” + </p> + <p> + It was not with the least idea of living up to the character my friend + Lanrivain ascribed to me (as a matter of fact, under my unsociable + exterior I have always had secret yearnings for domesticity) that I took + his hint one autumn afternoon and went to Kerfol. My friend was motoring + over to Quimper on business: he dropped me on the way, at a cross-road on + a heath, and said: “First turn to the right and second to the left. Then + straight ahead till you see an avenue. If you meet any peasants, don’t ask + your way. They don’t understand French, and they would pretend they did + and mix you up. I’ll be back for you here by sunset—and don’t forget + the tombs in the chapel.” + </p> + <p> + I followed Lanrivain’s directions with the hesitation occasioned by the + usual difficulty of remembering whether he had said the first turn to the + right and second to the left, or the contrary. If I had met a peasant I + should certainly have asked, and probably been sent astray; but I had the + desert landscape to myself, and so stumbled on the right turn and walked + on across the heath till I came to an avenue. It was so unlike any other + avenue I have ever seen that I instantly knew it must be <i>the</i> avenue. The + grey-trunked trees sprang up straight to a great height and then interwove + their pale-grey branches in a long tunnel through which the autumn light + fell faintly. I know most trees by name, but I haven’t to this day been + able to decide what those trees were. They had the tall curve of elms, the + tenuity of poplars, the ashen colour of olives under a rainy sky; and they + stretched ahead of me for half a mile or more without a break in their + arch. If ever I saw an avenue that unmistakably led to something, it was + the avenue at Kerfol. My heart beat a little as I began to walk down it. + </p> + <p> + Presently the trees ended and I came to a fortified gate in a long wall. + Between me and the wall was an open space of grass, with other grey + avenues radiating from it. Behind the wall were tall slate roofs mossed + with silver, a chapel belfry, the top of a keep. A moat filled with wild + shrubs and brambles surrounded the place; the drawbridge had been replaced + by a stone arch, and the portcullis by an iron gate. I stood for a long + time on the hither side of the moat, gazing about me, and letting the + influence of the place sink in. I said to myself: “If I wait long enough, + the guardian will turn up and show me the tombs—” and I rather hoped + he wouldn’t turn up too soon. + </p> + <p> + I sat down on a stone and lit a cigarette. As soon as I had done it, it + struck me as a puerile and portentous thing to do, with that great blind + house looking down at me, and all the empty avenues converging on me. It + may have been the depth of the silence that made me so conscious of my + gesture. The squeak of my match sounded as loud as the scraping of a + brake, and I almost fancied I heard it fall when I tossed it onto the + grass. But there was more than that: a sense of irrelevance, of + littleness, of childish bravado, in sitting there puffing my + cigarette-smoke into the face of such a past. + </p> + <p> + I knew nothing of the history of Kerfol—I was new to Brittany, and + Lanrivain had never mentioned the name to me till the day before—but + one couldn’t as much as glance at that pile without feeling in it a long + accumulation of history. What kind of history I was not prepared to guess: + perhaps only the sheer weight of many associated lives and deaths which + gives a kind of majesty to all old houses. But the aspect of Kerfol + suggested something more—a perspective of stern and cruel memories + stretching away, like its own grey avenues, into a blur of darkness. + </p> + <p> + Certainly no house had ever more completely and finally broken with the + present. As it stood there, lifting its proud roofs and gables to the sky, + it might have been its own funeral monument. “Tombs in the chapel? The + whole place is a tomb!” I reflected. I hoped more and more that the + guardian would not come. The details of the place, however striking, would + seem trivial compared with its collective impressiveness; and I wanted + only to sit there and be penetrated by the weight of its silence. + </p> + <p> + “It’s the very place for you!” Lanrivain had said; and I was overcome by + the almost blasphemous frivolity of suggesting to any living being that + Kerfol was the place for him. “Is it possible that any one could <i>not</i> see—?” + I wondered. I did not finish the thought: what I meant was undefinable. I + stood up and wandered toward the gate. I was beginning to want to know + more; not to <i>see</i> more—I was by now so sure it was not a question of + seeing—but to feel more: feel all the place had to communicate. “But + to get in one will have to rout out the keeper,” I thought reluctantly, + and hesitated. Finally I crossed the bridge and tried the iron gate. It + yielded, and I walked under the tunnel formed by the thickness of the + chemin de ronde. At the farther end, a wooden barricade had been laid + across the entrance, and beyond it I saw a court enclosed in noble + architecture. The main building faced me; and I now discovered that one + half was a mere ruined front, with gaping windows through which the wild + growths of the moat and the trees of the park were visible. The rest of + the house was still in its robust beauty. One end abutted on the round + tower, the other on the small traceried chapel, and in an angle of the + building stood a graceful well-head adorned with mossy urns. A few roses + grew against the walls, and on an upper window-sill I remember noticing a + pot of fuchsias. + </p> + <p> + My sense of the pressure of the invisible began to yield to my + architectural interest. The building was so fine that I felt a desire to + explore it for its own sake. I looked about the court, wondering in which + corner the guardian lodged. Then I pushed open the barrier and went in. As + I did so, a little dog barred my way. He was such a remarkably beautiful + little dog that for a moment he made me forget the splendid place he was + defending. I was not sure of his breed at the time, but have since learned + that it was Chinese, and that he was of a rare variety called the + “Sleeve-dog.” He was very small and golden brown, with large brown eyes + and a ruffled throat: he looked rather like a large tawny chrysanthemum. I + said to myself: “These little beasts always snap and scream, and somebody + will be out in a minute.” + </p> + <p> + The little animal stood before me, forbidding, almost menacing: there was + anger in his large brown eyes. But he made no sound, he came no nearer. + Instead, as I advanced, he gradually fell back, and I noticed that another + dog, a vague rough brindled thing, had limped up. “There’ll be a hubbub + now,” I thought; for at the same moment a third dog, a long-haired white + mongrel, slipped out of a doorway and joined the others. All three stood + looking at me with grave eyes; but not a sound came from them. As I + advanced they continued to fall back on muffled paws, still watching me. + “At a given point, they’ll all charge at my ankles: it’s one of the dodges + that dogs who live together put up on one,” I thought. I was not much + alarmed, for they were neither large nor formidable. But they let me + wander about the court as I pleased, following me at a little distance—always + the same distance—and always keeping their eyes on me. Presently I + looked across at the ruined facade, and saw that in one of its + window-frames another dog stood: a large white pointer with one brown ear. + He was an old grave dog, much more experienced than the others; and he + seemed to be observing me with a deeper intentness. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll hear from <i>him</i>,” I said to myself; but he stood in the empty + window-frame, against the trees of the park, and continued to watch me + without moving. I looked back at him for a time, to see if the sense that + he was being watched would not rouse him. Half the width of the court lay + between us, and we stared at each other silently across it. But he did not + stir, and at last I turned away. Behind me I found the rest of the pack, + with a newcomer added: a small black greyhound with pale agate-coloured + eyes. He was shivering a little, and his expression was more timid than + that of the others. I noticed that he kept a little behind them. And still + there was not a sound. + </p> + <p> + I stood there for fully five minutes, the circle about me—waiting, + as they seemed to be waiting. At last I went up to the little golden-brown + dog and stooped to pat him. As I did so, I heard myself laugh. The little + dog did not start, or growl, or take his eyes from me—he simply + slipped back about a yard, and then paused and continued to look at me. + “Oh, hang it!” I exclaimed aloud, and walked across the court toward the + well. + </p> + <p> + As I advanced, the dogs separated and slid away into different corners of + the court. I examined the urns on the well, tried a locked door or two, + and up and down the dumb facade; then I faced about toward the chapel. + When I turned I perceived that all the dogs had disappeared except the old + pointer, who still watched me from the empty window-frame. It was rather a + relief to be rid of that cloud of witnesses; and I began to look about me + for a way to the back of the house. “Perhaps there’ll be somebody in the + garden,” I thought. I found a way across the moat, scrambled over a wall + smothered in brambles, and got into the garden. A few lean hydrangeas and + geraniums pined in the flower-beds, and the ancient house looked down on + them indifferently. Its garden side was plainer and severer than the + other: the long granite front, with its few windows and steep roof, looked + like a fortress-prison. I walked around the farther wing, went up some + disjointed steps, and entered the deep twilight of a narrow and incredibly + old box-walk. The walk was just wide enough for one person to slip + through, and its branches met overhead. It was like the ghost of a + box-walk, its lustrous green all turning to the shadowy greyness of the + avenues. I walked on and on, the branches hitting me in the face and + springing back with a dry rattle; and at length I came out on the grassy + top of the chemin de ronde. I walked along it to the gate-tower, looking + down into the court, which was just below me. Not a human being was in + sight; and neither were the dogs. I found a flight of steps in the + thickness of the wall and went down them; and when I emerged again into + the court, there stood the circle of dogs, the golden-brown one a little + ahead of the others, the black greyhound shivering in the rear. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, hang it—you uncomfortable beasts, you!” I exclaimed, my voice + startling me with a sudden echo. The dogs stood motionless, watching me. I + knew by this time that they would not try to prevent my approaching the + house, and the knowledge left me free to examine them. I had a feeling + that they must be horribly cowed to be so silent and inert. Yet they did + not look hungry or ill-treated. Their coats were smooth and they were not + thin, except the shivering greyhound. It was more as if they had lived a + long time with people who never spoke to them or looked at them: as though + the silence of the place had gradually benumbed their busy inquisitive + natures. And this strange passivity, this almost human lassitude, seemed + to me sadder than the misery of starved and beaten animals. I should have + liked to rouse them for a minute, to coax them into a game or a scamper; + but the longer I looked into their fixed and weary eyes the more + preposterous the idea became. With the windows of that house looking down + on us, how could I have imagined such a thing? The dogs knew better: <i>they</i> + knew what the house would tolerate and what it would not. I even fancied + that they knew what was passing through my mind, and pitied me for my + frivolity. But even that feeling probably reached them through a thick fog + of listlessness. I had an idea that their distance from me was as nothing + to my remoteness from them. In the last analysis, the impression they + produced was that of having in common one memory so deep and dark that + nothing that had happened since was worth either a growl or a wag. + </p> + <p> + “I say,” I broke out abruptly, addressing myself to the dumb circle, “do + you know what you look like, the whole lot of you? You look as if you’d + seen a ghost—that’s how you look! I wonder if there <i>is</i> a ghost here, + and nobody but you left for it to appear to?” The dogs continued to gaze + at me without moving... + </p> + <p> + It was dark when I saw Lanrivain’s motor lamps at the cross-roads—and + I wasn’t exactly sorry to see them. I had the sense of having escaped from + the loneliest place in the whole world, and of not liking loneliness—to + that degree—as much as I had imagined I should. My friend had + brought his solicitor back from Quimper for the night, and seated beside a + fat and affable stranger I felt no inclination to talk of Kerfol... + </p> + <p> + But that evening, when Lanrivain and the solicitor were closeted in the + study, Madame de Lanrivain began to question me in the drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + “Well—are you going to buy Kerfol?” she asked, tilting up her gay + chin from her embroidery. + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t decided yet. The fact is, I couldn’t get into the house,” I + said, as if I had simply postponed my decision, and meant to go back for + another look. + </p> + <p> + “You couldn’t get in? Why, what happened? The family are mad to sell the + place, and the old guardian has orders—” + </p> + <p> + “Very likely. But the old guardian wasn’t there.” + </p> + <p> + “What a pity! He must have gone to market. But his daughter—?” + </p> + <p> + “There was nobody about. At least I saw no one.” + </p> + <p> + “How extraordinary! Literally nobody?” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody but a lot of dogs—a whole pack of them—who seemed to + have the place to themselves.” + </p> + <p> + Madame de Lanrivain let the embroidery slip to her knee and folded her + hands on it. For several minutes she looked at me thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “A pack of dogs—you <i>saw</i> them?” + </p> + <p> + “Saw them? I saw nothing else!” + </p> + <p> + “How many?” She dropped her voice a little. “I’ve always wondered—” + </p> + <p> + I looked at her with surprise: I had supposed the place to be familiar to + her. “Have you never been to Kerfol?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes: often. But never on that day.” + </p> + <p> + “What day?” + </p> + <p> + “I’d quite forgotten—and so had Hervé, I’m sure. If we’d remembered, + we never should have sent you today—but then, after all, one doesn’t + half believe that sort of thing, does one?” + </p> + <p> + “What sort of thing?” I asked, involuntarily sinking my voice to the level + of hers. Inwardly I was thinking: “I <i>knew</i> there was something...” + </p> + <p> + Madame de Lanrivain cleared her throat and produced a reassuring smile. + “Didn’t Hervé tell you the story of Kerfol? An ancestor of his was mixed + up in it. You know every Breton house has its ghost-story; and some of + them are rather unpleasant.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—but those dogs?” I insisted. + </p> + <p> + “Well, those dogs are the ghosts of Kerfol. At least, the peasants say + there’s one day in the year when a lot of dogs appear there; and that day + the keeper and his daughter go off to Morlaix and get drunk. The women in + Brittany drink dreadfully.” She stooped to match a silk; then she lifted + her charming inquisitive Parisian face: “Did you <i>really</i> see a lot of dogs? + There isn’t one at Kerfol,” she said. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + Lanrivain, the next day, hunted out a shabby calf volume from the back of + an upper shelf of his library. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—here it is. What does it call itself? A History of the Assizes + of the Duchy of Brittany. Quimper, 1702. The book was written about a + hundred years later than the Kerfol affair; but I believe the account is + transcribed pretty literally from the judicial records. Anyhow, it’s queer + reading. And there’s a Hervé de Lanrivain mixed up in it—not exactly + <i>my</i> style, as you’ll see. But then he’s only a collateral. Here, take the + book up to bed with you. I don’t exactly remember the details; but after + you’ve read it I’ll bet anything you’ll leave your light burning all + night!” + </p> + <p> + I left my light burning all night, as he had predicted; but it was chiefly + because, till near dawn, I was absorbed in my reading. The account of the + trial of Anne de Cornault, wife of the lord of Kerfol, was long and + closely printed. It was, as my friend had said, probably an almost literal + transcription of what took place in the court-room; and the trial lasted + nearly a month. Besides, the type of the book was detestable... + </p> + <p> + At first I thought of translating the old record literally. But it is full + of wearisome repetitions, and the main lines of the story are forever + straying off into side issues. So I have tried to disentangle it, and give + it here in a simpler form. At times, however, I have reverted to the text + because no other words could have conveyed so exactly the sense of what I + felt at Kerfol; and nowhere have I added anything of my own. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <p> + It was in the year 16— that Yves de Cornault, lord of the domain of + Kerfol, went to the <i>pardon</i> of Locronan to perform his religious duties. He + was a rich and powerful noble, then in his sixty-second year, but hale and + sturdy, a great horseman and hunter and a pious man. So all his neighbours + attested. In appearance he seems to have been short and broad, with a + swarthy face, legs slightly bowed from the saddle, a hanging nose and + broad hands with black hairs on them. He had married young and lost his + wife and son soon after, and since then had lived alone at Kerfol. Twice a + year he went to Morlaix, where he had a handsome house by the river, and + spent a week or ten days there; and occasionally he rode to Rennes on + business. Witnesses were found to declare that during these absences he + led a life different from the one he was known to lead at Kerfol, where he + busied himself with his estate, attended mass daily, and found his only + amusement in hunting the wild boar and water-fowl. But these rumours are + not particularly relevant, and it is certain that among people of his own + class in the neighbourhood he passed for a stern and even austere man, + observant of his religious obligations, and keeping strictly to himself. + There was no talk of any familiarity with the women on his estate, though + at that time the nobility were very free with their peasants. Some people + said he had never looked at a woman since his wife’s death; but such + things are hard to prove, and the evidence on this point was not worth + much. + </p> + <p> + Well, in his sixty-second year, Yves de Cornault went to the <i>pardon</i> at + Locronan, and saw there a young lady of Douarnenez, who had ridden over + pillion behind her father to do her duty to the saint. Her name was Anne + de Barrigan, and she came of good old Breton stock, but much less great + and powerful than that of Yves de Cornault; and her father had squandered + his fortune at cards, and lived almost like a peasant in his little + granite manor on the moors... I have said I would add nothing of my own to + this bald statement of a strange case; but I must interrupt myself here to + describe the young lady who rode up to the lych-gate of Locronan at the + very moment when the Baron de Cornault was also dismounting there. I take + my description from a rather rare thing: a faded drawing in red crayon, + sober and truthful enough to be by a late pupil of the Clouets, which + hangs in Lanrivain’s study, and is said to be a portrait of Anne de + Barrigan. It is unsigned and has no mark of identity but the initials A. + B., and the date 16—, the year after her marriage. It represents a + young woman with a small oval face, almost pointed, yet wide enough for a + full mouth with a tender depression at the corners. The nose is small, and + the eyebrows are set rather high, far apart, and as lightly pencilled as + the eyebrows in a Chinese painting. The forehead is high and serious, and + the hair, which one feels to be fine and thick and fair, drawn off it and + lying close like a cap. The eyes are neither large nor small, hazel + probably, with a look at once shy and steady. A pair of beautiful long + hands are crossed below the lady’s breast... + </p> + <p> + The chaplain of Kerfol, and other witnesses, averred that when the Baron + came back from Locronan he jumped from his horse, ordered another to be + instantly saddled, called to a young page come with him, and rode away + that same evening to the south. His steward followed the next morning with + coffers laden on a pair of pack mules. The following week Yves de Cornault + rode back to Kerfol, sent for his vassals and tenants, and told them he + was to be married at All Saints to Anne de Barrigan of Douarnenez. And on + All Saints’ Day the marriage took place. + </p> + <p> + As to the next few years, the evidence on both sides seems to show that + they passed happily for the couple. No one was found to say that Yves de + Cornault had been unkind to his wife, and it was plain to all that he was + content with his bargain. Indeed, it was admitted by the chaplain and + other witnesses for the prosecution that the young lady had a softening + influence on her husband, and that he became less exacting with his + tenants, less harsh to peasants and dependents, and less subject to the + fits of gloomy silence which had darkened his widow-hood. As to his wife, + the only grievance her champions could call up in her behalf was that + Kerfol was a lonely place, and that when her husband was away on business + at Rennes or Morlaix—whither she was never taken—she was not + allowed so much as to walk in the park unaccompanied. But no one asserted + that she was unhappy, though one servant-woman said she had surprised her + crying, and had heard her say that she was a woman accursed to have no + child, and nothing in life to call her own. But that was a natural enough + feeling in a wife attached to her husband; and certainly it must have been + a great grief to Yves de Cornault that she gave him no son. Yet he never + made her feel her childlessness as a reproach—she herself admits + this in her evidence—but seemed to try to make her forget it by + showering gifts and favours on her. Rich though he was, he had never been + open-handed; but nothing was too fine for his wife, in the way of silks or + gems or linen, or whatever else she fancied. Every wandering merchant was + welcome at Kerfol, and when the master was called away he never came back + without bringing his wife a handsome present—something curious and + particular—from Morlaix or Rennes or Quimper. One of the + waiting-women gave, in cross-examination, an interesting list of one + year’s gifts, which I copy. From Morlaix, a carved ivory junk, with + Chinamen at the oars, that a strange sailor had brought back as a votive + offering for Notre Dame de la Clarté, above Ploumanac’h; from Quimper, an + embroidered gown, worked by the nuns of the Assumption; from Rennes, a + silver rose that opened and showed an amber Virgin with a crown of + garnets; from Morlaix, again, a length of Damascus velvet shot with gold, + bought of a Jew from Syria; and for Michaelmas that same year, from + Rennes, a necklet or bracelet of round stones—emeralds and pearls + and rubies—strung like beads on a gold wire. This was the present + that pleased the lady best, the woman said. Later on, as it happened, it + was produced at the trial, and appears to have struck the Judges and the + public as a curious and valuable jewel. + </p> + <p> + The very same winter, the Baron absented himself again, this time as far + as Bordeaux, and on his return he brought his wife something even odder + and prettier than the bracelet. It was a winter evening when he rode up to + Kerfol and, walking into the hall, found her sitting listlessly by the + fire, her chin on her hand, looking into the fire. He carried a velvet box + in his hand and, setting it down on the hearth, lifted the lid and let out + a little golden-brown dog. + </p> + <p> + Anne de Cornault exclaimed with pleasure as the little creature bounded + toward her. “Oh, it looks like a bird or a butterfly!” she cried as she + picked it up; and the dog put its paws on her shoulders and looked at her + with eyes “like a Christian’s.” After that she would never have it out of + her sight, and petted and talked to it as if it had been a child—as + indeed it was the nearest thing to a child she was to know. Yves de + Cornault was much pleased with his purchase. The dog had been brought to + him by a sailor from an East India merchantman, and the sailor had bought + it of a pilgrim in a bazaar at Jaffa, who had stolen it from a nobleman’s + wife in China: a perfectly permissible thing to do, since the pilgrim was + a Christian and the nobleman a heathen doomed to hellfire. Yves de + Cornault had paid a long price for the dog, for they were beginning to be + in demand at the French court, and the sailor knew he had got hold of a + good thing; but Anne’s pleasure was so great that, to see her laugh and + play with the little animal, her husband would doubtless have given twice + the sum. + </p> + <p> + So far, all the evidence is at one, and the narrative plain sailing; but + now the steering becomes difficult. I will try to keep as nearly as + possible to Anne’s own statements; though toward the end, poor thing... + </p> + <p> + Well, to go back. The very year after the little brown dog was brought to + Kerfol, Yves de Cornault, one winter night, was found dead at the head of + a narrow flight of stairs leading down from his wife’s rooms to a door + opening on the court. It was his wife who found him and gave the alarm, so + distracted, poor wretch, with fear and horror—for his blood was all + over her—that at first the roused household could not make out what + she was saying, and thought she had gone suddenly mad. But there, sure + enough, at the top of the stairs lay her husband, stone dead, and head + foremost, the blood from his wounds dripping down to the steps below him. + He had been dreadfully scratched and gashed about the face and throat, as + if with a dull weapon; and one of his legs had a deep tear in it which had + cut an artery, and probably caused his death. But how did he come there, + and who had murdered him? + </p> + <p> + His wife declared that she had been asleep in her bed, and hearing his cry + had rushed out to find him lying on the stairs; but this was immediately + questioned. In the first place, it was proved that from her room she could + not have heard the struggle on the stairs, owing to the thickness of the + walls and the length of the intervening passage; then it was evident that + she had not been in bed and asleep, since she was dressed when she roused + the house, and her bed had not been slept in. Moreover, the door at the + bottom of the stairs was ajar, and the key in the lock; and it was noticed + by the chaplain (an observant man) that the dress she wore was stained + with blood about the knees, and that there were traces of small + blood-stained hands low down on the staircase walls, so that it was + conjectured that she had really been at the postern-door when her husband + fell and, feeling her way up to him in the darkness on her hands and + knees, had been stained by his blood dripping down on her. Of course it + was argued on the other side that the blood-marks on her dress might have + been caused by her kneeling down by her husband when she rushed out of her + room; but there was the open door below, and the fact that the fingermarks + in the staircase all pointed upward. + </p> + <p> + The accused held to her statement for the first two days, in spite of its + improbability; but on the third day word was brought to her that Hervé de + Lanrivain, a young nobleman of the neighbourhood, had been arrested for + complicity in the crime. Two or three witnesses thereupon came forward to + say that it was known throughout the country that Lanrivain had formerly + been on good terms with the lady of Cornault; but that he had been absent + from Brittany for over a year, and people had ceased to associate their + names. The witnesses who made this statement were not of a very reputable + sort. One was an old herb-gatherer suspected of witch-craft, another a + drunken clerk from a neighbouring parish, the third a half-witted shepherd + who could be made to say anything; and it was clear that the prosecution + was not satisfied with its case, and would have liked to find more + definite proof of Lanrivain’s complicity than the statement of the + herb-gatherer, who swore to having seen him climbing the wall of the park + on the night of the murder. One way of patching out incomplete proofs in + those days was to put some sort of pressure, moral or physical, on the + accused person. It is not clear what pressure was put on Anne de Cornault; + but on the third day, when she was brought into court, she “appeared weak + and wandering,” and after being encouraged to collect herself and speak + the truth, on her honour and the wounds of her Blessed Redeemer, she + confessed that she had in fact gone down the stairs to speak with Hervé de + Lanrivain (who denied everything), and had been surprised there by the + sound of her husband’s fall. That was better; and the prosecution rubbed + its hands with satisfaction. The satisfaction increased when various + dependents living at Kerfol were induced to say—with apparent + sincerity—that during the year or two preceding his death their + master had once more grown uncertain and irascible, and subject to the + fits of brooding silence which his household had learned to dread before + his second marriage. This seemed to show that things had not been going + well at Kerfol; though no one could be found to say that there had been + any signs of open disagreement between husband and wife. + </p> + <p> + Anne de Cornault, when questioned as to her reason for going down at night + to open the door to Hervé de Lanrivain, made an answer which must have + sent a smile around the court. She said it was because she was lonely and + wanted to talk with the young man. Was this the only reason? she was + asked; and replied: “Yes, by the Cross over your Lordships’ heads.” “But + why at midnight?” the court asked. “Because I could see him in no other + way.” I can see the exchange of glances across the ermine collars under + the Crucifix. + </p> + <p> + Anne de Cornault, further questioned, said that her married life had been + extremely lonely: “desolate” was the word she used. It was true that her + husband seldom spoke harshly to her; but there were days when he did not + speak at all. It was true that he had never struck or threatened her; but + he kept her like a prisoner at Kerfol, and when he rode away to Morlaix or + Quimper or Rennes he set so close a watch on her that she could not pick a + flower in the garden without having a waiting-woman at her heels. “I am no + Queen, to need such honours,” she once said to him; and he had answered + that a man who has a treasure does not leave the key in the lock when he + goes out. “Then take me with you,” she urged; but to this he said that + towns were pernicious places, and young wives better off at their own + firesides. + </p> + <p> + “But what did you want to say to Hervé de Lanrivain?” the court asked; and + she answered: “To ask him to take me away.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah—you confess that you went down to him with adulterous thoughts?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why did you want him to take you away?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I was afraid for my life.” + </p> + <p> + “Of whom were you afraid?” + </p> + <p> + “Of my husband.” + </p> + <p> + “Why were you afraid of your husband?” + </p> + <p> + “Because he had strangled my little dog.” + </p> + <p> + Another smile must have passed around the court-room: in days when any + nobleman had a right to hang his peasants—and most of them exercised + it—pinching a pet animal’s wind-pipe was nothing to make a fuss + about. + </p> + <p> + At this point one of the Judges, who appears to have had a certain + sympathy for the accused, suggested that she should be allowed to explain + herself in her own way; and she thereupon made the following statement. + </p> + <p> + The first years of her marriage had been lonely; but her husband had not + been unkind to her. If she had had a child she would not have been + unhappy; but the days were long, and it rained too much. + </p> + <p> + It was true that her husband, whenever he went away and left her, brought + her a handsome present on his return; but this did not make up for the + loneliness. At least nothing had, till he brought her the little brown dog + from the East: after that she was much less unhappy. Her husband seemed + pleased that she was so fond of the dog; he gave her leave to put her + jewelled bracelet around its neck, and to keep it always with her. + </p> + <p> + One day she had fallen asleep in her room, with the dog at her feet, as + his habit was. Her feet were bare and resting on his back. Suddenly she + was waked by her husband: he stood beside her, smiling not unkindly. + </p> + <p> + “You look like my great-grandmother, Juliane de Cornault, lying in the + chapel with her feet on a little dog,” he said. + </p> + <p> + The analogy sent a chill through her, but she laughed and answered: “Well, + when I am dead you must put me beside her, carved in marble, with my dog + at my feet.” + </p> + <p> + “Oho—we’ll wait and see,” he said, laughing also, but with his black + brows close together. “The dog is the emblem of fidelity.” + </p> + <p> + “And do you doubt my right to lie with mine at my feet?” + </p> + <p> + “When I’m in doubt I find out,” he answered. “I am an old man,” he added, + “and people say I make you lead a lonely life. But I swear you shall have + your monument if you earn it.” + </p> + <p> + “And I swear to be faithful,” she returned, “if only for the sake of + having my little dog at my feet.” + </p> + <p> + Not long afterward he went on business to the Quimper Assizes; and while + he was away his aunt, the widow of a great nobleman of the duchy, came to + spend a night at Kerfol on her way to the <i>pardon</i> of Ste. Barbe. She was a + woman of great piety and consequence, and much respected by Yves de + Cornault, and when she proposed to Anne to go with her to Ste. Barbe no + one could object, and even the chaplain declared himself in favour of the + pilgrimage. So Anne set out for Ste. Barbe, and there for the first time + she talked with Hervé de Lanrivain. He had come once or twice to Kerfol + with his father, but she had never before exchanged a dozen words with + him. They did not talk for more than five minutes now: it was under the + chestnuts, as the procession was coming out of the chapel. He said: “I + pity you,” and she was surprised, for she had not supposed that any one + thought her an object of pity. He added: “Call for me when you need me,” + and she smiled a little, but was glad afterward, and thought often of the + meeting. + </p> + <p> + She confessed to having seen him three times afterward: not more. How or + where she would not say—one had the impression that she feared to + implicate some one. Their meetings had been rare and brief; and at the + last he had told her that he was starting the next day for a foreign + country, on a mission which was not without peril and might keep him for + many months absent. He asked her for a remembrance, and she had none to + give him but the collar about the little dog’s neck. She was sorry + afterward that she had given it, but he was so unhappy at going that she + had not had the courage to refuse. + </p> + <p> + Her husband was away at the time. When he returned a few days later he + picked up the little dog to pet it, and noticed that its collar was + missing. His wife told him that the dog had lost it in the undergrowth of + the park, and that she and her maids had hunted a whole day for it. It was + true, she explained to the court, that she had made the maids search for + the necklet—they all believed the dog had lost it in the park... + </p> + <p> + Her husband made no comment, and that evening at supper he was in his + usual mood, between good and bad: you could never tell which. He talked a + good deal, describing what he had seen and done at Rennes; but now and + then he stopped and looked hard at her; and when she went to bed she found + her little dog strangled on her pillow. The little thing was dead, but + still warm; she stooped to lift it, and her distress turned to horror when + she discovered that it had been strangled by twisting twice round its + throat the necklet she had given to Lanrivain. + </p> + <p> + The next morning at dawn she buried the dog in the garden, and hid the + necklet in her breast. She said nothing to her husband, then or later, and + he said nothing to her; but that day he had a peasant hanged for stealing + a faggot in the park, and the next day he nearly beat to death a young + horse he was breaking. + </p> + <p> + Winter set in, and the short days passed, and the long nights, one by one; + and she heard nothing of Hervé de Lanrivain. It might be that her husband + had killed him; or merely that he had been robbed of the necklet. Day + after day by the hearth among the spinning maids, night after night alone + on her bed, she wondered and trembled. Sometimes at table her husband + looked across at her and smiled; and then she felt sure that Lanrivain was + dead. She dared not try to get news of him, for she was sure her husband + would find out if she did: she had an idea that he could find out + anything. Even when a witch-woman who was a noted seer, and could show you + the whole world in her crystal, came to the castle for a night’s shelter, + and the maids flocked to her, Anne held back. The winter was long and + black and rainy. One day, in Yves de Cornault’s absence, some gypsies came + to Kerfol with a troop of performing dogs. Anne bought the smallest and + cleverest, a white dog with a feathery coat and one blue and one brown + eye. It seemed to have been ill-treated by the gypsies, and clung to her + plaintively when she took it from them. That evening her husband came + back, and when she went to bed she found the dog strangled on her pillow. + </p> + <p> + After that she said to herself that she would never have another dog; but + one bitter cold evening a poor lean greyhound was found whining at the + castle-gate, and she took him in and forbade the maids to speak of him to + her husband. She hid him in a room that no one went to, smuggled food to + him from her own plate, made him a warm bed to lie on and petted him like + a child. + </p> + <p> + Yves de Cornault came home, and the next day she found the greyhound + strangled on her pillow. She wept in secret, but said nothing, and + resolved that even if she met a dog dying of hunger she would never bring + him into the castle; but one day she found a young sheep-dog, a brindled + puppy with good blue eyes, lying with a broken leg in the snow of the + park. Yves de Cornault was at Rennes, and she brought the dog in, warmed + and fed it, tied up its leg and hid it in the castle till her husband’s + return. The day before, she gave it to a peasant woman who lived a long + way off, and paid her handsomely to care for it and say nothing; but that + night she heard a whining and scratching at her door, and when she opened + it the lame puppy, drenched and shivering, jumped up on her with little + sobbing barks. She hid him in her bed, and the next morning was about to + have him taken back to the peasant woman when she heard her husband ride + into the court. She shut the dog in a chest and went down to receive him. + An hour or two later, when she returned to her room, the puppy lay + strangled on her pillow... + </p> + <p> + After that she dared not make a pet of any other dog; and her loneliness + became almost unendurable. Sometimes, when she crossed the court of the + castle, and thought no one was looking, she stopped to pat the old pointer + at the gate. But one day as she was caressing him her husband came out of + the chapel; and the next day the old dog was gone... + </p> + <p> + This curious narrative was not told in one sitting of the court, or + received without impatience and incredulous comment. It was plain that the + Judges were surprised by its puerility, and that it did not help the + accused in the eyes of the public. It was an odd tale, certainly; but what + did it prove? That Yves de Cornault disliked dogs, and that his wife, to + gratify her own fancy, persistently ignored this dislike. As for pleading + this trivial disagreement as an excuse for her relations—whatever + their nature—with her supposed accomplice, the argument was so + absurd that her own lawyer manifestly regretted having let her make use of + it, and tried several times to cut short her story. But she went on to the + end, with a kind of hypnotized insistence, as though the scenes she evoked + were so real to her that she had forgotten where she was and imagined + herself to be re-living them. + </p> + <p> + At length the Judge who had previously shown a certain kindness to her + said (leaning forward a little, one may suppose, from his row of dozing + colleagues): “Then you would have us believe that you murdered your + husband because he would not let you keep a pet dog?” + </p> + <p> + “I did not murder my husband.” + </p> + <p> + “Who did, then? Hervé de Lanrivain?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Who then? Can you tell us?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I can tell you. The dogs—” At that point she was carried out + of the court in a swoon. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + It was evident that her lawyer tried to get her to abandon this line of + defense. Possibly her explanation, whatever it was, had seemed convincing + when she poured it out to him in the heat of their first private colloquy; + but now that it was exposed to the cold daylight of judicial scrutiny, and + the banter of the town, he was thoroughly ashamed of it, and would have + sacrificed her without a scruple to save his professional reputation. But + the obstinate Judge—who perhaps, after all, was more inquisitive + than kindly—evidently wanted to hear the story out, and she was + ordered, the next day, to continue her deposition. + </p> + <p> + She said that after the disappearance of the old watch-dog nothing + particular happened for a month or two. Her husband was much as usual: she + did not remember any special incident. But one evening a pedlar woman came + to the castle and was selling trinkets to the maids. She had no heart for + trinkets, but she stood looking on while the women made their choice. And + then, she did not know how, but the pedlar coaxed her into buying for + herself an odd pear-shaped pomander with a strong scent in it—she + had once seen something of the kind on a gypsy woman. She had no desire + for the pomander, and did not know why she had bought it. The pedlar said + that whoever wore it had the power to read the future; but she did not + really believe that, or care much either. However, she bought the thing + and took it up to her room, where she sat turning it about in her hand. + Then the strange scent attracted her and she began to wonder what kind of + spice was in the box. She opened it and found a grey bean rolled in a + strip of paper; and on the paper she saw a sign she knew, and a message + from Hervé de Lanrivain, saying that he was at home again and would be at + the door in the court that night after the moon had set... + </p> + <p> + She burned the paper and then sat down to think. It was nightfall, and her + husband was at home... She had no way of warning Lanrivain, and there was + nothing to do but to wait... + </p> + <p> + At this point I fancy the drowsy courtroom beginning to wake up. Even to + the oldest hand on the bench there must have been a certain aesthetic + relish in picturing the feelings of a woman on receiving such a message at + night-fall from a man living twenty miles away, to whom she had no means + of sending a warning... + </p> + <p> + She was not a clever woman, I imagine; and as the first result of her + cogitation she appears to have made the mistake of being, that evening, + too kind to her husband. She could not ply him with wine, according to the + traditional expedient, for though he drank heavily at times he had a + strong head; and when he drank beyond its strength it was because he chose + to, and not because a woman coaxed him. Not his wife, at any rate—she + was an old story by now. As I read the case, I fancy there was no feeling + for her left in him but the hatred occasioned by his supposed dishonour. + </p> + <p> + At any rate, she tried to call up her old graces; but early in the evening + he complained of pains and fever, and left the hall to go up to his room. + His servant carried him a cup of hot wine, and brought back word that he + was sleeping and not to be disturbed; and an hour later, when Anne lifted + the tapestry and listened at his door, she heard his loud regular + breathing. She thought it might be a feint, and stayed a long time + barefooted in the cold passage, her ear to the crack; but the breathing + went on too steadily and naturally to be other than that of a man in a + sound sleep. She crept back to her room reassured, and stood in the window + watching the moon set through the trees of the park. The sky was misty and + starless, and after the moon went down the night was pitch black. She knew + the time had come, and stole along the passage, past her husband’s door—where + she stopped again to listen to his breathing—to the top of the + stairs. There she paused a moment, and assured herself that no one was + following her; then she began to go down the stairs in the darkness. They + were so steep and winding that she had to go very slowly, for fear of + stumbling. Her one thought was to get the door unbolted, tell Lanrivain to + make his escape, and hasten back to her room. She had tried the bolt + earlier in the evening, and managed to put a little grease on it; but + nevertheless, when she drew it, it gave a squeak... not loud, but it made + her heart stop; and the next minute, overhead, she heard a noise... + </p> + <p> + “What noise?” the prosecution interposed. + </p> + <p> + “My husband’s voice calling out my name and cursing me.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you hear after that?” + </p> + <p> + “A terrible scream and a fall.” + </p> + <p> + “Where was Hervé de Lanrivain at this time?” + </p> + <p> + “He was standing outside in the court. I just made him out in the + darkness. I told him for God’s sake to go, and then I pushed the door + shut.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you do next?” + </p> + <p> + “I stood at the foot of the stairs and listened.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you hear?” + </p> + <p> + “I heard dogs snarling and panting.” (Visible discouragement of the bench, + boredom of the public, and exasperation of the lawyer for the defense. + Dogs again—! But the inquisitive Judge insisted.) + </p> + <p> + “What dogs?” + </p> + <p> + She bent her head and spoke so low that she had to be told to repeat her + answer: “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you mean—you don’t know?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what dogs...” + </p> + <p> + The Judge again intervened: “Try to tell us exactly what happened. How + long did you remain at the foot of the stairs?” + </p> + <p> + “Only a few minutes.” + </p> + <p> + “And what was going on meanwhile overhead?” + </p> + <p> + “The dogs kept on snarling and panting. Once or twice he cried out. I + think he moaned once. Then he was quiet.” + </p> + <p> + “Then what happened?” + </p> + <p> + “Then I heard a sound like the noise of a pack when the wolf is thrown to + them—gulping and lapping.” + </p> + <p> + (There was a groan of disgust and repulsion through the court, and another + attempted intervention by the distracted lawyer. But the inquisitive Judge + was still inquisitive.) + </p> + <p> + “And all the while you did not go up?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—I went up then—to drive them off.” + </p> + <p> + “The dogs?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well—?” + </p> + <p> + “When I got there it was quite dark. I found my husband’s flint and steel + and struck a spark. I saw him lying there. He was dead.” + </p> + <p> + “And the dogs?” + </p> + <p> + “The dogs were gone.” + </p> + <p> + “Gone—where to?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. There was no way out—and there were no dogs at + Kerfol.” + </p> + <p> + She straightened herself to her full height, threw her arms above her + head, and fell down on the stone floor with a long scream. There was a + moment of confusion in the court-room. Some one on the bench was heard to + say: “This is clearly a case for the ecclesiastical authorities”—and + the prisoner’s lawyer doubtless jumped at the suggestion. + </p> + <p> + After this, the trial loses itself in a maze of cross-questioning and + squabbling. Every witness who was called corroborated Anne de Cornault’s + statement that there were no dogs at Kerfol: had been none for several + months. The master of the house had taken a dislike to dogs, there was no + denying it. But, on the other hand, at the inquest, there had been long + and bitter discussion as to the nature of the dead man’s wounds. One of + the surgeons called in had spoken of marks that looked like bites. The + suggestion of witchcraft was revived, and the opposing lawyers hurled + tomes of necromancy at each other. + </p> + <p> + At last Anne de Cornault was brought back into court—at the instance + of the same Judge—and asked if she knew where the dogs she spoke of + could have come from. On the body of her Redeemer she swore that she did + not. Then the Judge put his final question: “If the dogs you think you + heard had been known to you, do you think you would have recognized them + by their barking?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you recognize them?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What dogs do you take them to have been?” + </p> + <p> + “My dead dogs,” she said in a whisper... She was taken out of court, not + to reappear there again. There was some kind of ecclesiastical + investigation, and the end of the business was that the Judges disagreed + with each other, and with the ecclesiastical committee, and that Anne de + Cornault was finally handed over to the keeping of her husband’s family, + who shut her up in the keep of Kerfol, where she is said to have died many + years later, a harmless madwoman. + </p> + <p> + So ends her story. As for that of Hervé de Lanrivain, I had only to apply + to his collateral descendant for its subsequent details. The evidence + against the young man being insufficient, and his family influence in the + duchy considerable, he was set free, and left soon afterward for Paris. He + was probably in no mood for a worldly life, and he appears to have come + almost immediately under the influence of the famous M. Arnauld d’Andilly + and the gentlemen of Port Royal. A year or two later he was received into + their Order, and without achieving any particular distinction he followed + its good and evil fortunes till his death some twenty years later. + Lanrivain showed me a portrait of him by a pupil of Philippe de + Champaigne: sad eyes, an impulsive mouth and a narrow brow. Poor Hervé de + Lanrivain: it was a grey ending. Yet as I looked at his stiff and sallow + effigy, in the dark dress of the Jansenists, I almost found myself envying + his fate. After all, in the course of his life two great things had + happened to him: he had loved romantically, and he must have talked with + Pascal... + </p> + <p> + The End + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MRS. MANSTEY’S VIEW + </h2> + <h3> + As first published in Scribner’s Magazine, July, 1891 + </h3> + <p> + The view from Mrs. Manstey’s window was not a striking one, but to her at + least it was full of interest and beauty. Mrs. Manstey occupied the back + room on the third floor of a New York boarding-house, in a street where + the ash-barrels lingered late on the sidewalk and the gaps in the pavement + would have staggered a Quintus Curtius. She was the widow of a clerk in a + large wholesale house, and his death had left her alone, for her only + daughter had married in California, and could not afford the long journey + to New York to see her mother. Mrs. Manstey, perhaps, might have joined + her daughter in the West, but they had now been so many years apart that + they had ceased to feel any need of each other’s society, and their + intercourse had long been limited to the exchange of a few perfunctory + letters, written with indifference by the daughter, and with difficulty by + Mrs. Manstey, whose right hand was growing stiff with gout. Even had she + felt a stronger desire for her daughter’s companionship, Mrs. Manstey’s + increasing infirmity, which caused her to dread the three flights of + stairs between her room and the street, would have given her pause on the + eve of undertaking so long a journey; and without perhaps, formulating + these reasons she had long since accepted as a matter of course her + solitary life in New York. + </p> + <p> + She was, indeed, not quite lonely, for a few friends still toiled up now + and then to her room; but their visits grew rare as the years went by. + Mrs. Manstey had never been a sociable woman, and during her husband’s + lifetime his companionship had been all-sufficient to her. For many years + she had cherished a desire to live in the country, to have a hen-house and + a garden; but this longing had faded with age, leaving only in the breast + of the uncommunicative old woman a vague tenderness for plants and + animals. It was, perhaps, this tenderness which made her cling so + fervently to her view from her window, a view in which the most optimistic + eye would at first have failed to discover anything admirable. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Manstey, from her coign of vantage (a slightly projecting bow-window + where she nursed an ivy and a succession of unwholesome-looking bulbs), + looked out first upon the yard of her own dwelling, of which, however, she + could get but a restricted glimpse. Still, her gaze took in the topmost + boughs of the ailanthus below her window, and she knew how early each year + the clump of dicentra strung its bending stalk with hearts of pink. + </p> + <p> + But of greater interest were the yards beyond. Being for the most part + attached to boarding-houses they were in a state of chronic untidiness and + fluttering, on certain days of the week, with miscellaneous garments and + frayed table-cloths. In spite of this Mrs. Manstey found much to admire in + the long vista which she commanded. Some of the yards were, indeed, but + stony wastes, with grass in the cracks of the pavement and no shade in + spring save that afforded by the intermittent leafage of the + clothes-lines. These yards Mrs. Manstey disapproved of, but the others, + the green ones, she loved. She had grown used to their disorder; the + broken barrels, the empty bottles and paths unswept no longer annoyed her; + hers was the happy faculty of dwelling on the pleasanter side of the + prospect before her. + </p> + <p> + In the very next enclosure did not a magnolia open its hard white flowers + against the watery blue of April? And was there not, a little way down the + line, a fence foamed over every May be lilac waves of wistaria? Farther + still, a horse-chestnut lifted its candelabra of buff and pink blossoms + above broad fans of foliage; while in the opposite yard June was sweet + with the breath of a neglected syringa, which persisted in growing in + spite of the countless obstacles opposed to its welfare. + </p> + <p> + But if nature occupied the front rank in Mrs. Manstey’s view, there was + much of a more personal character to interest her in the aspect of the + houses and their inmates. She deeply disapproved of the mustard-colored + curtains which had lately been hung in the doctor’s window opposite; but + she glowed with pleasure when the house farther down had its old bricks + washed with a coat of paint. The occupants of the houses did not often + show themselves at the back windows, but the servants were always in + sight. Noisy slatterns, Mrs. Manstey pronounced the greater number; she + knew their ways and hated them. But to the quiet cook in the newly painted + house, whose mistress bullied her, and who secretly fed the stray cats at + nightfall, Mrs. Manstey’s warmest sympathies were given. On one occasion + her feelings were racked by the neglect of a housemaid, who for two days + forgot to feed the parrot committed to her care. On the third day, Mrs. + Manstey, in spite of her gouty hand, had just penned a letter, beginning: + “Madam, it is now three days since your parrot has been fed,” when the + forgetful maid appeared at the window with a cup of seed in her hand. + </p> + <p> + But in Mrs. Manstey’s more meditative moods it was the narrowing + perspective of far-off yards which pleased her best. She loved, at + twilight, when the distant brown-stone spire seemed melting in the fluid + yellow of the west, to lose herself in vague memories of a trip to Europe, + made years ago, and now reduced in her mind’s eye to a pale phantasmagoria + of indistinct steeples and dreamy skies. Perhaps at heart Mrs. Manstey was + an artist; at all events she was sensible of many changes of color + unnoticed by the average eye, and dear to her as the green of early spring + was the black lattice of branches against a cold sulphur sky at the close + of a snowy day. She enjoyed, also, the sunny thaws of March, when patches + of earth showed through the snow, like ink-spots spreading on a sheet of + white blotting-paper; and, better still, the haze of boughs, leafless but + swollen, which replaced the clear-cut tracery of winter. She even watched + with a certain interest the trail of smoke from a far-off factory chimney, + and missed a detail in the landscape when the factory was closed and the + smoke disappeared. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Manstey, in the long hours which she spent at her window, was not + idle. She read a little, and knitted numberless stockings; but the view + surrounded and shaped her life as the sea does a lonely island. When her + rare callers came it was difficult for her to detach herself from the + contemplation of the opposite window-washing, or the scrutiny of certain + green points in a neighboring flower-bed which might, or might not, turn + into hyacinths, while she feigned an interest in her visitor’s anecdotes + about some unknown grandchild. Mrs. Manstey’s real friends were the + denizens of the yards, the hyacinths, the magnolia, the green parrot, the + maid who fed the cats, the doctor who studied late behind his + mustard-colored curtains; and the confidant of her tenderer musings was + the church-spire floating in the sunset. + </p> + <p> + One April day, as she sat in her usual place, with knitting cast aside and + eyes fixed on the blue sky mottled with round clouds, a knock at the door + announced the entrance of her landlady. Mrs. Manstey did not care for her + landlady, but she submitted to her visits with ladylike resignation. + To-day, however, it seemed harder than usual to turn from the blue sky and + the blossoming magnolia to Mrs. Sampson’s unsuggestive face, and Mrs. + Manstey was conscious of a distinct effort as she did so. + </p> + <p> + “The magnolia is out earlier than usual this year, Mrs. Sampson,” she + remarked, yielding to a rare impulse, for she seldom alluded to the + absorbing interest of her life. In the first place it was a topic not + likely to appeal to her visitors and, besides, she lacked the power of + expression and could not have given utterance to her feelings had she + wished to. + </p> + <p> + “The what, Mrs. Manstey?” inquired the landlady, glancing about the room + as if to find there the explanation of Mrs. Manstey’s statement. + </p> + <p> + “The magnolia in the next yard—in Mrs. Black’s yard,” Mrs. Manstey + repeated. + </p> + <p> + “Is it, indeed? I didn’t know there was a magnolia there,” said Mrs. + Sampson, carelessly. Mrs. Manstey looked at her; she did not know that + there was a magnolia in the next yard! + </p> + <p> + “By the way,” Mrs. Sampson continued, “speaking of Mrs. Black reminds me + that the work on the extension is to begin next week.” + </p> + <p> + “The what?” it was Mrs. Manstey’s turn to ask. + </p> + <p> + “The extension,” said Mrs. Sampson, nodding her head in the direction of + the ignored magnolia. “You knew, of course, that Mrs. Black was going to + build an extension to her house? Yes, ma’am. I hear it is to run right + back to the end of the yard. How she can afford to build an extension in + these hard times I don’t see; but she always was crazy about building. She + used to keep a boarding-house in Seventeenth Street, and she nearly ruined + herself then by sticking out bow-windows and what not; I should have + thought that would have cured her of building, but I guess it’s a disease, + like drink. Anyhow, the work is to begin on Monday.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Manstey had grown pale. She always spoke slowly, so the landlady did + not heed the long pause which followed. At last Mrs. Manstey said: “Do you + know how high the extension will be?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s the most absurd part of it. The extension is to be built right up + to the roof of the main building; now, did you ever?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Manstey paused again. “Won’t it be a great annoyance to you, Mrs. + Sampson?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I should say it would. But there’s no help for it; if people have got a + mind to build extensions there’s no law to prevent ’em, that I’m aware + of.” Mrs. Manstey, knowing this, was silent. “There is no help for it,” + Mrs. Sampson repeated, “but if I <i>am</i> a church member, I wouldn’t be so + sorry if it ruined Eliza Black. Well, good-day, Mrs. Manstey; I’m glad to + find you so comfortable.” + </p> + <p> + So comfortable—so comfortable! Left to herself the old woman turned + once more to the window. How lovely the view was that day! The blue sky + with its round clouds shed a brightness over everything; the ailanthus had + put on a tinge of yellow-green, the hyacinths were budding, the magnolia + flowers looked more than ever like rosettes carved in alabaster. Soon the + wistaria would bloom, then the horse-chestnut; but not for her. Between + her eyes and them a barrier of brick and mortar would swiftly rise; + presently even the spire would disappear, and all her radiant world be + blotted out. Mrs. Manstey sent away untouched the dinner-tray brought to + her that evening. She lingered in the window until the windy sunset died + in bat-colored dusk; then, going to bed, she lay sleepless all night. + </p> + <p> + Early the next day she was up and at the window. It was raining, but even + through the slanting gray gauze the scene had its charm—and then the + rain was so good for the trees. She had noticed the day before that the + ailanthus was growing dusty. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I might move,” said Mrs. Manstey aloud, and turning from the + window she looked about her room. She might move, of course; so might she + be flayed alive; but she was not likely to survive either operation. The + room, though far less important to her happiness than the view, was as + much a part of her existence. She had lived in it seventeen years. She + knew every stain on the wall-paper, every rent in the carpet; the light + fell in a certain way on her engravings, her books had grown shabby on + their shelves, her bulbs and ivy were used to their window and knew which + way to lean to the sun. “We are all too old to move,” she said. + </p> + <p> + That afternoon it cleared. Wet and radiant the blue reappeared through + torn rags of cloud; the ailanthus sparkled; the earth in the + flower-borders looked rich and warm. It was Thursday, and on Monday the + building of the extension was to begin. + </p> + <p> + On Sunday afternoon a card was brought to Mrs. Black, as she was engaged + in gathering up the fragments of the boarders’ dinner in the basement. The + card, black-edged, bore Mrs. Manstey’s name. + </p> + <p> + “One of Mrs. Sampson’s boarders; wants to move, I suppose. Well, I can + give her a room next year in the extension. Dinah,” said Mrs. Black, “tell + the lady I’ll be upstairs in a minute.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Black found Mrs. Manstey standing in the long parlor garnished with + statuettes and antimacassars; in that house she could not sit down. + </p> + <p> + Stooping hurriedly to open the register, which let out a cloud of dust, + Mrs. Black advanced on her visitor. + </p> + <p> + “I’m happy to meet you, Mrs. Manstey; take a seat, please,” the landlady + remarked in her prosperous voice, the voice of a woman who can afford to + build extensions. There was no help for it; Mrs. Manstey sat down. + </p> + <p> + “Is there anything I can do for you, ma’am?” Mrs. Black continued. “My + house is full at present, but I am going to build an extension, and—” + </p> + <p> + “It is about the extension that I wish to speak,” said Mrs. Manstey, + suddenly. “I am a poor woman, Mrs. Black, and I have never been a happy + one. I shall have to talk about myself first to—to make you + understand.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Black, astonished but imperturbable, bowed at this parenthesis. + </p> + <p> + “I never had what I wanted,” Mrs. Manstey continued. “It was always one + disappointment after another. For years I wanted to live in the country. I + dreamed and dreamed about it; but we never could manage it. There was no + sunny window in our house, and so all my plants died. My daughter married + years ago and went away—besides, she never cared for the same + things. Then my husband died and I was left alone. That was seventeen + years ago. I went to live at Mrs. Sampson’s, and I have been there ever + since. I have grown a little infirm, as you see, and I don’t get out + often; only on fine days, if I am feeling very well. So you can understand + my sitting a great deal in my window—the back window on the third + floor—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Mrs. Manstey,” said Mrs. Black, liberally, “I could give you a back + room, I dare say; one of the new rooms in the ex—” + </p> + <p> + “But I don’t want to move; I can’t move,” said Mrs. Manstey, almost with a + scream. “And I came to tell you that if you build that extension I shall + have no view from my window—no view! Do you understand?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Black thought herself face to face with a lunatic, and she had always + heard that lunatics must be humored. + </p> + <p> + “Dear me, dear me,” she remarked, pushing her chair back a little way, + “that is too bad, isn’t it? Why, I never thought of that. To be sure, the + extension <i>will</i> interfere with your view, Mrs. Manstey.” + </p> + <p> + “You do understand?” Mrs. Manstey gasped. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I do. And I’m real sorry about it, too. But there, don’t you + worry, Mrs. Manstey. I guess we can fix that all right.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Manstey rose from her seat, and Mrs. Black slipped toward the door. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by fixing it? Do you mean that I can induce you to + change your mind about the extension? Oh, Mrs. Black, listen to me. I have + two thousand dollars in the bank and I could manage, I know I could + manage, to give you a thousand if—” Mrs. Manstey paused; the tears + were rolling down her cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “There, there, Mrs. Manstey, don’t you worry,” repeated Mrs. Black, + soothingly. “I am sure we can settle it. I am sorry that I can’t stay and + talk about it any longer, but this is such a busy time of day, with supper + to get—” + </p> + <p> + Her hand was on the door-knob, but with sudden vigor Mrs. Manstey seized + her wrist. + </p> + <p> + “You are not giving me a definite answer. Do you mean to say that you + accept my proposition?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, I’ll think it over, Mrs. Manstey, certainly I will. I wouldn’t annoy + you for the world—” + </p> + <p> + “But the work is to begin to-morrow, I am told,” Mrs. Manstey persisted. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Black hesitated. “It shan’t begin, I promise you that; I’ll send word + to the builder this very night.” Mrs. Manstey tightened her hold. + </p> + <p> + “You are not deceiving me, are you?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “No—no,” stammered Mrs. Black. “How can you think such a thing of + me, Mrs. Manstey?” + </p> + <p> + Slowly Mrs. Manstey’s clutch relaxed, and she passed through the open + door. “One thousand dollars,” she repeated, pausing in the hall; then she + let herself out of the house and hobbled down the steps, supporting + herself on the cast-iron railing. + </p> + <p> + “My goodness,” exclaimed Mrs. Black, shutting and bolting the hall-door, + “I never knew the old woman was crazy! And she looks so quiet and + ladylike, too.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Manstey slept well that night, but early the next morning she was + awakened by a sound of hammering. She got to her window with what haste + she might and, looking out saw that Mrs. Black’s yard was full of workmen. + Some were carrying loads of brick from the kitchen to the yard, others + beginning to demolish the old-fashioned wooden balcony which adorned each + story of Mrs. Black’s house. Mrs. Manstey saw that she had been deceived. + At first she thought of confiding her trouble to Mrs. Sampson, but a + settled discouragement soon took possession of her and she went back to + bed, not caring to see what was going on. + </p> + <p> + Toward afternoon, however, feeling that she must know the worst, she rose + and dressed herself. It was a laborious task, for her hands were stiffer + than usual, and the hooks and buttons seemed to evade her. + </p> + <p> + When she seated herself in the window, she saw that the workmen had + removed the upper part of the balcony, and that the bricks had multiplied + since morning. One of the men, a coarse fellow with a bloated face, picked + a magnolia blossom and, after smelling it, threw it to the ground; the + next man, carrying a load of bricks, trod on the flower in passing. + </p> + <p> + “Look out, Jim,” called one of the men to another who was smoking a pipe, + “if you throw matches around near those barrels of paper you’ll have the + old tinder-box burning down before you know it.” And Mrs. Manstey, leaning + forward, perceived that there were several barrels of paper and rubbish + under the wooden balcony. + </p> + <p> + At length the work ceased and twilight fell. The sunset was perfect and a + roseate light, transfiguring the distant spire, lingered late in the west. + When it grew dark Mrs. Manstey drew down the shades and proceeded, in her + usual methodical manner, to light her lamp. She always filled and lit it + with her own hands, keeping a kettle of kerosene on a zinc-covered shelf + in a closet. As the lamp-light filled the room it assumed its usual + peaceful aspect. The books and pictures and plants seemed, like their + mistress, to settle themselves down for another quiet evening, and Mrs. + Manstey, as was her wont, drew up her armchair to the table and began to + knit. + </p> + <p> + That night she could not sleep. The weather had changed and a wild wind + was abroad, blotting the stars with close-driven clouds. Mrs. Manstey rose + once or twice and looked out of the window; but of the view nothing was + discernible save a tardy light or two in the opposite windows. These + lights at last went out, and Mrs. Manstey, who had watched for their + extinction, began to dress herself. She was in evident haste, for she + merely flung a thin dressing-gown over her night-dress and wrapped her + head in a scarf; then she opened her closet and cautiously took out the + kettle of kerosene. Having slipped a bundle of wooden matches into her + pocket she proceeded, with increasing precautions, to unlock her door, and + a few moments later she was feeling her way down the dark staircase, led + by a glimmer of gas from the lower hall. At length she reached the bottom + of the stairs and began the more difficult descent into the utter darkness + of the basement. Here, however, she could move more freely, as there was + less danger of being overheard; and without much delay she contrived to + unlock the iron door leading into the yard. A gust of cold wind smote her + as she stepped out and groped shiveringly under the clothes-lines. + </p> + <p> + That morning at three o’clock an alarm of fire brought the engines to Mrs. + Black’s door, and also brought Mrs. Sampson’s startled boarders to their + windows. The wooden balcony at the back of Mrs. Black’s house was ablaze, + and among those who watched the progress of the flames was Mrs. Manstey, + leaning in her thin dressing-gown from the open window. + </p> + <p> + The fire, however, was soon put out, and the frightened occupants of the + house, who had fled in scant attire, reassembled at dawn to find that + little mischief had been done beyond the cracking of window panes and + smoking of ceilings. In fact, the chief sufferer by the fire was Mrs. + Manstey, who was found in the morning gasping with pneumonia, a not + unnatural result, as everyone remarked, of her having hung out of an open + window at her age in a dressing-gown. It was easy to see that she was very + ill, but no one had guessed how grave the doctor’s verdict would be, and + the faces gathered that evening about Mrs. Sampson’s table were awestruck + and disturbed. Not that any of the boarders knew Mrs. Manstey well; she + “kept to herself,” as they said, and seemed to fancy herself too good for + them; but then it is always disagreeable to have anyone dying in the house + and, as one lady observed to another: “It might just as well have been you + or me, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + But it was only Mrs. Manstey; and she was dying, as she had lived, lonely + if not alone. The doctor had sent a trained nurse, and Mrs. Sampson, with + muffled step, came in from time to time; but both, to Mrs. Manstey, seemed + remote and unsubstantial as the figures in a dream. All day she said + nothing; but when she was asked for her daughter’s address she shook her + head. At times the nurse noticed that she seemed to be listening + attentively for some sound which did not come; then again she dozed. + </p> + <p> + The next morning at daylight she was very low. The nurse called Mrs. + Sampson and as the two bent over the old woman they saw her lips move. + </p> + <p> + “Lift me up—out of bed,” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + They raised her in their arms, and with her stiff hand she pointed to the + window. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the window—she wants to sit in the window. She used to sit + there all day,” Mrs. Sampson explained. “It can do her no harm, I + suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing matters now,” said the nurse. + </p> + <p> + They carried Mrs. Manstey to the window and placed her in her chair. The + dawn was abroad, a jubilant spring dawn; the spire had already caught a + golden ray, though the magnolia and horse-chestnut still slumbered in + shadow. In Mrs. Black’s yard all was quiet. The charred timbers of the + balcony lay where they had fallen. It was evident that since the fire the + builders had not returned to their work. The magnolia had unfolded a few + more sculptural flowers; the view was undisturbed. + </p> + <p> + It was hard for Mrs. Manstey to breathe; each moment it grew more + difficult. She tried to make them open the window, but they would not + understand. If she could have tasted the air, sweet with the penetrating + ailanthus savor, it would have eased her; but the view at least was there—the + spire was golden now, the heavens had warmed from pearl to blue, day was + alight from east to west, even the magnolia had caught the sun. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Manstey’s head fell back and smiling she died. + </p> + <p> + That day the building of the extension was resumed. + </p> + <p> + The End + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BOLTED DOOR + </h2> + <h3> + As first published in Scribner’s Magazine, March 1909 + </h3> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + Hubert Granice, pacing the length of his pleasant lamp-lit library, paused + to compare his watch with the clock on the chimney-piece. + </p> + <p> + Three minutes to eight. + </p> + <p> + In exactly three minutes Mr. Peter Ascham, of the eminent legal firm of + Ascham and Pettilow, would have his punctual hand on the door-bell of the + flat. It was a comfort to reflect that Ascham was so punctual—the + suspense was beginning to make his host nervous. And the sound of the + door-bell would be the beginning of the end—after that there’d be no + going back, by God—no going back! + </p> + <p> + Granice resumed his pacing. Each time he reached the end of the room + opposite the door he caught his reflection in the Florentine mirror above + the fine old walnut credence he had picked up at Dijon—saw himself + spare, quick-moving, carefully brushed and dressed, but furrowed, gray + about the temples, with a stoop which he corrected by a spasmodic + straightening of the shoulders whenever a glass confronted him: a tired + middle-aged man, baffled, beaten, worn out. + </p> + <p> + As he summed himself up thus for the third or fourth time the door opened + and he turned with a thrill of relief to greet his guest. But it was only + the man-servant who entered, advancing silently over the mossy surface of + the old Turkey rug. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Ascham telephones, sir, to say he’s unexpectedly detained and can’t + be here till eight-thirty.” + </p> + <p> + Granice made a curt gesture of annoyance. It was becoming harder and + harder for him to control these reflexes. He turned on his heel, tossing + to the servant over his shoulder: “Very good. Put off dinner.” + </p> + <p> + Down his spine he felt the man’s injured stare. Mr. Granice had always + been so mild-spoken to his people—no doubt the odd change in his + manner had already been noticed and discussed below stairs. And very + likely they suspected the cause. He stood drumming on the writing-table + till he heard the servant go out; then he threw himself into a chair, + propping his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his locked hands. + </p> + <p> + Another half hour alone with it! + </p> + <p> + He wondered irritably what could have detained his guest. Some + professional matter, no doubt—the punctilious lawyer would have + allowed nothing less to interfere with a dinner engagement, more + especially since Granice, in his note, had said: “I shall want a little + business chat afterward.” + </p> + <p> + But what professional matter could have come up at that unprofessional + hour? Perhaps some other soul in misery had called on the lawyer; and, + after all, Granice’s note had given no hint of his own need! No doubt + Ascham thought he merely wanted to make another change in his will. Since + he had come into his little property, ten years earlier, Granice had been + perpetually tinkering with his will. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly another thought pulled him up, sending a flush to his sallow + temples. He remembered a word he had tossed to the lawyer some six weeks + earlier, at the Century Club. “Yes—my play’s as good as taken. I + shall be calling on you soon to go over the contract. Those theatrical + chaps are so slippery—I won’t trust anybody but you to tie the knot + for me!” That, of course, was what Ascham would think he was wanted for. + Granice, at the idea, broke into an audible laugh—a queer + stage-laugh, like the cackle of a baffled villain in a melodrama. The + absurdity, the unnaturalness of the sound abashed him, and he compressed + his lips angrily. Would he take to soliloquy next? + </p> + <p> + He lowered his arms and pulled open the upper drawer of the writing-table. + In the right-hand corner lay a thick manuscript, bound in paper folders, + and tied with a string beneath which a letter had been slipped. Next to + the manuscript was a small revolver. Granice stared a moment at these + oddly associated objects; then he took the letter from under the string + and slowly began to open it. He had known he should do so from the moment + his hand touched the drawer. Whenever his eye fell on that letter some + relentless force compelled him to re-read it. + </p> + <p> + It was dated about four weeks back, under the letter-head of “The + Diversity Theatre.” + </p> + <p> + “<span class="smcap">My Dear Mr. Granice</span>: + </p> + <p> + “I have given the matter my best consideration for the last month, and + it’s no use—the play won’t do. I have talked it over with Miss + Melrose—and you know there isn’t a gamer artist on our stage—and + I regret to tell you she feels just as I do about it. It isn’t the poetry + that scares her—or me either. We both want to do all we can to help + along the poetic drama—we believe the public’s ready for it, and + we’re willing to take a big financial risk in order to be the first to + give them what they want. <i>But we don’t believe they could be made to want + this.</i> The fact is, there isn’t enough drama in your play to the allowance + of poetry—the thing drags all through. You’ve got a big idea, but + it’s not out of swaddling clothes. + </p> + <p> + “If this was your first play I’d say: <i>Try again</i>. But it has been just the + same with all the others you’ve shown me. And you remember the result of + ‘The Lee Shore,’ where you carried all the expenses of production + yourself, and we couldn’t fill the theatre for a week. Yet ‘The Lee Shore’ + was a modern problem play—much easier to swing than blank verse. It + isn’t as if you hadn’t tried all kinds—” + </p> + <p> + Granice folded the letter and put it carefully back into the envelope. Why + on earth was he re-reading it, when he knew every phrase in it by heart, + when for a month past he had seen it, night after night, stand out in + letters of flame against the darkness of his sleepless lids? + </p> + <p> + “<i>It has been just the same with all the others you’ve shown me.</i>” + </p> + <p> + That was the way they dismissed ten years of passionate unremitting work! + </p> + <p> + “<i>You remember the result of ‘The Lee Shore.</i>’” + </p> + <p> + Good God—as if he were likely to forget it! He re-lived it all now + in a drowning flash: the persistent rejection of the play, his sudden + resolve to put it on at his own cost, to spend ten thousand dollars of his + inheritance on testing his chance of success—the fever of + preparation, the dry-mouthed agony of the “first night,” the flat fall, + the stupid press, his secret rush to Europe to escape the condolence of + his friends! + </p> + <p> + “<i>It isn’t as if you hadn’t tried all kinds</i>.” + </p> + <p> + No—he had tried all kinds: comedy, tragedy, prose and verse, the + light curtain-raiser, the short sharp drama, the bourgeois-realistic and + the lyrical-romantic—finally deciding that he would no longer + “prostitute his talent” to win popularity, but would impose on the public + his own theory of art in the form of five acts of blank verse. Yes, he had + offered them everything—and always with the same result. + </p> + <p> + Ten years of it—ten years of dogged work and unrelieved failure. The + ten years from forty to fifty—the best ten years of his life! And if + one counted the years before, the silent years of dreams, assimilation, + preparation—then call it half a man’s life-time: half a man’s + life-time thrown away! + </p> + <p> + And what was he to do with the remaining half? Well, he had settled that, + thank God! He turned and glanced anxiously at the clock. Ten minutes past + eight—only ten minutes had been consumed in that stormy rush through + his whole past! And he must wait another twenty minutes for Ascham. It was + one of the worst symptoms of his case that, in proportion as he had grown + to shrink from human company, he dreaded more and more to be alone.... But + why the devil was he waiting for Ascham? Why didn’t he cut the knot + himself? Since he was so unutterably sick of the whole business, why did + he have to call in an outsider to rid him of this nightmare of living? + </p> + <p> + He opened the drawer again and laid his hand on the revolver. It was a + small slim ivory toy—just the instrument for a tired sufferer to + give himself a “hypodermic” with. Granice raised it slowly in one hand, + while with the other he felt under the thin hair at the back of his head, + between the ear and the nape. He knew just where to place the muzzle: he + had once got a young surgeon to show him. And as he found the spot, and + lifted the revolver to it, the inevitable phenomenon occurred. The hand + that held the weapon began to shake, the tremor communicated itself to his + arm, his heart gave a wild leap which sent up a wave of deadly nausea to + his throat, he smelt the powder, he sickened at the crash of the bullet + through his skull, and a sweat of fear broke out over his forehead and ran + down his quivering face... + </p> + <p> + He laid away the revolver with an oath and, pulling out a cologne-scented + handkerchief, passed it tremulously over his brow and temples. It was no + use—he knew he could never do it in that way. His attempts at + self-destruction were as futile as his snatches at fame! He couldn’t make + himself a real life, and he couldn’t get rid of the life he had. And that + was why he had sent for Ascham to help him... + </p> + <p> + The lawyer, over the Camembert and Burgundy, began to excuse himself for + his delay. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t like to say anything while your man was about—but the fact + is, I was sent for on a rather unusual matter—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it’s all right,” said Granice cheerfully. He was beginning to feel + the usual reaction that food and company produced. It was not any + recovered pleasure in life that he felt, but only a deeper withdrawal into + himself. It was easier to go on automatically with the social gestures + than to uncover to any human eye the abyss within him. + </p> + <p> + “My dear fellow, it’s sacrilege to keep a dinner waiting—especially + the production of an artist like yours.” Mr. Ascham sipped his Burgundy + luxuriously. “But the fact is, Mrs. Ashgrove sent for me.” + </p> + <p> + Granice raised his head with a quick movement of surprise. For a moment he + was shaken out of his self-absorption. + </p> + <p> + “MRS. ASHGROVE?” + </p> + <p> + Ascham smiled. “I thought you’d be interested; I know your passion for + causes celebres. And this promises to be one. Of course it’s out of our + line entirely—we never touch criminal cases. But she wanted to + consult me as a friend. Ashgrove was a distant connection of my wife’s. + And, by Jove, it <i>is</i> a queer case!” The servant re-entered, and Ascham + snapped his lips shut. + </p> + <p> + Would the gentlemen have their coffee in the dining-room? + </p> + <p> + “No—serve it in the library,” said Granice, rising. He led the way + back to the curtained confidential room. He was really curious to hear + what Ascham had to tell him. + </p> + <p> + While the coffee and cigars were being served he fidgeted about the + library, glancing at his letters—the usual meaningless notes and + bills—and picking up the evening paper. As he unfolded it a headline + caught his eye. + </p> +<p class="c"> + “ROSE MELROSE WANTS TO PLAY POETRY.<br /> + “THINKS SHE HAS FOUND HER POET.” + </p> + <p> + He read on with a thumping heart—found the name of a young author he + had barely heard of, saw the title of a play, a “poetic drama,” dance + before his eyes, and dropped the paper, sick, disgusted. It was true, then—she + <i>was</i> “game”—it was not the manner but the matter she mistrusted! + </p> + <p> + Granice turned to the servant, who seemed to be purposely lingering. “I + shan’t need you this evening, Flint. I’ll lock up myself.” + </p> + <p> + He fancied the man’s acquiescence implied surprise. What was going on, + Flint seemed to wonder, that Mr. Granice should want him out of the way? + Probably he would find a pretext for coming back to see. Granice suddenly + felt himself enveloped in a network of espionage. + </p> + <p> + As the door closed he threw himself into an armchair and leaned forward to + take a light from Ascham’s cigar. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me about Mrs. Ashgrove,” he said, seeming to himself to speak + stiffly, as if his lips were cracked. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Ashgrove? Well, there’s not much to <i>tell</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “And you couldn’t if there were?” Granice smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Probably not. As a matter of fact, she wanted my advice about her choice + of counsel. There was nothing especially confidential in our talk.” + </p> + <p> + “And what’s your impression, now you’ve seen her?” + </p> + <p> + “My impression is, very distinctly, <i>That nothing will ever be known</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah—?” Granice murmured, puffing at his cigar. + </p> + <p> + “I’m more and more convinced that whoever poisoned Ashgrove knew his + business, and will consequently never be found out. That’s a capital cigar + you’ve given me.” + </p> + <p> + “You like it? I get them over from Cuba.” Granice examined his own + reflectively. “Then you believe in the theory that the clever criminals + never <i>are</i> caught?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I do. Look about you—look back for the last dozen years—none + of the big murder problems are ever solved.” The lawyer ruminated behind + his blue cloud. “Why, take the instance in your own family: I’d forgotten + I had an illustration at hand! Take old Joseph Lenman’s murder—do + you suppose that will ever be explained?” + </p> + <p> + As the words dropped from Ascham’s lips his host looked slowly about the + library, and every object in it stared back at him with a stale + unescapable familiarity. How sick he was of looking at that room! It was + as dull as the face of a wife one has wearied of. He cleared his throat + slowly; then he turned his head to the lawyer and said: “I could explain + the Lenman murder myself.” + </p> + <p> + Ascham’s eye kindled: he shared Granice’s interest in criminal cases. + </p> + <p> + “By Jove! You’ve had a theory all this time? It’s odd you never mentioned + it. Go ahead and tell me. There are certain features in the Lenman case + not unlike this Ashgrove affair, and your idea may be a help.” + </p> + <p> + Granice paused and his eye reverted instinctively to the table drawer in + which the revolver and the manuscript lay side by side. What if he were to + try another appeal to Rose Melrose? Then he looked at the notes and bills + on the table, and the horror of taking up again the lifeless routine of + life—of performing the same automatic gestures another day—displaced + his fleeting vision. + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t a theory. I <i>know</i> who murdered Joseph Lenman.” + </p> + <p> + Ascham settled himself comfortably in his chair, prepared for enjoyment. + </p> + <p> + “You <i>know</i>? Well, who did?” he laughed. + </p> + <p> + “I did,” said Granice, rising. + </p> + <p> + He stood before Ascham, and the lawyer lay back staring up at him. Then he + broke into another laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Why, this is glorious! You murdered him, did you? To inherit his money, I + suppose? Better and better! Go on, my boy! Unbosom yourself! Tell me all + about it! Confession is good for the soul.” + </p> + <p> + Granice waited till the lawyer had shaken the last peal of laughter from + his throat; then he repeated doggedly: “I murdered him.” + </p> + <p> + The two men looked at each other for a long moment, and this time Ascham + did not laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Granice!” + </p> + <p> + “I murdered him—to get his money, as you say.” + </p> + <p> + There was another pause, and Granice, with a vague underlying sense of + amusement, saw his guest’s look change from pleasantry to apprehension. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the joke, my dear fellow? I fail to see.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not a joke. It’s the truth. I murdered him.” He had spoken painfully + at first, as if there were a knot in his throat; but each time he repeated + the words he found they were easier to say. + </p> + <p> + Ascham laid down his extinct cigar. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter? Aren’t you well? What on earth are you driving at?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m perfectly well. But I murdered my cousin, Joseph Lenman, and I want + it known that I murdered him.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>You want it known</i>?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. That’s why I sent for you. I’m sick of living, and when I try to + kill myself I funk it.” He spoke quite naturally now, as if the knot in + his throat had been untied. + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord—good Lord,” the lawyer gasped. + </p> + <p> + “But I suppose,” Granice continued, “there’s no doubt this would be murder + in the first degree? I’m sure of the chair if I own up?” + </p> + <p> + Ascham drew a long breath; then he said slowly: “Sit down, Granice. Let’s + talk.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + Granice told his story simply, connectedly. + </p> + <p> + He began by a quick survey of his early years—the years of drudgery + and privation. His father, a charming man who could never say “no,” had so + signally failed to say it on certain essential occasions that when he died + he left an illegitimate family and a mortgaged estate. His lawful kin + found themselves hanging over a gulf of debt, and young Granice, to + support his mother and sister, had to leave Harvard and bury himself at + eighteen in a broker’s office. He loathed his work, and he was always + poor, always worried and in ill-health. A few years later his mother died, + but his sister, an ineffectual neurasthenic, remained on his hands. His + own health gave out, and he had to go away for six months, and work harder + than ever when he came back. He had no knack for business, no head for + figures, no dimmest insight into the mysteries of commerce. He wanted to + travel and write—those were his inmost longings. And as the years + dragged on, and he neared middle-age without making any more money, or + acquiring any firmer health, a sick despair possessed him. He tried + writing, but he always came home from the office so tired that his brain + could not work. For half the year he did not reach his dim up-town flat + till after dark, and could only “brush up” for dinner, and afterward lie + on the lounge with his pipe, while his sister droned through the evening + paper. Sometimes he spent an evening at the theatre; or he dined out, or, + more rarely, strayed off with an acquaintance or two in quest of what is + known as “pleasure.” And in summer, when he and Kate went to the sea-side + for a month, he dozed through the days in utter weariness. Once he fell in + love with a charming girl—but what had he to offer her, in God’s + name? She seemed to like him, and in common decency he had to drop out of + the running. Apparently no one replaced him, for she never married, but + grew stoutish, grayish, philanthropic—yet how sweet she had been + when he had first kissed her! One more wasted life, he reflected... + </p> + <p> + But the stage had always been his master-passion. He would have sold his + soul for the time and freedom to write plays! It was <i>in him</i>—he could + not remember when it had not been his deepest-seated instinct. As the + years passed it became a morbid, a relentless obsession—yet with + every year the material conditions were more and more against it. He felt + himself growing middle-aged, and he watched the reflection of the process + in his sister’s wasted face. At eighteen she had been pretty, and as full + of enthusiasm as he. Now she was sour, trivial, insignificant—she + had missed her chance of life. And she had no resources, poor creature, + was fashioned simply for the primitive functions she had been denied the + chance to fulfil! It exasperated him to think of it—and to reflect + that even now a little travel, a little health, a little money, might + transform her, make her young and desirable... The chief fruit of his + experience was that there is no such fixed state as age or youth—there + is only health as against sickness, wealth as against poverty; and age or + youth as the outcome of the lot one draws. + </p> + <p> + At this point in his narrative Granice stood up, and went to lean against + the mantel-piece, looking down at Ascham, who had not moved from his seat, + or changed his attitude of rigid fascinated attention. + </p> + <p> + “Then came the summer when we went to Wrenfield to be near old Lenman—my + mother’s cousin, as you know. Some of the family always mounted guard over + him—generally a niece or so. But that year they were all scattered, + and one of the nieces offered to lend us her cottage if we’d relieve her + of duty for two months. It was a nuisance for me, of course, for Wrenfield + is two hours from town; but my mother, who was a slave to family + observances, had always been good to the old man, so it was natural we + should be called on—and there was the saving of rent and the good + air for Kate. So we went. + </p> + <p> + “You never knew Joseph Lenman? Well, picture to yourself an amoeba or some + primitive organism of that sort, under a Titan’s microscope. He was large, + undifferentiated, inert—since I could remember him he had done + nothing but take his temperature and read the Churchman. Oh, and cultivate + melons—that was his hobby. Not vulgar, out-of-door melons—his + were grown under glass. He had miles of it at Wrenfield—his big + kitchen-garden was surrounded by blinking battalions of green-houses. And + in nearly all of them melons were grown—early melons and late, + French, English, domestic—dwarf melons and monsters: every shape, + colour and variety. They were petted and nursed like children—a + staff of trained attendants waited on them. I’m not sure they didn’t have + a doctor to take their temperature—at any rate the place was full of + thermometers. And they didn’t sprawl on the ground like ordinary melons; + they were trained against the glass like nectarines, and each melon hung + in a net which sustained its weight and left it free on all sides to the + sun and air... + </p> + <p> + “It used to strike me sometimes that old Lenman was just like one of his + own melons—the pale-fleshed English kind. His life, apathetic and + motionless, hung in a net of gold, in an equable warm ventilated + atmosphere, high above sordid earthly worries. The cardinal rule of his + existence was not to let himself be ‘worried.’... I remember his advising + me to try it myself, one day when I spoke to him about Kate’s bad health, + and her need of a change. ‘I never let myself worry,’ he said + complacently. ‘It’s the worst thing for the liver—and you look to me + as if you had a liver. Take my advice and be cheerful. You’ll make + yourself happier and others too.’ And all he had to do was to write a + cheque, and send the poor girl off for a holiday! + </p> + <p> + “The hardest part of it was that the money half-belonged to us already. + The old skin-flint only had it for life, in trust for us and the others. + But his life was a good deal sounder than mine or Kate’s—and one + could picture him taking extra care of it for the joke of keeping us + waiting. I always felt that the sight of our hungry eyes was a tonic to + him. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I tried to see if I couldn’t reach him through his vanity. I + flattered him, feigned a passionate interest in his melons. And he was + taken in, and used to discourse on them by the hour. On fine days he was + driven to the green-houses in his pony-chair, and waddled through them, + prodding and leering at the fruit, like a fat Turk in his seraglio. When + he bragged to me of the expense of growing them I was reminded of a + hideous old Lothario bragging of what his pleasures cost. And the + resemblance was completed by the fact that he couldn’t eat as much as a + mouthful of his melons—had lived for years on buttermilk and toast. + ‘But, after all, it’s my only hobby—why shouldn’t I indulge it?’ he + said sentimentally. As if I’d ever been able to indulge any of mine! On + the keep of those melons Kate and I could have lived like gods... + </p> + <p> + “One day toward the end of the summer, when Kate was too unwell to drag + herself up to the big house, she asked me to go and spend the afternoon + with cousin Joseph. It was a lovely soft September afternoon—a day + to lie under a Roman stone-pine, with one’s eyes on the sky, and let the + cosmic harmonies rush through one. Perhaps the vision was suggested by the + fact that, as I entered cousin Joseph’s hideous black walnut library, I + passed one of the under-gardeners, a handsome full-throated Italian, who + dashed out in such a hurry that he nearly knocked me down. I remember + thinking it queer that the fellow, whom I had often seen about the + melon-houses, did not bow to me, or even seem to see me. + </p> + <p> + “Cousin Joseph sat in his usual seat, behind the darkened windows, his fat + hands folded on his protuberant waistcoat, the last number of the + Churchman at his elbow, and near it, on a huge dish, a fat melon—the + fattest melon I’d ever seen. As I looked at it I pictured the ecstasy of + contemplation from which I must have roused him, and congratulated myself + on finding him in such a mood, since I had made up my mind to ask him a + favour. Then I noticed that his face, instead of looking as calm as an + egg-shell, was distorted and whimpering—and without stopping to + greet me he pointed passionately to the melon. + </p> + <p> + “‘Look at it, look at it—did you ever see such a beauty? Such + firmness—roundness—such delicious smoothness to the touch?’ It + was as if he had said ‘she’ instead of ‘it,’ and when he put out his + senile hand and touched the melon I positively had to look the other way. + </p> + <p> + “Then he told me what had happened. The Italian under-gardener, who had + been specially recommended for the melon-houses—though it was + against my cousin’s principles to employ a Papist—had been assigned + to the care of the monster: for it had revealed itself, early in its + existence, as destined to become a monster, to surpass its plumpest, + pulpiest sisters, carry off prizes at agricultural shows, and be + photographed and celebrated in every gardening paper in the land. The + Italian had done well—seemed to have a sense of responsibility. And + that very morning he had been ordered to pick the melon, which was to be + shown next day at the county fair, and to bring it in for Mr. Lenman to + gaze on its blonde virginity. But in picking it, what had the damned + scoundrelly Jesuit done but drop it—drop it crash on the sharp spout + of a watering-pot, so that it received a deep gash in its firm pale + rotundity, and was henceforth but a bruised, ruined, fallen melon? + </p> + <p> + “The old man’s rage was fearful in its impotence—he shook, + spluttered and strangled with it. He had just had the Italian up and had + sacked him on the spot, without wages or character—had threatened to + have him arrested if he was ever caught prowling about Wrenfield. ‘By God, + and I’ll do it—I’ll write to Washington—I’ll have the pauper + scoundrel deported! I’ll show him what money can do!’ As likely as not + there was some murderous Black-hand business under it—it would be + found that the fellow was a member of a ‘gang.’ Those Italians would + murder you for a quarter. He meant to have the police look into it... And + then he grew frightened at his own excitement. ‘But I must calm myself,’ + he said. He took his temperature, rang for his drops, and turned to the + Churchman. He had been reading an article on Nestorianism when the melon + was brought in. He asked me to go on with it, and I read to him for an + hour, in the dim close room, with a fat fly buzzing stealthily about the + fallen melon. + </p> + <p> + “All the while one phrase of the old man’s buzzed in my brain like the fly + about the melon. ‘<i>I’ll show him what money can do!</i>’ Good heaven! If I + could but show the old man! If I could make him see his power of giving + happiness as a new outlet for his monstrous egotism! I tried to tell him + something about my situation and Kate’s—spoke of my ill-health, my + unsuccessful drudgery, my longing to write, to make myself a name—I + stammered out an entreaty for a loan. ‘I can guarantee to repay you, sir—I’ve + a half-written play as security...’ + </p> + <p> + “I shall never forget his glassy stare. His face had grown as smooth as an + egg-shell again—his eyes peered over his fat cheeks like sentinels + over a slippery rampart. + </p> + <p> + “‘A half-written play—a play of <i>yours</i> as security?’ He looked at me + almost fearfully, as if detecting the first symptoms of insanity. ‘Do you + understand anything of business?’ he enquired mildly. I laughed and + answered: ‘No, not much.’ + </p> + <p> + “He leaned back with closed lids. ‘All this excitement has been too much + for me,’ he said. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll prepare for my nap.’ And I + stumbled out of the room, blindly, like the Italian.” + </p> + <p> + Granice moved away from the mantel-piece, and walked across to the tray + set out with decanters and soda-water. He poured himself a tall glass of + soda-water, emptied it, and glanced at Ascham’s dead cigar. + </p> + <p> + “Better light another,” he suggested. + </p> + <p> + The lawyer shook his head, and Granice went on with his tale. He told of + his mounting obsession—how the murderous impulse had waked in him on + the instant of his cousin’s refusal, and he had muttered to himself: “By + God, if you won’t, I’ll make you.” He spoke more tranquilly as the + narrative proceeded, as though his rage had died down once the resolve to + act on it was taken. He applied his whole mind to the question of how the + old man was to be “disposed of.” Suddenly he remembered the outcry: “Those + Italians will murder you for a quarter!” But no definite project presented + itself: he simply waited for an inspiration. + </p> + <p> + Granice and his sister moved to town a day or two after the incident of + the melon. But the cousins, who had returned, kept them informed of the + old man’s condition. One day, about three weeks later, Granice, on getting + home, found Kate excited over a report from Wrenfield. The Italian had + been there again—had somehow slipped into the house, made his way up + to the library, and “used threatening language.” The house-keeper found + cousin Joseph gasping, the whites of his eyes showing “something awful.” + The doctor was sent for, and the attack warded off; and the police had + ordered the Italian from the neighbourhood. + </p> + <p> + But cousin Joseph, thereafter, languished, had “nerves,” and lost his + taste for toast and butter-milk. The doctor called in a colleague, and the + consultation amused and excited the old man—he became once more an + important figure. The medical men reassured the family—too + completely!—and to the patient they recommended a more varied diet: + advised him to take whatever “tempted him.” And so one day, tremulously, + prayerfully, he decided on a tiny bit of melon. It was brought up with + ceremony, and consumed in the presence of the house-keeper and a hovering + cousin; and twenty minutes later he was dead... + </p> + <p> + “But you remember the circumstances,” Granice went on; “how suspicion + turned at once on the Italian? In spite of the hint the police had given + him he had been seen hanging about the house since ‘the scene.’ It was + said that he had tender relations with the kitchen-maid, and the rest + seemed easy to explain. But when they looked round to ask him for the + explanation he was gone—gone clean out of sight. He had been + ‘warned’ to leave Wrenfield, and he had taken the warning so to heart that + no one ever laid eyes on him again.” + </p> + <p> + Granice paused. He had dropped into a chair opposite the lawyer’s, and he + sat for a moment, his head thrown back, looking about the familiar room. + Everything in it had grown grimacing and alien, and each strange insistent + object seemed craning forward from its place to hear him. + </p> + <p> + “It was I who put the stuff in the melon,” he said. “And I don’t want you + to think I’m sorry for it. This isn’t ‘remorse,’ understand. I’m glad the + old skin-flint is dead—I’m glad the others have their money. But + mine’s no use to me any more. My sister married miserably, and died. And + I’ve never had what I wanted.” + </p> + <p> + Ascham continued to stare; then he said: “What on earth was your object, + then?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, to <i>get</i> what I wanted—what I fancied was in reach! I wanted + change, rest, <i>life</i>, for both of us—wanted, above all, for myself, + the chance to write! I travelled, got back my health, and came home to tie + myself up to my work. And I’ve slaved at it steadily for ten years without + reward—without the most distant hope of success! Nobody will look at + my stuff. And now I’m fifty, and I’m beaten, and I know it.” His chin + dropped forward on his breast. “I want to chuck the whole business,” he + ended. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <p> + It was after midnight when Ascham left. + </p> + <p> + His hand on Granice’s shoulder, as he turned to go—“District + Attorney be hanged; see a doctor, see a doctor!” he had cried; and so, + with an exaggerated laugh, had pulled on his coat and departed. + </p> + <p> + Granice turned back into the library. It had never occurred to him that + Ascham would not believe his story. For three hours he had explained, + elucidated, patiently and painfully gone over every detail—but + without once breaking down the iron incredulity of the lawyer’s eye. + </p> + <p> + At first Ascham had feigned to be convinced—but that, as Granice now + perceived, was simply to get him to expose himself, to entrap him into + contradictions. And when the attempt failed, when Granice triumphantly met + and refuted each disconcerting question, the lawyer dropped the mask + suddenly, and said with a good-humoured laugh: “By Jove, Granice you’ll + write a successful play yet. The way you’ve worked this all out is a + marvel.” + </p> + <p> + Granice swung about furiously—that last sneer about the play + inflamed him. Was all the world in a conspiracy to deride his failure? + </p> + <p> + “I did it, I did it,” he muttered sullenly, his rage spending itself + against the impenetrable surface of the other’s mockery; and Ascham + answered with a smile: “Ever read any of those books on hallucination? + I’ve got a fairly good medico-legal library. I could send you one or two + if you like...” + </p> + <p> + Left alone, Granice cowered down in the chair before his writing-table. He + understood that Ascham thought him off his head. + </p> + <p> + “Good God—what if they all think me crazy?” + </p> + <p> + The horror of it broke out over him in a cold sweat—he sat there and + shook, his eyes hidden in his icy hands. But gradually, as he began to + rehearse his story for the thousandth time, he saw again how + incontrovertible it was, and felt sure that any criminal lawyer would + believe him. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the trouble—Ascham’s not a criminal lawyer. And then he’s a + friend. What a fool I was to talk to a friend! Even if he did believe me, + he’d never let me see it—his instinct would be to cover the whole + thing up... But in that case—if he <i>did</i> believe me—he might + think it a kindness to get me shut up in an asylum...” Granice began to + tremble again. “Good heaven! If he should bring in an expert—one of + those damned alienists! Ascham and Pettilow can do anything—their + word always goes. If Ascham drops a hint that I’d better be shut up, I’ll + be in a strait-jacket by to-morrow! And he’d do it from the kindest + motives—be quite right to do it if he thinks I’m a murderer!” + </p> + <p> + The vision froze him to his chair. He pressed his fists to his bursting + temples and tried to think. For the first time he hoped that Ascham had + not believed his story. + </p> + <p> + “But he did—he did! I can see it now—I noticed what a queer + eye he cocked at me. Good God, what shall I do—what shall I do?” + </p> + <p> + He started up and looked at the clock. Half-past one. What if Ascham + should think the case urgent, rout out an alienist, and come back with + him? Granice jumped to his feet, and his sudden gesture brushed the + morning paper from the table. Mechanically he stooped to pick it up, and + the movement started a new train of association. + </p> + <p> + He sat down again, and reached for the telephone book in the rack by his + chair. + </p> + <p> + “Give me three-o-ten... yes.” + </p> + <p> + The new idea in his mind had revived his flagging energy. He would act—act + at once. It was only by thus planning ahead, committing himself to some + unavoidable line of conduct, that he could pull himself through the + meaningless days. Each time he reached a fresh decision it was like coming + out of a foggy weltering sea into a calm harbour with lights. One of the + queerest phases of his long agony was the intense relief produced by these + momentary lulls. + </p> + <p> + “That the office of the Investigator? Yes? Give me Mr. Denver, please... + Hallo, Denver... Yes, Hubert Granice.... Just caught you? Going straight + home? Can I come and see you... yes, now... have a talk? It’s rather + urgent... yes, might give you some first-rate ‘copy.’... All right!” He + hung up the receiver with a laugh. It had been a happy thought to call up + the editor of the Investigator—Robert Denver was the very man he + needed... + </p> + <p> + Granice put out the lights in the library—it was odd how the + automatic gestures persisted!—went into the hall, put on his hat and + overcoat, and let himself out of the flat. In the hall, a sleepy elevator + boy blinked at him and then dropped his head on his folded arms. Granice + passed out into the street. At the corner of Fifth Avenue he hailed a + crawling cab, and called out an up-town address. The long thoroughfare + stretched before him, dim and deserted, like an ancient avenue of tombs. + But from Denver’s house a friendly beam fell on the pavement; and as + Granice sprang from his cab the editor’s electric turned the corner. + </p> + <p> + The two men grasped hands, and Denver, feeling for his latch-key, ushered + Granice into the brightly-lit hall. + </p> + <p> + “Disturb me? Not a bit. You might have, at ten to-morrow morning... but + this is my liveliest hour... you know my habits of old.” + </p> + <p> + Granice had known Robert Denver for fifteen years—watched his rise + through all the stages of journalism to the Olympian pinnacle of the + Investigator’s editorial office. In the thick-set man with grizzling hair + there were few traces left of the hungry-eyed young reporter who, on his + way home in the small hours, used to “bob in” on Granice, while the latter + sat grinding at his plays. Denver had to pass Granice’s flat on the way to + his own, and it became a habit, if he saw a light in the window, and + Granice’s shadow against the blind, to go in, smoke a pipe, and discuss + the universe. + </p> + <p> + “Well—this is like old times—a good old habit reversed.” The + editor smote his visitor genially on the shoulder. “Reminds me of the + nights when I used to rout you out... How’s the play, by the way? There <i>is</i> + a play, I suppose? It’s as safe to ask you that as to say to some men: + ‘How’s the baby?’” + </p> + <p> + Denver laughed good-naturedly, and Granice thought how thick and heavy he + had grown. It was evident, even to Granice’s tortured nerves, that the + words had not been uttered in malice—and the fact gave him a new + measure of his insignificance. Denver did not even know that he had been a + failure! The fact hurt more than Ascham’s irony. + </p> + <p> + “Come in—come in.” The editor led the way into a small cheerful + room, where there were cigars and decanters. He pushed an arm-chair toward + his visitor, and dropped into another with a comfortable groan. + </p> + <p> + “Now, then—help yourself. And let’s hear all about it.” + </p> + <p> + He beamed at Granice over his pipe-bowl, and the latter, lighting his + cigar, said to himself: “Success makes men comfortable, but it makes them + stupid.” + </p> + <p> + Then he turned, and began: “Denver, I want to tell you—” + </p> + <p> + The clock ticked rhythmically on the mantel-piece. The little room was + gradually filled with drifting blue layers of smoke, and through them the + editor’s face came and went like the moon through a moving sky. Once the + hour struck—then the rhythmical ticking began again. The atmosphere + grew denser and heavier, and beads of perspiration began to roll from + Granice’s forehead. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mind if I open the window?” + </p> + <p> + “No. It <i>is</i> stuffy in here. Wait—I’ll do it myself.” Denver pushed + down the upper sash, and returned to his chair. “Well—go on,” he + said, filling another pipe. His composure exasperated Granice. + </p> + <p> + “There’s no use in my going on if you don’t believe me.” + </p> + <p> + The editor remained unmoved. “Who says I don’t believe you? And how can I + tell till you’ve finished?” + </p> + <p> + Granice went on, ashamed of his outburst. “It was simple enough, as you’ll + see. From the day the old man said to me, ‘Those Italians would murder you + for a quarter,’ I dropped everything and just worked at my scheme. It + struck me at once that I must find a way of getting to Wrenfield and back + in a night—and that led to the idea of a motor. A motor—that + never occurred to you? You wonder where I got the money, I suppose. Well, + I had a thousand or so put by, and I nosed around till I found what I + wanted—a second-hand racer. I knew how to drive a car, and I tried + the thing and found it was all right. Times were bad, and I bought it for + my price, and stored it away. Where? Why, in one of those + no-questions-asked garages where they keep motors that are not for family + use. I had a lively cousin who had put me up to that dodge, and I looked + about till I found a queer hole where they took in my car like a baby in a + foundling asylum... Then I practiced running to Wrenfield and back in a + night. I knew the way pretty well, for I’d done it often with the same + lively cousin—and in the small hours, too. The distance is over + ninety miles, and on the third trial I did it under two hours. But my arms + were so lame that I could hardly get dressed the next morning... + </p> + <p> + “Well, then came the report about the Italian’s threats, and I saw I must + act at once... I meant to break into the old man’s room, shoot him, and + get away again. It was a big risk, but I thought I could manage it. Then + we heard that he was ill—that there’d been a consultation. Perhaps + the fates were going to do it for me! Good Lord, if that could only + be!...” + </p> + <p> + Granice stopped and wiped his forehead: the open window did not seem to + have cooled the room. + </p> + <p> + “Then came word that he was better; and the day after, when I came up from + my office, I found Kate laughing over the news that he was to try a bit of + melon. The house-keeper had just telephoned her—all Wrenfield was in + a flutter. The doctor himself had picked out the melon, one of the little + French ones that are hardly bigger than a large tomato—and the + patient was to eat it at his breakfast the next morning. + </p> + <p> + “In a flash I saw my chance. It was a bare chance, no more. But I knew the + ways of the house—I was sure the melon would be brought in over + night and put in the pantry ice-box. If there were only one melon in the + ice-box I could be fairly sure it was the one I wanted. Melons didn’t lie + around loose in that house—every one was known, numbered, + catalogued. The old man was beset by the dread that the servants would eat + them, and he took a hundred mean precautions to prevent it. Yes, I felt + pretty sure of my melon... and poisoning was much safer than shooting. It + would have been the devil and all to get into the old man’s bedroom + without his rousing the house; but I ought to be able to break into the + pantry without much trouble. + </p> + <p> + “It was a cloudy night, too—everything served me. I dined quietly, + and sat down at my desk. Kate had one of her usual headaches, and went to + bed early. As soon as she was gone I slipped out. I had got together a + sort of disguise—red beard and queer-looking ulster. I shoved them + into a bag, and went round to the garage. There was no one there but a + half-drunken machinist whom I’d never seen before. That served me, too. + They were always changing machinists, and this new fellow didn’t even + bother to ask if the car belonged to me. It was a very easy-going place... + </p> + <p> + “Well, I jumped in, ran up Broadway, and let the car go as soon as I was + out of Harlem. Dark as it was, I could trust myself to strike a sharp + pace. In the shadow of a wood I stopped a second and got into the beard + and ulster. Then away again—it was just eleven-thirty when I got to + Wrenfield. + </p> + <p> + “I left the car in a dark lane behind the Lenman place, and slipped + through the kitchen-garden. The melon-houses winked at me through the dark—I + remember thinking that they knew what I wanted to know.... By the stable a + dog came out growling—but he nosed me out, jumped on me, and went + back... The house was as dark as the grave. I knew everybody went to bed + by ten. But there might be a prowling servant—the kitchen-maid might + have come down to let in her Italian. I had to risk that, of course. I + crept around by the back door and hid in the shrubbery. Then I listened. + It was all as silent as death. I crossed over to the house, pried open the + pantry window and climbed in. I had a little electric lamp in my pocket, + and shielding it with my cap I groped my way to the ice-box, opened it—and + there was the little French melon... only one. + </p> + <p> + “I stopped to listen—I was quite cool. Then I pulled out my bottle + of stuff and my syringe, and gave each section of the melon a hypodermic. + It was all done inside of three minutes—at ten minutes to twelve I + was back in the car. I got out of the lane as quietly as I could, struck a + back road that skirted the village, and let the car out as soon as I was + beyond the last houses. I only stopped once on the way in, to drop the + beard and ulster into a pond. I had a big stone ready to weight them with + and they went down plump, like a dead body—and at two o’clock I was + back at my desk.” + </p> + <p> + Granice stopped speaking and looked across the smoke-fumes at his + listener; but Denver’s face remained inscrutable. + </p> + <p> + At length he said: “Why did you want to tell me this?” + </p> + <p> + The question startled Granice. He was about to explain, as he had + explained to Ascham; but suddenly it occurred to him that if his motive + had not seemed convincing to the lawyer it would carry much less weight + with Denver. Both were successful men, and success does not understand the + subtle agony of failure. Granice cast about for another reason. + </p> + <p> + “Why, I—the thing haunts me... remorse, I suppose you’d call it...” + </p> + <p> + Denver struck the ashes from his empty pipe. + </p> + <p> + “Remorse? Bosh!” he said energetically. + </p> + <p> + Granice’s heart sank. “You don’t believe in—<i>remorse</i>?” + </p> + <p> + “Not an atom: in the man of action. The mere fact of your talking of + remorse proves to me that you’re not the man to have planned and put + through such a job.” + </p> + <p> + Granice groaned. “Well—I lied to you about remorse. I’ve never felt + any.” + </p> + <p> + Denver’s lips tightened sceptically about his freshly-filled pipe. “What + was your motive, then? You must have had one.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll tell you—” And Granice began again to rehearse the story of + his failure, of his loathing for life. “Don’t say you don’t believe me + this time... that this isn’t a real reason!” he stammered out piteously as + he ended. + </p> + <p> + Denver meditated. “No, I won’t say that. I’ve seen too many queer things. + There’s always a reason for wanting to get out of life—the wonder is + that we find so many for staying in!” Granice’s heart grew light. “Then + you <i>do</i> believe me?” he faltered. + </p> + <p> + “Believe that you’re sick of the job? Yes. And that you haven’t the nerve + to pull the trigger? Oh, yes—that’s easy enough, too. But all that + doesn’t make you a murderer—though I don’t say it proves you could + never have been one.” + </p> + <p> + “I <i>have</i> been one, Denver—I swear to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps.” He meditated. “Just tell me one or two things.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, go ahead. You won’t stump me!” Granice heard himself say with a + laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Well—how did you make all those trial trips without exciting your + sister’s curiosity? I knew your night habits pretty well at that time, + remember. You were very seldom out late. Didn’t the change in your ways + surprise her?” + </p> + <p> + “No; because she was away at the time. She went to pay several visits in + the country soon after we came back from Wrenfield, and was only in town + for a night or two before—before I did the job.” + </p> + <p> + “And that night she went to bed early with a headache?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—blinding. She didn’t know anything when she had that kind. And + her room was at the back of the flat.” + </p> + <p> + Denver again meditated. “And when you got back—she didn’t hear you? + You got in without her knowing it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I went straight to my work—took it up at the word where I’d + left off—<i>Why, denver, don’t you remember</i>?” Granice suddenly, + passionately interjected. + </p> + <p> + “Remember—?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; how you found me—when you looked in that morning, between two + and three... your usual hour...?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” the editor nodded. + </p> + <p> + Granice gave a short laugh. “In my old coat—with my pipe: looked as + if I’d been working all night, didn’t I? Well, I hadn’t been in my chair + ten minutes!” + </p> + <p> + Denver uncrossed his legs and then crossed them again. “I didn’t know + whether <i>you</i> remembered that.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “My coming in that particular night—or morning.” + </p> + <p> + Granice swung round in his chair. “Why, man alive! That’s why I’m here + now. Because it was you who spoke for me at the inquest, when they looked + round to see what all the old man’s heirs had been doing that night—you + who testified to having dropped in and found me at my desk as usual.... I + thought <i>that</i> would appeal to your journalistic sense if nothing else + would!” + </p> + <p> + Denver smiled. “Oh, my journalistic sense is still susceptible enough—and + the idea’s picturesque, I grant you: asking the man who proved your alibi + to establish your guilt.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s it—that’s it!” Granice’s laugh had a ring of triumph. + </p> + <p> + “Well, but how about the other chap’s testimony—I mean that young + doctor: what was his name? Ned Ranney. Don’t you remember my testifying + that I’d met him at the elevated station, and told him I was on my way to + smoke a pipe with you, and his saying: ‘All right; you’ll find him in. I + passed the house two hours ago, and saw his shadow against the blind, as + usual.’ And the lady with the toothache in the flat across the way: she + corroborated his statement, you remember.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I remember.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Simple enough. Before starting I rigged up a kind of mannikin with old + coats and a cushion—something to cast a shadow on the blind. All you + fellows were used to seeing my shadow there in the small hours—I + counted on that, and knew you’d take any vague outline as mine.” + </p> + <p> + “Simple enough, as you say. But the woman with the toothache saw the + shadow move—you remember she said she saw you sink forward, as if + you’d fallen asleep.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; and she was right. It <i>did</i> move. I suppose some extra-heavy dray must + have jolted by the flimsy building—at any rate, something gave my + mannikin a jar, and when I came back he had sunk forward, half over the + table.” + </p> + <p> + There was a long silence between the two men. Granice, with a throbbing + heart, watched Denver refill his pipe. The editor, at any rate, did not + sneer and flout him. After all, journalism gave a deeper insight than the + law into the fantastic possibilities of life, prepared one better to allow + for the incalculableness of human impulses. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” Granice faltered out. + </p> + <p> + Denver stood up with a shrug. “Look here, man—what’s wrong with you? + Make a clean breast of it! Nerves gone to smash? I’d like to take you to + see a chap I know—an ex-prize-fighter—who’s a wonder at + pulling fellows in your state out of their hole—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, oh—” Granice broke in. He stood up also, and the two men eyed + each other. “You don’t believe me, then?” + </p> + <p> + “This yarn—how can I? There wasn’t a flaw in your alibi.” + </p> + <p> + “But haven’t I filled it full of them now?” + </p> + <p> + Denver shook his head. “I might think so if I hadn’t happened to know that + you <i>wanted</i> to. There’s the hitch, don’t you see?” + </p> + <p> + Granice groaned. “No, I didn’t. You mean my wanting to be found guilty—?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course! If somebody else had accused you, the story might have been + worth looking into. As it is, a child could have invented it. It doesn’t + do much credit to your ingenuity.” + </p> + <p> + Granice turned sullenly toward the door. What was the use of arguing? But + on the threshold a sudden impulse drew him back. “Look here, Denver—I + daresay you’re right. But will you do just one thing to prove it? Put my + statement in the Investigator, just as I’ve made it. Ridicule it as much + as you like. Only give the other fellows a chance at it—men who + don’t know anything about me. Set them talking and looking about. I don’t + care a damn whether <i>you</i> believe me—what I want is to convince the + Grand Jury! I oughtn’t to have come to a man who knows me—your + cursed incredulity is infectious. I don’t put my case well, because I know + in advance it’s discredited, and I almost end by not believing it myself. + That’s why I can’t convince <i>you</i>. It’s a vicious circle.” He laid a hand on + Denver’s arm. “Send a stenographer, and put my statement in the paper.” + </p> + <p> + But Denver did not warm to the idea. “My dear fellow, you seem to forget + that all the evidence was pretty thoroughly sifted at the time, every + possible clue followed up. The public would have been ready enough then to + believe that you murdered old Lenman—you or anybody else. All they + wanted was a murderer—the most improbable would have served. But + your alibi was too confoundedly complete. And nothing you’ve told me has + shaken it.” Denver laid his cool hand over the other’s burning fingers. + “Look here, old fellow, go home and work up a better case—then come + in and submit it to the Investigator.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV + </h2> + <p> + The perspiration was rolling off Granice’s forehead. Every few minutes he + had to draw out his handkerchief and wipe the moisture from his haggard + face. + </p> + <p> + For an hour and a half he had been talking steadily, putting his case to + the District Attorney. Luckily he had a speaking acquaintance with + Allonby, and had obtained, without much difficulty, a private audience on + the very day after his talk with Robert Denver. In the interval between he + had hurried home, got out of his evening clothes, and gone forth again at + once into the dreary dawn. His fear of Ascham and the alienist made it + impossible for him to remain in his rooms. And it seemed to him that the + only way of averting that hideous peril was by establishing, in some sane + impartial mind, the proof of his guilt. Even if he had not been so + incurably sick of life, the electric chair seemed now the only alternative + to the strait-jacket. + </p> + <p> + As he paused to wipe his forehead he saw the District Attorney glance at + his watch. The gesture was significant, and Granice lifted an appealing + hand. “I don’t expect you to believe me now—but can’t you put me + under arrest, and have the thing looked into?” + </p> + <p> + Allonby smiled faintly under his heavy grayish moustache. He had a ruddy + face, full and jovial, in which his keen professional eyes seemed to keep + watch over impulses not strictly professional. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don’t know that we need lock you up just yet. But of course I’m + bound to look into your statement—” + </p> + <p> + Granice rose with an exquisite sense of relief. Surely Allonby wouldn’t + have said that if he hadn’t believed him! + </p> + <p> + “That’s all right. Then I needn’t detain you. I can be found at any time + at my apartment.” He gave the address. + </p> + <p> + The District Attorney smiled again, more openly. “What do you say to + leaving it for an hour or two this evening? I’m giving a little supper at + Rector’s—quiet, little affair, you understand: just Miss Melrose—I + think you know her—and a friend or two; and if you’ll join us...” + </p> + <p> + Granice stumbled out of the office without knowing what reply he had made. + </p> + <p> + He waited for four days—four days of concentrated horror. During the + first twenty-four hours the fear of Ascham’s alienist dogged him; and as + that subsided, it was replaced by the exasperating sense that his avowal + had made no impression on the District Attorney. Evidently, if he had been + going to look into the case, Allonby would have been heard from before + now.... And that mocking invitation to supper showed clearly enough how + little the story had impressed him! + </p> + <p> + Granice was overcome by the futility of any farther attempt to inculpate + himself. He was chained to life—a “prisoner of consciousness.” Where + was it he had read the phrase? Well, he was learning what it meant. In the + glaring night-hours, when his brain seemed ablaze, he was visited by a + sense of his fixed identity, of his irreducible, inexpugnable <i>selfness</i>, + keener, more insidious, more unescapable, than any sensation he had ever + known. He had not guessed that the mind was capable of such intricacies of + self-realization, of penetrating so deep into its own dark windings. Often + he woke from his brief snatches of sleep with the feeling that something + material was clinging to him, was on his hands and face, and in his throat—and + as his brain cleared he understood that it was the sense of his own + loathed personality that stuck to him like some thick viscous substance. + </p> + <p> + Then, in the first morning hours, he would rise and look out of his window + at the awakening activities of the street—at the street-cleaners, + the ash-cart drivers, and the other dingy workers flitting hurriedly by + through the sallow winter light. Oh, to be one of them—any of them—to + take his chance in any of their skins! They were the toilers—the men + whose lot was pitied—the victims wept over and ranted about by + altruists and economists; and how gladly he would have taken up the load + of any one of them, if only he might have shaken off his own! But, no—the + iron circle of consciousness held them too: each one was hand-cuffed to + his own hideous ego. Why wish to be any one man rather than another? The + only absolute good was not to be... And Flint, coming in to draw his bath, + would ask if he preferred his eggs scrambled or poached that morning? + </p> + <p> + On the fifth day he wrote a long urgent letter to Allonby; and for the + succeeding two days he had the occupation of waiting for an answer. He + hardly stirred from his rooms, in his fear of missing the letter by a + moment; but would the District Attorney write, or send a representative: a + policeman, a “secret agent,” or some other mysterious emissary of the law? + </p> + <p> + On the third morning Flint, stepping softly—as if, confound it! his + master were ill—entered the library where Granice sat behind an + unread newspaper, and proferred a card on a tray. + </p> + <p> + Granice read the name—J. B. Hewson—and underneath, in pencil, + “From the District Attorney’s office.” He started up with a thumping + heart, and signed an assent to the servant. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Hewson was a slight sallow nondescript man of about fifty—the + kind of man of whom one is sure to see a specimen in any crowd. “Just the + type of the successful detective,” Granice reflected as he shook hands + with his visitor. + </p> + <p> + And it was in that character that Mr. Hewson briefly introduced himself. + He had been sent by the District Attorney to have “a quiet talk” with Mr. + Granice—to ask him to repeat the statement he had made about the + Lenman murder. + </p> + <p> + His manner was so quiet, so reasonable and receptive, that Granice’s + self-confidence returned. Here was a sensible man—a man who knew his + business—it would be easy enough to make <i>him</i> see through that + ridiculous alibi! Granice offered Mr. Hewson a cigar, and lighting one + himself—to prove his coolness—began again to tell his story. + </p> + <p> + He was conscious, as he proceeded, of telling it better than ever before. + Practice helped, no doubt; and his listener’s detached, impartial attitude + helped still more. He could see that Hewson, at least, had not decided in + advance to disbelieve him, and the sense of being trusted made him more + lucid and more consecutive. Yes, this time his words would certainly carry + conviction... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V + </h2> + <p> + Despairingly, Granice gazed up and down the shabby street. Beside him + stood a young man with bright prominent eyes, a smooth but not too + smoothly-shaven face, and an Irish smile. The young man’s nimble glance + followed Granice’s. + </p> + <p> + “Sure of the number, are you?” he asked briskly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes—it was 104.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, the new building has swallowed it up—that’s certain.” + </p> + <p> + He tilted his head back and surveyed the half-finished front of a brick + and limestone flat-house that reared its flimsy elegance above a row of + tottering tenements and stables. + </p> + <p> + “Dead sure?” he repeated. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Granice, discouraged. “And even if I hadn’t been, I know the + garage was just opposite Leffler’s over there.” He pointed across the + street to a tumble-down stable with a blotched sign on which the words + “Livery and Boarding” were still faintly discernible. + </p> + <p> + The young man dashed across to the opposite pavement. “Well, that’s + something—may get a clue there. Leffler’s—same name there, + anyhow. You remember that name?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—distinctly.” + </p> + <p> + Granice had felt a return of confidence since he had enlisted the interest + of the Explorer’s “smartest” reporter. If there were moments when he + hardly believed his own story, there were others when it seemed impossible + that every one should not believe it; and young Peter McCarren, peering, + listening, questioning, jotting down notes, inspired him with an exquisite + sense of security. McCarren had fastened on the case at once, “like a + leech,” as he phrased it—jumped at it, thrilled to it, and settled + down to “draw the last drop of fact from it, and had not let go till he + had.” No one else had treated Granice in that way—even Allonby’s + detective had not taken a single note. And though a week had elapsed since + the visit of that authorized official, nothing had been heard from the + District Attorney’s office: Allonby had apparently dropped the matter + again. But McCarren wasn’t going to drop it—not he! He positively + hung on Granice’s footsteps. They had spent the greater part of the + previous day together, and now they were off again, running down clues. + </p> + <p> + But at Leffler’s they got none, after all. Leffler’s was no longer a + stable. It was condemned to demolition, and in the respite between + sentence and execution it had become a vague place of storage, a hospital + for broken-down carriages and carts, presided over by a blear-eyed old + woman who knew nothing of Flood’s garage across the way—did not even + remember what had stood there before the new flat-house began to rise. + </p> + <p> + “Well—we may run Leffler down somewhere; I’ve seen harder jobs + done,” said McCarren, cheerfully noting down the name. + </p> + <p> + As they walked back toward Sixth Avenue he added, in a less sanguine tone: + “I’d undertake now to put the thing through if you could only put me on + the track of that cyanide.” + </p> + <p> + Granice’s heart sank. Yes—there was the weak spot; he had felt it + from the first! But he still hoped to convince McCarren that his case was + strong enough without it; and he urged the reporter to come back to his + rooms and sum up the facts with him again. + </p> + <p> + “Sorry, Mr. Granice, but I’m due at the office now. Besides, it’d be no + use till I get some fresh stuff to work on. Suppose I call you up tomorrow + or next day?” + </p> + <p> + He plunged into a trolley and left Granice gazing desolately after him. + </p> + <p> + Two days later he reappeared at the apartment, a shade less jaunty in + demeanor. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Mr. Granice, the stars in their courses are against you, as the + bard says. Can’t get a trace of Flood, or of Leffler either. And you say + you bought the motor through Flood, and sold it through him, too?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Granice wearily. + </p> + <p> + “Who bought it, do you know?” + </p> + <p> + Granice wrinkled his brows. “Why, Flood—yes, Flood himself. I sold + it back to him three months later.” + </p> + <p> + “Flood? The devil! And I’ve ransacked the town for Flood. That kind of + business disappears as if the earth had swallowed it.” + </p> + <p> + Granice, discouraged, kept silence. + </p> + <p> + “That brings us back to the poison,” McCarren continued, his note-book + out. “Just go over that again, will you?” + </p> + <p> + And Granice went over it again. It had all been so simple at the time—and + he had been so clever in covering up his traces! As soon as he decided on + poison he looked about for an acquaintance who manufactured chemicals; and + there was Jim Dawes, a Harvard classmate, in the dyeing business—just + the man. But at the last moment it occurred to him that suspicion might + turn toward so obvious an opportunity, and he decided on a more tortuous + course. Another friend, Carrick Venn, a student of medicine whom + irremediable ill-health had kept from the practice of his profession, + amused his leisure with experiments in physics, for the exercise of which + he had set up a simple laboratory. Granice had the habit of dropping in to + smoke a cigar with him on Sunday afternoons, and the friends generally sat + in Venn’s work-shop, at the back of the old family house in Stuyvesant + Square. Off this work-shop was the cupboard of supplies, with its row of + deadly bottles. Carrick Venn was an original, a man of restless curious + tastes, and his place, on a Sunday, was often full of visitors: a cheerful + crowd of journalists, scribblers, painters, experimenters in divers forms + of expression. Coming and going among so many, it was easy enough to pass + unperceived; and one afternoon Granice, arriving before Venn had returned + home, found himself alone in the work-shop, and quickly slipping into the + cupboard, transferred the drug to his pocket. + </p> + <p> + But that had happened ten years ago; and Venn, poor fellow, was long since + dead of his dragging ailment. His old father was dead, too, the house in + Stuyvesant Square had been turned into a boarding-house, and the shifting + life of New York had passed its rapid sponge over every trace of their + obscure little history. Even the optimistic McCarren seemed to acknowledge + the hopelessness of seeking for proof in that direction. + </p> + <p> + “And there’s the third door slammed in our faces.” He shut his note-book, + and throwing back his head, rested his bright inquisitive eyes on + Granice’s furrowed face. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Mr. Granice—you see the weak spot, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + The other made a despairing motion. “I see so many!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes: but the one that weakens all the others. Why the deuce do you want + this thing known? Why do you want to put your head into the noose?” + </p> + <p> + Granice looked at him hopelessly, trying to take the measure of his quick + light irreverent mind. No one so full of a cheerful animal life would + believe in the craving for death as a sufficient motive; and Granice + racked his brain for one more convincing. But suddenly he saw the + reporter’s face soften, and melt to a naive sentimentalism. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Granice—has the memory of it always haunted you?” + </p> + <p> + Granice stared a moment, and then leapt at the opening. “That’s it—the + memory of it... always...” + </p> + <p> + McCarren nodded vehemently. “Dogged your steps, eh? Wouldn’t let you + sleep? The time came when you <i>had</i> to make a clean breast of it?” + </p> + <p> + “I had to. Can’t you understand?” + </p> + <p> + The reporter struck his fist on the table. “God, sir! I don’t suppose + there’s a human being with a drop of warm blood in him that can’t picture + the deadly horrors of remorse—” + </p> + <p> + The Celtic imagination was aflame, and Granice mutely thanked him for the + word. What neither Ascham nor Denver would accept as a conceivable motive + the Irish reporter seized on as the most adequate; and, as he said, once + one could find a convincing motive, the difficulties of the case became so + many incentives to effort. + </p> + <p> + “Remorse—<i>remorse</i>,” he repeated, rolling the word under his tongue + with an accent that was a clue to the psychology of the popular drama; and + Granice, perversely, said to himself: “If I could only have struck that + note I should have been running in six theatres at once.” + </p> + <p> + He saw that from that moment McCarren’s professional zeal would be fanned + by emotional curiosity; and he profited by the fact to propose that they + should dine together, and go on afterward to some music-hall or theatre. + It was becoming necessary to Granice to feel himself an object of + pre-occupation, to find himself in another mind. He took a kind of gray + penumbral pleasure in riveting McCarren’s attention on his case; and to + feign the grimaces of moral anguish became a passionately engrossing game. + He had not entered a theatre for months; but he sat out the meaningless + performance in rigid tolerance, sustained by the sense of the reporter’s + observation. + </p> + <p> + Between the acts, McCarren amused him with anecdotes about the audience: + he knew every one by sight, and could lift the curtain from every + physiognomy. Granice listened indulgently. He had lost all interest in his + kind, but he knew that he was himself the real centre of McCarren’s + attention, and that every word the latter spoke had an indirect bearing on + his own problem. + </p> + <p> + “See that fellow over there—the little dried-up man in the third + row, pulling his moustache? <i>His</i> memoirs would be worth publishing,” + McCarren said suddenly in the last entr’acte. + </p> + <p> + Granice, following his glance, recognized the detective from Allonby’s + office. For a moment he had the thrilling sense that he was being + shadowed. + </p> + <p> + “Caesar, if <i>he</i> could talk—!” McCarren continued. “Know who he is, of + course? Dr. John B. Stell, the biggest alienist in the country—” + </p> + <p> + Granice, with a start, bent again between the heads in front of him. “<i>That</i> + man—the fourth from the aisle? You’re mistaken. That’s not Dr. + Stell.” + </p> + <p> + McCarren laughed. “Well, I guess I’ve been in court enough to know Stell + when I see him. He testifies in nearly all the big cases where they plead + insanity.” + </p> + <p> + A cold shiver ran down Granice’s spine, but he repeated obstinately: + “That’s not Dr. Stell.” + </p> + <p> + “Not Stell? Why, man, I <i>know</i> him. Look—here he comes. If it isn’t + Stell, he won’t speak to me.” + </p> + <p> + The little dried-up man was moving slowly up the aisle. As he neared + McCarren he made a slight gesture of recognition. + </p> + <p> + “How’do, Doctor Stell? Pretty slim show, ain’t it?” the reporter + cheerfully flung out at him. And Mr. J. B. Hewson, with a nod of amicable + assent, passed on. + </p> + <p> + Granice sat benumbed. He knew he had not been mistaken—the man who + had just passed was the same man whom Allonby had sent to see him: a + physician disguised as a detective. Allonby, then, had thought him insane, + like the others—had regarded his confession as the maundering of a + maniac. The discovery froze Granice with horror—he seemed to see the + mad-house gaping for him. + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t there a man a good deal like him—a detective named J. B. + Hewson?” + </p> + <p> + But he knew in advance what McCarren’s answer would be. “Hewson? J. B. + Hewson? Never heard of him. But that was J. B. Stell fast enough—I + guess he can be trusted to know himself, and you saw he answered to his + name.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VI + </h2> + <p> + Some days passed before Granice could obtain a word with the District + Attorney: he began to think that Allonby avoided him. + </p> + <p> + But when they were face to face Allonby’s jovial countenance showed no + sign of embarrassment. He waved his visitor to a chair, and leaned across + his desk with the encouraging smile of a consulting physician. + </p> + <p> + Granice broke out at once: “That detective you sent me the other day—” + </p> + <p> + Allonby raised a deprecating hand. + </p> + <p> + “—I know: it was Stell the alienist. Why did you do that, Allonby?” + </p> + <p> + The other’s face did not lose its composure. “Because I looked up your + story first—and there’s nothing in it.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing in it?” Granice furiously interposed. + </p> + <p> + “Absolutely nothing. If there is, why the deuce don’t you bring me proofs? + I know you’ve been talking to Peter Ascham, and to Denver, and to that + little ferret McCarren of the Explorer. Have any of them been able to make + out a case for you? No. Well, what am I to do?” + </p> + <p> + Granice’s lips began to tremble. “Why did you play me that trick?” + </p> + <p> + “About Stell? I had to, my dear fellow: it’s part of my business. Stell <i>is</i> + a detective, if you come to that—every doctor is.” + </p> + <p> + The trembling of Granice’s lips increased, communicating itself in a long + quiver to his facial muscles. He forced a laugh through his dry throat. + “Well—and what did he detect?” + </p> + <p> + “In you? Oh, he thinks it’s overwork—overwork and too much smoking. + If you look in on him some day at his office he’ll show you the record of + hundreds of cases like yours, and advise you what treatment to follow. + It’s one of the commonest forms of hallucination. Have a cigar, all the + same.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Allonby, I killed that man!” + </p> + <p> + The District Attorney’s large hand, outstretched on his desk, had an + almost imperceptible gesture, and a moment later, as if an answer to the + call of an electric bell, a clerk looked in from the outer office. + </p> + <p> + “Sorry, my dear fellow—lot of people waiting. Drop in on Stell some + morning,” Allonby said, shaking hands. + </p> + <p> + McCarren had to own himself beaten: there was absolutely no flaw in the + alibi. And since his duty to his journal obviously forbade his wasting + time on insoluble mysteries, he ceased to frequent Granice, who dropped + back into a deeper isolation. For a day or two after his visit to Allonby + he continued to live in dread of Dr. Stell. Why might not Allonby have + deceived him as to the alienist’s diagnosis? What if he were really being + shadowed, not by a police agent but by a mad-doctor? To have the truth + out, he suddenly determined to call on Dr. Stell. + </p> + <p> + The physician received him kindly, and reverted without embarrassment to + the conditions of their previous meeting. “We have to do that + occasionally, Mr. Granice; it’s one of our methods. And you had given + Allonby a fright.” + </p> + <p> + Granice was silent. He would have liked to reaffirm his guilt, to produce + the fresh arguments which had occurred to him since his last talk with the + physician; but he feared his eagerness might be taken for a symptom of + derangement, and he affected to smile away Dr. Stell’s allusion. + </p> + <p> + “You think, then, it’s a case of brain-fag—nothing more?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing more. And I should advise you to knock off tobacco. You smoke a + good deal, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + He developed his treatment, recommending massage, gymnastics, travel, or + any form of diversion that did not—that in short— + </p> + <p> + Granice interrupted him impatiently. “Oh, I loathe all that—and I’m + sick of travelling.” + </p> + <p> + “H’m. Then some larger interest—politics, reform, philanthropy? + Something to take you out of yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I understand,” said Granice wearily. + </p> + <p> + “Above all, don’t lose heart. I see hundreds of cases like yours,” the + doctor added cheerfully from the threshold. + </p> + <p> + On the doorstep Granice stood still and laughed. Hundreds of cases like + his—the case of a man who had committed a murder, who confessed his + guilt, and whom no one would believe! Why, there had never been a case + like it in the world. What a good figure Stell would have made in a play: + the great alienist who couldn’t read a man’s mind any better than that! + </p> + <p> + Granice saw huge comic opportunities in the type. + </p> + <p> + But as he walked away, his fears dispelled, the sense of listlessness + returned on him. For the first time since his avowal to Peter Ascham he + found himself without an occupation, and understood that he had been + carried through the past weeks only by the necessity of constant action. + Now his life had once more become a stagnant backwater, and as he stood on + the street corner watching the tides of traffic sweep by, he asked himself + despairingly how much longer he could endure to float about in the + sluggish circle of his consciousness. + </p> + <p> + The thought of self-destruction recurred to him; but again his flesh + recoiled. He yearned for death from other hands, but he could never take + it from his own. And, aside from his insuperable physical reluctance, + another motive restrained him. He was possessed by the dogged desire to + establish the truth of his story. He refused to be swept aside as an + irresponsible dreamer—even if he had to kill himself in the end, he + would not do so before proving to society that he had deserved death from + it. + </p> + <p> + He began to write long letters to the papers; but after the first had been + published and commented on, public curiosity was quelled by a brief + statement from the District Attorney’s office, and the rest of his + communications remained unprinted. Ascham came to see him, and begged him + to travel. Robert Denver dropped in, and tried to joke him out of his + delusion; till Granice, mistrustful of their motives, began to dread the + reappearance of Dr. Stell, and set a guard on his lips. But the words he + kept back engendered others and still others in his brain. His inner self + became a humming factory of arguments, and he spent long hours reciting + and writing down elaborate statements of his crime, which he constantly + retouched and developed. Then gradually his activity languished under the + lack of an audience, the sense of being buried beneath deepening drifts of + indifference. In a passion of resentment he swore that he would prove + himself a murderer, even if he had to commit another crime to do it; and + for a sleepless night or two the thought flamed red on his darkness. But + daylight dispelled it. The determining impulse was lacking and he hated + too promiscuously to choose his victim... So he was thrown back on the + unavailing struggle to impose the truth of his story. As fast as one + channel closed on him he tried to pierce another through the sliding sands + of incredulity. But every issue seemed blocked, and the whole human race + leagued together to cheat one man of the right to die. + </p> + <p> + Thus viewed, the situation became so monstrous that he lost his last shred + of self-restraint in contemplating it. What if he were really the victim + of some mocking experiment, the centre of a ring of holiday-makers jeering + at a poor creature in its blind dashes against the solid walls of + consciousness? But, no—men were not so uniformly cruel: there were + flaws in the close surface of their indifference, cracks of weakness and + pity here and there... + </p> + <p> + Granice began to think that his mistake lay in having appealed to persons + more or less familiar with his past, and to whom the visible conformities + of his life seemed a final disproof of its one fierce secret deviation. + The general tendency was to take for the whole of life the slit seen + between the blinders of habit: and in his walk down that narrow vista + Granice cut a correct enough figure. To a vision free to follow his whole + orbit his story would be more intelligible: it would be easier to convince + a chance idler in the street than the trained intelligence hampered by a + sense of his antecedents. This idea shot up in him with the tropic + luxuriance of each new seed of thought, and he began to walk the streets, + and to frequent out-of-the-way chop-houses and bars in his search for the + impartial stranger to whom he should disclose himself. + </p> + <p> + At first every face looked encouragement; but at the crucial moment he + always held back. So much was at stake, and it was so essential that his + first choice should be decisive. He dreaded stupidity, timidity, + intolerance. The imaginative eye, the furrowed brow, were what he sought. + He must reveal himself only to a heart versed in the tortuous motions of + the human will; and he began to hate the dull benevolence of the average + face. Once or twice, obscurely, allusively, he made a beginning—once + sitting down at a man’s side in a basement chop-house, another day + approaching a lounger on an east-side wharf. But in both cases the + premonition of failure checked him on the brink of avowal. His dread of + being taken for a man in the clutch of a fixed idea gave him an unnatural + keenness in reading the expression of his interlocutors, and he had + provided himself in advance with a series of verbal alternatives, + trap-doors of evasion from the first dart of ridicule or suspicion. + </p> + <p> + He passed the greater part of the day in the streets, coming home at + irregular hours, dreading the silence and orderliness of his apartment, + and the critical scrutiny of Flint. His real life was spent in a world so + remote from this familiar setting that he sometimes had the mysterious + sense of a living metempsychosis, a furtive passage from one identity to + another—yet the other as unescapably himself! + </p> + <p> + One humiliation he was spared: the desire to live never revived in him. + Not for a moment was he tempted to a shabby pact with existing conditions. + He wanted to die, wanted it with the fixed unwavering desire which alone + attains its end. And still the end eluded him! It would not always, of + course—he had full faith in the dark star of his destiny. And he + could prove it best by repeating his story, persistently and + indefatigably, pouring it into indifferent ears, hammering it into dull + brains, till at last it kindled a spark, and some one of the careless + millions paused, listened, believed... + </p> + <p> + It was a mild March day, and he had been loitering on the west-side docks, + looking at faces. He was becoming an expert in physiognomies: his + eagerness no longer made rash darts and awkward recoils. He knew now the + face he needed, as clearly as if it had come to him in a vision; and not + till he found it would he speak. As he walked eastward through the shabby + reeking streets he had a premonition that he should find it that morning. + Perhaps it was the promise of spring in the air—certainly he felt + calmer than for many days... + </p> + <p> + He turned into Washington Square, struck across it obliquely, and walked + up University Place. Its heterogeneous passers always allured him—they + were less hurried than in Broadway, less enclosed and classified than in + Fifth Avenue. He walked slowly, watching for his face. + </p> + <p> + At Union Square he felt a sudden relapse into discouragement, like a + votary who has watched too long for a sign from the altar. Perhaps, after + all, he should never find his face... The air was languid, and he felt + tired. He walked between the bald grass-plots and the twisted trees, + making for an empty seat. Presently he passed a bench on which a girl sat + alone, and something as definite as the twitch of a cord made him stop + before her. He had never dreamed of telling his story to a girl, had + hardly looked at the women’s faces as they passed. His case was man’s + work: how could a woman help him? But this girl’s face was extraordinary—quiet + and wide as a clear evening sky. It suggested a hundred images of space, + distance, mystery, like ships he had seen, as a boy, quietly berthed by a + familiar wharf, but with the breath of far seas and strange harbours in + their shrouds... Certainly this girl would understand. He went up to her + quietly, lifting his hat, observing the forms—wishing her to see at + once that he was “a gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + “I am a stranger to you,” he began, sitting down beside her, “but your + face is so extremely intelligent that I feel... I feel it is the face I’ve + waited for... looked for everywhere; and I want to tell you—” + </p> + <p> + The girl’s eyes widened: she rose to her feet. She was escaping him! + </p> + <p> + In his dismay he ran a few steps after her, and caught her roughly by the + arm. + </p> + <p> + “Here—wait—listen! Oh, don’t scream, you fool!” he shouted + out. + </p> + <p> + He felt a hand on his own arm; turned and confronted a policeman. + Instantly he understood that he was being arrested, and something hard + within him was loosened and ran to tears. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you know—you <i>know</i> I’m guilty!” + </p> + <p> + He was conscious that a crowd was forming, and that the girl’s frightened + face had disappeared. But what did he care about her face? It was the + policeman who had really understood him. He turned and followed, the crowd + at his heels... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VII + </h2> + <p> + In the charming place in which he found himself there were so many + sympathetic faces that he felt more than ever convinced of the certainty + of making himself heard. + </p> + <p> + It was a bad blow, at first, to find that he had not been arrested for + murder; but Ascham, who had come to him at once, explained that he needed + rest, and the time to “review” his statements; it appeared that + reiteration had made them a little confused and contradictory. To this end + he had willingly acquiesced in his removal to a large quiet establishment, + with an open space and trees about it, where he had found a number of + intelligent companions, some, like himself, engaged in preparing or + reviewing statements of their cases, and others ready to lend an + interested ear to his own recital. + </p> + <p> + For a time he was content to let himself go on the tranquil current of + this existence; but although his auditors gave him for the most part an + encouraging attention, which, in some, went the length of really brilliant + and helpful suggestion, he gradually felt a recurrence of his old doubts. + Either his hearers were not sincere, or else they had less power to aid + him than they boasted. His interminable conferences resulted in nothing, + and as the benefit of the long rest made itself felt, it produced an + increased mental lucidity which rendered inaction more and more + unbearable. At length he discovered that on certain days visitors from the + outer world were admitted to his retreat; and he wrote out long and + logically constructed relations of his crime, and furtively slipped them + into the hands of these messengers of hope. + </p> + <p> + This occupation gave him a fresh lease of patience, and he now lived only + to watch for the visitors’ days, and scan the faces that swept by him like + stars seen and lost in the rifts of a hurrying sky. + </p> + <p> + Mostly, these faces were strange and less intelligent than those of his + companions. But they represented his last means of access to the world, a + kind of subterranean channel on which he could set his “statements” + afloat, like paper boats which the mysterious current might sweep out into + the open seas of life. + </p> + <p> + One day, however, his attention was arrested by a familiar contour, a pair + of bright prominent eyes, and a chin insufficiently shaved. He sprang up + and stood in the path of Peter McCarren. + </p> + <p> + The journalist looked at him doubtfully, then held out his hand with a + startled deprecating, “<i>Why</i>—?” + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t know me? I’m so changed?” Granice faltered, feeling the + rebound of the other’s wonder. + </p> + <p> + “Why, no; but you’re looking quieter—smoothed out,” McCarren smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Yes: that’s what I’m here for—to rest. And I’ve taken the + opportunity to write out a clearer statement—” + </p> + <p> + Granice’s hand shook so that he could hardly draw the folded paper from + his pocket. As he did so he noticed that the reporter was accompanied by a + tall man with grave compassionate eyes. It came to Granice in a wild + thrill of conviction that this was the face he had waited for... + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps your friend—he <i>is</i> your friend?—would glance over it—or + I could put the case in a few words if you have time?” Granice’s voice + shook like his hand. If this chance escaped him he felt that his last hope + was gone. McCarren and the stranger looked at each other, and the former + glanced at his watch. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry we can’t stay and talk it over now, Mr. Granice; but my friend + has an engagement, and we’re rather pressed—” + </p> + <p> + Granice continued to proffer the paper. “I’m sorry—I think I could + have explained. But you’ll take this, at any rate?” + </p> + <p> + The stranger looked at him gently. “Certainly—I’ll take it.” He had + his hand out. “Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye,” Granice echoed. + </p> + <p> + He stood watching the two men move away from him through the long light + hall; and as he watched them a tear ran down his face. But as soon as they + were out of sight he turned and walked hastily toward his room, beginning + to hope again, already planning a new statement. + </p> + <p> + Outside the building the two men stood still, and the journalist’s + companion looked up curiously at the long monotonous rows of barred + windows. + </p> + <p> + “So that was Granice?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—that was Granice, poor devil,” said McCarren. + </p> + <p> + “Strange case! I suppose there’s never been one just like it? He’s still + absolutely convinced that he committed that murder?” + </p> + <p> + “Absolutely. Yes.” + </p> + <p> + The stranger reflected. “And there was no conceivable ground for the idea? + No one could make out how it started? A quiet conventional sort of fellow + like that—where do you suppose he got such a delusion? Did you ever + get the least clue to it?” + </p> + <p> + McCarren stood still, his hands in his pockets, his head cocked up in + contemplation of the barred windows. Then he turned his bright hard gaze + on his companion. + </p> + <p> + “That was the queer part of it. I’ve never spoken of it—but I <i>did</i> + get a clue.” + </p> + <p> + “By Jove! That’s interesting. What was it?” + </p> + <p> + McCarren formed his red lips into a whistle. “Why—that it wasn’t a + delusion.” + </p> + <p> + He produced his effect—the other turned on him with a pallid stare. + </p> + <p> + “He murdered the man all right. I tumbled on the truth by the merest + accident, when I’d pretty nearly chucked the whole job.” + </p> + <p> + “He murdered him—murdered his cousin?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure as you live. Only don’t split on me. It’s about the queerest + business I ever ran into... <i>Do about it</i>? Why, what was I to do? I couldn’t + hang the poor devil, could I? Lord, but I was glad when they collared him, + and had him stowed away safe in there!” + </p> + <p> + The tall man listened with a grave face, grasping Granice’s statement in + his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Here—take this; it makes me sick,” he said abruptly, thrusting the + paper at the reporter; and the two men turned and walked in silence to the + gates. + </p> + <p> + The End + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DILETTANTE + </h2> + <h3> + As first published in Harper’s Monthly, December 1903 + </h3> + <p> + It was on an impulse hardly needing the arguments he found himself + advancing in its favor, that Thursdale, on his way to the club, turned as + usual into Mrs. Vervain’s street. + </p> + <p> + The “as usual” was his own qualification of the act; a convenient way of + bridging the interval—in days and other sequences—that lay + between this visit and the last. It was characteristic of him that he + instinctively excluded his call two days earlier, with Ruth Gaynor, from + the list of his visits to Mrs. Vervain: the special conditions attending + it had made it no more like a visit to Mrs. Vervain than an engraved + dinner invitation is like a personal letter. Yet it was to talk over his + call with Miss Gaynor that he was now returning to the scene of that + episode; and it was because Mrs. Vervain could be trusted to handle the + talking over as skilfully as the interview itself that, at her corner, he + had felt the dilettante’s irresistible craving to take a last look at a + work of art that was passing out of his possession. + </p> + <p> + On the whole, he knew no one better fitted to deal with the unexpected + than Mrs. Vervain. She excelled in the rare art of taking things for + granted, and Thursdale felt a pardonable pride in the thought that she + owed her excellence to his training. Early in his career Thursdale had + made the mistake, at the outset of his acquaintance with a lady, of + telling her that he loved her and exacting the same avowal in return. The + latter part of that episode had been like the long walk back from a + picnic, when one has to carry all the crockery one has finished using: it + was the last time Thursdale ever allowed himself to be encumbered with the + debris of a feast. He thus incidentally learned that the privilege of + loving her is one of the least favors that a charming woman can accord; + and in seeking to avoid the pitfalls of sentiment he had developed a + science of evasion in which the woman of the moment became a mere + implement of the game. He owed a great deal of delicate enjoyment to the + cultivation of this art. The perils from which it had been his refuge + became naively harmless: was it possible that he who now took his easy way + along the levels had once preferred to gasp on the raw heights of emotion? + Youth is a high-colored season; but he had the satisfaction of feeling + that he had entered earlier than most into that chiar’oscuro of sensation + where every half-tone has its value. + </p> + <p> + As a promoter of this pleasure no one he had known was comparable to Mrs. + Vervain. He had taught a good many women not to betray their feelings, but + he had never before had such fine material to work in. She had been + surprisingly crude when he first knew her; capable of making the most + awkward inferences, of plunging through thin ice, of recklessly undressing + her emotions; but she had acquired, under the discipline of his reticences + and evasions, a skill almost equal to his own, and perhaps more remarkable + in that it involved keeping time with any tune he played and reading at + sight some uncommonly difficult passages. + </p> + <p> + It had taken Thursdale seven years to form this fine talent; but the + result justified the effort. At the crucial moment she had been perfect: + her way of greeting Miss Gaynor had made him regret that he had announced + his engagement by letter. It was an evasion that confessed a difficulty; a + deviation implying an obstacle, where, by common consent, it was agreed to + see none; it betrayed, in short, a lack of confidence in the completeness + of his method. It had been his pride never to put himself in a position + which had to be quitted, as it were, by the back door; but here, as he + perceived, the main portals would have opened for him of their own accord. + All this, and much more, he read in the finished naturalness with which + Mrs. Vervain had met Miss Gaynor. He had never seen a better piece of + work: there was no over-eagerness, no suspicious warmth, above all (and + this gave her art the grace of a natural quality) there were none of those + damnable implications whereby a woman, in welcoming her friend’s + betrothed, may keep him on pins and needles while she laps the lady in + complacency. So masterly a performance, indeed, hardly needed the offset + of Miss Gaynor’s door-step words—“To be so kind to me, how she must + have liked you!”—though he caught himself wishing it lay within the + bounds of fitness to transmit them, as a final tribute, to the one woman + he knew who was unfailingly certain to enjoy a good thing. It was perhaps + the one drawback to his new situation that it might develop good things + which it would be impossible to hand on to Margaret Vervain. + </p> + <p> + The fact that he had made the mistake of underrating his friend’s powers, + the consciousness that his writing must have betrayed his distrust of her + efficiency, seemed an added reason for turning down her street instead of + going on to the club. He would show her that he knew how to value her; he + would ask her to achieve with him a feat infinitely rarer and more + delicate than the one he had appeared to avoid. Incidentally, he would + also dispose of the interval of time before dinner: ever since he had seen + Miss Gaynor off, an hour earlier, on her return journey to Buffalo, he had + been wondering how he should put in the rest of the afternoon. It was + absurd, how he missed the girl.... Yes, that was it; the desire to talk + about her was, after all, at the bottom of his impulse to call on Mrs. + Vervain! It was absurd, if you like—but it was delightfully + rejuvenating. He could recall the time when he had been afraid of being + obvious: now he felt that this return to the primitive emotions might be + as restorative as a holiday in the Canadian woods. And it was precisely by + the girl’s candor, her directness, her lack of complications, that he was + taken. The sense that she might say something rash at any moment was + positively exhilarating: if she had thrown her arms about him at the + station he would not have given a thought to his crumpled dignity. It + surprised Thursdale to find what freshness of heart he brought to the + adventure; and though his sense of irony prevented his ascribing his + intactness to any conscious purpose, he could but rejoice in the fact that + his sentimental economies had left him such a large surplus to draw upon. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Vervain was at home—as usual. When one visits the cemetery one + expects to find the angel on the tombstone, and it struck Thursdale as + another proof of his friend’s good taste that she had been in no undue + haste to change her habits. The whole house appeared to count on his + coming; the footman took his hat and overcoat as naturally as though there + had been no lapse in his visits; and the drawing-room at once enveloped + him in that atmosphere of tacit intelligence which Mrs. Vervain imparted + to her very furniture. + </p> + <p> + It was a surprise that, in this general harmony of circumstances, Mrs. + Vervain should herself sound the first false note. + </p> + <p> + “You?” she exclaimed; and the book she held slipped from her hand. + </p> + <p> + It was crude, certainly; unless it were a touch of the finest art. The + difficulty of classifying it disturbed Thursdale’s balance. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” he said, restoring the book. “Isn’t it my hour?” And as she + made no answer, he added gently, “Unless it’s some one else’s?” + </p> + <p> + She laid the book aside and sank back into her chair. “Mine, merely,” she + said. + </p> + <p> + “I hope that doesn’t mean that you’re unwilling to share it?” + </p> + <p> + “With you? By no means. You’re welcome to my last crust.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her reproachfully. “Do you call this the last?” + </p> + <p> + She smiled as he dropped into the seat across the hearth. “It’s a way of + giving it more flavor!” + </p> + <p> + He returned the smile. “A visit to you doesn’t need such condiments.” + </p> + <p> + She took this with just the right measure of retrospective amusement. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but I want to put into this one a very special taste,” she confessed. + </p> + <p> + Her smile was so confident, so reassuring, that it lulled him into the + imprudence of saying, “Why should you want it to be different from what + was always so perfectly right?” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated. “Doesn’t the fact that it’s the last constitute a + difference?” + </p> + <p> + “The last—my last visit to you?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, metaphorically, I mean—there’s a break in the continuity.” + </p> + <p> + Decidedly, she was pressing too hard: unlearning his arts already! + </p> + <p> + “I don’t recognize it,” he said. “Unless you make me—” he added, + with a note that slightly stirred her attitude of languid attention. + </p> + <p> + She turned to him with grave eyes. “You recognize no difference whatever?” + </p> + <p> + “None—except an added link in the chain.” + </p> + <p> + “An added link?” + </p> + <p> + “In having one more thing to like you for—your letting Miss Gaynor + see why I had already so many.” He flattered himself that this turn had + taken the least hint of fatuity from the phrase. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Vervain sank into her former easy pose. “Was it that you came for?” + she asked, almost gaily. + </p> + <p> + “If it is necessary to have a reason—that was one.” + </p> + <p> + “To talk to me about Miss Gaynor?” + </p> + <p> + “To tell you how she talks about you.” + </p> + <p> + “That will be very interesting—especially if you have seen her since + her second visit to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Her second visit?” Thursdale pushed his chair back with a start and moved + to another. “She came to see you again?” + </p> + <p> + “This morning, yes—by appointment.” + </p> + <p> + He continued to look at her blankly. “You sent for her?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t have to—she wrote and asked me last night. But no doubt + you have seen her since.” + </p> + <p> + Thursdale sat silent. He was trying to separate his words from his + thoughts, but they still clung together inextricably. “I saw her off just + now at the station.” + </p> + <p> + “And she didn’t tell you that she had been here again?” + </p> + <p> + “There was hardly time, I suppose—there were people about—” he + floundered. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, she’ll write, then.” + </p> + <p> + He regained his composure. “Of course she’ll write: very often, I hope. + You know I’m absurdly in love,” he cried audaciously. + </p> + <p> + She tilted her head back, looking up at him as he leaned against the + chimney-piece. He had leaned there so often that the attitude touched a + pulse which set up a throbbing in her throat. “Oh, my poor Thursdale!” she + murmured. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose it’s rather ridiculous,” he owned; and as she remained silent, + he added, with a sudden break—“Or have you another reason for + pitying me?” + </p> + <p> + Her answer was another question. “Have you been back to your rooms since + you left her?” + </p> + <p> + “Since I left her at the station? I came straight here.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes—you <i>could</i>: there was no reason—” Her words passed + into a silent musing. + </p> + <p> + Thursdale moved nervously nearer. “You said you had something to tell me?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I had better let her do so. There may be a letter at your rooms.” + </p> + <p> + “A letter? What do you mean? A letter from <i>her</i>? What has happened?” + </p> + <p> + His paleness shook her, and she raised a hand of reassurance. “Nothing has + happened—perhaps that is just the worst of it. You always <i>hated</i>, you + know,” she added incoherently, “to have things happen: you never would let + them.” + </p> + <p> + “And now—?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that was what she came here for: I supposed you had guessed. To + know if anything had happened.” + </p> + <p> + “Had happened?” He gazed at her slowly. “Between you and me?” he said with + a rush of light. + </p> + <p> + The words were so much cruder than any that had ever passed between them + that the color rose to her face; but she held his startled gaze. + </p> + <p> + “You know girls are not quite as unsophisticated as they used to be. Are + you surprised that such an idea should occur to her?” + </p> + <p> + His own color answered hers: it was the only reply that came to him. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Vervain went on, smoothly: “I supposed it might have struck you that + there were times when we presented that appearance.” + </p> + <p> + He made an impatient gesture. “A man’s past is his own!” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps—it certainly never belongs to the woman who has shared it. + But one learns such truths only by experience; and Miss Gaynor is + naturally inexperienced.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course—but—supposing her act a natural one—” he + floundered lamentably among his innuendoes—“I still don’t see—how + there was anything—” + </p> + <p> + “Anything to take hold of? There wasn’t—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then—?” escaped him, in crude satisfaction; but as she did + not complete the sentence he went on with a faltering laugh: “She can + hardly object to the existence of a mere friendship between us!” + </p> + <p> + “But she does,” said Mrs. Vervain. + </p> + <p> + Thursdale stood perplexed. He had seen, on the previous day, no trace of + jealousy or resentment in his betrothed: he could still hear the candid + ring of the girl’s praise of Mrs. Vervain. If she were such an abyss of + insincerity as to dissemble distrust under such frankness, she must at + least be more subtle than to bring her doubts to her rival for solution. + The situation seemed one through which one could no longer move in a + penumbra, and he let in a burst of light with the direct query: “Won’t you + explain what you mean?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Vervain sat silent, not provokingly, as though to prolong his + distress, but as if, in the attenuated phraseology he had taught her, it + was difficult to find words robust enough to meet his challenge. It was + the first time he had ever asked her to explain anything; and she had + lived so long in dread of offering elucidations which were not wanted, + that she seemed unable to produce one on the spot. + </p> + <p> + At last she said slowly: “She came to find out if you were really free.” + </p> + <p> + Thursdale colored again. “Free?” he stammered, with a sense of physical + disgust at contact with such crassness. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—if I had quite done with you.” She smiled in recovered + security. “It seems she likes clear outlines; she has a passion for + definitions.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—well?” he said, wincing at the echo of his own subtlety. + </p> + <p> + “Well—and when I told her that you had never belonged to me, she + wanted me to define <i>my</i> status—to know exactly where I had stood all + along.” + </p> + <p> + Thursdale sat gazing at her intently; his hand was not yet on the clue. + “And even when you had told her that—” + </p> + <p> + “Even when I had told her that I had <i>had</i> no status—that I had never + stood anywhere, in any sense she meant,” said Mrs. Vervain, slowly—“even + then she wasn’t satisfied, it seems.” + </p> + <p> + He uttered an uneasy exclamation. “She didn’t believe you, you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean that she <i>did</i> believe me: too thoroughly.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then—in God’s name, what did she want?” + </p> + <p> + “Something more—those were the words she used.” + </p> + <p> + “Something more? Between—between you and me? Is it a conundrum?” He + laughed awkwardly. + </p> + <p> + “Girls are not what they were in my day; they are no longer forbidden to + contemplate the relation of the sexes.” + </p> + <p> + “So it seems!” he commented. “But since, in this case, there wasn’t any—” + he broke off, catching the dawn of a revelation in her gaze. + </p> + <p> + “That’s just it. The unpardonable offence has been—in our not + offending.” + </p> + <p> + He flung himself down despairingly. “I give it up!—What did you tell + her?” he burst out with sudden crudeness. + </p> + <p> + “The exact truth. If I had only known,” she broke off with a beseeching + tenderness, “won’t you believe that I would still have lied for you?” + </p> + <p> + “Lied for me? Why on earth should you have lied for either of us?” + </p> + <p> + “To save you—to hide you from her to the last! As I’ve hidden you + from myself all these years!” She stood up with a sudden tragic import in + her movement. “You believe me capable of that, don’t you? If I had only + guessed—but I have never known a girl like her; she had the truth + out of me with a spring.” + </p> + <p> + “The truth that you and I had never—” + </p> + <p> + “Had never—never in all these years! Oh, she knew why—she + measured us both in a flash. She didn’t suspect me of having haggled with + you—her words pelted me like hail. ‘He just took what he wanted—sifted + and sorted you to suit his taste. Burnt out the gold and left a heap of + cinders. And you let him—you let yourself be cut in bits’—she + mixed her metaphors a little—‘be cut in bits, and used or discarded, + while all the while every drop of blood in you belonged to him! But he’s + Shylock—and you have bled to death of the pound of flesh he has cut + out of you.’ But she despises me the most, you know—far the most—” + Mrs. Vervain ended. + </p> + <p> + The words fell strangely on the scented stillness of the room: they seemed + out of harmony with its setting of afternoon intimacy, the kind of + intimacy on which at any moment, a visitor might intrude without + perceptibly lowering the atmosphere. It was as though a grand opera-singer + had strained the acoustics of a private music-room. + </p> + <p> + Thursdale stood up, facing his hostess. Half the room was between them, + but they seemed to stare close at each other now that the veils of + reticence and ambiguity had fallen. + </p> + <p> + His first words were characteristic. “She <i>does</i> despise me, then?” he + exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “She thinks the pound of flesh you took was a little too near the heart.” + </p> + <p> + He was excessively pale. “Please tell me exactly what she said of me.” + </p> + <p> + “She did not speak much of you: she is proud. But I gather that while she + understands love or indifference, her eyes have never been opened to the + many intermediate shades of feeling. At any rate, she expressed an + unwillingness to be taken with reservations—she thinks you would + have loved her better if you had loved some one else first. The point of + view is original—she insists on a man with a past!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, a past—if she’s serious—I could rake up a past!” he said + with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + “So I suggested: but she has her eyes on this particular portion of it. She + insists on making it a test case. She wanted to know what you had done to + me; and before I could guess her drift I blundered into telling her.” + </p> + <p> + Thursdale drew a difficult breath. “I never supposed—your revenge is + complete,” he said slowly. + </p> + <p> + He heard a little gasp in her throat. “My revenge? When I sent for you to + warn you—to save you from being surprised as I was surprised?” + </p> + <p> + “You’re very good—but it’s rather late to talk of saving me.” He + held out his hand in the mechanical gesture of leave-taking. + </p> + <p> + “How you must care!—for I never saw you so dull,” was her answer. + “Don’t you see that it’s not too late for me to help you?” And as he + continued to stare, she brought out sublimely: “Take the rest—in + imagination! Let it at least be of that much use to you. Tell her I lied + to her—she’s too ready to believe it! And so, after all, in a sense, + I sha’n’t have been wasted.” + </p> + <p> + His stare hung on her, widening to a kind of wonder. She gave the look + back brightly, unblushingly, as though the expedient were too simple to + need oblique approaches. It was extraordinary how a few words had swept + them from an atmosphere of the most complex dissimulations to this contact + of naked souls. + </p> + <p> + It was not in Thursdale to expand with the pressure of fate; but something + in him cracked with it, and the rift let in new light. He went up to his + friend and took her hand. + </p> + <p> + “You would do it—you would do it!” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him, smiling, but her hand shook. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by,” he said, kissing it. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by? You are going—?” + </p> + <p> + “To get my letter.” + </p> + <p> + “Your letter? The letter won’t matter, if you will only do what I ask.” + </p> + <p> + He returned her gaze. “I might, I suppose, without being out of character. + Only, don’t you see that if your plan helped me it could only harm her?” + </p> + <p> + “Harm <i>her</i>?” + </p> + <p> + “To sacrifice you wouldn’t make me different. I shall go on being what I + have always been—sifting and sorting, as she calls it. Do you want + my punishment to fall on <i>her</i>?” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him long and deeply. “Ah, if I had to choose between you—!” + </p> + <p> + “You would let her take her chance? But I can’t, you see. I must take my + punishment alone.” + </p> + <p> + She drew her hand away, sighing. “Oh, there will be no punishment for + either of you.” + </p> + <p> + “For either of us? There will be the reading of her letter for me.” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head with a slight laugh. “There will be no letter.” + </p> + <p> + Thursdale faced about from the threshold with fresh life in his look. “No + letter? You don’t mean—” + </p> + <p> + “I mean that she’s been with you since I saw her—she’s seen you and + heard your voice. If there <i>is</i> a letter, she has recalled it—from the + first station, by telegraph.” + </p> + <p> + He turned back to the door, forcing an answer to her smile. “But in the + mean while I shall have read it,” he said. + </p> + <p> + The door closed on him, and she hid her eyes from the dreadful emptiness + of the room. + </p> + <p> + The End + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD HAND + </h2> + <h3> + As first published in Atlantic Monthly, August 1904 + </h3> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + “Above all,” the letter ended, “don’t leave Siena without seeing Doctor + Lombard’s Leonardo. Lombard is a queer old Englishman, a mystic or a + madman (if the two are not synonymous), and a devout student of the + Italian Renaissance. He has lived for years in Italy, exploring its + remotest corners, and has lately picked up an undoubted Leonardo, which + came to light in a farmhouse near Bergamo. It is believed to be one of the + missing pictures mentioned by Vasari, and is at any rate, according to the + most competent authorities, a genuine and almost untouched example of the + best period. + </p> + <p> + “Lombard is a queer stick, and jealous of showing his treasures; but we + struck up a friendship when I was working on the Sodomas in Siena three + years ago, and if you will give him the enclosed line you may get a peep + at the Leonardo. Probably not more than a peep, though, for I hear he + refuses to have it reproduced. I want badly to use it in my monograph on + the Windsor drawings, so please see what you can do for me, and if you + can’t persuade him to let you take a photograph or make a sketch, at least + jot down a detailed description of the picture and get from him all the + facts you can. I hear that the French and Italian governments have offered + him a large advance on his purchase, but that he refuses to sell at any + price, though he certainly can’t afford such luxuries; in fact, I don’t + see where he got enough money to buy the picture. He lives in the Via Papa + Giulio.” + </p> + <p> + Wyant sat at the table d’hote of his hotel, re-reading his friend’s letter + over a late luncheon. He had been five days in Siena without having found + time to call on Doctor Lombard; not from any indifference to the + opportunity presented, but because it was his first visit to the strange + red city and he was still under the spell of its more conspicuous wonders—the + brick palaces flinging out their wrought-iron torch-holders with a gesture + of arrogant suzerainty; the great council-chamber emblazoned with civic + allegories; the pageant of Pope Julius on the Library walls; the Sodomas + smiling balefully through the dusk of mouldering chapels—and it was + only when his first hunger was appeased that he remembered that one course + in the banquet was still untasted. + </p> + <p> + He put the letter in his pocket and turned to leave the room, with a nod + to its only other occupant, an olive-skinned young man with lustrous eyes + and a low collar, who sat on the other side of the table, perusing the + <i>Fanfulla di Domenica</i>. This gentleman, his daily vis-a-vis, returned the + nod with a Latin eloquence of gesture, and Wyant passed on to the + ante-chamber, where he paused to light a cigarette. He was just restoring + the case to his pocket when he heard a hurried step behind him, and the + lustrous-eyed young man advanced through the glass doors of the + dining-room. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me, sir,” he said in measured English, and with an intonation of + exquisite politeness; “you have let this letter fall.” + </p> + <p> + Wyant, recognizing his friend’s note of introduction to Doctor Lombard, + took it with a word of thanks, and was about to turn away when he + perceived that the eyes of his fellow diner remained fixed on him with a + gaze of melancholy interrogation. + </p> + <p> + “Again pardon me,” the young man at length ventured, “but are you by + chance the friend of the illustrious Doctor Lombard?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” returned Wyant, with the instinctive Anglo-Saxon distrust of foreign + advances. Then, fearing to appear rude, he said with a guarded politeness: + “Perhaps, by the way, you can tell me the number of his house. I see it is + not given here.” + </p> + <p> + The young man brightened perceptibly. “The number of the house is + thirteen; but any one can indicate it to you—it is well known in + Siena. It is called,” he continued after a moment, “the House of the Dead + Hand.” + </p> + <p> + Wyant stared. “What a queer name!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “The name comes from an antique hand of marble which for many hundred + years has been above the door.” + </p> + <p> + Wyant was turning away with a gesture of thanks, when the other added: “If + you would have the kindness to ring twice.” + </p> + <p> + “To ring twice?” + </p> + <p> + “At the doctor’s.” The young man smiled. “It is the custom.” + </p> + <p> + It was a dazzling March afternoon, with a shower of sun from the mid-blue, + and a marshalling of slaty clouds behind the umber-colored hills. For + nearly an hour Wyant loitered on the Lizza, watching the shadows race + across the naked landscape and the thunder blacken in the west; then he + decided to set out for the House of the Dead Hand. The map in his + guidebook showed him that the Via Papa Giulio was one of the streets which + radiate from the Piazza, and thither he bent his course, pausing at every + other step to fill his eye with some fresh image of weather-beaten beauty. + The clouds had rolled upward, obscuring the sunshine and hanging like a + funereal baldachin above the projecting cornices of Doctor Lombard’s + street, and Wyant walked for some distance in the shade of the beetling + palace fronts before his eye fell on a doorway surmounted by a sallow + marble hand. He stood for a moment staring up at the strange emblem. The + hand was a woman’s—a dead drooping hand, which hung there convulsed + and helpless, as though it had been thrust forth in denunciation of some + evil mystery within the house, and had sunk struggling into death. + </p> + <p> + A girl who was drawing water from the well in the court said that the + English doctor lived on the first floor, and Wyant, passing through a + glazed door, mounted the damp degrees of a vaulted stairway with a plaster + Æsculapius mouldering in a niche on the landing. Facing the Æsculapius + was another door, and as Wyant put his hand on the bell-rope he remembered + his unknown friend’s injunction, and rang twice. + </p> + <p> + His ring was answered by a peasant woman with a low forehead and small + close-set eyes, who, after a prolonged scrutiny of himself, his card, and + his letter of introduction, left him standing in a high, cold ante-chamber + floored with brick. He heard her wooden pattens click down an interminable + corridor, and after some delay she returned and told him to follow her. + </p> + <p> + They passed through a long saloon, bare as the ante-chamber, but loftily + vaulted, and frescoed with a seventeenth-century Triumph of Scipio or + Alexander—martial figures following Wyant with the filmed melancholy + gaze of shades in limbo. At the end of this apartment he was admitted to a + smaller room, with the same atmosphere of mortal cold, but showing more + obvious signs of occupancy. The walls were covered with tapestry which had + faded to the gray-brown tints of decaying vegetation, so that the young + man felt as though he were entering a sunless autumn wood. Against these + hangings stood a few tall cabinets on heavy gilt feet, and at a table in + the window three persons were seated: an elderly lady who was warming her + hands over a brazier, a girl bent above a strip of needle-work, and an old + man. + </p> + <p> + As the latter advanced toward Wyant, the young man was conscious of + staring with unseemly intentness at his small round-backed figure, dressed + with shabby disorder and surmounted by a wonderful head, lean, vulpine, + eagle-beaked as that of some art-loving despot of the Renaissance: a head + combining the venerable hair and large prominent eyes of the humanist with + the greedy profile of the adventurer. Wyant, in musing on the Italian + portrait-medals of the fifteenth century, had often fancied that only in + that period of fierce individualism could types so paradoxical have been + produced; yet the subtle craftsmen who committed them to the bronze had + never drawn a face more strangely stamped with contradictory passions than + that of Doctor Lombard. + </p> + <p> + “I am glad to see you,” he said to Wyant, extending a hand which seemed a + mere framework held together by knotted veins. “We lead a quiet life here + and receive few visitors, but any friend of Professor Clyde’s is welcome.” + Then, with a gesture which included the two women, he added dryly: “My + wife and daughter often talk of Professor Clyde.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes—he used to make me such nice toast; they don’t understand + toast in Italy,” said Mrs. Lombard in a high plaintive voice. + </p> + <p> + It would have been difficult, from Doctor Lombard’s manner and appearance + to guess his nationality; but his wife was so inconsciently and + ineradicably English that even the silhouette of her cap seemed a protest + against Continental laxities. She was a stout fair woman, with pale cheeks + netted with red lines. A brooch with a miniature portrait sustained a + bogwood watch-chain upon her bosom, and at her elbow lay a heap of + knitting and an old copy of <i>The Queen</i>. + </p> + <p> + The young girl, who had remained standing, was a slim replica of her + mother, with an apple-cheeked face and opaque blue eyes. Her small head + was prodigally laden with braids of dull fair hair, and she might have had + a kind of transient prettiness but for the sullen droop of her round + mouth. It was hard to say whether her expression implied ill-temper or + apathy; but Wyant was struck by the contrast between the fierce vitality + of the doctor’s age and the inanimateness of his daughter’s youth. + </p> + <p> + Seating himself in the chair which his host advanced, the young man tried + to open the conversation by addressing to Mrs. Lombard some random remark + on the beauties of Siena. The lady murmured a resigned assent, and Doctor + Lombard interposed with a smile: “My dear sir, my wife considers Siena a + most salubrious spot, and is favorably impressed by the cheapness of the + marketing; but she deplores the total absence of muffins and cannel coal, + and cannot resign herself to the Italian method of dusting furniture.” + </p> + <p> + “But they don’t, you know—they don’t dust it!” Mrs. Lombard + protested, without showing any resentment of her husband’s manner. + </p> + <p> + “Precisely—they don’t dust it. Since we have lived in Siena we have + not once seen the cobwebs removed from the battlements of the Mangia. Can + you conceive of such housekeeping? My wife has never yet dared to write it + home to her aunts at Bonchurch.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Lombard accepted in silence this remarkable statement of her views, + and her husband, with a malicious smile at Wyant’s embarrassment, planted + himself suddenly before the young man. + </p> + <p> + “And now,” said he, “do you want to see my Leonardo?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Do I</i>?” cried Wyant, on his feet in a flash. + </p> + <p> + The doctor chuckled. “Ah,” he said, with a kind of crooning deliberation, + “that’s the way they all behave—that’s what they all come for.” He + turned to his daughter with another variation of mockery in his smile. + “Don’t fancy it’s for your <i>beaux yeux</i>, my dear; or for the mature charms + of Mrs. Lombard,” he added, glaring suddenly at his wife, who had taken up + her knitting and was softly murmuring over the number of her stitches. + </p> + <p> + Neither lady appeared to notice his pleasantries, and he continued, + addressing himself to Wyant: “They all come—they all come; but many + are called and few are chosen.” His voice sank to solemnity. “While I + live,” he said, “no unworthy eye shall desecrate that picture. But I will + not do my friend Clyde the injustice to suppose that he would send an + unworthy representative. He tells me he wishes a description of the + picture for his book; and you shall describe it to him—if you can.” + </p> + <p> + Wyant hesitated, not knowing whether it was a propitious moment to put in + his appeal for a photograph. + </p> + <p> + “Well, sir,” he said, “you know Clyde wants me to take away all I can of + it.” + </p> + <p> + Doctor Lombard eyed him sardonically. “You’re welcome to take away all you + can carry,” he replied; adding, as he turned to his daughter: “That is, if + he has your permission, Sybilla.” + </p> + <p> + The girl rose without a word, and laying aside her work, took a key from a + secret drawer in one of the cabinets, while the doctor continued in the + same note of grim jocularity: “For you must know that the picture is not + mine—it is my daughter’s.” + </p> + <p> + He followed with evident amusement the surprised glance which Wyant turned + on the young girl’s impassive figure. + </p> + <p> + “Sybilla,” he pursued, “is a votary of the arts; she has inherited her + fond father’s passion for the unattainable. Luckily, however, she also + recently inherited a tidy legacy from her grandmother; and having seen the + Leonardo, on which its discoverer had placed a price far beyond my reach, + she took a step which deserves to go down to history: she invested her + whole inheritance in the purchase of the picture, thus enabling me to + spend my closing years in communion with one of the world’s masterpieces. + My dear sir, could Antigone do more?” + </p> + <p> + The object of this strange eulogy had meanwhile drawn aside one of the + tapestry hangings, and fitted her key into a concealed door. + </p> + <p> + “Come,” said Doctor Lombard, “let us go before the light fails us.” + </p> + <p> + Wyant glanced at Mrs. Lombard, who continued to knit impassively. + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” said his host, “my wife will not come with us. You might not + suspect it from her conversation, but my wife has no feeling for art—Italian + art, that is; for no one is fonder of our early Victorian school.” + </p> + <p> + “Frith’s Railway Station, you know,” said Mrs. Lombard, smiling. “I like + an animated picture.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Lombard, who had unlocked the door, held back the tapestry to let her + father and Wyant pass out; then she followed them down a narrow stone + passage with another door at its end. This door was iron-barred, and Wyant + noticed that it had a complicated patent lock. The girl fitted another key + into the lock, and Doctor Lombard led the way into a small room. The dark + panelling of this apartment was irradiated by streams of yellow light + slanting through the disbanded thunder clouds, and in the central + brightness hung a picture concealed by a curtain of faded velvet. + </p> + <p> + “A little too bright, Sybilla,” said Doctor Lombard. His face had grown + solemn, and his mouth twitched nervously as his daughter drew a linen + drapery across the upper part of the window. + </p> + <p> + “That will do—that will do.” He turned impressively to Wyant. “Do + you see the pomegranate bud in this rug? Place yourself there—keep + your left foot on it, please. And now, Sybilla, draw the cord.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Lombard advanced and placed her hand on a cord hidden behind the + velvet curtain. + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said the doctor, “one moment: I should like you, while looking at + the picture, to have in mind a few lines of verse. Sybilla—” + </p> + <p> + Without the slightest change of countenance, and with a promptness which + proved her to be prepared for the request, Miss Lombard began to recite, + in a full round voice like her mother’s, St. Bernard’s invocation to the + Virgin, in the thirty-third canto of the Paradise. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, my dear,” said her father, drawing a deep breath as she ended. + “That unapproachable combination of vowel sounds prepares one better than + anything I know for the contemplation of the picture.” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke the folds of velvet slowly parted, and the Leonardo appeared + in its frame of tarnished gold: + </p> + <p> + From the nature of Miss Lombard’s recitation Wyant had expected a sacred + subject, and his surprise was therefore great as the composition was + gradually revealed by the widening division of the curtain. + </p> + <p> + In the background a steel-colored river wound through a pale calcareous + landscape; while to the left, on a lonely peak, a crucified Christ hung + livid against indigo clouds. The central figure of the foreground, + however, was that of a woman seated in an antique chair of marble with + bas-reliefs of dancing mænads. Her feet rested on a meadow sprinkled with + minute wild-flowers, and her attitude of smiling majesty recalled that of + Dosso Dossi’s Circe. She wore a red robe, flowing in closely fluted lines + from under a fancifully embroidered cloak. Above her high forehead the + crinkled golden hair flowed sideways beneath a veil; one hand drooped on + the arm of her chair; the other held up an inverted human skull, into + which a young Dionysus, smooth, brown and sidelong as the St. John of the + Louvre, poured a stream of wine from a high-poised flagon. At the lady’s + feet lay the symbols of art and luxury: a flute and a roll of music, a + platter heaped with grapes and roses, the torso of a Greek statuette, and + a bowl overflowing with coins and jewels; behind her, on the chalky + hilltop, hung the crucified Christ. A scroll in a corner of the foreground + bore the legend: <i>Lux Mundi</i>. + </p> + <p> + Wyant, emerging from the first plunge of wonder, turned inquiringly toward + his companions. Neither had moved. Miss Lombard stood with her hand on the + cord, her lids lowered, her mouth drooping; the doctor, his strange + Thoth-like profile turned toward his guest, was still lost in rapt + contemplation of his treasure. + </p> + <p> + Wyant addressed the young girl. + </p> + <p> + “You are fortunate,” he said, “to be the possessor of anything so + perfect.” + </p> + <p> + “It is considered very beautiful,” she said coldly. + </p> + <p> + “Beautiful—<i>beautiful</i>!” the doctor burst out. “Ah, the poor, worn + out, over-worked word! There are no adjectives in the language fresh + enough to describe such pristine brilliancy; all their brightness has been + worn off by misuse. Think of the things that have been called beautiful, + and then look at <i>that</i>!” + </p> + <p> + “It is worthy of a new vocabulary,” Wyant agreed. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Doctor Lombard continued, “my daughter is indeed fortunate. She has + chosen what Catholics call the higher life—the counsel of + perfection. What other private person enjoys the same opportunity of + understanding the master? Who else lives under the same roof with an + untouched masterpiece of Leonardo’s? Think of the happiness of being + always under the influence of such a creation; of living <i>into</i> it; of + partaking of it in daily and hourly communion! This room is a chapel; the + sight of that picture is a sacrament. What an atmosphere for a young life + to unfold itself in! My daughter is singularly blessed. Sybilla, point out + some of the details to Mr. Wyant; I see that he will appreciate them.” + </p> + <p> + The girl turned her dense blue eyes toward Wyant; then, glancing away from + him, she pointed to the canvas. + </p> + <p> + “Notice the modeling of the left hand,” she began in a monotonous voice; + “it recalls the hand of the Mona Lisa. The head of the naked genius will + remind you of that of the St. John of the Louvre, but it is more purely + pagan and is turned a little less to the right. The embroidery on the + cloak is symbolic: you will see that the roots of this plant have burst + through the vase. This recalls the famous definition of Hamlet’s character + in Wilhelm Meister. Here are the mystic rose, the flame, and the serpent, + emblem of eternity. Some of the other symbols we have not yet been able to + decipher.” + </p> + <p> + Wyant watched her curiously; she seemed to be reciting a lesson. + </p> + <p> + “And the picture itself?” he said. “How do you explain that? <i>Lux Mundi</i>—what + a curious device to connect with such a subject! What can it mean?” + </p> + <p> + Miss Lombard dropped her eyes: the answer was evidently not included in + her lesson. + </p> + <p> + “What, indeed?” the doctor interposed. “What does life mean? As one may + define it in a hundred different ways, so one may find a hundred different + meanings in this picture. Its symbolism is as many-faceted as a well-cut + diamond. Who, for instance, is that divine lady? Is it she who is the true + <i>Lux Mundi</i>—the light reflected from jewels and young eyes, from + polished marble and clear waters and statues of bronze? Or is that the + Light of the World, extinguished on yonder stormy hill, and is this lady + the Pride of Life, feasting blindly on the wine of iniquity, with her back + turned to the light which has shone for her in vain? Something of both + these meanings may be traced in the picture; but to me it symbolizes + rather the central truth of existence: that all that is raised in + incorruption is sown in corruption; art, beauty, love, religion; that all + our wine is drunk out of skulls, and poured for us by the mysterious + genius of a remote and cruel past.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor’s face blazed: his bent figure seemed to straighten itself and + become taller. + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” he cried, growing more dithyrambic, “how lightly you ask what it + means! How confidently you expect an answer! Yet here am I who have given + my life to the study of the Renaissance; who have violated its tomb, laid + open its dead body, and traced the course of every muscle, bone, and + artery; who have sucked its very soul from the pages of poets and + humanists; who have wept and believed with Joachim of Flora, smiled and + doubted with Æneas Sylvius Piccolomini; who have patiently followed to + its source the least inspiration of the masters, and groped in neolithic + caverns and Babylonian ruins for the first unfolding tendrils of the + arabesques of Mantegna and Crivelli; and I tell you that I stand abashed + and ignorant before the mystery of this picture. It means nothing—it + means all things. It may represent the period which saw its creation; it + may represent all ages past and to come. There are volumes of meaning in + the tiniest emblem on the lady’s cloak; the blossoms of its border are + rooted in the deepest soil of myth and tradition. Don’t ask what it means, + young man, but bow your head in thankfulness for having seen it!” + </p> + <p> + Miss Lombard laid her hand on his arm. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t excite yourself, father,” she said in the detached tone of a + professional nurse. + </p> + <p> + He answered with a despairing gesture. “Ah, it’s easy for you to talk. You + have years and years to spend with it; I am an old man, and every moment + counts!” + </p> + <p> + “It’s bad for you,” she repeated with gentle obstinacy. + </p> + <p> + The doctor’s sacred fury had in fact burnt itself out. He dropped into a + seat with dull eyes and slackening lips, and his daughter drew the curtain + across the picture. + </p> + <p> + Wyant turned away reluctantly. He felt that his opportunity was slipping + from him, yet he dared not refer to Clyde’s wish for a photograph. He now + understood the meaning of the laugh with which Doctor Lombard had given + him leave to carry away all the details he could remember. The picture was + so dazzling, so unexpected, so crossed with elusive and contradictory + suggestions, that the most alert observer, when placed suddenly before it, + must lose his coordinating faculty in a sense of confused wonder. Yet how + valuable to Clyde the record of such a work would be! In some ways it + seemed to be the summing up of the master’s thought, the key to his + enigmatic philosophy. + </p> + <p> + The doctor had risen and was walking slowly toward the door. His daughter + unlocked it, and Wyant followed them back in silence to the room in which + they had left Mrs. Lombard. That lady was no longer there, and he could + think of no excuse for lingering. + </p> + <p> + He thanked the doctor, and turned to Miss Lombard, who stood in the middle + of the room as though awaiting farther orders. + </p> + <p> + “It is very good of you,” he said, “to allow one even a glimpse of such a + treasure.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him with her odd directness. “You will come again?” she said + quickly; and turning to her father she added: “You know what Professor + Clyde asked. This gentleman cannot give him any account of the picture + without seeing it again.” + </p> + <p> + Doctor Lombard glanced at her vaguely; he was still like a person in a + trance. + </p> + <p> + “Eh?” he said, rousing himself with an effort. + </p> + <p> + “I said, father, that Mr. Wyant must see the picture again if he is to + tell Professor Clyde about it,” Miss Lombard repeated with extraordinary + precision of tone. + </p> + <p> + Wyant was silent. He had the puzzled sense that his wishes were being + divined and gratified for reasons with which he was in no way connected. + </p> + <p> + “Well, well,” the doctor muttered, “I don’t say no—I don’t say no. I + know what Clyde wants—I don’t refuse to help him.” He turned to + Wyant. “You may come again—you may make notes,” he added with a + sudden effort. “Jot down what occurs to you. I’m willing to concede that.” + </p> + <p> + Wyant again caught the girl’s eye, but its emphatic message perplexed him. + </p> + <p> + “You’re very good,” he said tentatively, “but the fact is the picture is + so mysterious—so full of complicated detail—that I’m afraid no + notes I could make would serve Clyde’s purpose as well as—as a + photograph, say. If you would allow me—” + </p> + <p> + Miss Lombard’s brow darkened, and her father raised his head furiously. + </p> + <p> + “A photograph? A photograph, did you say? Good God, man, not ten people + have been allowed to set foot in that room! A <i>photograph</i>?” + </p> + <p> + Wyant saw his mistake, but saw also that he had gone too far to retreat. + </p> + <p> + “I know, sir, from what Clyde has told me, that you object to having any + reproduction of the picture published; but he hoped you might let me take + a photograph for his personal use—not to be reproduced in his book, + but simply to give him something to work by. I should take the photograph + myself, and the negative would of course be yours. If you wished it, only + one impression would be struck off, and that one Clyde could return to you + when he had done with it.” + </p> + <p> + Doctor Lombard interrupted him with a snarl. “When he had done with it? + Just so: I thank thee for that word! When it had been re-photographed, + drawn, traced, autotyped, passed about from hand to hand, defiled by every + ignorant eye in England, vulgarized by the blundering praise of every + art-scribbler in Europe! Bah! I’d as soon give you the picture itself: why + don’t you ask for that?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, sir,” said Wyant calmly, “if you will trust me with it, I’ll engage + to take it safely to England and back, and to let no eye but Clyde’s see + it while it is out of your keeping.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor received this remarkable proposal in silence; then he burst + into a laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Upon my soul!” he said with sardonic good humor. + </p> + <p> + It was Miss Lombard’s turn to look perplexedly at Wyant. His last words + and her father’s unexpected reply had evidently carried her beyond her + depth. + </p> + <p> + “Well, sir, am I to take the picture?” Wyant smilingly pursued. + </p> + <p> + “No, young man; nor a photograph of it. Nor a sketch, either; mind that,—nothing + that can be reproduced. Sybilla,” he cried with sudden passion, “swear to + me that the picture shall never be reproduced! No photograph, no sketch—now + or afterward. Do you hear me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, father,” said the girl quietly. + </p> + <p> + “The vandals,” he muttered, “the desecrators of beauty; if I thought it + would ever get into their hands I’d burn it first, by God!” He turned to + Wyant, speaking more quietly. “I said you might come back—I never + retract what I say. But you must give me your word that no one but Clyde + shall see the notes you make.” + </p> + <p> + Wyant was growing warm. + </p> + <p> + “If you won’t trust me with a photograph I wonder you trust me not to show + my notes!” he exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + The doctor looked at him with a malicious smile. + </p> + <p> + “Humph!” he said; “would they be of much use to anybody?” + </p> + <p> + Wyant saw that he was losing ground and controlled his impatience. + </p> + <p> + “To Clyde, I hope, at any rate,” he answered, holding out his hand. The + doctor shook it without a trace of resentment, and Wyant added: “When + shall I come, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow—to-morrow morning,” cried Miss Lombard, speaking + suddenly. + </p> + <p> + She looked fixedly at her father, and he shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “The picture is hers,” he said to Wyant. + </p> + <p> + In the ante-chamber the young man was met by the woman who had admitted + him. She handed him his hat and stick, and turned to unbar the door. As + the bolt slipped back he felt a touch on his arm. + </p> + <p> + “You have a letter?” she said in a low tone. + </p> + <p> + “A letter?” He stared. “What letter?” + </p> + <p> + She shrugged her shoulders, and drew back to let him pass. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + As Wyant emerged from the house he paused once more to glance up at its + scarred brick facade. The marble hand drooped tragically above the + entrance: in the waning light it seemed to have relaxed into the + passiveness of despair, and Wyant stood musing on its hidden meaning. But + the Dead Hand was not the only mysterious thing about Doctor Lombard’s + house. What were the relations between Miss Lombard and her father? Above + all, between Miss Lombard and her picture? She did not look like a person + capable of a disinterested passion for the arts; and there had been + moments when it struck Wyant that she hated the picture. + </p> + <p> + The sky at the end of the street was flooded with turbulent yellow light, + and the young man turned his steps toward the church of San Domenico, in + the hope of catching the lingering brightness on Sodoma’s St. Catherine. + </p> + <p> + The great bare aisles were almost dark when he entered, and he had to + grope his way to the chapel steps. Under the momentary evocation of the + sunset, the saint’s figure emerged pale and swooning from the dusk, and + the warm light gave a sensual tinge to her ecstasy. The flesh seemed to + glow and heave, the eyelids to tremble; Wyant stood fascinated by the + accidental collaboration of light and color. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly he noticed that something white had fluttered to the ground at + his feet. He stooped and picked up a small thin sheet of note-paper, + folded and sealed like an old-fashioned letter, and bearing the + superscription:— + </p> + <p> + To the Count Ottaviano Celsi. + </p> + <p> + Wyant stared at this mysterious document. Where had it come from? He was + distinctly conscious of having seen it fall through the air, close to his + feet. He glanced up at the dark ceiling of the chapel; then he turned and + looked about the church. There was only one figure in it, that of a man + who knelt near the high altar. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Wyant recalled the question of Doctor Lombard’s maid-servant. Was + this the letter she had asked for? Had he been unconsciously carrying it + about with him all the afternoon? Who was Count Ottaviano Celsi, and how + came Wyant to have been chosen to act as that nobleman’s ambulant + letter-box? + </p> + <p> + Wyant laid his hat and stick on the chapel steps and began to explore his + pockets, in the irrational hope of finding there some clue to the mystery; + but they held nothing which he had not himself put there, and he was + reduced to wondering how the letter, supposing some unknown hand to have + bestowed it on him, had happened to fall out while he stood motionless + before the picture. + </p> + <p> + At this point he was disturbed by a step on the floor of the aisle, and + turning, he saw his lustrous-eyed neighbor of the table d’hote. + </p> + <p> + The young man bowed and waved an apologetic hand. + </p> + <p> + “I do not intrude?” he inquired suavely. + </p> + <p> + Without waiting for a reply, he mounted the steps of the chapel, glancing + about him with the affable air of an afternoon caller. + </p> + <p> + “I see,” he remarked with a smile, “that you know the hour at which our + saint should be visited.” + </p> + <p> + Wyant agreed that the hour was indeed felicitous. + </p> + <p> + The stranger stood beamingly before the picture. + </p> + <p> + “What grace! What poetry!” he murmured, apostrophizing the St. Catherine, + but letting his glance slip rapidly about the chapel as he spoke. + </p> + <p> + Wyant, detecting the manoeuvre, murmured a brief assent. + </p> + <p> + “But it is cold here—mortally cold; you do not find it so?” The + intruder put on his hat. “It is permitted at this hour—when the + church is empty. And you, my dear sir—do you not feel the dampness? + You are an artist, are you not? And to artists it is permitted to cover + the head when they are engaged in the study of the paintings.” + </p> + <p> + He darted suddenly toward the steps and bent over Wyant’s hat. + </p> + <p> + “Permit me—cover yourself!” he said a moment later, holding out the + hat with an ingratiating gesture. + </p> + <p> + A light flashed on Wyant. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps,” he said, looking straight at the young man, “you will tell me + your name. My own is Wyant.” + </p> + <p> + The stranger, surprised, but not disconcerted, drew forth a coroneted + card, which he offered with a low bow. On the card was engraved:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Il Conte Ottaviano Celsi. +</pre> + <p> + “I am much obliged to you,” said Wyant; “and I may as well tell you that + the letter which you apparently expected to find in the lining of my hat + is not there, but in my pocket.” + </p> + <p> + He drew it out and handed it to its owner, who had grown very pale. + </p> + <p> + “And now,” Wyant continued, “you will perhaps be good enough to tell me + what all this means.” + </p> + <p> + There was no mistaking the effect produced on Count Ottaviano by this + request. His lips moved, but he achieved only an ineffectual smile. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you know,” Wyant went on, his anger rising at the sight of the + other’s discomfiture, “that you have taken an unwarrantable liberty. I + don’t yet understand what part I have been made to play, but it’s evident + that you have made use of me to serve some purpose of your own, and I + propose to know the reason why.” + </p> + <p> + Count Ottaviano advanced with an imploring gesture. + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” he pleaded, “you permit me to speak?” + </p> + <p> + “I expect you to,” cried Wyant. “But not here,” he added, hearing the + clank of the verger’s keys. “It is growing dark, and we shall be turned + out in a few minutes.” + </p> + <p> + He walked across the church, and Count Ottaviano followed him out into the + deserted square. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” said Wyant, pausing on the steps. + </p> + <p> + The Count, who had regained some measure of self-possession, began to + speak in a high key, with an accompaniment of conciliatory gesture. + </p> + <p> + “My dear sir—my dear Mr. Wyant—you find me in an abominable + position—that, as a man of honor, I immediately confess. I have + taken advantage of you—yes! I have counted on your amiability, your + chivalry—too far, perhaps? I confess it! But what could I do? It was + to oblige a lady”—he laid a hand on his heart—“a lady whom I + would die to serve!” He went on with increasing volubility, his deliberate + English swept away by a torrent of Italian, through which Wyant, with some + difficulty, struggled to a comprehension of the case. + </p> + <p> + Count Ottaviano, according to his own statement, had come to Siena some + months previously, on business connected with his mother’s property; the + paternal estate being near Orvieto, of which ancient city his father was + syndic. Soon after his arrival in Siena the young Count had met the + incomparable daughter of Doctor Lombard, and falling deeply in love with + her, had prevailed on his parents to ask her hand in marriage. Doctor + Lombard had not opposed his suit, but when the question of settlements + arose it became known that Miss Lombard, who was possessed of a small + property in her own right, had a short time before invested the whole + amount in the purchase of the Bergamo Leonardo. Thereupon Count + Ottaviano’s parents had politely suggested that she should sell the + picture and thus recover her independence; and this proposal being met by + a curt refusal from Doctor Lombard, they had withdrawn their consent to + their son’s marriage. The young lady’s attitude had hitherto been one of + passive submission; she was horribly afraid of her father, and would never + venture openly to oppose him; but she had made known to Ottaviano her + intention of not giving him up, of waiting patiently till events should + take a more favorable turn. She seemed hardly aware, the Count said with a + sigh, that the means of escape lay in her own hands; that she was of age, + and had a right to sell the picture, and to marry without asking her + father’s consent. Meanwhile her suitor spared no pains to keep himself + before her, to remind her that he, too, was waiting and would never give + her up. + </p> + <p> + Doctor Lombard, who suspected the young man of trying to persuade Sybilla + to sell the picture, had forbidden the lovers to meet or to correspond; + they were thus driven to clandestine communication, and had several times, + the Count ingenuously avowed, made use of the doctor’s visitors as a means + of exchanging letters. + </p> + <p> + “And you told the visitors to ring twice?” Wyant interposed. + </p> + <p> + The young man extended his hands in a deprecating gesture. Could Mr. Wyant + blame him? He was young, he was ardent, he was enamored! The young lady + had done him the supreme honor of avowing her attachment, of pledging her + unalterable fidelity; should he suffer his devotion to be outdone? But his + purpose in writing to her, he admitted, was not merely to reiterate his + fidelity; he was trying by every means in his power to induce her to sell + the picture. He had organized a plan of action; every detail was complete; + if she would but have the courage to carry out his instructions he would + answer for the result. His idea was that she should secretly retire to a + convent of which his aunt was the Mother Superior, and from that + stronghold should transact the sale of the Leonardo. He had a purchaser + ready, who was willing to pay a large sum; a sum, Count Ottaviano + whispered, considerably in excess of the young lady’s original + inheritance; once the picture sold, it could, if necessary, be removed by + force from Doctor Lombard’s house, and his daughter, being safely in the + convent, would be spared the painful scenes incidental to the removal. + Finally, if Doctor Lombard were vindictive enough to refuse his consent to + her marriage, she had only to make a <i>sommation respectueuse</i>, and at the + end of the prescribed delay no power on earth could prevent her becoming + the wife of Count Ottaviano. + </p> + <p> + Wyant’s anger had fallen at the recital of this simple romance. It was + absurd to be angry with a young man who confided his secrets to the first + stranger he met in the streets, and placed his hand on his heart whenever + he mentioned the name of his betrothed. The easiest way out of the + business was to take it as a joke. Wyant had played the wall to this new + Pyramus and Thisbe, and was philosophic enough to laugh at the part he had + unwittingly performed. + </p> + <p> + He held out his hand with a smile to Count Ottaviano. + </p> + <p> + “I won’t deprive you any longer,” he said, “of the pleasure of reading + your letter.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, sir, a thousand thanks! And when you return to the casa Lombard, you + will take a message from me—the letter she expected this afternoon?” + </p> + <p> + “The letter she expected?” Wyant paused. “No, thank you. I thought you + understood that where I come from we don’t do that kind of thing—knowingly.” + </p> + <p> + “But, sir, to serve a young lady!” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry for the young lady, if what you tell me is true”—the + Count’s expressive hands resented the doubt—“but remember that if I + am under obligations to any one in this matter, it is to her father, who + has admitted me to his house and has allowed me to see his picture.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>His</i> picture? Hers!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, the house is his, at all events.” + </p> + <p> + “Unhappily—since to her it is a dungeon!” + </p> + <p> + “Why doesn’t she leave it, then?” exclaimed Wyant impatiently. + </p> + <p> + The Count clasped his hands. “Ah, how you say that—with what force, + with what virility! If you would but say it to <i>her</i> in that tone—you, + her countryman! She has no one to advise her; the mother is an idiot; the + father is terrible; she is in his power; it is my belief that he would + kill her if she resisted him. Mr. Wyant, I tremble for her life while she + remains in that house!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, come,” said Wyant lightly, “they seem to understand each other well + enough. But in any case, you must see that I can’t interfere—at + least you would if you were an Englishman,” he added with an escape of + contempt. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <p> + Wyant’s affiliations in Siena being restricted to an acquaintance with his + land-lady, he was forced to apply to her for the verification of Count + Ottaviano’s story. + </p> + <p> + The young nobleman had, it appeared, given a perfectly correct account of + his situation. His father, Count Celsi-Mongirone, was a man of + distinguished family and some wealth. He was syndic of Orvieto, and lived + either in that town or on his neighboring estate of Mongirone. His wife + owned a large property near Siena, and Count Ottaviano, who was the second + son, came there from time to time to look into its management. The eldest + son was in the army, the youngest in the Church; and an aunt of Count + Ottaviano’s was Mother Superior of the Visitandine convent in Siena. At + one time it had been said that Count Ottaviano, who was a most amiable and + accomplished young man, was to marry the daughter of the strange + Englishman, Doctor Lombard, but difficulties having arisen as to the + adjustment of the young lady’s dower, Count Celsi-Mongirone had very + properly broken off the match. It was sad for the young man, however, who + was said to be deeply in love, and to find frequent excuses for coming to + Siena to inspect his mother’s estate. + </p> + <p> + Viewed in the light of Count Ottaviano’s personality the story had a tinge + of opera bouffe; but the next morning, as Wyant mounted the stairs of the + House of the Dead Hand, the situation insensibly assumed another aspect. + It was impossible to take Doctor Lombard lightly; and there was a + suggestion of fatality in the appearance of his gaunt dwelling. Who could + tell amid what tragic records of domestic tyranny and fluttering broken + purposes the little drama of Miss Lombard’s fate was being played out? + Might not the accumulated influences of such a house modify the lives + within it in a manner unguessed by the inmates of a suburban villa with + sanitary plumbing and a telephone? + </p> + <p> + One person, at least, remained unperturbed by such fanciful problems; and + that was Mrs. Lombard, who, at Wyant’s entrance, raised a placidly + wrinkled brow from her knitting. The morning was mild, and her chair had + been wheeled into a bar of sunshine near the window, so that she made a + cheerful spot of prose in the poetic gloom of her surroundings. + </p> + <p> + “What a nice morning!” she said; “it must be delightful weather at + Bonchurch.” + </p> + <p> + Her dull blue glance wandered across the narrow street with its + threatening house fronts, and fluttered back baffled, like a bird with + clipped wings. It was evident, poor lady, that she had never seen beyond + the opposite houses. + </p> + <p> + Wyant was not sorry to find her alone. Seeing that she was surprised at + his reappearance he said at once: “I have come back to study Miss + Lombard’s picture.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the picture—” Mrs. Lombard’s face expressed a gentle + disappointment, which might have been boredom in a person of acuter + sensibilities. “It’s an original Leonardo, you know,” she said + mechanically. + </p> + <p> + “And Miss Lombard is very proud of it, I suppose? She seems to have + inherited her father’s love for art.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Lombard counted her stitches, and he went on: “It’s unusual in so + young a girl. Such tastes generally develop later.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Lombard looked up eagerly. “That’s what I say! I was quite different + at her age, you know. I liked dancing, and doing a pretty bit of + fancy-work. Not that I couldn’t sketch, too; I had a master down from + London. My aunts have some of my crayons hung up in their drawing-room now—I + did a view of Kenilworth which was thought pleasing. But I liked a picnic, + too, or a pretty walk through the woods with young people of my own age. I + say it’s more natural, Mr. Wyant; one may have a feeling for art, and do + crayons that are worth framing, and yet not give up everything else. I was + taught that there were other things.” + </p> + <p> + Wyant, half-ashamed of provoking these innocent confidences, could not + resist another question. “And Miss Lombard cares for nothing else?” + </p> + <p> + Her mother looked troubled. + </p> + <p> + “Sybilla is so clever—she says I don’t understand. You know how + self-confident young people are! My husband never said that of me, now—he + knows I had an excellent education. My aunts were very particular; I was + brought up to have opinions, and my husband has always respected them. He + says himself that he wouldn’t for the world miss hearing my opinion on any + subject; you may have noticed that he often refers to my tastes. He has + always respected my preference for living in England; he likes to hear me + give my reasons for it. He is so much interested in my ideas that he often + says he knows just what I am going to say before I speak. But Sybilla does + not care for what I think—” + </p> + <p> + At this point Doctor Lombard entered. He glanced sharply at Wyant. “The + servant is a fool; she didn’t tell me you were here.” His eye turned to + his wife. “Well, my dear, what have you been telling Mr. Wyant? About the + aunts at Bonchurch, I’ll be bound!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Lombard looked triumphantly at Wyant, and her husband rubbed his + hooked fingers, with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Lombard’s aunts are very superior women. They subscribe to the + circulating library, and borrow Good Words and the Monthly Packet from the + curate’s wife across the way. They have the rector to tea twice a year, + and keep a page-boy, and are visited by two baronets’ wives. They devoted + themselves to the education of their orphan niece, and I think I may say + without boasting that Mrs. Lombard’s conversation shows marked traces of + the advantages she enjoyed.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Lombard colored with pleasure. + </p> + <p> + “I was telling Mr. Wyant that my aunts were very particular.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite so, my dear; and did you mention that they never sleep in anything + but linen, and that Miss Sophia puts away the furs and blankets every + spring with her own hands? Both those facts are interesting to the student + of human nature.” Doctor Lombard glanced at his watch. “But we are missing + an incomparable moment; the light is perfect at this hour.” + </p> + <p> + Wyant rose, and the doctor led him through the tapestried door and down + the passageway. + </p> + <p> + The light was, in fact, perfect, and the picture shone with an inner + radiancy, as though a lamp burned behind the soft screen of the lady’s + flesh. Every detail of the foreground detached itself with jewel-like + precision. Wyant noticed a dozen accessories which had escaped him on the + previous day. + </p> + <p> + He drew out his note-book, and the doctor, who had dropped his sardonic + grin for a look of devout contemplation, pushed a chair forward, and + seated himself on a carved settle against the wall. + </p> + <p> + “Now, then,” he said, “tell Clyde what you can; but the letter killeth.” + </p> + <p> + He sank down, his hands hanging on the arm of the settle like the claws of + a dead bird, his eyes fixed on Wyant’s notebook with the obvious intention + of detecting any attempt at a surreptitious sketch. + </p> + <p> + Wyant, nettled at this surveillance, and disturbed by the speculations + which Doctor Lombard’s strange household excited, sat motionless for a few + minutes, staring first at the picture and then at the blank pages of the + note-book. The thought that Doctor Lombard was enjoying his discomfiture + at length roused him, and he began to write. + </p> + <p> + He was interrupted by a knock on the iron door. Doctor Lombard rose to + unlock it, and his daughter entered. + </p> + <p> + She bowed hurriedly to Wyant, without looking at him. + </p> + <p> + “Father, had you forgotten that the man from Monte Amiato was to come back + this morning with an answer about the bas-relief? He is here now; he says + he can’t wait.” + </p> + <p> + “The devil!” cried her father impatiently. “Didn’t you tell him—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but he says he can’t come back. If you want to see him you must come + now.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you think there’s a chance?—” + </p> + <p> + She nodded. + </p> + <p> + He turned and looked at Wyant, who was writing assiduously. + </p> + <p> + “You will stay here, Sybilla; I shall be back in a moment.” + </p> + <p> + He hurried out, locking the door behind him. + </p> + <p> + Wyant had looked up, wondering if Miss Lombard would show any surprise at + being locked in with him; but it was his turn to be surprised, for hardly + had they heard the key withdrawn when she moved close to him, her small + face pale and tumultuous. + </p> + <p> + “I arranged it—I must speak to you,” she gasped. “He’ll be back in + five minutes.” + </p> + <p> + Her courage seemed to fail, and she looked at him helplessly. + </p> + <p> + Wyant had a sense of stepping among explosives. He glanced about him at + the dusky vaulted room, at the haunting smile of the strange picture + overhead, and at the pink-and-white girl whispering of conspiracies in a + voice meant to exchange platitudes with a curate. + </p> + <p> + “How can I help you?” he said with a rush of compassion. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, if you would! I never have a chance to speak to any one; it’s so + difficult—he watches me—he’ll be back immediately.” + </p> + <p> + “Try to tell me what I can do.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t dare; I feel as if he were behind me.” She turned away, fixing + her eyes on the picture. A sound startled her. “There he comes, and I + haven’t spoken! It was my only chance; but it bewilders me so to be + hurried.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t hear any one,” said Wyant, listening. “Try to tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “How can I make you understand? It would take so long to explain.” She + drew a deep breath, and then with a plunge—“Will you come here again + this afternoon—at about five?” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + “Come here again?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—you can ask to see the picture,—make some excuse. He will + come with you, of course; I will open the door for you—and—and + lock you both in”—she gasped. + </p> + <p> + “Lock us in?” + </p> + <p> + “You see? You understand? It’s the only way for me to leave the house—if + I am ever to do it”—She drew another difficult breath. “The key will + be returned—by a safe person—in half an hour,—perhaps + sooner—” + </p> + <p> + She trembled so much that she was obliged to lean against the settle for + support. + </p> + <p> + “Wyant looked at her steadily; he was very sorry for her. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t, Miss Lombard,” he said at length. + </p> + <p> + “You can’t?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry; I must seem cruel; but consider—” + </p> + <p> + He was stopped by the futility of the word: as well ask a hunted rabbit to + pause in its dash for a hole! + </p> + <p> + Wyant took her hand; it was cold and nerveless. + </p> + <p> + “I will serve you in any way I can; but you must see that this way is + impossible. Can’t I talk to you again? Perhaps—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” she cried, starting up, “there he comes!” + </p> + <p> + Doctor Lombard’s step sounded in the passage. + </p> + <p> + Wyant held her fast. “Tell me one thing: he won’t let you sell the + picture?” + </p> + <p> + “No—hush!” + </p> + <p> + “Make no pledges for the future, then; promise me that.” + </p> + <p> + “The future?” + </p> + <p> + “In case he should die: your father is an old man. You haven’t promised?” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t, then; remember that.” + </p> + <p> + She made no answer, and the key turned in the lock. + </p> + <p> + As he passed out of the house, its scowling cornice and facade of ravaged + brick looked down on him with the startlingness of a strange face, seen + momentarily in a crowd, and impressing itself on the brain as part of an + inevitable future. Above the doorway, the marble hand reached out like the + cry of an imprisoned anguish. + </p> + <p> + Wyant turned away impatiently. + </p> + <p> + “Rubbish!” he said to himself. “<i>She</i> isn’t walled in; she can get out if + she wants to.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV + </h2> + <p> + Wyant had any number of plans for coming to Miss Lombard’s aid: he was + elaborating the twentieth when, on the same afternoon, he stepped into the + express train for Florence. By the time the train reached Certaldo he was + convinced that, in thus hastening his departure, he had followed the only + reasonable course; at Empoli, he began to reflect that the priest and the + Levite had probably justified themselves in much the same manner. + </p> + <p> + A month later, after his return to England, he was unexpectedly relieved + from these alternatives of extenuation and approval. A paragraph in the + morning paper announced the sudden death of Doctor Lombard, the + distinguished English dilettante who had long resided in Siena. Wyant’s + justification was complete. Our blindest impulses become evidence of + perspicacity when they fall in with the course of events. + </p> + <p> + Wyant could now comfortably speculate on the particular complications from + which his foresight had probably saved him. The climax was unexpectedly + dramatic. Miss Lombard, on the brink of a step which, whatever its issue, + would have burdened her with retrospective compunction, had been set free + before her suitor’s ardor could have had time to cool, and was now + doubtless planning a life of domestic felicity on the proceeds of the + Leonardo. One thing, however, struck Wyant as odd—he saw no mention + of the sale of the picture. He had scanned the papers for an immediate + announcement of its transfer to one of the great museums; but presently + concluding that Miss Lombard, out of filial piety, had wished to avoid an + appearance of unseemly haste in the disposal of her treasure, he dismissed + the matter from his mind. Other affairs happened to engage him; the months + slipped by, and gradually the lady and the picture dwelt less vividly in + his mind. + </p> + <p> + It was not till five or six years later, when chance took him again to + Siena, that the recollection started from some inner fold of memory. He + found himself, as it happened, at the head of Doctor Lombard’s street, and + glancing down that grim thoroughfare, caught an oblique glimpse of the + doctor’s house front, with the Dead Hand projecting above its threshold. + The sight revived his interest, and that evening, over an admirable + frittata, he questioned his landlady about Miss Lombard’s marriage. + </p> + <p> + “The daughter of the English doctor? But she has never married, signore.” + </p> + <p> + “Never married? What, then, became of Count Ottaviano?” + </p> + <p> + “For a long time he waited; but last year he married a noble lady of the + Maremma.” + </p> + <p> + “But what happened—why was the marriage broken?” + </p> + <p> + The landlady enacted a pantomime of baffled interrogation. + </p> + <p> + “And Miss Lombard still lives in her father’s house?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, signore; she is still there.” + </p> + <p> + “And the Leonardo—” + </p> + <p> + “The Leonardo, also, is still there.” + </p> + <p> + The next day, as Wyant entered the House of the Dead Hand, he remembered + Count Ottaviano’s injunction to ring twice, and smiled mournfully to think + that so much subtlety had been vain. But what could have prevented the + marriage? If Doctor Lombard’s death had been long delayed, time might have + acted as a dissolvent, or the young lady’s resolve have failed; but it + seemed impossible that the white heat of ardor in which Wyant had left the + lovers should have cooled in a few short weeks. + </p> + <p> + As he ascended the vaulted stairway the atmosphere of the place seemed a + reply to his conjectures. The same numbing air fell on him, like an + emanation from some persistent will-power, a something fierce and imminent + which might reduce to impotence every impulse within its range. Wyant + could almost fancy a hand on his shoulder, guiding him upward with the + ironical intent of confronting him with the evidence of its work. + </p> + <p> + A strange servant opened the door, and he was presently introduced to the + tapestried room, where, from their usual seats in the window, Mrs. Lombard + and her daughter advanced to welcome him with faint ejaculations of + surprise. + </p> + <p> + Both had grown oddly old, but in a dry, smooth way, as fruits might + shrivel on a shelf instead of ripening on the tree. Mrs. Lombard was still + knitting, and pausing now and then to warm her swollen hands above the + brazier; and Miss Lombard, in rising, had laid aside a strip of + needle-work which might have been the same on which Wyant had first seen + her engaged. + </p> + <p> + Their visitor inquired discreetly how they had fared in the interval, and + learned that they had thought of returning to England, but had somehow + never done so. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry not to see my aunts again,” Mrs. Lombard said resignedly; “but + Sybilla thinks it best that we should not go this year.” + </p> + <p> + “Next year, perhaps,” murmured Miss Lombard, in a voice which seemed to + suggest that they had a great waste of time to fill. + </p> + <p> + She had returned to her seat, and sat bending over her work. Her hair + enveloped her head in the same thick braids, but the rose color of her + cheeks had turned to blotches of dull red, like some pigment which has + darkened in drying. + </p> + <p> + “And Professor Clyde—is he well?” Mrs. Lombard asked affably; + continuing, as her daughter raised a startled eye: “Surely, Sybilla, Mr. + Wyant was the gentleman who was sent by Professor Clyde to see the + Leonardo?” + </p> + <p> + Miss Lombard was silent, but Wyant hastened to assure the elder lady of + his friend’s well-being. + </p> + <p> + “Ah—perhaps, then, he will come back some day to Siena,” she said, + sighing. Wyant declared that it was more than likely; and there ensued a + pause, which he presently broke by saying to Miss Lombard: “And you still + have the picture?” + </p> + <p> + She raised her eyes and looked at him. “Should you like to see it?” she + asked. + </p> + <p> + On his assenting, she rose, and extracting the same key from the same + secret drawer, unlocked the door beneath the tapestry. They walked down + the passage in silence, and she stood aside with a grave gesture, making + Wyant pass before her into the room. Then she crossed over and drew the + curtain back from the picture. + </p> + <p> + The light of the early afternoon poured full on it: its surface appeared + to ripple and heave with a fluid splendor. The colors had lost none of + their warmth, the outlines none of their pure precision; it seemed to + Wyant like some magical flower which had burst suddenly from the mould of + darkness and oblivion. + </p> + <p> + He turned to Miss Lombard with a movement of comprehension. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, I understand—you couldn’t part with it, after all!” he cried. + </p> + <p> + “No—I couldn’t part with it,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “It’s too beautiful,—too beautiful,”—he assented. + </p> + <p> + “Too beautiful?” She turned on him with a curious stare. “I have never + thought it beautiful, you know.” + </p> + <p> + He gave back the stare. “You have never—” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. “It’s not that. I hate it; I’ve always hated it. But + he wouldn’t let me—he will never let me now.” + </p> + <p> + Wyant was startled by her use of the present tense. Her look surprised + him, too: there was a strange fixity of resentment in her innocuous eye. + Was it possible that she was laboring under some delusion? Or did the + pronoun not refer to her father? + </p> + <p> + “You mean that Doctor Lombard did not wish you to part with the picture?” + </p> + <p> + “No—he prevented me; he will always prevent me.” + </p> + <p> + There was another pause. “You promised him, then, before his death—” + </p> + <p> + “No; I promised nothing. He died too suddenly to make me.” Her voice sank + to a whisper. “I was free—perfectly free—or I thought I was + till I tried.” + </p> + <p> + “Till you tried?” + </p> + <p> + “To disobey him—to sell the picture. Then I found it was impossible. + I tried again and again; but he was always in the room with me.” + </p> + <p> + She glanced over her shoulder as though she had heard a step; and to + Wyant, too, for a moment, the room seemed full of a third presence. + </p> + <p> + “And you can’t”—he faltered, unconsciously dropping his voice to the + pitch of hers. + </p> + <p> + She shook her head, gazing at him mystically. “I can’t lock him out; I can + never lock him out now. I told you I should never have another chance.” + </p> + <p> + Wyant felt the chill of her words like a cold breath in his hair. + </p> + <p> + “Oh”—he groaned; but she cut him off with a grave gesture. + </p> + <p> + “It is too late,” she said; “but you ought to have helped me that day.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Early Short Fiction of Edith +Wharton, Part 1 (of 10), by Edith Wharton + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EARLY SHORT FICTION *** + +***** This file should be named 295-h.htm or 295-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/295/ + +Produced by Judith Boss, and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” + or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’ WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm’s +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. + +The Foundation’s principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation’s web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + +</pre> + </body> +</html> |