by G. K. Chesterton
First published 1912 by Thomas Nelson and Sons
Electronic edition MANALIV0 published 1993 by Jim Henry III, Jim.Henry@pobox.com, http://www.pobox.com/~Jim.Henry/etext/
Edited by Martin Ward (martin@gkc.org.uk)
PLEASE report any typos you may happen to notice, such as misplaced punctuation and the like, to
Jim Henry III 405 Gardner Road Stockbridge, GA 30281-1515
Or send email to JIM HENRY on Jim.Henry@pobox.com
Thank you! I hope you enjoy reading Manalive as much as I have. I will soon be releasing Tales of the Long Bow, also by G. K. Chesterton.
Table of Contents
Part I: The Enigmas of Innocent Smith
I. How the Great Wind Came to Beacon House
II. The Luggage of an Optimist
III. The Banner of Beacon
IV. The Garden of the God
V. The Allegorical Practical Joker
Part II: The Explanations of Innocent Smith
I. The Eye of Death; or, the Murder Charge
II. The Two Curates; or, the Burglary Charge
III. The Round Road; or, the Desertion Charge
IV. The Wild Weddings; or, the Polygamy Charge
V. How the Great Wind went from Beacon House
Part I
Chapter I
How the Great Wind Came to Beacon House
A wind sprang high in the west, like a wave of unreasonable happiness, and tore eastward across England, trailing with it the frosty scent of forests and the cold intoxication of the sea. In a million holes and corners it refreshed a man like a flagon, and astonished him like a blow. In the inmost chambers of intricate and embowered houses it woke like a domestic explosion, littering the floor with some professor’s papers till they seemed as precious as fugitive, or blowing out the candle by which a boy read “Treasure Island” and wrapping him in roaring dark. But everywhere it bore drama into undramatic lives, and carried the trump of crisis across the world. Many a harassed mother in a mean backyard had looked at five dwarfish shirts on the clothes-line as at some small, sick tragedy; it was as if she had hanged her five children. The wind came, and they were full and kicking as if five fat imps had sprung into them; and far down in her oppressed subconscious she half-remembered those coarse comedies of her fathers when the elves still dwelt in the homes of men. Many an unnoticed girl in a dank walled garden had tossed herself into the hammock with the same intolerant gesture with which she might have tossed herself into the Thames; and that wind rent the waving wall of woods and lifted the hammock like a balloon, and showed her shapes of quaint clouds far beyond, and pictures of bright villages far below, as if she rode heaven in a fairy boat. Many a dusty clerk or cleric, plodding a telescopic road of poplars, thought for the hundredth time that they were like the plumes of a hearse; when this invisible energy caught and swung and clashed them round his head like a wreath or salutation of seraphic wings. There was in it something more inspired and authoritative even than the old wind of the proverb; for this was the good wind that blows nobody harm.
The flying blast struck London just where it scales the northern heights, terrace above terrace, as precipitous as Edinburgh. It was round about this place that some poet, probably drunk, looked up astonished at all those streets gone skywards, and (thinking vaguely of glaciers and roped mountaineers) gave it the name of Swiss Cottage, which it has never been able to shake off. At some stage of those heights a terrace of tall gray houses, mostly empty and almost as desolate as the Grampians, curved round at the western end, so that the last building, a boarding establishment called “Beacon House,” offered abruptly to the sunset its high, narrow and towering termination, like the prow of some deserted ship.
The ship, however, was not wholly deserted. The proprietor of the boarding-house, a Mrs. Duke, was one of those helpless persons against whom fate wars in vain; she smiled vaguely both before and after all her calamities; she was too soft to be hurt. But by the aid (or rather under the orders) of a strenuous niece she always kept the remains of a clientele, mostly of young but listless folks. And there were actually five inmates standing disconsolately about the garden when the great gale broke at the base of the terminal tower behind them, as the sea bursts against the base of an outstanding cliff.
All day that hill of houses over London had been domed and sealed up with cold cloud. Yet three men and two girls had at last found even the gray and chilly garden more tolerable than the black and cheerless interior. When the wind came it split the sky and shouldered the cloudland left and right, unbarring great clear furnaces of evening gold. The burst of light released and the burst of air blowing seemed to come almost simultaneously; and the wind especially caught everything in a throttling violence. The bright short grass lay all one way like brushed hair. Every shrub in the garden tugged at its roots like a dog at the collar, and strained every leaping leaf after the hunting and exterminating element. Now and again a twig would snap and fly like a bolt from an arbalist. The three men stood stiffly and aslant against the wind, as if leaning against a wall. The two ladies disappeared into the house; rather, to speak truly, they were blown into the house. Their two frocks, blue and white, looked like two big broken flowers, driving and drifting upon the gale. Nor is such a poetic fancy inappropriate, for there was something oddly romantic about this inrush of air and light after a long, leaden and unlifting day. Grass and garden trees seemed glittering with something at once good and unnatural, like a fire from fairyland. It seemed like a strange sunrise at the wrong end of the day.
The girl in white dived in quickly enough, for she wore a white hat of the proportions of a parachute, which might have wafted her away into the coloured clouds of evening. She was their one splash of splendour, and irradiated wealth in that impecunious place (staying there temporarily with a friend), an heiress in a small way, by name Rosamund Hunt, brown-eyed, round-faced, but resolute and rather boisterous. On top of her wealth she was good-humoured and rather good-looking; but she had not married, perhaps because there was always a crowd of men around her. She was not fast (though some might have called her vulgar), but she gave irresolute youths an impression of being at once popular and inaccessible. A man felt as if he had fallen in love with Cleopatra, or as if he were asking for a great actress at the stage door. Indeed, some theatrical spangles seemed to cling about Miss Hunt; she played the guitar and the mandoline; she always wanted charades; and with that great rending of the sky by sun and storm, she felt a girlish melodrama swell again within her. To the crashing orchestration of the air the clouds rose like the curtain of some long-expected pantomime.
Nor, oddly, was the girl in blue entirely unimpressed by this apocalypse in a private garden; though she was one of most prosaic and practical creatures alive. She was, indeed, no other than the strenuous niece whose strength alone upheld that mansion of decay. But as the gale swung and swelled the blue and white skirts till they took on the monstrous contours of Victorian crinolines, a sunken memory stirred in her that was almost romance—a memory of a dusty volume of Punch in an aunt’s house in infancy: pictures of crinoline hoops and croquet hoops and some pretty story, of which perhaps they were a part. This half-perceptible fragrance in her thoughts faded almost instantly, and Diana Duke entered the house even more promptly than her companion. Tall, slim, aquiline, and dark, she seemed made for such swiftness. In body she was of the breed of those birds and beasts that are at once long and alert, like greyhounds or herons or even like an innocent snake. The whole house revolved on her as on a rod of steel. It would be wrong to say that she commanded; for her own efficiency was so impatient that she obeyed herself before any one else obeyed her. Before electricians could mend a bell or locksmiths open a door, before dentists could pluck a tooth or butlers draw a tight cork, it was done already with the silent violence of her slim hands. She was light; but there was nothing leaping about her lightness. She spurned the ground, and she meant to spurn it. People talk of the pathos and failure of plain women; but it is a more terrible thing that a beautiful woman may succeed in everything but womanhood.
“It’s enough to blow your head off,” said the young woman in white, going to the looking-glass.
The young woman in blue made no reply, but put away her gardening gloves, and then went to the sideboard and began to spread out an afternoon cloth for tea.
“Enough to blow your head off, I say,” said Miss Rosamund Hunt, with the unruffled cheeriness of one whose songs and speeches had always been safe for an encore.
“Only your hat, I think,” said Diana Duke, “but I dare say that is sometimes more important.”
Rosamund’s face showed for an instant the offence of a spoilt child, and then the humour of a very healthy person. She broke into a laugh and said, “Well, it would have to be a big wind to blow your head off.”
There was another silence; and the sunset breaking more and more from the sundering clouds, filled the room with soft fire and painted the dull walls with ruby and gold.
“Somebody once told me,” said Rosamund Hunt, “that it’s easier to keep one’s head when one has lost one’s heart.”
“Oh, don’t talk such rubbish,” said Diana with savage sharpness.
Outside, the garden was clad in a golden splendour; but the wind was still stiffly blowing, and the three men who stood their ground might also have considered the problem of hats and heads. And, indeed, their position, touching hats, was somewhat typical of them. The tallest of the three abode the blast in a high silk hat, which the wind seemed to charge as vainly as that other sullen tower, the house behind him. The second man tried to hold on a stiff straw hat at all angles, and ultimately held it in his hand. The third had no hat, and, by his attitude, seemed never to have had one in his life. Perhaps this wind was a kind of fairy wand to test men and women, for there was much of the three men in this difference.
The man in the solid silk hat was the embodiment of silkiness and solidity. He was a big, bland, bored and (as some said) boring man, with flat fair hair and handsome heavy features; a prosperous young doctor by the name of Warner. But if his blondness and blandness seemed at first a little fatuous, it is certain that he was no fool. If Rosamund Hunt was the only person there with much money, he was the only person who had as yet found any kind of fame. His treatise on “The Probable Existence of Pain in the Lowest Organisms” had been universally hailed by the scientific world as at once solid and daring. In short, he undoubtedly had brains; and perhaps it was not his fault if they were the kind of brains that most men desire to analyze with a poker.
The young man who put his hat off and on was a scientific amateur in a small way, and worshipped the great Warner with a solemn freshness. It was, in fact, at his invitation that the distinguished doctor was present; for Warner lived in no such ramshackle lodging-house, but in a professional palace in Harley Street. This young man was really the youngest and best-looking of the three. But he was one of those persons, both male and female, who seem doomed to be good-looking and insignificant. Brown-haired, high-coloured, and shy, he seemed to lose the delicacy of his features in a sort of blur of brown and red as he stood blushing and blinking against the wind. He was one of those obvious unnoticeable people: every one knew that he was Arthur Inglewood, unmarried, moral, decidedly intelligent, living on a little money of his own, and hiding himself in the two hobbies of photography and cycling. Everybody knew him and forgot him; even as he stood there in the glare of golden sunset there was something about him indistinct, like one of his own red-brown amateur photographs.
The third man had no hat; he was lean, in light, vaguely sporting clothes, and the large pipe in his mouth made him look all the leaner. He had a long ironical face, blue-black hair, the blue eyes of an Irishman, and the blue chin of an actor. An Irishman he was, an actor he was not, except in the old days of Miss Hunt’s charades, being, as a matter of fact, an obscure and flippant journalist named Michael Moon. He had once been hazily supposed to be reading for the Bar; but (as Warner would say with his rather elephantine wit) it was mostly at another kind of bar that his friends found him. Moon, however, did not drink, nor even frequently get drunk; he simply was a gentleman who liked low company. This was partly because company is quieter than society: and if he enjoyed talking to a barmaid (as apparently he did), it was chiefly because the barmaid did the talking. Moreover he would often bring other talent to assist her. He shared that strange trick of all men of his type, intellectual and without ambition—the trick of going about with his mental inferiors. There was a small resilient Jew named Moses Gould in the same boarding-house, a man whose negro vitality and vulgarity amused Michael so much that he went round with him from bar to bar, like the owner of a performing monkey.
The colossal clearance which the wind had made of that cloudy sky grew clearer and clearer; chamber within chamber seemed to open in heaven. One felt one might at last find something lighter than light. In the fullness of this silent effulgence all things collected their colours again: the gray trunks turned silver, and the drab gravel gold. One bird fluttered like a loosened leaf from one tree to another, and his brown feathers were brushed with fire.
“Inglewood,” said Michael Moon, with his blue eye on the bird, “have you any friends?”
Dr. Warner mistook the person addressed, and turning a broad beaming face, said,—
“Oh yes, I go out a great deal.”
Michael Moon gave a tragic grin, and waited for his real informant, who spoke a moment after in a voice curiously cool, fresh and young, as coming out of that brown and even dusty interior.
“Really,” answered Inglewood, “I’m afraid I’ve lost touch with my old friends. The greatest friend I ever had was at school, a fellow named Smith. It’s odd you should mention it, because I was thinking of him to-day, though I haven’t seen him for seven or eight years. He was on the science side with me at school— a clever fellow though queer; and he went up to Oxford when I went to Germany. The fact is, it’s rather a sad story. I often asked him to come and see me, and when I heard nothing I made inquiries, you know. I was shocked to learn that poor Smith had gone off his head. The accounts were a bit cloudy, of course, some saying that he had recovered again; but they always say that. About a year ago I got a telegram from him myself. The telegram, I’m sorry to say, put the matter beyond a doubt.”
“Quite so,” assented Dr. Warner stolidly; “insanity is generally incurable.”
“So is sanity,” said the Irishman, and studied him with a dreary eye.
“Symptoms?” asked the doctor. “What was this telegram?”
“It’s a shame to joke about such things,” said Inglewood, in his honest, embarrassed way; “the telegram was Smith’s illness, not Smith. The actual words were, ‘Man found alive with two legs.’”
“Alive with two legs,” repeated Michael, frowning. “Perhaps a version of alive and kicking? I don’t know much about people out of their senses; but I suppose they ought to be kicking.”
“And people in their senses?” asked Warner, smiling.
“Oh, they ought to be kicked,” said Michael with sudden heartiness.
“The message is clearly insane,” continued the impenetrable Warner. “The best test is a reference to the undeveloped normal type. Even a baby does not expect to find a man with three legs.”
“Three legs,” said Michael Moon, “would be very convenient in this wind.”
A fresh eruption of the atmosphere had indeed almost thrown them off their balance and broken the blackened trees in the garden. Beyond, all sorts of accidental objects could be seen scouring the wind-scoured sky—straws, sticks, rags, papers, and, in the distance, a disappearing hat. Its disappearance, however, was not final; after an interval of minutes they saw it again, much larger and closer, like a white panama, towering up into the heavens like a balloon, staggering to and fro for an instant like a stricken kite, and then settling in the centre of their own lawn as falteringly as a fallen leaf.
“Somebody’s lost a good hat,” said Dr. Warner shortly.
Almost as he spoke, another object came over the garden wall, flying after the fluttering panama. It was a big green umbrella. After that came hurtling a huge yellow Gladstone bag, and after that came a figure like a flying wheel of legs, as in the shield of the Isle of Man.
But though for a flash it seemed to have five or six legs, it alighted upon two, like the man in the queer telegram. It took the form of a large light-haired man in gay green holiday clothes. He had bright blonde hair that the wind brushed back like a German’s, a flushed eager face like a cherub’s, and a prominent pointing nose, a little like a dog’s. His head, however, was by no means cherubic in the sense of being without a body. On the contrary, on his vast shoulders and shape generally gigantesque, his head looked oddly and unnaturally small. This gave rise to a scientific theory (which his conduct fully supported) that he was an idiot.
Inglewood had a politeness instinctive and yet awkward. His life was full of arrested half gestures of assistance. And even this prodigy of a big man in green, leaping the wall like a bright green grasshopper, did not paralyze that small altruism of his habits in such a matter as a lost hat. He was stepping forward to recover the green gentleman’s head-gear, when he was struck rigid with a roar like a bull’s.
“Unsportsmanlike!” bellowed the big man. “Give it fair play,
give it fair play!” And he came after his own hat quickly
but cautiously, with burning eyes. The hat had seemed at first
to droop and dawdle as in ostentatious langour on the sunny lawn;
but the wind again freshening and rising, it went dancing down
the garden with the devilry of a pas de quatre. The eccentric went
bounding after it with kangaroo leaps and bursts of breathless speech,
of which it was not always easy to pick up the thread:
“Fair play, fair play… sport of kings… chase their crowns…
quite humane… tramontana… cardinals chase red hats… old
English hunting… started a hat in Bramber Combe… hat at bay…
mangled hounds… Got him!”
As the wind rose out of a roar into a shriek, he leapt into the sky on his strong, fantastic legs, snatched at the vanishing hat, missed it, and pitched sprawling face foremost on the grass. The hat rose over him like a bird in triumph. But its triumph was premature; for the lunatic, flung forward on his hands, threw up his boots behind, waved his two legs in the air like symbolic ensigns (so that they actually thought again of the telegram), and actually caught the hat with his feet. A prolonged and piercing yell of wind split the welkin from end to end. The eyes of all the men were blinded by the invisible blast, as by a strange, clear cataract of transparency rushing between them and all objects about them. But as the large man fell back in a sitting posture and solemnly crowned himself with the hat, Michael found, to his incredulous surprise, that he had been holding his breath, like a man watching a duel.
While that tall wind was at the top of its sky-scraping energy, another short cry was heard, beginning very querulous, but ending very quick, swallowed in abrupt silence. The shiny black cylinder of Dr. Warner’s official hat sailed off his head in the long, smooth parabola of an airship, and in almost cresting a garden tree was caught in the topmost branches. Another hat was gone. Those in that garden felt themselves caught in an unaccustomed eddy of things happening; no one seemed to know what would blow away next. Before they could speculate, the cheering and hallooing hat-hunter was already halfway up the tree, swinging himself from fork to fork with his strong, bent, grasshopper legs, and still giving forth his gasping, mysterious comments.
“Tree of life… Ygdrasil… climb for centuries perhaps… owls nesting in the hat… remotest generations of owls… still usurpers… gone to heaven… man in the moon wears it… brigand… not yours… belongs to depressed medical man… in garden… give it up… give it up!”
The tree swung and swept and thrashed to and fro in the thundering wind like a thistle, and flamed in the full sunshine like a bonfire. The green, fantastic human figure, vivid against its autumn red and gold, was already among its highest and craziest branches, which by bare luck did not break with the weight of his big body. He was up there among the last tossing leaves and the first twinkling stars of evening, still talking to himself cheerfully, reasoningly, half apologetically, in little gasps. He might well be out of breath, for his whole preposterous raid had gone with one rush; he had bounded the wall once like a football, swept down the garden like a slide, and shot up the tree like a rocket. The other three men seemed buried under incident piled on incident— a wild world where one thing began before another thing left off. All three had the first thought. The tree had been there for the five years they had known the boarding-house. Each one of them was active and strong. No one of them had even thought of climbing it. Beyond that, Inglewood felt first the mere fact of colour. The bright brisk leaves, the bleak blue sky, the wild green arms and legs, reminded him irrationally of something glowing in his infancy, something akin to a gaudy man on a golden tree; perhaps it was only painted monkey on a stick. Oddly enough, Michael Moon, though more of a humourist, was touched on a tenderer nerve, half remembered the old, young theatricals with Rosamund, and was amused to find himself almost quoting Shakespeare—
“For valour. Is not love a Hercules, Still climbing trees in the Hesperides?”
Even the immovable man of science had a bright, bewildered sensation that the Time Machine had given a great jerk, and gone forward with rather rattling rapidity.
He was not, however, wholly prepared for what happened next. The man in green, riding the frail topmost bough like a witch on a very risky broomstick, reached up and rent the black hat from its airy nest of twigs. It had been broken across a heavy bough in the first burst of its passage, a tangle of branches in torn and scored and scratched it in every direction, a clap of wind and foliage had flattened it like a concertina; nor can it be said that the obliging gentleman with the sharp nose showed any adequate tenderness for its structure when he finally unhooked it from its place. When he had found it, however, his proceedings were by some counted singular. He waved it with a loud whoop of triumph, and then immediately appeared to fall backwards off the tree, to which, however, he remained attached by his long strong legs, like a monkey swung by his tail. Hanging thus head downwards above the unhelmed Warner, he gravely proceeded to drop the battered silk cylinder upon his brows. “Every man a king,” explained the inverted philosopher, “every hat (consequently) a crown. But this is a crown out of heaven.”
And he again attempted the coronation of Warner, who, however, moved away with great abruptness from the hovering diadem; not seeming, strangely enough, to wish for his former decoration in its present state.
“Wrong, wrong!” cried the obliging person hilariously. “Always wear uniform, even if it’s shabby uniform! Ritualists may always be untidy. Go to a dance with soot on your shirt-front; but go with a shirt-front. Huntsman wears old coat, but old pink coat. Wear a topper, even if it’s got no top. It’s the symbol that counts, old cock. Take your hat, because it is your hat after all; its nap rubbed all off by the bark, dears, and its brim not the least bit curled; but for old sakes’ sake it is still, dears, the nobbiest tile in the world.”
Speaking thus, with a wild comfortableness, he settled or smashed the shapeless silk hat over the face of the disturbed physician, and fell on his feet among the other men, still talking, beaming and breathless.
“Why don’t they make more games out of wind?” he asked in some excitement. “Kites are all right, but why should it only be kites? Why, I thought of three other games for a windy day while I was climbing that tree. Here’s one of them: you take a lot of pepper—”
“I think,” interposed Moon, with a sardonic mildness, “that your games are already sufficiently interesting. Are you, may I ask, a professional acrobat on a tour, or a travelling advertisement of Sunny Jim? How and why do you display all this energy for clearing walls and climbing trees in our melancholy, but at least rational, suburbs?”
The stranger, so far as so loud a person was capable of it, appeared to grow confidential.
“Well, it’s a trick of my own,” he confessed candidly. “I do it by having two legs.”
Arthur Inglewood, who had sunk into the background of this scene of folly, started and stared at the newcomer with his short-sighted eyes screwed up and his high colour slightly heightened.
“Why, I believe you’re Smith,” he cried with his fresh, almost boyish voice; and then after an instant’s stare, “and yet I’m not sure.”
“I have a card, I think,” said the unknown, with baffling solemnity—“a card with my real name, my titles, offices, and true purpose on this earth.”
He drew out slowly from an upper waistcoat pocket a scarlet card-case, and as slowly produced a very large card. Even in the instant of its production, they fancied it was of a queer shape, unlike the cards of ordinary gentlemen. But it was there only for an instant; for as it passed from his fingers to Arthur’s, one or another slipped his hold. The strident, tearing gale in that garden carried away the stranger’s card to join the wild waste paper of the universe; and that great western wind shook the whole house and passed.
Chapter II
The Luggage of an Optimist
We all remember the fairy tales of science in our infancy, which played with the supposition that large animals could jump in the proportion of small ones. If an elephant were as strong as a grasshopper, he could (I suppose) spring clean out of the Zoological Gardens and alight trumpeting upon Primrose Hill. If a whale could leap from the sea like a trout, perhaps men might look up and see one soaring above Yarmouth like the winged island of Laputa. Such natural energy, though sublime, might certainly be inconvenient, and much of this inconvenience attended the gaiety and good intentions of the man in green. He was too large for everything, because he was lively as well as large. By a fortunate physical provision, most very substantial creatures are also reposeful; and middle-class boarding-houses in the lesser parts of London are not built for a man as big as a bull and excitable as a kitten.
When Inglewood followed the stranger into the boarding-house, he found him talking earnestly (and in his own opinion privately) to the helpless Mrs. Duke. That fat, faint lady could only goggle up like a dying fish at the enormous new gentleman, who politely offered himself as a lodger, with vast gestures of the wide white hat in one hand, and the yellow Gladstone bag in the other. Fortunately, Mrs. Duke’s more efficient niece and partner was there to complete the contract; for, indeed, all the people of the house had somehow collected in the room. This fact, in truth, was typical of the whole episode. The visitor created an atmosphere of comic crisis; and from the time he came into the house to the time he left it, he somehow got the company to gather and even follow (though in derision) as children gather and follow a Punch and Judy. An hour ago, and for four years previously, these people had avoided each other, even when they had really liked each other. They had slid in and out of dismal and deserted rooms in search of particular newspapers or private needlework. Even now they all came casually, as with varying interests; but they all came. There was the embarrassed Inglewood, still a sort of red shadow; there was the unembarrassed Warner, a pallid but solid substance. There was Michael Moon offering like a riddle the contrast of the horsy crudeness of his clothes and the sombre sagacity of his visage. He was now joined by his yet more comic crony, Moses Gould. Swaggering on short legs with a prosperous purple tie, he was the gayest of godless little dogs; but like a dog also in this, that however he danced and wagged with delight, the two dark eyes on each side of his protuberant nose glistened gloomily like black buttons. There was Miss Rosamund Hunt, still with the fine white hat framing her square, good-looking face, and still with her native air of being dressed for some party that never came off. She also, like Mr. Moon, had a new companion, new so far as this narrative goes, but in reality an old friend and a protegee. This was a slight young woman in dark gray, and in no way notable but for a load of dull red hair, of which the shape somehow gave her pale face that triangular, almost peaked, appearance which was given by the lowering headdress and deep rich ruff of the Elizabethan beauties. Her surname seemed to be Gray, and Miss Hunt called her Mary, in that indescribable tone applied to a dependent who has practically become a friend. She wore a small silver cross on her very business-like gray clothes, and was the only member of the party who went to church. Last, but the reverse of least, there was Diana Duke, studying the newcomer with eyes of steel, and listening carefully to every idiotic word he said. As for Mrs. Duke, she smiled up at him, but never dreamed of listening to him. She had never really listened to any one in her life; which, some said, was why she had survived.
Nevertheless, Mrs. Duke was pleased with her new guest’s concentration of courtesy upon herself; for no one ever spoke seriously to her any more than she listened seriously to any one. And she almost beamed as the stranger, with yet wider and almost whirling gestures of explanation with his huge hat and bag, apologized for having entered by the wall instead of the front door. He was understood to put it down to an unfortunate family tradition of neatness and care of his clothes.
“My mother was rather strict about it, to tell the truth,” he said, lowering his voice, to Mrs. Duke. “She never liked me to lose my cap at school. And when a man’s been taught to be tidy and neat it sticks to him.”
Mrs. Duke weakly gasped that she was sure he must have had a good mother; but her niece seemed inclined to probe the matter further.
“You’ve got a funny idea of neatness,” she said, “if it’s jumping garden walls and clambering up garden trees. A man can’t very well climb a tree tidily.”
“He can clear a wall neatly,” said Michael Moon; “I saw him do it.”
Smith seemed to be regarding the girl with genuine astonishment. “My dear young lady,” he said, “I was tidying the tree. You don’t want last year’s hats there, do you, any more than last year’s leaves? The wind takes off the leaves, but it couldn’t manage the hat; that wind, I suppose, has tidied whole forests to-day. Rum idea this is, that tidiness is a timid, quiet sort of thing; why, tidiness is a toil for giants. You can’t tidy anything without untidying yourself; just look at my trousers. Don’t you know that? Haven’t you ever had a spring cleaning?”
“Oh yes, sir,” said Mrs. Duke, almost eagerly. “You will find everything of that sort quite nice.” For the first time she had heard two words that she could understand.
Miss Diana Duke seemed to be studying the stranger with a sort of spasm of calculation; then her black eyes snapped with decision, and she said that he could have a particular bedroom on the top floor if he liked: and the silent and sensitive Inglewood, who had been on the rack through these cross-purposes, eagerly offered to show him up to the room. Smith went up the stairs four at a time, and when he bumped his head against the ultimate ceiling, Inglewood had an odd sensation that the tall house was much shorter than it used to be.
Arthur Inglewood followed his old friend—or his new friend, for he did not very clearly know which he was. The face looked very like his old schoolfellow’s at one second and very unlike at another. And when Inglewood broke through his native politeness so far as to say suddenly, “Is your name Smith?” he received only the unenlightening reply, “Quite right; quite right. Very good. Excellent!” Which appeared to Inglewood, on reflection, rather the speech of a new-born babe accepting a name than of a grown-up man admitting one.
Despite these doubts about identity, the hapless Inglewood watched the other unpack, and stood about his bedroom in all the impotent attitudes of the male friend. Mr. Smith unpacked with the same kind of whirling accuracy with which he climbed a tree—throwing things out of his bag as if they were rubbish, yet managing to distribute quite a regular pattern all round him on the floor.
As he did so he continued to talk in the same somewhat gasping manner (he had come upstairs four steps at a time, but even without this his style of speech was breathless and fragmentary), and his remarks were still a string of more or less significant but often separate pictures.
“Like the day of judgement,” he said, throwing a bottle so that it somehow settled, rocking on its right end. “People say vast universe… infinity and astronomy; not sure… I think things are too close together… packed up; for travelling… stars too close, really… why, the sun’s a star, too close to be seen properly; the earth’s a star, too close to be seen at all… too many pebbles on the beach; ought all to be put in rings; too many blades of grass to study… feathers on a bird make the brain reel; wait till the big bag is unpacked… may all be put in our right places then.”
Here he stopped, literally for breath—throwing a shirt to the other end of the room, and then a bottle of ink so that it fell quite neatly beyond it. Inglewood looked round on this strange, half-symmetrical disorder with an increasing doubt.
In fact, the more one explored Mr. Smith’s holiday luggage, the less one could make anything of it. One peculiarity of it was that almost everything seemed to be there for the wrong reason; what is secondary with every one else was primary with him. He would wrap up a pot or pan in brown paper; and the unthinking assistant would discover that the pot was valueless or even unnecessary, and that it was the brown paper that was truly precious. He produced two or three boxes of cigars, and explained with plain and perplexing sincerity that he was no smoker, but that cigar-box wood was by far the best for fretwork. He also exhibited about six small bottles of wine, white and red, and Inglewood, happening to note a Volnay which he knew to be excellent, supposed at first that the stranger was an epicure in vintages. He was therefore surprised to find that the next bottle was a vile sham claret from the colonies, which even colonials (to do them justice) do not drink. It was only then that he observed that all six bottles had those bright metallic seals of various tints, and seemed to have been chosen solely because they have the three primary and three secondary colours: red, blue, and yellow; green, violet and orange. There grew upon Inglewood an almost creepy sense of the real childishness of this creature. For Smith was really, so far as human psychology can be, innocent. He had the sensualities of innocence: he loved the stickiness of gum, and he cut white wood greedily as if he were cutting a cake. To this man wine was not a doubtful thing to be defended or denounced; it was a quaintly coloured syrup, such as a child sees in a shop window. He talked dominantly and rushed the social situation; but he was not asserting himself, like a superman in a modern play. He was simply forgetting himself, like a little boy at a party. He had somehow made the giant stride from babyhood to manhood, and missed that crisis in youth when most of us grow old.
As he shunted his big bag, Arthur observed the initials I. S. printed on one side of it, and remembered that Smith had been called Innocent Smith at school, though whether as a formal Christian name or a moral description he could not remember. He was just about to venture another question, when there was a knock at the door, and the short figure of Mr. Gould offered itself, with the melancholy Moon, standing like his tall crooked shadow, behind him. They had drifted up the stairs after the other two men with the wandering gregariousness of the male.
“Hope there’s no intrusion,” said the beaming Moses with a glow of good nature, but not the airiest tinge of apology.
“The truth is,” said Michael Moon with comparative courtesy, “we thought we might see if they had made you comfortable. Miss Duke is rather—”
“I know,” cried the stranger, looking up radiantly from his bag; “magnificent, isn’t she? Go close to her—hear military music going by, like Joan of Arc.”
Inglewood stared and stared at the speaker like one who has just heard a wild fairy tale, which nevertheless contains one small and forgotten fact. For he remembered how he had himself thought of Jeanne d’Arc years ago, when, hardly more than a schoolboy, he had first come to the boarding-house. Long since the pulverizing rationalism of his friend Dr. Warner had crushed such youthful ignorances and disproportionate dreams. Under the Warnerian scepticism and science of hopeless human types, Inglewood had long come to regard himself as a timid, insufficient, and “weak” type, who would never marry; to regard Diana Duke as a materialistic maidservant; and to regard his first fancy for her as the small, dull farce of a collegian kissing his landlady’s daughter. And yet the phrase about military music moved him queerly, as if he had heard those distant drums.
“She has to keep things pretty tight, as is only natural,” said Moon, glancing round the rather dwarfish room, with its wedge of slanted ceiling, like the conical hood of a dwarf.
“Rather a small box for you, sir,” said the waggish Mr. Gould.
“Splendid room, though,” answered Mr. Smith enthusiastically, with his head inside his Gladstone bag. “I love these pointed sorts of rooms, like Gothic. By the way,” he cried out, pointing in quite a startling way, “where does that door lead to?”
“To certain death, I should say,” answered Michael Moon, staring up at a dust-stained and disused trapdoor in the sloping roof of the attic. “I don’t think there’s a loft there; and I don’t know what else it could lead to.” Long before he had finished his sentence the man with the strong green legs had leapt at the door in the ceiling, swung himself somehow on to the ledge beneath it, wrenched it open after a struggle, and clambered through it. For a moment they saw the two symbolic legs standing like a truncated statue; then they vanished. Through the hole thus burst in the roof appeared the empty and lucid sky of evening, with one great many-coloured cloud sailing across it like a whole county upside down.
“Hullo, you fellows!” came the far cry of Innocent Smith, apparently from some remote pinnacle. “Come up here; and bring some of my things to eat and drink. It’s just the spot for a picnic.”
With a sudden impulse Michael snatched two of the small bottles of wine, one in each solid fist; and Arthur Inglewood, as if mesmerized, groped for a biscuit tin and a big jar of ginger. The enormous hand of Innocent Smith appearing through the aperture, like a giant’s in a fairy tale, received these tributes and bore them off to the eyrie; then they both hoisted themselves out of the window. They were both athletic, and even gymnastic; Inglewood through his concern for hygiene, and Moon through his concern for sport, which was not quite so idle and inactive as that of the average sportsman. Also they both had a light-headed burst of celestial sensation when the door was burst in the roof, as if a door had been burst in the sky, and they could climb out on to the very roof of the universe. They were both men who had long been unconsciously imprisoned in the commonplace, though one took it comically, and the other seriously. They were both men, nevertheless, in whom sentiment had never died. But Mr. Moses Gould had an equal contempt for their suicidal athletics and their subconscious transcendentalism, and he stood and laughed at the thing with the shameless rationality of another race.
When the singular Smith, astride of a chimney-pot, learnt that Gould was not following, his infantile officiousness and good nature forced him to dive back into the attic to comfort or persuade; and Inglewood and Moon were left alone on the long gray-green ridge of the slate roof, with their feet against gutters and their backs against chimney-pots, looking agnostically at each other. Their first feeling was that they had come out into eternity, and that eternity was very like topsy-turvydom. One definition occurred to both of them—that he had come out into the light of that lucid and radiant ignorance in which all beliefs had begun. The sky above them was full of mythology. Heaven seemed deep enough to hold all the gods. The round of the ether turned from green to yellow gradually like a great unripe fruit. All around the sunken sun it was like a lemon; round all the east it was a sort of golden green, more suggestive of a greengage; but the whole had still the emptiness of daylight and none of the secrecy of dusk. Tumbled here and there across this gold and pale green were shards and shattered masses of inky purple cloud, which seemed falling towards the earth in every kind of colossal perspective. One of them really had the character of some many-mitred, many-bearded, many-winged Assyrian image, huge head downwards, hurled out of heaven—a sort of false Jehovah, who was perhaps Satan. All the other clouds had preposterous pinnacled shapes, as if the god’s palaces had been flung after him.
And yet, while the empty heaven was full of silent catastrophe, the height of human buildings above which they sat held here and there a tiny trivial noise that was the exact antithesis; and they heard some six streets below a newsboy calling, and a bell bidding to chapel. They could also hear talk out of the garden below; and realized that the irrepressible Smith must have followed Gould downstairs, for his eager and pleading accents could be heard, followed by the half-humourous protests of Miss Duke and the full and very youthful laughter of Rosamund Hunt. The air had that cold kindness that comes after a storm. Michael Moon drank it in with as serious a relish as he had drunk the little bottle of cheap claret, which he had emptied almost at a draught. Inglewood went on eating ginger very slowly and with a solemnity unfathomable as the sky above him. There was still enough stir in the freshness of the atmosphere to make them almost fancy they could smell the garden soil and the last roses of autumn. Suddenly there came from the darkening room a silvery ping and pong which told them that Rosamund had brought out the long-neglected mandoline. After the first few notes there was more of the distant bell-like laughter.
“Inglewood,” said Michael Moon, “have you ever heard that I am a blackguard?”
“I haven’t heard it, and I don’t believe it,” answered Inglewood, after an odd pause. “But I have heard you were—what they call rather wild.”
“If you have heard that I am wild, you can contradict the rumour,” said Moon, with an extraordinary calm; “I am tame. I am quite tame; I am about the tamest beast that crawls. I drink too much of the same kind of whisky at the same time every night. I even drink about the same amount too much. I go to the same number of public-houses. I meet the same damned women with mauve faces. I hear the same number of dirty stories— generally the same dirty stories. You may assure my friends, Inglewood, that you see before you a person whom civilization has thoroughly tamed.”
Arthur Inglewood was staring with feelings that made him nearly fall off the roof, for indeed the Irishman’s face, always sinister, was now almost demoniacal.
“Christ confound it!” cried out Moon, suddenly clutching the empty claret bottle, “this is about the thinnest and filthiest wine I ever uncorked, and it’s the only drink I have really enjoyed for nine years. I was never wild until just ten minutes ago.” And he sent the bottle whizzing, a wheel of glass, far away beyond the garden into the road, where, in the profound evening silence, they could even hear it break and part upon the stones.
“Moon,” said Arthur Inglewood, rather huskily, “you mustn’t be so bitter about it. Everyone has to take the world as he finds it; of course one often finds it a bit dull—”
“That fellow doesn’t,” said Michael decisively; “I mean that fellow Smith. I have a fancy there’s some method in his madness. It looks as if he could turn into a sort of wonderland any minute by taking one step out of the plain road. Who would have thought of that trapdoor? Who would have thought that this cursed colonial claret could taste quite nice among the chimney-pots? Perhaps that is the real key of fairyland. Perhaps Nosey Gould’s beastly little Empire Cigarettes ought only to be smoked on stilts, or something of that sort. Perhaps Mrs. Duke’s cold leg of mutton would seem quite appetizing at the top of a tree. Perhaps even my damned, dirty, monotonous drizzle of Old Bill Whisky—”
“Don’t be so rough on yourself,” said Inglewood, in serious distress. “The dullness isn’t your fault or the whisky’s. Fellows who don’t— fellows like me I mean—have just the same feeling that it’s all rather flat and a failure. But the world’s made like that; it’s all survival. Some people are made to get on, like Warner; and some people are made to stick quiet, like me. You can’t help your temperament. I know you’re much cleverer than I am; but you can’t help having all the loose ways of a poor literary chap, and I can’t help having all the doubts and helplessness of a small scientific chap, any more than a fish can help floating or a fern can help curling up. Humanity, as Warner said so well in that lecture, really consists of quite different tribes of animals all disguised as men.”
In the dim garden below the buzz of talk was suddenly broken by Miss Hunt’s musical instrument banging with the abruptness of artillery into a vulgar but spirited tune.
Rosamund’s voice came up rich and strong in the words of some fatuous, fashionable coon song:-
“Darkies sing a song on the old plantation, Sing it as we sang it in days long since gone by.”
Inglewood’s brown eyes softened and saddened still more as he continued his monologue of resignation to such a rollicking and romantic tune. But the blue eyes of Michael Moon brightened and hardened with a light that Inglewood did not understand. Many centuries, and many villages and valleys, would have been happier if Inglewood or Inglewood’s countrymen had ever understood that light, or guessed at the first blink that it was the battle star of Ireland.
“Nothing can ever alter it; it’s in the wheels of the universe,” went on Inglewood, in a low voice: “some men are weak and some strong, and the only thing we can do is to know that we are weak. I have been in love lots of times, but I could not do anything, for I remembered my own fickleness. I have formed opinions, but I haven’t the cheek to push them, because I’ve so often changed them. That’s the upshot, old fellow. We can’t trust ourselves— and we can’t help it.”
Michael had risen to his feet, and stood poised in a perilous position at the end of the roof, like some dark statue hung above its gable. Behind him, huge clouds of an almost impossible purple turned slowly topsy-turvy in the silent anarchy of heaven. Their gyration made the dark figure seem yet dizzier.
“Let us…” he said, and was suddenly silent.
“Let us what?” asked Arthur Inglewood, rising equally quick though somewhat more cautiously, for his friend seemed to find some difficulty in speech.
“Let us go and do some of these things we can’t do,” said Michael.
At the same moment there burst out of the trapdoor below them the cockatoo hair and flushed face of Innocent Smith, calling to them that they must come down as the “concert” was in full swing, and Mr. Moses Gould was about to recite “Young Lochinvar.”
As they dropped into Innocent’s attic they nearly tumbled over its entertaining impedimenta again. Inglewood, staring at the littered floor, thought instinctively of the littered floor of a nursery. He was therefore the more moved, and even shocked, when his eye fell on a large well-polished American revolver.
“Hullo!” he cried, stepping back from the steely glitter as men step back from a serpent; “are you afraid of burglars? or when and why do you deal death out of that machine gun?”
“Oh, that!” said Smith, throwing it a single glance; “I deal life out of that,” and he went bounding down the stairs.
Chapter III
The Banner of Beacon
All next day at Beacon House there was a crazy sense that it was everybody’s birthday. It is the fashion to talk of institutions as cold and cramping things. The truth is that when people are in exceptionally high spirits, really wild with freedom and invention, they always must, and they always do, create institutions. When men are weary they fall into anarchy; but while they are gay and vigorous they invariably make rules. This, which is true of all the churches and republics of history, is also true of the most trivial parlour game or the most unsophisticated meadow romp. We are never free until some institution frees us; and liberty cannot exist till it is declared by authority. Even the wild authority of the harlequin Smith was still authority, because it produced everywhere a crop of crazy regulations and conditions. He filled every one with his own half-lunatic life; but it was not expressed in destruction, but rather in a dizzy and toppling construction. Each person with a hobby found it turning into an institution. Rosamund’s songs seemed to coalesce into a kind of opera; Michael’s jests and paragraphs into a magazine. His pipe and her mandoline seemed between them to make a sort of smoking concert. The bashful and bewildered Arthur Inglewood almost struggled against his own growing importance. He felt as if, in spite of him, his photographs were turning into a picture gallery, and his bicycle into a gymkhana. But no one had any time to criticize these impromptu estates and offices, for they followed each other in wild succession like the topics of a rambling talker.
Existence with such a man was an obstacle race made out of pleasant obstacles. Out of any homely and trivial object he could drag reels of exaggeration, like a conjurer. Nothing could be more shy and impersonal than poor Arthur’s photography. Yet the preposterous Smith was seen assisting him eagerly through sunny morning hours, and an indefensible sequence described as “Moral Photography” began to unroll about the boarding-house. It was only a version of the old photographer’s joke which produces the same figure twice on one plate, making a man play chess with himself, dine with himself, and so on. But these plates were more hysterical and ambitious—as, “Miss Hunt forgets Herself,” showing that lady answering her own too rapturous recognition with a most appalling stare of ignorance; or “Mr. Moon questions Himself,” in which Mr. Moon appeared as one driven to madness under his own legal cross-examination, which was conducted with a long forefinger and an air of ferocious waggery. One highly successful trilogy—representing Inglewood recognizing Inglewood, Inglewood prostrating himself before Inglewood, and Inglewood severely beating Inglewood with an umbrella— Innocent Smith wanted to have enlarged and put up in the hall, like a sort of fresco, with the inscription,—
“Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control— These three alone will make a man a prig.”
— Tennyson.
Nothing, again, could be more prosaic and impenetrable than the domestic energies of Miss Diana Duke. But Innocent had somehow blundered on the discovery that her thrifty dressmaking went with a considerable feminine care for dress—the one feminine thing that had never failed her solitary self-respect. In consequence Smith pestered her with a theory (which he really seemed to take seriously) that ladies might combine economy with magnificence if they would draw light chalk patterns on a plain dress and then dust them off again. He set up “Smith’s Lightning Dressmaking Company,” with two screens, a cardboard placard, and box of bright soft crayons; and Miss Diana actually threw him an abandoned black overall or working dress on which to exercise the talents of a modiste. He promptly produced for her a garment aflame with red and gold sunflowers; she held it up an instant to her shoulders, and looked like an empress. And Arthur Inglewood, some hours afterwards cleaning his bicycle (with his usual air of being inextricably hidden in it), glanced up; and his hot face grew hotter, for Diana stood laughing for one flash in the doorway, and her dark robe was rich with the green and purple of great decorative peacocks, like a secret garden in the “Arabian Nights.” A pang too swift to be named pain or pleasure went through his heart like an old-world rapier. He remembered how pretty he thought her years ago, when he was ready to fall in love with anybody; but it was like remembering a worship of some Babylonian princess in some previous existence. At his next glimpse of her (and he caught himself awaiting it) the purple and green chalk was dusted off, and she went by quickly in her working clothes.
As for Mrs. Duke, none who knew that matron could conceive her as actively resisting this invasion that had turned her house upside down. But among the most exact observers it was seriously believed that she liked it. For she was one of those women who at bottom regard all men as equally mad, wild animals of some utterly separate species. And it is doubtful if she really saw anything more eccentric or inexplicable in Smith’s chimney-pot picnics or crimson sunflowers than she had in the chemicals of Inglewood or the sardonic speeches of Moon. Courtesy, on the other hand, is a thing that anybody can understand, and Smith’s manners were as courteous as they were unconventional. She said he was “a real gentleman,” by which she simply meant a kind-hearted man, which is a very different thing. She would sit at the head of the table with fat, folded hands and a fat, folded smile for hours and hours, while every one else was talking at once. At least, the only other exception was Rosamund’s companion, Mary Gray, whose silence was of a much more eager sort. Though she never spoke she always looked as if she might speak any minute. Perhaps this is the very definition of a companion. Innocent Smith seemed to throw himself, as into other adventures, into the adventure of making her talk. He never succeeded, yet he was never snubbed; if he achieved anything, it was only to draw attention to this quiet figure, and to turn her, by ever so little, from a modesty to a mystery. But if she was a riddle, every one recognized that she was a fresh and unspoilt riddle, like the riddle of the sky and the woods in spring. Indeed, though she was rather older than the other two girls, she had an early morning ardour, a fresh earnestness of youth, which Rosamund seemed to have lost in the mere spending of money, and Diana in the mere guarding of it. Smith looked at her again and again. Her eyes and mouth were set in her face the wrong way—which was really the right way. She had the knack of saying everything with her face: her silence was a sort of steady applause.
But among the hilarious experiments of that holiday (which seemed more like a week’s holiday than a day’s) one experiment towers supreme, not because it was any sillier or more successful than the others, but because out of this particular folly flowed all of the odd events that were to follow. All the other practical jokes exploded of themselves, and left vacancy; all the other fictions returned upon themselves, and were finished like a song. But the string of solid and startling events— which were to include a hansom cab, a detective, a pistol, and a marriage licence—were all made primarily possible by the joke about the High Court of Beacon.
It had originated, not with Innocent Smith, but with Michael Moon. He was in a strange glow and pressure of spirits, and talked incessantly; yet he had never been more sarcastic, and even inhuman. He used his old useless knowledge as a barrister to talk entertainingly of a tribunal that was a parody on the pompous anomalies of English law. The High Court of Beacon, he declared, was a splendid example of our free and sensible constitution. It had been founded by King John in defiance of the Magna Carta, and now held absolute power over windmills, wine and spirit licences, ladies traveling in Turkey, revision of sentences for dog-stealing and parricide, as well as anything whatever that happened in the town of Market Bosworth. The whole hundred and nine seneschals of the High Court of Beacon met once in every four centuries; but in the intervals (as Mr. Moon explained) the whole powers of the institution were vested in Mrs. Duke. Tossed about among the rest of the company, however, the High Court did not retain its historical and legal seriousness, but was used somewhat unscrupulously in a riot of domestic detail. If somebody spilt the Worcester Sauce on the tablecloth, he was quite sure it was a rite without which the sittings and findings of the Court would be invalid; or if somebody wanted a window to remain shut, he would suddenly remember that none but the third son of the lord of the manor of Penge had the right to open it. They even went to the length of making arrests and conducting criminal inquiries. The proposed trial of Moses Gould for patriotism was rather above the heads of the company, especially of the criminal; but the trial of Inglewood on a charge of photographic libel, and his triumphant acquittal upon a plea of insanity, were admitted to be in the best tradition of the Court.
But when Smith was in wild spirits he grew more and more serious, not more and more flippant like Michael Moon. This proposal of a private court of justice, which Moon had thrown off with the detachment of a political humourist, Smith really caught hold of with the eagerness of an abstract philosopher. It was by far the best thing they could do, he declared, to claim sovereign powers even for the individual household.
“You believe in Home Rule for Ireland; I believe in Home Rule for homes,” he cried eagerly to Michael. “It would be better if every father COULD kill his son, as with the old Romans; it would be better, because nobody would be killed. Let’s issue a Declaration of Independence from Beacon House. We could grow enough greens in that garden to support us, and when the tax-collector comes let’s tell him we’re self-supporting, and play on him with the hose… Well, perhaps, as you say, we couldn’t very well have a hose, as that comes from the main; but we could sink a well in this chalk, and a lot could be done with water-jugs… Let this really be Beacon House. Let’s light a bonfire of independence on the roof, and see house after house answering it across the valley of the Thames! Let us begin the League of the Free Families! Away with Local Government! A fig for Local Patriotism! Let every house be a sovereign state as this is, and judge its own children by its own law, as we do by the Court of Beacon. Let us cut the painter, and begin to be happy together, as if we were on a desert island.”
“I know that desert island,” said Michael Moon; “it only exists in the ‘Swiss Family Robinson.’ A man feels a strange desire for some sort of vegetable milk, and crash comes down some unexpected cocoa-nut from some undiscovered monkey. A literary man feels inclined to pen a sonnet, and at once an officious porcupine rushes out of a thicket and shoots out one of his quills.”
“Don’t you say a word against the ‘Swiss Family Robinson,’” cried Innocent with great warmth. “It mayn’t be exact science, but it’s dead accurate philosophy. When you’re really shipwrecked, you do really find what you want. When you’re really on a desert island, you never find it a desert. If we were really besieged in this garden, we’d find a hundred English birds and English berries that we never knew were here. If we were snowed up in this room, we’d be the better for reading scores of books in that bookcase that we don’t even know are there; we’d have talks with each other, good, terrible talks, that we shall go to the grave without guessing; we’d find materials for everything— christening, marriage, or funeral; yes, even for a coronation— if we didn’t decide to be a republic.”
“A coronation on ‘Swiss Family’ lines, I suppose,” said Michael, laughing. “Oh, I know you would find everything in that atmosphere. If we wanted such a simple thing, for instance, as a Coronation Canopy, we should walk down beyond the geraniums and find the Canopy Tree in full bloom. If we wanted such a trifle as a crown of gold, why, we should be digging up dandelions, and we should find a gold mine under the lawn. And when we wanted oil for the ceremony, why I suppose a great storm would wash everything on shore, and we should find there was a Whale on the premises.”
“And so there IS a whale on the premises for all you know,” asseverated Smith, striking the table with passion. “I bet you’ve never examined the premises! I bet you’ve never been round at the back as I was this morning— for I found the very thing you say could only grow on a tree. There’s an old sort of square tent up against the dustbin; it’s got three holes in the canvas, and a pole’s broken, so it’s not much good as a tent, but as a Canopy—” And his voice quite failed him to express its shining adequacy; then he went on with controversial eagerness: “You see I take every challenge as you make it. I believe every blessed thing you say couldn’t be here has been here all the time. You say you want a whale washed up for oil. Why, there’s oil in that cruet-stand at your elbow; and I don’t believe anybody has touched it or thought of it for years. And as for your gold crown, we’re none of us wealthy here, but we could collect enough ten-shilling bits from our own pockets to string round a man’s head for half an hour; or one of Miss Hunt’s gold bangles is nearly big enough to—”
The good-humoured Rosamund was almost choking with laughter. “All is not gold that glitters,” she said, “and besides—”
“What a mistake that is!” cried Innocent Smith, leaping up in great excitement. “All is gold that glitters— especially now we are a Sovereign State. What’s the good of a Sovereign State if you can’t define a sovereign? We can make anything a precious metal, as men could in the morning of the world. They didn’t choose gold because it was rare; your scientists can tell you twenty sorts of slime much rarer. They chose gold because it was bright—because it was a hard thing to find, but pretty when you’ve found it. You can’t fight with golden swords or eat golden biscuits; you can only look at it—and you can look at it out here.”
With one of his incalculable motions he sprang back and burst open the doors into the garden. At the same time also, with one of his gestures that never seemed at the instant so unconventional as they were, he stretched out his hand to Mary Gray, and led her out on to the lawn as if for a dance.
The French windows, thus flung open, let in an evening even lovelier than that of the day before. The west was swimming with sanguine colours, and a sort of sleepy flame lay along the lawn. The twisted shadows of the one or two garden trees showed upon this sheen, not gray or black, as in common daylight, but like arabesques written in vivid violet ink on some page of Eastern gold. The sunset was one of those festive and yet mysterious conflagrations in which common things by their colours remind us of costly or curious things. The slates upon the sloping roof burned like the plumes of a vast peacock, in every mysterious blend of blue and green. The red-brown bricks of the wall glowed with all the October tints of strong ruby and tawny wines. The sun seemed to set each object alight with a different coloured flame, like a man lighting fireworks; and even Innocent’s hair, which was of a rather colourless fairness, seemed to have a flame of pagan gold on it as he strode across the lawn towards the one tall ridge of rockery.
“What would be the good of gold,” he was saying, “if it did not glitter? Why should we care for a black sovereign any more than for a black sun at noon? A black button would do just as well. Don’t you see that everything in this garden looks like a jewel? And will you kindly tell me what the deuce is the good of a jewel except that it looks like a jewel? Leave off buying and selling, and start looking! Open your eyes, and you’ll wake up in the New Jerusalem.
“All is gold that glitters— Tree and tower of brass; Rolls the golden evening air Down the golden grass. Kick the cry to Jericho, How yellow mud is sold; All is gold that glitters, For the glitter is the gold.”
“And who wrote that?” asked Rosamund, amused.
“No one will ever write it,” answered Smith, and cleared the rockery with a flying leap.
“Really,” said Rosamund to Michael Moon, “he ought to be sent to an asylum. Don’t you think so?”
“I beg your pardon,” inquired Michael, rather sombrely; his long, swarthy head was dark against the sunset, and, either by accident or mood, he had the look of something isolated and even hostile amid the social extravagance of the garden.
“I only said Mr. Smith ought to go to an asylum,” repeated the lady.
The lean face seemed to grow longer and longer, for Moon was unmistakably sneering. “No,” he said; “I don’t think it’s at all necessary.”
“What do you mean?” asked Rosamund quickly. “Why not?”
“Because he is in one now,” answered Michael Moon, in a quiet but ugly voice. “Why, didn’t you know?”
“What?” cried the girl, and there was a break in her voice; for the Irishman’s face and voice were really almost creepy. With his dark figure and dark sayings in all that sunshine he looked like the devil in paradise.
“I’m sorry,” he continued, with a sort of harsh humility. “Of course we don’t talk about it much… but I thought we all really knew.”
“Knew what?”
“Well,” answered Moon, “that Beacon House is a certain rather singular sort of house—a house with the tiles loose, shall we say? Innocent Smith is only the doctor that visits us; hadn’t you come when he called before? As most of our maladies are melancholic, of course he has to be extra cheery. Sanity, of course, seems a very bumptious eccentric thing to us. Jumping over a wall, climbing a tree—that’s his bedside manner.”
“You daren’t say such a thing!” cried Rosamund in a rage. “You daren’t suggest that I—”
“Not more than I am,” said Michael soothingly; “not more than the rest of us. Haven’t you ever noticed that Miss Duke never sits still—a notorious sign? Haven’t you ever observed that Inglewood is always washing his hands— a known mark of mental disease? I, of course, am a dipsomaniac.”
“I don’t believe you,” broke out his companion, not without agitation. “I’ve heard you had some bad habits—”
“All habits are bad habits,” said Michael, with deadly calm. “Madness does not come by breaking out, but by giving in; by settling down in some dirty, little, self-repeating circle of ideas; by being tamed. YOU went mad about money, because you’re an heiress.”
“It’s a lie,” cried Rosamund furiously. “I never was mean about money.”
“You were worse,” said Michael, in a low voice and yet violently. “You thought that other people were. You thought every man who came near you must be a fortune-hunter; you would not let yourself go and be sane; and now you’re mad and I’m mad, and serve us right.”
“You brute!” said Rosamund, quite white. “And is this true?”
With the intellectual cruelty of which the Celt is capable when his abysses are in revolt, Michael was silent for some seconds, and then stepped back with an ironical bow. “Not literally true, of course,” he said; “only really true. An allegory, shall we say? a social satire.”
“And I hate and despise your satires,” cried Rosamund Hunt, letting loose her whole forcible female personality like a cyclone, and speaking every word to wound. “I despise it as I despise your rank tobacco, and your nasty, loungy ways, and your snarling, and your Radicalism, and your old clothes, and your potty little newspaper, and your rotten failure at everything. I don’t care whether you call it snobbishness or not, I like life and success, and jolly things to look at, and action. You won’t frighten me with Diogenes; I prefer Alexander.”
“Victrix causa deae—” said Michael gloomily; and this angered her more, as, not knowing what it meant, she imagined it to be witty.
“Oh, I dare say you know Greek,” she said, with cheerful inaccuracy; “you haven’t done much with that either.” And she crossed the garden, pursuing the vanished Innocent and Mary.
In doing so she passed Inglewood, who was returning to the house slowly, and with a thought-clouded brow. He was one of those men who are quite clever, but quite the reverse of quick. As he came back out of the sunset garden into the twilight parlour, Diana Duke slipped swiftly to her feet and began putting away the tea things. But it was not before Inglewood had seen an instantaneous picture so unique that he might well have snapshotted it with his everlasting camera. For Diana had been sitting in front of her unfinished work with her chin on her hand, looking straight out of the window in pure thoughtless thought.
“You are busy,” said Arthur, oddly embarrassed with what he had seen, and wishing to ignore it.
“There’s no time for dreaming in this world,” answered the young lady with her back to him.
“I have been thinking lately,” said Inglewood in a low voice, “that there’s no time for waking up.”
She did not reply, and he walked to the window and looked out on the garden.
“I don’t smoke or drink, you know,” he said irrelevantly, “because I think they’re drugs. And yet I fancy all hobbies, like my camera and bicycle, are drugs too. Getting under a black hood, getting into a dark room—getting into a hole anyhow. Drugging myself with speed, and sunshine, and fatigue, and fresh air. Pedalling the machine so fast that I turn into a machine myself. That’s the matter with all of us. We’re too busy to wake up.”
“Well,” said the girl solidly, “what is there to wake up to?”
“There must be!” cried Inglewood, turning round in a singular excitement—“there must be something to wake up to! All we do is preparations—your cleanliness, and my healthiness, and Warner’s scientific appliances. We’re always preparing for something—something that never comes off. I ventilate the house, and you sweep the house; but what is going to HAPPEN in the house?”
She was looking at him quietly, but with very bright eyes, and seemed to be searching for some form of words which she could not find.
Before she could speak the door burst open, and the boisterous Rosamund Hunt, in her flamboyant white hat, boa, and parasol, stood framed in the doorway. She was in a breathing heat, and on her open face was an expression of the most infantile astonishment.
“Well, here’s a fine game!” she said, panting. “What am I to do now, I wonder? I’ve wired for Dr. Warner; that’s all I can think of doing.”
“What is the matter?” asked Diana, rather sharply, but moving forward like one used to be called upon for assistance.
“It’s Mary,” said the heiress, “my companion Mary Gray: that cracked friend of yours called Smith has proposed to her in the garden, after ten hours’ acquaintance, and he wants to go off with her now for a special licence.”
Arthur Inglewood walked to the open French windows and looked out on the garden, still golden with evening light. Nothing moved there but a bird or two hopping and twittering; but beyond the hedge and railings, in the road outside the garden gate, a hansom cab was waiting, with the yellow Gladstone bag on top of it.
Chapter IV
The Garden of the God
Diana Duke seemed inexplicably irritated at the abrupt entrance and utterance of the other girl.
“Well,” she said shortly, “I suppose Miss Gray can decline him if she doesn’t want to marry him.”
“But she DOES want to marry him!” cried Rosamund in exasperation. “She’s a wild, wicked fool, and I won’t be parted from her.”
“Perhaps,” said Diana icily, “but I really don’t see what we can do.”
“But the man’s balmy, Diana,” reasoned her friend angrily. “I can’t let my nice governess marry a man that’s balmy! You or somebody MUST stop it!—Mr. Inglewood, you’re a man; go and tell them they simply can’t.”
“Unfortunately, it seems to me they simply can,” said Inglewood, with a depressed air. “I have far less right of intervention than Miss Duke, besides having, of course, far less moral force than she.”
“You haven’t either of you got much,” cried Rosamund, the last stays of her formidable temper giving way; “I think I’ll go somewhere else for a little sense and pluck. I think I know some one who will help me more than you do, at any rate… he’s a cantankerous beast, but he’s a man, and has a mind, and knows it…” And she flung out into the garden, with cheeks aflame, and the parasol whirling like a Catherine wheel.
She found Michael Moon standing under the garden tree, looking over the hedge; hunched like a bird of prey, with his large pipe hanging down his long blue chin. The very hardness of his expression pleased her, after the nonsense of the new engagement and the shilly-shallying of her other friends.
“I am sorry I was cross, Mr. Moon,” she said frankly. “I hated you for being a cynic; but I’ve been well punished, for I want a cynic just now. I’ve had my fill of sentiment—I’m fed up with it. The world’s gone mad, Mr. Moon—all except the cynics, I think. That maniac Smith wants to marry my old friend Mary, and she— and she—doesn’t seem to mind.”
Seeing his attentive face still undisturbedly smoking, she added smartly, “I’m not joking; that’s Mr. Smith’s cab outside. He swears he’ll take her off now to his aunt’s, and go for a special licence. Do give me some practical advice, Mr. Moon.”
Mr. Moon took his pipe out of his mouth, held it in his hand for an instant reflectively, and then tossed it to the other side of the garden. “My practical advice to you is this,” he said: “Let him go for his special licence, and ask him to get another one for you and me.”
“Is that one of your jokes?” asked the young lady. “Do say what you really mean.”
“I mean that Innocent Smith is a man of business,” said Moon with ponderous precision—“a plain, practical man: a man of affairs; a man of facts and the daylight. He has let down twenty ton of good building bricks suddenly on my head, and I am glad to say they have woken me up. We went to sleep a little while ago on this very lawn, in this very sunlight. We have had a little nap for five years or so, but now we’re going to be married, Rosamund, and I can’t see why that cab…”
“Really,” said Rosamund stoutly, “I don’t know what you mean.”
“What a lie!” cried Michael, advancing on her with brightening eyes. “I’m all for lies in an ordinary way; but don’t you see that to-night they won’t do? We’ve wandered into a world of facts, old girl. That grass growing, and that sun going down, and that cab at the door, are facts. You used to torment and excuse yourself by saying I was after your money, and didn’t really love you. But if I stood here now and told you I didn’t love you—you wouldn’t believe me: for truth is in this garden to-night.”
“Really, Mr. Moon…” said Rosamund, rather more faintly.
He kept two big blue magnetic eyes fixed on her face. “Is my name Moon?” he asked. “Is your name Hunt? On my honour, they sound to me as quaint and as distant as Red Indian names. It’s as if your name was ‘Swim’ and my name was ‘Sunrise.’ But our real names are Husband and Wife, as they were when we fell asleep.”
“It is no good,” said Rosamund, with real tears in her eyes; “one can never go back.”
“I can go where I damn please,” said Michael, “and I can carry you on my shoulder.”
“But really, Michael, really, you must stop and think!” cried the girl earnestly. “You could carry me off my feet, I dare say, soul and body, but it may be bitter bad business for all that. These things done in that romantic rush, like Mr. Smith’s, they— they do attract women, I don’t deny it. As you say, we’re all telling the truth to-night. They’ve attracted poor Mary, for one. They attract me, Michael. But the cold fact remains: imprudent marriages do lead to long unhappiness and disappointment— you’ve got used to your drinks and things—I shan’t be pretty much longer—”
“Imprudent marriages!” roared Michael. “And pray where in earth or heaven are there any prudent marriages? Might as well talk about prudent suicides. You and I have dawdled round each other long enough, and are we any safer than Smith and Mary Gray, who met last night? You never know a husband till you marry him. Unhappy! of course you’ll be unhappy. Who the devil are you that you shouldn’t be unhappy, like the mother that bore you? Disappointed! of course we’ll be disappointed. I, for one, don’t expect till I die to be so good a man as I am at this minute— a tower with all the trumpets shouting.”
“You see all this,” said Rosamund, with a grand sincerity in her solid face, “and do you really want to marry me?”
“My darling, what else is there to do?” reasoned the Irishman. “What other occupation is there for an active man on this earth, except to marry you? What’s the alternative to marriage, barring sleep? It’s not liberty, Rosamund. Unless you marry God, as our nuns do in Ireland, you must marry Man—that is Me. The only third thing is to marry yourself— yourself, yourself, yourself—the only companion that is never satisfied— and never satisfactory.”
“Michael,” said Miss Hunt, in a very soft voice, “if you won’t talk so much, I’ll marry you.”
“It’s no time for talking,” cried Michael Moon; “singing is the only thing. Can’t you find that mandoline of yours, Rosamund?”
“Go and fetch it for me,” said Rosamund, with crisp and sharp authority.
The lounging Mr. Moon stood for one split second astonished; then he shot away across the lawn, as if shod with the feathered shoes out of the Greek fairy tale. He cleared three yards and fifteen daisies at a leap, out of mere bodily levity; but when he came within a yard or two of the open parlour windows, his flying feet fell in their old manner like lead; he twisted round and came back slowly, whistling. The events of that enchanted evening were not at an end.
Inside the dark sitting-room of which Moon had caught a glimpse a curious thing had happened, almost an instant after the intemperate exit of Rosamund. It was something which, occurring in that obscure parlour, seemed to Arthur Inglewood like heaven and earth turning head over heels, the sea being the ceiling and the stars the floor. No words can express how it astonished him, as it astonishes all simple men when it happens. Yet the stiffest female stoicism seems separated from it only by a sheet of paper or a sheet of steel. It indicates no surrender, far less any sympathy. The most rigid and ruthless woman can begin to cry, just as the most effeminate man can grow a beard. It is a separate sexual power, and proves nothing one way or the other about force of character. But to young men ignorant of women, like Arthur Inglewood, to see Diana Duke crying was like seeing a motor-car shedding tears of petrol.
He could never have given (even if his really manly modesty had permitted it) any vaguest vision of what he did when he saw that portent. He acted as men do when a theatre catches fire—very differently from how they would have conceived themselves as acting, whether for better or worse. He had a faint memory of certain half-stifled explanations, that the heiress was the one really paying guest, and she would go, and the bailiffs (in consequence) would come; but after that he knew nothing of his own conduct except by the protests it evoked.
“Leave me alone, Mr. Inglewood—leave me alone; that’s not the way to help.”
“But I can help you,” said Arthur, with grinding certainty; “I can, I can, I can…”
“Why, you said,” cried the girl, “that you were much weaker than me.”
“So I am weaker than you,” said Arthur, in a voice that went vibrating through everything, “but not just now.”
“Let go my hands!” cried Diana. “I won’t be bullied.”
In one element he was much stronger than she—the matter of humour. This leapt up in him suddenly, and he laughed, saying: “Well, you are mean. You know quite well you’ll bully me all the rest of my life. You might allow a man the one minute of his life when he’s allowed to bully.”
It was as extraordinary for him to laugh as for her to cry, and for the first time since her childhood Diana was entirely off her guard.
“Do you mean you want to marry me?” she said.
“Why, there’s a cab at the door!” cried Inglewood, springing up with an unconscious energy and bursting open the glass doors that led into the garden.
As he led her out by the hand they realized somehow for the first time that the house and garden were on a steep height over London. And yet, though they felt the place to be uplifted, they felt it also to be secret: it was like some round walled garden on the top of one of the turrets of heaven.
Inglewood looked around dreamily, his brown eyes devouring all sorts of details with a senseless delight. He noticed for the first time that the railings of the gate beyond the garden bushes were moulded like little spearheads and painted blue. He noticed that one of the blue spears was loosened in its place, and hung sideways; and this almost made him laugh. He thought it somehow exquisitely harmless and funny that the railing should be crooked; he thought he should like to know how it happened, who did it, and how the man was getting on.
When they were gone a few feet across that fiery grass they realized that they were not alone. Rosamund Hunt and the eccentric Mr. Moon, both of whom they had last seen in the blackest temper of detachment, were standing together on the lawn. They were standing in quite an ordinary manner, and yet they looked somehow like people in a book.
“Oh,” said Diana, “what lovely air!”
“I know,” called out Rosamund, with a pleasure so positive that it rang out like a complaint. “It’s just like that horrid, beastly fizzy stuff they gave me that made me feel happy.”
“Oh, it isn’t like anything but itself!” answered Diana, breathing deeply. “Why, it’s all cold, and yet it feels like fire.”
“Balmy is the word we use in Fleet Street,” said Mr. Moon. “Balmy—especially on the crumpet.” And he fanned himself quite unnecessarily with his straw hat. They were all full of little leaps and pulsations of objectless and airy energy. Diana stirred and stretched her long arms rigidly, as if crucified, in a sort of excruciating restfulness; Michael stood still for long intervals, with gathered muscles, then spun round like a teetotum, and stood still again; Rosamund did not trip, for women never trip, except when they fall on their noses, but she struck the ground with her foot as she moved, as if to some inaudible dance tune; and Inglewood, leaning quite quietly against a tree, had unconsciously clutched a branch and shaken it with a creative violence. Those giant gestures of Man, that made the high statues and the strokes of war, tossed and tormented all their limbs. Silently as they strolled and stood they were bursting like batteries with an animal magnetism.
“And now,” cried Moon quite suddenly, stretching out a hand on each side, “let’s dance round that bush!”
“Why, what bush do you mean?” asked Rosamund, looking round with a sort of radiant rudeness.
“The bush that isn’t there,” said Michael—“the Mulberry Bush.”
They had taken each other’s hands, half laughing and quite ritually; and before they could disconnect again Michael spun them all round, like a demon spinning the world for a top. Diana felt, as the circle of the horizon flew instantaneously around her, a far aerial sense of the ring of heights beyond London and corners where she had climbed as a child; she seemed almost to hear the rooks cawing about the old pines on Highgate, or to see the glowworms gathering and kindling in the woods of Box Hill.
The circle broke—as all such perfect circles of levity must break— and sent its author, Michael, flying, as by centrifugal force, far away against the blue rails of the gate. When reeling there he suddenly raised shout after shout of a new and quite dramatic character.
“Why, it’s Warner!” he shouted, waving his arms. “It’s jolly old Warner— with a new silk hat and the old silk moustache!”
“Is that Dr. Warner?” cried Rosamund, bounding forward in a burst of memory, amusement, and distress. “Oh, I’m so sorry! Oh, do tell him it’s all right!”
“Let’s take hands and tell him,” said Michael Moon. For indeed, while they were talking, another hansom cab had dashed up behind the one already waiting, and Dr. Herbert Warner, leaving a companion in the cab, had carefully deposited himself on the pavement.
Now, when you are an eminent physician and are wired for by an heiress to come to a case of dangerous mania, and when, as you come in through the garden to the house, the heiress and her landlady and two of the gentlemen boarders join hands and dance round you in a ring, calling out, “It’s all right! it’s all right!” you are apt to be flustered and even displeased. Dr. Warner was a placid but hardly a placable person. The two things are by no means the same; and even when Moon explained to him that he, Warner, with his high hat and tall, solid figure, was just such a classic figure as OUGHT to be danced round by a ring of laughing maidens on some old golden Greek seashore— even then he seemed to miss the point of the general rejoicing.
“Inglewood!” cried Dr. Warner, fixing his former disciple with a stare, “are you mad?”
Arthur flushed to the roots of his brown hair, but he answered, easily and quietly enough, “Not now. The truth is, Warner, I’ve just made a rather important medical discovery—quite in your line.”
“What do you mean?” asked the great doctor stiffly—“what discovery?”
“I’ve discovered that health really is catching, like disease,” answered Arthur.
“Yes; sanity has broken out, and is spreading,” said Michael,
performing a pas seul with a thoughtful expression.
“Twenty thousand more cases taken to the hospitals;
nurses employed night and day.”
Dr. Warner studied Michael’s grave face and lightly moving legs with an unfathomed wonder. “And is THIS, may I ask,” he said, “the sanity that is spreading?”
“You must forgive me, Dr. Warner,” cried Rosamund Hunt heartily. “I know I’ve treated you badly; but indeed it was all a mistake. I was in a frightfully bad temper when I sent for you, but now it all seems like a dream—and and Mr. Smith is the sweetest, most sensible, most delightful old thing that ever existed, and he may marry any one he likes—except me.”
“I should suggest Mrs. Duke,” said Michael.
The gravity of Dr. Warner’s face increased. He took a slip of pink paper from his waistcoat pocket, with his pale blue eyes quietly fixed on Rosamund’s face all the time. He spoke with a not inexcusable frigidity.
“Really, Miss Hunt,” he said, “you are not yet very reassuring. You sent me this wire only half an hour ago: ‘Come at once, if possible, with another doctor. Man—Innocent Smith—gone mad on premises, and doing dreadful things. Do you know anything of him?’ I went round at once to a distinguished colleague of mine, a doctor who is also a private detective and an authority on criminal lunacy; he has come round with me, and is waiting in the cab. Now you calmly tell me that this criminal madman is a highly sweet and sane old thing, with accompaniments that set me speculating on your own definition of sanity. I hardly comprehend the change.”
“Oh, how can one explain a change in sun and moon and everybody’s soul?” cried Rosamund, in despair. “Must I confess we had got so morbid as to think him mad merely because he wanted to get married; and that we didn’t even know it was only because we wanted to get married ourselves? We’ll humiliate ourselves, if you like, doctor; we’re happy enough.”
“Where is Mr. Smith?” asked Warner of Inglewood very sharply.
Arthur started; he had forgotten all about the central figure of their farce, who had not been visible for an hour or more.
“I—I think he’s on the other side of the house, by the dustbin,” he said.
“He may be on the road to Russia,” said Warner, “but he must be found.” And he strode away and disappeared round a corner of the house by the sunflowers.
“I hope,” said Rosamund, “he won’t really interfere with Mr. Smith.”
“Interfere with the daisies!” said Michael with a snort. “A man can’t be locked up for falling in love—at least I hope not.”
“No; I think even a doctor couldn’t make a disease out of him. He’d throw off the doctor like the disease, don’t you know? I believe it’s a case of a sort of holy well. I believe Innocent Smith is simply innocent, and that is why he is so extraordinary.”
It was Rosamund who spoke, restlessly tracing circles in the grass with the point of her white shoe.
“I think,” said Inglewood, “that Smith is not extraordinary at all. He’s comic just because he’s so startlingly commonplace. Don’t you know what it is to be all one family circle, with aunts and uncles, when a schoolboy comes home for the holidays? That bag there on the cab is only a schoolboy’s hamper. This tree here in the garden is only the sort of tree that any schoolboy would have climbed. Yes, that’s the thing that has haunted us all about him, the thing we could never fit a word to. Whether he is my old schoolfellow or no, at least he is all my old schoolfellows. He is the endless bun-eating, ball-throwing animal that we have all been.”
“That is only you absurd boys,” said Diana. “I don’t believe any girl was ever so silly, and I’m sure no girl was ever so happy, except—” and she stopped.
“I will tell you the truth about Innocent Smith,” said Michael Moon in a low voice. “Dr. Warner has gone to look for him in vain. He is not there. Haven’t you noticed that we never saw him since we found ourselves? He was an astral baby born on all four of us; he was only our own youth returned. Long before poor old Warner had clambered out of his cab, the thing we called Smith had dissolved into dew and light on this lawn. Once or twice more, by the mercy of God, we may feel the thing, but the man we shall never see. In a spring garden before breakfast we shall smell the smell called Smith. In the snapping of brisk twigs in tiny fires we shall hear a noise named Smith. Everything insatiable and innocent in the grasses that gobble up the earth like babies at a bun feast, in the white mornings that split the sky as a boy splits up white firwood, we may feel for one instant the presence of an impetuous purity; but his innocence was too close to the unconsciousness of inanimate things not to melt back at a mere touch into the mild hedges and heavens; he—”
He was interrupted from behind the house by a bang like that of a bomb. Almost at the same instant the stranger in the cab sprang out of it, leaving it rocking upon the stones of the road. He clutched the blue railings of the garden, and peered eagerly over them in the direction of the noise. He was a small, loose, yet alert man, very thin, with a face that seemed made out of fish bones, and a silk hat quite as rigid and resplendent as Warner’s, but thrust back recklessly on the hinder part of his head.
“Murder!” he shrieked, in a high and feminine but very penetrating voice. “Stop that murderer there!”
Even as he shrieked a second shot shook the lower windows of the house, and with the noise of it Dr. Herbert Warner came flying round the corner like a leaping rabbit. Yet before he had reached the group a third discharge had deafened them, and they saw with their own eyes two spots of white sky drilled through the second of the unhappy Herbert’s high hats. The next moment the fugitive physician fell over a flowerpot, and came down on all fours, staring like a cow. The hat with the two shot-holes in it rolled upon the gravel path before him, and Innocent Smith came round the corner like a railway train. He was looking twice his proper size—a giant clad in green, the big revolver still smoking in his hand, his face sanguine and in shadow, his eyes blazing like all stars, and his yellow hair standing out all ways like Struwelpeter’s.
Though this startling scene hung but an instant in stillness, Inglewood had time to feel once more what he had felt when he saw the other lovers standing on the lawn—the sensation of a certain cut and coloured clearness that belongs rather to the things of art than to the things of experience. The broken flowerpot with its red-hot geraniums, the green bulk of Smith and the black bulk of Warner, the blue-spiked railings behind, clutched by the stranger’s yellow vulture claws and peered over by his long vulture neck, the silk hat on the gravel, and the little cloudlet of smoke floating across the garden as innocently as the puff of a cigarette— all these seemed unnaturally distinct and definite. They existed, like symbols, in an ecstasy of separation. Indeed, every object grew more and more particular and precious because the whole picture was breaking up. Things look so bright just before they burst.
Long before his fancies had begun, let alone ceased, Arthur had stepped across and taken one of Smith’s arms. Simultaneously the little stranger had run up the steps and taken the other. Smith went into peals of laughter, and surrendered his pistol with perfect willingness. Moon raised the doctor to his feet, and then went and leaned sullenly on the garden gate. The girls were quiet and vigilant, as good women mostly are in instants of catastrophe, but their faces showed that, somehow or other, a light had been dashed out of the sky. The doctor himself, when he had risen, collected his hat and wits, and dusting himself down with an air of great disgust, turned to them in brief apology. He was very white with his recent panic, but he spoke with perfect self-control.
“You will excuse us, ladies,” he said; “my friend and Mr. Inglewood are both scientists in their several ways. I think we had better all take Mr. Smith indoors, and communicate with you later.”
And under the guard of the three natural philosophers the disarmed Smith was led tactfully into the house, still roaring with laughter.
From time to time during the next twenty minutes his distant boom of mirth could again be heard through the half-open window; but there came no echo of the quiet voices of the physicians. The girls walked about the garden together, rubbing up each other’s spirits as best they might; Michael Moon still hung heavily against the gate. Somewhere about the expiration of that time Dr. Warner came out of the house with a face less pale but even more stern, and the little man with the fish-bone face advanced gravely in his rear. And if the face of Warner in the sunlight was that of a hanging judge, the face of the little man behind was more like a death’s head.
“Miss Hunt,” said Dr. Herbert Warner, “I only wish to offer you my warm thanks and admiration. By your prompt courage and wisdom in sending for us by wire this evening, you have enabled us to capture and put out of mischief one of the most cruel and terrible of the enemies of humanity— a criminal whose plausibility and pitilessness have never been before combined in flesh.”
Rosamund looked across at him with a white, blank face and blinking eyes. “What do you mean?” she asked. “You can’t mean Mr. Smith?”
“He has gone by many other names,” said the doctor gravely, “and not one he did not leave to be cursed behind him. That man, Miss Hunt, has left a track of blood and tears across the world. Whether he is mad as well as wicked, we are trying, in the interests of science, to discover. In any case, we shall have to take him to a magistrate first, even if only on the road to a lunatic asylum. But the lunatic asylum in which he is confined will have to be sealed with wall within wall, and ringed with guns like a fortress, or he will break out again to bring forth carnage and darkness on the earth.”
Rosamund looked at the two doctors, her face growing paler and paler. Then her eyes strayed to Michael, who was leaning on the gate; but he continued to lean on it without moving, with his face turned away towards the darkening road.
Chapter V
The Allegorical Practical Joker
The criminal specialist who had come with Dr. Warner was a somewhat more urbane and even dapper figure than he had appeared when clutching the railings and craning his neck into the garden. He even looked comparatively young when he took his hat off, having fair hair parted in the middle and carefully curled on each side, and lively movements, especially of the hands. He had a dandified monocle slung round his neck by a broad black ribbon, and a big bow tie, as if a big American moth had alighted on him. His dress and gestures were bright enough for a boy’s; it was only when you looked at the fish-bone face that you beheld something acrid and old. His manners were excellent, though hardly English, and he had two half-conscious tricks by which people who only met him once remembered him. One was a trick of closing his eyes when he wished to be particularly polite; the other was one of lifting his joined thumb and forefinger in the air as if holding a pinch of snuff, when he was hesitating or hovering over a word. But those who were longer in his company tended to forget these oddities in the stream of his quaint and solemn conversation and really singular views.
“Miss Hunt,” said Dr. Warner, “this is Dr. Cyrus Pym.”
Dr. Cyrus Pym shut his eyes during the introduction, rather as if he were “playing fair” in some child’s game, and gave a prompt little bow, which somehow suddenly revealed him as a citizen of the United States.
“Dr. Cyrus Pym,” continued Warner (Dr. Pym shut his eyes again), “is perhaps the first criminological expert of America. We are very fortunate to be able to consult with him in this extraordinary case—”
“I can’t make head or tail of anything,” said Rosamund. “How can poor Mr. Smith be so dreadful as he is by your account?”
“Or by your telegram,” said Herbert Warner, smiling.
“Oh, you don’t understand,” cried the girl impatiently. “Why, he’s done us all more good than going to church.”
“I think I can explain to the young lady,” said Dr. Cyrus Pym. “This criminal or maniac Smith is a very genius of evil, and has a method of his own, a method of the most daring ingenuity. He is popular wherever he goes, for he invades every house as an uproarious child. People are getting suspicious of all the respectable disguises for a scoundrel; so he always uses the disguise of—what shall I say—the Bohemian, the blameless Bohemian. He always carries people off their feet. People are used to the mask of conventional good conduct. He goes in for eccentric good-nature. You expect a Don Juan to dress up as a solemn and solid Spanish merchant; but you’re not prepared when he dresses up as Don Quixote. You expect a humbug to behave like Sir Charles Grandison; because (with all respect, Miss Hunt, for the deep, tear-moving tenderness of Samuel Richardson) Sir Charles Grandison so often behaved like a humbug. But no real red-blooded citizen is quite ready for a humbug that models himself not on Sir Charles Grandison but on Sir Roger de Coverly. Setting up to be a good man a little cracked is a new criminal incognito, Miss Hunt. It’s been a great notion, and uncommonly successful; but its success just makes it mighty cruel. I can forgive Dick Turpin if he impersonates Dr. Busby; I can’t forgive him when he impersonates Dr. Johnson. The saint with a tile loose is a bit too sacred, I guess, to be parodied.”
“But how do you know,” cried Rosamund desperately, “that Mr. Smith is a known criminal?”
“I collated all the documents,” said the American, “when my friend Warner knocked me up on receipt of your cable. It is my professional affair to know these facts, Miss Hunt; and there’s no more doubt about them than about the Bradshaw down at the depot. This man has hitherto escaped the law, through his admirable affectations of infancy or insanity. But I myself, as a specialist, have privately authenticated notes of some eighteen or twenty crimes attempted or achieved in this manner. He comes to houses as he has to this, and gets a grand popularity. He makes things go. They do go; when he’s gone the things are gone. Gone, Miss Hunt, gone, a man’s life or a man’s spoons, or more often a woman. I assure you I have all the memoranda.”
“I have seen them,” said Warner solidly, “I can assure you that all this is correct.”
“The most unmanly aspect, according to my feelings,” went on the American doctor, “is this perpetual deception of innocent women by a wild simulation of innocence. From almost every house where this great imaginative devil has been, he has taken some poor girl away with him; some say he’s got a hypnotic eye with his other queer features, and that they go like automata. What’s become of all those poor girls nobody knows. Murdered, I dare say; for we’ve lots of instances, besides this one, of his turning his hand to murder, though none ever brought him under the law. Anyhow, our most modern methods of research can’t find any trace of the wretched women. It’s when I think of them that I am really moved, Miss Hunt. And I’ve really nothing else to say just now except what Dr. Warner has said.”
“Quite so,” said Warner, with a smile that seemed moulded in marble—“that we all have to thank you very much for that telegram.”
The little Yankee scientist had been speaking with such evident sincerity that one forgot the tricks of his voice and manner— the falling eyelids, the rising intonation, and the poised finger and thumb—which were at other times a little comic. It was not so much that he was cleverer than Warner; perhaps he was not so clever, though he was more celebrated. But he had what Warner never had, a fresh and unaffected seriousness— the great American virtue of simplicity. Rosamund knitted her brows and looked gloomily toward the darkening house that contained the dark prodigy.
Broad daylight still endured; but it had already changed from gold to silver, and was changing from silver to gray. The long plumy shadows of the one or two trees in the garden faded more and more upon a dead background of dusk. In the sharpest and deepest shadow, which was the entrance to the house by the big French windows, Rosamund could watch a hurried consultation between Inglewood (who was still left in charge of the mysterious captive) and Diana, who had moved to his assistance from without. After a few minutes and gestures they went inside, shutting the glass doors upon the garden; and the garden seemed to grow grayer still.
The American gentleman named Pym seemed to be turning and on the move in the same direction; but before he started he spoke to Rosamund with a flash of that guileless tact which redeemed much of his childish vanity, and with something of that spontaneous poetry which made it difficult, pedantic as he was, to call him a pedant.
“I’m vurry sorry, Miss Hunt,” he said; “but Dr. Warner and I, as two quali-FIED practitioners, had better take Mr. Smith away in that cab, and the less said about it the better. Don’t you agitate yourself, Miss Hunt. You’ve just got to think that we’re taking away a monstrosity, something that oughtn’t to be at all—something like one of those gods in your Britannic Museum, all wings, and beards, and legs, and eyes, and no shape. That’s what Smith is, and you shall soon be quit of him.”
He had already taken a step towards the house, and Warner was about to follow him, when the glass doors were opened again and Diana Duke came out with more than her usual quickness across the lawn. Her face was aquiver with worry and excitement, and her dark earnest eyes fixed only on the other girl.
“Rosamund,” she cried in despair, “what shall I do with her?”
“With her?” cried Miss Hunt, with a violent jump. “O lord, he isn’t a woman too, is he?”
“No, no, no,” said Dr. Pym soothingly, as if in common fairness. “A woman? no, really, he is not so bad as that.”
“I mean your friend Mary Gray,” retorted Diana with equal tartness. “What on earth am I to do with her?”
“How can we tell her about Smith, you mean,” answered Rosamund, her face at once clouded and softening. “Yes, it will be pretty painful.”
“But I HAVE told her,” exploded Diana, with more than her congenital exasperation. “I have told her, and she doesn’t seem to mind. She still says she’s going away with Smith in that cab.”
“But it’s impossible!” ejaculated Rosamund. “Why, Mary is really religious. She—”
She stopped in time to realize that Mary Gray was comparatively close to her on the lawn. Her quiet companion had come down very quietly into the garden, but dressed very decisively for travel. She had a neat but very ancient blue tam-o’-shanter on her head, and was pulling some rather threadbare gray gloves on to her hands. Yet the two tints fitted excellently with her heavy copper-coloured hair; the more excellently for the touch of shabbiness: for a woman’s clothes never suit her so well as when they seem to suit her by accident.
But in this case the woman had a quality yet more unique and attractive. In such gray hours, when the sun is sunk and the skies are already sad, it will often happen that one reflection at some occasional angle will cause to linger the last of the light. A scrap of window, a scrap of water, a scrap of looking-glass, will be full of the fire that is lost to all the rest of the earth. The quaint, almost triangular face of Mary Gray was like some triangular piece of mirror that could still repeat the splendour of hours before. Mary, though she was always graceful, could never before have properly been called beautiful; and yet her happiness amid all that misery was so beautiful as to make a man catch his breath.
“O Diana,” cried Rosamund in a lower voice and altering her phrase; “but how did you tell her?”
“It is quite easy to tell her,” answered Diana sombrely; “it makes no impression at all.”
“I’m afraid I’ve kept everything waiting,” said Mary Gray apologetically, “and now we must really say good-bye. Innocent is taking me to his aunt’s over at Hampstead, and I’m afraid she goes to bed early.”
Her words were quite casual and practical, but there was a sort of sleepy light in her eyes that was more baffling than darkness; she was like one speaking absently with her eye on some very distant object.
“Mary, Mary,” cried Rosamund, almost breaking down, “I’m so sorry about it, but the thing can’t be at all. We—we have found out all about Mr. Smith.”
“All?” repeated Mary, with a low and curious intonation; “why, that must be awfully exciting.”
There was no noise for an instant and no motion except that the silent Michael Moon, leaning on the gate, lifted his head, as it might be to listen. Then Rosamund remaining speechless, Dr. Pym came to her rescue in a definite way.
“To begin with,” he said, “this man Smith is constantly attempting murder. The Warden of Brakespeare College—”
“I know,” said Mary, with a vague but radiant smile. “Innocent told me.”
“I can’t say what he told you,” replied Pym quickly, “but I’m very much afraid it wasn’t true. The plain truth is that the man’s stained with every known human crime. I assure you I have all the documents. I have evidence of his committing burglary, signed by a most eminent English curate. I have—”
“Oh, but there were two curates,” cried Mary, with a certain gentle eagerness; “that was what made it so much funnier.”
The darkened glass doors of the house opened once more, and Inglewood appeared for an instant, making a sort of signal. The American doctor bowed, the English doctor did not, but they both set out stolidly towards the house. No one else moved, not even Michael hanging on the gate; but the back of his head and shoulders had still an indescribable indication that he was listening to every word.
“But don’t you understand, Mary,” cried Rosamund in despair; “don’t you know that awful things have happened even before our very eyes. I should have thought you would have heard the revolver shots upstairs.”
“Yes, I heard the shots,” said Mary almost brightly; “but I was busy packing just then. And Innocent had told me he was going to shoot at Dr. Warner; so it wasn’t worth while to come down.”
“Oh, I don’t understand what you mean,” cried Rosamund Hunt, stamping, “but you must and shall understand what I mean. I don’t care how cruelly I put it, if only I can save you. I mean that your Innocent Smith is the most awfully wicked man in the world. He has sent bullets at lots of other men and gone off in cabs with lots of other women. And he seems to have killed the women too, for nobody can find them.”
“He is really rather naughty sometimes,” said Mary Gray, laughing softly as she buttoned her old gray gloves.
“Oh, this is really mesmerism, or something,” said Rosamund, and burst into tears.
At the same moment the two black-clad doctors appeared out of the house with their great green-clad captive between them. He made no resistance, but was still laughing in a groggy and half-witted style. Arthur Inglewood followed in the rear, a dark and red study in the last shades of distress and shame. In this black, funereal, and painfully realistic style the exit from Beacon House was made by a man whose entrance a day before had been effected by the happy leaping of a wall and the hilarious climbing of a tree. No one moved of the groups in the garden except Mary Gray, who stepped forward quite naturally, calling out, “Are you ready, Innocent? Our cab’s been waiting such a long time.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Dr. Warner firmly, “I must insist on asking this lady to stand aside. We shall have trouble enough as it is, with the three of us in a cab.”
“But it IS our cab,” persisted Mary. “Why, there’s Innocent’s yellow bag on the top of it.”
“Stand aside,” repeated Warner roughly. “And you, Mr. Moon, please be so obliging as to move a moment. Come, come! the sooner this ugly business is over the better—and how can we open the gate if you will keep leaning on it?”
Michael Moon looked at his long lean forefinger, and seemed to consider and reconsider this argument. “Yes,” he said at last; “but how can I lean on this gate if you keep on opening it?”
“Oh, get out of the way!” cried Warner, almost good-humouredly. “You can lean on the gate any time.”
“No,” said Moon reflectively. “Seldom the time and the place and the blue gate altogether; and it all depends whether you come of an old country family. My ancestors leaned on gates before any one had discovered how to open them.”
“Michael!” cried Arthur Inglewood in a kind of agony, “are you going to get out of the way?”
“Why, no; I think not,” said Michael, after some meditation, and swung himself slowly round, so that he confronted the company, while still, in a lounging attitude, occupying the path.
“Hullo!” he called out suddenly; “what are you doing to Mr. Smith?”
“Taking him away,” answered Warner shortly, “to be examined.”
“Matriculation?” asked Moon brightly.
“By a magistrate,” said the other curtly.
“And what other magistrate,” cried Michael, raising his voice, “dares to try what befell on this free soil, save only the ancient and independent Dukes of Beacon? What other court dares to try one of our company, save only the High Court of Beacon? Have you forgotten that only this afternoon we flew the flag of independence and severed ourselves from all the nations of the earth?”
“Michael,” cried Rosamund, wringing her hands, “how can you stand there talking nonsense? Why, you saw the dreadful thing yourself. You were there when he went mad. It was you that helped the doctor up when he fell over the flower-pot.”
“And the High Court of Beacon,” replied Moon with hauteur, “has special powers in all cases concerning lunatics, flower-pots, and doctors who fall down in gardens. It’s in our very first charter from Edward I: ‘Si medicus quisquam in horto prostratus—’”
“Out of the way!” cried Warner with sudden fury, “or we will force you out of it.”
“What!” cried Michael Moon, with a cry of hilarious fierceness. “Shall I die in defence of this sacred pale? Will you paint these blue railings red with my gore?” and he laid hold of one of the blue spikes behind him. As Inglewood had noticed earlier in the evening, the railing was loose and crooked at this place, and the painted iron staff and spearhead came away in Michael’s hand as he shook it.
“See!” he cried, brandishing this broken javelin in the air, “the very lances round Beacon Tower leap from their places to defend it. Ah, in such a place and hour it is a fine thing to die alone!” And in a voice like a drum he rolled the noble lines of Ronsard—
“Ou pour l’honneur de Dieu, ou pour le droit de mon prince, Navre, poitrine ouverte, au bord de mon province.”
“Sakes alive!” said the American gentleman, almost in an awed tone. Then he added, “Are there two maniacs here?”
“No; there are five,” thundered Moon. “Smith and I are the only sane people left.”
“Michael!” cried Rosamund; “Michael, what does it mean?”
“It means bosh!” roared Michael, and slung his painted spear hurtling to the other end of the garden. “It means that doctors are bosh, and criminology is bosh, and Americans are bosh— much more bosh than our Court of Beacon. It means, you fatheads, that Innocent Smith is no more mad or bad than the bird on that tree.”
“But, my dear Moon,” began Inglewood in his modest manner, “these gentlemen—”
“On the word of two doctors,” exploded Moon again, without listening to anybody else, “shut up in a private hell on the word of two doctors! And such doctors! Oh, my hat! Look at ‘em!—do just look at ‘em! Would you read a book, or buy a dog, or go to a hotel on the advice of twenty such? My people came from Ireland, and were Catholics. What would you say if I called a man wicked on the word of two priests?”
“But it isn’t only their word, Michael,” reasoned Rosamund; “they’ve got evidence too.”
“Have you looked at it?” asked Moon.
“No,” said Rosamund, with a sort of faint surprise; “these gentlemen are in charge of it.”
“And of everything else, it seems to me,” said Michael. “Why, you haven’t even had the decency to consult Mrs. Duke.”
“Oh, that’s no use,” said Diana in an undertone to Rosamund; “Auntie can’t say ‘Bo!’ to a goose.”
“I am glad to hear it,” answered Michael, “for with such a flock of geese to say it to, the horrid expletive might be constantly on her lips. For my part, I simply refuse to let things be done in this light and airy style. I appeal to Mrs. Duke—it’s her house.”
“Mrs. Duke?” repeated Inglewood doubtfully.
“Yes, Mrs. Duke,” said Michael firmly, “commonly called the Iron Duke.”
“If you ask Auntie,” said Diana quietly, “she’ll only be for doing nothing at all. Her only idea is to hush things up or to let things slide. That just suits her.”
“Yes,” replied Michael Moon; “and, as it happens, it just suits all of us. You are impatient with your elders, Miss Duke; but when you are as old yourself you will know what Napoleon knew— that half one’s letters answer themselves if you can only refrain from the fleshly appetite of answering them.”
He was still lounging in the same absurd attitude, with his elbow on the grate, but his voice had altered abruptly for the third time; just as it had changed from the mock heroic to the humanly indignant, it now changed to the airy incisiveness of a lawyer giving good legal advice.
“It isn’t only your aunt who wants to keep this quiet if she can,” he said; “we all want to keep it quiet if we can. Look at the large facts—the big bones of the case. I believe those scientific gentlemen have made a highly scientific mistake. I believe Smith is as blameless as a buttercup. I admit buttercups don’t often let off loaded pistols in private houses; I admit there is something demanding explanation. But I am morally certain there’s some blunder, or some joke, or some allegory, or some accident behind all this. Well, suppose I’m wrong. We’ve disarmed him; we’re five men to hold him; he may as well go to a lock-up later on as now. But suppose there’s even a chance of my being right. Is it anybody’s interest here to wash this linen in public?
“Come, I’ll take each of you in order. Once take Smith outside that gate, and you take him into the front page of the evening papers. I know; I’ve written the front page myself. Miss Duke, do you or your aunt want a sort of notice stuck up over your boarding-house—‘Doctors shot here.’? No, no—doctors are rubbish, as I said; but you don’t want the rubbish shot here. Arthur, suppose I am right, or suppose I am wrong. Smith has appeared as an old schoolfellow of yours. Mark my words, if he’s proved guilty, the Organs of Public Opinion will say you introduced him. If he’s proved innocent, they will say you helped to collar him. Rosamund, my dear, suppose I am right or wrong. If he’s proved guilty, they’ll say you engaged your companion to him. If he’s proved innocent, they’ll print that telegram. I know the Organs, damn them.”
He stopped an instant; for this rapid rationalism left him more breathless than had either his theatrical or his real denunciation. But he was plainly in earnest, as well as positive and lucid; as was proved by his proceeding quickly the moment he had found his breath.
“It is just the same,” he cried, “with our medical friends.
You will say that Dr. Warner has a grievance. I agree.
But does he want specially to be snapshotted by all the
journalists prostratus in horto? It was no fault of his,
but the scene was not very dignified even for him.
He must have justice; but does he want to ask for justice,
not only on his knees, but on his hands and knees?
Does he want to enter the court of justice on all fours?
Doctors are not allowed to advertise; and I’m sure no
doctor wants to advertise himself as looking like that.
And even for our American guest the interest is the same.
Let us suppose that he has conclusive documents.
Let us assume that he has revelations really worth reading.
Well, in a legal inquiry (or a medical inquiry, for that matter)
ten to one he won’t be allowed to read them. He’ll be tripped
up every two or three minutes with some tangle of old rules.
A man can’t tell the truth in public nowadays. But he can
still tell it in private; he can tell it inside that house.”
“It is quite true,” said Dr. Cyrus Pym, who had listened throughout the speech with a seriousness which only an American could have retained through such a scene. “It is true that I have been per-ceptibly less hampered in private inquiries.”
“Dr. Pym!” cried Warner in a sort of sudden anger. “Dr. Pym! you aren’t really going to admit—”
“Smith may be mad,” went on the melancholy Moon in a monologue that seemed as heavy as a hatchet, “but there was something after all in what he said about Home Rule for every home. Yes, there is something, when all’s said and done, in the High Court of Beacon. It is really true that human beings might often get some sort of domestic justice where just now they can only get legal injustice—oh, I am a lawyer too, and I know that as well. It is true that there’s too much official and indirect power. Often and often the thing a whole nation can’t settle is just the thing a family could settle. Scores of young criminals have been fined and sent to jail when they ought to have been thrashed and sent to bed. Scores of men, I am sure, have had a lifetime at Hanwell when they only wanted a week at Brighton. There IS something in Smith’s notion of domestic self-government; and I propose that we put it into practice. You have the prisoner; you have the documents. Come, we are a company of free, white, Christian people, such as might be besieged in a town or cast up on a desert island. Let us do this thing ourselves. Let us go into that house there and sit down and find out with our own eyes and ears whether this thing is true or not; whether this Smith is a man or a monster. If we can’t do a little thing like that, what right have we to put crosses on ballot papers?”
Inglewood and Pym exchanged a glance; and Warner, who was no fool, saw in that glance that Moon was gaining ground. The motives that led Arthur to think of surrender were indeed very different from those which affected Dr. Cyrus Pym. All Arthur’s instincts were on the side of privacy and polite settlement; he was very English and would often endure wrongs rather than right them by scenes and serious rhetoric. To play at once the buffoon and the knight-errant, like his Irish friend, would have been absolute torture to him; but even the semi-official part he had played that afternoon was very painful. He was not likely to be reluctant if any one could convince him that his duty was to let sleeping dogs lie.
On the other hand, Cyrus Pym belonged to a country in which things are possible that seem crazy to the English. Regulations and authorities exactly like one of Innocent’s pranks or one of Michael’s satires really exist, propped by placid policemen and imposed on bustling business men. Pym knew whole States which are vast and yet secret and fanciful; each is as big as a nation yet as private as a lost village, and as unexpected as an apple-pie bed. States where no man may have a cigarette, States where any man may have ten wives, very strict prohibition States, very lax divorce States—all these large local vagaries had prepared Cyrus Pym’s mind for small local vagaries in a smaller country. Infinitely more remote from England than any Russian or Italian, utterly incapable of even conceiving what English conventions are, he could not see the social impossibility of the Court of Beacon. It is firmly believed by those who shared the experiment, that to the very end Pym believed in that phantasmal court and supposed it to be some Britannic institution.
Towards the synod thus somewhat at a standstill there approached through the growing haze and gloaming a short dark figure with a walk apparently founded on the imperfect repression of a negro breakdown. Something at once in the familiarity and the incongruity of this being moved Michael to even heartier outbursts of a healthy and humane flippancy.
“Why, here’s little Nosey Gould,” he exclaimed. “Isn’t the mere sight of him enough to banish all your morbid reflections?”
“Really,” replied Dr. Warner, “I really fail to see how Mr. Gould affects the question; and I once more demand—”
“Hello! what’s the funeral, gents?” inquired the newcomer with the air of an uproarious umpire. “Doctor demandin’ something? Always the way at a boarding-house, you know. Always lots of demand. No supply.”
As delicately and impartially as he could, Michael restated his position, and indicated generally that Smith had been guilty of certain dangerous and dubious acts, and that there had even arisen an allegation that he was insane.
“Well, of course he is,” said Moses Gould equably; “it don’t need old ‘Olmes to see that. The ‘awk-like face of ‘Olmes,” he added with abstract relish, “showed a shide of disappointment, the sleuth-like Gould ‘avin’ got there before ‘im.”
“If he is mad,” began Inglewood.
“Well,” said Moses, “when a cove gets out on the tile the first night there’s generally a tile loose.”
“You never objected before,” said Diana Duke rather stiffly, “and you’re generally pretty free with your complaints.”
“I don’t compline of him,” said Moses magnanimously, “the poor chap’s ‘armless enough; you might tie ‘im up in the garden here and ‘e’d make noises at the burglars.”
“Moses,” said Moon with solemn fervour, “you are the incarnation of Common Sense. You think Mr. Innocent is mad. Let me introduce you to the incarnation of Scientific Theory. He also thinks Mr. Innocent is mad.—Doctor, this is my friend Mr. Gould.—Moses, this is the celebrated Dr. Pym.” The celebrated Dr. Cyrus Pym closed his eyes and bowed. He also murmured his national war-cry in a low voice, which sounded like “Pleased to meet you.”
“Now you two people,” said Michael cheerfully, “who both think our poor friend mad, shall jolly well go into that house over there and prove him mad. What could be more powerful than the combination of Scientific Theory with Common Sense? United you stand; divided you fall. I will not be so uncivil as to suggest that Dr. Pym has no common sense; I confine myself to recording the chronological accident that he has not shown us any so far. I take the freedom of an old friend in staking my shirt that Moses has no scientific theory. Yet against this strong coalition I am ready to appear, armed with nothing but an intuition—which is American for a guess.”
“Distinguished by Mr. Gould’s assistance,” said Pym, opening his eyes suddenly. “I gather that though he and I are identical in primary di-agnosis there is yet between us something that cannot be called a disagreement, something which we may perhaps call a—” He put the points of thumb and forefinger together, spreading the other fingers exquisitely in the air, and seemed to be waiting for somebody else to tell him what to say.
“Catchin’ flies?” inquired the affable Moses.
“A divergence,” said Dr. Pym, with a refined sigh of relief; “a divergence. Granted that the man in question is deranged, he would not necessarily be all that science requires in a homicidal maniac—”
“Has it occurred to you,” observed Moon, who was leaning on the gate again, and did not turn round, “that if he were a homicidal maniac he might have killed us all here while we were talking.”
Something exploded silently underneath all their minds, like sealed dynamite in some forgotten cellars. They all remembered for the first time for some hour or two that the monster of whom they were talking was standing quietly among them. They had left him in the garden like a garden statue; there might have been a dolphin coiling round his legs, or a fountain pouring out of his mouth, for all the notice they had taken of Innocent Smith. He stood with his crest of blonde, blown hair thrust somewhat forward, his fresh-coloured, rather short-sighted face looking patiently downwards at nothing in particular, his huge shoulders humped, and his hands in his trousers pockets. So far as they could guess he had not moved at all. His green coat might have been cut out of the green turf on which he stood. In his shadow Pym had expounded and Rosamund expostulated, Michael had ranted and Moses had ragged. He had remained like a thing graven; the god of the garden. A sparrow had perched on one of his heavy shoulders; and then, after correcting its costume of feathers, had flown away.
“Why,” cried Michael, with a shout of laughter, “the Court of Beacon has opened—and shut up again too. You all know now I am right. Your buried common sense has told you what my buried common sense has told me. Smith might have fired off a hundred cannons instead of a pistol, and you would still know he was harmless as I know he is harmless. Back we all go to the house and clear a room for discussion. For the High Court of Beacon, which has already arrived at its decision, is just about to begin its inquiry.”
“Just a goin’ to begin!” cried little Mr. Moses in an extraordinary sort of disinterested excitement, like that of an animal during music or a thunderstorm. “Follow on to the ‘Igh Court of Eggs and Bacon; ‘ave a kipper from the old firm! ‘Is Lordship complimented Mr. Gould on the ‘igh professional delicacy ‘e had shown, and which was worthy of the best traditions of the Saloon Bar— and three of Scotch hot, miss! Oh, chase me, girls!”
The girls betraying no temptation to chase him, he went away in a sort of waddling dance of pure excitement; and had made a circuit of the garden before he reappeared, breathless but still beaming. Moon had known his man when he realized that no people presented to Moses Gould could be quite serious, even if they were quite furious. The glass doors stood open on the side nearest to Mr. Moses Gould; and as the feet of that festive idiot were evidently turned in the same direction, everybody else went that way with the unanimity of some uproarious procession. Only Diana Duke retained enough rigidity to say the thing that had been boiling at her fierce feminine lips for the last few hours. Under the shadow of tragedy she had kept it back as unsympathetic. “In that case,” she said sharply, “these cabs can be sent away.”
“Well, Innocent must have his bag, you know,” said Mary with a smile. “I dare say the cabman would get it down for us.”
“I’ll get the bag,” said Smith, speaking for the first time in hours; his voice sounded remote and rude, like the voice of a statue.
Those who had so long danced and disputed round his immobility were left breathless by his precipitance. With a run and spring he was out of the garden into the street; with a spring and one quivering kick he was actually on the roof of the cab. The cabman happened to be standing by the horse’s head, having just removed its emptied nose-bag. Smith seemed for an instant to be rolling about on the cab’s back in the embraces of his Gladstone bag. The next instant, however, he had rolled, as if by a royal luck, into the high seat behind, and with a shriek of piercing and appalling suddenness had sent the horse flying and scampering down the street.
His evanescence was so violent and swift, that this time it was all the other people who were turned into garden statues. Mr. Moses Gould, however, being ill-adapted both physically and morally for the purposes of permanent sculpture, came to life some time before the rest, and, turning to Moon, remarked, like a man starting chattily with a stranger on an omnibus, “Tile loose, eh? Cab loose anyhow.” There followed a fatal silence; and then Dr. Warner said, with a sneer like a club of stone,—
“This is what comes of the Court of Beacon, Mr. Moon. You have let loose a maniac on the whole metropolis.”
Beacon House stood, as has been said, at the end of a long crescent of continuous houses. The little garden that shut it in ran out into a sharp point like a green cape pushed out into the sea of two streets. Smith and his cab shot up one side of the triangle, and certainly most of those standing inside of it never expected to see him again. At the apex, however, he turned the horse sharply round and drove with equal violence up the other side of the garden, visible to all those in the group. With a common impulse the little crowd ran across the lawn as if to stop him, but they soon had reason to duck and recoil. Even as he vanished up street for the second time, he let the big yellow bag fly from his hand, so that it fell in the centre of the garden, scattering the company like a bomb, and nearly damaging Dr. Warner’s hat for the third time. Long before they had collected themselves, the cab had shot away with a shriek that went into a whisper.
“Well,” said Michael Moon, with a queer note in his voice; “you may as well all go inside anyhow. We’ve got two relics of Mr. Smith at least; his fiancee and his trunk.”
“Why do you want us to go inside?” asked Arthur Inglewood, in whose red brow and rough brown hair botheration seemed to have reached its limit.
“I want the rest to go in,” said Michael in a clear voice, “because I want the whole of this garden in which to talk to you.”
There was an atmosphere of irrational doubt; it was really getting colder, and a night wind had begun to wave the one or two trees in the twilight. Dr. Warner, however, spoke in a voice devoid of indecision.
“I refuse to listen to any such proposal,” he said; “you have lost this ruffian, and I must find him.”
“I don’t ask you to listen to any proposal,” answered Moon quietly; “I only ask you to listen.”
He made a silencing movement with his hand, and immediately the whistling noise that had been lost in the dark streets on one side of the house could be heard from quite a new quarter on the other side. Through the night-maze of streets the noise increased with incredible rapidity, and the next moment the flying hoofs and flashing wheels had swept up to the blue-railed gate at which they had originally stood. Mr. Smith got down from his perch with an air of absent-mindedness, and coming back into the garden stood in the same elephantine attitude as before.
“Get inside! get inside!” cried Moon hilariously, with the air of one shooing a company of cats. “Come, come, be quick about it! Didn’t I tell you I wanted to talk to Inglewood?”
How they were all really driven into the house again it would have been difficult afterwards to say. They had reached the point of being exhausted with incongruities, as people at a farce are ill with laughing, and the brisk growth of the storm among the trees seemed like a final gesture of things in general. Inglewood lingered behind them, saying with a certain amicable exasperation, “I say, do you really want to speak to me?”
“I do,” said Michael, “very much.”
Night had come as it generally does, quicker than the twilight had seemed to promise. While the human eye still felt the sky as light gray, a very large and lustrous moon appearing abruptly above a bulk of roofs and trees, proved by contrast that the sky was already a very dark gray indeed. A drift of barren leaves across the lawn, a drift of riven clouds across the sky, seemed to be lifted on the same strong and yet laborious wind.
“Arthur,” said Michael, “I began with an intuition; but now I am sure. You and I are going to defend this friend of yours before the blessed Court of Beacon, and to clear him too—clear him of both crime and lunacy. Just listen to me while I preach to you for a bit.” They walked up and down the darkening garden together as Michael Moon went on.
“Can you,” asked Michael, “shut your eyes and see some of those queer old hieroglyphics they stuck up on white walls in the old hot countries. How stiff they were in shape and yet how gaudy in colour. Think of some alphabet of arbitrary figures picked out in black and red, or white and green, with some old Semitic crowd of Nosey Gould’s ancestors staring at it, and try to think why the people put it up at all.”
Inglewood’s first instinct was to think that his perplexing friend had really gone off his head at last; there seemed so reckless a flight of irrelevancy from the tropic-pictured walls he was asked to imagine to the gray, wind-swept, and somewhat chilly suburban garden in which he was actually kicking his heels. How he could be more happy in one by imagining the other he could not conceive. Both (in themselves) were unpleasant.
“Why does everybody repeat riddles,” went on Moon abruptly, “even if they’ve forgotten the answers? Riddles are easy to remember because they are hard to guess. So were those stiff old symbols in black, red, or green easy to remember because they had been hard to guess. Their colours were plain. Their shapes were plain. Everything was plain except the meaning.”
Inglewood was about to open his mouth in an amiable protest, but Moon went on, plunging quicker and quicker up and down the garden and smoking faster and faster. “Dances, too,” he said; “dances were not frivolous. Dances were harder to understand than inscriptions and texts. The old dances were stiff, ceremonial, highly coloured but silent. Have you noticed anything odd about Smith?”
“Well, really,” cried Inglewood, left behind in a collapse of humour, “have I noticed anything else?”
“Have you noticed this about him,” asked Moon, with unshaken persistency, “that he has done so much and said so little? When first he came he talked, but in a gasping, irregular sort of way, as if he wasn’t used to it. All he really did was actions—painting red flowers on black gowns or throwing yellow bags on to the grass. I tell you that big green figure is figurative— like any green figure capering on some white Eastern wall.”
“My dear Michael,” cried Inglewood, in a rising irritation which increased with the rising wind, “you are getting absurdly fanciful.”
“I think of what has just happened,” said Michael steadily. “The man has not spoken for hours; and yet he has been speaking all the time. He fired three shots from a six-shooter and then gave it up to us, when he might have shot us dead in our boots. How could he express his trust in us better than that? He wanted to be tried by us. How could he have shown it better than by standing quite still and letting us discuss it? He wanted to show that he stood there willingly, and could escape if he liked. How could he have shown it better than by escaping in the cab and coming back again? Innocent Smith is not a madman—he is a ritualist. He wants to express himself, not with his tongue, but with his arms and legs— with my body I thee worship, as it says in the marriage service. I begin to understand the old plays and pageants. I see why the mutes at a funeral were mute. I see why the mummers were mum. They MEANT something; and Smith means something too. All other jokes have to be noisy—like little Nosey Gould’s jokes, for instance. The only silent jokes are the practical jokes. Poor Smith, properly considered, is an allegorical practical joker. What he has really done in this house has been as frantic as a war-dance, but as silent as a picture.”
“I suppose you mean,” said the other dubiously, “that we have got to find out what all these crimes meant, as if they were so many coloured picture-puzzles. But even supposing that they do mean something—why, Lord bless my soul!—”
Taking the turn of the garden quite naturally, he had lifted his eyes to the moon, by this time risen big and luminous, and had seen a huge, half-human figure sitting on the garden wall. It was outlined so sharply against the moon that for the first flash it was hard to be certain even that it was human: the hunched shoulders and outstanding hair had rather the air of a colossal cat. It resembled a cat also in the fact that when first startled it sprang up and ran with easy activity along the top of the wall. As it ran, however, its heavy shoulders and small stooping head rather suggested a baboon. The instant it came within reach of a tree it made an ape-like leap and was lost in the branches. The gale, which by this time was shaking every shrub in the garden, made the identification yet more difficult, since it melted the moving limbs of the fugitive in the multitudinous moving limbs of the tree.
“Who is there?” shouted Arthur. “Who are you? Are you Innocent?”
“Not quite,” answered an obscure voice among the leaves. “I cheated you once about a penknife.”
The wind in the garden had gathered strength, and was throwing the tree backwards and forwards with the man in the thick of it, just as it had on the gay and golden afternoon when he had first arrived.
“But are you Smith?” asked Inglewood as in an agony.
“Very nearly,” said the voice out of the tossing tree.
“But you must have some real names,” shrieked Inglewood in despair. “You must call yourself something.”
“Call myself something,” thundered the obscure voice, shaking the tree so that all its ten thousand leaves seemed to be talking at once. “I call myself Roland Oliver Isaiah Charlemagne Arthur Hildebrand Homer Danton Michaelangelo Shakespeare Brakespeare—”
“But, manalive!” began Inglewood in exasperation.
“That’s right! that’s right!” came with a roar out of the rocking tree; “that’s my real name.” And he broke a branch, and one or two autumn leaves fluttered away across the moon.
Part II
The Explanations of Innocent Smith
Chapter I
The Eye of Death; or, the Murder Charge
The dining-room of the Dukes had been set out for the Court of Beacon with a certain impromptu pomposity that seemed somehow to increase its cosiness. The big room was, as it were, cut up into small rooms, with walls only waist high—the sort of separation that children make when they are playing at shops. This had been done by Moses Gould and Michael Moon (the two most active members of this remarkable inquiry) with the ordinary furniture of the place. At one end of the long mahogany table was set the one enormous garden chair, which was surmounted by the old torn tent or umbrella which Smith himself had suggested as a coronation canopy. Inside this erection could be perceived the dumpy form of Mrs. Duke, with cushions and a form of countenance that already threatened slumber. At the other end sat the accused Smith, in a kind of dock; for he was carefully fenced in with a quadrilateral of light bedroom chairs, any of which he could have tossed out the window with his big toe. He had been provided with pens and paper, out of the latter of which he made paper boats, paper darts, and paper dolls contentedly throughout the whole proceedings. He never spoke or even looked up, but seemed as unconscious as a child on the floor of an empty nursery.
On a row of chairs raised high on the top of a long settee sat the three young ladies with their backs up against the window, and Mary Gray in the middle; it was something between a jury box and the stall of the Queen of Beauty at a tournament. Down the centre of the long table Moon had built a low barrier out of eight bound volumes of “Good Words” to express the moral wall that divided the conflicting parties. On the right side sat the two advocates of the prosecution, Dr. Pym and Mr. Gould; behind a barricade of books and documents, chiefly (in the case of Dr. Pym) solid volumes of criminology. On the other side, Moon and Inglewood, for the defence, were also fortified with books and papers; but as these included several old yellow volumes by Ouida and Wilkie Collins, the hand of Mr. Moon seemed to have been somewhat careless and comprehensive. As for the victim and prosecutor, Dr. Warner, Moon wanted at first to have him kept entirely behind a high screen in the corner, urging the indelicacy of his appearance in court, but privately assuring him of an unofficial permission to peep over the top now and then. Dr. Warner, however, failed to rise to the chivalry of such a course, and after some little disturbance and discussion he was accommodated with a seat on the right side of the table in a line with his legal advisers.
It was before this solidly-established tribunal that Dr. Cyrus Pym, after passing a hand through the honey-coloured hair over each ear, rose to open the case. His statement was clear and even restrained, and such flights of imagery as occurred in it only attracted attention by a certain indescribable abruptness, not uncommon in the flowers of American speech.
He planted the points of his ten frail fingers on the mahogany, closed his eyes, and opened his mouth. “The time has gone by,” he said, “when murder could be regarded as a moral and individual act, important perhaps to the murderer, perhaps to the murdered. Science has profoundly…” here he paused, poising his compressed finger and thumb in the air as if he were holding an elusive idea very tight by its tail, then he screwed up his eyes and said “modified,” and let it go—“has profoundly Modified our view of death. In superstitious ages it was regarded as the termination of life, catastrophic, and even tragic, and was often surrounded by solemnity. Brighter days, however, have dawned, and we now see death as universal and inevitable, as part of that great soul-stirring and heart-upholding average which we call for convenience the order of nature. In the same way we have come to consider murder SOCIALLY. Rising above the mere private feelings of a man while being forcibly deprived of life, we are privileged to behold murder as a mighty whole, to see the rich rotation of the cosmos, bringing, as it brings the golden harvests and the golden-bearded harvesters, the return for ever of the slayers and the slain.”
He looked down, somewhat affected with his own eloquence, coughed slightly, putting up four of his pointed fingers with the excellent manners of Boston, and continued: “There is but one result of this happier and humaner outlook which concerns the wretched man before us. It is that thoroughly elucidated by a Milwaukee doctor, our great secret-guessing Sonnenschein, in his great work, ‘The Destructive Type.’ We do not denounce Smith as a murderer, but rather as a murderous man. The type is such that its very life— I might say its very health—is in killing. Some hold that it is not properly an aberration, but a newer and even a higher creature. My dear old friend Dr. Bulger, who kept ferrets—” (here Moon suddenly ejaculated a loud “hurrah!” but so instantaneously resumed his tragic expression that Mrs. Duke looked everywhere else for the sound); Dr. Pym continued somewhat sternly—“who, in the interests of knowledge, kept ferrets, felt that the creature’s ferocity is not utilitarian, but absolutely an end in itself. However this may be with ferrets, it is certainly so with the prisoner. In his other iniquities you may find the cunning of the maniac; but his acts of blood have almost the simplicity of sanity. But it is the awful sanity of the sun and the elements—a cruel, an evil sanity. As soon stay the iris-leapt cataracts of our virgin West as stay the natural force that sends him forth to slay. No environment, however scientific, could have softened him. Place that man in the silver-silent purity of the palest cloister, and there will be some deed of violence done with the crozier or the alb. Rear him in a happy nursery, amid our brave-browed Anglo-Saxon infancy, and he will find some way to strangle with the skipping-rope or brain with the brick. Circumstances may be favourable, training may be admirable, hopes may be high, but the huge elemental hunger of Innocent Smith for blood will in its appointed season burst like a well-timed bomb.”
Arthur Inglewood glanced curiously for an instant at the huge creature at the foot of the table, who was fitting a paper figure with a cocked hat, and then looked back at Dr. Pym, who was concluding in a quieter tone.
“It only remains for us,” he said, “to bring forward actual evidence of his previous attempts. By an agreement already made with the Court and the leaders of the defence, we are permitted to put in evidence authentic letters from witnesses to these scenes, which the defence is free to examine. Out of several cases of such outrages we have decided to select one— the clearest and most scandalous. I will therefore, without further delay, call on my junior, Mr. Gould, to read two letters—one from the Sub-Warden and the other from the porter of Brakespeare College, in Cambridge University.”
Gould jumped up with a jerk like a jack-in-the-box, an academic-looking paper in his hand and a fever of importance on his face. He began in a loud, high, cockney voice that was as abrupt as a cock-crow:—
“Sir,—Hi am the Sub-Warden of Brikespeare College, Cambridge—”
“Lord have mercy on us,” muttered Moon, making a backward movement as men do when a gun goes off.
“Hi am the Sub-Warden of Brikespeare College, Cambridge,” proclaimed the uncompromising Moses, “and I can endorse the description you gave of the un’appy Smith. It was not alone my unfortunate duty to rebuke many of the lesser violences of his undergraduate period, but I was actually a witness to the last iniquity which terminated that period. Hi happened to passing under the house of my friend the Warden of Brikespeare, which is semi-detached from the College and connected with it by two or three very ancient arches or props, like bridges, across a small strip of water connected with the river. To my grive astonishment I be’eld my eminent friend suspended in mid-air and clinging to one of these pieces of masonry, his appearance and attitude indicatin’ that he suffered from the grivest apprehensions. After a short time I heard two very loud shots, and distinctly perceived the unfortunate undergraduate Smith leaning far out of the Warden’s window and aiming at the Warden repeatedly with a revolver. Upon seeing me, Smith burst into a loud laugh (in which impertinence was mingled with insanity), and appeared to desist. I sent the college porter for a ladder, and he succeeded in detaching the Warden from his painful position. Smith was sent down. The photograph I enclose is from the group of the University Rifle Club prizemen, and represents him as he was when at the College.— Hi am, your obedient servant, Amos Boulter.
“The other letter,” continued Gould in a glow of triumph, “is from the porter, and won’t take long to read.
“Dear Sir,—It is quite true that I am the porter of Brikespeare College, and that I ‘elped the Warden down when the young man was shooting at him, as Mr. Boulter has said in his letter. The young man who was shooting at him was Mr. Smith, the same that is in the photograph Mr. Boulter sends.— Yours respectfully, Samuel Barker.”
Gould handed the two letters across to Moon, who examined them. But for the vocal divergences in the matter of h’s and a’s, the Sub-Warden’s letter was exactly as Gould had rendered it; and both that and the porter’s letter were plainly genuine. Moon handed them to Inglewood, who handed them back in silence to Moses Gould.
“So far as this first charge of continual attempted murder is concerned,” said Dr. Pym, standing up for the last time, “that is my case.”
Michael Moon rose for the defence with an air of depression which gave little hope at the outset to the sympathizers with the prisoner. He did not, he said, propose to follow the doctor into the abstract questions. “I do not know enough to be an agnostic,” he said, rather wearily, “and I can only master the known and admitted elements in such controversies. As for science and religion, the known and admitted facts are plain enough. All that the parsons say is unproved. All that the doctors say is disproved. That’s the only difference between science and religion there’s ever been, or will be. Yet these new discoveries touch me, somehow,” he said, looking down sorrowfully at his boots. “They remind me of a dear old great-aunt of mine who used to enjoy them in her youth. It brings tears to my eyes. I can see the old bucket by the garden fence and the line of shimmering poplars behind—”
“Hi! here, stop the ‘bus a bit,” cried Mr. Moses Gould, rising in a sort of perspiration. “We want to give the defence a fair run—like gents, you know; but any gent would draw the line at shimmering poplars.”
“Well, hang it all,” said Moon, in an injured manner, “if Dr. Pym may have an old friend with ferrets, why mayn’t I have an old aunt with poplars?”
“I am sure,” said Mrs. Duke, bridling, with something almost like a shaky authority, “Mr. Moon may have what aunts he likes.”
“Why, as to liking her,” began Moon, “I—but perhaps, as you say, she is scarcely the core of the question. I repeat that I do not mean to follow the abstract speculations. For, indeed, my answer to Dr. Pym is simple and severely concrete. Dr. Pym has only treated one side of the psychology of murder. If it is true that there is a kind of man who has a natural tendency to murder, is it not equally true”—here he lowered his voice and spoke with a crushing quietude and earnestness—“is it not equally true that there is a kind of man who has a natural tendency to get murdered? Is it not at least a hypothesis holding the field that Dr. Warner is such a man? I do not speak without the book, any more than my learned friend. The whole matter is expounded in Dr. Moonenschein’s monumental work, ‘The Destructible Doctor,’ with diagrams, showing the various ways in which such a person as Dr. Warner may be resolved into his elements. In the light of these facts—”
“Hi, stop the ‘bus! stop the ‘bus!” cried Moses, jumping up and down and gesticulating in great excitement. “My principal’s got something to say! My principal wants to do a bit of talkin’.”
Dr. Pym was indeed on his feet, looking pallid and rather vicious. “I have strictly CON-fined myself,” he said nasally, “to books to which immediate reference can be made. I have Sonnenschein’s ‘Destructive Type’ here on the table, if the defence wish to see it. Where is this wonderful work on Destructability Mr. Moon is talking about? Does it exist? Can he produce it?”
“Produce it!” cried the Irishman with a rich scorn. “I’ll produce it in a week if you’ll pay for the ink and paper.”
“Would it have much authority?” asked Pym, sitting down.
“Oh, authority!” said Moon lightly; “that depends on a fellow’s religion.”
Dr. Pym jumped up again. “Our authority is based on masses of accurate detail,” he said. “It deals with a region in which things can be handled and tested. My opponent will at least admit that death is a fact of experience.”
“Not of mine,” said Moon mournfully, shaking his head. “I’ve never experienced such a thing in all my life.”
“Well, really,” said Dr. Pym, and sat down sharply amid a crackle of papers.
“So we see,” resumed Moon, in the same melancholy voice, “that a man like Dr. Warner is, in the mysterious workings of evolution, doomed to such attacks. My client’s onslaught, even if it occurred, was not unique. I have in my hand letters from more than one acquaintance of Dr. Warner whom that remarkable man has affected in the same way. Following the example of my learned friends I will read only two of them. The first is from an honest and laborious matron living off the Harrow Road.
“Mr. Moon, Sir,—Yes, I did throw a sorsepan at him. Wot then? It was all I had to throw, all the soft things being porned, and if your Docter Warner doesn’t like having sorsepans thrown at him, don’t let him wear his hat in a respectable woman’s parler, and tell him to leave orf smiling or tell us the joke.—Yours respectfully, Hannah Miles.
“The other letter is from a physician of some note in Dublin, with whom Dr. Warner was once engaged in consultation. He writes as follows:—
“Dear Sir,—The incident to which you refer is one which I regret, and which, moreover, I have never been able to explain. My own branch of medicine is not mental; and I should be glad to have the view of a mental specialist on my singular momentary and indeed almost automatic action. To say that I ‘pulled Dr. Warner’s nose,’ is, however, inaccurate in a respect that strikes me as important. That I punched his nose I must cheerfully admit (I need not say with what regret); but pulling seems to me to imply a precision of objective with which I cannot reproach myself. In comparison with this, the act of punching was an outward, instantaneous, and even natural gesture.— Believe me, yours faithfully, Burton Lestrange.
“I have numberless other letters,” continued Moon, “all bearing witness to this widespread feeling about my eminent friend; and I therefore think that Dr. Pym should have admitted this side of the question in his survey. We are in the presence, as Dr. Pym so truly says, of a natural force. As soon stay the cataract of the London water-works as stay the great tendency of Dr. Warner to be assassinated by somebody. Place that man in a Quakers’ meeting, among the most peaceful of Christians, and he will immediately be beaten to death with sticks of chocolate. Place him among the angels of the New Jerusalem, and he will be stoned to death with precious stones. Circumstances may be beautiful and wonderful, the average may be heart-upholding, the harvester may be golden-bearded, the doctor may be secret-guessing, the cataract may be iris-leapt, the Anglo-Saxon infant may be brave-browed, but against and above all these prodigies the grand simple tendency of Dr. Warner to get murdered will still pursue its way until it happily and triumphantly succeeds at last.”
He pronounced this peroration with an appearance of strong emotion. But even stronger emotions were manifesting themselves on the other side of the table. Dr. Warner had leaned his large body quite across the little figure of Moses Gould and was talking in excited whispers to Dr. Pym. That expert nodded a great many times and finally started to his feet with a sincere expression of sternness.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he cried indignantly, “as my colleague has said, we should be delighted to give any latitude to the defence—if there were a defence. But Mr. Moon seems to think he is there to make jokes— very good jokes I dare say, but not at all adapted to assist his client. He picks holes in science. He picks holes in my client’s social popularity. He picks holes in my literary style, which doesn’t seem to suit his high-toned European taste. But how does this picking of holes affect the issue? This Smith has picked two holes in my client’s hat, and with an inch better aim would have picked two holes in his head. All the jokes in the world won’t unpick those holes or be any use for the defence.”
Inglewood looked down in some embarrassment, as if shaken by the evident fairness of this, but Moon still gazed at his opponent in a dreamy way. “The defence?” he said vaguely—“oh, I haven’t begun that yet.”
“You certainly have not,” said Pym warmly, amid a murmur of applause from his side, which the other side found it impossible to answer. “Perhaps, if you have any defence, which has been doubtful from the very beginning—”
“While you’re standing up,” said Moon, in the same almost sleepy style, “perhaps I might ask you a question.”
“A question? Certainly,” said Pym stiffly. “It was distinctly arranged between us that as we could not cross-examine the witnesses, we might vicariously cross-examine each other. We are in a position to invite all such inquiry.”
“I think you said,” observed Moon absently, “that none of the prisoner’s shots really hit the doctor.”
“For the cause of science,” cried the complacent Pym, “fortunately not.”
“Yet they were fired from a few feet away.”
“Yes; about four feet.”
“And no shots hit the Warden, though they were fired quite close to him too?” asked Moon.
“That is so,” said the witness gravely.
“I think,” said Moon, suppressing a slight yawn, “that your Sub-Warden mentioned that Smith was one of the University’s record men for shooting.”
“Why, as to that—” began Pym, after an instant of stillness.
“A second question,” continued Moon, comparatively curtly. “You said there were other cases of the accused trying to kill people. Why have you not got evidence of them?”
The American planted the points of his fingers on the table again. “In those cases,” he said precisely, “there was no evidence from outsiders, as in the Cambridge case, but only the evidence of the actual victims.”
“Why didn’t you get their evidence?”
“In the case of the actual victims,” said Pym, “there was some difficulty and reluctance, and—”
“Do you mean,” asked Moon, “that none of the actual victims would appear against the prisoner?”
“That would be exaggerative,” began the other.
“A third question,” said Moon, so sharply that every one jumped. “You’ve got the evidence of the Sub-Warden who heard some shots; where’s the evidence of the Warden himself who was shot at? The Warden of Brakespeare lives, a prosperous gentleman.”
“We did ask for a statement from him,” said Pym a little nervously; “but it was so eccentrically expressed that we suppressed it out of deference to an old gentleman whose past services to science have been great.”
Moon leaned forward. “You mean, I suppose,” he said, “that his statement was favourable to the prisoner.”
“It might be understood so,” replied the American doctor; “but, really, it was difficult to understand at all. In fact, we sent it back to him.”
“You have no longer, then, any statement signed by the Warden of Brakespeare.”
“No.”
“I only ask,” said Michael quietly, “because we have. To conclude my case I will ask my junior, Mr. Inglewood, to read a statement of the true story—a statement attested as true by the signature of the Warden himself.”
Arthur Inglewood rose with several papers in his hand, and though he looked somewhat refined and self-effacing, as he always did, the spectators were surprised to feel that his presence was, upon the whole, more efficient and sufficing than his leader’s. He was, in truth, one of those modest men who cannot speak until they are told to speak; and then can speak well. Moon was entirely the opposite. His own impudences amused him in private, but they slightly embarrassed him in public; he felt a fool while he was speaking, whereas Inglewood felt a fool only because he could not speak. The moment he had anything to say he could speak; and the moment he could speak, speaking seemed quite natural. Nothing in this universe seemed quite natural to Michael Moon.
“As my colleague has just explained,” said Inglewood, “there are two enigmas or inconsistencies on which we base the defence. The first is a plain physical fact. By the admission of everybody, by the very evidence adduced by the prosecution, it is clear that the accused was celebrated as a specially good shot. Yet on both the occasions complained of he shot from a distance of four or five feet, and shot at him four or five times, and never hit him once. That is the first startling circumstance on which we base our argument. The second, as my colleague has urged, is the curious fact that we cannot find a single victim of these alleged outrages to speak for himself. Subordinates speak for him. Porters climb up ladders to him. But he himself is silent. Ladies and gentlemen, I propose to explain on the spot both the riddle of the shots and the riddle of the silence. I will first of all read the covering letter in which the true account of the Cambridge incident is contained, and then that document itself. When you have heard both, there will be no doubt about your decision. The covering letter runs as follows:—
“Dear Sir,—The following is a very exact and even vivid account of the incident as it really happened at Brakespeare College. We, the undersigned, do not see any particular reason why we should refer it to any isolated authorship. The truth is, it has been a composite production; and we have even had some difference of opinion about the adjectives. But every word of it is true.—We are, yours faithfully,
“Wilfred Emerson Eames, Warden of Brakespeare College, Cambridge.
“The enclosed statement,” continued Inglewood, “runs as follows:—
“A celebrated English university backs so abruptly on the river, that it has, so to speak, to be propped up and patched with all sorts of bridges and semi-detached buildings. The river splits itself into several small streams and canals, so that in one or two corners the place has almost the look of Venice. It was so especially in the case with which we are concerned, in which a few flying buttresses or airy ribs of stone sprang across a strip of water to connect Brakespeare College with the house of the Warden of Brakespeare.
“The country around these colleges is flat; but it does not seem flat when one is thus in the midst of the colleges. For in these flat fens there are always wandering lakes and lingering rivers of water. And these always change what might have been a scheme of horizontal lines into a scheme of vertical lines. Wherever there is water the height of high buildings is doubled, and a British brick house becomes a Babylonian tower. In that shining unshaken surface the houses hang head downwards exactly to their highest or lowest chimney. The coral-coloured cloud seen in that abyss is as far below the world as its original appears above it. Every scrap of water is not only a window but a skylight. Earth splits under men’s feet into precipitous aerial perspectives, into which a bird could as easily wing its way as—”
Dr. Cyrus Pym rose in protest. The documents he had put in evidence had been confined to cold affirmation of fact. The defence, in a general way, had an indubitable right to put their case in their own way, but all this landscape gardening seemed to him (Dr. Cyrus Pym) to be not up to the business. “Will the leader of the defence tell me,” he asked, “how it can possibly affect this case, that a cloud was cor’l-coloured, or that a bird could have winged itself anywhere?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Michael, lifting himself lazily; “you see, you don’t know yet what our defence is. Till you know that, don’t you see, anything may be relevant. Why, suppose,” he said suddenly, as if an idea had struck him, “suppose we wanted to prove the old Warden colour-blind. Suppose he was shot by a black man with white hair, when he thought he was being shot by a white man with yellow hair! To ascertain if that cloud was really and truly coral-coloured might be of the most massive importance.”
He paused with a seriousness which was hardly generally shared, and continued with the same fluency: “Or suppose we wanted to maintain that the Warden committed suicide—that he just got Smith to hold the pistol as Brutus’s slave held the sword. Why, it would make all the difference whether the Warden could see himself plain in still water. Still water has made hundreds of suicides: one sees oneself so very—well, so very plain.”
“Do you, perhaps,” inquired Pym with austere irony, “maintain that your client was a bird of some sort—say, a flamingo?”
“In the matter of his being a flamingo,” said Moon with sudden severity, “my client reserves his defence.”
No one quite knowing what to make of this, Mr. Moon resumed his seat and Inglewood resumed the reading of his document:—
“There is something pleasing to a mystic in such a land of mirrors. For a mystic is one who holds that two worlds are better than one. In the highest sense, indeed, all thought is reflection.
“This is the real truth, in the saying that second thoughts are best. Animals have no second thoughts; man alone is able to see his own thought double, as a drunkard sees a lamp-post; man alone is able to see his own thought upside down as one sees a house in a puddle. This duplication of mentality, as in a mirror, is (we repeat) the inmost thing of human philosophy. There is a mystical, even a monstrous truth, in the statement that two heads are better than one. But they ought both to grow on the same body.”
“I know it’s a little transcendental at first,” interposed Inglewood, beaming round with a broad apology, “but you see this document was written in collaboration by a don and a—”
“Drunkard, eh?” suggested Moses Gould, beginning to enjoy himself.
“I rather think,” proceeded Inglewood with an unruffled and critical air, “that this part was written by the don. I merely warn the Court that the statement, though indubitably accurate, bears here and there the trace of coming from two authors.”
“In that case,” said Dr. Pym, leaning back and sniffing, “I cannot agree with them that two heads are better than one.”
“The undersigned persons think it needless to touch on a kindred problem so often discussed at committees for University Reform: the question of whether dons see double because they are drunk, or get drunk because they see double. It is enough for them (the undersigned persons) if they are able to pursue their own peculiar and profitable theme—which is puddles. What (the undersigned persons ask themselves) is a puddle? A puddle repeats infinity, and is full of light; nevertheless, if analyzed objectively, a puddle is a piece of dirty water spread very thin on mud. The two great historic universities of England have all this large and level and reflective brilliance. Nevertheless, or, rather, on the other hand, they are puddles—puddles, puddles, puddles, puddles. The undersigned persons ask you to excuse an emphasis inseparable from strong conviction.”
Inglewood ignored a somewhat wild expression on the faces of some present, and continued with eminent cheerfulness:—
“Such were the thoughts that failed to cross the mind of the undergraduate Smith as he picked his way among the stripes of canal and the glittering rainy gutters into which the water broke up round the back of Brakespeare College. Had these thoughts crossed his mind he would have been much happier than he was. Unfortunately he did not know that his puzzles were puddles. He did not know that the academic mind reflects infinity and is full of light by the simple process of being shallow and standing still. In his case, therefore, there was something solemn, and even evil about the infinity implied. It was half-way through a starry night of bewildering brilliancy; stars were both above and below. To young Smith’s sullen fancy the skies below seemed even hollower than the skies above; he had a horrible idea that if he counted the stars he would find one too many in the pool.
“In crossing the little paths and bridges he felt like one stepping on the black and slender ribs of some cosmic Eiffel Tower. For to him, and nearly all the educated youth of that epoch, the stars were cruel things. Though they glowed in the great dome every night, they were an enormous and ugly secret; they uncovered the nakedness of nature; they were a glimpse of the iron wheels and pulleys behind the scenes. For the young men of that sad time thought that the god always comes from the machine. They did not know that in reality the machine only comes from the god. In short, they were all pessimists, and starlight was atrocious to them— atrocious because it was true. All their universe was black with white spots.
“Smith looked up with relief from the glittering pools below to the glittering skies and the great black bulk of the college. The only light other than stars glowed through one peacock-green curtain in the upper part of the building, marking where Dr. Emerson Eames always worked till morning and received his friends and favourite pupils at any hour of the night. Indeed, it was to his rooms that the melancholy Smith was bound. Smith had been at Dr. Eames’s lecture for the first half of the morning, and at pistol practice and fencing in a saloon for the second half. He had been sculling madly for the first half of the afternoon and thinking idly (and still more madly) for the second half. He had gone to a supper where he was uproarious, and on to a debating club where he was perfectly insufferable, and the melancholy Smith was melancholy still. Then, as he was going home to his diggings he remembered the eccentricity of his friend and master, the Warden of Brakespeare, and resolved desperately to turn in to that gentleman’s private house.
“Emerson Eames was an eccentric in many ways, but his throne in philosophy and metaphysics was of international eminence; the university could hardly have afforded to lose him, and, moreover, a don has only to continue any of his bad habits long enough to make them a part of the British Constitution. The bad habits of Emerson Eames were to sit up all night and to be a student of Schopenhauer. Personally, he was a lean, lounging sort of man, with a blond pointed beard, not so very much older than his pupil Smith in the matter of mere years, but older by centuries in the two essential respects of having a European reputation and a bald head.
“‘I came, against the rules, at this unearthly hour,’ said Smith, who was nothing to the eye except a very big man trying to make himself small, ‘because I am coming to the conclusion that existence is really too rotten. I know all the arguments of the thinkers that think otherwise—bishops, and agnostics, and those sort of people. And knowing you were the greatest living authority on the pessimist thinkers—’
“‘All thinkers,’ said Eames, ‘are pessimist thinkers.’
“After a patch of pause, not the first—for this depressing conversation had gone on for some hours with alternations of cynicism and silence— the Warden continued with his air of weary brilliancy: ‘It’s all a question of wrong calculation. The moth flies into the candle because he doesn’t happen to know that the game is not worth the candle. The wasp gets into the jam in hearty and hopeful efforts to get the jam into him. IN the same way the vulgar people want to enjoy life just as they want to enjoy gin—because they are too stupid to see that they are paying too big a price for it. That they never find happiness—that they don’t even know how to look for it—is proved by the paralyzing clumsiness and ugliness of everything they do. Their discordant colours are cries of pain. Look at the brick villas beyond the college on this side of the river. There’s one with spotted blinds; look at it! just go and look at it!’
“‘Of course,’ he went on dreamily, ‘one or two men see the sober fact a long way off—they go mad. Do you notice that maniacs mostly try either to destroy other things, or (if they are thoughtful) to destroy themselves? The madman is the man behind the scenes, like the man that wanders about the coulisse of a theater. He has only opened the wrong door and come into the right place. He sees things at the right angle. But the common world—’
“‘Oh, hang the common world!’ said the sullen Smith, letting his fist fall on the table in an idle despair.
“‘Let’s give it a bad name first,’ said the Professor calmly, ‘and then hang it. A puppy with hydrophobia would probably struggle for life while we killed it; but if we were kind we should kill it. So an omniscient god would put us out of our pain. He would strike us dead.’
“‘Why doesn’t he strike us dead?’ asked the undergraduate abstractedly, plunging his hands into his pockets.
“‘He is dead himself,’ said the philosopher; ‘that is where he is really enviable.’
“‘To any one who thinks,’ proceeded Eames, ‘the pleasures of life, trivial and soon tasteless, are bribes to bring us into a torture chamber. We all see that for any thinking man mere extinction is the… What are you doing?… Are you mad?… Put that thing down.’
“Dr. Eames had turned his tired but still talkative head over his shoulder, and had found himself looking into a small round black hole, rimmed by a six-sided circlet of steel, with a sort of spike standing up on the top. It fixed him like an iron eye. Through those eternal instants during which the reason is stunned he did not even know what it was. Then he saw behind it the chambered barrel and cocked hammer of a revolver, and behind that the flushed and rather heavy face of Smith, apparently quite unchanged, or even more mild than before.
“‘I’ll help you out of your hole, old man,’ said Smith, with rough tenderness. ‘I’ll put the puppy out of his pain.’
“Emerson Eames retreated towards the window. ‘Do you mean to kill me?’ he cried.
“‘It’s not a thing I’d do for every one,’ said Smith with emotion; ‘but you and I seem to have got so intimate to-night, somehow. I know all your troubles now, and the only cure, old chap.’
“‘Put that thing down,’ shouted the Warden.
“‘It’ll soon be over, you know,’ said Smith with the air of a sympathetic dentist. And as the Warden made a run for the window and balcony, his benefactor followed him with a firm step and a compassionate expression.
“Both men were perhaps surprised to see that the gray and white of early daybreak had already come. One of them, however, had emotions calculated to swallow up surprise. Brakespeare College was one of the few that retained real traces of Gothic ornament, and just beneath Dr. Eames’s balcony there ran out what had perhaps been a flying buttress, still shapelessly shaped into gray beasts and devils, but blinded with mosses and washed out with rains. With an ungainly and most courageous leap, Eames sprang out on this antique bridge, as the only possible mode of escape from the maniac. He sat astride of it, still in his academic gown, dangling his long thin legs, and considering further chances of flight. The whitening daylight opened under as well as over him that impression of vertical infinity already remarked about the little lakes round Brakespeare. Looking down and seeing the spires and chimneys pendent in the pools, they felt alone in space. They felt as if they were looking over the edge from the North Pole and seeing the South Pole below.
“‘Hang the world, we said,’ observed Smith, ‘and the world is hanged. “He has hanged the world upon nothing,” says the Bible. Do you like being hanged upon nothing? I’m going to be hanged upon something myself. I’m going to swing for you… Dear, tender old phrase,’ he murmured; ‘never true till this moment. I am going to swing for you. For you, dear friend. For your sake. At your express desire.’
“‘Help!’ cried the Warden of Brakespeare College; ‘help!’
“‘The puppy struggles,’ said the undergraduate, with an eye of pity, ‘the poor puppy struggles. How fortunate it is that I am wiser and kinder than he,’ and he sighted his weapon so as exactly to cover the upper part of Eames’s bald head.
“‘Smith,’ said the philosopher with a sudden change to a sort of ghastly lucidity, ‘I shall go mad.’
“‘And so look at things from the right angle,’ observed Smith, sighing gently. ‘Ah, but madness is only a palliative at best, a drug. The only cure is an operation—an operation that is always successful: death.’
“As he spoke the sun rose. It seemed to put colour into everything, with the rapidity of a lightning artist. A fleet of little clouds sailing across the sky changed from pigeon-gray to pink. All over the little academic town the tops of different buildings took on different tints: here the sun would pick out the green enameled on a pinnacle, there the scarlet tiles of a villa; here the copper ornament on some artistic shop, and there the sea-blue slates of some old and steep church roof. All these coloured crests seemed to have something oddly individual and significant about them, like crests of famous knights pointed out in a pageant or a battlefield: they each arrested the eye, especially the rolling eye of Emerson Eames as he looked round on the morning and accepted it as his last. Through a narrow chink between a black timber tavern and a big gray college he could see a clock with gilt hands which the sunshine set on fire. He stared at it as though hypnotized; and suddenly the clock began to strike, as if in personal reply. As if at a signal, clock after clock took up the cry: all the churches awoke like chickens at cockcrow. The birds were already noisy in the trees behind the college. The sun rose, gathering glory that seemed too full for the deep skies to hold, and the shallow waters beneath them seemed golden and brimming and deep enough for the thirst of the gods. Just round the corner of the College, and visible from his crazy perch, were the brightest specks on that bright landscape, the villa with the spotted blinds which he had made his text that night. He wondered for the first time what people lived in them.
“Suddenly he called out with mere querulous authority, as he might have called to a student to shut a door.
“‘Let me come off this place,’ he cried; ‘I can’t bear it.’
“‘I rather doubt if it will bear you,’ said Smith critically; ‘but before you break your neck, or I blow out your brains, or let you back into this room (on which complex points I am undecided) I want the metaphysical point cleared up. Do I understand that you want to get back to life?’
“‘I’d give anything to get back,’ replied the unhappy professor.
“‘Give anything!’ cried Smith; ‘then, blast your impudence, give us a song!’
“‘What song do you mean?’ demanded the exasperated Eames; ‘what song?’
“‘A hymn, I think, would be most appropriate,’ answered the other gravely. ‘I’ll let you off if you’ll repeat after me the words—
“‘I thank the goodness and the grace That on my birth have smiled. And perched me on this curious place, A happy English child.’
“Dr. Emerson Eames having briefly complied, his persecutor abruptly told him to hold his hands up in the air. Vaguely connecting this proceeding with the usual conduct of brigands and bushrangers, Mr. Eames held them up, very stiffly, but without marked surprise. A bird alighting on his stone seat took no more notice of him than of a comic statue.
“‘You are now engaged in public worship,’ remarked Smith severely, ‘and before I have done with you, you shall thank God for the very ducks on the pond.’
“The celebrated pessimist half articulately expressed his perfect readiness to thank God for the ducks on the pond.
“‘Not forgetting the drakes,’ said Smith sternly. (Eames weakly conceded the drakes.) ‘Not forgetting anything, please. You shall thank heaven for churches and chapels and villas and vulgar people and puddles and pots and pans and sticks and rags and bones and spotted blinds.’
“‘All right, all right,’ repeated the victim in despair; ‘sticks and rags and bones and blinds.’
“‘Spotted blinds, I think we said,’ remarked Smith with a rogueish ruthlessness, and wagging the pistol-barrel at him like a long metallic finger.
“‘Spotted blinds,’ said Emerson Eames faintly.
“‘You can’t say fairer than that,’ admitted the younger man, ‘and now I’ll just tell you this to wind up with. If you really were what you profess to be, I don’t see that it would matter to snail or seraph if you broke your impious stiff neck and dashed out all your drivelling devil-worshipping brains. But in strict biographical fact you are a very nice fellow, addicted to talking putrid nonsense, and I love you like a brother. I shall therefore fire off all my cartridges round your head so as not to hit you (I am a good shot, you may be glad to hear), and then we will go in and have some breakfast.’
“He then let off two barrels in the air, which the Professor endured with singular firmness, and then said, ‘But don’t fire them all off.’
“‘Why not’ asked the other buoyantly.
“‘Keep them,’ asked his companion, ‘for the next man you meet who talks as we were talking.’
“It was at this moment that Smith, looking down, perceived apoplectic terror upon the face of the Sub-Warden, and heard the refined shriek with which he summoned the porter and the ladder.
“It took Dr. Eames some little time to disentangle himself from the ladder, and some little time longer to disentangle himself from the Sub-Warden. But as soon as he could do so unobtrusively, he rejoined his companion in the late extraordinary scene. He was astonished to find the gigantic Smith heavily shaken, and sitting with his shaggy head on his hands. When addressed, he lifted a very pale face.
“‘Why, what is the matter?’ asked Eames, whose own nerves had by this time twittered themselves quiet, like the morning birds.
“‘I must ask your indulgence,’ said Smith, rather brokenly. ‘I must ask you to realize that I have just had an escape from death.’
“‘YOU have had an escape from death?’ repeated the Professor in not unpardonable irritation. ‘Well, of all the cheek—’
“‘Oh, don’t you understand, don’t you understand?’ cried the pale young man impatiently. ‘I had to do it, Eames; I had to prove you wrong or die. When a man’s young, he nearly always has some one whom he thinks the top-water mark of the mind of man— some one who knows all about it, if anybody knows.
“‘Well, you were that to me; you spoke with authority, and not as the scribes. Nobody could comfort me if YOU said there was no comfort. If you really thought there was nothing anywhere, it was because you had been there to see. Don’t you see that I HAD to prove you didn’t really mean it?— or else drown myself in the canal.’
“‘Well,’ said Eames hesitatingly, ‘I think perhaps you confuse—’
“‘Oh, don’t tell me that!’ cried Smith with the sudden clairvoyance of mental pain; ‘don’t tell me I confuse enjoyment of existence with the Will to Live! That’s German, and German is High Dutch, and High Dutch is Double Dutch. The thing I saw shining in your eyes when you dangled on that bridge was enjoyment of life and not “the Will to Live.” What you knew when you sat on that damned gargoyle was that the world, when all is said and done, is a wonderful and beautiful place; I know it, because I knew it at the same minute. I saw the gray clouds turn pink, and the little gilt clock in the crack between the houses. It was THOSE things you hated leaving, not Life, whatever that is. Eames, we’ve been to the brink of death together; won’t you admit I’m right?’
“‘Yes’, said Eames very slowly, ‘I think you are right. You shall have a First!’
“‘Right!’ cried Smith, springing up reanimated. ‘I’ve passed with honours, and now let me go and see about being sent down.’
“‘You needn’t be sent down,’ said Eames with the quiet confidence of twelve years of intrigue. ‘Everything with us comes from the man on top to the people just round him: I am the man on top, and I shall tell the people round me the truth.’
“The massive Mr. Smith rose and went firmly to the window, but he spoke with equal firmness. ‘I must be sent down,’ he said, ‘and the people must not be told the truth.’
“‘And why not’ asked the other.
“‘Because I mean to follow your advice,’ answered the massive youth, ‘I mean to keep the remaining shots for people in the shameful state you and I were in last night—I wish we could even plead drunkenness. I mean to keep those bullets for pessimists—pills for pale people. And in this way I want to walk the world like a wonderful surprise— to float as idly as the thistledown, and come as silently as the sunrise; not to be expected any more than the thunderbolt, not to be recalled any more than the dying breeze. I don’t want people to anticipate me as a well-known practical joke. I want both my gifts to come virgin and violent, the death and the life after death. I am going to hold a pistol to the head of the Modern Man. But I shall not use it to kill him—only to bring him to life. I begin to see a new meaning in being the skeleton at the feast.’
“‘You can scarcely be called a skeleton,’ said Dr. Eames, smiling.
“‘That comes of being so much at the feast,’ answered the massive youth.
‘No skeleton can keep his figure if he is always dining out.
But that is not quite what I meant: what I mean is that I caught
a kind of glimpse of the meaning of death and all that—the skull
and cross-bones, the memento mori. It isn’t only meant to remind
us of a future life, but to remind us of a present life too.
With our weak spirits we should grow old in eternity if we were not kept
young by death. Providence has to cut immortality into lengths for us,
as nurses cut the bread and butter into fingers.’
“Then he added suddenly in a voice of unnatural actuality, ‘But I know something now, Eames. I knew it when I saw the clouds turn pink.’
“‘What do you mean?’ asked Eames. ‘What did you know?’
“‘I knew for the first time that murder is really wrong.’
“He gripped Dr. Eames’s hand and groped his way somewhat unsteadily to the door. Before he had vanished through it he had added, ‘It’s very dangerous, though, when a man thinks for a split second that he understands death.’
“Dr. Eames remained in repose and rumination some hours after his late assailant had left. Then he rose, took his hat and umbrella, and went for a brisk if rotatory walk. Several times, however, he stood outside the villa with the spotted blinds, studying them intently with his head slightly on one side. Some took him for a lunatic and some for an intending purchaser. He is not yet sure that the two characters would be widely different.
“The above narrative has been constructed on a principle which is, in the opinion of the undersigned persons, new in the art of letters. Each of the two actors is described as he appeared to the other. But the undersigned persons absolutely guarantee the exactitude of the story; and if their version of the thing be questioned, they, the undersigned persons, would deucedly well like to know who does know about it if they don’t.
“The undersigned persons will now adjourn to ‘The Spotted Dog’ for beer. Farewell.
“(Signed) James Emerson Eames, Warden of Brakespeare College, Cambridge.
“Innocent Smith.”
Chapter II
The Two Curates; or, the Burglary Charge
Arthur Inglewood handed the document he had just read to the leaders of the prosecution, who examined it with their heads together. Both the Jew and the American were of sensitive and excitable stocks, and they revealed by the jumpings and bumpings of the black head and the yellow that nothing could be done in the way of denial of the document. The letter from the Warden was as authentic as the letter from the Sub-Warden, however regrettably different in dignity and social tone.
“Very few words,” said Inglewood, “are required to conclude our case in this matter. Surely it is now plain that our client carried his pistol about with the eccentric but innocent purpose of giving a wholesome scare to those whom he regarded as blasphemers. In each case the scare was so wholesome that the victim himself has dated from it as from a new birth. Smith, so far from being a madman, is rather a mad doctor— he walks the world curing frenzies and not distributing them. That is the answer to the two unanswerable questions which I put to the prosecutors. That is why they dared not produce a line by any one who had actually confronted the pistol. All who had actually confronted the pistol confessed that they had profited by it. That was why Smith, though a good shot, never hit anybody. He never hit anybody because he was a good shot. His mind was as clear of murder as his hands are of blood. This, I say, is the only possible explanation of these facts and of all the other facts. No one can possibly explain the Warden’s conduct except by believing the Warden’s story. Even Dr. Pym, who is a very factory of ingenious theories, could find no other theory to cover the case.”
“There are promising per-spectives in hypnotism and dual personality,” said Dr. Cyrus Pym dreamily; “the science of criminology is in its infancy, and—”
“Infancy!” cried Moon, jerking his red pencil in the air with a gesture of enlightenment; “why, that explains it!”
“I repeat,” proceeded Inglewood, “that neither Dr. Pym nor any one else can account on any other theory but ours for the Warden’s signature, for the shots missed and the witnesses missing.”
The little Yankee had slipped to his feet with some return of a cock-fighting coolness. “The defence,” he said, “omits a coldly colossal fact. They say we produce none of the actual victims. Wal, here is one victim—England’s celebrated and stricken Warner. I reckon he is pretty well produced. And they suggest that all the outrages were followed by reconciliation. Wal, there’s no flies on England’s Warner; and he isn’t reconciliated much.”
“My learned friend,” said Moon, getting elaborately to his feet, “must remember that the science of shooting Dr. Warner is in its infancy. Dr. Warner would strike the idlest eye as one specially difficult to startle into any recognition of the glory of God. We admit that our client, in this one instance, failed, and that the operation was not successful. But I am empowered to offer, on behalf of my client, a proposal for operating on Dr. Warner again, at his earliest convenience, and without further fees.”
“‘Ang it all, Michael,” cried Gould, quite serious for the first time in his life, “you might give us a bit of bally sense for a chinge.”
“What was Dr. Warner talking about just before the first shot?” asked Moon sharply.
“The creature,” said Dr. Warner superciliously, “asked me, with characteristic rationality, whether it was my birthday.”
“And you answered, with characteristic swank,” cried Moon, shooting out a long lean finger, as rigid and arresting as the pistol of Smith, “that you didn’t keep your birthday.”
“Something like that,” assented the doctor.
“Then,” continued Moon, “he asked you why not, and you said it was because you didn’t see that birth was anything to rejoice over. Agreed? Now is there any one who doubts that our tale is true?”
There was a cold crash of stillness in the room; and Moon said, “Pax populi vox Dei; it is the silence of the people that is the voice of God. Or in Dr. Pym’s more civilized language, it is up to him to open the next charge. On this we claim an acquittal.”
It was about an hour later. Dr. Cyrus Pym had remained for an unprecedented time with his eyes closed and his thumb and finger in the air. It almost seemed as if he had been “struck so,” as the nurses say; and in the deathly silence Michael Moon felt forced to relieve the strain with some remark. For the last half-hour or so the eminent criminologist had been explaining that science took the same view of offences against property as it did of offences against life. “Most murder,” he had said, “is a variation of homicidal mania, and in the same way most theft is a version of kleptomania. I cannot entertain any doubt that my learned friends opposite adequately con-ceive how this must involve a scheme of punishment more tol’rant and humane than the cruel methods of ancient codes. They will doubtless exhibit consciousness of a chasm so eminently yawning, so thought-arresting, so—” It was here that he paused and indulged in the delicate gesture to which allusion has been made; and Michael could bear it no longer.
“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently, “we admit the chasm. The old cruel codes accuse a man of theft and send him to prison for ten years. The tolerant and humane ticket accuses him of nothing and sends him to prison for ever. We pass the chasm.”
It was characteristic of the eminent Pym, in one of his trances of verbal fastidiousness, that he went on, unconscious not only of his opponent’s interruption, but even of his own pause.
“So stock-improving,” continued Dr. Cyrus Pym, “so fraught with real high hopes of the future. Science therefore regards thieves, in the abstract, just as it regards murderers. It regards them not as sinners to be punished for an arbitrary period, but as patients to be detained and cared for,” (his first two digits closed again as he hesitated)—“in short, for the required period. But there is something special in the case we investigate here. Kleptomania commonly con-joins itself—”
“I beg pardon,” said Michael; “I did not ask just now because, to tell the truth, I really thought Dr. Pym, though seemingly vertical, was enjoying well-earned slumber, with a pinch in his fingers of scentless and delicate dust. But now that things are moving a little more, there is something I should really like to know. I have hung on Dr. Pym’s lips, of course, with an interest that it were weak to call rapture, but I have so far been unable to form any conjecture about what the accused, in the present instance, is supposed to have been and gone and done.”
“If Mr. Moon will have patience,” said Pym with dignity, “he will find that this was the very point to which my exposition was di-rected. Kleptomania, I say, exhibits itself as a kind of physical attraction to certain defined materials; and it has been held (by no less a man than Harris) that this is the ultimate explanation of the strict specialism and vurry narrow professional outlook of most criminals. One will have an irresistible physical impulsion towards pearl sleeve-links, while he passes over the most elegant and celebrated diamond sleeve-links, placed about in the most conspicuous locations. Another will impede his flight with no less than forty-seven buttoned boots, while elastic-sided boots leave him cold, and even sarcastic. The specialism of the criminal, I repeat, is a mark rather of insanity than of any brightness of business habits; but there is one kind of depredator to whom this principle is at first sight hard to apply. I allude to our fellow-citizen the housebreaker.
“It has been maintained by some of our boldest young truth-seekers, that the eye of a burglar beyond the back-garden wall could hardly be caught and hypnotized by a fork that is insulated in a locked box under the butler’s bed. They have thrown down the gauntlet to American science on this point. They declare that diamond links are not left about in conspicuous locations in the haunts of the lower classes, as they were in the great test experiment of Calypso College. We hope this experiment here will be an answer to that young ringing challenge, and will bring the burglar once more into line and union with his fellow criminals.”
Moon, whose face had gone through every phase of black bewilderment for five minutes past, suddenly lifted his hand and struck the table in explosive enlightenment.
“Oh, I see!” he cried; “you mean that Smith is a burglar.”
“I thought I made it quite ad’quately lucid,” said Mr. Pym, folding up his eyelids. It was typical of this topsy-turvy private trial that all the eloquent extras, all the rhetoric or digression on either side, was exasperating and unintelligible to the other. Moon could not make head or tail of the solemnity of a new civilization. Pym could not make head or tail of the gaiety of an old one.
“All the cases in which Smith has figured as an expropriator,” continued the American doctor, “are cases of burglary. Pursuing the same course as in the previous case, we select the indubitable instance from the rest, and we take the most correct cast-iron evidence. I will now call on my colleague, Mr. Gould, to read a letter we have received from the earnest, unspotted Canon of Durham, Canon Hawkins.”
Mr. Moses Gould leapt up with his usual alacrity to read the letter from the earnest and unspotted Hawkins. Moses Gould could imitate a farmyard well, Sir Henry Irving not so well, Marie Lloyd to a point of excellence, and the new motor horns in a manner that put him upon the platform of great artists. But his imitation of a Canon of Durham was not convincing; indeed, the sense of the letter was so much obscured by the extraordinary leaps and gasps of his pronunciation that it is perhaps better to print it here as Moon read it when, a little later, it was handed across the table.
“Dear Sir,—I can scarcely feel surprise that the incident you mention, private as it was, should have filtered through our omnivorous journals to the mere populace; for the position I have since attained makes me, I conceive, a public character, and this was certainly the most extraordinary incident in a not uneventful and perhaps not an unimportant career. I am by no means without experience in scenes of civil tumult. I have faced many a political crisis in the old Primrose League days at Herne Bay, and, before I broke with the wilder set, have spent many a night at the Christian Social Union. But this other experience was quite inconceivable. I can only describe it as the letting loose of a place which it is not for me, as a clergyman, to mention.
“It occurred in the days when I was, for a short period, a curate at Hoxton; and the other curate, then my colleague, induced me to attend a meeting which he described, I must say profanely described, as calculated to promote the kingdom of God. I found, on the contrary, that it consisted entirely of men in corduroys and greasy clothes whose manners were coarse and their opinions extreme.
“Of my colleague in question I wish to speak with the fullest respect and friendliness, and I will therefore say little. No one can be more convinced than I of the evil of politics in the pulpit; and I never offer my congregation any advice about voting except in cases in which I feel strongly that they are likely to make an erroneous selection. But, while I do not mean to touch at all upon political or social problems, I must say that for a clergyman to countenance, even in jest, such discredited nostrums of dissipated demagogues as Socialism or Radicalism partakes of the character of the betrayal of a sacred trust. Far be it from me to say a word against the Reverend Raymond Percy, the colleague in question. He was brilliant, I suppose, and to some apparently fascinating; but a clergyman who talks like a Socialist, wears his hair like a pianist, and behaves like an intoxicated person, will never rise in his profession, or even obtain the admiration of the good and wise. Nor is it for me to utter my personal judgements of the appearance of the people in the hall. Yet a glance round the room, revealing ranks of debased and envious faces—”
“Adopting,” said Moon explosively, for he was getting restive—“adopting the reverend gentleman’s favourite figure of logic, may I say that while tortures would not tear from me a whisper about his intellect, he is a blasted old jackass.”
“Really!” said Dr. Pym; “I protest.”
“You must keep quiet, Michael,” said Inglewood; “they have a right to read their story.”
“Chair! Chair! Chair!” cried Gould, rolling about exuberantly in his own; and Pym glanced for a moment towards the canopy which covered all the authority of the Court of Beacon.
“Oh, don’t wake the old lady,” said Moon, lowering his voice in a moody good-humour. “I apologize. I won’t interrupt again.”
Before the little eddy of interruption was ended the reading of the clergyman’s letter was already continuing.
“The proceedings opened with a speech from my colleague, of which I will say nothing. It was deplorable. Many of the audience were Irish, and showed the weakness of that impetuous people. When gathered together into gangs and conspiracies they seem to lose altogether that lovable good-nature and readiness to accept anything one tells them which distinguishes them as individuals.”
With a slight start, Michael rose to his feet, bowed solemnly, and sat down again.
“These persons, if not silent, were at least applausive during the speech of Mr. Percy. He descended to their level with witticisms about rent and a reserve of labour. Confiscation, expropriation, arbitration, and such words with which I cannot soil my lips, recurred constantly. Some hours afterward the storm broke. I had been addressing the meeting for some time, pointing out the lack of thrift in the working classes, their insufficient attendance at evening service, their neglect of the Harvest Festival, and of many other things that might materially help them to improve their lot. It was, I think, about this time that an extraordinary interruption occurred. An enormous, powerful man, partly concealed with white plaster, arose in the middle of the hall, and offered (in a loud, roaring voice, like a bull’s) some observations which seemed to be in a foreign language. Mr. Raymond Percy, my colleague, descended to his level by entering into a duel of repartee, in which he appeared to be the victor. The meeting began to behave more respectfully for a little; yet before I had said twelve sentences more the rush was made for the platform. The enormous plasterer, in particular, plunged towards us, shaking the earth like an elephant; and I really do not know what would have happened if a man equally large, but not quite so ill-dressed, had not jumped up also and held him away. This other big man shouted a sort of speech to the mob as he was shoving them back. I don’t know what he said, but, what with shouting and shoving and such horseplay, he got us out at a back door, while the wretched people went roaring down another passage.
“Then follows the truly extraordinary part of my story. When he had got us outside, in a mean backyard of blistered grass leading into a lane with a very lonely-looking lamp-post, this giant addressed me as follows: ‘You’re well out of that, sir; now you’d better come along with me. I want you to help me in an act of social justice, such as we’ve all been talking about. Come along!’ And turning his big back abruptly, he led us down the lean old lane with the one lean old lamp-post, we scarcely knowing what to do but to follow him. He had certainly helped us in a most difficult situation, and, as a gentleman, I could not treat such a benefactor with suspicion without grave grounds. Such also was the view of my Socialistic colleague, who (with all his dreadful talk of arbitration) is a gentleman also. In fact, he comes of the Staffordshire Percys, a branch of the old house and has the black hair and pale, clear-cut face of the whole family. I cannot but refer it to vanity that he should heighten his personal advantages with black velvet or a red cross of considerable ostentation, and certainly—but I digress.
“A fog was coming up the street, and that last lost lamp-post faded behind us in a way that certainly depressed the mind. The large man in front of us looked larger and larger in the haze. He did not turn round, but he said with his huge back to us, ‘All that talking’s no good; we want a little practical Socialism.’
“‘I quite agree,’ said Percy; ‘but I always like to understand things in theory before I put them into practice.’
“‘Oh, you just leave that to me,’ said the practical Socialist, or whatever he was, with the most terrifying vagueness. ‘I have a way with me. I’m a Permeator.’
“I could not imagine what he meant, but my companion laughed, so I was sufficiently reassured to continue the unaccountable journey for the present. It led us through most singular ways; out of the lane, where we were already rather cramped, into a paved passage, at the end of which we passed through a wooden gate left open. We then found ourselves, in the increasing darkness and vapour, crossing what appeared to be a beaten path across a kitchen garden. I called out to the enormous person going on in front, but he answered obscurely that it was a short cut.
“I was just repeating my very natural doubt to my clerical companion when I was brought up against a short ladder, apparently leading to a higher level of road. My thoughtless colleague ran up it so quickly that I could not do otherwise than follow as best I could. The path on which I then planted my feet was quite unprecedentedly narrow. I had never had to walk along a thoroughfare so exiguous. Along one side of it grew what, in the dark and density of air, I first took to be some short, strong thicket of shrubs. Then I saw that they were not short shrubs; they were the tops of tall trees. I, an English gentleman and clergyman of the Church of England—I was walking along the top of a garden wall like a tom cat.
“I am glad to say that I stopped within my first five steps, and let loose my just reprobation, balancing myself as best I could all the time.
“‘It’s a right-of-way,’ declared my indefensible informant. ‘It’s closed to traffic once in a hundred years.’
“‘Mr. Percy, Mr. Percy!’ I called out; ‘you are not going on with this blackguard?’
“‘Why, I think so,’ answered my unhappy colleague flippantly. ‘I think you and I are bigger blackguards than he is, whatever he is.’
“‘I am a burglar,’ explained the big creature quite calmly. ‘I am a member of the Fabian Society. I take back the wealth stolen by the capitalist, not by sweeping civil war and revolution, but by reform fitted to the special occasion—here a little and there a little. Do you see that fifth house along the terrace with the flat roof? I’m permeating that one to-night.’
“‘Whether this is a crime or a joke,’ I cried, ‘I desire to be quit of it.’
“‘The ladder is just behind you,’ answered the creature with horrible courtesy; ‘and, before you go, do let me give you my card.’
“If I had had the presence of mind to show any proper spirit I should have flung it away, though any adequate gesture of the kind would have gravely affected my equilibrium upon the wall. As it was, in the wildness of the moment, I put it in my waistcoat pocket, and, picking my way back by wall and ladder, landed in the respectable streets once more. Not before, however, I had seen with my own eyes the two awful and lamentable facts— that the burglar was climbing up a slanting roof towards the chimneys, and that Raymond Percy (a priest of God and, what was worse, a gentleman) was crawling up after him. I have never seen either of them since that day.
“In consequence of this soul-searching experience I severed my connection with the wild set. I am far from saying that every member of the Christian Social Union must necessarily be a burglar. I have no right to bring any such charge. But it gave me a hint of what such courses may lead to in many cases; and I saw them no more.
“I have only to add that the photograph you enclose, taken by a Mr. Inglewood, is undoubtedly that of the burglar in question. When I got home that night I looked at his card, and he was inscribed there under the name of Innocent Smith.—Yours faithfully, John Clement Hawkins.”
Moon merely went through the form of glancing at the paper. He knew that the prosecutors could not have invented so heavy a document; that Moses Gould (for one) could no more write like a canon than he could read like one. After handing it back he rose to open the defence on the burglary charge.
“We wish,” said Michael, “to give all reasonable facilities to the prosecution; especially as it will save the time of the whole court. The latter object I shall once again pursue by passing over all those points of theory which are so dear to Dr. Pym. I know how they are made. Perjury is a variety of aphasia, leading a man to say one thing instead of another. Forgery is a kind of writer’s cramp, forcing a man to write his uncle’s name instead of his own. Piracy on the high seas is probably a form of sea-sickness. But it is unnecessary for us to inquire into the causes of a fact which we deny. Innocent Smith never did commit burglary at all.
“I should like to claim the power permitted by our previous arrangement, and ask the prosecution two or three questions.”
Dr. Cyrus Pym closed his eyes to indicate a courteous assent.
“In the first place,” continued Moon, “have you the date of Canon Hawkins’s last glimpse of Smith and Percy climbing up the walls and roofs?”
“Ho, yus!” called out Gould smartly. “November thirteen, eighteen ninety-one.”
“Have you,” continued Moon, “identified the houses in Hoxton up which they climbed?”
“Must have been Ladysmith Terrace out of the highroad,” answered Gould with the same clockwork readiness.
“Well,” said Michael, cocking an eyebrow at him, “was there any burglary in that terrace that night? Surely you could find that out.”
“There may well have been,” said the doctor primly, after a pause, “an unsuccessful one that led to no legalities.”
“Another question,” proceeded Michael. “Canon Hawkins, in his blood-and-thunder boyish way, left off at the exciting moment. Why don’t you produce the evidence of the other clergyman, who actually followed the burglar and presumably was present at the crime?”
Dr. Pym rose and planted the points of his fingers on the table, as he did when he was specially confident of the clearness of his reply.
“We have entirely failed,” he said, “to track the other clergyman, who seems to have melted into the ether after Canon Hawkins had seen him as-cending the gutters and the leads. I am fully aware that this may strike many as sing’lar; yet, upon reflection, I think it will appear pretty natural to a bright thinker. This Mr. Raymond Percy is admittedly, by the canon’s evidence, a minister of eccentric ways. His con-nection with England’s proudest and fairest does not seemingly prevent a taste for the society of the real low-down. On the other hand, the prisoner Smith is, by general agreement, a man of irr’sistible fascination. I entertain no doubt that Smith led the Revered Percy into the crime and forced him to hide his head in the real crim’nal class. That would fully account for his non-appearance, and the failure of all attempts to trace him.”
“It is impossible, then, to trace him?” asked Moon.
“Impossible,” repeated the specialist, shutting his eyes.
“You are sure it’s impossible?”
“Oh dry up, Michael,” cried Gould, irritably. “We’d ‘ave found ‘im if we could, for you bet ‘e saw the burglary. Don’t YOU start looking for ‘im. Look for your own ‘ead in the dustbin. You’ll find that—after a bit,” and his voice died away in grumbling.
“Arthur,” directed Michael Moon, sitting down, “kindly read Mr. Raymond Percy’s letter to the court.”
“Wishing, as Mr. Moon has said, to shorten the proceedings as much as possible,” began Inglewood, “I will not read the first part of the letter sent to us. It is only fair to the prosecution to admit the account given by the second clergyman fully ratifies, as far as facts are concerned, that given by the first clergyman. We concede, then, the canon’s story so far as it goes. This must necessarily be valuable to the prosecutor and also convenient to the court. I begin Mr. Percy’s letter, then, at the point when all three men were standing on the garden wall:—
“As I watched Hawkins wavering on the wall, I made up my own mind not to waver. A cloud of wrath was on my brain, like the cloud of copper fog on the houses and gardens round. My decision was violent and simple; yet the thoughts that led up to it were so complicated and contradictory that I could not retrace them now. I knew Hawkins was a kind, innocent gentleman; and I would have given ten pounds for the pleasure of kicking him down the road. That God should allow good people to be as bestially stupid as that— rose against me like a towering blasphemy.
“At Oxford, I fear, I had the artistic temperament rather badly; and artists love to be limited. I liked the church as a pretty pattern; discipline was mere decoration. I delighted in mere divisions of time; I liked eating fish on Friday. But then I like fish; and the fast was made for men who like meat. Then I came to Hoxton and found men who had fasted for five hundred years; men who had to gnaw fish because they could not get meat—and fish-bones when they could not get fish. As too many British officers treat the army as a review, so I had treated the Church Militant as if it were the Church Pageant. Hoxton cures that. Then I realized that for eighteen hundred years the Church Militant had not been a pageant, but a riot—and a suppressed riot. There, still living patiently in Hoxton, were the people to whom the tremendous promises had been made. In the face of that I had to become a revolutionary if I was to continue to be religious. In Hoxton one cannot be a conservative without being also an atheist— and a pessimist. Nobody but the devil could want to conserve Hoxton.
“On the top of all this comes Hawkins. If he had cursed all the Hoxton men, excommunicated them, and told them they were going to hell, I should have rather admired him. If he had ordered them all to be burned in the market-place, I should still have had that patience that all good Christians have with the wrongs inflicted on other people. But there is no priestcraft about Hawkins—nor any other kind of craft. He is as perfectly incapable of being a priest as he is of being a carpenter or a cabman or a gardener or a plasterer. He is a perfect gentleman; that is his complaint. He does not impose his creed, but simply his class. He never said a word of religion in the whole of his damnable address. He simply said all the things his brother, the major, would have said. A voice from heaven assures me that he has a brother, and that this brother is a major.
“When this helpless aristocrat had praised cleanliness in the body and convention in the soul to people who could hardly keep body and soul together, the stampede against our platform began. I took part in his undeserved rescue, I followed his obscure deliverer, until (as I have said) we stood together on the wall above the dim gardens, already clouding with fog. Then I looked at the curate and at the burglar, and decided, in a spasm of inspiration, that the burglar was the better man of the two. The burglar seemed quite as kind and human as the curate was— and he was also brave and self-reliant, which the curate was not. I knew there was no virtue in the upper class, for I belong to it myself; I knew there was not so very much in the lower class, for I had lived with it a long time. Many old texts about the despised and persecuted came back to my mind, and I thought that the saints might well be hidden in the criminal class. About the time Hawkins let himself down the ladder I was crawling up a low, sloping, blue-slate roof after the large man, who went leaping in front of me like a gorilla.
“This upward scramble was short, and we soon found ourselves tramping along a broad road of flat roofs, broader than many big thoroughfares, with chimney-pots here and there that seemed in the haze as bulky as small forts. The asphyxiation of the fog seemed to increase the somewhat swollen and morbid anger under which my brain and body laboured. The sky and all those things that are commonly clear seemed overpowered by sinister spirits. Tall spectres with turbans of vapour seemed to stand higher than the sun or moon, eclipsing both. I thought dimly of illustrations to the ‘Arabian Nights’ on brown paper with rich but sombre tints, showing genii gathering round the Seal of Solomon. By the way, what was the Seal of Solomon? Nothing to do with sealing-wax really, I suppose; but my muddled fancy felt the thick clouds as being of that heavy and clinging substance, of strong opaque colour, poured out of boiling pots and stamped into monstrous emblems.
“The first effect of the tall turbaned vapours was that discoloured look of pea-soup or coffee brown of which Londoners commonly speak. But the scene grew subtler with familiarity. We stood above the average of the housetops and saw something of that thing called smoke, which in great cities creates the strange thing called fog. Beneath us rose a forest of chimney-pots. And there stood in every chimney-pot, as if it were a flower-pot, a brief shrub or a tall tree of coloured vapour. The colours of the smoke were various; for some chimneys were from firesides and some from factories, and some again from mere rubbish heaps. And yet, though the tints were all varied, they all seemed unnatural, like fumes from a witch’s pot. It was as if the shameful and ugly shapes growing shapeless in the cauldron sent up each its separate spurt of steam, coloured according to the fish or flesh consumed. Here, aglow from underneath, were dark red clouds, such as might drift from dark jars of sacrificial blood; there the vapour was dark indigo gray, like the long hair of witches steeped in the hell-broth. In another place the smoke was of an awful opaque ivory yellow, such as might be the disembodiment of one of their old, leprous waxen images. But right across it ran a line of bright, sinister, sulphurous green, as clear and crooked as Arabic—”
Mr. Moses Gould once more attempted the arrest of the ‘bus. He was understood to suggest that the reader should shorten the proceedings by leaving out all the adjectives. Mrs. Duke, who had woken up, observed that she was sure it was all very nice, and the decision was duly noted down by Moses with a blue, and by Michael with a red pencil. Inglewood then resumed the reading of the document.
“Then I read the writing of the smoke. Smoke was like the modern city that makes it; it is not always dull or ugly, but it is always wicked and vain.
“Modern England was like a cloud of smoke; it could carry all colours, but it could leave nothing but a stain. It was our weakness and not our strength that put a rich refuse in the sky. These were the rivers of our vanity pouring into the void. We had taken the sacred circle of the whirlwind, and looked down on it, and seen it as a whirlpool. And then we had used it as a sink. It was a good symbol of the mutiny in my own mind. Only our worst things were going to heaven. Only our criminals could still ascend like angels.
“As my brain was blinded with such emotions, my guide stopped by one of the big chimney-pots that stood at the regular intervals like lamp-posts along that uplifted and aerial highway. He put his heavy hand upon it, and for the moment I thought he was merely leaning on it, tired with his steep scramble along the terrace. So far as I could guess from the abysses, full of fog on either side, and the veiled lights of red brown and old gold glowing through them now and again, we were on the top of one of those long, consecutive, and genteel rows of houses which are still to be found lifting their heads above poorer districts, the remains of some rage of optimism in earlier speculative builders. Probably enough, they were entirely untenanted, or tenanted only by such small clans of the poor as gather also in the old emptied palaces of Italy. Indeed, some little time later, when the fog had lifted a little, I discovered that we were walking round a semi-circle of crescent which fell away below us into one flat square or wide street below another, like a giant stairway, in a manner not unknown in the eccentric building of London, and looking like the last ledges of the land. But a cloud sealed the giant stairway as yet.
“My speculations about the sullen skyscape, however, were interrupted by something as unexpected as the moon falling from the sky. Instead of my burglar lifting his hand from the chimney he leaned on, he leaned on it a little more heavily, and the whole chimney-pot turned over like the opening top of an inkstand. I remembered the short ladder leaning against the low wall and felt sure he had arranged his criminal approach long before.
“The collapse of the big chimney-pot ought to have been the culmination of my chaotic feelings; but, to tell the truth, it produced a sudden sense of comedy and even of comfort. I could not recall what connected this abrupt bit of housebreaking with some quaint but still kindly fancies. Then I remembered the delightful and uproarious scenes of roofs and chimneys in the harlequinades of my childhood, and was darkly and quite irrationally comforted by a sense of unsubstantiality in the scene, as if the houses were of lath and paint and pasteboard, and were only meant to be tumbled in and out of by policemen and pantaloons. The law-breaking of my companion seemed not only seriously excusable, but even comically excusable. Who were all these pompous preposterous people with their footmen and their foot-scrapers, their chimney-pots and their chimney-pot hats, that they should prevent a poor clown from getting sausages if he wanted them? One would suppose that property was a serious thing. I had reached, as it were, a higher level of that mountainous and vapourous visions, the heaven of a higher levity.
“My guide had jumped down into the dark cavity revealed by the displaced chimney-pot. He must have landed at a level considerably lower, for, tall as he was, nothing but his weirdly tousled head remained visible. Something again far off, and yet familiar, pleased me about this way of invading the houses of men. I thought of little chimney-sweeps, and ‘The Water Babies;’ but I decided that it was not that. Then I remembered what it was that made me connect such topsy-turvy trespass with ideas quite opposite to the idea of crime. Christmas Eve, of course, and Santa Claus coming down the chimney.
“Almost at the same instant the hairy head disappeared into the black hole; but I heard a voice calling to me from below. A second or two afterwards, the hairy head reappeared; it was dark against the more fiery part of the fog, and nothing could be spelt of its expression, but its voice called on me to follow with that enthusiastic impatience proper only among old friends. I jumped into the gulf, and as blindly as Curtius, for I was still thinking of Santa Claus and the traditional virtue of such vertical entrance.
“In every well-appointed gentleman’s house, I reflected, there was the front door for the gentlemen, and the side door for the tradesmen; but there was also the top door for the gods. The chimney is, so to speak, the underground passage between earth and heaven. By this starry tunnel Santa Claus manages—like the skylark— to be true to the kindred points of heaven and home. Nay, owing to certain conventions, and a widely distributed lack of courage for climbing, this door was, perhaps, little used. But Santa Claus’s door was really the front door: it was the door fronting the universe.
“I thought this as I groped my way across the black garret, or loft below the roof, and scrambled down the squat ladder that let us down into a yet larger loft below. Yet it was not till I was half-way down the ladder that I suddenly stood still, and thought for an instant of retracing all my steps, as my companion had retraced them from the beginning of the garden wall. The name of Santa Claus had suddenly brought me back to my senses. I remembered why Santa Clause came, and why he was welcome.
“I was brought up in the propertied classes, and with all their horror of offences against property. I had heard all the regular denunciations of robbery, both right and wrong; I had read the Ten Commandments in church a thousand times. And then and there, at the age of thirty-four, half-way down a ladder in a dark room in the bodily act of burglar, I saw suddenly for the first time that theft, after all, is really wrong.
“It was too late to turn back, however, and I followed the strangely soft footsteps of my huge companion across the lower and larger loft, till he knelt down on a part of the bare flooring and, after a few fumbling efforts, lifted a sort of trapdoor. This released a light from below, and we found ourselves looking down into a lamp-lit sitting room, of the sort that in large houses often leads out of a bedroom, and is an adjunct to it. Light thus breaking from beneath our feet like a soundless explosion, showed that the trapdoor just lifted was clogged with dust and rust, and had doubtless been long disused until the advent of my enterprising friend. But I did not look at this long, for the sight of the shining room underneath us had an almost unnatural attractiveness. To enter a modern interior at so strange an angle, by so forgotten a door, was an epoch in one’s psychology. It was like having found a fourth dimension.
“My companion dropped from the aperture into the room so suddenly and soundlessly, that I could do nothing but follow him; though, for lack of practice in crime, I was by no means soundless. Before the echo of my boots had died away, the big burglar had gone quickly to the door, half opened it, and stood looking down the staircase and listening. Then, leaving the door still half open, he came back into the middle of the room, and ran his roving blue eye round its furniture and ornament. The room was comfortably lined with books in that rich and human way that makes the walls seem alive; it was a deep and full, but slovenly, bookcase, of the sort that is constantly ransacked for the purposes of reading in bed. One of those stunted German stoves that look like red goblins stood in a corner, and a sideboard of walnut wood with closed doors in its lower part. There were three windows, high but narrow. After another glance round, my housebreaker plucked the walnut doors open and rummaged inside. He found nothing there, apparently, except an extremely handsome cut-glass decanter, containing what looked like port. Somehow the sight of the thief returning with this ridiculous little luxury in his hand woke within me once more all the revelation and revulsion I had felt above.
“‘Don’t do it!’ I cried quite incoherently, ‘Santa Claus—’
“‘Ah,’ said the burglar, as he put the decanter on the table and stood looking at me, ‘you’ve thought about that, too.’
“‘I can’t express a millionth part of what I’ve thought of,’ I cried, ‘but it’s something like this… oh, can’t you see it? Why are children not afraid of Santa Claus, though he comes like a thief in the night? He is permitted secrecy, trespass, almost treachery—because there are more toys where he has been. What should we feel if there were less? Down what chimney from hell would come the goblin that should take away the children’s balls and dolls while they slept? Could a Greek tragedy be more gray and cruel than that daybreak and awakening? Dog-stealer, horse-stealer, man-stealer—can you think of anything so base as a toy-stealer?’
“The burglar, as if absently, took a large revolver from his pocket and laid it on the table beside the decanter, but still kept his blue reflective eyes fixed on my face.
“‘Man!’ I said, ‘all stealing is toy-stealing. That’s why it’s really wrong. The goods of the unhappy children of men should be really respected because of their worthlessness. I know Naboth’s vineyard is as painted as Noah’s Ark. I know Nathan’s ewe-lamb is really a woolly baa-lamb on a wooden stand. That is why I could not take them away. I did not mind so much, as long as I thought of men’s things as their valuables; but I dare not put a hand upon their vanities.’
“After a moment I added abruptly, ‘Only saints and sages ought to be robbed. They may be stripped and pillaged; but not the poor little worldly people of the things that are their poor little pride.’
“He set out two wineglasses from the cupboard, filled them both, and lifted one of them with a salutation towards his lips.
“‘Don’t do it!’ I cried. ‘It might be the last bottle of some rotten vintage or other. The master of this house may be quite proud of it. Don’t you see there’s something sacred in the silliness of such things?’
“‘It’s not the last bottle,’ answered my criminal calmly; ‘there’s plenty more in the cellar.’
“‘You know the house, then?’ I said.
“‘Too well,’ he answered, with a sadness so strange as to have something eerie about it. ‘I am always trying to forget what I know— and to find what I don’t know.’ He drained his glass. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘it will do him good.’
“‘What will do him good?’
“‘The wine I’m drinking,’ said the strange person.
“‘Does he drink too much, then?’ I inquired.
“‘No,’ he answered, ‘not unless I do.’
“‘Do you mean,’ I demanded, ‘that the owner of this house approves of all you do?’
“‘God forbid,’ he answered; ‘but he has to do the same.’
“The dead face of the fog looking in at all three windows unreasonable increased a sense of riddle, and even terror, about this tall, narrow house we had entered out of the sky. I had once more the notion about the gigantic genii— I fancied that enormous Egyptian faces, of the dead reds and yellows of Egypt, were staring in at each window of our little lamp-lit room as at a lighted stage of marionettes. My companion went on playing with the pistol in front of him, and talking with the same rather creepy confidentialness.
“‘I am always trying to find him—to catch him unawares. I come in through skylights and trapdoors to find him; but whenever I find him—he is doing what I am doing.’
“I sprang to my feet with a thrill of fear. ‘There is some one coming,’ I cried, and my cry had something of a shriek in it. Not from the stairs below, but along the passage from the inner bedchamber (which seemed somehow to make it more alarming), footsteps were coming nearer. I am quite unable to say what mystery, or monster, or double, I expected to see when the door was pushed open from within. I am only quite certain that I did not expect to see what I did see.
“Framed in the open doorway stood, with an air of great serenity, a rather tall young woman, definitely though indefinably artistic— her dress the colour of spring and her hair of autumn leaves, with a face which, though still comparatively young, conveyed experience as well as intelligence. All she said was, ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’
“‘I came in another way,’ said the Permeator, somewhat vaguely. ‘I’d left my latchkey at home.’
“I got to my feet in a mixture of politeness and mania. ‘I’m really very sorry,’ I cried. ‘I know my position is irregular. Would you be so obliging as to tell me whose house this is?’
“‘Mine,’ said the burglar, ‘May I present you to my wife?’
“I doubtfully, and somewhat slowly, resumed my seat; and I did not get out of it till nearly morning. Mrs. Smith (such was the prosaic name of this far from prosaic household) lingered a little, talking slightly and pleasantly. She left on my mind the impression of a certain odd mixture of shyness and sharpness; as if she knew the world well, but was still a little harmlessly afraid of it. Perhaps the possession of so jumpy and incalculable a husband had left her a little nervous. Anyhow, when she had retired to the inner chamber once more, that extraordinary man poured forth his apologia and autobiography over the dwindling wine.
“He had been sent to Cambridge with a view to a mathematical and scientific, rather than a classical or literary, career. A starless nihilism was then the philosophy of the schools; and it bred in him a war between the members and the spirit, but one in which the members were right. While his brain accepted the black creed, his very body rebelled against it. As he put it, his right hand taught him terrible things. As the authorities of Cambridge University put it, unfortunately, it had taken the form of his right hand flourishing a loaded firearm in the very face of a distinguished don, and driving him to climb out of the window and cling to a waterspout. He had done it solely because the poor don had professed in theory a preference for non-existence. For this very unacademic type of argument he had been sent down. Vomiting as he was with revulsion, from the pessimism that had quailed under his pistol, he made himself a kind of fanatic of the joy of life. He cut across all the associations of serious-minded men. He was gay, but by no means careless. His practical jokes were more in earnest than verbal ones. Though not an optimist in the absurd sense of maintaining that life is all beer and skittles, he did really seem to maintain that beer and skittles are the most serious part of it. ‘What is more immortal,’ he would cry, ‘than love and war? Type of all desire and joy—beer. Type of all battle and conquest—skittles.’
“There was something in him of what the old world called the solemnity of revels—when they spoke of ‘solemnizing’ a mere masquerade or wedding banquet. Nevertheless he was not a mere pagan any more than he was a mere practical joker. His eccentricities sprang from a static fact of faith, in itself mystical, and even childlike and Christian.
“‘I don’t deny,’ he said, ‘that there should be priests to remind men that they will one day die. I only say that at certain strange epochs it is necessary to have another kind of priests, called poets, actually to remind men that they are not dead yet. The intellectuals among whom I moved were not even alive enough to fear death. They hadn’t enough blood in them to be cowards. Until a pistol barrel was poked under their very noses they never even knew they had been born. For ages looking up an eternal perspective it might be true that life is a learning to die. But for these little white rats it was just as true that death was their only chance of learning to live.’
“His creed of wonder was Christian by this absolute test; that he felt it continually slipping from himself as much as from others. He had the same pistol for himself, as Brutus said of the dagger. He continually ran preposterous risks of high precipice or headlong speed to keep alive the mere conviction that he was alive. He treasured up trivial and yet insane details that had once reminded him of the awful subconscious reality. When the don had hung on the stone gutter, the sight of his long dangling legs, vibrating in the void like wings, somehow awoke the naked satire of the old definition of man as a two-legged animal without feathers. The wretched professor had been brought into peril by his head, which he had so elaborately cultivated, and only saved by his legs, which he had treated with coldness and neglect. Smith could think of no other way of announcing or recording this, except to send a telegram to an old friend (by this time a total stranger) to say that he had just seen a man with two legs; and that the man was alive.
“The uprush of his released optimism burst into stars like a rocket when he suddenly fell in love. He happened to be shooting a high and very headlong weir in a canoe, by way of proving to himself that he was alive; and he soon found himself involved in some doubt about the continuance of the fact. What was worse, he found he had equally jeopardized a harmless lady alone in a rowing-boat, and one who had provoked death by no professions of philosophic negation. He apologized in wild gasps through all his wild wet labours to bring her to the shore, and when he had done so at last, he seems to have proposed to her on the bank. Anyhow, with the same impetuosity with which he had nearly murdered her, he completely married her; and she was the lady in green to whom I had recently said ‘good-night.’
“They had settled down in these high narrow houses near Highbury. Perhaps, indeed, that is hardly the word. One could strictly say that Smith was married, that he was very happily married, that he not only did not care for any woman but his wife, but did not seem to care for any place but his home; but perhaps one could hardly say that he had settled down. ‘I am a very domestic fellow,’ he explained with gravity, ‘and have often come in through a broken window rather than be late for tea.’
“He lashed his soul with laughter to prevent it falling asleep. He lost his wife a series of excellent servants by knocking at the door as a total stranger, and asking if Mr. Smith lived there and what kind of a man he was. The London general servant is not used to the master indulging in such transcendental ironies. And it was found impossible to explain to her that he did it in order to feel the same interest in his own affairs that he always felt in other people’s.
“‘I know there’s a fellow called Smith,’ he said in his rather weird way, ‘living in one of the tall houses in this terrace. I know he is really happy, and yet I can never catch him at it.’
“Sometimes he would, of a sudden, treat his wife with a kind of paralyzed politeness, like a young stranger struck with love at first sight. Sometimes he would extend this poetic fear to the very furniture; would seem to apologize to the chair he sat on, and climb the staircase as cautiously as a cragsman, to renew in himself the sense of their skeleton of reality. Every stair is a ladder and every stool a leg, he said. And at other times he would play the stranger exactly in the opposite sense, and would enter by another way, so as to feel like a thief and a robber. He would break and violate his own home, as he had done with me that night. It was near morning before I could tear myself from this queer confidence of the Man Who Would Not Die, and as I shook hands with him on the doorstep the last load of fog was lifting, and rifts of daylight revealed the stairway of irregular street levels that looked like the end of the world.
“It will be enough for many to say that I had passed a night with a maniac. What other term, it will be said, could be applied to such a being? A man who reminds himself that he is married by pretending not to be married! A man who tries to covet his own goods instead of his neighbor’s! On this I have but one word to say, and I feel it of my honour to say it, though no one understands. I believe the maniac was one of those who do not merely come, but are sent; sent like a great gale upon ships by Him who made His angels winds and His messengers a flaming fire. This, at least, I know for certain. Whether such men have laughed or wept, we have laughed at their laughter as much as at their weeping. Whether they cursed or blessed the world, they have never fitted it. It is true that men have shrunk from the sting of a great satirist as if from the sting of an adder. But it is equally true that men flee from the embrace of a great optimist as from the embrace of a bear. Nothing brings down more curses than a real benediction. For the goodness of good things, like the badness of bad things, is a prodigy past speech; it is to be pictured rather than spoken. We shall have gone deeper than the deeps of heaven and grown older than the oldest angels before we feel, even in its first faint vibrations, the everlasting violence of that double passion with which God hates and loves the world.—I am, yours faithfully, “Raymond Percy.”
“Oh, ‘oly, ‘oly, ‘oly!” said Mr. Moses Gould.
The instant he had spoken all the rest knew they had been in an almost religious state of submission and assent. Something had bound them together; something in the sacred tradition of the last two words of the letter; something also in the touching and boyish embarrassment with which Inglewood had read them— for he had all the thin-skinned reverence of the agnostic. Moses Gould was as good a fellow in his way as ever lived; far kinder to his family than more refined men of pleasure, simple and steadfast in his admiration, a thoroughly wholesome animal and a thoroughly genuine character. But wherever there is conflict, crises come in which any soul, personal or racial, unconsciously turns on the world the most hateful of its hundred faces. English reverence, Irish mysticism, American idealism, looked up and saw on the face of Moses a certain smile. It was that smile of the Cynic Triumphant, which has been the tocsin for many a cruel riot in Russian villages or mediaeval towns.
“Oh, ‘oly, ‘oly, ‘oly!” said Moses Gould.
Finding that this was not well received, he explained further, exuberance deepening on his dark exuberant features.
“Always fun to see a bloke swallow a wasp when ‘e’s corfin’ up a fly,” he said pleasantly. “Don’t you see you’ve bunged up old Smith anyhow. If this parson’s tale’s O.K.—why, Smith is ‘ot. ‘E’s pretty ‘ot. We find him elopin’ with Miss Gray (best respects!) in a cab. Well, what abart this Mrs. Smith the curate talks of, with her blarsted shyness—transmigogrified into a blighted sharpness? Miss Gray ain’t been very sharp, but I reckon she’ll be pretty shy.”
“Don’t be a brute,” growled Michael Moon.
None could lift their eyes to look at Mary; but Inglewood sent a glance along the table at Innocent Smith. He was still bowed above his paper toys, and a wrinkle was on his forehead that might have been worry or shame. He carefully plucked out one corner of a complicated paper and tucked it in elsewhere; then the wrinkle vanished and he looked relieved.
Chapter III
The Round Road; or, the Desertion Charge
Pym rose with sincere embarrassment; for he was an American, and his respect for ladies was real, and not at all scientific.
“Ignoring,” he said, “the delicate and considerable knightly protests that have been called forth by my colleague’s native sense of oration, and apologizing to all for whom our wild search for truth seems unsuitable to the grand ruins of a feudal land, I still think my colleague’s question by no means devoid of rel’vancy. The last charge against the accused was one of burglary; the next charge on the paper is of bigamy and desertion. It does without question appear that the defence, in aspiring to rebut this last charge, have really admitted the next. Either Innocent Smith is still under a charge of attempted burglary, or else that is exploded; but he is pretty well fixed for attempted bigamy. It all depends on what view we take of the alleged letter from Curate Percy. Under these conditions I feel justified in claiming my right to questions. May I ask how the defence got hold of the letter from Curate Percy? Did it come direct from the prisoner?”
“We have had nothing direct from the prisoner,” said Moon quietly. “The few documents which the defence guarantees came to us from another quarter.”
“From what quarter?” asked Dr. Pym.
“If you insist,” answered Moon, “we had them from Miss Gray.
“Dr. Cyrus Pym quite forgot to close his eyes, and, instead, opened them very wide.
“Do you really mean to say,” he said, “that Miss Gray was in possession of this document testifying to a previous Mrs. Smith?”
“Quite so,” said Inglewood, and sat down.
The doctor said something about infatuation in a low and painful voice, and then with visible difficulty continued his opening remarks.
“Unfortunately the tragic truth revealed by Curate Percy’s narrative is only too crushingly confirmed by other and shocking documents in our own possession. Of these the principal and most certain is the testimony of Innocent Smith’s gardener, who was present at the most dramatic and eye-opening of his many acts of marital infidelity. Mr. Gould, the gardener, please.”
Mr. Gould, with his tireless cheerfulness, arose to present the gardener. That functionary explained that he had served Mr. and Mrs. Innocent Smith when they had a little house on the edge of Croydon. From the gardener’s tale, with its many small allusions, Inglewood grew certain he had seen the place. It was one of those corners of town or country that one does not forget, for it looked like a frontier. The garden hung very high above the lane, and its end was steep and sharp, like a fortress. Beyond was a roll of real country, with a white path sprawling across it, and the roots, boles, and branches of great gray trees writhing and twisting against the sky. But as if to assert that the lane itself was suburban, were sharply relieved against that gray and tossing upland a lamp-post painted a peculiar yellow-green and a red pillar-box that stood exactly at the corner. Inglewood was sure of the place; he had passed it twenty times in his constitutionals on the bicycle; he had always dimly felt it was a place where something might occur. But it gave him quite a shiver to feel that the face of his frightful friend or enemy Smith might at any time have appeared over the garden bushes above. The gardener’s account, unlike the curate’s, was quite free from decorative adjectives, however many he may have uttered privately when writing it. He simply said that on a particular morning Mr. Smith came out and began to play about with a rake, as he often did. Sometimes he would tickle the nose of his eldest child (he had two children); sometimes he would hook the rake on to the branch of a tree, and hoist himself up with horrible gymnastic jerks, like those of a giant frog in its final agony. Never, apparently, did he think of putting the rake to any of its proper uses, and the gardener, in consequence, treated his actions with coldness and brevity. But the gardener was certain that on one particular morning in October he (the gardener) had come round the corner of the house carrying the hose, had seen Mr. Smith standing on the lawn in a striped red and white jacket (which might have been his smoking-jacket, but was quite as like a part of his pyjamas), and had heard him then and there call out to his wife, who was looking out of the bedroom window on to the garden, these decisive and very loud expressions—
“I won’t stay here any longer. I’ve got another wife and much better children a long way from here. My other wife’s got redder hair than yours, and my other garden’s got a much finer situation; and I’m going off to them.”
With these words, apparently, he sent the rake flying far up into the sky, higher than many could have shot an arrow, and caught it again. Then he cleared the hedge at a leap and alighted on his feet down in the lane below, and set off up the road without even a hat. Much of the picture was doubtless supplied by Inglewood’s accidental memory of the place. He could see with his mind’s eye that big bare-headed figure with the ragged rake swaggering up the crooked woodland road, and leaving lamp-post and pillar-box behind. But the gardener, on his own account, was quite prepared to swear to the public confession of bigamy, to the temporary disappearance of the rake in the sky, and the final disappearance of the man up the road. Moreover, being a local man, he could swear that, beyond some local rumours that Smith had embarked on the south-eastern coast, nothing was known of him again.
This impression was somewhat curiously clinched by Michael Moon in the few but clear phrases in which he opened the defence upon the third charge. So far from denying that Smith had fled from Croydon and disappeared on the Continent, he seemed prepared to prove all this on his own account. “I hope you are not so insular,” he said, “that you will not respect the word of a French innkeeper as much as that of an English gardener. By Mr. Inglewood’s favour we will hear the French innkeeper.”
Before the company had decided the delicate point Inglewood was already reading the account in question. It was in French. It seemed to them to run something like this:—
“Sir,—Yes; I am Durobin of Durobin’s Cafe on the sea-front at Gras, rather north of Dunquerque. I am willing to write all I know of the stranger out of the sea.
“I have no sympathy with eccentrics or poets. A man of sense looks for beauty in things deliberately intended to be beautiful, such as a trim flower-bed or an ivory statuette. One does not permit beauty to pervade one’s whole life, just as one does not pave all the roads with ivory or cover all the fields with geraniums. My faith, but we should miss the onions!
“But whether I read things backwards through my memory, or whether there are indeed atmospheres of psychology which the eye of science cannot as yet pierce, it is the humiliating fact that on that particular evening I felt like a poet—like any little rascal of a poet who drinks absinthe in the mad Montmartre.
“Positively the sea itself looked like absinthe, green and bitter and poisonous. I had never known it look so unfamiliar before. In the sky was that early and stormy darkness that is so depressing to the mind, and the wind blew shrilly round the little lonely coloured kiosk where they sell the newspapers, and along the sand-hills by the shore. There I saw a fishing-boat with a brown sail standing in silently from the sea. It was already quite close, and out of it clambered a man of monstrous stature, who came wading to shore with the water not up to his knees, though it would have reached the hips of many men. He leaned on a long rake or pole, which looked like a trident, and made him look like a Triton. Wet as he was, and with strips of seaweed clinging to him, he walked across to my cafe, and, sitting down at a table outside, asked for cherry brandy, a liqueur which I keep, but is seldom demanded. Then the monster, with great politeness, invited me to partake of a vermouth before my dinner, and we fell into conversation. He had apparently crossed from Kent by a small boat got at a private bargain because of some odd fancy he had for passing promptly in an easterly direction, and not waiting for any of the official boats. He was, he somewhat vaguely explained, looking for a house. When I naturally asked him where the house was, he answered that he did not know; it was on an island; it was somewhere to the east; or, as he expressed it with a hazy and yet impatient gesture, ‘over there.’
“I asked him how, if he did not know the place, he would know it when he saw it. Here he suddenly ceased to be hazy, and became alarmingly minute. He gave a description of the house detailed enough for an auctioneer. I have forgotten nearly all the details except the last two, which were that the lamp-post was painted green, and that there was a red pillar-box at the corner.
“‘A red pillar-box!’ I cried in astonishment. ‘Why, the place must be in England!’
“‘I had forgotten,’ he said, nodding heavily. ‘That is the island’s name.’
“‘But, nom du nom,’ I cried testily, ‘you’ve just come
from England, my boy.’
“‘They SAID it was England,’ said my imbecile, conspiratorially. ‘They said it was Kent. But Kentish men are such liars one can’t believe anything they say.’
“‘Monsieur,’ I said, ‘you must pardon me. I am elderly,
and the fumisteries of the young men are beyond me.
I go by common sense, or, at the largest, by that extension
of applied common sense called science.’
“‘Science!’ cried the stranger. ‘There is only one good thing science ever discovered—a good thing, good tidings of great joy— that the world is round.’
“I told him with civility that his words conveyed no impression to my intelligence. ‘I mean,’ he said, ‘that going right round the world is the shortest way to where you are already.’
“‘Is it not even shorter,’ I asked, ‘to stop where you are?’
“‘No, no, no!’ he cried emphatically. ‘That way is long and very weary. At the end of the world, at the back of the dawn, I shall find the wife I really married and the house that is really mine. And that house will have a greener lamp-post and a redder pillar-box. Do you,’ he asked with a sudden intensity, ‘do you never want to rush out of your house in order to find it?’
“‘No, I think not,’ I replied; ‘reason tells a man from the first to adapt his desires to the probable supply of life. I remain here, content to fulfil the life of man. All my interests are here, and most of my friends, and—’
“‘And yet,’ he cried, starting to his almost terrific height, ‘you made the French Revolution!’
“‘Pardon me,’ I said, ‘I am not quite so elderly. A relative perhaps.’
“‘I mean your sort did!’ exclaimed this personage. ‘Yes, your damned smug, settled, sensible sort made the French Revolution. Oh! I know some say it was no good, and you’re just back where you were before. Why, blast it all, that’s just where we all want to be—back where we were before! That is revolution—going right round! Every revolution, like a repentance, is a return.’
“He was so excited that I waited till he had taken his seat again, and then said something indifferent and soothing; but he struck the tiny table with his colossal fist and went on.
“‘I am going to have a revolution, not a French Revolution, but an English Revolution. God has given to each tribe its own type of mutiny. The Frenchmen march against the citadel of the city together; the Englishman marches to the outskirts of the city, and alone. But I am going to turn the world upside down, too. I’m going to turn myself upside down. I’m going to walk upside down in the cursed upsidedownland of the Antipodes, where trees and men hang head downward in the sky. But my revolution, like yours, like the earth’s, will end up in the holy, happy place— the celestial, incredible place—the place where we were before.’
“With these remarks, which can scarcely be reconciled with reason, he leapt from the seat and strode away into the twilight, swinging his pole and leaving behind him an excessive payment, which also pointed to some loss of mental balance. This is all I know of the episode of the man landed from the fishing-boat, and I hope it may serve the interests of justice.— Accept, Sir, the assurances of the very high consideration, with which I have the honour to be your obedient servant, “Jules Durobin.”
“The next document in our dossier,” continued Inglewood, “comes from the town of Crazok, in the central plains of Russia, and runs as follows:—
“Sir,—My name is Paul Nickolaiovitch: I am the stationmaster at the station near Crazok. The great trains go by across the plains taking people to China, but very few people get down at the platform where I have to watch. This makes my life rather lonely, and I am thrown back much upon the books I have. But I cannot discuss these very much with my neighbours, for enlightened ideas have not spread in this part of Russia so much as in other parts. Many of the peasants round here have never heard of Bernard Shaw.
“I am a Liberal, and do my best to spread Liberal ideas; but since the failure of the revolution this has been even more difficult. The revolutionists committed many acts contrary to the pure principles of humanitarianism, with which indeed, owing to the scarcity of books, they were ill acquainted. I did not approve of these cruel acts, though provoked by the tyranny of the government; but now there is a tendency to reproach all Intelligents with the memory of them. This is very unfortunate for Intelligents.
“It was when the railway strike was almost over, and a few trains came through at long intervals, that I stood one day watching a train that had come in. Only one person got out of the train, far away up at the other end of it, for it was a very long train. It was evening, with a cold, greenish sky. A little snow had fallen, but not enough to whiten the plain, which stretched away a sort of sad purple in all directions, save where the flat tops of some distant tablelands caught the evening light like lakes. As the solitary man came stamping along on the thin snow by the train he grew larger and larger; I thought I had never seen so large a man. But he looked even taller than he was, I think, because his shoulders were very big and his head comparatively little. From the big shoulders hung a tattered old jacket, striped dull red and dirty white, very thin for the winter, and one hand rested on a huge pole such as peasants rake in weeds with to burn them.
“Before he had traversed the full length of the train he was entangled in one of those knots of rowdies that were the embers of the extinct revolution, though they mostly disgraced themselves upon the government side. I was just moving to his assistance, when he whirled up his rake and laid out right and left with such energy that he came through them without scathe and strode right up to me, leaving them staggered and really astonished.
“Yet when he reached me, after so abrupt an assertion of his aim, he could only say rather dubiously in French that he wanted a house.
“‘There are not many houses to be had round here,’ I answered in the same language, ‘the district has been very disturbed. A revolution, as you know, has recently been suppressed. Any further building—’
“‘Oh! I don’t mean that,’ he cried; ‘I mean a real house—a live house. It really is a live house, for it runs away from me.’
“‘I am ashamed to say that something in his phrase or gesture moved me profoundly. We Russians are brought up in an atmosphere of folk-lore, and its unfortunate effects can still be seen in the bright colours of the children’s dolls and of the ikons. For an instant the idea of a house running away from a man gave me pleasure, for the enlightenment of man moves slowly.
“‘Have you no other house of your own?’ I asked.
“‘I have left it,’ he said very sadly. ‘It was not the house that grew dull, but I that grew dull in it. My wife was better than all women, and yet I could not feel it.’
“‘And so,’ I said with sympathy, ‘you walked straight out of the front door, like a masculine Nora.’
“‘Nora?’ he inquired politely, apparently supposing it to be a Russian word.
“‘I mean Nora in “The Doll’s House,”’ I replied.
“At this he looked very much astonished, and I knew he was an Englishman; for Englishmen always think that Russians study nothing but ‘ukases.’
”‘“The Doll’s House”?’ he cried vehemently; ‘why, that is just where Ibsen was so wrong! Why, the whole aim of a house is to be a doll’s house. Don’t you remember, when you were a child, how those little windows WERE windows, while the big windows weren’t. A child has a doll’s house, and shrieks when a front door opens inwards. A banker has a real house, yet how numerous are the bankers who fail to emit the faintest shriek when their real front doors open inwards.’
“Something from the folk-lore of my infancy still kept me foolishly silent; and before I could speak, the Englishman had leaned over and was saying in a sort of loud whisper, ‘I have found out how to make a big thing small. I have found out how to turn a house into a doll’s house. Get a long way off it: God lets us turn all things into toys by his great gift of distance. Once let me see my old brick house standing up quite little against the horizon, and I shall want to go back to it again. I shall see the funny little toy lamp-post painted green against the gate, and all the dear little people like dolls looking out of the window. For the windows really open in my doll’s house.’
“‘But why?’ I asked, ‘should you wish to return to that particular doll’s house? Having taken, like Nora, the bold step against convention, having made yourself in the conventional sense disreputable, having dared to be free, why should you not take advantage of your freedom? As the greatest modern writers have pointed out, what you called your marriage was only your mood. You have a right to leave it all behind, like the clippings of your hair or the parings of your nails. Having once escaped, you have the world before you. Though the words may seem strange to you, you are free in Russia.’
“He sat with his dreamy eyes on the dark circles of the plains, where the only moving thing was the long and labouring trail of smoke out of the railway engine, violet in tint, volcanic in outline, the one hot and heavy cloud of that cold clear evening of pale green.
“‘Yes,’ he said with a huge sigh, ‘I am free in Russia. You are right. I could really walk into that town over there and have love all over again, and perhaps marry some beautiful woman and begin again, and nobody could ever find me. Yes, you have certainly convinced me of something.’
“His tone was so queer and mystical that I felt impelled to ask him what he meant, and of what exactly I had convinced him.
“‘You have convinced me,’ he said with the same dreamy eye, ‘why it is really wicked and dangerous for a man to run away from his wife.’
“‘And why is it dangerous?’ I inquired.
“‘Why, because nobody can find him,’ answered this odd person, ‘and we all want to be found.’
“‘The most original modern thinkers,’ I remarked, ‘Ibsen, Gorki, Nietzsche, Shaw, would all rather say that what we want most is to be lost: to find ourselves in untrodden paths, and to do unprecedented things: to break with the past and belong to the future.’
“He rose to his whole height somewhat sleepily, and looked round on what was, I confess, a somewhat desolate scene—the dark purple plains, the neglected railroad, the few ragged knots of malcontents. ‘I shall not find the house here,’ he said. ‘It is still eastward— further and further eastward.’
“Then he turned upon me with something like fury, and struck the foot of his pole upon the frozen earth.
“‘And if I do go back to my country,’ he cried, ‘I may be locked up in a madhouse before I reach my own house. I have been a bit unconventional in my time! Why, Nietzsche stood in a row of ramrods in the silly old Prussian army, and Shaw takes temperance beverages in the suburbs; but the things I do are unprecedented things. This round road I am treading is an untrodden path. I do believe in breaking out; I am a revolutionist. But don’t you see that all these real leaps and destructions and escapes are only attempts to get back to Eden— to something we have had, to something we at least have heard of? Don’t you see one only breaks the fence or shoots the moon in order to get HOME?’
“‘No,’ I answered after due reflection, ‘I don’t think I should accept that.’
“‘Ah,’ he said with a sort of a sigh, ‘then you have explained a second thing to me.’
“‘What do you mean?’ I asked; ‘what thing?’
“‘Why your revolution has failed,’ he said; and walking across quite suddenly to the train he got into it just as it was steaming away at last. And as I saw the long snaky tail of it disappear along the darkening flats.
“I saw no more of him. But though his views were adverse to the best advanced thought, he struck me as an interesting person: I should like to find out if he has produced any literary works.—Yours, etc.,
“Paul Nickolaiovitch.”
There was something in this odd set of glimpses into foreign lives which kept the absurd tribunal quieter than it had hitherto been, and it was again without interruption that Inglewood opened another paper upon his pile. “The Court will be indulgent,” he said, “if the next note lacks the special ceremonies of our letter-writing. It is ceremonious enough in its own way:—
“The Celestial Principles are permanent: Greeting.—I am Wong-Hi, and I tend the temple of all the ancestors of my family in the forest of Fu. The man that broke through the sky and came to me said that it must be very dull, but I showed him the wrongness of his thought. I am indeed in one place, for my uncle took me to this temple when I was a boy, and in this I shall doubtless die. But if a man remain in one place he shall see that the place changes. The pagoda of my temple stands up silently out of all the trees, like a yellow pagoda above many green pagodas. But the skies are sometimes blue like porcelain, and sometimes green like jade, and sometimes red like garnet. But the night is always ebony and always returns, said the Emperor Ho.
“The sky-breaker came at evening very suddenly, for I had hardly seen any stirring in the tops of the green trees over which I look as over a sea, when I go to the top of the temple at morning. And yet when he came, it was as if an elephant had strayed from the armies of the great kings of India. For palms snapped, and bamboos broke, and there came forth in the sunshine before the temple one taller than the sons of men.
“Strips of red and white hung about him like ribbons of a carnival, and he carried a pole with a row of teeth on it like the teeth of a dragon. His face was white and discomposed, after the fashion of the foreigners, so that they look like dead men filled with devils; and he spoke our speech brokenly.
“He said to me, ‘This is only a temple; I am trying to find a house.’ And then he told me with indelicate haste that the lamp outside his house was green, and that there was a red post at the corner of it.
“‘I have not seen your house nor any houses,’ I answered. ‘I dwell in this temple and serve the gods.’
“‘Do you believe in the gods?’ he asked with hunger in his eyes, like the hunger of dogs. And this seemed to me a strange question to ask, for what should a man do except what men have done?
“‘My Lord,’ I said, ‘it must be good for men to hold up their hands even if the skies are empty. For if there are gods, they will be pleased, and if there are none, then there are none to be displeased. Sometimes the skies are gold and sometimes porphyry and sometimes ebony, but the trees and the temple stand still under it all. So the great Confucius taught us that if we do always the same things with our hands and our feet as do the wise beasts and birds, with our heads we may think many things: yes, my Lord, and doubt many things. So long as men offer rice at the right season, and kindle lanterns at the right hour, it matters little whether there be gods or no. For these things are not to appease gods, but to appease men.’
“He came yet closer to me, so that he seemed enormous; yet his look was very gentle.
“‘Break your temple,’ he said, ‘and your gods will be freed.’
“And I, smiling at his simplicity, answered: ‘And so, if there be no gods, I shall have nothing but a broken temple.’
“And at this, that giant from whom the light of reason was withheld threw out his mighty arms and asked me to forgive him. And when I asked him for what he should be forgiven he answered: ‘For being right.’
“‘Your idols and emperors are so old and wise and satisfying,’ he cried, ‘it is a shame that they should be wrong. We are so vulgar and violent, we have done you so many iniquities— it is a shame we should be right after all.’
“And I, still enduring his harmlessness, asked him why he thought that he and his people were right.
“And he answered: ‘We are right because we are bound where men should be bound, and free where men should be free. We are right because we doubt and destroy laws and customs— but we do not doubt our own right to destroy them. For you live by customs, but we live by creeds. Behold me! In my country I am called Smip. My country is abandoned, my name is defiled, because I pursue around the world what really belongs to me. You are steadfast as the trees because you do not believe. I am as fickle as the tempest because I do believe. I do believe in my own house, which I shall find again. And at the last remaineth the green lantern and the red post.’
“I said to him: ‘At the last remaineth only wisdom.’
“But even as I said the word he uttered a horrible shout, and rushing forward disappeared among the trees. I have not seen this man again nor any other man. The virtues of the wise are of fine brass. “Wong-Hi.”
“The next letter I have to read,” proceeded Arthur Inglewood, “will probably make clear the nature of our client’s curious but innocent experiment. It is dated from a mountain village in California, and runs as follows:—
“Sir,—A person answering to the rather extraordinary description required certainly went, some time ago, over the high pass of the Sierras on which I live and of which I am probably the sole stationary inhabitant. I keep a rudimentary tavern, rather ruder than a hut, on the very top of this specially steep and threatening pass. My name is Louis Hara, and the very name may puzzle you about my nationality. Well, it puzzles me a great deal. When one has been for fifteen years without society it is hard to have patriotism; and where there is not even a hamlet it is difficult to invent a nation. My father was an Irishman of the fiercest and most free-shooting of the old Californian kind. My mother was a Spaniard, proud of descent from the old Spanish families round San Francisco, yet accused for all that of some admixture of Red Indian blood. I was well educated and fond of music and books. But, like many other hybrids, I was too good or too bad for the world; and after attempting many things I was glad enough to get a sufficient though a lonely living in this little cabaret in the mountains. In my solitude I fell into many of the ways of a savage. Like an Eskimo, I was shapeless in winter; like a Red Indian, I wore in hot summers nothing but a pair of leather trousers, with a great straw hat as big as a parasol to defend me from the sun. I had a bowie knife at my belt and a long gun under my arm; and I dare say I produced a pretty wild impression on the few peaceable travellers that could climb up to my place. But I promise you I never looked as mad as that man did. Compared with him I was Fifth Avenue.
“I dare say that living under the very top of the Sierras has an odd effect on the mind; one tends to think of those lonely rocks not as peaks coming to a point, but rather as pillars holding up heaven itself. Straight cliffs sail up and away beyond the hope of the eagles; cliffs so tall that they seem to attract the stars and collect them as sea-crags collect a mere glitter of phosphorous. These terraces and towers of rock do not, like smaller crests, seem to be the end of the world. Rather they seem to be its awful beginning: its huge foundations. We could almost fancy the mountain branching out above us like a tree of stone, and carrying all those cosmic lights like a candelabrum. For just as the peaks failed us, soaring impossibly far, so the stars crowded us (as it seemed), coming impossibly near. The spheres burst about us more like thunderbolts hurled at the earth than planets circling placidly about it.
“All this may have driven me mad; I am not sure. I know there is one angle of the road down the pass where the rock leans out a little, and on windy nights I seem to hear it clashing overhead with other rocks— yes, city against city and citadel against citadel, far up into the night. It was on such an evening that the strange man struggled up the pass. Broadly speaking, only strange men did struggle up the pass. But I had never seen one like this one before.
“He carried (I cannot conceive why) a long, dilapidated garden rake, all bearded and bedraggled with grasses, so that it looked like the ensign of some old barbarian tribe. His hair, which was as long and rank as the grass, hung down below his huge shoulders; and such clothes as clung about him were rags and tongues of red and yellow, so that he had the air of being dressed like an Indian in feathers or autumn leaves. The rake or pitchfork, or whatever it was, he used sometimes as an alpenstock, sometimes (I was told) as a weapon. I do not know why he should have used it as a weapon, for he had, and afterwards showed me, an excellent six-shooter in his pocket. ‘But THAT,’ he said, ‘I use only for peaceful purposes.’ I have no notion what he meant.
“He sat down on the rough bench outside my inn and drank some wine from the vineyards below, sighing with ecstasy over it like one who had travelled long among alien, cruel things and found at last something that he knew. Then he sat staring rather foolishly at the rude lantern of lead and coloured glass that hangs over my door. It is old, but of no value; my grandmother gave it to me long ago: she was devout, and it happens that the glass is painted with a crude picture of Bethlehem and the Wise Men and the Star. He seemed so mesmerized with the transparent glow of Our Lady’s blue gown and the big gold star behind, that he led me also to look at the thing, which I had not done for fourteen years.
“Then he slowly withdrew his eyes from this and looked out eastward where the road fell away below us. The sunset sky was a vault of rich velvet, fading away into mauve and silver round the edges of the dark mountain amphitheatre; and between us and the ravine below rose up out of the deeps and went up into the heights the straight solitary rock we call Green Finger. Of a queer volcanic colour, and wrinkled all over with what looks undecipherable writing, it hung there like a Babylonian pillar or needle.
“The man silently stretched out his rake in that direction, and before he spoke I knew what he meant. Beyond the great green rock in the purple sky hung a single star.
“‘A star in the east,’ he said in a strange hoarse voice like one of our ancient eagles’. ‘The wise men followed the star and found the house. But if I followed the star, should I find the house?’
“‘It depends perhaps,’ I said, smiling, ‘on whether you are a wise man.’ I refrained from adding that he certainly didn’t look it.
“‘You may judge for yourself,’ he answered. ‘I am a man who left his own house because he could no longer bear to be away from it.’
“‘It certainly sounds paradoxical,’ I said.
“‘I heard my wife and children talking and saw them moving about the room,’ he continued, ‘and all the time I knew they were walking and talking in another house thousands of miles away, under the light of different skies, and beyond the series of the seas. I loved them with a devouring love, because they seemed not only distant but unattainable. Never did human creatures seem so dear and so desirable: but I seemed like a cold ghost; therefore I cast off their dust from my feet for a testimony. Nay, I did more. I spurned the world under my feet so that it swung full circle like a treadmill.’
“‘Do you really mean,’ I cried, ‘that you have come right round the world? Your speech is English, yet you are coming from the west.’
“‘My pilgrimage is not yet accomplished,’ he replied sadly. ‘I have become a pilgrim to cure myself of being an exile.’
“Something in the word ‘pilgrim’ awoke down in the roots of my ruinous experience memories of what my fathers had felt about the world, and of something from whence I came. I looked again at the little pictured lantern at which I had not looked for fourteen years.
“‘My grandmother,’ I said in a low tone, ‘would have said that we were all in exile, and that no earthly house could cure the holy home-sickness that forbids us rest.’
“He was silent a long while, and watched a single eagle drift out beyond the Green Finger into the darkening void.
“Then he said, ‘I think your grandmother was right,’ and stood up leaning on his grassy pole. ‘I think that must be the reason,’ he said—‘the secret of this life of man, so ecstatic and so unappeased. But I think there is more to be said. I think God has given us the love of special places, of a hearth and of a native land, for a good reason.’
“‘I dare say,’ I said. ‘What reason?’
“‘Because otherwise,’ he said, pointing his pole out at the sky and the abyss, ‘we might worship that.’
“‘What do you mean?’ I demanded.
“‘Eternity,’ he said in his harsh voice, ‘the largest of the idols— the mightiest of the rivals of God.’
“‘You mean pantheism and infinity and all that,’ I suggested.
“‘I mean,’ he said with increasing vehemence, ‘that if there be a house for me in heaven it will either have a green lamp-post and a hedge, or something quite as positive and personal as a green lamp-post and a hedge. I mean that God bade me love one spot and serve it, and do all things however wild in praise of it, so that this one spot might be a witness against all the infinities and the sophistries, that Paradise is somewhere and not anywhere, is something and not anything. And I would not be so very much surprised if the house in heaven had a real green lamp-post after all.’
“With which he shouldered his pole and went striding down the perilous paths below, and left me alone with the eagles. But since he went a fever of homelessness will often shake me. I am troubled by rainy meadows and mud cabins that I have never seen; and I wonder whether America will endure.— Yours faithfully, Louis Hara.”
After a short silence Inglewood said: “And, finally, we desire to put in as evidence the following document:—
“This is to say that I am Ruth Davis, and have been housemaid to Mrs. I. Smith at ‘The Laurels’ in Croydon for the last six months. When I came the lady was alone, with two children; she was not a widow, but her husband was away. She was left with plenty of money and did not seem disturbed about him, though she often hoped he would be back soon. She said he was rather eccentric and a little change did him good. One evening last week I was bringing the tea-things out on to the lawn when I nearly dropped them. The end of a long rake was suddenly stuck over the hedge, and planted like a jumping-pole; and over the hedge, just like a monkey on a stick, came a huge, horrible man, all hairy and ragged like Robinson Crusoe. I screamed out, but my mistress didn’t even get out of her chair, but smiled and said he wanted shaving. Then he sat down quite calmly at the garden table and took a cup of tea, and then I realized that this must be Mr. Smith himself. He has stopped here ever since and does not really give much trouble, though I sometimes fancy he is a little weak in his head.
“Ruth Davis.
“P.S.—I forgot to say that he looked round at the garden and said, very loud and strong: ‘Oh, what a lovely place you’ve got;’ just as if he’d never seen it before.”
The room had been growing dark and drowsy; the afternoon sun sent one heavy shaft of powdered gold across it, which fell with an intangible solemnity upon the empty seat of Mary Gray, for the younger women had left the court before the more recent of the investigations. Mrs. Duke was still asleep, and Innocent Smith, looking like a large hunchback in the twilight, was bending closer and closer to his paper toys. But the five men really engaged in the controversy, and concerned not to convince the tribunal but to convince each other, still sat round the table like the Committee of Public Safety.
Suddenly Moses Gould banged one big scientific book on top of another, cocked his little legs up against the table, tipped his chair backwards so far as to be in direct danger of falling over, emitted a startling and prolonged whistle like a steam engine, and asserted that it was all his eye.
When asked by Moon what was all his eye, he banged down behind the books again and answered with considerable excitement, throwing his papers about. “All those fairy-tales you’ve been reading out,” he said. “Oh! don’t talk to me! I ain’t littery and that, but I know fairy-tales when I hear ‘em. I got a bit stumped in some of the philosophical bits and felt inclined to go out for a B. and S. But we’re living in West ‘Ampstead and not in ‘Ell; and the long and the short of it is that some things ‘appen and some things don’t ‘appen. Those are the things that don’t ‘appen.”
“I thought,” said Moon gravely, “that we quite clearly explained—”
“Oh yes, old chap, you quite clearly explained,” assented Mr. Gould with extraordinary volubility. “You’d explain an elephant off the doorstep, you would. I ain’t a clever chap like you; but I ain’t a born natural, Michael Moon, and when there’s an elephant on my doorstep I don’t listen to no explanations. ‘It’s got a trunk,’ I says.—‘My trunk,’ you says: ‘I’m fond of travellin’, and a change does me good.’—‘But the blasted thing’s got tusks,’ I says.—‘Don’t look a gift ‘orse in the mouth,’ you says, ‘but thank the goodness and the graice that on your birth ‘as smiled.’—‘But it’s nearly as big as the ‘ouse,’ I says.—‘That’s the bloomin’ perspective,’ you says, ‘and the sacred magic of distance.’—‘Why, the elephant’s trumpetin’ like the Day of Judgement,’ I says.—‘That’s your own conscience a-talking to you, Moses Gould,’ you says in a grive and tender voice. Well, I ‘ave got a conscience as much as you. I don’t believe most of the things they tell you in church on Sundays; and I don’t believe these ‘ere things any more because you goes on about ‘em as if you was in church. I believe an elephant’s a great big ugly dingerous beast— and I believe Smith’s another.”
“Do you mean to say,” asked Inglewood, “that you still doubt the evidence of exculpation we have brought forward?”
“Yes, I do still doubt it,” said Gould warmly. “It’s all a bit too far-fetched, and some of it a bit too far off. ‘Ow can we test all those tales? ‘Ow can we drop in and buy the ‘Pink ‘Un’ at the railway station at Kosky Wosky or whatever it was? ‘Ow can we go and do a gargle at the saloon-bar on top of the Sierra Mountains? But anybody can go and see Bunting’s boarding-house at Worthing.”
Moon regarded him with an expression of real or assumed surprise.
“Any one,” continued Gould, “can call on Mr. Trip.”
“It is a comforting thought,” replied Michael with restraint; “but why should any one call on Mr. Trip?”
“For just exactly the sime reason,” cried the excited Moses, hammering on the table with both hands, “for just exactly the sime reason that he should communicate with Messrs. ‘Anbury and Bootle of Paternoster Row and with Miss Gridley’s ‘igh class Academy at ‘Endon, and with old Lady Bullingdon who lives at Penge.”
“Again, to go at once to the moral roots of life,” said Michael, “why is it among the duties of man to communicate with old Lady Bullingdon who lives at Penge?”
“It ain’t one of the duties of man,” said Gould, “nor one of his pleasures, either, I can tell you. She takes the crumpet, does Lady Bullingdon at Penge. But it’s one of the duties of a prosecutor pursuin’ the innocent, blameless butterfly career of your friend Smith, and it’s the sime with all the others I mentioned.”
“But why do you bring in these people here?” asked Inglewood.
“Why! Because we’ve got proof enough to sink a steamboat,” roared Moses; “because I’ve got the papers in my very ‘and; because your precious Innocent is a blackguard and ‘ome smasher, and these are the ‘omes he’s smashed. I don’t set up for a ‘oly man; but I wouldn’t ‘ave all those poor girls on my conscience for something. And I think a chap that’s capable of deserting and perhaps killing ‘em all is about capable of cracking a crib or shootin’ an old schoolmaster—so I don’t care much about the other yarns one way or another.”
“I think,” said Dr. Cyrus Pym with a refined cough, “that we are approaching this matter rather irregularly. This is really the fourth charge on the charge sheet, and perhaps I had better put it before you in an ordered and scientific manner.”
Nothing but a faint groan from Michael broke the silence of the darkening room.
Chapter IV
The Wild Weddings; or, the Polygamy Charge
“A modern man,” said Dr. Cyrus Pym, “must, if he be thoughtful, approach the problem of marriage with some caution. Marriage is a stage—doubtless a suitable stage—in the long advance of mankind towards a goal which we cannot as yet conceive; which we are not, perhaps, as yet fitted even to desire. What, gentlemen, is the ethical position of marriage? Have we outlived it?”
“Outlived it?” broke out Moon; “why, nobody’s ever survived it! Look at all the people married since Adam and Eve—and all as dead as mutton.”
“This is no doubt an inter-pellation joc’lar in its character,” said Dr. Pym frigidly. “I cannot tell what may be Mr. Moon’s matured and ethical view of marriage—”
“I can tell,” said Michael savagely, out of the gloom. “Marriage is a duel to the death, which no man of honour should decline.”
“Michael,” said Arthur Inglewood in a low voice, “you MUST keep quiet.”
“Mr. Moon,” said Pym with exquisite good temper, “probably regards
the institution in a more antiquated manner. Probably he would make
it stringent and uniform. He would treat divorce in some great soul
of steel—the divorce of a Julius Caesar or of a Salt Ring Robinson—
exactly as he would treat some no-account tramp or labourer who
scoots from his wife. Science has views broader and more humane.
Just as murder for the scientist is a thirst for absolute destruction,
just as theft for the scientist is a hunger for monotonous acquisition,
so polygamy for the scientist is an extreme development of the instinct
for variety. A man thus afflicted is incapable of constancy.
Doubtless there is a physical cause for this flitting from flower to flower—
as there is, doubtless, for the intermittent groaning which appears
to afflict Mr. Moon at the present moment. Our own world-scorning
Winterbottom has even dared to say, ‘For a certain rare and fine
physical type polygamy is but the realization of the variety of females,
as comradeship is the realization of the variety of males.’
In any case, the type that tends to variety is recognized by all
authoritative inquirers. Such a type, if the widower of a negress,
does in many ascertained cases espouse en seconde noces an albino;
such a type, when freed from the gigantic embraces of a female Patagonian,
will often evolve from its own imaginative instinct the consoling figure of
an Eskimo. To such a type there can be no doubt that the prisoner belongs.
If blind doom and unbearable temptation constitute any slight excuse
for a man, there is no doubt that he has these excuses.
“Earlier in the inquiry the defence showed real chivalric ideality in admitting half of our story without further dispute. We should like to acknowledge and imitate so eminently large-hearted a style by conceding also that the story told by Curate Percy about the canoe, the weir, and the young wife seems to be substantially true. Apparently Smith did marry a young woman he had nearly run down in a boat; it only remains to be considered whether it would not have been kinder of him to have murdered her instead of marrying her. In confirmation of this fact I can now con-cede to the defence an unquestionable record of such a marriage.”
So saying, he handed across to Michael a cutting from the “Maidenhead Gazette” which distinctly recorded the marriage of the daughter of a “coach,” a tutor well known in the place, to Mr. Innocent Smith, late of Brakespeare College, Cambridge.
When Dr. Pym resumed it was realized that his face had grown at once both tragic and triumphant.
“I pause upon this pre-liminary fact,” he said seriously, “because this fact alone would give us the victory, were we aspiring after victory and not after truth. As far as the personal and domestic problem holds us, that problem is solved. Dr. Warner and I entered this house at an instant of highly emotional diff’culty. England’s Warner has entered many houses to save human kind from sickness; this time he entered to save an innocent lady from a walking pestilence. Smith was just about to carry away a young girl from this house; his cab and bag were at the very door. He had told her she was going to await the marriage license at the house of his aunt. That aunt,” continued Cyrus Pym, his face darkening grandly—“that visionary aunt had been the dancing will-o’-the-wisp who had led many a high-souled maiden to her doom. Into how many virginal ears has he whispered that holy word? When he said ‘aunt’ there glowed about her all the merriment and high morality of the Anglo-Saxon home. Kettles began to hum, pussy cats to purr, in that very wild cab that was being driven to destruction.”
Inglewood looked up, to find, to his astonishment (as many another denizen of the eastern hemisphere has found), that the American was not only perfectly serious, but was really eloquent and affecting— when the difference of the hemispheres was adjusted.
“It is therefore atrociously evident that the man Smith has at least represented himself to one innocent female of this house as an eligible bachelor, being, in fact, a married man. I agree with my colleague, Mr. Gould, that no other crime could approximate to this. As to whether what our ancestors called purity has any ultimate ethical value indeed, science hesitates with a high, proud hesitation. But what hesitation can there be about the baseness of a citizen who ventures, by brutal experiments upon living females, to anticipate the verdict of science on such a point?
“The woman mentioned by Curate Percy as living with Smith in Highbury may or may not be the same as the lady he married in Maidenhead. If one short sweet spell of constancy and heart repose interrupted the plunging torrent of his profligate life, we will not deprive him of that long past possibility. After that conjectural date, alas, he seems to have plunged deeper and deeper into the shaking quagmires of infidelity and shame.”
Dr. Pym closed his eyes, but the unfortunate fact that there was no more light left this familiar signal without its full and proper moral effect. After a pause, which almost partook of the character of prayer, he continued.
“The first instance of the accused’s repeated and irregular nuptials,” he exclaimed, “comes from Lady Bullingdon, who expresses herself with the high haughtiness which must be excused in those who look out upon all mankind from the turrets of a Norman and ancestral keep. The communication she has sent to us runs as follows:—
“Lady Bullingdon recalls the painful incident to which reference is made, and has no desire to deal with it in detail. The girl Polly Green was a perfectly adequate dressmaker, and lived in the village for about two years. Her unattached condition was bad for her as well as for the general morality of the village. Lady Bullingdon, therefore, allowed it to be understood that she favoured the marriage of the young woman. The villagers, naturally wishing to oblige Lady Bullingdon, came forward in several cases; and all would have been well had it not been for the deplorable eccentricity or depravity of the girl Green herself. Lady Bullingdon supposes that where there is a village there must be a village idiot, and in her village, it seems, there was one of these wretched creatures. Lady Bullingdon only saw him once, and she is quite aware that it is really difficult to distinguish between actual idiots and the ordinary heavy type of the rural lower classes. She noticed, however, the startling smallness of his head in comparison to the rest of his body; and, indeed, the fact of his having appeared upon election day wearing the rosette of both the two opposing parties appears to Lady Bullingdon to put the matter quite beyond doubt. Lady Bullingdon was astounded to learn that this afflicted being had put himself forward as one of the suitors of the girl in question. Lady Bullingdon’s nephew interviewed the wretch upon the point, telling him that he was a ‘donkey’ to dream of such a thing, and actually received, along with an imbecile grin, the answer that donkeys generally go after carrots. But Lady Bullingdon was yet further amazed to find the unhappy girl inclined to accept this monstrous proposal, though she was actually asked in marriage by Garth, the undertaker, a man in a far superior position to her own. Lady Bullingdon could not, of course, countenance such an arrangement for a moment, and the two unhappy persons escaped for a clandestine marriage. Lady Bullingdon cannot exactly recall the man’s name, but thinks it was Smith. He was always called in the village the Innocent. Later, Lady Bullingdon believes he murdered Green in a mental outbreak.”
“The next communication,” proceeded Pym, “is more conspicuous for brevity, but I am of the opinion that it will adequately convey the upshot. It is dated from the offices of Messrs. Hanbury and Bootle, publishers, and is as follows:—
“Sir,—Yrs. rcd. and conts. noted. Rumour re typewriter possibly refers to a Miss Blake or similar name, left here nine years ago to marry an organ-grinder. Case was undoubtedly curious, and attracted police attention. Girl worked excellently till about Oct. 1907, when apparently went mad. Record was written at the time, part of which I enclose.— Yrs., etc., W. Trip.
“The fuller statement runs as follows:—
“On October 12 a letter was sent from this office to Messrs. Bernard and Juke, bookbinders. Opened by Mr. Juke, it was found to contain the following: ‘Sir, our Mr. Trip will call at 3, as we wish to know whether it is really decided 00000073bb!!!!!xy.’ To this Mr. Juke, a person of a playful mind, returned the answer: ‘Sir, I am in a position to give it as my most decided opinion that it is not really decided that 00000073bb!!!!!xy. Yrs., etc., J. Juke.’
“On receiving this extraordinary reply, our Mr. Trip asked for the original letter sent from him, and found that the typewriter had indeed substituted these demented hieroglyphics for the sentences really dictated to her. Our Mr. Trip interviewed the girl, fearing that she was in an unbalanced state, and was not much reassured when she merely remarked that she always went like that when she heard the barrel organ. Becoming yet more hysterical and extravagant, she made a series of most improbable statements—as, that she was engaged to the barrel-organ man, that he was in the habit of serenading her on that instrument, that she was in the habit of playing back to him upon the typewriter (in the style of King Richard and Blondel), and that the organ man’s musical ear was so exquisite and his adoration of herself so ardent that he could detect the note of the different letters on the machine, and was enraptured by them as by a melody. To all these statements of course our Mr. Trip and the rest of us only paid that sort of assent that is paid to persons who must as quickly as possible be put in the charge of their relations. But on our conducting the lady downstairs, her story received the most startling and even exasperating confirmation; for the organ-grinder, an enormous man with a small head and manifestly a fellow-lunatic, had pushed his barrel organ in at the office doors like a battering-ram, and was boisterously demanding his alleged fiancee. When I myself came on the scene he was flinging his great, ape-like arms about and reciting a poem to her. But we were used to lunatics coming and reciting poems in our office, and we were not quite prepared for what followed. The actual verse he uttered began, I think,
“‘O vivid, inviolate head, Ringed —’
“but he never got any further. Mr. Trip made a sharp movement towards him, and the next moment the giant picked up the poor lady typewriter like a doll, sat her on top of the organ, ran it with a crash out of the office doors, and raced away down the street like a flying wheelbarrow. I put the police upon the matter; but no trace of the amazing pair could be found. I was sorry myself; for the lady was not only pleasant but unusually cultivated for her position. As I am leaving the service of Messrs. Hanbury and Bootle, I put these things in a record and leave it with them. (Signed) Aubrey Clarke, Publishers’ Reader.
“And the last document,” said Dr. Pym complacently, “is from one of those high-souled women who have in this age introduced your English girlhood to hockey, the higher mathematics, and every form of ideality.
“Dear Sir (she writes),—I have no objection to telling you
the facts about the absurd incident you mention; though I would
ask you to communicate them with some caution, for such things,
however entertaining in the abstract, are not always auxiliary
to the success of a girls’ school. The truth is this:
I wanted some one to deliver a lecture on a philological
or historical question—a lecture which, while containing
solid educational matter, should be a little more popular and
entertaining than usual, as it was the last lecture of the term.
I remembered that a Mr. Smith of Cambridge had written somewhere
or other an amusing essay about his own somewhat ubiquitous name—
an essay which showed considerable knowledge of genealogy
and topography. I wrote to him, asking if he would come and
give us a bright address upon English surnames; and he did.
It was very bright, almost too bright. To put the matter otherwise,
by the time that he was halfway through it became apparent
to the other mistresses and myself that the man was totally
and entirely off his head. He began rationally enough by dealing
with the two departments of place names and trade names, and he said
(quite rightly, I dare say) that the loss of all significance
in names was an instance of the deadening of civilization.
But then he went on calmly to maintain that every man who had
a place name ought to go to live in that place, and that every
man who had a trade name ought instantly to adopt that trade;
that people named after colours should always dress in those colours,
and that people named after trees or plants (such as Beech or Rose)
ought to surround and decorate themselves with these vegetables.
In a slight discussion that arose afterwards among the elder girls
the difficulties of the proposal were clearly, and even eagerly,
pointed out. It was urged, for instance, by Miss Younghusband
that it was substantially impossible for her to play the part
assigned to her; Miss Mann was in a similar dilemma, from which
no modern views on the sexes could apparently extricate her;
and some young ladies, whose surnames happened to be Low, Coward,
and Craven, were quite enthusiastic against the idea.
But all this happened afterwards. What happened at the crucial
moment was that the lecturer produced several horseshoes and a
large iron hammer from his bag, announced his immediate intention
of setting up a smithy in the neighbourhood, and called on every
one to rise in the same cause as for a heroic revolution.
The other mistresses and I attempted to stop the wretched man,
but I must confess that by an accident this very intercession
produced the worst explosion of his insanity. He was waving
the hammer, and wildly demanding the names of everybody;
and it so happened that Miss Brown, one of the younger teachers,
was wearing a brown dress—a reddish-brown dress that went quietly
enough with the warmer colour of her hair, as well she knew.
She was a nice girl, and nice girls do know about those things.
But when our maniac discovered that we really had a Miss Brown
who WAS brown, his idee fixe blew up like a powder magazine,
and there, in the presence of all the mistresses and girls,
he publicly proposed to the lady in the red-brown dress.
You can imagine the effect of such a scene at a girls’ school.
At least, if you fail to imagine it, I certainly fail
to describe it.
“Of course, the anarchy died down in a week or two, and I can think of it now as a joke. There was only one curious detail, which I will tell you, as you say your inquiry is vital; but I should desire you to consider it a little more confidential than the rest. Miss Brown, who was an excellent girl in every way, did quite suddenly and surreptitiously leave us only a day or two afterwards. I should never have thought that her head would be the one to be really turned by so absurd an excitement.—Believe me, yours faithfully, Ada Gridley.
“I think,” said Pym, with a really convincing simplicity and seriousness, “that these letters speak for themselves.”
Mr. Moon rose for the last time in a darkness that gave no hint of whether his native gravity was mixed with his native irony.
“Throughout this inquiry,” he said, “but especially in this its closing phase, the prosecution has perpetually relied upon one argument; I mean the fact that no one knows what has become of all the unhappy women apparently seduced by Smith. There is no sort of proof that they were murdered, but that implication is perpetually made when the question is asked as to how they died. Now I am not interested in how they died, or when they died, or whether they died. But I am interested in another analogous question—that of how they were born, and when they were born, and whether they were born. Do not misunderstand me. I do not dispute the existence of these women, or the veracity of those who have witnessed to them. I merely remark on the notable fact that only one of these victims, the Maidenhead girl, is described as having any home or parents. All the rest are boarders or birds of passage—a guest, a solitary dressmaker, a bachelor-girl doing typewriting. Lady Bullingdon, looking from her turrets, which she bought from the Whartons with the old soap-boiler’s money when she jumped at marrying an unsuccessful gentleman from Ulster—Lady Bullingdon, looking out from those turrets, did really see an object which she describes as Green. Mr. Trip, of Hanbury and Bootle, really did have a typewriter betrothed to Smith. Miss Gridley, though idealistic, is absolutely honest. She did house, feed, and teach a young woman whom Smith succeeded in decoying away. We admit that all these women really lived. But we still ask whether they were ever born?”
“Oh, crikey!” said Moses Gould, stifled with amusement.
“There could hardly,” interposed Pym with a quiet smile, “be a better instance of the neglect of true scientific process. The scientist, when once convinced of the fact of vitality and consciousness, would infer from these the previous process of generation.”
“If these gals,” said Gould impatiently—“if these gals were all alive (all alive O!) I’d chance a fiver they were all born.”
“You’d lose your fiver,” said Michael, speaking gravely out of the gloom. “All those admirable ladies were alive. They were more alive for having come into contact with Smith. They were all quite definitely alive, but only one of them was ever born.”
“Are you asking us to believe—” began Dr. Pym.
“I am asking you a second question,” said Moon sternly. “Can the court now sitting throw any light on a truly singular circumstance? Dr. Pym, in his interesting lecture on what are called, I believe, the relations of the sexes, said that Smith was the slave of a lust for variety which would lead a man first to a negress and then to an albino, first to a Patagonian giantess and then to a tiny Eskimo. But is there any evidence of such variety here? Is there any trace of a gigantic Patagonian in the story? Was the typewriter an Eskimo? So picturesque a circumstance would not surely have escaped remark. Was Lady Bullingdon’s dressmaker a negress? A voice in my bosom answers, ‘No!’ Lady Bullingdon, I am sure, would think a negress so conspicuous as to be almost Socialistic, and would feel something a little rakish even about an albino.
“But was there in Smith’s taste any such variety as the learned doctor describes? So far as our slight materials go, the very opposite seems to be the case. We have only one actual description of any of the prisoner’s wives— the short but highly poetic account by the aesthetic curate. ‘Her dress was the colour of spring, and her hair of autumn leaves.’ Autumn leaves, of course, are of various colours, some of which would be rather startling in hair (green, for instance); but I think such an expression would be most naturally used of the shades from red-brown to red, especially as ladies with their coppery-coloured hair do frequently wear light artistic greens. Now when we come to the next wife, we find the eccentric lover, when told he is a donkey, answering that donkeys always go after carrots; a remark which Lady Bullingdon evidently regarded as pointless and part of the natural table-talk of a village idiot, but which has an obvious meaning if we suppose that Polly’s hair was red. Passing to the next wife, the one he took from the girls’ school, we find Miss Gridley noticing that the schoolgirl in question wore ‘a reddish-brown dress, that went quietly enough with the warmer colour of her hair.’ In other words, the colour of the girl’s hair was something redder than red-brown. Lastly, the romantic organ-grinder declaimed in the office some poetry that only got as far as the words,—
“‘O vivid, inviolate head, Ringed —’
“But I think that a wide study of the worst modern poets will enable us to guess that ‘ringed with a glory of red,’ or ‘ringed with its passionate red,’ was the line that rhymed to ‘head.’ In this case once more, therefore, there is good reason to suppose that Smith fell in love with a girl with some sort of auburn or darkish-red hair—rather,” he said, looking down at the table, “rather like Miss Gray’s hair.”
Cyrus Pym was leaning forward with lowered eyelids, ready with one of his more pedantic interpellations; but Moses Gould suddenly struck his forefinger on his nose, with an expression of extreme astonishment and intelligence in his brilliant eyes.
“Mr. Moon’s contention at present,” interposed Pym, “is not, even if veracious, inconsistent with the lunatico-criminal view of I. Smith, which we have nailed to the mast. Science has long anticipated such a complication. An incurable attraction to a particular type of physical woman is one of the commonest of criminal per-versities, and when not considered narrowly, but in the light of induction and evolution—”
“At this late stage,” said Michael Moon very quietly, “I may perhaps relieve myself of a simple emotion that has been pressing me throughout the proceedings, by saying that induction and evolution may go and boil themselves. The Missing Link and all that is well enough for kids, but I’m talking about things we know here. All we know of the Missing Link is that he is missing—and he won’t be missed either. I know all about his human head and his horrid tail; they belong to a very old game called ‘Heads I win, tails you lose.’ If you do find a fellow’s bones, it proves he lived a long while ago; if you don’t find his bones, it proves how long ago he lived. That is the game you’ve been playing with this Smith affair. Because Smith’s head is small for his shoulders you call him microcephalous; if it had been large, you’d have called it water-on-the-brain. As long as poor old Smith’s seraglio seemed pretty various, variety was the sign of madness: now, because it’s turning out to be a bit monochrome—now monotony is the sign of madness. I suffer from all the disadvantages of being a grown-up person, and I’m jolly well going to get some of the advantages too; and with all politeness I propose not to be bullied with long words instead of short reasons, or consider your business a triumphant progress merely because you’re always finding out that you were wrong. Having relieved myself of these feelings, I have merely to add that I regard Dr. Pym as an ornament to the world far more beautiful than the Parthenon, or the monument on Bunker’s Hill, and that I propose to resume and conclude my remarks on the many marriages of Mr. Innocent Smith.
“Besides this red hair, there is another unifying thread that runs through these scattered incidents. There is something very peculiar and suggestive about the names of these women. Mr. Trip, you will remember, said he thought the typewriter’s name was Blake, but could not remember exactly. I suggest that it might have been Black, and in that case we have a curious series: Miss Green in Lady Bullingdon’s village; Miss Brown at the Hendon School; Miss Black at the publishers. A chord of colours, as it were, which ends up with Miss Gray at Beacon House, West Hampstead.”
Amid a dead silence Moon continued his exposition. “What is the meaning of this queer coincidence about colours? Personally I cannot doubt for a moment that these names are purely arbitrary names, assumed as part of some general scheme or joke. I think it very probable that they were taken from a series of costumes— that Polly Green only meant Polly (or Mary) when in green, and that Mary Gray only means Mary (or Polly) when in gray. This would explain—”
Cyrus Pym was standing up rigid and almost pallid. “Do you actually mean to suggest—” he cried.
“Yes,” said Michael; “I do mean to suggest that. Innocent Smith has had many wooings, and many weddings for all I know; but he has had only one wife. She was sitting on that chair an hour ago, and is now talking to Miss Duke in the garden.
“Yes, Innocent Smith has behaved here, as he has on hundreds of other occasions, upon a plain and perfectly blameless principle. It is odd and extravagant in the modern world, but not more than any other principle plainly applied in the modern world would be. His principle can be quite simply stated: he refuses to die while he is still alive. He seeks to remind himself, by every electric shock to the intellect, that he is still a man alive, walking on two legs about the world. For this reason he fires bullets at his best friends; for this reason he arranges ladders and collapsible chimneys to steal his own property; for this reason he goes plodding around a whole planet to get back to his own home; and for this reason he has been in the habit of taking the woman whom he loved with a permanent loyalty, and leaving her about (so to speak) at schools, boarding-houses, and places of business, so that he might recover her again and again with a raid and a romantic elopement. He seriously sought by a perpetual recapture of his bride to keep alive the sense of her perpetual value, and the perils that should be run for her sake.
“So far his motives are clear enough; but perhaps his convictions are not quite so clear. I think Innocent Smith has an idea at the bottom of all this. I am by no means sure that I believe it myself, but I am quite sure that it is worth a man’s uttering and defending.
“The idea that Smith is attacking is this. Living in an entangled civilization, we have come to think certain things wrong which are not wrong at all. We have come to think outbreak and exuberance, banging and barging, rotting and wrecking, wrong. In themselves they are not merely pardonable; they are unimpeachable. There is nothing wicked about firing a pistol off even at a friend, so long as you do not mean to hit him and know you won’t. It is no more wrong than throwing a pebble at the sea—less, for you do occasionally hit the sea. There is nothing wrong in bashing down a chimney-pot and breaking through a roof, so long as you are not injuring the life or property of other men. It is no more wrong to choose to enter a house from the top than to choose to open a packing-case from the bottom. There is nothing wicked about walking round the world and coming back to your own house; it is no more wicked than walking round the garden and coming back to your own house. And there is nothing wicked about picking up your wife here, there, and everywhere, if, forsaking all others, you keep only to her so long as you both shall live. It is as innocent as playing a game of hide-and-seek in the garden. You associate such acts with blackguardism by a mere snobbish association, as you think there is something vaguely vile about going (or being seen going) into a pawnbroker’s or a public-house. You think there is something squalid and commonplace about such a connection. You are mistaken.
“This man’s spiritual power has been precisely this, that he has distinguished between custom and creed. He has broken the conventions, but he has kept the commandments. It is as if a man were found gambling wildly in a gambling hell, and you found that he only played for trouser buttons. It is as if you found a man making a clandestine appointment with a lady at a Covent Garden ball, and then you found it was his grandmother. Everything is ugly and discreditable, except the facts; everything is wrong about him, except that he has done no wrong.
“It will then be asked, ‘Why does Innocent Smith continue far into his middle age a farcical existence, that exposes him to so many false charges?’ To this I merely answer that he does it because he really is happy, because he really is hilarious, because he really is a man and alive. He is so young that climbing garden trees and playing silly practical jokes are still to him what they once were to us all. And if you ask me yet again why he alone among men should be fed with such inexhaustible follies, I have a very simple answer to that, though it is one that will not be approved.
“There is but one answer, and I am sorry if you don’t like it. If Innocent is happy, it is because he IS innocent. If he can defy the conventions, it is just because he can keep the commandments. It is just because he does not want to kill but to excite to life that a pistol is still as exciting to him as it is to a schoolboy. It is just because he does not want to steal, because he does not covet his neighbour’s goods, that he has captured the trick (oh, how we all long for it!), the trick of coveting his own goods. It is just because he does not want to commit adultery that he achieves the romance of sex; it is just because he loves one wife that he has a hundred honeymoons. If he had really murdered a man, if he had really deserted a woman, he would not be able to feel that a pistol or a love-letter was like a song— at least, not a comic song.”
“Do not imagine, please, that any such attitude is easy to me or appeals in any particular way to my sympathies. I am an Irishman, and a certain sorrow is in my bones, bred either of the persecutions of my creed, or of my creed itself. Speaking singly, I feel as if man was tied to tragedy, and there was no way out of the trap of old age and doubt. But if there is a way out, then, by Christ and St. Patrick, this is the way out. If one could keep as happy as a child or a dog, it would be by being as innocent as a child, or as sinless as a dog. Barely and brutally to be good—that may be the road, and he may have found it. Well, well, well, I see a look of skepticism on the face of my old friend Moses. Mr. Gould does not believe that being perfectly good in all respects would make a man merry.”
“No,” said Gould, with an unusual and convincing gravity; “I do not believe that being perfectly good in all respects would make a man merry.”
“Well,” said Michael quietly, “will you tell me one thing? Which of us has ever tried it?”
A silence ensued, rather like the silence of some long geological epoch which awaits the emergence of some unexpected type; for there rose at last in the stillness a massive figure that the other men had almost completely forgotten.
“Well, gentlemen,” said Dr. Warner cheerfully, “I’ve been pretty well entertained with all this pointless and incompetent tomfoolery for a couple of days; but it seems to be wearing rather thin, and I’m engaged for a city dinner. Among the hundred flowers of futility on both sides I was unable to detect any sort of reason why a lunatic should be allowed to shoot me in the back garden.”
He had settled his silk hat on his head and gone out sailing placidly to the garden gate, while the almost wailing voice of Pym still followed him: “But really the bullet missed you by several feet.” And another voice added: “The bullet missed him by several years.”
There was a long and mainly unmeaning silence, and then Moon said suddenly, “We have been sitting with a ghost. Dr. Herbert Warner died years ago.”
Chapter V
How the Great Wind Went from Beacon House
Mary was walking between Diana and Rosamund slowly up and down the garden; they were silent, and the sun had set. Such spaces of daylight as remained open in the west were of a warm-tinted white, which can be compared to nothing but a cream cheese; and the lines of plumy cloud that ran across them had a soft but vivid violet bloom, like a violet smoke. All the rest of the scene swept and faded away into a dove-like gray, and seemed to melt and mount into Mary’s dark-gray figure until she seemed clothed with the garden and the skies. There was something in these last quiet colours that gave her a setting and a supremacy; and the twilight, which concealed Diana’s statelier figure and Rosamund’s braver array, exhibited and emphasized her, leaving her the lady of the garden, and alone.
When they spoke at last it was evident that a conversation long fallen silent was being revived.
“But where is your husband taking you?” asked Diana in her practical voice.
“To an aunt,” said Mary; “that’s just the joke. There really is an aunt, and we left the children with her when I arranged to be turned out of the other boarding-house down the road. We never take more than a week of this kind of holiday, but sometimes we take two of them together.”
“Does the aunt mind much?” asked Rosamund innocently. “Of course, I dare say it’s very narrow-minded and—what’s that other word?— you know, what Goliath was—but I’ve known many aunts who would think it—well, silly.”
“Silly?” cried Mary with great heartiness. “Oh, my Sunday hat! I should think it was silly! But what do you expect? He really is a good man, and it might have been snakes or something.”
“Snakes?” inquired Rosamund, with a slightly puzzled interest.
“Uncle Harry kept snakes, and said they loved him,” replied Mary with perfect simplicity. “Auntie let him have them in his pockets, but not in the bedroom.”
“And you—” began Diana, knitting her dark brows a little.
“Oh, I do as auntie did,” said Mary; “as long as we’re not away from the children more than a fortnight together I play the game. He calls me ‘Manalive;’ and you must write it all one word, or he’s quite flustered.”
“But if men want things like that,” began Diana.
“Oh, what’s the good of talking about men?” cried Mary impatiently; “why, one might as well be a lady novelist or some horrid thing. There aren’t any men. There are no such people. There’s a man; and whoever he is he’s quite different.”
“So there is no safety,” said Diana in a low voice.
“Oh, I don’t know,” answered Mary, lightly enough; “there’s only two things generally true of them. At certain curious times they’re just fit to take care of us, and they’re never fit to take care of themselves.”
“There is a gale getting up,” said Rosamund suddenly. “Look at those trees over there, a long way off, and the clouds going quicker.”
“I know what you’re thinking about,” said Mary; “and don’t you be silly fools. Don’t you listen to the lady novelists. You go down the king’s highway; for God’s truth, it is God’s. Yes, my dear Michael will often be extremely untidy. Arthur Inglewood will be worse—he’ll be untidy. But what else are all the trees and clouds for, you silly kittens?”
“The clouds and trees are all waving about,” said Rosamund. “There is a storm coming, and it makes me feel quite excited, somehow. Michael is really rather like a storm: he frightens me and makes me happy.”
“Don’t you be frightened,” said Mary. “All over, these men have one advantage; they are the sort that go out.”
A sudden thrust of wind through the trees drifted the dying leaves along the path, and they could hear the far-off trees roaring faintly.
“I mean,” said Mary, “they are the kind that look outwards and get interested in the world. It doesn’t matter a bit whether it’s arguing, or bicycling, or breaking down the ends of the earth as poor old Innocent does. Stick to the man who looks out of the window and tries to understand the world. Keep clear of the man who looks in at the window and tries to understand you. When poor old Adam had gone out gardening (Arthur will go out gardening), the other sort came along and wormed himself in, nasty old snake.”
“You agree with your aunt,” said Rosamund, smiling: “no snakes in the bedroom.”
“I didn’t agree with my aunt very much,” replied Mary simply, “but I think she was right to let Uncle Harry collect dragons and griffins, so long as it got him out of the house.”
Almost at the same moment lights sprang up inside the darkened house, turning the two glass doors into the garden into gates of beaten gold. The golden gates were burst open, and the enormous Smith, who had sat like a clumsy statue for so many hours, came flying and turning cart-wheels down the lawn and shouting, “Acquitted! acquitted!” Echoing the cry, Michael scampered across the lawn to Rosamund and wildly swung her into a few steps of what was supposed to be a waltz. But the company knew Innocent and Michael by this time, and their extravagances were gaily taken for granted; it was far more extraordinary that Arthur Inglewood walked straight up to Diana and kissed her as if it had been his sister’s birthday. Even Dr. Pym, though he refrained from dancing, looked on with real benevolence; for indeed the whole of the absurd revelation had disturbed him less than the others; he half supposed that such irresponsible tribunals and insane discussions were part of the mediaeval mummeries of the Old Land.
While the tempest tore the sky as with trumpets, window after window was lighted up in the house within; and before the company, broken with laughter and the buffeting of the wind, had groped their way to the house again, they saw that the great apish figure of Innocent Smith had clambered out of his own attic window, and roaring again and again, “Beacon House!” whirled round his head a huge log or trunk from the wood fire below, of which the river of crimson flame and purple smoke drove out on the deafening air.
He was evident enough to have been seen from three counties; but when the wind died down, and the party, at the top of their evening’s merriment, looked again for Mary and for him, they were not to be found.
The End
Chapter I
How the Great Wind Came to Beacon House
A wind sprang high in the west, like a wave of unreasonable happiness, and tore eastward across England, trailing with it the frosty scent of forests and the cold intoxication of the sea. In a million holes and corners it refreshed a man like a flagon, and astonished him like a blow. In the inmost chambers of intricate and embowered houses it woke like a domestic explosion, littering the floor with some professor’s papers till they seemed as precious as fugitive, or blowing out the candle by which a boy read “Treasure Island” and wrapping him in roaring dark. But everywhere it bore drama into undramatic lives, and carried the trump of crisis across the world. Many a harassed mother in a mean backyard had looked at five dwarfish shirts on the clothes-line as at some small, sick tragedy; it was as if she had hanged her five children. The wind came, and they were full and kicking as if five fat imps had sprung into them; and far down in her oppressed subconscious she half-remembered those coarse comedies of her fathers when the elves still dwelt in the homes of men. Many an unnoticed girl in a dank walled garden had tossed herself into the hammock with the same intolerant gesture with which she might have tossed herself into the Thames; and that wind rent the waving wall of woods and lifted the hammock like a balloon, and showed her shapes of quaint clouds far beyond, and pictures of bright villages far below, as if she rode heaven in a fairy boat. Many a dusty clerk or cleric, plodding a telescopic road of poplars, thought for the hundredth time that they were like the plumes of a hearse; when this invisible energy caught and swung and clashed them round his head like a wreath or salutation of seraphic wings. There was in it something more inspired and authoritative even than the old wind of the proverb; for this was the good wind that blows nobody harm.
The flying blast struck London just where it scales the northern heights, terrace above terrace, as precipitous as Edinburgh. It was round about this place that some poet, probably drunk, looked up astonished at all those streets gone skywards, and (thinking vaguely of glaciers and roped mountaineers) gave it the name of Swiss Cottage, which it has never been able to shake off. At some stage of those heights a terrace of tall gray houses, mostly empty and almost as desolate as the Grampians, curved round at the western end, so that the last building, a boarding establishment called “Beacon House,” offered abruptly to the sunset its high, narrow and towering termination, like the prow of some deserted ship.
The ship, however, was not wholly deserted. The proprietor of the boarding-house, a Mrs. Duke, was one of those helpless persons against whom fate wars in vain; she smiled vaguely both before and after all her calamities; she was too soft to be hurt. But by the aid (or rather under the orders) of a strenuous niece she always kept the remains of a clientele, mostly of young but listless folks. And there were actually five inmates standing disconsolately about the garden when the great gale broke at the base of the terminal tower behind them, as the sea bursts against the base of an outstanding cliff.
All day that hill of houses over London had been domed and sealed up with cold cloud. Yet three men and two girls had at last found even the gray and chilly garden more tolerable than the black and cheerless interior. When the wind came it split the sky and shouldered the cloudland left and right, unbarring great clear furnaces of evening gold. The burst of light released and the burst of air blowing seemed to come almost simultaneously; and the wind especially caught everything in a throttling violence. The bright short grass lay all one way like brushed hair. Every shrub in the garden tugged at its roots like a dog at the collar, and strained every leaping leaf after the hunting and exterminating element. Now and again a twig would snap and fly like a bolt from an arbalist. The three men stood stiffly and aslant against the wind, as if leaning against a wall. The two ladies disappeared into the house; rather, to speak truly, they were blown into the house. Their two frocks, blue and white, looked like two big broken flowers, driving and drifting upon the gale. Nor is such a poetic fancy inappropriate, for there was something oddly romantic about this inrush of air and light after a long, leaden and unlifting day. Grass and garden trees seemed glittering with something at once good and unnatural, like a fire from fairyland. It seemed like a strange sunrise at the wrong end of the day.
The girl in white dived in quickly enough, for she wore a white hat of the proportions of a parachute, which might have wafted her away into the coloured clouds of evening. She was their one splash of splendour, and irradiated wealth in that impecunious place (staying there temporarily with a friend), an heiress in a small way, by name Rosamund Hunt, brown-eyed, round-faced, but resolute and rather boisterous. On top of her wealth she was good-humoured and rather good-looking; but she had not married, perhaps because there was always a crowd of men around her. She was not fast (though some might have called her vulgar), but she gave irresolute youths an impression of being at once popular and inaccessible. A man felt as if he had fallen in love with Cleopatra, or as if he were asking for a great actress at the stage door. Indeed, some theatrical spangles seemed to cling about Miss Hunt; she played the guitar and the mandoline; she always wanted charades; and with that great rending of the sky by sun and storm, she felt a girlish melodrama swell again within her. To the crashing orchestration of the air the clouds rose like the curtain of some long-expected pantomime.
Capitolo I
Come il gran Vento giunse a Beacon House
Un vento si levò impetuoso a occidente, come un’ondata di irragionevole felicità, e si slanciò verso oriente attraverso l’Inghilterra, trascinando con sé il gelido profumo delle foreste e la fredda ebbrezza del mare. In un milione di buchi e cantucci ristorava l’uomo come un boccale e lo stupiva come un colpo. Nelle camere più riposte di case intricate e frondose si destava come un’esplosione domestica, disseminando il pavimento delle carte di qualche professore finché non parevano preziose quanto fuggitive, o spegnendo la candela alla cui luce un ragazzo leggeva “L’isola del tesoro” e avvolgendolo in un buio rombante. Ma dovunque portava il dramma nelle vite prive di dramma, e recava per il mondo la tromba della crisi. Più d’una madre affannata, in un misero cortiletto, aveva guardato cinque camicine nane sulla corda del bucato come una piccola, malata tragedia; era come se avesse impiccato i suoi cinque figli. Venne il vento, e quelle si gonfiarono e scalciarono come se cinque grassi folletti vi fossero balzati dentro; e giù nel fondo del suo oppresso subcosciente ella ricordò a metà quelle rozze commedie dei suoi padri, quando gli elfi ancora dimoravano nelle case degli uomini. Più d’una fanciulla inosservata, in un umido giardino cinto di mura, si era gettata nell’amaca con lo stesso gesto intollerante con cui avrebbe potuto gettarsi nel Tamigi; e quel vento squarciò l’ondeggiante muraglia dei boschi e sollevò l’amaca come un pallone, e le mostrò le forme di bizzarre nubi lontanissime, e immagini di luminosi villaggi laggiù in basso, come se cavalcasse il cielo in una barca fatata. Più d’un impiegato polveroso o d’un chierico, arrancando lungo una telescopica strada di pioppi, pensava per la centesima volta che quelli erano come i pennacchi d’un carro funebre; quando questa invisibile energia li afferrò e li fece oscillare e cozzare attorno al suo capo come una ghirlanda o un saluto d’ali serafiche. In esso vi era qualcosa di più ispirato e autorevole persino del vecchio vento del proverbio; poiché questo era il buon vento che non fa male a nessuno.
La raffica volante colpì Londra proprio dove essa scala le alture settentrionali, terrazza sopra terrazza, ripida come Edimburgo. Fu attorno a questo luogo che un poeta, probabilmente ubriaco, guardò in su stupito verso tutte quelle strade salite al cielo, e (pensando vagamente a ghiacciai e ad alpinisti legati alla corda) le diede il nome di Swiss Cottage, che essa non è mai più riuscita a scrollarsi di dosso. A un certo punto di quelle alture una terrazza di alte case grigie, per lo più vuote e quasi desolate come i Grampiani, si curvava all’estremità occidentale, cosicché l’ultimo edificio, una pensione chiamata “Beacon House,” offriva bruscamente al tramonto la sua alta, stretta e torreggiante terminazione, come la prua di qualche nave deserta.
La nave, tuttavia, non era del tutto deserta. La proprietaria della pensione, una certa signora Duke, era una di quelle persone inermi contro cui il destino combatte invano; sorrideva vagamente sia prima sia dopo tutte le sue calamità; era troppo molle per essere ferita. Ma con l’aiuto (o piuttosto sotto gli ordini) di un’operosa nipote, teneva sempre in piedi i resti di una clientela, per lo più di gente giovane ma svogliata. E c’erano davvero cinque pensionanti che se ne stavano sconsolati qua e là per il giardino quando la gran burrasca si abbatté alla base della torre terminale dietro di loro, come il mare si frange alla base di una rupe sporgente.
Tutto il giorno quel colle di case sopra Londra era rimasto cupolato e sigillato di fredda nuvolaglia. Eppure tre uomini e due ragazze avevano infine trovato persino il grigio e gelido giardino più tollerabile del nero e tetro interno. Quando venne il vento esso squarciò il cielo e spinse in disparte, a destra e a sinistra, il paese delle nubi, sbarrando grandi limpide fornaci d’oro serale. Lo scoppio di luce liberato e lo scoppio d’aria soffiante parvero giungere quasi simultaneamente; e il vento in special modo afferrava ogni cosa con una violenza soffocante. L’erba corta e lucente era tutta piegata da una parte come capelli spazzolati. Ogni arbusto del giardino tirava alle proprie radici come un cane al collare, e protendeva ogni foglia guizzante dietro l’elemento cacciatore e sterminatore. Di tanto in tanto un ramoscello si spezzava e volava via come un dardo di balestra. I tre uomini stavano rigidi e inclinati contro il vento, come se si appoggiassero a un muro. Le due dame scomparvero dentro la casa; o meglio, a dire il vero, furono soffiate dentro la casa. I loro due abiti, azzurro e bianco, parevano due grandi fiori spezzati, sospinti e trascinati dalla burrasca. Né tale fantasia poetica è inopportuna, poiché c’era qualcosa di stranamente romantico in questa irruzione d’aria e di luce dopo una lunga giornata plumbea e senza sollievo. L’erba e gli alberi del giardino parevano scintillare di qualcosa insieme buono e innaturale, come un fuoco uscito dal paese delle fate. Sembrava una strana alba spuntata nel punto sbagliato del giorno.
La ragazza in bianco si tuffò dentro abbastanza in fretta, poiché portava un cappello bianco delle proporzioni di un paracadute, che avrebbe potuto trasportarla via tra le colorate nubi della sera. Era la loro unica pennellata di splendore, e irradiava ricchezza in quel luogo squattrinato (dove soggiornava temporaneamente con un’amica), un’ereditiera in piccolo, di nome Rosamund Hunt, occhi castani, viso tondo, ma risoluta e piuttosto chiassosa. Oltre alla ricchezza era di buon umore e piuttosto avvenente; ma non si era sposata, forse perché c’era sempre una folla di uomini attorno a lei. Non era una donna facile (benché qualcuno l’avrebbe detta volgare), ma dava ai giovani indecisi l’impressione di essere insieme popolare e inaccessibile. Un uomo si sentiva come se si fosse innamorato di Cleopatra, o come se chiedesse di una grande attrice all’ingresso degli artisti. Difatti, certi lustrini teatrali parevano aderire alla signorina Hunt; suonava la chitarra e il mandolino; voleva sempre fare sciarade; e con quel gran lacerarsi del cielo per opera del sole e della tempesta, sentì gonfiarsi di nuovo dentro di sé un melodramma da fanciulla. Alla fragorosa orchestrazione dell’aria le nubi si levarono come il sipario di qualche pantomima lungamente attesa.
Nor, oddly, was the girl in blue entirely unimpressed by this apocalypse in a private garden; though she was one of most prosaic and practical creatures alive. She was, indeed, no other than the strenuous niece whose strength alone upheld that mansion of decay. But as the gale swung and swelled the blue and white skirts till they took on the monstrous contours of Victorian crinolines, a sunken memory stirred in her that was almost romance—a memory of a dusty volume of Punch in an aunt’s house in infancy: pictures of crinoline hoops and croquet hoops and some pretty story, of which perhaps they were a part. This half-perceptible fragrance in her thoughts faded almost instantly, and Diana Duke entered the house even more promptly than her companion. Tall, slim, aquiline, and dark, she seemed made for such swiftness. In body she was of the breed of those birds and beasts that are at once long and alert, like greyhounds or herons or even like an innocent snake. The whole house revolved on her as on a rod of steel. It would be wrong to say that she commanded; for her own efficiency was so impatient that she obeyed herself before any one else obeyed her. Before electricians could mend a bell or locksmiths open a door, before dentists could pluck a tooth or butlers draw a tight cork, it was done already with the silent violence of her slim hands. She was light; but there was nothing leaping about her lightness. She spurned the ground, and she meant to spurn it. People talk of the pathos and failure of plain women; but it is a more terrible thing that a beautiful woman may succeed in everything but womanhood.
“It’s enough to blow your head off,” said the young woman in white, going to the looking-glass.
The young woman in blue made no reply, but put away her gardening gloves, and then went to the sideboard and began to spread out an afternoon cloth for tea.
“Enough to blow your head off, I say,” said Miss Rosamund Hunt, with the unruffled cheeriness of one whose songs and speeches had always been safe for an encore.
“Only your hat, I think,” said Diana Duke, “but I dare say that is sometimes more important.”
Rosamund’s face showed for an instant the offence of a spoilt child, and then the humour of a very healthy person. She broke into a laugh and said, “Well, it would have to be a big wind to blow your head off.”
There was another silence; and the sunset breaking more and more from the sundering clouds, filled the room with soft fire and painted the dull walls with ruby and gold.
“Somebody once told me,” said Rosamund Hunt, “that it’s easier to keep one’s head when one has lost one’s heart.”
“Oh, don’t talk such rubbish,” said Diana with savage sharpness.
Outside, the garden was clad in a golden splendour; but the wind was still stiffly blowing, and the three men who stood their ground might also have considered the problem of hats and heads. And, indeed, their position, touching hats, was somewhat typical of them. The tallest of the three abode the blast in a high silk hat, which the wind seemed to charge as vainly as that other sullen tower, the house behind him. The second man tried to hold on a stiff straw hat at all angles, and ultimately held it in his hand. The third had no hat, and, by his attitude, seemed never to have had one in his life. Perhaps this wind was a kind of fairy wand to test men and women, for there was much of the three men in this difference.
The man in the solid silk hat was the embodiment of silkiness and solidity. He was a big, bland, bored and (as some said) boring man, with flat fair hair and handsome heavy features; a prosperous young doctor by the name of Warner. But if his blondness and blandness seemed at first a little fatuous, it is certain that he was no fool. If Rosamund Hunt was the only person there with much money, he was the only person who had as yet found any kind of fame. His treatise on “The Probable Existence of Pain in the Lowest Organisms” had been universally hailed by the scientific world as at once solid and daring. In short, he undoubtedly had brains; and perhaps it was not his fault if they were the kind of brains that most men desire to analyze with a poker.
The young man who put his hat off and on was a scientific amateur in a small way, and worshipped the great Warner with a solemn freshness. It was, in fact, at his invitation that the distinguished doctor was present; for Warner lived in no such ramshackle lodging-house, but in a professional palace in Harley Street. This young man was really the youngest and best-looking of the three. But he was one of those persons, both male and female, who seem doomed to be good-looking and insignificant. Brown-haired, high-coloured, and shy, he seemed to lose the delicacy of his features in a sort of blur of brown and red as he stood blushing and blinking against the wind. He was one of those obvious unnoticeable people: every one knew that he was Arthur Inglewood, unmarried, moral, decidedly intelligent, living on a little money of his own, and hiding himself in the two hobbies of photography and cycling. Everybody knew him and forgot him; even as he stood there in the glare of golden sunset there was something about him indistinct, like one of his own red-brown amateur photographs.
The third man had no hat; he was lean, in light, vaguely sporting clothes, and the large pipe in his mouth made him look all the leaner. He had a long ironical face, blue-black hair, the blue eyes of an Irishman, and the blue chin of an actor. An Irishman he was, an actor he was not, except in the old days of Miss Hunt’s charades, being, as a matter of fact, an obscure and flippant journalist named Michael Moon. He had once been hazily supposed to be reading for the Bar; but (as Warner would say with his rather elephantine wit) it was mostly at another kind of bar that his friends found him. Moon, however, did not drink, nor even frequently get drunk; he simply was a gentleman who liked low company. This was partly because company is quieter than society: and if he enjoyed talking to a barmaid (as apparently he did), it was chiefly because the barmaid did the talking. Moreover he would often bring other talent to assist her. He shared that strange trick of all men of his type, intellectual and without ambition—the trick of going about with his mental inferiors. There was a small resilient Jew named Moses Gould in the same boarding-house, a man whose negro vitality and vulgarity amused Michael so much that he went round with him from bar to bar, like the owner of a performing monkey.
Né la ragazza in blu rimase del tutto impassibile di fronte a questa apocalisse in un giardino privato, sebbene fosse una delle creature più prosaiche e pratiche esistenti. Era infatti nientemeno che la strenua nipote la cui forza sola sosteneva quella dimora di decadimento. Ma mentre il vento faceva ondeggiare le gonne blu e bianche fino a conferire loro i contorni mostruosi dei crinolini vittoriani, un ricordo sepolto si risvegliò in lei che era quasi romantico: un ricordo di un volume polveroso del Punch nella casa di una zia durante l’infanzia; immagini di cerchi per crinoline e cerchi da croquet e qualche bella storia, di cui forse facevano parte. Questo profumo appena percettibile nei suoi pensieri svanì quasi istantaneamente, e Diana Duke entrò in casa anche più prontamente del suo compagno. Alta, snella, aquilina e scura, sembrava fatta per una tale rapidità. Nel corpo era della razza di quegli uccelli e animali che sono allo stesso tempo lunghi e vigili, come levrieri o cicogne o anche un serpente innocente. L’intera casa ruotava attorno a lei come su una sbarra d’acciaio. Sarebbe sbagliato dire che comandasse; poiché la sua efficienza era così impaziente che obbediva a se stessa prima ancora che qualcun altro le obbedisse. Prima che gli elettricisti potessero riparare un campanello o i fabbri aprire una porta, prima che i dentisti potessero estrarre un dente o i maggiordomi tirare un tappo stretto, era già fatto con la violenza silenziosa delle sue mani snelle. Era leggera; ma non c’era nulla di saltellante nella sua leggerezza. Schivava il terreno e intendeva schivarlo. La gente parla del pathos e del fallimento delle donne ordinarie; ma è una cosa più terribile che una donna bella possa avere successo in tutto tranne che nell’essere donna.
«È sufficiente a farvi saltare il cervello», disse la giovane donna vestita di bianco, dirigendosi verso lo specchio.
La giovane donna in blu non rispose, ma ripose i guanti da giardinaggio e poi si avvicinò al buffet per stendere la tovaglia del tè pomeridiano.
«Abbastanza per farvi saltare il cervello, dico io», disse la signorina Rosamund Hunt con l’imperturbabile allegria di chi ha sempre avuto canzoni e discorsi che potevano essere ripetuti.
«Solo il tuo cappello, credo», disse la duchessa Diana «ma presumo che a volte sia più importante.»
Il volto di Rosamund mostrò per un istante l’offesa di un bambino viziato, e poi l’umorismo di una persona molto sana. Scoppiò a ridere e disse: “Beh, dovrebbe essere un grande vento per staccarti la testa.”
Ci fu un altro silenzio; e il tramonto che si faceva sempre più largo tra le nuvole squarciate riempì la stanza di una soave fiamma e dipinse i muri opachi di rubino e oro.
«Qualcuno mi disse una volta», disse Rosamond Hunt, «che è più facile conservare la testa quando si è perso il cuore.»
“Non dire sciocchezze del genere”, disse Diana con asprezza selvaggia.
Fuori, il giardino era avvolto in uno splendore dorato; ma il vento soffiava ancora impetuosamente e i tre uomini che tenevano duro potevano anche considerare il problema dei cappelli e delle teste. E, infatti, la loro posizione riguardo ai cappelli era in qualche modo tipica di loro. Il più alto dei tre sopportava la raffica con un alto cappello di seta che il vento sembrava caricare altrettanto invano quanto quella torre cupa, la casa alle sue spalle. Il secondo uomo cercava di tenere saldamente un rigido cappello di paglia in tutte le angolazioni, e alla fine lo teneva in mano. Il terzo non aveva cappello e, dal suo atteggiamento, sembrava che non ne avesse mai avuto uno in vita sua. Forse questo vento era una specie di bacchetta magica per mettere alla prova uomini e donne, perché c’era molto dei tre uomini in questa differenza.
L’uomo dal cappello di seta solida era l’incarnazione della lucentezza e della solidità. Era un uomo grande, banale, annoiato e (come alcuni dicevano) noioso, con capelli chiari piatti e bei lineamenti pesanti; un giovane dottore prospero di nome Warner. Ma se la sua biondezza e banalità sembravano all’inizio un po’ fatue, è certo che non era uno stupido. Se Rosamund Hunt era l’unica persona presente con molti soldi, era l’unica persona che avesse finora trovato qualche tipo di fama. La sua trattazione su “L’esistenza probabile del dolore negli organismi più bassi” era stata universalmente salutata dal mondo scientifico come allo stesso tempo solida e audace. In breve, aveva indubbiamente cervello; e forse non era colpa sua se era il tipo di cervello che la maggior parte degli uomini desidera di analizzare con un attizzatoio.
Il giovane che si toglieva e rimetteva il cappello era un dilettante scientifico di piccola levatura, e venerava il grande Warner con una freschezza solenne. Fu infatti su suo invito che il distinto medico era presente; poiché Warner non viveva in una simile casa cadente, ma in un palazzo professionale a Harley Street. Questo giovane era in realtà il più giovane e il più bello dei tre. Ma era uno di quei tipi, sia maschi che femmine, che sembrano destinati ad essere belli e insignificanti. Bruno, dal colorito acceso e timido, sembrava perdere la delicatezza dei suoi tratti in una specie di sfocatura di marrone e rosso mentre stava lì arrossendo e sbattendo le palpebre contro il vento. Era uno di quei tipi evidenti ma invisibili: tutti sapevano che era Arthur Inglewood, scapolo, morale, decisamente intelligente, che viveva con un po’ di soldi suoi e si nascondeva nei due hobby della fotografia e del ciclismo. Tutti lo conoscevano e lo dimenticavano; anche mentre stava lì nella luce accecante del tramonto dorato c’era qualcosa in lui di indefinito, come una delle sue fotografie amatoriali rosso-marroni.
Il terzo uomo non aveva cappello; era magro, vestito con abiti leggeri e vagamente sportivi, e la grande pipa in bocca lo faceva apparire ancora più magro. Aveva un viso lungo e ironico, capelli blu-neri, gli occhi azzurri di un irlandese e il mento azzurro di un attore. Era irlandese, ma non era un attore, se si escludono i vecchi tempi delle charades della signorina Hunt; in realtà era un giornalista oscuro e frivolo di nome Michael Moon. Si era creduto vagamente che stesse studiando per diventare avvocato, ma (come direbbe Warner con il suo umorismo piuttosto pesante) era soprattutto in un altro tipo di bar che i suoi amici lo trovavano. Moon, tuttavia, non beveva, né si ubriacava frequentemente; era semplicemente un gentiluomo che amava la compagnia bassa. Questo in parte perché la compagnia è più tranquilla della società: e se gli piaceva parlare con una barista (come sembrava), era principalmente perché era lei a fare tutto il discorso. Inoltre spesso portava altri talenti per aiutarla. Condivideva quella strana abitudine di tutti gli uomini del suo tipo, intellettuali e senza ambizione: l’abitudine di frequentare i loro inferiori mentali. C’era un piccolo ebreo elastico di nome Moses Gould nella stessa pensione, un uomo la cui vitalità nera e volgarità divertivano così tanto Michael che andava in giro con lui da un bar all’altro, come il proprietario di una scimmia esibizionista.
The colossal clearance which the wind had made of that cloudy sky grew clearer and clearer; chamber within chamber seemed to open in heaven. One felt one might at last find something lighter than light. In the fullness of this silent effulgence all things collected their colours again: the gray trunks turned silver, and the drab gravel gold. One bird fluttered like a loosened leaf from one tree to another, and his brown feathers were brushed with fire.
“Inglewood,” said Michael Moon, with his blue eye on the bird, “have you any friends?”
Dr. Warner mistook the person addressed, and turning a broad beaming face, said,—
“Oh yes, I go out a great deal.”
Michael Moon gave a tragic grin, and waited for his real informant, who spoke a moment after in a voice curiously cool, fresh and young, as coming out of that brown and even dusty interior.
“Really,” answered Inglewood, “I’m afraid I’ve lost touch with my old friends. The greatest friend I ever had was at school, a fellow named Smith. It’s odd you should mention it, because I was thinking of him to-day, though I haven’t seen him for seven or eight years. He was on the science side with me at school— a clever fellow though queer; and he went up to Oxford when I went to Germany. The fact is, it’s rather a sad story. I often asked him to come and see me, and when I heard nothing I made inquiries, you know. I was shocked to learn that poor Smith had gone off his head. The accounts were a bit cloudy, of course, some saying that he had recovered again; but they always say that. About a year ago I got a telegram from him myself. The telegram, I’m sorry to say, put the matter beyond a doubt.”
“Quite so,” assented Dr. Warner stolidly; “insanity is generally incurable.”
“So is sanity,” said the Irishman, and studied him with a dreary eye.
“Symptoms?” asked the doctor. “What was this telegram?”
“It’s a shame to joke about such things,” said Inglewood, in his honest, embarrassed way; “the telegram was Smith’s illness, not Smith. The actual words were, ‘Man found alive with two legs.’”
“Alive with two legs,” repeated Michael, frowning. “Perhaps a version of alive and kicking? I don’t know much about people out of their senses; but I suppose they ought to be kicking.”
“And people in their senses?” asked Warner, smiling.
“Oh, they ought to be kicked,” said Michael with sudden heartiness.
“The message is clearly insane,” continued the impenetrable Warner. “The best test is a reference to the undeveloped normal type. Even a baby does not expect to find a man with three legs.”
“Three legs,” said Michael Moon, “would be very convenient in this wind.”
A fresh eruption of the atmosphere had indeed almost thrown them off their balance and broken the blackened trees in the garden. Beyond, all sorts of accidental objects could be seen scouring the wind-scoured sky—straws, sticks, rags, papers, and, in the distance, a disappearing hat. Its disappearance, however, was not final; after an interval of minutes they saw it again, much larger and closer, like a white panama, towering up into the heavens like a balloon, staggering to and fro for an instant like a stricken kite, and then settling in the centre of their own lawn as falteringly as a fallen leaf.
“Somebody’s lost a good hat,” said Dr. Warner shortly.
Almost as he spoke, another object came over the garden wall, flying after the fluttering panama. It was a big green umbrella. After that came hurtling a huge yellow Gladstone bag, and after that came a figure like a flying wheel of legs, as in the shield of the Isle of Man.
But though for a flash it seemed to have five or six legs, it alighted upon two, like the man in the queer telegram. It took the form of a large light-haired man in gay green holiday clothes. He had bright blonde hair that the wind brushed back like a German’s, a flushed eager face like a cherub’s, and a prominent pointing nose, a little like a dog’s. His head, however, was by no means cherubic in the sense of being without a body. On the contrary, on his vast shoulders and shape generally gigantesque, his head looked oddly and unnaturally small. This gave rise to a scientific theory (which his conduct fully supported) that he was an idiot.
Inglewood had a politeness instinctive and yet awkward. His life was full of arrested half gestures of assistance. And even this prodigy of a big man in green, leaping the wall like a bright green grasshopper, did not paralyze that small altruism of his habits in such a matter as a lost hat. He was stepping forward to recover the green gentleman’s head-gear, when he was struck rigid with a roar like a bull’s.
“Unsportsmanlike!” bellowed the big man. “Give it fair play,
give it fair play!” And he came after his own hat quickly
but cautiously, with burning eyes. The hat had seemed at first
to droop and dawdle as in ostentatious langour on the sunny lawn;
but the wind again freshening and rising, it went dancing down
the garden with the devilry of a pas de quatre. The eccentric went
bounding after it with kangaroo leaps and bursts of breathless speech,
of which it was not always easy to pick up the thread:
“Fair play, fair play… sport of kings… chase their crowns…
quite humane… tramontana… cardinals chase red hats… old
English hunting… started a hat in Bramber Combe… hat at bay…
mangled hounds… Got him!”
As the wind rose out of a roar into a shriek, he leapt into the sky on his strong, fantastic legs, snatched at the vanishing hat, missed it, and pitched sprawling face foremost on the grass. The hat rose over him like a bird in triumph. But its triumph was premature; for the lunatic, flung forward on his hands, threw up his boots behind, waved his two legs in the air like symbolic ensigns (so that they actually thought again of the telegram), and actually caught the hat with his feet. A prolonged and piercing yell of wind split the welkin from end to end. The eyes of all the men were blinded by the invisible blast, as by a strange, clear cataract of transparency rushing between them and all objects about them. But as the large man fell back in a sitting posture and solemnly crowned himself with the hat, Michael found, to his incredulous surprise, that he had been holding his breath, like a man watching a duel.
Lo sgombro colossale che il vento aveva fatto di quel cielo nuvoloso si faceva sempre più limpido; camera dentro camera pareva aprirsi in cielo. Si aveva la sensazione che si potesse infine trovare qualcosa di più lieve della luce stessa. Nella pienezza di quel silenzioso fulgore tutte le cose raccolsero di nuovo i loro colori: i grigi tronchi si fecero d’argento, e la squallida ghiaia si fece d’oro. Un uccello svolazzò come una foglia sciolta da un albero all’altro, e le sue penne brune erano lambite dal fuoco.
“Inglewood,” disse Michael Moon, con l’occhio azzurro fisso sull’uccello, “avete degli amici?”
Il dottor Warner scambiò la persona a cui era rivolta la domanda, e, volgendo una larga faccia raggiante, disse,—
“Oh sì, esco parecchio.”
Michael Moon fece un ghigno tragico, e attese il suo vero interlocutore, che parlò un attimo dopo con una voce curiosamente fredda, fresca e giovane, come venendo fuori da quell’interno bruno e persino polveroso.
“A dire il vero,” rispose Inglewood, “temo di aver perso i contatti con i miei vecchi amici. Il più grande amico che io abbia mai avuto era a scuola, un tale di nome Smith. È strano che voi lo menzioniate, perché proprio oggi pensavo a lui, benché non lo veda da sette o otto anni. Era con me nella sezione scientifica a scuola— un tipo intelligente ma bizzarro; e andò a Oxford quando io andai in Germania. Il fatto è che è piuttosto una triste storia. Lo invitavo spesso a venirmi a trovare, e quando non ricevetti risposta mi informai, capite. Fui sconvolto nell’apprendere che il povero Smith aveva perso il senno. Le notizie erano un po’ confuse, naturalmente, alcuni dicevano che si era di nuovo ripreso; ma dicono sempre così. Circa un anno fa ricevetti io stesso un telegramma da lui. Il telegramma, mi duole dirlo, pose la faccenda al di là di ogni dubbio.”
“Proprio così,” assentì flemmatico il dottor Warner; “la pazzia è in genere inguaribile.”
“E così pure la sanità di mente,” disse l’irlandese, e lo studiò con occhio tetro.
“Sintomi?” chiese il dottore. “Cos’era questo telegramma?”
“È una vergogna scherzare su queste cose,” disse Inglewood, nel suo modo onesto e imbarazzato; “il telegramma era la malattia di Smith, non Smith. Le parole precise erano: ‘Uomo trovato vivo con due gambe.’”
“Vivo con due gambe,” ripeté Michael, aggrottando la fronte. “Forse una variante di vivo e vegeto? Non so molto della gente fuori di senno; ma suppongo che dovrebbero scalciare.”
“E la gente in senno?” chiese Warner, sorridendo.
“Oh, quella dovrebbe essere presa a calci,” disse Michael con improvvisa cordialità.
“Il messaggio è chiaramente folle,” proseguì l’impenetrabile Warner. “La prova migliore è un riferimento al tipo normale non sviluppato. Persino un neonato non si aspetta di trovare un uomo con tre gambe.”
“Tre gambe,” disse Michael Moon, “sarebbero assai comode con questo vento.”
Una fresca eruzione dell’atmosfera aveva infatti quasi fatto perdere loro l’equilibrio e aveva spezzato gli alberi anneriti del giardino. Al di là, ogni sorta di oggetti fortuiti si potevano vedere sfrecciare per il cielo spazzato dal vento—pagliuzze, stecchi, stracci, carte, e, in lontananza, un cappello che spariva. La sua sparizione, tuttavia, non fu definitiva; dopo un intervallo di qualche minuto lo videro di nuovo, molto più grande e vicino, come un panama bianco, torreggiante su nei cieli come un pallone, barcollante avanti e indietro per un istante come un aquilone colpito, e poi posarsi al centro del loro stesso prato esitante come una foglia caduta.
“Qualcuno ha perso un buon cappello,” disse brusco il dottor Warner.
Quasi mentre parlava, un altro oggetto scavalcò il muro del giardino, volando dietro il panama svolazzante. Era un grosso ombrello verde. Dopo quello venne rotolando una enorme borsa Gladstone gialla, e dopo quella venne una figura come una ruota volante di gambe, come nello stemma dell’Isola di Man.
Ma benché per un lampo paresse avere cinque o sei gambe, si posò su due, come l’uomo del bizzarro telegramma. Prese la forma di un grosso uomo dai capelli chiari, in gaie vesti verdi da vacanza. Aveva luminosi capelli biondi che il vento gli spingeva all’indietro come a un tedesco, un viso acceso e ardente come quello di un cherubino, e un naso prominente e puntuto, un po’ come quello di un cane. La sua testa, tuttavia, non era affatto cherubica nel senso di essere priva di corpo. Al contrario, sulle sue vaste spalle e sulla forma complessivamente gigantesca, la testa pareva stranamente e innaturalmente piccola. Ciò diede origine a una teoria scientifica (che la sua condotta appieno confermava) secondo cui egli era un idiota.
Inglewood aveva una cortesia istintiva e insieme goffa. La sua vita era piena di mezzi gesti di soccorso rimasti a metà. E persino questo prodigio di grand’uomo in verde, che scavalcava il muro come una luminosa cavalletta verde, non paralizzò quel piccolo altruismo delle sue abitudini in una faccenda come un cappello perduto. Si stava facendo avanti per recuperare il copricapo del gentiluomo in verde, quando fu impietrito da un ruggito come quello di un toro.
“Antisportivo!” muggì il grosso uomo. “Lasciategli fair play,
lasciategli fair play!” E venne dietro al proprio cappello in fretta
ma con cautela, con occhi ardenti. Il cappello dapprima era parso
languire e gingillarsi come in ostentata mollezza sul prato assolato;
ma il vento, di nuovo rinfrescando e levandosi, lo mandò a danzare giù
per il giardino con la diavoleria di un pas de quatre. L’eccentrico
gli andò dietro a balzi da canguro e a raffiche di parole senza fiato,
di cui non era sempre facile cogliere il filo: “Fair play, fair play…
sport dei re… dar la caccia alle loro corone… del tutto umano…
tramontana… i cardinali danno la caccia ai cappelli rossi… vecchia
caccia inglese… stanato un cappello a Bramber Combe… cappello alle
strette… segugi sbranati… Preso!”
Mentre il vento saliva da un ruggito a un urlo, egli balzò nel cielo sulle sue gambe forti e fantastiche, ghermì il cappello che svaniva, lo mancò, e cadde disteso a faccia in avanti sull’erba. Il cappello si levò sopra di lui come un uccello in trionfo. Ma il suo trionfo fu prematuro; poiché il pazzo, scagliato in avanti sulle mani, gettò gli stivali all’indietro, agitò le due gambe in aria come vessilli simbolici (tanto che essi pensarono davvero di nuovo al telegramma), e afferrò per davvero il cappello con i piedi. Un prolungato e lancinante urlo di vento squarciò il firmamento da un capo all’altro. Gli occhi di tutti gli uomini furono accecati dalla raffica invisibile, come da una strana, limpida cateratta di trasparenza precipitante fra loro e tutti gli oggetti intorno. Ma quando il grand’uomo ricadde in posizione seduta e solennemente si incoronò col cappello, Michael si accorse, con incredulo stupore, che aveva trattenuto il fiato, come uno che assiste a un duello.
While that tall wind was at the top of its sky-scraping energy, another short cry was heard, beginning very querulous, but ending very quick, swallowed in abrupt silence. The shiny black cylinder of Dr. Warner’s official hat sailed off his head in the long, smooth parabola of an airship, and in almost cresting a garden tree was caught in the topmost branches. Another hat was gone. Those in that garden felt themselves caught in an unaccustomed eddy of things happening; no one seemed to know what would blow away next. Before they could speculate, the cheering and hallooing hat-hunter was already halfway up the tree, swinging himself from fork to fork with his strong, bent, grasshopper legs, and still giving forth his gasping, mysterious comments.
“Tree of life… Ygdrasil… climb for centuries perhaps… owls nesting in the hat… remotest generations of owls… still usurpers… gone to heaven… man in the moon wears it… brigand… not yours… belongs to depressed medical man… in garden… give it up… give it up!”
The tree swung and swept and thrashed to and fro in the thundering wind like a thistle, and flamed in the full sunshine like a bonfire. The green, fantastic human figure, vivid against its autumn red and gold, was already among its highest and craziest branches, which by bare luck did not break with the weight of his big body. He was up there among the last tossing leaves and the first twinkling stars of evening, still talking to himself cheerfully, reasoningly, half apologetically, in little gasps. He might well be out of breath, for his whole preposterous raid had gone with one rush; he had bounded the wall once like a football, swept down the garden like a slide, and shot up the tree like a rocket. The other three men seemed buried under incident piled on incident— a wild world where one thing began before another thing left off. All three had the first thought. The tree had been there for the five years they had known the boarding-house. Each one of them was active and strong. No one of them had even thought of climbing it. Beyond that, Inglewood felt first the mere fact of colour. The bright brisk leaves, the bleak blue sky, the wild green arms and legs, reminded him irrationally of something glowing in his infancy, something akin to a gaudy man on a golden tree; perhaps it was only painted monkey on a stick. Oddly enough, Michael Moon, though more of a humourist, was touched on a tenderer nerve, half remembered the old, young theatricals with Rosamund, and was amused to find himself almost quoting Shakespeare—
“For valour. Is not love a Hercules, Still climbing trees in the Hesperides?”
Even the immovable man of science had a bright, bewildered sensation that the Time Machine had given a great jerk, and gone forward with rather rattling rapidity.
He was not, however, wholly prepared for what happened next. The man in green, riding the frail topmost bough like a witch on a very risky broomstick, reached up and rent the black hat from its airy nest of twigs. It had been broken across a heavy bough in the first burst of its passage, a tangle of branches in torn and scored and scratched it in every direction, a clap of wind and foliage had flattened it like a concertina; nor can it be said that the obliging gentleman with the sharp nose showed any adequate tenderness for its structure when he finally unhooked it from its place. When he had found it, however, his proceedings were by some counted singular. He waved it with a loud whoop of triumph, and then immediately appeared to fall backwards off the tree, to which, however, he remained attached by his long strong legs, like a monkey swung by his tail. Hanging thus head downwards above the unhelmed Warner, he gravely proceeded to drop the battered silk cylinder upon his brows. “Every man a king,” explained the inverted philosopher, “every hat (consequently) a crown. But this is a crown out of heaven.”
And he again attempted the coronation of Warner, who, however, moved away with great abruptness from the hovering diadem; not seeming, strangely enough, to wish for his former decoration in its present state.
“Wrong, wrong!” cried the obliging person hilariously. “Always wear uniform, even if it’s shabby uniform! Ritualists may always be untidy. Go to a dance with soot on your shirt-front; but go with a shirt-front. Huntsman wears old coat, but old pink coat. Wear a topper, even if it’s got no top. It’s the symbol that counts, old cock. Take your hat, because it is your hat after all; its nap rubbed all off by the bark, dears, and its brim not the least bit curled; but for old sakes’ sake it is still, dears, the nobbiest tile in the world.”
Speaking thus, with a wild comfortableness, he settled or smashed the shapeless silk hat over the face of the disturbed physician, and fell on his feet among the other men, still talking, beaming and breathless.
“Why don’t they make more games out of wind?” he asked in some excitement. “Kites are all right, but why should it only be kites? Why, I thought of three other games for a windy day while I was climbing that tree. Here’s one of them: you take a lot of pepper—”
“I think,” interposed Moon, with a sardonic mildness, “that your games are already sufficiently interesting. Are you, may I ask, a professional acrobat on a tour, or a travelling advertisement of Sunny Jim? How and why do you display all this energy for clearing walls and climbing trees in our melancholy, but at least rational, suburbs?”
The stranger, so far as so loud a person was capable of it, appeared to grow confidential.
“Well, it’s a trick of my own,” he confessed candidly. “I do it by having two legs.”
Arthur Inglewood, who had sunk into the background of this scene of folly, started and stared at the newcomer with his short-sighted eyes screwed up and his high colour slightly heightened.
“Why, I believe you’re Smith,” he cried with his fresh, almost boyish voice; and then after an instant’s stare, “and yet I’m not sure.”
“I have a card, I think,” said the unknown, with baffling solemnity—“a card with my real name, my titles, offices, and true purpose on this earth.”
He drew out slowly from an upper waistcoat pocket a scarlet card-case, and as slowly produced a very large card. Even in the instant of its production, they fancied it was of a queer shape, unlike the cards of ordinary gentlemen. But it was there only for an instant; for as it passed from his fingers to Arthur’s, one or another slipped his hold. The strident, tearing gale in that garden carried away the stranger’s card to join the wild waste paper of the universe; and that great western wind shook the whole house and passed.
Mentre quel gran vento era al culmine della sua energia che scalava il cielo, si udì un altro breve grido, che cominciò assai querulo, ma finì assai rapido, inghiottito in un brusco silenzio. Il lucido cilindro nero del cappello d’ordinanza del dottor Warner salpò dal suo capo nella lunga, liscia parabola di un dirigibile, e, quasi sormontando un albero del giardino, restò impigliato tra i rami più alti. Un altro cappello era andato. Quelli in quel giardino si sentirono presi in un insolito vortice di cose che accadevano; nessuno pareva sapere che cosa sarebbe volato via per il prossimo. Prima che potessero fare congetture, il cacciatore di cappelli, che esultava e gridava, era già a metà dell’albero, dondolandosi di forcella in forcella con le sue forti, ricurve gambe da cavalletta, e ancora proferendo i suoi ansimanti, misteriosi commenti.
“Albero della vita… Ygdrasil… arrampicarsi per secoli forse… gufi che nidificano nel cappello… remotissime generazioni di gufi… ancora usurpatori… andati in cielo… l’uomo nella luna lo porta… brigante… non è tuo… appartiene a un depresso medico… in giardino… rendetelo… rendetelo!”
L’albero oscillava e spazzava e si dibatteva avanti e indietro nel tonante vento come un cardo, e fiammeggiava nel pieno sole come un falò. La verde, fantastica figura umana, vivida contro il rosso e l’oro autunnali, era già tra i suoi rami più alti e più folli, che per pura fortuna non si spezzarono sotto il peso del suo grosso corpo. Era lassù tra le ultime foglie sbattute e le prime stelle scintillanti della sera, ancora parlando a se stesso allegramente, ragionevolmente, mezzo scusandosi, in piccoli aneliti. Poteva ben essere senza fiato, poiché tutta la sua incursione preposterosa era andata con un solo slancio; aveva scavalcato il muro d’un balzo come un pallone da calcio, si era lanciato giù per il giardino come su uno scivolo, ed era schizzato su per l’albero come un razzo. Gli altri tre uomini parevano sepolti sotto incidente ammucchiato su incidente—un mondo selvaggio dove una cosa cominciava prima che un’altra fosse finita. Tutti e tre ebbero il primo pensiero. L’albero era stato lì per i cinque anni in cui avevano conosciuto la pensione. Ciascuno di loro era attivo e forte. Nessuno di loro aveva mai neppure pensato di arrampicarvisi. Oltre a ciò, Inglewood avvertì per primo il puro fatto del colore. Le foglie luminose e vivaci, il cielo azzurro e squallido, le selvagge membra verdi, gli rammentarono irrazionalmente qualcosa che splendeva nella sua infanzia, qualcosa affine a un uomo sgargiante su un albero d’oro; forse era solo una scimmia dipinta su un bastoncino. Stranamente, Michael Moon, benché più incline all’umorismo, fu toccato su un nervo più tenero, ricordò a metà le vecchie, giovanili recite teatrali con Rosamund, e si divertì a trovarsi quasi a citare Shakespeare—
“Per valore. Non è forse l’amore un Ercole, sempre a scalare alberi nelle Esperidi?”
Persino l’immobile uomo di scienza ebbe una luminosa, sconcertata sensazione che la Macchina del Tempo avesse dato un gran sobbalzo, e fosse balzata avanti con una rapidità piuttosto sferragliante.
Egli non era, tuttavia, del tutto preparato a ciò che accadde poi. L’uomo in verde, cavalcando il fragile ramo più alto come una strega su una scopa assai rischiosa, si protese in su e strappò il cappello nero dal suo nido aereo di ramoscelli. Era stato spezzato di traverso su un ramo pesante nel primo impeto del suo passaggio, un groviglio di rami lo aveva lacerato e solcato e graffiato in ogni direzione, uno schiaffo di vento e fogliame lo aveva appiattito come una fisarmonica; né si può dire che l’ossequioso gentiluomo dal naso aguzzo mostrasse alcuna adeguata tenerezza per la sua struttura quando infine lo staccò dal suo posto. Quando però lo ebbe trovato, il suo procedere fu da alcuni giudicato singolare. Lo agitò con un forte urlo di trionfo, e poi parve subito cadere all’indietro giù dall’albero, al quale però rimase attaccato per le sue lunghe forti gambe, come una scimmia sospesa per la coda. Penzolando così a testa in giù sopra lo Warner senza elmo, procedette gravemente a lasciar cadere il malconcio cilindro di seta sulla sua fronte. “Ogni uomo un re,” spiegò il filosofo capovolto, “ogni cappello (di conseguenza) una corona. Ma questa è una corona venuta dal cielo.”
E tentò di nuovo l’incoronazione di Warner, il quale, tuttavia, si scostò con gran bruschezza dal diadema aleggiante; non sembrando, stranamente, desiderare la sua antica decorazione nello stato presente.
“Sbagliato, sbagliato!” gridò l’ossequiosa persona con ilarità. “Portate sempre l’uniforme, anche se è un’uniforme malandata! I ritualisti possono sempre essere sciatti. Andate a un ballo con la fuliggine sullo sparato; ma andateci con uno sparato. Il cacciatore porta una vecchia giubba, ma una vecchia giubba rosa. Portate un cilindro, anche se non ha più cilindro. È il simbolo che conta, mio vecchio. Prendete il vostro cappello, perché in fondo è il vostro cappello; il suo pelo tutto strofinato via dalla corteccia, cari miei, e la sua tesa neppure un pochino arricciata; ma per amor dei vecchi tempi resta ancora, cari miei, il più elegante copricapo del mondo.”
Parlando così, con una selvaggia comodità, sistemò o schiacciò l’informe cappello di seta sul viso del turbato medico, e cadde in piedi tra gli altri uomini, ancora parlando, raggiante e senza fiato.
“Perché non inventano più giochi col vento?” chiese con una certa eccitazione. “Gli aquiloni vanno bene, ma perché dovrebbero esserci solo aquiloni? Ecco, ho pensato ad altri tre giochi per una giornata ventosa mentre mi arrampicavo su quell’albero. Eccone uno: prendete un mucchio di pepe—”
“Io credo,” s’interpose Moon, con una sardonica mitezza, “che i vostri giochi siano già sufficientemente interessanti. Siete, mi permetto di chiedere, un acrobata professionista in tournée, o una réclame ambulante di Sunny Jim? Come e perché sfoggiate tutta questa energia nello scavalcare muri e arrampicarvi sugli alberi nei nostri malinconici, ma almeno razionali, sobborghi?”
Lo sconosciuto, per quanto una persona così rumorosa ne fosse capace, parve farsi confidenziale.
“Be’, è un trucco tutto mio,” confessò candidamente. “Ci riesco avendo due gambe.”
Arthur Inglewood, che era sprofondato sullo sfondo di questa scena di follia, sussultò e fissò il nuovo venuto con i suoi occhi miopi socchiusi e il suo acceso colorito lievemente ravvivato.
“Ma come, credo che tu sia Smith,” gridò con la sua voce fresca, quasi fanciullesca; e poi, dopo un istante di sguardo fisso, “eppure non ne sono sicuro.”
“Ho un biglietto, mi pare,” disse lo sconosciuto, con sconcertante solennità—“un biglietto col mio vero nome, i miei titoli, le mie cariche, e il mio vero scopo su questa terra.”
Estrasse lentamente da un taschino superiore del panciotto un portabiglietti scarlatto, e altrettanto lentamente ne trasse un biglietto assai grande. Persino nell’istante in cui lo produsse, essi ebbero l’impressione che fosse di una forma bizzarra, diversa dai biglietti dei comuni gentiluomini. Ma restò lì solo un istante; poiché mentre passava dalle sue dita a quelle di Arthur, l’uno o l’altro allentò la presa. La stridente, lacerante burrasca in quel giardino portò via il biglietto dello sconosciuto a unirsi alla selvaggia carta straccia dell’universo; e quel gran vento occidentale scosse tutta la casa e passò oltre.
Chapter II
The Luggage of an Optimist
We all remember the fairy tales of science in our infancy, which played with the supposition that large animals could jump in the proportion of small ones. If an elephant were as strong as a grasshopper, he could (I suppose) spring clean out of the Zoological Gardens and alight trumpeting upon Primrose Hill. If a whale could leap from the sea like a trout, perhaps men might look up and see one soaring above Yarmouth like the winged island of Laputa. Such natural energy, though sublime, might certainly be inconvenient, and much of this inconvenience attended the gaiety and good intentions of the man in green. He was too large for everything, because he was lively as well as large. By a fortunate physical provision, most very substantial creatures are also reposeful; and middle-class boarding-houses in the lesser parts of London are not built for a man as big as a bull and excitable as a kitten.
When Inglewood followed the stranger into the boarding-house, he found him talking earnestly (and in his own opinion privately) to the helpless Mrs. Duke. That fat, faint lady could only goggle up like a dying fish at the enormous new gentleman, who politely offered himself as a lodger, with vast gestures of the wide white hat in one hand, and the yellow Gladstone bag in the other. Fortunately, Mrs. Duke’s more efficient niece and partner was there to complete the contract; for, indeed, all the people of the house had somehow collected in the room. This fact, in truth, was typical of the whole episode. The visitor created an atmosphere of comic crisis; and from the time he came into the house to the time he left it, he somehow got the company to gather and even follow (though in derision) as children gather and follow a Punch and Judy. An hour ago, and for four years previously, these people had avoided each other, even when they had really liked each other. They had slid in and out of dismal and deserted rooms in search of particular newspapers or private needlework. Even now they all came casually, as with varying interests; but they all came. There was the embarrassed Inglewood, still a sort of red shadow; there was the unembarrassed Warner, a pallid but solid substance. There was Michael Moon offering like a riddle the contrast of the horsy crudeness of his clothes and the sombre sagacity of his visage. He was now joined by his yet more comic crony, Moses Gould. Swaggering on short legs with a prosperous purple tie, he was the gayest of godless little dogs; but like a dog also in this, that however he danced and wagged with delight, the two dark eyes on each side of his protuberant nose glistened gloomily like black buttons. There was Miss Rosamund Hunt, still with the fine white hat framing her square, good-looking face, and still with her native air of being dressed for some party that never came off. She also, like Mr. Moon, had a new companion, new so far as this narrative goes, but in reality an old friend and a protegee. This was a slight young woman in dark gray, and in no way notable but for a load of dull red hair, of which the shape somehow gave her pale face that triangular, almost peaked, appearance which was given by the lowering headdress and deep rich ruff of the Elizabethan beauties. Her surname seemed to be Gray, and Miss Hunt called her Mary, in that indescribable tone applied to a dependent who has practically become a friend. She wore a small silver cross on her very business-like gray clothes, and was the only member of the party who went to church. Last, but the reverse of least, there was Diana Duke, studying the newcomer with eyes of steel, and listening carefully to every idiotic word he said. As for Mrs. Duke, she smiled up at him, but never dreamed of listening to him. She had never really listened to any one in her life; which, some said, was why she had survived.
Nevertheless, Mrs. Duke was pleased with her new guest’s concentration of courtesy upon herself; for no one ever spoke seriously to her any more than she listened seriously to any one. And she almost beamed as the stranger, with yet wider and almost whirling gestures of explanation with his huge hat and bag, apologized for having entered by the wall instead of the front door. He was understood to put it down to an unfortunate family tradition of neatness and care of his clothes.
“My mother was rather strict about it, to tell the truth,” he said, lowering his voice, to Mrs. Duke. “She never liked me to lose my cap at school. And when a man’s been taught to be tidy and neat it sticks to him.”
Mrs. Duke weakly gasped that she was sure he must have had a good mother; but her niece seemed inclined to probe the matter further.
“You’ve got a funny idea of neatness,” she said, “if it’s jumping garden walls and clambering up garden trees. A man can’t very well climb a tree tidily.”
“He can clear a wall neatly,” said Michael Moon; “I saw him do it.”
Smith seemed to be regarding the girl with genuine astonishment. “My dear young lady,” he said, “I was tidying the tree. You don’t want last year’s hats there, do you, any more than last year’s leaves? The wind takes off the leaves, but it couldn’t manage the hat; that wind, I suppose, has tidied whole forests to-day. Rum idea this is, that tidiness is a timid, quiet sort of thing; why, tidiness is a toil for giants. You can’t tidy anything without untidying yourself; just look at my trousers. Don’t you know that? Haven’t you ever had a spring cleaning?”
“Oh yes, sir,” said Mrs. Duke, almost eagerly. “You will find everything of that sort quite nice.” For the first time she had heard two words that she could understand.
Miss Diana Duke seemed to be studying the stranger with a sort of spasm of calculation; then her black eyes snapped with decision, and she said that he could have a particular bedroom on the top floor if he liked: and the silent and sensitive Inglewood, who had been on the rack through these cross-purposes, eagerly offered to show him up to the room. Smith went up the stairs four at a time, and when he bumped his head against the ultimate ceiling, Inglewood had an odd sensation that the tall house was much shorter than it used to be.
Capitolo II
Il bagaglio di un ottimista
Tutti ricordiamo le fiabe della scienza della nostra infanzia, che giocavano con la supposizione che i grandi animali potessero saltare in proporzione a quelli piccoli. Se un elefante fosse forte come una cavalletta, potrebbe (suppongo) balzare di netto fuori dai Giardini Zoologici e atterrare barrendo su Primrose Hill. Se una balena potesse saltar fuori dal mare come una trota, forse gli uomini potrebbero guardare in su e vederne una librarsi sopra Yarmouth come l’isola alata di Laputa. Una tale energia naturale, benché sublime, potrebbe di certo riuscire scomoda, e molto di questo disagio accompagnava l’allegria e le buone intenzioni dell’uomo in verde. Era troppo grande per ogni cosa, perché era vivace oltre che grande. Per una fortunata provvidenza fisica, la maggior parte delle creature davvero massicce è anche pacata; e le pensioni della piccola borghesia nelle parti minori di Londra non sono costruite per un uomo grosso come un toro ed eccitabile come un gattino.
Quando Inglewood seguì lo sconosciuto dentro la pensione, lo trovò che parlava con fervore (e, secondo lui, in privato) con l’inerme signora Duke. Quella grassa, esangue signora poteva solo strabuzzare gli occhi in su come un pesce moribondo verso l’enorme nuovo gentiluomo, che cortesemente si offriva come pensionante, con vasti gesti del largo cappello bianco in una mano e della gialla borsa Gladstone nell’altra. Per fortuna la più efficiente nipote e socia della signora Duke era lì a concludere il contratto; poiché, in verità, tutta la gente della casa si era in qualche modo radunata nella stanza. Questo fatto, a dire il vero, era tipico dell’intero episodio. Il visitatore creava un’atmosfera di comica crisi; e dal momento in cui entrò in casa a quello in cui la lasciò, riuscì in qualche modo a far radunare la compagnia e persino a farla seguire (benché per derisione) come i bambini si radunano e seguono un Pulcinella. Un’ora prima, e per quattro anni prima ancora, questa gente si era evitata a vicenda, persino quando davvero si piaceva. Erano scivolati dentro e fuori da stanze tetre e deserte in cerca di particolari giornali o di cuciti privati. Anche ora vennero tutti alla buona, come con vari interessi; ma vennero tutti. C’era l’imbarazzato Inglewood, ancora una sorta di ombra rossa; c’era l’imperturbato Warner, una sostanza pallida ma solida. C’era Michael Moon, che offriva come un enigma il contrasto fra la cavallina rozzezza dei suoi abiti e la cupa sagacia del suo volto. Ora gli si era unito il suo compare ancor più comico, Moses Gould. Impettito su gambe corte con una prospera cravatta violacea, era il più gaio dei piccoli cani senza Dio; ma anche come un cane in questo, che, per quanto danzasse e scodinzolasse di gioia, i due occhi scuri ai lati del suo naso sporgente luccicavano cupamente come bottoni neri. C’era la signorina Rosamund Hunt, ancora col bel cappello bianco che incorniciava il suo viso squadrato e avvenente, e ancora con la sua innata aria di essere vestita per qualche festa che non aveva mai luogo. Anche lei, come il signor Moon, aveva una nuova compagna, nuova per quanto riguarda questa narrazione, ma in realtà una vecchia amica e una protetta. Era una minuta giovane donna in grigio scuro, in nulla notevole se non per una massa di spenti capelli rossi, la cui forma in qualche modo dava al suo pallido viso quell’aspetto triangolare, quasi appuntito, che era conferito dal basso copricapo e dalla ricca profonda gorgiera delle bellezze elisabettiane. Il suo cognome pareva essere Gray, e la signorina Hunt la chiamava Mary, in quel tono indescrivibile riservato a una dipendente che è praticamente diventata un’amica. Portava una piccola croce d’argento sui suoi assai pratici abiti grigi, ed era l’unica del gruppo che andasse in chiesa. Ultima, ma tutt’altro che infima, c’era Diana Duke, che studiava il nuovo venuto con occhi d’acciaio, e ascoltava attentamente ogni idiota parola che egli diceva. Quanto alla signora Duke, gli sorrideva in su, ma non le passava neppure per la mente di ascoltarlo. Non aveva mai davvero ascoltato nessuno in vita sua; e questo, dicevano alcuni, era il motivo per cui era sopravvissuta.
Ciononostante, la signora Duke era compiaciuta della concentrazione di cortesia del suo nuovo ospite verso di lei; poiché nessuno le parlava mai sul serio, come mai lei ascoltava sul serio nessuno. E quasi raggiava mentre lo sconosciuto, con gesti di spiegazione ancor più ampi e quasi vorticosi del suo enorme cappello e della sua borsa, si scusava per essere entrato dal muro invece che dalla porta d’ingresso. Si intese che egli attribuiva la cosa a una sventurata tradizione di famiglia fatta di ordine e cura dei propri abiti.
“Mia madre era piuttosto severa in proposito, a dire il vero,” disse, abbassando la voce, alla signora Duke. “Non le piaceva mai che io perdessi il berretto a scuola. E quando a un uomo è stato insegnato a essere ordinato e lindo, la cosa gli resta addosso.”
La signora Duke ansimò debolmente che era sicura che egli doveva aver avuto una buona madre; ma la nipote pareva incline a sondare la faccenda più a fondo.
“Avete una buffa idea dell’ordine,” disse, “se è saltare i muri dei giardini e inerpicarvi sugli alberi. Un uomo non può certo arrampicarsi su un albero ordinatamente.”
“Può scavalcare un muro con nettezza,” disse Michael Moon; “gliel’ho visto fare.”
Smith pareva guardare la ragazza con genuino stupore. “Mia cara signorina,” disse, “stavo mettendo in ordine l’albero. Non ci volete lì i cappelli dell’anno scorso, non è vero, più di quanto ci vogliate le foglie dell’anno scorso? Il vento porta via le foglie, ma non è riuscito a venire a capo del cappello; quel vento, suppongo, oggi ha messo in ordine intere foreste. Curiosa idea è questa, che l’ordine sia una cosa timida, quieta; ma via, l’ordine è una fatica da giganti. Non si può mettere in ordine alcunché senza mettere in disordine se stessi; guardate un po’ i miei calzoni. Non lo sapete? Non avete mai fatto le pulizie di primavera?”
“Oh sì, signore,” disse la signora Duke, quasi con ansia. “Troverete ogni cosa del genere assai a modo.” Per la prima volta aveva udito due parole che poteva capire.
La signorina Diana Duke pareva studiare lo sconosciuto con una sorta di spasimo di calcolo; poi i suoi occhi neri scattarono con decisione, e disse che poteva avere una certa camera da letto all’ultimo piano se gli garbava: e il silenzioso e sensibile Inglewood, che era stato sulla graticola durante questi malintesi, offrì premurosamente di accompagnarlo su alla stanza. Smith salì le scale quattro gradini alla volta, e quando battè la testa contro il soffitto più alto, Inglewood ebbe la strana sensazione che l’alta casa fosse molto più bassa di quanto soleva essere.
Arthur Inglewood followed his old friend—or his new friend, for he did not very clearly know which he was. The face looked very like his old schoolfellow’s at one second and very unlike at another. And when Inglewood broke through his native politeness so far as to say suddenly, “Is your name Smith?” he received only the unenlightening reply, “Quite right; quite right. Very good. Excellent!” Which appeared to Inglewood, on reflection, rather the speech of a new-born babe accepting a name than of a grown-up man admitting one.
Despite these doubts about identity, the hapless Inglewood watched the other unpack, and stood about his bedroom in all the impotent attitudes of the male friend. Mr. Smith unpacked with the same kind of whirling accuracy with which he climbed a tree—throwing things out of his bag as if they were rubbish, yet managing to distribute quite a regular pattern all round him on the floor.
As he did so he continued to talk in the same somewhat gasping manner (he had come upstairs four steps at a time, but even without this his style of speech was breathless and fragmentary), and his remarks were still a string of more or less significant but often separate pictures.
“Like the day of judgement,” he said, throwing a bottle so that it somehow settled, rocking on its right end. “People say vast universe… infinity and astronomy; not sure… I think things are too close together… packed up; for travelling… stars too close, really… why, the sun’s a star, too close to be seen properly; the earth’s a star, too close to be seen at all… too many pebbles on the beach; ought all to be put in rings; too many blades of grass to study… feathers on a bird make the brain reel; wait till the big bag is unpacked… may all be put in our right places then.”
Here he stopped, literally for breath—throwing a shirt to the other end of the room, and then a bottle of ink so that it fell quite neatly beyond it. Inglewood looked round on this strange, half-symmetrical disorder with an increasing doubt.
In fact, the more one explored Mr. Smith’s holiday luggage, the less one could make anything of it. One peculiarity of it was that almost everything seemed to be there for the wrong reason; what is secondary with every one else was primary with him. He would wrap up a pot or pan in brown paper; and the unthinking assistant would discover that the pot was valueless or even unnecessary, and that it was the brown paper that was truly precious. He produced two or three boxes of cigars, and explained with plain and perplexing sincerity that he was no smoker, but that cigar-box wood was by far the best for fretwork. He also exhibited about six small bottles of wine, white and red, and Inglewood, happening to note a Volnay which he knew to be excellent, supposed at first that the stranger was an epicure in vintages. He was therefore surprised to find that the next bottle was a vile sham claret from the colonies, which even colonials (to do them justice) do not drink. It was only then that he observed that all six bottles had those bright metallic seals of various tints, and seemed to have been chosen solely because they have the three primary and three secondary colours: red, blue, and yellow; green, violet and orange. There grew upon Inglewood an almost creepy sense of the real childishness of this creature. For Smith was really, so far as human psychology can be, innocent. He had the sensualities of innocence: he loved the stickiness of gum, and he cut white wood greedily as if he were cutting a cake. To this man wine was not a doubtful thing to be defended or denounced; it was a quaintly coloured syrup, such as a child sees in a shop window. He talked dominantly and rushed the social situation; but he was not asserting himself, like a superman in a modern play. He was simply forgetting himself, like a little boy at a party. He had somehow made the giant stride from babyhood to manhood, and missed that crisis in youth when most of us grow old.
As he shunted his big bag, Arthur observed the initials I. S. printed on one side of it, and remembered that Smith had been called Innocent Smith at school, though whether as a formal Christian name or a moral description he could not remember. He was just about to venture another question, when there was a knock at the door, and the short figure of Mr. Gould offered itself, with the melancholy Moon, standing like his tall crooked shadow, behind him. They had drifted up the stairs after the other two men with the wandering gregariousness of the male.
“Hope there’s no intrusion,” said the beaming Moses with a glow of good nature, but not the airiest tinge of apology.
“The truth is,” said Michael Moon with comparative courtesy, “we thought we might see if they had made you comfortable. Miss Duke is rather—”
“I know,” cried the stranger, looking up radiantly from his bag; “magnificent, isn’t she? Go close to her—hear military music going by, like Joan of Arc.”
Inglewood stared and stared at the speaker like one who has just heard a wild fairy tale, which nevertheless contains one small and forgotten fact. For he remembered how he had himself thought of Jeanne d’Arc years ago, when, hardly more than a schoolboy, he had first come to the boarding-house. Long since the pulverizing rationalism of his friend Dr. Warner had crushed such youthful ignorances and disproportionate dreams. Under the Warnerian scepticism and science of hopeless human types, Inglewood had long come to regard himself as a timid, insufficient, and “weak” type, who would never marry; to regard Diana Duke as a materialistic maidservant; and to regard his first fancy for her as the small, dull farce of a collegian kissing his landlady’s daughter. And yet the phrase about military music moved him queerly, as if he had heard those distant drums.
“She has to keep things pretty tight, as is only natural,” said Moon, glancing round the rather dwarfish room, with its wedge of slanted ceiling, like the conical hood of a dwarf.
Arthur Inglewood seguì il suo vecchio amico—o il suo nuovo amico, poiché non sapeva con chiarezza quale dei due fosse. Il viso somigliava moltissimo a quello del suo vecchio compagno di scuola in un secondo e moltissimo se ne discostava in un altro. E quando Inglewood ruppe la sua innata cortesia al punto da dire d’un tratto: “Il vostro nome è Smith?”, ricevette solo l’illuminante risposta: “Giustissimo; giustissimo. Benissimo. Eccellente!” Il che parve a Inglewood, riflettendoci, più il discorso di un neonato che accetta un nome che di un uomo adulto che ne ammette uno.
Nonostante questi dubbi sull’identità, lo sventurato Inglewood osservava l’altro disfare il bagaglio, e si aggirava per la sua camera in tutti gli impotenti atteggiamenti dell’amico maschio. Il signor Smith disfaceva il bagaglio con la stessa specie di vorticosa precisione con cui si arrampicava su un albero—gettando le cose fuori dalla borsa come se fossero spazzatura, eppure riuscendo a distribuire tutt’intorno a sé sul pavimento un disegno abbastanza regolare.
Mentre lo faceva continuava a parlare nella stessa maniera alquanto ansimante (era salito le scale quattro gradini alla volta, ma anche senza di ciò il suo stile di eloquio era affannoso e frammentario), e le sue osservazioni erano ancora una sfilza di immagini più o meno significative ma spesso staccate.
“Come il giorno del giudizio,” disse, gettando una bottiglia in modo che in qualche modo si assestò, dondolando sul suo giusto fondo. “La gente dice universo immenso… infinito e astronomia; non ne sono sicuro… credo che le cose siano troppo vicine tra loro… impacchettate; per viaggiare… le stelle troppo vicine, davvero… ma via, il sole è una stella, troppo vicina per essere vista come si deve; la terra è una stella, troppo vicina per essere vista affatto… troppi ciottoli sulla spiaggia; dovrebbero essere tutti messi in anelli; troppi fili d’erba da studiare… le penne su un uccello fanno girare la testa; aspettate che la grande borsa sia disfatta… allora forse saremo tutti messi al posto giusto.”
Qui si fermò, letteralmente per riprendere fiato—gettando una camicia all’altro capo della stanza, e poi una boccetta d’inchiostro sì che cadde assai nettamente al di là di essa. Inglewood si guardò intorno in quel disordine strano e semi-simmetrico con crescente dubbio.
Difatti, più si esplorava il bagaglio da vacanza del signor Smith, meno se ne riusciva a cavare qualcosa. Una sua peculiarità era che quasi ogni cosa pareva esser lì per la ragione sbagliata; ciò che per tutti gli altri è secondario per lui era primario. Avvolgeva una pentola o un tegame in carta da pacchi; e l’ignaro assistente scopriva che la pentola era senza valore o persino superflua, e che era la carta da pacchi a essere davvero preziosa. Tirò fuori due o tre scatole di sigari, e spiegò con schietta e sconcertante sincerità che non era un fumatore, ma che il legno delle scatole da sigari era di gran lunga il migliore per i lavori di traforo. Esibì anche una mezza dozzina di piccole bottiglie di vino, bianco e rosso, e Inglewood, notando per caso un Volnay che sapeva essere eccellente, suppose dapprima che lo sconosciuto fosse un epicureo in fatto di annate. Rimase perciò sorpreso nel trovare che la bottiglia successiva era un vile falso claretto delle colonie, che persino i coloni (a render loro giustizia) non bevono. Fu solo allora che osservò che tutte e sei le bottiglie avevano quei lucidi sigilli metallici di svariate tinte, e parevano essere state scelte unicamente perché avevano i tre colori primari e i tre secondari: rosso, blu e giallo; verde, viola e arancio. Crebbe in Inglewood un senso quasi raccapricciante della reale puerilità di questa creatura. Poiché Smith era davvero, per quanto la psicologia umana lo consenta, innocente. Aveva le sensualità dell’innocenza: amava l’appiccicaticcio della gomma, e intagliava avidamente il legno bianco come se tagliasse una torta. Per quest’uomo il vino non era una cosa dubbia da difendere o denunciare; era uno sciroppo dai bizzarri colori, quale un bambino vede in una vetrina di negozio. Parlava in modo dominante e travolgeva la situazione sociale; ma non affermava se stesso, come un superuomo in una commedia moderna. Semplicemente dimenticava se stesso, come un ragazzino a una festa. In qualche modo aveva compiuto il gran passo dall’infanzia alla virilità, e aveva mancato quella crisi della giovinezza in cui la maggior parte di noi invecchia.
Mentre spostava la sua grossa borsa, Arthur osservò le iniziali I. S. stampate su un lato di essa, e ricordò che a scuola Smith era stato chiamato Innocent Smith, benché non ricordasse se come formale nome di battesimo o come descrizione morale. Stava giusto per arrischiare un’altra domanda, quando si udì un colpo alla porta, e la corta figura del signor Gould si presentò, col malinconico Moon, ritto come la sua alta ombra storta, dietro di lui. Erano saliti alla deriva su per le scale dietro agli altri due uomini con la vagabonda gregarietà del maschio.
“Spero di non disturbare,” disse il raggiante Moses con un fervore di buona natura, ma senza la più aerea sfumatura di scusa.
“La verità è,” disse Michael Moon con relativa cortesia, “che abbiamo pensato di venire a vedere se ti avevano sistemato comodamente. La signorina Duke è piuttosto—”
“Lo so,” gridò lo sconosciuto, alzando lo sguardo raggiante dalla sua borsa; “magnifica, non è vero? Avvicinatevi a lei—sentite passare musica militare, come Giovanna d’Arco.”
Inglewood fissava e fissava chi parlava come uno che ha appena udito una selvaggia fiaba, la quale nondimeno contiene un piccolo e dimenticato fatto vero. Poiché ricordava come lui stesso avesse pensato a Giovanna d’Arco anni prima, quando, poco più che uno scolaretto, era giunto per la prima volta alla pensione. Da tempo il polverizzante razionalismo del suo amico dottor Warner aveva schiacciato tali giovanili ignoranze e sproporzionati sogni. Sotto lo scetticismo warneriano e la scienza dei disperati tipi umani, Inglewood era da tempo giunto a considerare se stesso un tipo timido, insufficiente e “debole”, che non si sarebbe mai sposato; a considerare Diana Duke una materialistica domestica; e a considerare la sua prima infatuazione per lei come la piccola, scialba farsa di uno studente universitario che bacia la figlia della padrona di casa. Eppure la frase sulla musica militare lo turbò stranamente, come se avesse udito quei tamburi lontani.
“Deve tener le cose piuttosto strette, com’è solo naturale,” disse Moon, girando lo sguardo per la stanza piuttosto nana, col suo cuneo di soffitto inclinato, come il cappuccio conico di un nano.
“Rather a small box for you, sir,” said the waggish Mr. Gould.
“Splendid room, though,” answered Mr. Smith enthusiastically, with his head inside his Gladstone bag. “I love these pointed sorts of rooms, like Gothic. By the way,” he cried out, pointing in quite a startling way, “where does that door lead to?”
“To certain death, I should say,” answered Michael Moon, staring up at a dust-stained and disused trapdoor in the sloping roof of the attic. “I don’t think there’s a loft there; and I don’t know what else it could lead to.” Long before he had finished his sentence the man with the strong green legs had leapt at the door in the ceiling, swung himself somehow on to the ledge beneath it, wrenched it open after a struggle, and clambered through it. For a moment they saw the two symbolic legs standing like a truncated statue; then they vanished. Through the hole thus burst in the roof appeared the empty and lucid sky of evening, with one great many-coloured cloud sailing across it like a whole county upside down.
“Hullo, you fellows!” came the far cry of Innocent Smith, apparently from some remote pinnacle. “Come up here; and bring some of my things to eat and drink. It’s just the spot for a picnic.”
With a sudden impulse Michael snatched two of the small bottles of wine, one in each solid fist; and Arthur Inglewood, as if mesmerized, groped for a biscuit tin and a big jar of ginger. The enormous hand of Innocent Smith appearing through the aperture, like a giant’s in a fairy tale, received these tributes and bore them off to the eyrie; then they both hoisted themselves out of the window. They were both athletic, and even gymnastic; Inglewood through his concern for hygiene, and Moon through his concern for sport, which was not quite so idle and inactive as that of the average sportsman. Also they both had a light-headed burst of celestial sensation when the door was burst in the roof, as if a door had been burst in the sky, and they could climb out on to the very roof of the universe. They were both men who had long been unconsciously imprisoned in the commonplace, though one took it comically, and the other seriously. They were both men, nevertheless, in whom sentiment had never died. But Mr. Moses Gould had an equal contempt for their suicidal athletics and their subconscious transcendentalism, and he stood and laughed at the thing with the shameless rationality of another race.
When the singular Smith, astride of a chimney-pot, learnt that Gould was not following, his infantile officiousness and good nature forced him to dive back into the attic to comfort or persuade; and Inglewood and Moon were left alone on the long gray-green ridge of the slate roof, with their feet against gutters and their backs against chimney-pots, looking agnostically at each other. Their first feeling was that they had come out into eternity, and that eternity was very like topsy-turvydom. One definition occurred to both of them—that he had come out into the light of that lucid and radiant ignorance in which all beliefs had begun. The sky above them was full of mythology. Heaven seemed deep enough to hold all the gods. The round of the ether turned from green to yellow gradually like a great unripe fruit. All around the sunken sun it was like a lemon; round all the east it was a sort of golden green, more suggestive of a greengage; but the whole had still the emptiness of daylight and none of the secrecy of dusk. Tumbled here and there across this gold and pale green were shards and shattered masses of inky purple cloud, which seemed falling towards the earth in every kind of colossal perspective. One of them really had the character of some many-mitred, many-bearded, many-winged Assyrian image, huge head downwards, hurled out of heaven—a sort of false Jehovah, who was perhaps Satan. All the other clouds had preposterous pinnacled shapes, as if the god’s palaces had been flung after him.
And yet, while the empty heaven was full of silent catastrophe, the height of human buildings above which they sat held here and there a tiny trivial noise that was the exact antithesis; and they heard some six streets below a newsboy calling, and a bell bidding to chapel. They could also hear talk out of the garden below; and realized that the irrepressible Smith must have followed Gould downstairs, for his eager and pleading accents could be heard, followed by the half-humourous protests of Miss Duke and the full and very youthful laughter of Rosamund Hunt. The air had that cold kindness that comes after a storm. Michael Moon drank it in with as serious a relish as he had drunk the little bottle of cheap claret, which he had emptied almost at a draught. Inglewood went on eating ginger very slowly and with a solemnity unfathomable as the sky above him. There was still enough stir in the freshness of the atmosphere to make them almost fancy they could smell the garden soil and the last roses of autumn. Suddenly there came from the darkening room a silvery ping and pong which told them that Rosamund had brought out the long-neglected mandoline. After the first few notes there was more of the distant bell-like laughter.
“Inglewood,” said Michael Moon, “have you ever heard that I am a blackguard?”
“I haven’t heard it, and I don’t believe it,” answered Inglewood, after an odd pause. “But I have heard you were—what they call rather wild.”
“If you have heard that I am wild, you can contradict the rumour,” said Moon, with an extraordinary calm; “I am tame. I am quite tame; I am about the tamest beast that crawls. I drink too much of the same kind of whisky at the same time every night. I even drink about the same amount too much. I go to the same number of public-houses. I meet the same damned women with mauve faces. I hear the same number of dirty stories— generally the same dirty stories. You may assure my friends, Inglewood, that you see before you a person whom civilization has thoroughly tamed.”
Arthur Inglewood was staring with feelings that made him nearly fall off the roof, for indeed the Irishman’s face, always sinister, was now almost demoniacal.
“Piuttosto una scatoletta per voi, signore,” disse il faceto signor Gould.
“Splendida stanza, però,” rispose con entusiasmo il signor Smith, con la testa dentro la sua borsa Gladstone. “Adoro questo genere di stanze appuntite, come il gotico. A proposito,” gridò, indicando in modo alquanto sorprendente, “dove porta quella porta?”
“A morte certa, direi,” rispose Michael Moon, fissando in su una botola impolverata e in disuso nel tetto spiovente della soffitta. “Non credo che ci sia un solaio lassù; e non so a cos’altro potrebbe portare.” Molto prima che avesse finito la frase, l’uomo dalle forti gambe verdi era balzato verso la porta nel soffitto, si era in qualche modo issato sulla sporgenza sottostante, l’aveva divelta dopo una lotta, e vi era salito attraverso. Per un momento videro le due gambe simboliche ritte come una statua troncata; poi svanirono. Attraverso il buco così aperto nel tetto apparve il vuoto e limpido cielo della sera, con una grande nube dai molti colori che vi navigava attraverso come un’intera contea capovolta.
“Ehilà, voialtri!” giunse il grido lontano di Innocent Smith, in apparenza da qualche remoto pinnacolo. “Salite quassù; e portate qualcosa delle mie cose da mangiare e da bere. È proprio il posto per un picnic.”
Con un impulso improvviso Michael afferrò due delle piccole bottiglie di vino, una per ciascun solido pugno; e Arthur Inglewood, come ipnotizzato, andò a tastoni in cerca di una scatola di biscotti e di un grande barattolo di zenzero. L’enorme mano di Innocent Smith, comparendo attraverso l’apertura, come quella di un gigante in una fiaba, ricevette questi tributi e li portò via al suo nido d’aquila; poi entrambi si issarono fuori dalla finestra. Erano entrambi atletici, e persino ginnici; Inglewood per la sua premura per l’igiene, e Moon per la sua premura per lo sport, che non era del tutto così ozioso e inattivo come quello dello sportivo medio. Inoltre entrambi ebbero un’esaltata vampata di celeste sensazione quando la porta fu sfondata nel tetto, come se una porta fosse stata sfondata nel cielo, e potessero arrampicarsi fuori sul tetto stesso dell’universo. Erano entrambi uomini che erano stati a lungo inconsapevolmente imprigionati nella banalità, benché l’uno la prendesse con comicità, e l’altro sul serio. Erano entrambi uomini, nondimeno, in cui il sentimento non era mai morto. Ma il signor Moses Gould nutriva un uguale disprezzo per il loro suicida atletismo e per il loro subcosciente trascendentalismo, e se ne stette a ridere della cosa con la spudorata razionalità di un’altra razza.
Quando il singolare Smith, a cavalcioni di un comignolo, apprese che Gould non lo seguiva, la sua infantile invadenza e buona natura lo costrinsero a tuffarsi di nuovo nella soffitta per consolarlo o persuaderlo; e Inglewood e Moon restarono soli sul lungo crinale grigio-verde del tetto d’ardesia, coi piedi contro le grondaie e le schiene contro i comignoli, guardandosi agnosticamente l’un l’altro. La loro prima sensazione fu di esser usciti nell’eternità, e che l’eternità somigliava assai al mondo alla rovescia. A entrambi venne in mente una definizione—che egli era uscito nella luce di quella lucida e radiosa ignoranza in cui tutte le credenze erano cominciate. Il cielo sopra di loro era pieno di mitologia. Il paradiso pareva abbastanza profondo da contenere tutti gli dèi. La volta dell’etere passava dal verde al giallo gradualmente come un grande frutto acerbo. Tutt’intorno al sole calato era come un limone; per tutto l’oriente era una sorta di verde dorato, più suggestivo d’una susina Regina Claudia; ma il tutto aveva ancora il vuoto della luce diurna e nulla della segretezza del crepuscolo. Sparsi qua e là attraverso quest’oro e questo verde pallido c’erano cocci e frammenti sfracellati di nube di un purpureo d’inchiostro, che parevano precipitare verso la terra in ogni sorta di colossale prospettiva. Uno di essi aveva davvero il carattere di qualche immagine assira dalle molte mitre, dalle molte barbe, dalle molte ali, con l’enorme testa all’ingiù, scagliata giù dal cielo—una sorta di falso Geova, che forse era Satana. Tutte le altre nubi avevano preposterose forme a pinnacolo, come se i palazzi del dio gli fossero stati scagliati dietro.
Eppure, mentre il vuoto firmamento era pieno di silenziosa catastrofe, l’altezza delle costruzioni umane su cui sedevano racchiudeva qua e là un minuscolo, triviale rumore che ne era l’esatta antitesi; e udirono, sei strade più giù, uno strillone che gridava, e una campana che chiamava alla cappella. Potevano anche udire chiacchiere dal giardino sottostante; e capirono che l’irreprimibile Smith doveva aver seguito Gould giù per le scale, poiché si udivano i suoi accenti ansiosi e supplichevoli, seguiti dalle proteste semischerzose della signorina Duke e dalla piena e giovanissima risata di Rosamund Hunt. L’aria aveva quella fredda bontà che viene dopo una tempesta. Michael Moon la beveva con serietà pari a quella con cui aveva bevuto la bottiglietta di claretto a buon mercato, che aveva vuotato quasi d’un fiato. Inglewood seguitava a mangiare zenzero assai lentamente e con una solennità insondabile come il cielo sopra di lui. C’era ancora abbastanza fermento nella freschezza dell’atmosfera da far loro quasi immaginare di sentire l’odore del terriccio del giardino e delle ultime rose d’autunno. D’improvviso giunse dalla stanza che si andava oscurando un argenteo ping e pong che disse loro che Rosamund aveva tirato fuori il lungamente trascurato mandolino. Dopo le prime note ci fu altra di quella lontana risata simile a un campanello.
“Inglewood,” disse Michael Moon, “hai mai sentito dire che sono una canaglia?”
“Non l’ho sentito dire, e non ci credo,” rispose Inglewood, dopo una strana pausa. “Ma ho sentito dire che eri—quello che chiamano piuttosto sregolato.”
“Se hai sentito dire che sono sregolato, puoi smentire la voce,” disse Moon, con straordinaria calma; “sono mansueto. Sono del tutto mansueto; sono all’incirca la più mansueta bestia che striscia. Bevo troppo dello stesso genere di whisky alla stessa ora ogni sera. Bevo persino press’a poco la stessa quantità di troppo. Vado nello stesso numero di osterie. Incontro le stesse maledette donne dalle facce color malva. Sento lo stesso numero di storielle sporche—in genere le stesse storielle sporche. Puoi assicurare ai miei amici, Inglewood, che vedi davanti a te una persona che la civiltà ha del tutto addomesticato.”
Arthur Inglewood fissava con sentimenti che quasi lo fecero cadere dal tetto, poiché in verità il viso dell’irlandese, sempre sinistro, era ora quasi demoniaco.
“Christ confound it!” cried out Moon, suddenly clutching the empty claret bottle, “this is about the thinnest and filthiest wine I ever uncorked, and it’s the only drink I have really enjoyed for nine years. I was never wild until just ten minutes ago.” And he sent the bottle whizzing, a wheel of glass, far away beyond the garden into the road, where, in the profound evening silence, they could even hear it break and part upon the stones.
“Moon,” said Arthur Inglewood, rather huskily, “you mustn’t be so bitter about it. Everyone has to take the world as he finds it; of course one often finds it a bit dull—”
“That fellow doesn’t,” said Michael decisively; “I mean that fellow Smith. I have a fancy there’s some method in his madness. It looks as if he could turn into a sort of wonderland any minute by taking one step out of the plain road. Who would have thought of that trapdoor? Who would have thought that this cursed colonial claret could taste quite nice among the chimney-pots? Perhaps that is the real key of fairyland. Perhaps Nosey Gould’s beastly little Empire Cigarettes ought only to be smoked on stilts, or something of that sort. Perhaps Mrs. Duke’s cold leg of mutton would seem quite appetizing at the top of a tree. Perhaps even my damned, dirty, monotonous drizzle of Old Bill Whisky—”
“Don’t be so rough on yourself,” said Inglewood, in serious distress. “The dullness isn’t your fault or the whisky’s. Fellows who don’t— fellows like me I mean—have just the same feeling that it’s all rather flat and a failure. But the world’s made like that; it’s all survival. Some people are made to get on, like Warner; and some people are made to stick quiet, like me. You can’t help your temperament. I know you’re much cleverer than I am; but you can’t help having all the loose ways of a poor literary chap, and I can’t help having all the doubts and helplessness of a small scientific chap, any more than a fish can help floating or a fern can help curling up. Humanity, as Warner said so well in that lecture, really consists of quite different tribes of animals all disguised as men.”
In the dim garden below the buzz of talk was suddenly broken by Miss Hunt’s musical instrument banging with the abruptness of artillery into a vulgar but spirited tune.
Rosamund’s voice came up rich and strong in the words of some fatuous, fashionable coon song:-
“Darkies sing a song on the old plantation, Sing it as we sang it in days long since gone by.”
Inglewood’s brown eyes softened and saddened still more as he continued his monologue of resignation to such a rollicking and romantic tune. But the blue eyes of Michael Moon brightened and hardened with a light that Inglewood did not understand. Many centuries, and many villages and valleys, would have been happier if Inglewood or Inglewood’s countrymen had ever understood that light, or guessed at the first blink that it was the battle star of Ireland.
“Nothing can ever alter it; it’s in the wheels of the universe,” went on Inglewood, in a low voice: “some men are weak and some strong, and the only thing we can do is to know that we are weak. I have been in love lots of times, but I could not do anything, for I remembered my own fickleness. I have formed opinions, but I haven’t the cheek to push them, because I’ve so often changed them. That’s the upshot, old fellow. We can’t trust ourselves— and we can’t help it.”
Michael had risen to his feet, and stood poised in a perilous position at the end of the roof, like some dark statue hung above its gable. Behind him, huge clouds of an almost impossible purple turned slowly topsy-turvy in the silent anarchy of heaven. Their gyration made the dark figure seem yet dizzier.
“Let us…” he said, and was suddenly silent.
“Let us what?” asked Arthur Inglewood, rising equally quick though somewhat more cautiously, for his friend seemed to find some difficulty in speech.
“Let us go and do some of these things we can’t do,” said Michael.
At the same moment there burst out of the trapdoor below them the cockatoo hair and flushed face of Innocent Smith, calling to them that they must come down as the “concert” was in full swing, and Mr. Moses Gould was about to recite “Young Lochinvar.”
As they dropped into Innocent’s attic they nearly tumbled over its entertaining impedimenta again. Inglewood, staring at the littered floor, thought instinctively of the littered floor of a nursery. He was therefore the more moved, and even shocked, when his eye fell on a large well-polished American revolver.
“Hullo!” he cried, stepping back from the steely glitter as men step back from a serpent; “are you afraid of burglars? or when and why do you deal death out of that machine gun?”
“Oh, that!” said Smith, throwing it a single glance; “I deal life out of that,” and he went bounding down the stairs.
«Cristo lo confonda!» esclamò Moon, afferrando improvvisamente la bottiglia vuota di clarete «questo è il vino più acquoso e schifoso che io abbia mai stappato, ed è l’unico drink che ho veramente apprezzato negli ultimi nove anni. Non sono stato ubriaco fino a dieci minuti fa». E mandò la bottiglia a fischiare, una ruota di vetro, lontano oltre il giardino sulla strada dove, nel profondo silenzio serale, potevano persino sentirlo rompersi e frantumarsi sulle pietre.
«Moon», disse Arthur Inglewood con voce un po’ rauca, «non dovresti essere così amaro per questo. Ognuno deve prendere il mondo come lo trova; naturalmente spesso lo si trova un po’ noioso…»
“Quell’uomo non lo fa”, disse Michael con decisione; “voglio dire quell’uomo Smith. Ho la sensazione che ci sia un metodo nella sua follia. Sembra che possa trasformarsi in una specie di Paese delle Meraviglie da un momento all’altro, facendo solo un passo fuori dalla strada normale. Chi avrebbe mai pensato a quella botola? Chi avrebbe mai pensato che questo maledetto vino coloniale potesse avere un sapore piuttosto buono tra i comignoli? Forse questa è la vera chiave del Paese delle Meraviglie. Forse quelle orribili sigarette Empire di Nosey Gould dovrebbero essere fumate su dei trampoli, o qualcosa del genere. Forse il freddo arrosto di pecora della signora Duke sembrerebbe piuttosto appetitoso in cima a un albero. Forse anche la mia maledetta, lurida, monotona pioggerellina di Old Bill Whisky…”
«Non essere così duro con te stesso», disse Inglewood, seriamente turbato. «La noia non è colpa tua né del whisky. I tipi che non… voglio dire quelli come me, hanno la stessa sensazione che tutto sia piuttosto piatto e un fallimento. Ma il mondo è fatto così; è tutta sopravvivenza. Alcune persone sono fatte per andare avanti, come Warner; e alcune persone sono fatte per rimanere tranquille, come me. Non puoi farci niente col tuo temperamento. So che sei molto più intelligente di me; ma non puoi fare a meno di avere tutti i modi sciatti di un povero letterato, e io non posso fare a meno di avere tutti i dubbi e l’impotenza di uno scienziatuccio, proprio come un pesce non può fare a meno di galleggiare o una felce di arricciarsi. L’umanità, come Warner ha detto così bene in quella conferenza, è veramente composta da tribù completamente diverse di animali tutti mascherati da uomini».
Nel giardino buio sotto di loro, il brusio delle conversazioni fu improvvisamente interrotto dallo strumento musicale della signorina Hunt che suonava con l’inaspettata violenza dell’artiglieria una melodia volgare ma vivace.
La voce di Rosamunda risuonò ricca e forte nelle parole di una canzone negra frivola e alla moda: -
«I negri cantano una canzone nella vecchia piantagione, cantiamola come la cantavamo nei giorni ormai lontani.»
Gli occhi castani di Inglewood si ammorbidirono e s’infestarono ancora più profondamente mentre continuava il suo monologo di rassegnazione su un ritmo così allegro e romantico. Ma gli occhi azzurri di Michael Moon si illuminarono e indurirono con una luce che Inglewood non capiva. Molti secoli, molti villaggi e molte valli sarebbero stati più felici se Inglewood o i suoi compatrioti avessero mai capito quella luce, o intuito al primo lampeggio che era la stella della battaglia d’Irlanda.
«Niente potrà mai cambiarla; è nelle ruote dell’universo», continuò Inglewood a bassa voce: «alcuni uomini sono deboli e altri forti, e l’unica cosa che possiamo fare è sapere di essere deboli. Sono stato innamorato molte volte, ma non potevo fare nulla, perché ricordavo la mia stessa incoerenza. Ho formato opinioni, ma non ho il coraggio di sostenerle, perché le ho cambiate così spesso. Questo è il risultato, vecchio mio. Non possiamo fidarci di noi stessi— e non possiamo farne a meno».
Michael si era alzato e stava in piedi in una posizione pericolosa alla fine del tetto, come una statua scura appesa sopra il suo frontone. Dietro di lui enormi nuvole di un viola quasi impossibile giravano lentamente a testa in giù nell’anarchia silenziosa del cielo. La loro rotazione rendeva la figura scura ancora più vertiginosa.
«Facciamo…» disse e improvvisamente tacque.
«Cosa facciamo?» chiese Arthur Inglewood, alzandosi con la stessa prontezza ma un po’ più cautamente, perché il suo amico sembrava avere qualche difficoltà a parlare.
“Andiamo a fare alcune di quelle cose che non possiamo fare”, disse Michele.
Nello stesso istante dalla botola sotto di loro spuntarono i capelli da cacatua e il viso arrossato di Innocent Smith, che li chiamava per dirgli che dovevano scendere perché il «concerto» era in pieno svolgimento e il signor Moses Gould stava per recitare «Young Lochinvar».
Mentre scendevano nella soffitta di Innocent rischiavano ancora una volta di inciampare nei suoi divertenti impedimenta. Inglewood, fissando il pavimento ingombro, pensò istintivamente al pavimento ingombro di un asilo. Fu quindi tanto più commosso e persino scioccato quando i suoi occhi caddero su una grande rivoltella americana ben lucidata.
«Ehi!» esclamò, indietreggiando dal bagliore d’acciaio come gli uomini si ritraggono da un serpente; «hai paura dei ladri? o quando e perché spari con quella mitragliatrice?»
«Oh, quello!» disse Smith con un solo sguardo «distribuisco la vita da lì», e si mise a scendere le scale di corsa.
Chapter III
The Banner of Beacon
All next day at Beacon House there was a crazy sense that it was everybody’s birthday. It is the fashion to talk of institutions as cold and cramping things. The truth is that when people are in exceptionally high spirits, really wild with freedom and invention, they always must, and they always do, create institutions. When men are weary they fall into anarchy; but while they are gay and vigorous they invariably make rules. This, which is true of all the churches and republics of history, is also true of the most trivial parlour game or the most unsophisticated meadow romp. We are never free until some institution frees us; and liberty cannot exist till it is declared by authority. Even the wild authority of the harlequin Smith was still authority, because it produced everywhere a crop of crazy regulations and conditions. He filled every one with his own half-lunatic life; but it was not expressed in destruction, but rather in a dizzy and toppling construction. Each person with a hobby found it turning into an institution. Rosamund’s songs seemed to coalesce into a kind of opera; Michael’s jests and paragraphs into a magazine. His pipe and her mandoline seemed between them to make a sort of smoking concert. The bashful and bewildered Arthur Inglewood almost struggled against his own growing importance. He felt as if, in spite of him, his photographs were turning into a picture gallery, and his bicycle into a gymkhana. But no one had any time to criticize these impromptu estates and offices, for they followed each other in wild succession like the topics of a rambling talker.
Existence with such a man was an obstacle race made out of pleasant obstacles. Out of any homely and trivial object he could drag reels of exaggeration, like a conjurer. Nothing could be more shy and impersonal than poor Arthur’s photography. Yet the preposterous Smith was seen assisting him eagerly through sunny morning hours, and an indefensible sequence described as “Moral Photography” began to unroll about the boarding-house. It was only a version of the old photographer’s joke which produces the same figure twice on one plate, making a man play chess with himself, dine with himself, and so on. But these plates were more hysterical and ambitious—as, “Miss Hunt forgets Herself,” showing that lady answering her own too rapturous recognition with a most appalling stare of ignorance; or “Mr. Moon questions Himself,” in which Mr. Moon appeared as one driven to madness under his own legal cross-examination, which was conducted with a long forefinger and an air of ferocious waggery. One highly successful trilogy—representing Inglewood recognizing Inglewood, Inglewood prostrating himself before Inglewood, and Inglewood severely beating Inglewood with an umbrella— Innocent Smith wanted to have enlarged and put up in the hall, like a sort of fresco, with the inscription,—
“Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control— These three alone will make a man a prig.”
— Tennyson.
Nothing, again, could be more prosaic and impenetrable than the domestic energies of Miss Diana Duke. But Innocent had somehow blundered on the discovery that her thrifty dressmaking went with a considerable feminine care for dress—the one feminine thing that had never failed her solitary self-respect. In consequence Smith pestered her with a theory (which he really seemed to take seriously) that ladies might combine economy with magnificence if they would draw light chalk patterns on a plain dress and then dust them off again. He set up “Smith’s Lightning Dressmaking Company,” with two screens, a cardboard placard, and box of bright soft crayons; and Miss Diana actually threw him an abandoned black overall or working dress on which to exercise the talents of a modiste. He promptly produced for her a garment aflame with red and gold sunflowers; she held it up an instant to her shoulders, and looked like an empress. And Arthur Inglewood, some hours afterwards cleaning his bicycle (with his usual air of being inextricably hidden in it), glanced up; and his hot face grew hotter, for Diana stood laughing for one flash in the doorway, and her dark robe was rich with the green and purple of great decorative peacocks, like a secret garden in the “Arabian Nights.” A pang too swift to be named pain or pleasure went through his heart like an old-world rapier. He remembered how pretty he thought her years ago, when he was ready to fall in love with anybody; but it was like remembering a worship of some Babylonian princess in some previous existence. At his next glimpse of her (and he caught himself awaiting it) the purple and green chalk was dusted off, and she went by quickly in her working clothes.
As for Mrs. Duke, none who knew that matron could conceive her as actively resisting this invasion that had turned her house upside down. But among the most exact observers it was seriously believed that she liked it. For she was one of those women who at bottom regard all men as equally mad, wild animals of some utterly separate species. And it is doubtful if she really saw anything more eccentric or inexplicable in Smith’s chimney-pot picnics or crimson sunflowers than she had in the chemicals of Inglewood or the sardonic speeches of Moon. Courtesy, on the other hand, is a thing that anybody can understand, and Smith’s manners were as courteous as they were unconventional. She said he was “a real gentleman,” by which she simply meant a kind-hearted man, which is a very different thing. She would sit at the head of the table with fat, folded hands and a fat, folded smile for hours and hours, while every one else was talking at once. At least, the only other exception was Rosamund’s companion, Mary Gray, whose silence was of a much more eager sort. Though she never spoke she always looked as if she might speak any minute. Perhaps this is the very definition of a companion. Innocent Smith seemed to throw himself, as into other adventures, into the adventure of making her talk. He never succeeded, yet he was never snubbed; if he achieved anything, it was only to draw attention to this quiet figure, and to turn her, by ever so little, from a modesty to a mystery. But if she was a riddle, every one recognized that she was a fresh and unspoilt riddle, like the riddle of the sky and the woods in spring. Indeed, though she was rather older than the other two girls, she had an early morning ardour, a fresh earnestness of youth, which Rosamund seemed to have lost in the mere spending of money, and Diana in the mere guarding of it. Smith looked at her again and again. Her eyes and mouth were set in her face the wrong way—which was really the right way. She had the knack of saying everything with her face: her silence was a sort of steady applause.
Capitolo III
Il vessillo di Beacon
Per tutto il giorno seguente, a Beacon House, aleggiava la folle sensazione che fosse il compleanno di tutti. È di moda parlare delle istituzioni come di cose fredde e costrittive. La verità è che quando gli uomini sono di uno straordinario buon umore, davvero pazzi di libertà e d’invenzione, essi sempre devono, e sempre lo fanno, creare istituzioni. Quando gli uomini sono stanchi cadono nell’anarchia; ma finché sono gai e vigorosi immancabilmente si danno delle regole. Questo, che è vero di tutte le chiese e le repubbliche della storia, è vero anche del più triviale gioco da salotto o del più ingenuo trastullo in un prato. Non siamo mai liberi finché qualche istituzione non ci libera; e la libertà non può esistere finché non è proclamata dall’autorità. Persino la selvaggia autorità dell’arlecchino Smith era pur sempre autorità, poiché produceva dappertutto un raccolto di folli regolamenti e condizioni. Egli riempiva tutti della sua stessa vita mezzo lunatica; ma essa non si esprimeva nella distruzione, bensì piuttosto in una vertiginosa e traballante costruzione. Ogni persona che avesse un passatempo se lo vedeva tramutare in un’istituzione. Le canzoni di Rosamund parevano coagularsi in una sorta di opera lirica; le facezie e i paragrafi di Michael in una rivista. La pipa di lui e il mandolino di lei parevano insieme dar vita a una specie di concerto tra il fumo. Il timido e sconcertato Arthur Inglewood quasi lottava contro la propria crescente importanza. Si sentiva come se, suo malgrado, le sue fotografie si stessero tramutando in una pinacoteca, e la sua bicicletta in una gimcana. Ma nessuno aveva tempo di criticare questi improvvisati possedimenti e uffici, poiché si susseguivano in selvaggia successione come gli argomenti di un chiacchierone divagante.
L’esistenza con un uomo simile era una corsa a ostacoli fatta di piacevoli ostacoli. Da qualsiasi oggetto casalingo e triviale egli poteva estrarre rocchetti di esagerazione, come un prestigiatore. Nulla poteva essere più schivo e impersonale della fotografia del povero Arthur. Eppure si vide il preposteroso Smith assisterlo con ardore durante le assolate ore mattutine, e un’indifendibile sequenza descritta come “Fotografia Morale” cominciò a dispiegarsi per la pensione. Non era che una versione della vecchia burla del fotografo che produce due volte la stessa figura sulla stessa lastra, facendo giocare un uomo a scacchi con se stesso, pranzare con se stesso, e così via. Ma queste lastre erano più isteriche e ambiziose—come “La signorina Hunt si dimentica di sé”, che mostrava quella dama rispondere al proprio troppo rapito riconoscimento con un più che spaventoso sguardo d’ignoranza; o “Il signor Moon interroga se stesso”, in cui il signor Moon appariva come uno spinto alla pazzia sotto il proprio controinterrogatorio legale, condotto con un lungo indice e un’aria di feroce arguzia. Una trilogia di gran successo—che rappresentava Inglewood mentre riconosce Inglewood, Inglewood mentre si prostra davanti a Inglewood, e Inglewood mentre picchia severamente Inglewood con un ombrello—Innocent Smith la voleva far ingrandire e appendere nell’ingresso, come una sorta di affresco, con l’iscrizione:—
“Rispetto di sé, conoscenza di sé, dominio di sé— questi tre soli faranno di un uomo un saccente.”
— Tennyson.
Nulla, ancora, poteva essere più prosaico e impenetrabile delle domestiche energie della signorina Diana Duke. Ma Innocent si era in qualche modo imbattuto per caso nella scoperta che la sua parsimoniosa arte del cucito si accompagnava a una considerevole cura femminile per l’abbigliamento—l’unica cosa femminile che non avesse mai fatto difetto al suo solitario amor proprio. Di conseguenza Smith la tormentava con una teoria (che pareva prendere davvero sul serio) secondo cui le signore avrebbero potuto unire l’economia alla magnificenza se avessero tracciato leggeri disegni a gesso su un abito semplice per poi spolverarli via di nuovo. Fondò la “Compagnia di Sartoria Fulminea di Smith”, con due paraventi, un cartello di cartone e una scatola di gessetti morbidi e vivaci; e la signorina Diana gli gettò davvero un dismesso grembiule nero, o abito da lavoro, su cui esercitare i talenti di una modista. Egli le produsse prontamente una veste avvampante di girasoli rossi e d’oro; ella se la tenne un istante alle spalle, e pareva un’imperatrice. E Arthur Inglewood, alcune ore dopo, mentre puliva la bicicletta (con la sua solita aria di esservi inestricabilmente nascosto dentro), alzò lo sguardo; e il suo viso acceso si fece ancor più acceso, poiché Diana stava ridendo per un lampo sulla soglia, e la sua veste scura era ricca del verde e del porpora di grandi pavoni decorativi, come un giardino segreto delle “Mille e una notte.” Una fitta troppo rapida per essere chiamata dolore o piacere le trapassò—gli trapassò il cuore come uno spadino d’altri tempi. Ricordava quanto graziosa l’avesse trovata anni prima, quando era pronto a innamorarsi di chiunque; ma era come ricordare l’adorazione di qualche principessa babilonese in qualche precedente esistenza. Alla sua successiva visione di lei (e si sorprese ad attenderla), il gesso porpora e verde era spolverato via, ed ella passò in fretta nei suoi abiti da lavoro.
Quanto alla signora Duke, nessuno che conoscesse quella matrona avrebbe potuto concepirla mentre resisteva attivamente a questa invasione che le aveva messo la casa sottosopra. Ma tra gli osservatori più attenti si credeva seriamente che la cosa le piacesse. Poiché era una di quelle donne che in fondo considerano tutti gli uomini ugualmente pazzi, animali selvatici di una specie del tutto a parte. Ed è dubbio se ella vedesse davvero qualcosa di più eccentrico o inspiegabile nei picnic sui comignoli o nei girasoli cremisi di Smith che nelle sostanze chimiche di Inglewood o nei sardonici discorsi di Moon. La cortesia, d’altro canto, è una cosa che chiunque può capire, e le maniere di Smith erano tanto cortesi quanto poco convenzionali. Diceva che egli era “un vero gentiluomo”, con che intendeva semplicemente un uomo di buon cuore, che è una cosa assai diversa. Se ne stava seduta a capotavola con le grasse mani intrecciate e un grasso, ripiegato sorriso per ore e ore, mentre tutti gli altri parlavano tutti insieme. Se non altro, l’unica altra eccezione era la compagna di Rosamund, Mary Gray, il cui silenzio era di tutt’altra e più ansiosa specie. Benché non parlasse mai, sembrava sempre sul punto di parlare da un momento all’altro. Forse è questa la vera definizione di una dama di compagnia. Innocent Smith pareva gettarsi, come in altre avventure, nell’avventura di farla parlare. Non ci riusciva mai, eppure non veniva mai respinto; se otteneva qualcosa, era solo di attirare l’attenzione su questa quieta figura, e di trasformarla, sia pure di pochissimo, da una modestia in un mistero. Ma se era un enigma, tutti riconoscevano che era un enigma fresco e non guasto, come l’enigma del cielo e dei boschi a primavera. Difatti, benché fosse un po’ più grande delle altre due ragazze, aveva un ardore da primo mattino, una fresca serietà di giovinezza, che Rosamund pareva aver perduto nel mero spendere denaro, e Diana nel mero custodirlo. Smith la guardava e riguardava. I suoi occhi e la sua bocca erano disposti nel viso nel modo sbagliato—che era in realtà il modo giusto. Aveva il dono di dire ogni cosa col viso: il suo silenzio era una sorta di costante applauso.
But among the hilarious experiments of that holiday (which seemed more like a week’s holiday than a day’s) one experiment towers supreme, not because it was any sillier or more successful than the others, but because out of this particular folly flowed all of the odd events that were to follow. All the other practical jokes exploded of themselves, and left vacancy; all the other fictions returned upon themselves, and were finished like a song. But the string of solid and startling events— which were to include a hansom cab, a detective, a pistol, and a marriage licence—were all made primarily possible by the joke about the High Court of Beacon.
It had originated, not with Innocent Smith, but with Michael Moon. He was in a strange glow and pressure of spirits, and talked incessantly; yet he had never been more sarcastic, and even inhuman. He used his old useless knowledge as a barrister to talk entertainingly of a tribunal that was a parody on the pompous anomalies of English law. The High Court of Beacon, he declared, was a splendid example of our free and sensible constitution. It had been founded by King John in defiance of the Magna Carta, and now held absolute power over windmills, wine and spirit licences, ladies traveling in Turkey, revision of sentences for dog-stealing and parricide, as well as anything whatever that happened in the town of Market Bosworth. The whole hundred and nine seneschals of the High Court of Beacon met once in every four centuries; but in the intervals (as Mr. Moon explained) the whole powers of the institution were vested in Mrs. Duke. Tossed about among the rest of the company, however, the High Court did not retain its historical and legal seriousness, but was used somewhat unscrupulously in a riot of domestic detail. If somebody spilt the Worcester Sauce on the tablecloth, he was quite sure it was a rite without which the sittings and findings of the Court would be invalid; or if somebody wanted a window to remain shut, he would suddenly remember that none but the third son of the lord of the manor of Penge had the right to open it. They even went to the length of making arrests and conducting criminal inquiries. The proposed trial of Moses Gould for patriotism was rather above the heads of the company, especially of the criminal; but the trial of Inglewood on a charge of photographic libel, and his triumphant acquittal upon a plea of insanity, were admitted to be in the best tradition of the Court.
But when Smith was in wild spirits he grew more and more serious, not more and more flippant like Michael Moon. This proposal of a private court of justice, which Moon had thrown off with the detachment of a political humourist, Smith really caught hold of with the eagerness of an abstract philosopher. It was by far the best thing they could do, he declared, to claim sovereign powers even for the individual household.
“You believe in Home Rule for Ireland; I believe in Home Rule for homes,” he cried eagerly to Michael. “It would be better if every father COULD kill his son, as with the old Romans; it would be better, because nobody would be killed. Let’s issue a Declaration of Independence from Beacon House. We could grow enough greens in that garden to support us, and when the tax-collector comes let’s tell him we’re self-supporting, and play on him with the hose… Well, perhaps, as you say, we couldn’t very well have a hose, as that comes from the main; but we could sink a well in this chalk, and a lot could be done with water-jugs… Let this really be Beacon House. Let’s light a bonfire of independence on the roof, and see house after house answering it across the valley of the Thames! Let us begin the League of the Free Families! Away with Local Government! A fig for Local Patriotism! Let every house be a sovereign state as this is, and judge its own children by its own law, as we do by the Court of Beacon. Let us cut the painter, and begin to be happy together, as if we were on a desert island.”
“I know that desert island,” said Michael Moon; “it only exists in the ‘Swiss Family Robinson.’ A man feels a strange desire for some sort of vegetable milk, and crash comes down some unexpected cocoa-nut from some undiscovered monkey. A literary man feels inclined to pen a sonnet, and at once an officious porcupine rushes out of a thicket and shoots out one of his quills.”
“Don’t you say a word against the ‘Swiss Family Robinson,’” cried Innocent with great warmth. “It mayn’t be exact science, but it’s dead accurate philosophy. When you’re really shipwrecked, you do really find what you want. When you’re really on a desert island, you never find it a desert. If we were really besieged in this garden, we’d find a hundred English birds and English berries that we never knew were here. If we were snowed up in this room, we’d be the better for reading scores of books in that bookcase that we don’t even know are there; we’d have talks with each other, good, terrible talks, that we shall go to the grave without guessing; we’d find materials for everything— christening, marriage, or funeral; yes, even for a coronation— if we didn’t decide to be a republic.”
“A coronation on ‘Swiss Family’ lines, I suppose,” said Michael, laughing. “Oh, I know you would find everything in that atmosphere. If we wanted such a simple thing, for instance, as a Coronation Canopy, we should walk down beyond the geraniums and find the Canopy Tree in full bloom. If we wanted such a trifle as a crown of gold, why, we should be digging up dandelions, and we should find a gold mine under the lawn. And when we wanted oil for the ceremony, why I suppose a great storm would wash everything on shore, and we should find there was a Whale on the premises.”
“And so there IS a whale on the premises for all you know,” asseverated Smith, striking the table with passion. “I bet you’ve never examined the premises! I bet you’ve never been round at the back as I was this morning— for I found the very thing you say could only grow on a tree. There’s an old sort of square tent up against the dustbin; it’s got three holes in the canvas, and a pole’s broken, so it’s not much good as a tent, but as a Canopy—” And his voice quite failed him to express its shining adequacy; then he went on with controversial eagerness: “You see I take every challenge as you make it. I believe every blessed thing you say couldn’t be here has been here all the time. You say you want a whale washed up for oil. Why, there’s oil in that cruet-stand at your elbow; and I don’t believe anybody has touched it or thought of it for years. And as for your gold crown, we’re none of us wealthy here, but we could collect enough ten-shilling bits from our own pockets to string round a man’s head for half an hour; or one of Miss Hunt’s gold bangles is nearly big enough to—”
Ma tra gli esilaranti esperimenti di quella vacanza (che pareva più una vacanza d’una settimana che d’un giorno) uno ne svetta supremo, non perché fosse più sciocco o più riuscito degli altri, ma perché da questa particolare follia scaturirono tutti gli strani eventi che dovevano seguire. Tutti gli altri scherzi esplosero da sé, e lasciarono il vuoto; tutte le altre finzioni ritornarono su se stesse, e finirono come una canzone. Ma la sequenza di eventi solidi e sorprendenti— che dovevano comprendere una carrozza da nolo, un investigatore, una pistola e una licenza di matrimonio—furono tutti resi possibili in primo luogo dallo scherzo sull’Alta Corte di Beacon.
Era nata, non con Innocent Smith, ma con Michael Moon. Era in uno strano ardore e in una strana concitazione di spirito, e parlava senza posa; eppure non era mai stato più sarcastico, e persino disumano. Adoperava la sua vecchia e inutile scienza d’avvocato per discorrere con brio d’un tribunale che era una parodia delle pompose anomalie del diritto inglese. L’Alta Corte di Beacon, dichiarò, era uno splendido esempio della nostra libera e assennata costituzione. Era stata fondata da re Giovanni in spregio alla Magna Carta, e ora deteneva potere assoluto sui mulini a vento, sulle licenze di vino e liquori, sulle signore in viaggio in Turchia, sulla revisione delle sentenze per furto di cani e parricidio, oltre che su qualunque cosa accadesse nella città di Market Bosworth. Tutti i centonove siniscalchi dell’Alta Corte di Beacon si riunivano una volta ogni quattro secoli; ma negli intervalli (come spiegava il signor Moon) tutti i poteri dell’istituzione erano riposti nella signora Duke. Sballottata però tra i restanti della compagnia, l’Alta Corte non conservava la sua serietà storica e legale, ma veniva impiegata con una certa spregiudicatezza in un tripudio di dettagli domestici. Se qualcuno rovesciava la salsa Worcester sulla tovaglia, era certissimo che si trattava d’un rito senza il quale le sedute e i verdetti della Corte sarebbero stati invalidi; o se qualcuno voleva che una finestra restasse chiusa, si rammentava d’un tratto che nessuno tranne il terzogenito del signore del maniero di Penge aveva il diritto d’aprirla. Giunsero persino al punto d’operare arresti e condurre inchieste criminali. Il proposto processo a Moses Gould per patriottismo era piuttosto al di sopra delle teste della compagnia, e specialmente del criminale; ma il processo a Inglewood con l’accusa di diffamazione fotografica, e la sua trionfale assoluzione per infermità mentale, furono ammessi come degni della migliore tradizione della Corte.
Ma quando Smith era in vena selvaggia si faceva sempre più serio, non sempre più frivolo come Michael Moon. Questa proposta d’una corte di giustizia privata, che Moon aveva buttato lì col distacco d’un umorista politico, Smith la raccolse davvero con l’ardore d’un filosofo astratto. Era di gran lunga la cosa migliore che potessero fare, dichiarò, rivendicare poteri sovrani perfino per il singolo focolare domestico.
“Tu credi nell’autonomia per l’Irlanda; io credo nell’autonomia per le case,” gridò con foga a Michael. “Sarebbe meglio se ogni padre POTESSE uccidere il proprio figlio, come tra gli antichi Romani; sarebbe meglio, perché nessuno verrebbe ucciso. Emaniamo una Dichiarazione d’Indipendenza da Beacon House. Potremmo coltivare in quel giardino verdura a sufficienza per mantenerci, e quando viene l’esattore diciamogli che siamo autosufficienti, e innaffiamolo con la canna… Be’, forse, come dici tu, non potremmo davvero avere una canna, dato che l’acqua viene dall’acquedotto; ma potremmo scavare un pozzo in questo gesso, e molto si potrebbe fare con le brocche d’acqua… Che questa sia davvero Beacon House. Accendiamo sul tetto un falò d’indipendenza, e vediamo casa dopo casa rispondergli attraverso la valle del Tamigi! Diamo inizio alla Lega delle Famiglie Libere! Abbasso il governo locale! Un fico secco per il patriottismo locale! Che ogni casa sia uno stato sovrano come questo, e giudichi i propri figli secondo la propria legge, come facciamo noi con la Corte di Beacon. Tagliamo la fune, e cominciamo a essere felici insieme, come se fossimo su un’isola deserta.”
“La conosco quell’isola deserta,” disse Michael Moon; “esiste soltanto nella ‘Famiglia Robinson svizzera.’ Un uomo prova uno strano desiderio d’una specie di latte vegetale, e crac, giù cade un’inattesa noce di cocco da qualche scimmia mai scoperta. Un letterato si sente incline a vergare un sonetto, e subito un istrice ossequioso schizza fuori da un cespuglio e lancia uno dei suoi aculei.”
“Non dire una parola contro la ‘Famiglia Robinson svizzera,’” gridò Innocent con gran calore. “Non sarà scienza esatta, ma è filosofia perfettamente esatta. Quando fai davvero naufragio, trovi davvero ciò che ti serve. Quando sei davvero su un’isola deserta, non la trovi mai deserta. Se fossimo davvero assediati in questo giardino, troveremmo cento uccelli inglesi e bacche inglesi che non sapevamo fossero qui. Se restassimo bloccati dalla neve in questa stanza, avremmo tutto da guadagnare a leggere decine di libri in quella libreria di cui ignoriamo perfino l’esistenza; faremmo conversazioni tra noi, buone, terribili conversazioni, che ci porteremmo nella tomba senza mai sospettarle; troveremmo materiali per ogni cosa— battesimo, matrimonio o funerale; sì, persino per un’incoronazione— se non decidessimo di essere una repubblica.”
“Un’incoronazione secondo i canoni della ‘Famiglia Robinson,’ immagino,” disse Michael, ridendo. “Oh, lo so che troveresti ogni cosa in quell’atmosfera. Se volessimo una cosa tanto semplice, per esempio, come un Baldacchino d’Incoronazione, dovremmo scendere oltre i gerani e trovare l’Albero del Baldacchino in piena fioritura. Se volessimo un’inezia come una corona d’oro, ebbene, staremmo a estirpare denti di leone, e troveremmo una miniera d’oro sotto il prato. E quando volessimo l’olio per la cerimonia, be’, immagino che una gran tempesta riverserebbe ogni cosa sulla riva, e scopriremmo che c’è una Balena nella proprietà.”
“E infatti C’È una balena nella proprietà, per quel che ne sai,” asseverò Smith, battendo il tavolo con passione. “Scommetto che non hai mai esaminato la proprietà! Scommetto che non sei mai stato dietro come ci sono stato io stamattina— perché ho trovato proprio la cosa che tu dici potrebbe crescere solo su un albero. C’è una vecchia tenda quadrata addossata al bidone della spazzatura; ha tre buchi nella tela, e un palo spezzato, sicché non serve granché come tenda, ma come Baldacchino—” E la sua voce gli venne del tutto meno per esprimerne la fulgida adeguatezza; poi proseguì con ardore polemico: “Vedi, io raccolgo ogni sfida come tu la lanci. Credo che ogni benedetta cosa che tu dici non potrebbe essere qui sia stata qui da sempre, per tutto il tempo. Dici che vuoi una balena spiaggiata per l’olio. Ebbene, c’è olio in quel portaampolle al tuo gomito; e non credo che nessuno l’abbia toccato o ci abbia pensato per anni. E quanto alla tua corona d’oro, nessuno di noi qui è ricco, ma potremmo raccogliere abbastanza monete da dieci scellini dalle nostre stesse tasche da infilarne una fila attorno alla testa d’un uomo per mezz’ora; oppure uno dei braccialetti d’oro della signorina Hunt è quasi abbastanza grande da—”
The good-humoured Rosamund was almost choking with laughter. “All is not gold that glitters,” she said, “and besides—”
“What a mistake that is!” cried Innocent Smith, leaping up in great excitement. “All is gold that glitters— especially now we are a Sovereign State. What’s the good of a Sovereign State if you can’t define a sovereign? We can make anything a precious metal, as men could in the morning of the world. They didn’t choose gold because it was rare; your scientists can tell you twenty sorts of slime much rarer. They chose gold because it was bright—because it was a hard thing to find, but pretty when you’ve found it. You can’t fight with golden swords or eat golden biscuits; you can only look at it—and you can look at it out here.”
With one of his incalculable motions he sprang back and burst open the doors into the garden. At the same time also, with one of his gestures that never seemed at the instant so unconventional as they were, he stretched out his hand to Mary Gray, and led her out on to the lawn as if for a dance.
The French windows, thus flung open, let in an evening even lovelier than that of the day before. The west was swimming with sanguine colours, and a sort of sleepy flame lay along the lawn. The twisted shadows of the one or two garden trees showed upon this sheen, not gray or black, as in common daylight, but like arabesques written in vivid violet ink on some page of Eastern gold. The sunset was one of those festive and yet mysterious conflagrations in which common things by their colours remind us of costly or curious things. The slates upon the sloping roof burned like the plumes of a vast peacock, in every mysterious blend of blue and green. The red-brown bricks of the wall glowed with all the October tints of strong ruby and tawny wines. The sun seemed to set each object alight with a different coloured flame, like a man lighting fireworks; and even Innocent’s hair, which was of a rather colourless fairness, seemed to have a flame of pagan gold on it as he strode across the lawn towards the one tall ridge of rockery.
“What would be the good of gold,” he was saying, “if it did not glitter? Why should we care for a black sovereign any more than for a black sun at noon? A black button would do just as well. Don’t you see that everything in this garden looks like a jewel? And will you kindly tell me what the deuce is the good of a jewel except that it looks like a jewel? Leave off buying and selling, and start looking! Open your eyes, and you’ll wake up in the New Jerusalem.
“All is gold that glitters— Tree and tower of brass; Rolls the golden evening air Down the golden grass. Kick the cry to Jericho, How yellow mud is sold; All is gold that glitters, For the glitter is the gold.”
“And who wrote that?” asked Rosamund, amused.
“No one will ever write it,” answered Smith, and cleared the rockery with a flying leap.
“Really,” said Rosamund to Michael Moon, “he ought to be sent to an asylum. Don’t you think so?”
“I beg your pardon,” inquired Michael, rather sombrely; his long, swarthy head was dark against the sunset, and, either by accident or mood, he had the look of something isolated and even hostile amid the social extravagance of the garden.
“I only said Mr. Smith ought to go to an asylum,” repeated the lady.
The lean face seemed to grow longer and longer, for Moon was unmistakably sneering. “No,” he said; “I don’t think it’s at all necessary.”
“What do you mean?” asked Rosamund quickly. “Why not?”
“Because he is in one now,” answered Michael Moon, in a quiet but ugly voice. “Why, didn’t you know?”
“What?” cried the girl, and there was a break in her voice; for the Irishman’s face and voice were really almost creepy. With his dark figure and dark sayings in all that sunshine he looked like the devil in paradise.
“I’m sorry,” he continued, with a sort of harsh humility. “Of course we don’t talk about it much… but I thought we all really knew.”
“Knew what?”
“Well,” answered Moon, “that Beacon House is a certain rather singular sort of house—a house with the tiles loose, shall we say? Innocent Smith is only the doctor that visits us; hadn’t you come when he called before? As most of our maladies are melancholic, of course he has to be extra cheery. Sanity, of course, seems a very bumptious eccentric thing to us. Jumping over a wall, climbing a tree—that’s his bedside manner.”
“You daren’t say such a thing!” cried Rosamund in a rage. “You daren’t suggest that I—”
“Not more than I am,” said Michael soothingly; “not more than the rest of us. Haven’t you ever noticed that Miss Duke never sits still—a notorious sign? Haven’t you ever observed that Inglewood is always washing his hands— a known mark of mental disease? I, of course, am a dipsomaniac.”
“I don’t believe you,” broke out his companion, not without agitation. “I’ve heard you had some bad habits—”
“All habits are bad habits,” said Michael, with deadly calm. “Madness does not come by breaking out, but by giving in; by settling down in some dirty, little, self-repeating circle of ideas; by being tamed. YOU went mad about money, because you’re an heiress.”
“It’s a lie,” cried Rosamund furiously. “I never was mean about money.”
“You were worse,” said Michael, in a low voice and yet violently. “You thought that other people were. You thought every man who came near you must be a fortune-hunter; you would not let yourself go and be sane; and now you’re mad and I’m mad, and serve us right.”
“You brute!” said Rosamund, quite white. “And is this true?”
With the intellectual cruelty of which the Celt is capable when his abysses are in revolt, Michael was silent for some seconds, and then stepped back with an ironical bow. “Not literally true, of course,” he said; “only really true. An allegory, shall we say? a social satire.”
La bonaria Rosamund quasi soffocava dalle risa. “Non è tutto oro quel che luccica,” disse, “e per giunta—”
“Che errore è mai questo!” gridò Innocent Smith, balzando in piedi in gran fervore. “Tutto è oro quel che luccica— specialmente ora che siamo uno Stato Sovrano. A che serve uno Stato Sovrano se non sai definire un sovrano? Possiamo fare di qualunque cosa un metallo prezioso, come gli uomini potevano nel mattino del mondo. Non scelsero l’oro perché era raro; i vostri scienziati sanno indicarvi venti tipi di melma assai più rari. Scelsero l’oro perché era splendente—perché era una cosa difficile da trovare, ma graziosa una volta trovata. Non puoi combattere con spade d’oro né mangiare biscotti d’oro; puoi soltanto guardarlo—e puoi guardarlo qui fuori.”
Con uno dei suoi moti incalcolabili balzò indietro e spalancò le porte sul giardino. Nel medesimo tempo, anche, con uno dei suoi gesti che nell’istante non sembravano mai tanto anticonvenzionali quanto erano, tese la mano a Mary Gray, e la condusse fuori sul prato come per una danza.
Le portefinestre, così spalancate, lasciarono entrare una sera ancor più bella di quella del giorno prima. Il ponente nuotava in colori sanguigni, e una sorta di fiamma sonnolenta giaceva lungo il prato. Le ombre contorte dei due o tre alberi del giardino si stagliavano su quel bagliore, non grigie o nere, come nella luce comune del giorno, ma come arabeschi vergati in vivido inchiostro violetto su qualche pagina d’oro d’Oriente. Il tramonto era una di quelle conflagrazioni festose e insieme misteriose in cui le cose comuni, coi loro colori, ci rammentano cose costose o curiose. Le ardesie sul tetto spiovente ardevano come le penne d’un vasto pavone, in ogni misteriosa fusione d’azzurro e verde. I mattoni rosso-bruni del muro rilucevano di tutte le tinte d’ottobre dei vini forti, rubino e fulvi. Il sole pareva incendiare ogni oggetto d’una fiamma di diverso colore, come un uomo che accende fuochi d’artificio; e persino i capelli di Innocent, che erano d’un biondo piuttosto scialbo, parevano avere sopra una fiamma d’oro pagano mentre attraversava a gran passi il prato verso l’unico alto crinale della roccaglia.
“Che pro avrebbe l’oro,” diceva, “se non luccicasse? Perché dovremmo tenere a un sovrano nero più che a un sole nero a mezzogiorno? Un bottone nero servirebbe altrettanto bene. Non vedi che ogni cosa in questo giardino sembra un gioiello? E vuoi cortesemente dirmi a che diamine serve un gioiello se non a sembrare un gioiello? Smettila di comprare e vendere, e comincia a guardare! Apri gli occhi, e ti sveglierai nella Nuova Gerusalemme.
“Tutto è oro quel che luccica— Albero e torre d’ottone; Rotola l’aria dorata della sera Giù per l’erba dorata. Scaccia il grido a Gerico, Come si vende il fango giallo; Tutto è oro quel che luccica, Perché il luccichio è l’oro.”
“E chi l’ha scritta?” chiese Rosamund, divertita.
“Nessuno la scriverà mai,” rispose Smith, e superò la roccaglia con un balzo volante.
“Davvero,” disse Rosamund a Michael Moon, “bisognerebbe mandarlo in manicomio. Non credi?”
“Chiedo scusa,” domandò Michael, piuttosto cupo; la sua lunga testa bruna era scura contro il tramonto, e, per caso o per umore, aveva l’aria di qualcosa d’isolato e persino d’ostile in mezzo alla sociale stravaganza del giardino.
“Ho solo detto che il signor Smith dovrebbe andare in manicomio,” ripeté la signora.
Il viso scarno pareva farsi sempre più lungo, perché Moon sogghignava inequivocabilmente. “No,” disse; “non credo sia affatto necessario.”
“Che vuoi dire?” chiese Rosamund in fretta. “Perché no?”
“Perché ci si trova già,” rispose Michael Moon, con voce sommessa ma sgradevole. “Come, non lo sapevi?”
“Cosa?” gridò la ragazza, e ci fu un’incrinatura nella sua voce; perché il viso e la voce dell’irlandese erano davvero quasi raccapriccianti. Con la sua figura scura e i suoi cupi detti in tutto quel sole sembrava il diavolo in paradiso.
“Mi dispiace,” proseguì, con una sorta d’aspra umiltà. “Naturalmente non ne parliamo molto… ma pensavo che lo sapessimo tutti, in fondo.”
“Sapessimo cosa?”
“Ebbene,” rispose Moon, “che Beacon House è una casa d’un tipo piuttosto singolare—una casa con le tegole smosse, diciamo così? Innocent Smith è soltanto il medico che ci visita; non eri arrivata quando venne l’altra volta? Poiché i nostri mali sono per lo più malinconici, egli deve naturalmente essere di più che allegra compagnia. La sanità mentale, naturalmente, ci pare una cosa oltremodo presuntuosa ed eccentrica. Saltare un muro, arrampicarsi su un albero—questo è il suo modo di stare al capezzale.”
“Non oserai dire una cosa simile!” gridò Rosamund in collera. “Non oserai insinuare che io—”
“Non più di quanto lo sia io,” disse Michael in tono rassicurante; “non più del resto di noi. Non hai mai notato che la signorina Duke non sta mai ferma—un segno notorio? Non hai mai osservato che Inglewood si lava di continuo le mani— un marchio riconosciuto di malattia mentale? Io, naturalmente, sono un dipsomane.”
“Non ti credo,” proruppe la sua compagna, non senza agitazione. “Ho sentito dire che avevi qualche cattiva abitudine—”
“Tutte le abitudini sono cattive abitudini,” disse Michael, con calma mortale. “La follia non viene dallo sfogarsi, ma dal cedere; dall’adagiarsi in qualche sudicio, angusto cerchio d’idee che si ripete su se stesso; dal lasciarsi addomesticare. TU sei impazzita per il denaro, perché sei un’ereditiera.”
“È una menzogna,” gridò Rosamund furibonda. “Non sono mai stata gretta col denaro.”
“Sei stata peggio,” disse Michael, a voce bassa eppure violenta. “Pensavi che lo fossero gli altri. Pensavi che ogni uomo che ti si avvicinava dovesse essere un cacciatore di dote; non ti sei lasciata andare a essere sana; e ora sei pazza e io sono pazzo, e ci sta bene.”
“Bruto!” disse Rosamund, del tutto pallida. “E questo è vero?”
Con la crudeltà intellettuale di cui il Celta è capace quando i suoi abissi sono in rivolta, Michael tacque per alcuni secondi, poi indietreggiò con un inchino ironico. “Non letteralmente vero, certo,” disse; “solo davvero vero. Un’allegoria, diciamo così? una satira sociale.”
“And I hate and despise your satires,” cried Rosamund Hunt, letting loose her whole forcible female personality like a cyclone, and speaking every word to wound. “I despise it as I despise your rank tobacco, and your nasty, loungy ways, and your snarling, and your Radicalism, and your old clothes, and your potty little newspaper, and your rotten failure at everything. I don’t care whether you call it snobbishness or not, I like life and success, and jolly things to look at, and action. You won’t frighten me with Diogenes; I prefer Alexander.”
“Victrix causa deae—” said Michael gloomily; and this angered her more, as, not knowing what it meant, she imagined it to be witty.
“Oh, I dare say you know Greek,” she said, with cheerful inaccuracy; “you haven’t done much with that either.” And she crossed the garden, pursuing the vanished Innocent and Mary.
In doing so she passed Inglewood, who was returning to the house slowly, and with a thought-clouded brow. He was one of those men who are quite clever, but quite the reverse of quick. As he came back out of the sunset garden into the twilight parlour, Diana Duke slipped swiftly to her feet and began putting away the tea things. But it was not before Inglewood had seen an instantaneous picture so unique that he might well have snapshotted it with his everlasting camera. For Diana had been sitting in front of her unfinished work with her chin on her hand, looking straight out of the window in pure thoughtless thought.
“You are busy,” said Arthur, oddly embarrassed with what he had seen, and wishing to ignore it.
“There’s no time for dreaming in this world,” answered the young lady with her back to him.
“I have been thinking lately,” said Inglewood in a low voice, “that there’s no time for waking up.”
She did not reply, and he walked to the window and looked out on the garden.
“I don’t smoke or drink, you know,” he said irrelevantly, “because I think they’re drugs. And yet I fancy all hobbies, like my camera and bicycle, are drugs too. Getting under a black hood, getting into a dark room—getting into a hole anyhow. Drugging myself with speed, and sunshine, and fatigue, and fresh air. Pedalling the machine so fast that I turn into a machine myself. That’s the matter with all of us. We’re too busy to wake up.”
“Well,” said the girl solidly, “what is there to wake up to?”
“There must be!” cried Inglewood, turning round in a singular excitement—“there must be something to wake up to! All we do is preparations—your cleanliness, and my healthiness, and Warner’s scientific appliances. We’re always preparing for something—something that never comes off. I ventilate the house, and you sweep the house; but what is going to HAPPEN in the house?”
She was looking at him quietly, but with very bright eyes, and seemed to be searching for some form of words which she could not find.
Before she could speak the door burst open, and the boisterous Rosamund Hunt, in her flamboyant white hat, boa, and parasol, stood framed in the doorway. She was in a breathing heat, and on her open face was an expression of the most infantile astonishment.
“Well, here’s a fine game!” she said, panting. “What am I to do now, I wonder? I’ve wired for Dr. Warner; that’s all I can think of doing.”
“What is the matter?” asked Diana, rather sharply, but moving forward like one used to be called upon for assistance.
“It’s Mary,” said the heiress, “my companion Mary Gray: that cracked friend of yours called Smith has proposed to her in the garden, after ten hours’ acquaintance, and he wants to go off with her now for a special licence.”
Arthur Inglewood walked to the open French windows and looked out on the garden, still golden with evening light. Nothing moved there but a bird or two hopping and twittering; but beyond the hedge and railings, in the road outside the garden gate, a hansom cab was waiting, with the yellow Gladstone bag on top of it.
“E io odio e disprezzo le tue satire,” gridò Rosamund Hunt, scatenando tutta la sua vigorosa personalità femminile come un ciclone, e pronunciando ogni parola per ferire. “Le disprezzo come disprezzo il tuo tabacco rancido, e i tuoi modi sciatti e indolenti, e il tuo ringhiare, e il tuo radicalismo, e i tuoi vestiti logori, e il tuo insignificante giornaletto, e il tuo marcio fallimento in ogni cosa. Non m’importa se lo chiami snobismo o no, a me piacciono la vita e il successo, e le cose allegre da guardare, e l’azione. Non mi spaventerai con Diogene; io preferisco Alessandro.”
“Victrix causa deae—” disse Michael tetro; e questo la fece adirare ancor di più poiché, non sapendo cosa significasse, lo immaginò arguto.
“Oh, immagino che tu sappia il greco,” disse, con allegra imprecisione; “non ne hai cavato granché neanche da quello.” E attraversò il giardino, inseguendo lo scomparso Innocent e Mary.
Nel far ciò passò accanto a Inglewood, che rientrava in casa lentamente, con la fronte annuvolata dai pensieri. Era uno di quegli uomini che sono del tutto intelligenti, ma tutt’altro che svelti. Mentre rientrava dal giardino al tramonto nel crepuscolare salotto, Diana Duke si rizzò svelta in piedi e cominciò a sparecchiare il servizio da tè. Ma non prima che Inglewood avesse colto un’immagine istantanea tanto singolare che avrebbe ben potuto fissarla con la sua eterna macchina fotografica. Perché Diana era rimasta seduta davanti al suo lavoro incompiuto col mento sulla mano, guardando fuori dritto dalla finestra, in puro pensiero spensierato.
“Sei occupata,” disse Arthur, stranamente imbarazzato da ciò che aveva visto, e desideroso d’ignorarlo.
“Non c’è tempo per sognare in questo mondo,” rispose la giovane dandogli le spalle.
“Ultimamente ho pensato,” disse Inglewood a voce bassa, “che non c’è tempo per svegliarsi.”
Lei non rispose, ed egli si accostò alla finestra e guardò fuori sul giardino.
“Non fumo né bevo, sai,” disse a sproposito, “perché li ritengo droghe. Eppure sospetto che tutti gli svaghi, come la mia macchina fotografica e la bicicletta, siano droghe anch’essi. Infilarsi sotto un panno nero, entrare in una camera oscura—cacciarsi in un buco, insomma. Drogarmi di velocità, e di sole, e di stanchezza, e d’aria fresca. Pedalare sulla macchina così in fretta da trasformarmi io stesso in una macchina. È questo che ci affligge tutti. Siamo troppo occupati per svegliarci.”
“Ebbene,” disse la ragazza con fermezza, “a che cosa c’è da svegliarsi?”
“Dev’esserci qualcosa!” gridò Inglewood, voltandosi con singolare eccitazione—“dev’esserci qualcosa a cui svegliarsi! Tutto ciò che facciamo sono preparativi—la tua pulizia, e la mia salute, e gli apparecchi scientifici di Warner. Ci prepariamo sempre per qualcosa—qualcosa che non si compie mai. Io arieggio la casa, e tu spazzi la casa; ma che cosa deve mai ACCADERE in questa casa?”
Lei lo guardava tranquilla, ma con occhi lucidissimi, e pareva cercare qualche forma di parole che non riusciva a trovare.
Prima che potesse parlare la porta si spalancò, e la chiassosa Rosamund Hunt, col suo sgargiante cappello bianco, il boa e il parasole, apparve incorniciata sulla soglia. Era ansante per il caldo, e sul viso aperto aveva un’espressione del più infantile stupore.
“Ebbene, che bella storia!” disse, ansimando. “Che cosa devo fare ora, mi domando? Ho telegrafato al dottor Warner; è tutto ciò che mi viene in mente di fare.”
“Che cosa c’è?” chiese Diana, piuttosto secca, ma facendosi avanti come chi è avvezza a essere chiamata in aiuto.
“È Mary,” disse l’ereditiera, “la mia dama di compagnia Mary Gray: quel tuo amico svitato di nome Smith le ha fatto la proposta di matrimonio nel giardino, dopo dieci ore di conoscenza, e vuole partire con lei sùbito per una licenza speciale.”
Arthur Inglewood si accostò alle portefinestre aperte e guardò fuori sul giardino, ancora dorato dalla luce della sera. Nulla vi si muoveva tranne un uccello o due che saltellavano e cinguettavano; ma oltre la siepe e la cancellata, nella strada fuori dal cancello del giardino, una carrozza da nolo attendeva, con la gialla borsa Gladstone in cima.
Chapter IV
The Garden of the God
Diana Duke seemed inexplicably irritated at the abrupt entrance and utterance of the other girl.
“Well,” she said shortly, “I suppose Miss Gray can decline him if she doesn’t want to marry him.”
“But she DOES want to marry him!” cried Rosamund in exasperation. “She’s a wild, wicked fool, and I won’t be parted from her.”
“Perhaps,” said Diana icily, “but I really don’t see what we can do.”
“But the man’s balmy, Diana,” reasoned her friend angrily. “I can’t let my nice governess marry a man that’s balmy! You or somebody MUST stop it!—Mr. Inglewood, you’re a man; go and tell them they simply can’t.”
“Unfortunately, it seems to me they simply can,” said Inglewood, with a depressed air. “I have far less right of intervention than Miss Duke, besides having, of course, far less moral force than she.”
“You haven’t either of you got much,” cried Rosamund, the last stays of her formidable temper giving way; “I think I’ll go somewhere else for a little sense and pluck. I think I know some one who will help me more than you do, at any rate… he’s a cantankerous beast, but he’s a man, and has a mind, and knows it…” And she flung out into the garden, with cheeks aflame, and the parasol whirling like a Catherine wheel.
She found Michael Moon standing under the garden tree, looking over the hedge; hunched like a bird of prey, with his large pipe hanging down his long blue chin. The very hardness of his expression pleased her, after the nonsense of the new engagement and the shilly-shallying of her other friends.
“I am sorry I was cross, Mr. Moon,” she said frankly. “I hated you for being a cynic; but I’ve been well punished, for I want a cynic just now. I’ve had my fill of sentiment—I’m fed up with it. The world’s gone mad, Mr. Moon—all except the cynics, I think. That maniac Smith wants to marry my old friend Mary, and she— and she—doesn’t seem to mind.”
Seeing his attentive face still undisturbedly smoking, she added smartly, “I’m not joking; that’s Mr. Smith’s cab outside. He swears he’ll take her off now to his aunt’s, and go for a special licence. Do give me some practical advice, Mr. Moon.”
Mr. Moon took his pipe out of his mouth, held it in his hand for an instant reflectively, and then tossed it to the other side of the garden. “My practical advice to you is this,” he said: “Let him go for his special licence, and ask him to get another one for you and me.”
“Is that one of your jokes?” asked the young lady. “Do say what you really mean.”
“I mean that Innocent Smith is a man of business,” said Moon with ponderous precision—“a plain, practical man: a man of affairs; a man of facts and the daylight. He has let down twenty ton of good building bricks suddenly on my head, and I am glad to say they have woken me up. We went to sleep a little while ago on this very lawn, in this very sunlight. We have had a little nap for five years or so, but now we’re going to be married, Rosamund, and I can’t see why that cab…”
“Really,” said Rosamund stoutly, “I don’t know what you mean.”
“What a lie!” cried Michael, advancing on her with brightening eyes. “I’m all for lies in an ordinary way; but don’t you see that to-night they won’t do? We’ve wandered into a world of facts, old girl. That grass growing, and that sun going down, and that cab at the door, are facts. You used to torment and excuse yourself by saying I was after your money, and didn’t really love you. But if I stood here now and told you I didn’t love you—you wouldn’t believe me: for truth is in this garden to-night.”
“Really, Mr. Moon…” said Rosamund, rather more faintly.
He kept two big blue magnetic eyes fixed on her face. “Is my name Moon?” he asked. “Is your name Hunt? On my honour, they sound to me as quaint and as distant as Red Indian names. It’s as if your name was ‘Swim’ and my name was ‘Sunrise.’ But our real names are Husband and Wife, as they were when we fell asleep.”
“It is no good,” said Rosamund, with real tears in her eyes; “one can never go back.”
“I can go where I damn please,” said Michael, “and I can carry you on my shoulder.”
“But really, Michael, really, you must stop and think!” cried the girl earnestly. “You could carry me off my feet, I dare say, soul and body, but it may be bitter bad business for all that. These things done in that romantic rush, like Mr. Smith’s, they— they do attract women, I don’t deny it. As you say, we’re all telling the truth to-night. They’ve attracted poor Mary, for one. They attract me, Michael. But the cold fact remains: imprudent marriages do lead to long unhappiness and disappointment— you’ve got used to your drinks and things—I shan’t be pretty much longer—”
“Imprudent marriages!” roared Michael. “And pray where in earth or heaven are there any prudent marriages? Might as well talk about prudent suicides. You and I have dawdled round each other long enough, and are we any safer than Smith and Mary Gray, who met last night? You never know a husband till you marry him. Unhappy! of course you’ll be unhappy. Who the devil are you that you shouldn’t be unhappy, like the mother that bore you? Disappointed! of course we’ll be disappointed. I, for one, don’t expect till I die to be so good a man as I am at this minute— a tower with all the trumpets shouting.”
“You see all this,” said Rosamund, with a grand sincerity in her solid face, “and do you really want to marry me?”
“My darling, what else is there to do?” reasoned the Irishman. “What other occupation is there for an active man on this earth, except to marry you? What’s the alternative to marriage, barring sleep? It’s not liberty, Rosamund. Unless you marry God, as our nuns do in Ireland, you must marry Man—that is Me. The only third thing is to marry yourself— yourself, yourself, yourself—the only companion that is never satisfied— and never satisfactory.”
Capitolo IV
Il giardino del Dio
La duchessa Diana sembrava inesplicabilmente irritata dall’ingresso brusco e dalle parole della ragazza.
«Bene», disse in tono brusco, «immagino che la signorina Gray possa rifiutarlo se non vuole sposarlo».
“Ma lei vuole sposarlo!” gridò Rosamunda esasperata. “È una pazza selvaggia e malvagia, e non voglio separarmi da lei.”
«Forse», disse freddamente Diana, «ma non vedo proprio cosa possiamo fare.»
«Ma quell’uomo è pazzo, Diana», ragionò la sua amica con rabbia. «Non posso permettere alla mia cara governante di sposare un uomo che è pazzo! Tu o qualcun altro DEVE fermarla! — Signor Inglewood, lei è un uomo; vada a dirgli che semplicemente non possono.»
«Purtroppo mi sembra che possano semplicemente farlo», disse Inglewood con aria depressa. «Ho un diritto d’intervento molto minore di quello della signorina Duke e ho, naturalmente, una forza morale molto inferiore alla sua».
“Non avete molto da offrire nessuno dei due”, gridò Rosamund, mentre gli ultimi residui del suo formidabile carattere cedevano; “Credo che andrò altrove per un po’ di buon senso e coraggio. Penso di conoscere qualcuno che mi aiuterà più di voi, in ogni caso… è una bestia intrattabile, ma è un uomo, ha una mente e lo sa…” E si lanciò fuori nel giardino, con le guance in fiamme e il parasole che vorticava come una ruota di Santa Caterina.
La signorina trovò Michael Moon in piedi sotto l’albero del giardino, che guardava oltre la siepe; curvo come un uccello rapace, con la sua grande pipa che gli pendeva dal lungo mento blu. La durezza stessa della sua espressione le piacque, dopo le sciocchezze del nuovo fidanzamento e l’incertezza degli altri suoi amici.
“Mi dispiace di essere stata irritabile, signor Moon”, disse francamente. “La odiavo per il suo cinismo; ma sono stata ben punita, perché ora ne ho proprio bisogno. Ne ho abbastanza del sentimentalismo - ne sono sazia. Il mondo è impazzito, signor Moon - tutti tranne i cinici, credo. Quel maniaco di Smith vuole sposare la mia vecchia amica Mary e lei… e lei… non sembra dispiacersene.”
Vedendo il suo viso attento ancora tranquillamente intento a fumare, aggiunse con vivacità: “Non sto scherzando; quella è la carrozza del signor Smith là fuori. Giura che ora la porterà da sua zia e andrà a prendere una licenza speciale. Mi dia qualche consiglio pratico, signor Moon.”
Il signor Moon tolse la pipa di bocca e la tenne in mano per un istante pensieroso, poi la scagliò dall’altra parte del giardino. “Il mio consiglio pratico è questo,” disse: “lasciate che vada a prendere il suo permesso speciale e chiedetegli di procurarne un altro per voi e me.”
«È uno dei suoi scherzi?» chiese la giovane signora. «Dica quello che intende davvero».
“Voglio dire che Innocent Smith è un uomo d’affari”, disse Moon con ponderosa precisione — “un uomo semplice e pratico: un uomo di affari; un uomo di fatti e della luce del giorno. Mi ha fatto cadere addosso improvvisamente venti tonnellate di mattoni da costruzione, e sono felice di dire che mi hanno svegliato. Ci siamo addormentati poco fa su questo stesso prato, sotto questa stessa luce solare. Abbiamo fatto un pisolino per cinque anni circa, ma ora ci sposeremo, Rosamund, e non riesco a capire perché quel taxi…”
«In verità», disse con fermezza Rosamond, «non capisco cosa intendiate».
“Che bugia!” esclamò Michael, avvicinandosi a lei con gli occhi che brillavano. “Sono tutto per le bugie in modo ordinario; ma non vedi che stasera non funzionano? Siamo finiti nel mondo dei fatti, vecchia mia. Quell’erba che cresce, e quel sole che tramonta, e quella carrozza alla porta sono fatti. Tu mi tormentavi e ti scusavi dicendo che ero dietro ai tuoi soldi e che non ti amavo davvero. Ma se ora stessi qui a dirti che non ti amo — non mi crederesti: perché la verità è in questo giardino stasera.”
«Davvero, signor Moon…» disse Rosamond, con voce ancora più flebile.
Le teneva puntati addosso due grandi occhi magnetici azzurri. “Si chiama Luna?” chiese. “Si chiama Caccia? Per la mia parola, mi sembrano nomi altrettanto strani e lontani di quelli degli indiani d’America. È come se lei si chiamasse ‘Nuotare’ e io mi chiamassi ‘Aurora’. Ma i nostri veri nomi sono Marito e Moglie, così come erano quando ci siamo addormentati.”
«Non serve a nulla», disse Rosamund con vere lacrime negli occhi, «non si può mai tornare indietro».
“Posso andare dove cazzo voglio”, disse Michael, “e posso portarti sulle spalle”.
«Ma davvero, Michael, davvero, devi fermarti e riflettere!» esclamò la ragazza con serietà. «Potresti rapirmi, anima e corpo, non ne dubito, ma potrebbe essere un affare amaro in ogni caso. Queste cose fatte in quel modo romantico, come quelle del signor Smith, esse… attraggono le donne, non lo nego. Come dici tu, stiamo tutti dicendo la verità stan-notte. Hanno attratto povera Mary, per esempio. Mi attirano, Michael. Ma il fatto è che i matrimoni imprudenti portano a lunghe infelicità e delusioni… ti sei abituato ai tuoi drink e alle tue cose… non sarò carina ancora per molto…»
“Matrimoni imprudenti!” ruggì Michael. “E prego, dove sulla terra o in cielo esistono matrimoni prudenti? Potremmo altrettanto bene parlare di suicidi prudenti. Tu ed io abbiamo girato intorno l’uno all’altra abbastanza a lungo, e siamo più al sicuro di Smith e Mary Gray, che si sono incontrati la scorsa notte? Non si conosce mai un marito fino a quando non lo si sposa. Infelici! naturalmente sarete infelici. Chi diavolo siete voi che non dobbiate essere infelici, come la madre che vi ha generato? Delusi! naturalmente saremo delusi. Io, per uno, non mi aspetto fino alla morte di essere un uomo così buono come sono in questo momento — una torre con tutte le trombe che suonano.”
«Vedete tutto questo», disse Rosamunda con una grande sincerità sul suo volto solido, «e volete davvero sposarmi?»
“La mia cara, che altro c’è da fare?” ragionò l’Irlandese. “Qual altra occupazione c’è per un uomo attivo su questa terra, se non sposarti? Qual è l’alternativa al matrimonio, a parte il sonno? Non è la libertà, Rosamund. A meno che tu non ti sposi con Dio, come fanno le nostre monache in Irlanda, devi sposare un Uomo—cioè Me. L’unica terza cosa è sposarti te stessa— te stessa, te stessa, te stessa—l’unica compagna che non si accontenta mai— e non è mai soddisfacente.”
“Michael,” said Miss Hunt, in a very soft voice, “if you won’t talk so much, I’ll marry you.”
“It’s no time for talking,” cried Michael Moon; “singing is the only thing. Can’t you find that mandoline of yours, Rosamund?”
“Go and fetch it for me,” said Rosamund, with crisp and sharp authority.
The lounging Mr. Moon stood for one split second astonished; then he shot away across the lawn, as if shod with the feathered shoes out of the Greek fairy tale. He cleared three yards and fifteen daisies at a leap, out of mere bodily levity; but when he came within a yard or two of the open parlour windows, his flying feet fell in their old manner like lead; he twisted round and came back slowly, whistling. The events of that enchanted evening were not at an end.
Inside the dark sitting-room of which Moon had caught a glimpse a curious thing had happened, almost an instant after the intemperate exit of Rosamund. It was something which, occurring in that obscure parlour, seemed to Arthur Inglewood like heaven and earth turning head over heels, the sea being the ceiling and the stars the floor. No words can express how it astonished him, as it astonishes all simple men when it happens. Yet the stiffest female stoicism seems separated from it only by a sheet of paper or a sheet of steel. It indicates no surrender, far less any sympathy. The most rigid and ruthless woman can begin to cry, just as the most effeminate man can grow a beard. It is a separate sexual power, and proves nothing one way or the other about force of character. But to young men ignorant of women, like Arthur Inglewood, to see Diana Duke crying was like seeing a motor-car shedding tears of petrol.
He could never have given (even if his really manly modesty had permitted it) any vaguest vision of what he did when he saw that portent. He acted as men do when a theatre catches fire—very differently from how they would have conceived themselves as acting, whether for better or worse. He had a faint memory of certain half-stifled explanations, that the heiress was the one really paying guest, and she would go, and the bailiffs (in consequence) would come; but after that he knew nothing of his own conduct except by the protests it evoked.
“Leave me alone, Mr. Inglewood—leave me alone; that’s not the way to help.”
“But I can help you,” said Arthur, with grinding certainty; “I can, I can, I can…”
“Why, you said,” cried the girl, “that you were much weaker than me.”
“So I am weaker than you,” said Arthur, in a voice that went vibrating through everything, “but not just now.”
“Let go my hands!” cried Diana. “I won’t be bullied.”
In one element he was much stronger than she—the matter of humour. This leapt up in him suddenly, and he laughed, saying: “Well, you are mean. You know quite well you’ll bully me all the rest of my life. You might allow a man the one minute of his life when he’s allowed to bully.”
It was as extraordinary for him to laugh as for her to cry, and for the first time since her childhood Diana was entirely off her guard.
“Do you mean you want to marry me?” she said.
“Why, there’s a cab at the door!” cried Inglewood, springing up with an unconscious energy and bursting open the glass doors that led into the garden.
As he led her out by the hand they realized somehow for the first time that the house and garden were on a steep height over London. And yet, though they felt the place to be uplifted, they felt it also to be secret: it was like some round walled garden on the top of one of the turrets of heaven.
Inglewood looked around dreamily, his brown eyes devouring all sorts of details with a senseless delight. He noticed for the first time that the railings of the gate beyond the garden bushes were moulded like little spearheads and painted blue. He noticed that one of the blue spears was loosened in its place, and hung sideways; and this almost made him laugh. He thought it somehow exquisitely harmless and funny that the railing should be crooked; he thought he should like to know how it happened, who did it, and how the man was getting on.
When they were gone a few feet across that fiery grass they realized that they were not alone. Rosamund Hunt and the eccentric Mr. Moon, both of whom they had last seen in the blackest temper of detachment, were standing together on the lawn. They were standing in quite an ordinary manner, and yet they looked somehow like people in a book.
“Oh,” said Diana, “what lovely air!”
“I know,” called out Rosamund, with a pleasure so positive that it rang out like a complaint. “It’s just like that horrid, beastly fizzy stuff they gave me that made me feel happy.”
“Oh, it isn’t like anything but itself!” answered Diana, breathing deeply. “Why, it’s all cold, and yet it feels like fire.”
“Balmy is the word we use in Fleet Street,” said Mr. Moon. “Balmy—especially on the crumpet.” And he fanned himself quite unnecessarily with his straw hat. They were all full of little leaps and pulsations of objectless and airy energy. Diana stirred and stretched her long arms rigidly, as if crucified, in a sort of excruciating restfulness; Michael stood still for long intervals, with gathered muscles, then spun round like a teetotum, and stood still again; Rosamund did not trip, for women never trip, except when they fall on their noses, but she struck the ground with her foot as she moved, as if to some inaudible dance tune; and Inglewood, leaning quite quietly against a tree, had unconsciously clutched a branch and shaken it with a creative violence. Those giant gestures of Man, that made the high statues and the strokes of war, tossed and tormented all their limbs. Silently as they strolled and stood they were bursting like batteries with an animal magnetism.
“Michael,” disse la signorina Hunt, con voce assai dolce, “se non parlerai tanto, ti sposerò.”
“Non è tempo di parlare,” gridò Michael Moon; “cantare è l’unica cosa. Non riesci a trovare quel tuo mandolino, Rosamund?”
“Va’ a prendermelo,” disse Rosamund, con secca e tagliente autorità.
L’indolente signor Moon restò per una frazione di secondo attonito; poi schizzò via attraverso il prato, come calzato con le scarpe alate della fiaba greca. Superò tre metri e quindici margherite d’un balzo, per pura leggerezza corporea; ma quando giunse a un metro o due dalle finestre aperte del salotto, i suoi piedi volanti ricaddero al loro vecchio modo come piombo; si girò e tornò indietro lentamente, fischiettando. Gli eventi di quell’incantata serata non erano giunti al termine.
Dentro l’oscuro salottino di cui Moon aveva colto una fugace visione era accaduta una cosa curiosa, quasi un istante dopo l’intemperante uscita di Rosamund. Era qualcosa che, accadendo in quell’oscuro salotto, parve a Arthur Inglewood come il cielo e la terra che si capovolgono a testa in giù, col mare per soffitto e le stelle per pavimento. Nessuna parola può esprimere quanto lo stupì, come stupisce tutti gli uomini semplici quando accade. Eppure il più rigido stoicismo femminile ne è separato solo da un foglio di carta o da una lamina d’acciaio. Non indica alcuna resa, tanto meno alcuna simpatia. La donna più rigida e spietata può mettersi a piangere, proprio come l’uomo più effeminato può farsi crescere la barba. È un potere sessuale a sé, e non prova nulla, in un senso o nell’altro, sulla forza del carattere. Ma per i giovani ignari delle donne, come Arthur Inglewood, vedere Diana Duke piangere fu come vedere un’automobile versare lacrime di benzina.
Non avrebbe mai potuto rendere (anche se il suo pudore davvero virile glielo avesse permesso) la benché minima visione di ciò che fece nel vedere quel portento. Agì come agiscono gli uomini quando un teatro prende fuoco—molto diversamente da come si sarebbero immaginati d’agire, in meglio o in peggio. Ebbe un vago ricordo di certe spiegazioni mezzo soffocate, che l’ereditiera era l’unica vera pensionante pagante, e sarebbe andata via, e gli ufficiali giudiziari (di conseguenza) sarebbero venuti; ma oltre a ciò non seppe nulla della propria condotta se non dalle proteste che essa suscitò.
“Lasciami sola, signor Inglewood—lasciami sola; non è così che si aiuta.”
“Ma io posso aiutarti,” disse Arthur, con incrollabile certezza; “posso, posso, posso…”
“Ma se hai detto,” gridò la ragazza, “che eri molto più debole di me.”
“È vero, sono più debole di te,” disse Arthur, con voce che andava vibrando attraverso ogni cosa, “ma non proprio adesso.”
“Lasciami le mani!” gridò Diana. “Non voglio essere sopraffatta.”
In un elemento egli era molto più forte di lei—la questione dell’umorismo. Questo balzò in lui d’improvviso, ed egli rise, dicendo: “Ebbene, sei crudele. Sai benissimo che mi sopraffarai per tutto il resto della mia vita. Potresti concedere a un uomo l’unico minuto della sua vita in cui gli è permesso sopraffare.”
Fu tanto straordinario per lui ridere quanto per lei piangere, e per la prima volta dalla sua infanzia Diana fu del tutto priva di difese.
“Vuoi dire che vuoi sposarmi?” disse.
“Come, c’è una carrozza alla porta!” gridò Inglewood, balzando in piedi con un’inconsapevole energia e spalancando le porte a vetri che davano sul giardino.
Mentre la conduceva fuori per mano si resero conto in qualche modo per la prima volta che la casa e il giardino sorgevano su un’erta altura sopra Londra. Eppure, sebbene sentissero il luogo elevato, lo sentivano anche segreto: era come un giardino cinto di mura sulla cima d’una delle torri del cielo.
Inglewood si guardò intorno trasognato, i suoi occhi bruni divorando ogni sorta di dettagli con un insensato diletto. Notò per la prima volta che la cancellata del cancello oltre i cespugli del giardino era foggiata come piccole punte di lancia e dipinta d’azzurro. Notò che una delle azzurre lance s’era allentata nel suo posto, e pendeva di traverso; e questo per poco non lo fece ridere. Trovava in qualche modo squisitamente innocuo e buffo che la cancellata fosse storta; pensò che gli sarebbe piaciuto sapere com’era accaduto, chi l’aveva fatto, e come se la passava quell’uomo.
Quando furono a pochi passi attraverso quell’erba infuocata si accorsero di non essere soli. Rosamund Hunt e l’eccentrico signor Moon, che entrambi avevano visto per l’ultima volta nel più nero umore di distacco, stavano insieme sul prato. Stavano in maniera del tutto ordinaria, eppure sembravano in qualche modo persone di un libro.
“Oh,” disse Diana, “che aria deliziosa!”
“Lo so,” esclamò Rosamund, con un piacere così assoluto che risuonò come un lamento. “È proprio come quell’orrenda, bestiale roba frizzante che mi diedero e che mi fece sentire felice.”
“Oh, non è come nient’altro che se stessa!” rispose Diana, respirando profondamente. “Come, è tutta fredda, eppure sembra fuoco.”
“‘Balsamica’ è la parola che usiamo in Fleet Street,” disse il signor Moon. “Balsamica—specie sulla focaccina.” E si sventolò del tutto inutilmente col suo cappello di paglia. Erano tutti pieni di piccoli balzi e pulsazioni d’una energia senza scopo e leggera. Diana si mosse e tese le lunghe braccia rigide, come crocifissa, in una sorta di straziante riposo; Michael restava immobile per lunghi intervalli, coi muscoli raccolti, poi ruotava su se stesso come una trottola, e restava di nuovo immobile; Rosamund non incespicò, perché le donne non incespicano mai, tranne quando cadono sul naso, ma batteva il suolo col piede mentre si muoveva, come su qualche inudibile aria di danza; e Inglewood, appoggiato del tutto quietamente a un albero, aveva inconsapevolmente afferrato un ramo e l’aveva scosso con una violenza creatrice. Quei giganteschi gesti dell’Uomo, che eressero le alte statue e vibrarono i colpi di guerra, agitavano e tormentavano tutte le loro membra. Silenziosi mentre passeggiavano e sostavano, prorompevano come batterie di un magnetismo animale.
“And now,” cried Moon quite suddenly, stretching out a hand on each side, “let’s dance round that bush!”
“Why, what bush do you mean?” asked Rosamund, looking round with a sort of radiant rudeness.
“The bush that isn’t there,” said Michael—“the Mulberry Bush.”
They had taken each other’s hands, half laughing and quite ritually; and before they could disconnect again Michael spun them all round, like a demon spinning the world for a top. Diana felt, as the circle of the horizon flew instantaneously around her, a far aerial sense of the ring of heights beyond London and corners where she had climbed as a child; she seemed almost to hear the rooks cawing about the old pines on Highgate, or to see the glowworms gathering and kindling in the woods of Box Hill.
The circle broke—as all such perfect circles of levity must break— and sent its author, Michael, flying, as by centrifugal force, far away against the blue rails of the gate. When reeling there he suddenly raised shout after shout of a new and quite dramatic character.
“Why, it’s Warner!” he shouted, waving his arms. “It’s jolly old Warner— with a new silk hat and the old silk moustache!”
“Is that Dr. Warner?” cried Rosamund, bounding forward in a burst of memory, amusement, and distress. “Oh, I’m so sorry! Oh, do tell him it’s all right!”
“Let’s take hands and tell him,” said Michael Moon. For indeed, while they were talking, another hansom cab had dashed up behind the one already waiting, and Dr. Herbert Warner, leaving a companion in the cab, had carefully deposited himself on the pavement.
Now, when you are an eminent physician and are wired for by an heiress to come to a case of dangerous mania, and when, as you come in through the garden to the house, the heiress and her landlady and two of the gentlemen boarders join hands and dance round you in a ring, calling out, “It’s all right! it’s all right!” you are apt to be flustered and even displeased. Dr. Warner was a placid but hardly a placable person. The two things are by no means the same; and even when Moon explained to him that he, Warner, with his high hat and tall, solid figure, was just such a classic figure as OUGHT to be danced round by a ring of laughing maidens on some old golden Greek seashore— even then he seemed to miss the point of the general rejoicing.
“Inglewood!” cried Dr. Warner, fixing his former disciple with a stare, “are you mad?”
Arthur flushed to the roots of his brown hair, but he answered, easily and quietly enough, “Not now. The truth is, Warner, I’ve just made a rather important medical discovery—quite in your line.”
“What do you mean?” asked the great doctor stiffly—“what discovery?”
“I’ve discovered that health really is catching, like disease,” answered Arthur.
“Yes; sanity has broken out, and is spreading,” said Michael,
performing a pas seul with a thoughtful expression.
“Twenty thousand more cases taken to the hospitals;
nurses employed night and day.”
Dr. Warner studied Michael’s grave face and lightly moving legs with an unfathomed wonder. “And is THIS, may I ask,” he said, “the sanity that is spreading?”
“You must forgive me, Dr. Warner,” cried Rosamund Hunt heartily. “I know I’ve treated you badly; but indeed it was all a mistake. I was in a frightfully bad temper when I sent for you, but now it all seems like a dream—and and Mr. Smith is the sweetest, most sensible, most delightful old thing that ever existed, and he may marry any one he likes—except me.”
“I should suggest Mrs. Duke,” said Michael.
The gravity of Dr. Warner’s face increased. He took a slip of pink paper from his waistcoat pocket, with his pale blue eyes quietly fixed on Rosamund’s face all the time. He spoke with a not inexcusable frigidity.
“Really, Miss Hunt,” he said, “you are not yet very reassuring. You sent me this wire only half an hour ago: ‘Come at once, if possible, with another doctor. Man—Innocent Smith—gone mad on premises, and doing dreadful things. Do you know anything of him?’ I went round at once to a distinguished colleague of mine, a doctor who is also a private detective and an authority on criminal lunacy; he has come round with me, and is waiting in the cab. Now you calmly tell me that this criminal madman is a highly sweet and sane old thing, with accompaniments that set me speculating on your own definition of sanity. I hardly comprehend the change.”
“Oh, how can one explain a change in sun and moon and everybody’s soul?” cried Rosamund, in despair. “Must I confess we had got so morbid as to think him mad merely because he wanted to get married; and that we didn’t even know it was only because we wanted to get married ourselves? We’ll humiliate ourselves, if you like, doctor; we’re happy enough.”
“Where is Mr. Smith?” asked Warner of Inglewood very sharply.
Arthur started; he had forgotten all about the central figure of their farce, who had not been visible for an hour or more.
“I—I think he’s on the other side of the house, by the dustbin,” he said.
“He may be on the road to Russia,” said Warner, “but he must be found.” And he strode away and disappeared round a corner of the house by the sunflowers.
“I hope,” said Rosamund, “he won’t really interfere with Mr. Smith.”
“Interfere with the daisies!” said Michael with a snort. “A man can’t be locked up for falling in love—at least I hope not.”
“No; I think even a doctor couldn’t make a disease out of him. He’d throw off the doctor like the disease, don’t you know? I believe it’s a case of a sort of holy well. I believe Innocent Smith is simply innocent, and that is why he is so extraordinary.”
It was Rosamund who spoke, restlessly tracing circles in the grass with the point of her white shoe.
“I think,” said Inglewood, “that Smith is not extraordinary at all. He’s comic just because he’s so startlingly commonplace. Don’t you know what it is to be all one family circle, with aunts and uncles, when a schoolboy comes home for the holidays? That bag there on the cab is only a schoolboy’s hamper. This tree here in the garden is only the sort of tree that any schoolboy would have climbed. Yes, that’s the thing that has haunted us all about him, the thing we could never fit a word to. Whether he is my old schoolfellow or no, at least he is all my old schoolfellows. He is the endless bun-eating, ball-throwing animal that we have all been.”
“E ora,” gridò Moon d’un tratto, tendendo una mano per parte, “danziamo attorno a quel cespuglio!”
“Come, quale cespuglio intendi?” chiese Rosamund, guardandosi intorno con una sorta di raggiante sfrontatezza.
“Il cespuglio che non c’è,” disse Michael—“il Cespuglio di Gelso.”
Si erano presi per mano, mezzo ridendo e del tutto ritualmente; e prima che potessero staccarsi di nuovo Michael li fece girare tutti, come un demone che fa girare il mondo per trottola. Diana sentì, mentre il cerchio dell’orizzonte le volava all’istante attorno, un lontano senso aereo dell’anello d’alture oltre Londra e degli anfratti dove s’era arrampicata da bambina; le parve quasi d’udire le cornacchie gracchiare tra i vecchi pini di Highgate, o di vedere le lucciole radunarsi e accendersi nei boschi di Box Hill.
Il cerchio si spezzò—come devono spezzarsi tutti quei perfetti cerchi di leggerezza— e scagliò il suo autore, Michael, via, come per forza centrifuga, lontano contro le azzurre sbarre del cancello. Vacillando là d’improvviso levò grido dopo grido di carattere nuovo e affatto drammatico.
“Come, è Warner!” gridò, agitando le braccia. “È il caro vecchio Warner— con un nuovo cappello di seta e i vecchi baffi di seta!”
“È il dottor Warner?” gridò Rosamund, balzando avanti in un impeto di ricordi, divertimento e sgomento. “Oh, mi dispiace tanto! Oh, ditegli che va tutto bene!”
“Prendiamoci per mano e diciamoglielo,” disse Michael Moon. Perché in effetti, mentre parlavano, un’altra carrozza da nolo era arrivata di gran carriera dietro quella già in attesa, e il dottor Herbert Warner, lasciando un compagno nella carrozza, si era accuratamente deposto sul selciato.
Ora, quando sei un eminente medico e vieni chiamato per telegramma da un’ereditiera per un caso di pericolosa mania, e quando, mentre entri attraverso il giardino verso la casa, l’ereditiera e la sua padrona di casa e due dei signori pensionanti si prendono per mano e danzano attorno a te in cerchio, gridando: “Va tutto bene! va tutto bene!” sei facilmente turbato e persino contrariato. Il dottor Warner era una persona placida ma tutt’altro che placabile. Le due cose non sono affatto la stessa; e persino quando Moon gli spiegò che egli, Warner, col suo alto cappello e la figura alta e solida, era proprio quella classica figura che DOVREBBE essere danzata intorno da un cerchio di fanciulle ridenti su qualche antica dorata spiaggia greca— persino allora egli parve non cogliere il senso del generale giubilo.
“Inglewood!” gridò il dottor Warner, fissando il suo antico discepolo con uno sguardo, “sei impazzito?”
Arthur arrossì fino alla radice dei capelli bruni, ma rispose, con abbastanza scioltezza e calma, “Non ora. La verità è, Warner, che ho appena fatto una scoperta medica piuttosto importante—proprio nel tuo campo.”
“Che cosa vuoi dire?” chiese il grande dottore rigidamente—“quale scoperta?”
“Ho scoperto che la salute è davvero contagiosa, come la malattia,” rispose Arthur.
“Sì; la sanità mentale è scoppiata, e si sta diffondendo,” disse Michael,
eseguendo un pas seul con espressione pensosa.
“Ventimila casi in più portati agli ospedali;
infermiere impiegate notte e giorno.”
Il dottor Warner studiò il grave volto di Michael e le gambe che si muovevano leggere con un’insondabile meraviglia. “E questa, posso chiedere,” disse, “è la sanità mentale che si sta diffondendo?”
“Dovete perdonarmi, dottor Warner,” gridò Rosamund Hunt con calore. “So d’avervi trattato male; ma davvero è stato tutto un equivoco. Ero d’un umore spaventosamente pessimo quando vi ho mandato a chiamare, ma ora tutto sembra un sogno—e e il signor Smith è la più dolce, la più assennata, la più deliziosa vecchia creatura che sia mai esistita, e può sposare chiunque gli piaccia—tranne me.”
“Suggerirei la signora Duke,” disse Michael.
La gravità del volto del dottor Warner s’accrebbe. Prese un foglietto di carta rosa dal taschino del panciotto, coi suoi pallidi occhi azzurri fissi quietamente sul volto di Rosamund per tutto il tempo. Parlò con una frigidità non ingiustificabile.
“Davvero, signorina Hunt,” disse, “non è ancora molto rassicurante. Mi avete mandato questo telegramma appena mezz’ora fa: ‘Venite subito, se possibile, con un altro medico. Un uomo—Innocent Smith—impazzito in casa, e sta facendo cose spaventose. Sapete qualcosa di lui?’ Sono andato subito da un mio illustre collega, un medico che è anche investigatore privato e un’autorità in fatto di follia criminale; è venuto con me, e attende nella carrozza. Ora voi tranquillamente mi dite che questo pazzo criminale è una dolcissima e sanissima vecchia creatura, con contorni che mi fanno riflettere sulla vostra personale definizione di sanità mentale. Faccio fatica a comprendere il mutamento.”
“Oh, come si può spiegare un mutamento nel sole e nella luna e nell’anima di ciascuno?” gridò Rosamund, disperata. “Devo confessare che eravamo diventati così morbosi da crederlo pazzo solo perché voleva sposarsi; e che noi non sapevamo neppure che era soltanto perché volevamo sposarci noi stessi? Ci umilieremo, se volete, dottore; siamo abbastanza felici.”
“Dov’è il signor Smith?” chiese Warner a Inglewood, molto secco.
Arthur trasalì; aveva del tutto dimenticato la figura centrale della loro farsa, che non si vedeva da un’ora o più.
“Io—credo che sia dall’altro lato della casa, presso il bidone della spazzatura,” disse.
“Potrebbe essere sulla via della Russia,” disse Warner, “ma dev’essere trovato.” E si allontanò a gran passi e scomparve dietro un angolo della casa presso i girasoli.
“Spero,” disse Rosamund, “che non interferisca davvero col signor Smith.”
“Interferire con le margherite!” disse Michael con uno sbuffo. “Un uomo non può essere rinchiuso per essersi innamorato—almeno spero di no.”
“No; credo che neppure un medico potrebbe cavarne una malattia. Si scrollerebbe di dosso il medico come la malattia, non trovi? Credo sia un caso d’una sorta di sacro pozzo. Credo che Innocent Smith sia semplicemente innocente, ed è per questo che è così straordinario.”
Fu Rosamund a parlare, tracciando irrequieta cerchi nell’erba con la punta della sua scarpa bianca.
“Io credo,” disse Inglewood, “che Smith non sia affatto straordinario. È comico proprio perché è così sorprendentemente comune. Non sai cos’è essere tutti una cerchia familiare, con zie e zii, quando uno scolaro torna a casa per le vacanze? Quella borsa là sulla carrozza è solo il paniere d’uno scolaro. Quest’albero qui nel giardino è solo il tipo d’albero su cui qualunque scolaro si sarebbe arrampicato. Sì, è questo che ci ha ossessionati in lui, la cosa a cui non riuscivamo mai a dare un nome. Che sia o no il mio vecchio compagno di scuola, egli è quantomeno tutti i miei vecchi compagni di scuola. È l’infinito animale che mangia focacce e lancia palle che siamo stati tutti noi.”
“That is only you absurd boys,” said Diana. “I don’t believe any girl was ever so silly, and I’m sure no girl was ever so happy, except—” and she stopped.
“I will tell you the truth about Innocent Smith,” said Michael Moon in a low voice. “Dr. Warner has gone to look for him in vain. He is not there. Haven’t you noticed that we never saw him since we found ourselves? He was an astral baby born on all four of us; he was only our own youth returned. Long before poor old Warner had clambered out of his cab, the thing we called Smith had dissolved into dew and light on this lawn. Once or twice more, by the mercy of God, we may feel the thing, but the man we shall never see. In a spring garden before breakfast we shall smell the smell called Smith. In the snapping of brisk twigs in tiny fires we shall hear a noise named Smith. Everything insatiable and innocent in the grasses that gobble up the earth like babies at a bun feast, in the white mornings that split the sky as a boy splits up white firwood, we may feel for one instant the presence of an impetuous purity; but his innocence was too close to the unconsciousness of inanimate things not to melt back at a mere touch into the mild hedges and heavens; he—”
He was interrupted from behind the house by a bang like that of a bomb. Almost at the same instant the stranger in the cab sprang out of it, leaving it rocking upon the stones of the road. He clutched the blue railings of the garden, and peered eagerly over them in the direction of the noise. He was a small, loose, yet alert man, very thin, with a face that seemed made out of fish bones, and a silk hat quite as rigid and resplendent as Warner’s, but thrust back recklessly on the hinder part of his head.
“Murder!” he shrieked, in a high and feminine but very penetrating voice. “Stop that murderer there!”
Even as he shrieked a second shot shook the lower windows of the house, and with the noise of it Dr. Herbert Warner came flying round the corner like a leaping rabbit. Yet before he had reached the group a third discharge had deafened them, and they saw with their own eyes two spots of white sky drilled through the second of the unhappy Herbert’s high hats. The next moment the fugitive physician fell over a flowerpot, and came down on all fours, staring like a cow. The hat with the two shot-holes in it rolled upon the gravel path before him, and Innocent Smith came round the corner like a railway train. He was looking twice his proper size—a giant clad in green, the big revolver still smoking in his hand, his face sanguine and in shadow, his eyes blazing like all stars, and his yellow hair standing out all ways like Struwelpeter’s.
Though this startling scene hung but an instant in stillness, Inglewood had time to feel once more what he had felt when he saw the other lovers standing on the lawn—the sensation of a certain cut and coloured clearness that belongs rather to the things of art than to the things of experience. The broken flowerpot with its red-hot geraniums, the green bulk of Smith and the black bulk of Warner, the blue-spiked railings behind, clutched by the stranger’s yellow vulture claws and peered over by his long vulture neck, the silk hat on the gravel, and the little cloudlet of smoke floating across the garden as innocently as the puff of a cigarette— all these seemed unnaturally distinct and definite. They existed, like symbols, in an ecstasy of separation. Indeed, every object grew more and more particular and precious because the whole picture was breaking up. Things look so bright just before they burst.
Long before his fancies had begun, let alone ceased, Arthur had stepped across and taken one of Smith’s arms. Simultaneously the little stranger had run up the steps and taken the other. Smith went into peals of laughter, and surrendered his pistol with perfect willingness. Moon raised the doctor to his feet, and then went and leaned sullenly on the garden gate. The girls were quiet and vigilant, as good women mostly are in instants of catastrophe, but their faces showed that, somehow or other, a light had been dashed out of the sky. The doctor himself, when he had risen, collected his hat and wits, and dusting himself down with an air of great disgust, turned to them in brief apology. He was very white with his recent panic, but he spoke with perfect self-control.
“You will excuse us, ladies,” he said; “my friend and Mr. Inglewood are both scientists in their several ways. I think we had better all take Mr. Smith indoors, and communicate with you later.”
And under the guard of the three natural philosophers the disarmed Smith was led tactfully into the house, still roaring with laughter.
From time to time during the next twenty minutes his distant boom of mirth could again be heard through the half-open window; but there came no echo of the quiet voices of the physicians. The girls walked about the garden together, rubbing up each other’s spirits as best they might; Michael Moon still hung heavily against the gate. Somewhere about the expiration of that time Dr. Warner came out of the house with a face less pale but even more stern, and the little man with the fish-bone face advanced gravely in his rear. And if the face of Warner in the sunlight was that of a hanging judge, the face of the little man behind was more like a death’s head.
“Miss Hunt,” said Dr. Herbert Warner, “I only wish to offer you my warm thanks and admiration. By your prompt courage and wisdom in sending for us by wire this evening, you have enabled us to capture and put out of mischief one of the most cruel and terrible of the enemies of humanity— a criminal whose plausibility and pitilessness have never been before combined in flesh.”
Rosamund looked across at him with a white, blank face and blinking eyes. “What do you mean?” she asked. “You can’t mean Mr. Smith?”
“He has gone by many other names,” said the doctor gravely, “and not one he did not leave to be cursed behind him. That man, Miss Hunt, has left a track of blood and tears across the world. Whether he is mad as well as wicked, we are trying, in the interests of science, to discover. In any case, we shall have to take him to a magistrate first, even if only on the road to a lunatic asylum. But the lunatic asylum in which he is confined will have to be sealed with wall within wall, and ringed with guns like a fortress, or he will break out again to bring forth carnage and darkness on the earth.”
Rosamund looked at the two doctors, her face growing paler and paler. Then her eyes strayed to Michael, who was leaning on the gate; but he continued to lean on it without moving, with his face turned away towards the darkening road.
“Questo vale solo per voi assurdi ragazzi,” disse Diana. “Non credo che nessuna ragazza sia mai stata così sciocca, e sono certa che nessuna ragazza sia mai stata così felice, tranne—” e si fermò.
“Vi dirò la verità su Innocent Smith,” disse Michael Moon a voce bassa. “Il dottor Warner è andato a cercarlo invano. Non è là. Non avete notato che non l’abbiamo più visto da quando abbiamo ritrovato noi stessi? Era un bimbo astrale nato da tutti e quattro noi; era soltanto la nostra stessa giovinezza tornata. Molto prima che il povero vecchio Warner scendesse a fatica dalla sua carrozza, la cosa che chiamavamo Smith s’era dissolta in rugiada e luce su questo prato. Una volta o due ancora, per grazia di Dio, potremo sentire la cosa, ma l’uomo non lo vedremo mai più. In un giardino di primavera prima di colazione sentiremo l’odore chiamato Smith. Nello schiocco di ramoscelli vivaci in minuscoli fuochi udremo un suono di nome Smith. Tutto ciò che è insaziabile e innocente nelle erbe che divorano la terra come bimbi a una merenda di focacce, nelle bianche mattine che spaccano il cielo come un ragazzo spacca il bianco legno d’abete, potremo per un istante sentire la presenza d’una impetuosa purezza; ma la sua innocenza era troppo prossima all’inconsapevolezza delle cose inanimate per non fondersi di nuovo, a un semplice tocco, nelle miti siepi e nei cieli; egli—”
Fu interrotto da dietro la casa da un fragore come quello d’una bomba. Quasi nel medesimo istante lo sconosciuto nella carrozza ne balzò fuori, lasciandola oscillare sulle pietre della strada. Afferrò l’azzurra cancellata del giardino, e vi sbirciò avidamente al di sopra nella direzione del rumore. Era un uomo piccolo, sciolto, eppure guardingo, magrissimo, con un volto che pareva fatto di lische di pesce, e un cappello di seta rigido e sfolgorante quanto quello di Warner, ma spinto all’indietro sconsideratamente sulla nuca.
“All’assassino!” strillò, con voce acuta e femminea ma assai penetrante. “Fermate quell’assassino!”
Proprio mentre strillava un secondo sparo scosse le finestre inferiori della casa, e col rumore di esso il dottor Herbert Warner venne volando dietro l’angolo come un coniglio in fuga. Eppure prima che avesse raggiunto il gruppo una terza detonazione li assordò, ed essi videro coi propri occhi due macchie di cielo bianco trapassare il secondo degli alti cappelli dell’infelice Herbert. L’attimo dopo il medico fuggiasco inciampò in un vaso di fiori, e cadde a quattro zampe, con lo sguardo fisso come una vacca. Il cappello coi due fori di proiettile rotolò sul sentiero di ghiaia davanti a lui, e Innocent Smith girò l’angolo come un treno. Sembrava grande il doppio del suo naturale—un gigante vestito di verde, il grosso revolver ancora fumante in mano, il volto sanguigno e in ombra, gli occhi fiammeggianti come tutte le stelle, e i suoi gialli capelli ritti in ogni direzione come quelli di Struwelpeter.
Sebbene questa sconvolgente scena rimanesse sospesa solo un istante nell’immobilità, Inglewood ebbe il tempo di sentire ancora una volta ciò che aveva sentito quando aveva visto gli altri innamorati stare sul prato—la sensazione d’una certa nettezza incisa e colorata che appartiene piuttosto alle cose dell’arte che alle cose dell’esperienza. Il vaso di fiori spezzato coi suoi gerani incandescenti, la verde mole di Smith e la nera mole di Warner, la cancellata dalle azzurre punte dietro, ghermita dai gialli artigli d’avvoltoio dello sconosciuto e sovrastata dal suo lungo collo d’avvoltoio, il cappello di seta sulla ghiaia, e la piccola nuvoletta di fumo che aleggiava attraverso il giardino innocente come lo sbuffo d’una sigaretta— tutto ciò pareva innaturalmente distinto e definito. Esistevano, come simboli, in un’estasi di separazione. Anzi, ogni oggetto si faceva sempre più particolare e prezioso perché l’intero quadro andava sfaldandosi. Le cose appaiono così luminose proprio prima di scoppiare.
Molto prima che le sue fantasticherie fossero cominciate, non che cessate, Arthur si era fatto avanti e aveva afferrato uno dei bracci di Smith. Simultaneamente il piccolo sconosciuto era salito di corsa i gradini e aveva afferrato l’altro. Smith scoppiò in fragorose risate, e consegnò la pistola con perfetta prontezza. Moon rialzò il dottore in piedi, poi andò ad appoggiarsi imbronciato al cancello del giardino. Le ragazze erano silenziose e vigili, come le donne buone per lo più sono negli attimi di catastrofe, ma i loro volti mostravano che, in un modo o nell’altro, una luce era stata scagliata via dal cielo. Il dottore stesso, quando si fu rialzato, raccolse cappello e senno, e spolverandosi con aria di gran disgusto, si volse a loro in breve scusa. Era pallidissimo per il recente panico, ma parlava con perfetto autocontrollo.
“Vogliate scusarci, signore,” disse; “il mio amico e il signor Inglewood sono entrambi scienziati, ciascuno a suo modo. Credo che faremmo meglio a portare tutti il signor Smith in casa, e a metterci in comunicazione con voi più tardi.”
E sotto la scorta dei tre filosofi naturali il disarmato Smith fu condotto con tatto dentro la casa, ancora ruggendo di risa.
Di tanto in tanto durante i venti minuti successivi il suo lontano rombo d’ilarità poté di nuovo udirsi attraverso la finestra socchiusa; ma non giunse alcuna eco delle quiete voci dei medici. Le ragazze passeggiavano insieme per il giardino, sollevandosi a vicenda gli spiriti come meglio potevano; Michael Moon pendeva ancora pesantemente contro il cancello. Verso lo scadere di quel tempo il dottor Warner uscì di casa con un volto meno pallido ma ancor più severo, e il piccolo uomo dal volto di lische di pesce avanzò gravemente alle sue spalle. E se il volto di Warner nella luce del sole era quello d’un giudice che manda alla forca, il volto del piccolo uomo dietro somigliava più a un teschio.
“Signorina Hunt,” disse il dottor Herbert Warner, “desidero soltanto offrirvi i miei calorosi ringraziamenti e la mia ammirazione. Col vostro pronto coraggio e la vostra saggezza nel mandarci a chiamare per telegramma questa sera, ci avete consentito di catturare e mettere in condizione di non nuocere uno dei più crudeli e terribili nemici dell’umanità— un criminale la cui plausibilità e spietatezza non si erano mai prima combinate in carne umana.”
Rosamund lo guardò con un volto bianco, vuoto, e occhi che sbattevano. “Che cosa volete dire?” chiese. “Non potete intendere il signor Smith?”
“È passato sotto molti altri nomi,” disse il dottore gravemente, “e non ce n’è uno che non abbia lasciato dietro di sé a essere maledetto. Quell’uomo, signorina Hunt, ha lasciato una scia di sangue e lacrime attraverso il mondo. Se sia pazzo oltre che malvagio, stiamo cercando, nell’interesse della scienza, di scoprirlo. In ogni caso, dovremo condurlo prima da un magistrato, foss’anche solo sulla via d’un manicomio. Ma il manicomio in cui verrà rinchiuso dovrà essere sigillato con muro dentro muro, e cinto di cannoni come una fortezza, o egli evaderà di nuovo per portare strage e tenebra sulla terra.”
Rosamund guardò i due medici, col volto che si faceva sempre più pallido. Poi i suoi occhi vagarono verso Michael, che era appoggiato al cancello; ma egli continuò ad appoggiarvisi senza muoversi, col volto voltato lontano verso la strada che s’incupiva.
Chapter V
The Allegorical Practical Joker
The criminal specialist who had come with Dr. Warner was a somewhat more urbane and even dapper figure than he had appeared when clutching the railings and craning his neck into the garden. He even looked comparatively young when he took his hat off, having fair hair parted in the middle and carefully curled on each side, and lively movements, especially of the hands. He had a dandified monocle slung round his neck by a broad black ribbon, and a big bow tie, as if a big American moth had alighted on him. His dress and gestures were bright enough for a boy’s; it was only when you looked at the fish-bone face that you beheld something acrid and old. His manners were excellent, though hardly English, and he had two half-conscious tricks by which people who only met him once remembered him. One was a trick of closing his eyes when he wished to be particularly polite; the other was one of lifting his joined thumb and forefinger in the air as if holding a pinch of snuff, when he was hesitating or hovering over a word. But those who were longer in his company tended to forget these oddities in the stream of his quaint and solemn conversation and really singular views.
“Miss Hunt,” said Dr. Warner, “this is Dr. Cyrus Pym.”
Dr. Cyrus Pym shut his eyes during the introduction, rather as if he were “playing fair” in some child’s game, and gave a prompt little bow, which somehow suddenly revealed him as a citizen of the United States.
“Dr. Cyrus Pym,” continued Warner (Dr. Pym shut his eyes again), “is perhaps the first criminological expert of America. We are very fortunate to be able to consult with him in this extraordinary case—”
“I can’t make head or tail of anything,” said Rosamund. “How can poor Mr. Smith be so dreadful as he is by your account?”
“Or by your telegram,” said Herbert Warner, smiling.
“Oh, you don’t understand,” cried the girl impatiently. “Why, he’s done us all more good than going to church.”
“I think I can explain to the young lady,” said Dr. Cyrus Pym. “This criminal or maniac Smith is a very genius of evil, and has a method of his own, a method of the most daring ingenuity. He is popular wherever he goes, for he invades every house as an uproarious child. People are getting suspicious of all the respectable disguises for a scoundrel; so he always uses the disguise of—what shall I say—the Bohemian, the blameless Bohemian. He always carries people off their feet. People are used to the mask of conventional good conduct. He goes in for eccentric good-nature. You expect a Don Juan to dress up as a solemn and solid Spanish merchant; but you’re not prepared when he dresses up as Don Quixote. You expect a humbug to behave like Sir Charles Grandison; because (with all respect, Miss Hunt, for the deep, tear-moving tenderness of Samuel Richardson) Sir Charles Grandison so often behaved like a humbug. But no real red-blooded citizen is quite ready for a humbug that models himself not on Sir Charles Grandison but on Sir Roger de Coverly. Setting up to be a good man a little cracked is a new criminal incognito, Miss Hunt. It’s been a great notion, and uncommonly successful; but its success just makes it mighty cruel. I can forgive Dick Turpin if he impersonates Dr. Busby; I can’t forgive him when he impersonates Dr. Johnson. The saint with a tile loose is a bit too sacred, I guess, to be parodied.”
“But how do you know,” cried Rosamund desperately, “that Mr. Smith is a known criminal?”
“I collated all the documents,” said the American, “when my friend Warner knocked me up on receipt of your cable. It is my professional affair to know these facts, Miss Hunt; and there’s no more doubt about them than about the Bradshaw down at the depot. This man has hitherto escaped the law, through his admirable affectations of infancy or insanity. But I myself, as a specialist, have privately authenticated notes of some eighteen or twenty crimes attempted or achieved in this manner. He comes to houses as he has to this, and gets a grand popularity. He makes things go. They do go; when he’s gone the things are gone. Gone, Miss Hunt, gone, a man’s life or a man’s spoons, or more often a woman. I assure you I have all the memoranda.”
“I have seen them,” said Warner solidly, “I can assure you that all this is correct.”
“The most unmanly aspect, according to my feelings,” went on the American doctor, “is this perpetual deception of innocent women by a wild simulation of innocence. From almost every house where this great imaginative devil has been, he has taken some poor girl away with him; some say he’s got a hypnotic eye with his other queer features, and that they go like automata. What’s become of all those poor girls nobody knows. Murdered, I dare say; for we’ve lots of instances, besides this one, of his turning his hand to murder, though none ever brought him under the law. Anyhow, our most modern methods of research can’t find any trace of the wretched women. It’s when I think of them that I am really moved, Miss Hunt. And I’ve really nothing else to say just now except what Dr. Warner has said.”
“Quite so,” said Warner, with a smile that seemed moulded in marble—“that we all have to thank you very much for that telegram.”
The little Yankee scientist had been speaking with such evident sincerity that one forgot the tricks of his voice and manner— the falling eyelids, the rising intonation, and the poised finger and thumb—which were at other times a little comic. It was not so much that he was cleverer than Warner; perhaps he was not so clever, though he was more celebrated. But he had what Warner never had, a fresh and unaffected seriousness— the great American virtue of simplicity. Rosamund knitted her brows and looked gloomily toward the darkening house that contained the dark prodigy.
Broad daylight still endured; but it had already changed from gold to silver, and was changing from silver to gray. The long plumy shadows of the one or two trees in the garden faded more and more upon a dead background of dusk. In the sharpest and deepest shadow, which was the entrance to the house by the big French windows, Rosamund could watch a hurried consultation between Inglewood (who was still left in charge of the mysterious captive) and Diana, who had moved to his assistance from without. After a few minutes and gestures they went inside, shutting the glass doors upon the garden; and the garden seemed to grow grayer still.
Capitolo V
Il Burlone Allegorico
Lo specialista in criminologia che era venuto col dottor Warner era una figura alquanto più urbana e persino più azzimata di quanto fosse apparsa quando si aggrappava alla cancellata e allungava il collo dentro il giardino. Sembrava perfino relativamente giovane quando si tolse il cappello, avendo capelli biondi con la scriminatura in mezzo e accuratamente arricciati su ciascun lato, e movimenti vivaci, specialmente delle mani. Aveva un damerino monocolo appeso al collo da un largo nastro nero, e un gran cravattino a fiocco, come se una grossa falena americana si fosse posata su di lui. Il suo abbigliamento e i suoi gesti erano abbastanza sgargianti per un ragazzo; era soltanto quando guardavi il volto di lische di pesce che scorgevi qualcosa d’acre e di vecchio. I suoi modi erano eccellenti, sebbene poco inglesi, e aveva due vezzi semiconsapevoli per i quali la gente che lo incontrava una volta sola se lo ricordava. Uno era il vezzo di chiudere gli occhi quando voleva essere particolarmente cortese; l’altro era quello di sollevare in aria il pollice e l’indice uniti come se reggesse una presa di tabacco, quando esitava o indugiava su una parola. Ma chi restava più a lungo in sua compagnia tendeva a dimenticare queste stranezze nel fluire della sua bizzarra e solenne conversazione e delle sue vedute davvero singolari.
“Signorina Hunt,” disse il dottor Warner, “questi è il dottor Cyrus Pym.”
Il dottor Cyrus Pym chiuse gli occhi durante la presentazione, quasi come se stesse “giocando lealmente” in qualche gioco di bambini, e fece un pronto inchinetto, che in qualche modo d’un tratto lo rivelava cittadino degli Stati Uniti.
“Il dottor Cyrus Pym,” proseguì Warner (il dottor Pym richiuse gli occhi), “è forse il primo esperto di criminologia d’America. Siamo assai fortunati a poterci consultare con lui in questo straordinario caso—”
“Non riesco a raccapezzarmi di nulla,” disse Rosamund. “Come può il povero signor Smith essere tanto orribile quanto lo dite voi?”
“O quanto dice il vostro telegramma,” disse Herbert Warner, sorridendo.
“Oh, voi non capite,” gridò la ragazza spazientita. “Come, ci ha fatto a tutti più bene che andare in chiesa.”
“Credo di poter spiegare alla signorina,” disse il dottor Cyrus Pym. “Questo criminale o maniaco Smith è un vero genio del male, e ha un metodo tutto suo, un metodo della più audace ingegnosità. È benvoluto ovunque vada, perché invade ogni casa come un bambino chiassoso. La gente sta diventando sospettosa di tutti i rispettabili travestimenti d’un mascalzone; sicché egli usa sempre il travestimento di—come dire—il bohémien, l’irreprensibile bohémien. Conquista sempre tutti d’un colpo. La gente è avvezza alla maschera della buona condotta convenzionale. Egli punta sull’eccentrica bonarietà. Ci si aspetta che un Don Giovanni si mascheri da solenne e solido mercante spagnolo; ma non si è preparati quando si maschera da Don Chisciotte. Ci si aspetta che un impostore si comporti come Sir Charles Grandison; perché (con tutto il rispetto, signorina Hunt, per la profonda, commovente tenerezza di Samuel Richardson) Sir Charles Grandison si comportava così spesso da impostore. Ma nessun vero cittadino dal sangue caldo è mai del tutto pronto per un impostore che si modella non su Sir Charles Grandison ma su Sir Roger de Coverly. Ergersi a uomo dabbene un po’ svitato è un nuovo travestimento criminale, signorina Hunt. È stata una grande trovata, e straordinariamente riuscita; ma proprio il suo successo la rende oltremodo crudele. Posso perdonare Dick Turpin se impersona il dottor Busby; non posso perdonarlo quando impersona il dottor Johnson. Il santo con una tegola smossa è, credo, un po’ troppo sacro per essere parodiato.”
“Ma come fate a sapere,” gridò Rosamund disperata, “che il signor Smith è un noto criminale?”
“Ho collazionato tutti i documenti,” disse l’americano, “quando il mio amico Warner mi ha svegliato al ricevimento del vostro cablogramma. È mio dovere professionale conoscere questi fatti, signorina Hunt; e su di essi non c’è più dubbio che sul Bradshaw laggiù alla stazione. Quest’uomo è finora sfuggito alla legge, grazie alle sue mirabili simulazioni d’infanzia o di follia. Ma io stesso, come specialista, ho note privatamente autenticate di alcuni diciotto o venti delitti tentati o compiuti in questa maniera. Egli arriva nelle case come è arrivato in questa, e ottiene una gran popolarità. Fa sì che le cose vadano. E vanno; quando lui se n’è andato, le cose sono sparite. Sparite, signorina Hunt, sparite: la vita d’un uomo o i cucchiai d’un uomo, o più spesso una donna. Vi assicuro che ho tutti i memorandum.”
“Li ho visti,” disse Warner con fermezza, “e posso assicurarvi che tutto questo è esatto.”
“L’aspetto più vile, secondo il mio sentire,” proseguì il medico americano, “è questo perpetuo inganno di donne innocenti con una selvaggia simulazione d’innocenza. Da quasi ogni casa dove questo grande diavolo immaginifico è passato, ha portato via con sé qualche povera ragazza; taluni dicono che abbia un occhio ipnotico oltre agli altri suoi bizzarri tratti, e che esse vadano come automi. Che ne sia stato di tutte quelle povere ragazze nessuno lo sa. Assassinate, oserei dire; perché abbiamo molti casi, oltre a questo, in cui si è dato all’assassinio, benché nessuno l’abbia mai portato sotto la legge. Comunque, i nostri più moderni metodi d’indagine non riescono a trovare alcuna traccia delle sciagurate donne. È quando penso a loro che mi commuovo davvero, signorina Hunt. E davvero non ho null’altro da dire ora se non ciò che ha detto il dottor Warner.”
“Proprio così,” disse Warner, con un sorriso che pareva scolpito nel marmo—“che tutti dobbiamo ringraziarvi tanto per quel telegramma.”
Il piccolo scienziato yankee aveva parlato con tale evidente sincerità che si dimenticavano i vezzi della sua voce e dei suoi modi— le palpebre che si abbassavano, l’intonazione che saliva, e il dito e il pollice sospesi—che in altri momenti erano un po’ comici. Non era tanto che fosse più intelligente di Warner; forse non lo era altrettanto, benché fosse più celebre. Ma egli aveva ciò che Warner non ebbe mai, una fresca e schietta serietà— la grande virtù americana della semplicità. Rosamund aggrottò le sopracciglia e guardò cupamente verso la casa che s’incupiva e conteneva l’oscuro prodigio.
La piena luce del giorno durava ancora; ma era già mutata dall’oro all’argento, e mutava dall’argento al grigio. Le lunghe ombre piumate dei due o tre alberi del giardino sbiadivano sempre più su uno sfondo morto di crepuscolo. Nell’ombra più netta e profonda, che era l’ingresso della casa dalle grandi portefinestre, Rosamund poteva osservare un’affrettata consultazione tra Inglewood (ancora lasciato a guardia del misterioso prigioniero) e Diana, che s’era mossa in suo aiuto dall’esterno. Dopo pochi minuti e gesti entrarono, chiudendo le porte a vetri sul giardino; e il giardino parve farsi ancor più grigio.
The American gentleman named Pym seemed to be turning and on the move in the same direction; but before he started he spoke to Rosamund with a flash of that guileless tact which redeemed much of his childish vanity, and with something of that spontaneous poetry which made it difficult, pedantic as he was, to call him a pedant.
“I’m vurry sorry, Miss Hunt,” he said; “but Dr. Warner and I, as two quali-FIED practitioners, had better take Mr. Smith away in that cab, and the less said about it the better. Don’t you agitate yourself, Miss Hunt. You’ve just got to think that we’re taking away a monstrosity, something that oughtn’t to be at all—something like one of those gods in your Britannic Museum, all wings, and beards, and legs, and eyes, and no shape. That’s what Smith is, and you shall soon be quit of him.”
He had already taken a step towards the house, and Warner was about to follow him, when the glass doors were opened again and Diana Duke came out with more than her usual quickness across the lawn. Her face was aquiver with worry and excitement, and her dark earnest eyes fixed only on the other girl.
“Rosamund,” she cried in despair, “what shall I do with her?”
“With her?” cried Miss Hunt, with a violent jump. “O lord, he isn’t a woman too, is he?”
“No, no, no,” said Dr. Pym soothingly, as if in common fairness. “A woman? no, really, he is not so bad as that.”
“I mean your friend Mary Gray,” retorted Diana with equal tartness. “What on earth am I to do with her?”
“How can we tell her about Smith, you mean,” answered Rosamund, her face at once clouded and softening. “Yes, it will be pretty painful.”
“But I HAVE told her,” exploded Diana, with more than her congenital exasperation. “I have told her, and she doesn’t seem to mind. She still says she’s going away with Smith in that cab.”
“But it’s impossible!” ejaculated Rosamund. “Why, Mary is really religious. She—”
She stopped in time to realize that Mary Gray was comparatively close to her on the lawn. Her quiet companion had come down very quietly into the garden, but dressed very decisively for travel. She had a neat but very ancient blue tam-o’-shanter on her head, and was pulling some rather threadbare gray gloves on to her hands. Yet the two tints fitted excellently with her heavy copper-coloured hair; the more excellently for the touch of shabbiness: for a woman’s clothes never suit her so well as when they seem to suit her by accident.
But in this case the woman had a quality yet more unique and attractive. In such gray hours, when the sun is sunk and the skies are already sad, it will often happen that one reflection at some occasional angle will cause to linger the last of the light. A scrap of window, a scrap of water, a scrap of looking-glass, will be full of the fire that is lost to all the rest of the earth. The quaint, almost triangular face of Mary Gray was like some triangular piece of mirror that could still repeat the splendour of hours before. Mary, though she was always graceful, could never before have properly been called beautiful; and yet her happiness amid all that misery was so beautiful as to make a man catch his breath.
“O Diana,” cried Rosamund in a lower voice and altering her phrase; “but how did you tell her?”
“It is quite easy to tell her,” answered Diana sombrely; “it makes no impression at all.”
“I’m afraid I’ve kept everything waiting,” said Mary Gray apologetically, “and now we must really say good-bye. Innocent is taking me to his aunt’s over at Hampstead, and I’m afraid she goes to bed early.”
Her words were quite casual and practical, but there was a sort of sleepy light in her eyes that was more baffling than darkness; she was like one speaking absently with her eye on some very distant object.
“Mary, Mary,” cried Rosamund, almost breaking down, “I’m so sorry about it, but the thing can’t be at all. We—we have found out all about Mr. Smith.”
“All?” repeated Mary, with a low and curious intonation; “why, that must be awfully exciting.”
There was no noise for an instant and no motion except that the silent Michael Moon, leaning on the gate, lifted his head, as it might be to listen. Then Rosamund remaining speechless, Dr. Pym came to her rescue in a definite way.
“To begin with,” he said, “this man Smith is constantly attempting murder. The Warden of Brakespeare College—”
“I know,” said Mary, with a vague but radiant smile. “Innocent told me.”
“I can’t say what he told you,” replied Pym quickly, “but I’m very much afraid it wasn’t true. The plain truth is that the man’s stained with every known human crime. I assure you I have all the documents. I have evidence of his committing burglary, signed by a most eminent English curate. I have—”
“Oh, but there were two curates,” cried Mary, with a certain gentle eagerness; “that was what made it so much funnier.”
The darkened glass doors of the house opened once more, and Inglewood appeared for an instant, making a sort of signal. The American doctor bowed, the English doctor did not, but they both set out stolidly towards the house. No one else moved, not even Michael hanging on the gate; but the back of his head and shoulders had still an indescribable indication that he was listening to every word.
“But don’t you understand, Mary,” cried Rosamund in despair; “don’t you know that awful things have happened even before our very eyes. I should have thought you would have heard the revolver shots upstairs.”
“Yes, I heard the shots,” said Mary almost brightly; “but I was busy packing just then. And Innocent had told me he was going to shoot at Dr. Warner; so it wasn’t worth while to come down.”
“Oh, I don’t understand what you mean,” cried Rosamund Hunt, stamping, “but you must and shall understand what I mean. I don’t care how cruelly I put it, if only I can save you. I mean that your Innocent Smith is the most awfully wicked man in the world. He has sent bullets at lots of other men and gone off in cabs with lots of other women. And he seems to have killed the women too, for nobody can find them.”
Il gentiluomo americano di nome Pym pareva volgersi e mettersi in moto nella stessa direzione; ma prima di avviarsi rivolse la parola a Rosamund con un lampo di quel candido tatto che riscattava gran parte della sua puerile vanità, e con un che di quella poesia spontanea che rendeva difficile, per quanto fosse pedante, chiamarlo un pedante.
«Mi dispiace vurramente, signorina Hunt» disse; «ma il dottor Warner ed io, come due professionisti quali-FICATI, faremmo meglio a portar via il signor Smith su quella carrozza, e meno se ne parla meglio è. Non si agiti, signorina Hunt. Deve solo pensare che stiamo portando via una mostruosità, qualcosa che non dovrebbe affatto esistere—qualcosa come uno di quegli dèi nel vostro Museo Britannico, tutto ali, e barbe, e gambe, e occhi, e senza forma. Ecco cos’è Smith, e presto ve ne sarete liberata.»
Aveva già mosso un passo verso la casa, e Warner stava per seguirlo, quando le porte a vetri si riaprirono e Diana Duke uscì attraversando il prato con più della sua consueta rapidità. Il volto le fremeva d’ansia ed eccitazione, e i suoi occhi scuri e intenti erano fissi soltanto sull’altra ragazza.
«Rosamund» gridò disperata, «che cosa devo farne di lei?»
«Di lei?» esclamò la signorina Hunt, con un violento sussulto. «Oh Signore, non sarà mica una donna anche lui, vero?»
«No, no, no» disse il dottor Pym con tono rassicurante, come per pura equità. «Una donna? no, davvero, non è poi tanto grave.»
«Intendo la vostra amica Mary Gray» ribatté Diana con pari asprezza. «Che diavolo devo farne di lei?»
«Vuoi dire come dirle di Smith» rispose Rosamund, il volto a un tempo rannuvolato e intenerito. «Sì, sarà piuttosto penoso.»
«Ma gliel’HO già detto» esplose Diana, con più della sua congenita esasperazione. «Gliel’ho detto, e non sembra darsene pensiero. Continua a dire che se ne andrà con Smith su quella carrozza.»
«Ma è impossibile!» esclamò Rosamund. «Ma se Mary è davvero religiosa. Lei—»
Si fermò in tempo per accorgersi che Mary Gray le era relativamente vicina sul prato. La sua quieta compagna era scesa in giardino con molta quiete, ma vestita con molta risolutezza per il viaggio. Portava in capo un tam-o’-shanter azzurro, lindo ma assai vecchio, e si stava infilando sulle mani certi guanti grigi piuttosto logori. Eppure le due tinte si accordavano a meraviglia con i suoi pesanti capelli color rame; tanto più a meraviglia per quel tocco di trasandatezza: perché gli abiti di una donna non le stanno mai così bene come quando sembrano starle bene per caso.
Ma in questo caso la donna aveva una qualità ancor più singolare e attraente. In quelle ore grigie, quando il sole è tramontato e i cieli sono già tristi, accade spesso che un solo riflesso, a un qualche angolo casuale, faccia indugiare l’ultimo della luce. Un lembo di finestra, un lembo d’acqua, un lembo di specchio, sarà colmo del fuoco che è perduto per tutto il resto della terra. Il volto bizzarro, quasi triangolare, di Mary Gray era come un frammento triangolare di specchio che potesse ancora ripetere lo splendore delle ore trascorse. Mary, per quanto fosse sempre aggraziata, non avrebbe mai potuto prima essere propriamente detta bella; eppure la sua felicità in mezzo a tutta quella miseria era tanto bella da mozzare il fiato a un uomo.
«Oh Diana» esclamò Rosamund a voce più bassa, mutando frase; «ma come gliel’hai detto?»
«È facilissimo dirglielo» rispose Diana cupa; «non fa alcuna impressione.»
«Temo di aver fatto aspettare tutti» disse Mary Gray in tono di scusa, «e ora dobbiamo proprio dirci addio. Innocent mi porta da sua zia, laggiù a Hampstead, e temo che lei vada a letto presto.»
Le sue parole erano del tutto disinvolte e pratiche, ma c’era una sorta di luce assonnata nei suoi occhi più sconcertante del buio; era come chi parla distrattamente con l’occhio fisso su qualche oggetto assai lontano.
«Mary, Mary» gridò Rosamund, quasi crollando, «mi dispiace tanto, ma la cosa non può proprio essere. Noi—noi abbiamo scoperto tutto sul signor Smith.»
«Tutto?» ripeté Mary, con un’intonazione bassa e curiosa; «ma allora dev’essere terribilmente emozionante.»
Per un istante non vi fu rumore né movimento, salvo che il silenzioso Michael Moon, appoggiato al cancello, sollevò il capo, come per mettersi in ascolto. Poi, rimanendo Rosamund senza parole, il dottor Pym venne in suo soccorso in modo netto.
«Tanto per cominciare» disse, «quest’uomo, Smith, tenta di continuo l’omicidio. Il Rettore del Brakespeare College—»
«Lo so» disse Mary, con un vago ma radioso sorriso. «Me l’ha detto Innocent.»
«Non so che cosa vi abbia detto» replicò svelto Pym, «ma temo assai che non fosse vero. La pura verità è che quest’uomo è macchiato d’ogni crimine umano conosciuto. Vi assicuro che ho tutti i documenti. Ho la prova che ha commesso un furto con scasso, firmata da un eminentissimo curato inglese. Ho—»
«Oh, ma i curati erano due» esclamò Mary, con una certa gentile premura; «ed è proprio questo che l’ha resa tanto più buffa.»
Le porte a vetri oscurate della casa si aprirono ancora una volta, e Inglewood comparve per un istante, facendo una sorta di segnale. Il dottore americano s’inchinò, quello inglese no, ma entrambi s’avviarono impassibili verso la casa. Nessun altro si mosse, nemmeno Michael appeso al cancello; ma la nuca e le spalle avevano ancora un’indescrivibile indicazione ch’egli stava ascoltando ogni parola.
«Ma non capisci, Mary» gridò Rosamund disperata; «non sai che sono accadute cose spaventose proprio sotto i nostri occhi. Avrei creduto che avessi sentito gli spari di rivoltella al piano di sopra.»
«Sì, ho sentito gli spari» disse Mary quasi allegramente; «ma proprio allora ero occupata a fare i bagagli. E Innocent mi aveva detto che avrebbe sparato al dottor Warner; così non valeva la pena di scendere.»
«Oh, non capisco che cosa intendi» gridò Rosamund Hunt, pestando i piedi, «ma devi e dovrai capire che cosa intendo io. Non m’importa quanto crudelmente lo dico, purché possa salvarti. Intendo che il tuo Innocent Smith è l’uomo più spaventosamente malvagio del mondo. Ha scagliato pallottole contro un mucchio di altri uomini ed è filato via in carrozza con un mucchio di altre donne. E pare che abbia ucciso anche le donne, perché nessuno riesce a trovarle.»
“He is really rather naughty sometimes,” said Mary Gray, laughing softly as she buttoned her old gray gloves.
“Oh, this is really mesmerism, or something,” said Rosamund, and burst into tears.
At the same moment the two black-clad doctors appeared out of the house with their great green-clad captive between them. He made no resistance, but was still laughing in a groggy and half-witted style. Arthur Inglewood followed in the rear, a dark and red study in the last shades of distress and shame. In this black, funereal, and painfully realistic style the exit from Beacon House was made by a man whose entrance a day before had been effected by the happy leaping of a wall and the hilarious climbing of a tree. No one moved of the groups in the garden except Mary Gray, who stepped forward quite naturally, calling out, “Are you ready, Innocent? Our cab’s been waiting such a long time.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Dr. Warner firmly, “I must insist on asking this lady to stand aside. We shall have trouble enough as it is, with the three of us in a cab.”
“But it IS our cab,” persisted Mary. “Why, there’s Innocent’s yellow bag on the top of it.”
“Stand aside,” repeated Warner roughly. “And you, Mr. Moon, please be so obliging as to move a moment. Come, come! the sooner this ugly business is over the better—and how can we open the gate if you will keep leaning on it?”
Michael Moon looked at his long lean forefinger, and seemed to consider and reconsider this argument. “Yes,” he said at last; “but how can I lean on this gate if you keep on opening it?”
“Oh, get out of the way!” cried Warner, almost good-humouredly. “You can lean on the gate any time.”
“No,” said Moon reflectively. “Seldom the time and the place and the blue gate altogether; and it all depends whether you come of an old country family. My ancestors leaned on gates before any one had discovered how to open them.”
“Michael!” cried Arthur Inglewood in a kind of agony, “are you going to get out of the way?”
“Why, no; I think not,” said Michael, after some meditation, and swung himself slowly round, so that he confronted the company, while still, in a lounging attitude, occupying the path.
“Hullo!” he called out suddenly; “what are you doing to Mr. Smith?”
“Taking him away,” answered Warner shortly, “to be examined.”
“Matriculation?” asked Moon brightly.
“By a magistrate,” said the other curtly.
“And what other magistrate,” cried Michael, raising his voice, “dares to try what befell on this free soil, save only the ancient and independent Dukes of Beacon? What other court dares to try one of our company, save only the High Court of Beacon? Have you forgotten that only this afternoon we flew the flag of independence and severed ourselves from all the nations of the earth?”
“Michael,” cried Rosamund, wringing her hands, “how can you stand there talking nonsense? Why, you saw the dreadful thing yourself. You were there when he went mad. It was you that helped the doctor up when he fell over the flower-pot.”
“And the High Court of Beacon,” replied Moon with hauteur, “has special powers in all cases concerning lunatics, flower-pots, and doctors who fall down in gardens. It’s in our very first charter from Edward I: ‘Si medicus quisquam in horto prostratus—’”
“Out of the way!” cried Warner with sudden fury, “or we will force you out of it.”
“What!” cried Michael Moon, with a cry of hilarious fierceness. “Shall I die in defence of this sacred pale? Will you paint these blue railings red with my gore?” and he laid hold of one of the blue spikes behind him. As Inglewood had noticed earlier in the evening, the railing was loose and crooked at this place, and the painted iron staff and spearhead came away in Michael’s hand as he shook it.
“See!” he cried, brandishing this broken javelin in the air, “the very lances round Beacon Tower leap from their places to defend it. Ah, in such a place and hour it is a fine thing to die alone!” And in a voice like a drum he rolled the noble lines of Ronsard—
“Ou pour l’honneur de Dieu, ou pour le droit de mon prince, Navre, poitrine ouverte, au bord de mon province.”
“Sakes alive!” said the American gentleman, almost in an awed tone. Then he added, “Are there two maniacs here?”
“No; there are five,” thundered Moon. “Smith and I are the only sane people left.”
“Michael!” cried Rosamund; “Michael, what does it mean?”
“It means bosh!” roared Michael, and slung his painted spear hurtling to the other end of the garden. “It means that doctors are bosh, and criminology is bosh, and Americans are bosh— much more bosh than our Court of Beacon. It means, you fatheads, that Innocent Smith is no more mad or bad than the bird on that tree.”
“But, my dear Moon,” began Inglewood in his modest manner, “these gentlemen—”
“On the word of two doctors,” exploded Moon again, without listening to anybody else, “shut up in a private hell on the word of two doctors! And such doctors! Oh, my hat! Look at ‘em!—do just look at ‘em! Would you read a book, or buy a dog, or go to a hotel on the advice of twenty such? My people came from Ireland, and were Catholics. What would you say if I called a man wicked on the word of two priests?”
“But it isn’t only their word, Michael,” reasoned Rosamund; “they’ve got evidence too.”
“Have you looked at it?” asked Moon.
“No,” said Rosamund, with a sort of faint surprise; “these gentlemen are in charge of it.”
“And of everything else, it seems to me,” said Michael. “Why, you haven’t even had the decency to consult Mrs. Duke.”
“Oh, that’s no use,” said Diana in an undertone to Rosamund; “Auntie can’t say ‘Bo!’ to a goose.”
“I am glad to hear it,” answered Michael, “for with such a flock of geese to say it to, the horrid expletive might be constantly on her lips. For my part, I simply refuse to let things be done in this light and airy style. I appeal to Mrs. Duke—it’s her house.”
«A volte è davvero un po’ birichino» disse Mary Gray, ridendo dolcemente mentre s’abbottonava i vecchi guanti grigi.
«Oh, questo è proprio mesmerismo, o qualcosa del genere» disse Rosamund, e scoppiò in lacrime.
Nello stesso istante i due dottori vestiti di nero comparvero fuori dalla casa con il loro grande prigioniero vestito di verde in mezzo a loro. Egli non oppose resistenza, ma rideva ancora in modo stordito e mezzo scemo. Arthur Inglewood seguiva in coda, uno studio in nero e rosso nelle ultime sfumature dell’angoscia e della vergogna. In questo stile nero, funereo e penosamente realistico avvenne l’uscita da Beacon House di un uomo la cui entrata, il giorno prima, si era compiuta col felice balzo d’un muro e la spassosa arrampicata d’un albero. Nessuno dei gruppi in giardino si mosse, salvo Mary Gray, che fece un passo avanti con tutta naturalezza, gridando: «Sei pronto, Innocent? La nostra carrozza aspetta già da tanto tempo.»
«Signore e signori» disse fermamente il dottor Warner, «devo insistere nel pregare questa signora di farsi da parte. Avremo già abbastanza guai così, in tre dentro una carrozza.»
«Ma È la nostra carrozza» insistette Mary. «Ma se c’è la borsa gialla d’Innocent sul tetto.»
«Si faccia da parte» ripeté Warner rudemente. «E lei, signor Moon, sia tanto gentile da spostarsi un momento. Su, su! prima si sbriga questa brutta faccenda, meglio è—e come possiamo aprire il cancello se lei continua ad appoggiarcisi?»
Michael Moon guardò il suo lungo e magro indice, e parve considerare e riconsiderare questo argomento. «Sì» disse infine; «ma come posso appoggiarmi a questo cancello se lei continua ad aprirlo?»
«Oh, si tolga di mezzo!» gridò Warner, quasi bonariamente. «Al cancello può appoggiarsi in qualunque momento.»
«No» disse Moon riflessivamente. «Di rado il momento e il luogo e il cancello azzurro coincidono; e tutto dipende dal fatto che uno discenda o no da un’antica famiglia di campagna. I miei antenati si appoggiavano ai cancelli prima che qualcuno avesse scoperto come aprirli.»
«Michael!» gridò Arthur Inglewood in una specie d’agonia, «hai intenzione di toglierti di mezzo?»
«Ma no; credo di no» disse Michael, dopo qualche meditazione, e si girò lentamente su se stesso, così da fronteggiare la compagnia, pur continuando, in atteggiamento indolente, a occupare il sentiero.
«Ehilà!» gridò all’improvviso; «che cosa state facendo al signor Smith?»
«Lo portiamo via» rispose seccamente Warner, «perché sia esaminato.»
«Immatricolazione?» chiese Moon vivacemente.
«Da un magistrato» disse l’altro asciutto.
«E quale altro magistrato» gridò Michael, alzando la voce, «osa giudicare ciò che è accaduto su questo libero suolo, se non gli antichi e indipendenti Duchi di Beacon? Quale altra corte osa giudicare uno della nostra compagnia, se non l’Alta Corte di Beacon? Avete dimenticato che proprio questo pomeriggio abbiamo issato la bandiera dell’indipendenza e ci siamo staccati da tutte le nazioni della terra?»
«Michael» gridò Rosamund, torcendosi le mani, «come puoi startene lì a dire sciocchezze? Ma se hai visto tu stesso la cosa spaventosa. Eri lì quando è impazzito. Sei stato tu ad aiutare il dottore a rialzarsi quando è caduto sul vaso di fiori.»
«E l’Alta Corte di Beacon» replicò Moon con alterigia, «ha poteri speciali in tutti i casi concernenti lunatici, vasi di fiori e dottori che cadono nei giardini. È nella nostra primissima carta di Edoardo I: ‘Si medicus quisquam in horto prostratus—’»
«Fuori dai piedi!» gridò Warner con improvviso furore, «o ti ci caveremo noi.»
«Cosa!» gridò Michael Moon, con un grido di ilare ferocia. «Dovrò morire a difesa di questo sacro recinto? Dipingerete di rosso questa cancellata azzurra col mio sangue?» e afferrò una delle punte azzurre dietro di sé. Come Inglewood aveva notato prima nella serata, la cancellata era lenta e storta in quel punto, e l’asta di ferro dipinto con la sua cuspide gli rimase in mano mentre la scuoteva.
«Guardate!» gridò, brandendo in aria quel giavellotto spezzato, «le lance stesse attorno alla Torre di Beacon balzano dai loro posti per difenderla. Ah, in un tal luogo e in una tal ora è bella cosa morire solo!» E con voce simile a un tamburo declamò i nobili versi di Ronsard—
“Ou pour l’honneur de Dieu, ou pour le droit de mon prince, Navre, poitrine ouverte, au bord de mon province.”
«Perdinci!» disse il gentiluomo americano, quasi con tono reverente. Poi aggiunse: «Ci sono due maniaci qui?»
«No; ce ne sono cinque» tuonò Moon. «Smith ed io siamo le uniche persone sane rimaste.»
«Michael!» gridò Rosamund; «Michael, che cosa significa?»
«Significa fandonie!» ruggì Michael, e scagliò la sua lancia dipinta lontano, verso l’altro capo del giardino. «Significa che i dottori sono fandonie, e la criminologia è fandonia, e gli americani sono fandonie— assai più fandonia della nostra Corte di Beacon. Significa, testoni, che Innocent Smith non è più pazzo o malvagio dell’uccello su quell’albero.»
«Ma, mio caro Moon» cominciò Inglewood nel suo modo modesto, «questi signori—»
«Sulla parola di due dottori» esplose di nuovo Moon, senza ascoltare nessun altro, «rinchiuso in un inferno privato sulla parola di due dottori! E che dottori! Oh, per la miseria! Guardateli!—ma guardateli un po’! Comprereste un libro, o un cane, o andreste in un albergo sul consiglio di venti pari loro? La mia gente veniva dall’Irlanda, ed erano cattolici. Che cosa direste se io dicessi malvagio un uomo sulla parola di due preti?»
«Ma non è soltanto la loro parola, Michael» ragionò Rosamund; «hanno anche le prove.»
«Le hai guardate?» chiese Moon.
«No» disse Rosamund, con una specie di lieve sorpresa; «di quelle si occupano questi signori.»
«E di tutto il resto, mi pare» disse Michael. «Ma se non avete nemmeno avuto la decenza di consultare la signora Duke.»
«Oh, è inutile» disse Diana sottovoce a Rosamund; «la zia non sa dire ‘Bu!’ a un’oca.»
«Ne sono lieto» rispose Michael, «perché con un tale stormo d’oche a cui dirlo, l’orrida esclamazione le sarebbe sempre sulle labbra. Da parte mia, mi rifiuto semplicemente di lasciar fare le cose in questo modo leggero e frivolo. Mi appello alla signora Duke—è casa sua.»
“Mrs. Duke?” repeated Inglewood doubtfully.
“Yes, Mrs. Duke,” said Michael firmly, “commonly called the Iron Duke.”
“If you ask Auntie,” said Diana quietly, “she’ll only be for doing nothing at all. Her only idea is to hush things up or to let things slide. That just suits her.”
“Yes,” replied Michael Moon; “and, as it happens, it just suits all of us. You are impatient with your elders, Miss Duke; but when you are as old yourself you will know what Napoleon knew— that half one’s letters answer themselves if you can only refrain from the fleshly appetite of answering them.”
He was still lounging in the same absurd attitude, with his elbow on the grate, but his voice had altered abruptly for the third time; just as it had changed from the mock heroic to the humanly indignant, it now changed to the airy incisiveness of a lawyer giving good legal advice.
“It isn’t only your aunt who wants to keep this quiet if she can,” he said; “we all want to keep it quiet if we can. Look at the large facts—the big bones of the case. I believe those scientific gentlemen have made a highly scientific mistake. I believe Smith is as blameless as a buttercup. I admit buttercups don’t often let off loaded pistols in private houses; I admit there is something demanding explanation. But I am morally certain there’s some blunder, or some joke, or some allegory, or some accident behind all this. Well, suppose I’m wrong. We’ve disarmed him; we’re five men to hold him; he may as well go to a lock-up later on as now. But suppose there’s even a chance of my being right. Is it anybody’s interest here to wash this linen in public?
“Come, I’ll take each of you in order. Once take Smith outside that gate, and you take him into the front page of the evening papers. I know; I’ve written the front page myself. Miss Duke, do you or your aunt want a sort of notice stuck up over your boarding-house—‘Doctors shot here.’? No, no—doctors are rubbish, as I said; but you don’t want the rubbish shot here. Arthur, suppose I am right, or suppose I am wrong. Smith has appeared as an old schoolfellow of yours. Mark my words, if he’s proved guilty, the Organs of Public Opinion will say you introduced him. If he’s proved innocent, they will say you helped to collar him. Rosamund, my dear, suppose I am right or wrong. If he’s proved guilty, they’ll say you engaged your companion to him. If he’s proved innocent, they’ll print that telegram. I know the Organs, damn them.”
He stopped an instant; for this rapid rationalism left him more breathless than had either his theatrical or his real denunciation. But he was plainly in earnest, as well as positive and lucid; as was proved by his proceeding quickly the moment he had found his breath.
“It is just the same,” he cried, “with our medical friends.
You will say that Dr. Warner has a grievance. I agree.
But does he want specially to be snapshotted by all the
journalists prostratus in horto? It was no fault of his,
but the scene was not very dignified even for him.
He must have justice; but does he want to ask for justice,
not only on his knees, but on his hands and knees?
Does he want to enter the court of justice on all fours?
Doctors are not allowed to advertise; and I’m sure no
doctor wants to advertise himself as looking like that.
And even for our American guest the interest is the same.
Let us suppose that he has conclusive documents.
Let us assume that he has revelations really worth reading.
Well, in a legal inquiry (or a medical inquiry, for that matter)
ten to one he won’t be allowed to read them. He’ll be tripped
up every two or three minutes with some tangle of old rules.
A man can’t tell the truth in public nowadays. But he can
still tell it in private; he can tell it inside that house.”
“It is quite true,” said Dr. Cyrus Pym, who had listened throughout the speech with a seriousness which only an American could have retained through such a scene. “It is true that I have been per-ceptibly less hampered in private inquiries.”
“Dr. Pym!” cried Warner in a sort of sudden anger. “Dr. Pym! you aren’t really going to admit—”
“Smith may be mad,” went on the melancholy Moon in a monologue that seemed as heavy as a hatchet, “but there was something after all in what he said about Home Rule for every home. Yes, there is something, when all’s said and done, in the High Court of Beacon. It is really true that human beings might often get some sort of domestic justice where just now they can only get legal injustice—oh, I am a lawyer too, and I know that as well. It is true that there’s too much official and indirect power. Often and often the thing a whole nation can’t settle is just the thing a family could settle. Scores of young criminals have been fined and sent to jail when they ought to have been thrashed and sent to bed. Scores of men, I am sure, have had a lifetime at Hanwell when they only wanted a week at Brighton. There IS something in Smith’s notion of domestic self-government; and I propose that we put it into practice. You have the prisoner; you have the documents. Come, we are a company of free, white, Christian people, such as might be besieged in a town or cast up on a desert island. Let us do this thing ourselves. Let us go into that house there and sit down and find out with our own eyes and ears whether this thing is true or not; whether this Smith is a man or a monster. If we can’t do a little thing like that, what right have we to put crosses on ballot papers?”
Inglewood and Pym exchanged a glance; and Warner, who was no fool, saw in that glance that Moon was gaining ground. The motives that led Arthur to think of surrender were indeed very different from those which affected Dr. Cyrus Pym. All Arthur’s instincts were on the side of privacy and polite settlement; he was very English and would often endure wrongs rather than right them by scenes and serious rhetoric. To play at once the buffoon and the knight-errant, like his Irish friend, would have been absolute torture to him; but even the semi-official part he had played that afternoon was very painful. He was not likely to be reluctant if any one could convince him that his duty was to let sleeping dogs lie.
«La signora Duke?» ripeté Inglewood dubbioso.
«Sì, la signora Duke» disse Michael fermamente, «comunemente detta il Duca di Ferro.»
«Se lo chiedete alla zia» disse Diana con calma, «sarà solo per non far nulla del tutto. La sua unica idea è mettere tutto a tacere o lasciar correre. È proprio quel che le piace.»
«Sì» replicò Michael Moon; «e, guarda caso, è proprio quel che piace a tutti noi. Siete impaziente con i vostri anziani, signorina Duke; ma quando sarete anziana anche voi saprete ciò che sapeva Napoleone— che metà delle proprie lettere si risponde da sé, se solo si riesce ad astenersi dall’appetito carnale di rispondervi.»
Se ne stava ancora sdraiato nel medesimo assurdo atteggiamento, col gomito sulla grata, ma la voce gli era mutata di colpo per la terza volta; proprio come era passata dal finto eroismo all’umana indignazione, ora mutava nell’ariosa incisività d’un avvocato che dà un buon consiglio legale.
«Non è soltanto vostra zia a voler tenere la cosa nascosta se può» disse; «tutti noi vogliamo tenerla nascosta se possiamo. Guardate i fatti grossi—le grandi ossa del caso. Credo che quei signori scientifici abbiano commesso un errore altamente scientifico. Credo che Smith sia innocente come un ranuncolo. Ammetto che i ranuncoli non lasciano spesso partire pistole cariche nelle case private; ammetto che c’è qualcosa che esige spiegazione. Ma sono moralmente certo che dietro tutto ciò c’è qualche cantonata, o qualche scherzo, o qualche allegoria, o qualche incidente. Bene, supponiamo che io mi sbagli. L’abbiamo disarmato; siamo cinque uomini a tenerlo; tanto vale che vada in gattabuia più tardi come adesso. Ma supponiamo che ci sia anche solo una probabilità che io abbia ragione. È forse nell’interesse di qualcuno, qui, lavare questi panni in pubblico?
«Suvvia, prenderò ciascuno di voi a turno. Basta portare Smith fuori da quel cancello, e lo portate nella prima pagina dei giornali della sera. Lo so; la prima pagina l’ho scritta io stesso. Signorina Duke, volete voi o vostra zia un avviso appeso sopra la vostra pensione—‘Qui si sparano dottori.’? No, no—i dottori sono spazzatura, come ho detto; ma non volete la spazzatura sparata qui. Arthur, supponi che io abbia ragione, o supponi che abbia torto. Smith è comparso come un tuo vecchio compagno di scuola. Bada alle mie parole, se sarà dichiarato colpevole, gli Organi della Pubblica Opinione diranno che l’hai presentato tu. Se sarà dichiarato innocente, diranno che hai aiutato ad acchiapparlo. Rosamund, mia cara, supponi che io abbia ragione o torto. Se sarà dichiarato colpevole, diranno che gli hai fidanzato la tua dama di compagnia. Se sarà dichiarato innocente, stamperanno quel telegramma. Io li conosco, gli Organi, maledetti loro.»
Si fermò un istante; perché questo rapido razionalismo lo lasciava più senza fiato di quanto avessero fatto la sua denuncia teatrale o quella vera. Ma era chiaramente sincero, oltre che positivo e lucido; come provò il fatto che riprese in fretta appena ebbe ritrovato il fiato.
«È esattamente lo stesso» gridò, «coi nostri amici medici.
Direte che il dottor Warner ha di che lamentarsi. D’accordo.
Ma vuole davvero farsi fotografare da tutti i
giornalisti prostratus in horto? Non è stata colpa sua,
ma la scena non è stata molto dignitosa nemmeno per lui.
Deve avere giustizia; ma vuole chiederla, la giustizia,
non solo in ginocchio, ma carponi, mani e ginocchia a terra?
Vuole entrare nella corte di giustizia a quattro zampe?
Ai dottori non è permesso farsi pubblicità; e son certo che nessun
dottore vuol farsi pubblicità mostrandosi in quello stato.
E anche per il nostro ospite americano l’interesse è lo stesso.
Supponiamo che egli abbia documenti conclusivi.
Ammettiamo che abbia rivelazioni davvero degne d’essere lette.
Ebbene, in un’inchiesta legale (o medica, se è per questo)
dieci a uno che non gli sarà permesso di leggerle. Sarà inciampato
ogni due o tre minuti in qualche groviglio di vecchie regole.
Oggigiorno un uomo non può dire la verità in pubblico. Ma può
ancora dirla in privato; può dirla dentro quella casa.»
«È verissimo» disse il dottor Cyrus Pym, che aveva ascoltato per tutto il discorso con una serietà che solo un americano avrebbe potuto conservare attraverso una scena simile. «È vero che sono stato percettibilmente meno ostacolato nelle indagini private.»
«Dottor Pym!» gridò Warner in una sorta d’improvvisa collera. «Dottor Pym! non starà davvero per ammettere—»
«Smith sarà anche pazzo» proseguì il malinconico Moon in un monologo che pareva pesante come una scure, «ma c’era pur qualcosa in quel che diceva a proposito dell’autogoverno per ogni casa. Sì, c’è qualcosa, a conti fatti, nell’Alta Corte di Beacon. È davvero vero che gli esseri umani potrebbero spesso ottenere una qualche giustizia domestica là dove adesso non possono ottenere che un’ingiustizia legale—oh, sono anch’io un avvocato, e lo so bene. È vero che c’è troppo potere ufficiale e indiretto. Spesso e volentieri la cosa che un’intera nazione non sa risolvere è proprio quella che una famiglia saprebbe risolvere. Decine di giovani criminali sono stati multati e mandati in prigione quando avrebbero dovuto essere frustati e mandati a letto. Decine di uomini, ne sono certo, hanno passato una vita a Hanwell quando volevano solo una settimana a Brighton. C’È qualcosa nell’idea di Smith sull’auto-governo domestico; e io propongo di metterla in pratica. Avete il prigioniero; avete i documenti. Suvvia, siamo un’accolita di gente libera, bianca e cristiana, tale da poter essere assediata in una città o gettata su un’isola deserta. Facciamo la cosa noi stessi. Andiamo in quella casa lì e sediamoci e scopriamo coi nostri occhi e le nostre orecchie se questa cosa è vera o no; se questo Smith è un uomo o un mostro. Se non sappiamo fare una piccola cosa come questa, che diritto abbiamo di mettere crocette sulle schede elettorali?»
Inglewood e Pym si scambiarono un’occhiata; e Warner, che non era uno sciocco, vide in quell’occhiata che Moon guadagnava terreno. I motivi che portavano Arthur a pensare alla resa erano invero assai diversi da quelli che influenzavano il dottor Cyrus Pym. Tutti gli istinti di Arthur erano dalla parte della riservatezza e della composizione garbata; era molto inglese e spesso avrebbe sopportato torti piuttosto che raddrizzarli con scenate e retorica solenne. Recitare a un tempo il buffone e il cavaliere errante, come il suo amico irlandese, sarebbe stato per lui una vera tortura; ma persino la parte semiufficiale che aveva recitato quel pomeriggio gli era stata assai penosa. Non era probabile che si mostrasse riluttante se qualcuno riusciva a convincerlo che il suo dovere era di lasciar dormire i cani che dormono.
On the other hand, Cyrus Pym belonged to a country in which things are possible that seem crazy to the English. Regulations and authorities exactly like one of Innocent’s pranks or one of Michael’s satires really exist, propped by placid policemen and imposed on bustling business men. Pym knew whole States which are vast and yet secret and fanciful; each is as big as a nation yet as private as a lost village, and as unexpected as an apple-pie bed. States where no man may have a cigarette, States where any man may have ten wives, very strict prohibition States, very lax divorce States—all these large local vagaries had prepared Cyrus Pym’s mind for small local vagaries in a smaller country. Infinitely more remote from England than any Russian or Italian, utterly incapable of even conceiving what English conventions are, he could not see the social impossibility of the Court of Beacon. It is firmly believed by those who shared the experiment, that to the very end Pym believed in that phantasmal court and supposed it to be some Britannic institution.
Towards the synod thus somewhat at a standstill there approached through the growing haze and gloaming a short dark figure with a walk apparently founded on the imperfect repression of a negro breakdown. Something at once in the familiarity and the incongruity of this being moved Michael to even heartier outbursts of a healthy and humane flippancy.
“Why, here’s little Nosey Gould,” he exclaimed. “Isn’t the mere sight of him enough to banish all your morbid reflections?”
“Really,” replied Dr. Warner, “I really fail to see how Mr. Gould affects the question; and I once more demand—”
“Hello! what’s the funeral, gents?” inquired the newcomer with the air of an uproarious umpire. “Doctor demandin’ something? Always the way at a boarding-house, you know. Always lots of demand. No supply.”
As delicately and impartially as he could, Michael restated his position, and indicated generally that Smith had been guilty of certain dangerous and dubious acts, and that there had even arisen an allegation that he was insane.
“Well, of course he is,” said Moses Gould equably; “it don’t need old ‘Olmes to see that. The ‘awk-like face of ‘Olmes,” he added with abstract relish, “showed a shide of disappointment, the sleuth-like Gould ‘avin’ got there before ‘im.”
“If he is mad,” began Inglewood.
“Well,” said Moses, “when a cove gets out on the tile the first night there’s generally a tile loose.”
“You never objected before,” said Diana Duke rather stiffly, “and you’re generally pretty free with your complaints.”
“I don’t compline of him,” said Moses magnanimously, “the poor chap’s ‘armless enough; you might tie ‘im up in the garden here and ‘e’d make noises at the burglars.”
“Moses,” said Moon with solemn fervour, “you are the incarnation of Common Sense. You think Mr. Innocent is mad. Let me introduce you to the incarnation of Scientific Theory. He also thinks Mr. Innocent is mad.—Doctor, this is my friend Mr. Gould.—Moses, this is the celebrated Dr. Pym.” The celebrated Dr. Cyrus Pym closed his eyes and bowed. He also murmured his national war-cry in a low voice, which sounded like “Pleased to meet you.”
“Now you two people,” said Michael cheerfully, “who both think our poor friend mad, shall jolly well go into that house over there and prove him mad. What could be more powerful than the combination of Scientific Theory with Common Sense? United you stand; divided you fall. I will not be so uncivil as to suggest that Dr. Pym has no common sense; I confine myself to recording the chronological accident that he has not shown us any so far. I take the freedom of an old friend in staking my shirt that Moses has no scientific theory. Yet against this strong coalition I am ready to appear, armed with nothing but an intuition—which is American for a guess.”
“Distinguished by Mr. Gould’s assistance,” said Pym, opening his eyes suddenly. “I gather that though he and I are identical in primary di-agnosis there is yet between us something that cannot be called a disagreement, something which we may perhaps call a—” He put the points of thumb and forefinger together, spreading the other fingers exquisitely in the air, and seemed to be waiting for somebody else to tell him what to say.
“Catchin’ flies?” inquired the affable Moses.
“A divergence,” said Dr. Pym, with a refined sigh of relief; “a divergence. Granted that the man in question is deranged, he would not necessarily be all that science requires in a homicidal maniac—”
“Has it occurred to you,” observed Moon, who was leaning on the gate again, and did not turn round, “that if he were a homicidal maniac he might have killed us all here while we were talking.”
Something exploded silently underneath all their minds, like sealed dynamite in some forgotten cellars. They all remembered for the first time for some hour or two that the monster of whom they were talking was standing quietly among them. They had left him in the garden like a garden statue; there might have been a dolphin coiling round his legs, or a fountain pouring out of his mouth, for all the notice they had taken of Innocent Smith. He stood with his crest of blonde, blown hair thrust somewhat forward, his fresh-coloured, rather short-sighted face looking patiently downwards at nothing in particular, his huge shoulders humped, and his hands in his trousers pockets. So far as they could guess he had not moved at all. His green coat might have been cut out of the green turf on which he stood. In his shadow Pym had expounded and Rosamund expostulated, Michael had ranted and Moses had ragged. He had remained like a thing graven; the god of the garden. A sparrow had perched on one of his heavy shoulders; and then, after correcting its costume of feathers, had flown away.
D’altra parte, Cyrus Pym apparteneva a un paese dove sono possibili cose che sembrano pazzesche agli inglesi. Esistono davvero regolamenti e autorità esattamente come uno degli scherzi di Innocenzo o una delle satire di Michele, sostenuti da poliziotti placidi e imposti a uomini d’affari indaffarati. Pym conosceva interi Stati che sono vasti eppure segreti e fantasiosi; ciascuno è grande come una nazione, ma privato come un villaggio perduto, e inaspettato quanto un letto a forma di torta di mele. Stati dove nessuno può avere una sigaretta, Stati dove chiunque può avere dieci mogli, Stati con divieti molto rigorosi, Stati con divorzi molto lassi: tutte queste grandi vaghezze locali avevano preparato la mente di Cyrus Pym per piccole vaghezze locali in un paese più piccolo. Infinitamente più remoto dall’Inghilterra di qualsiasi russo o italiano, del tutto incapace di concepire cosa siano le convenzioni inglesi, non poteva vedere l’impossibilità sociale della Corte di Beacon. Coloro che hanno condiviso l’esperimento credono fermamente che Pym abbia creduto fino alla fine in quella fantasmagorica corte e l’abbia considerata un’istituzione britannica.
Verso il sinodo, che era così un po’ fermo, si avvicinava attraverso la crescente foschia e crepuscolo una figura bassa e scura con un modo di camminare apparentemente basato sulla repressione imperfetta di una danza nera. Qualcosa nella familiarità e nell’incongruità di questo essere spinse Michael a scoppi di frivolezza sani e umani ancora più cordiali.
«Ecco il piccolo Nosey Gould», esclamò. «Non è già la semplice vista di lui sufficiente a scacciare tutte le vostre riflessioni morbosi?»
«Davvero», rispose il dottor Warner, «non riesco proprio a capire come la cosa riguardi il signor Gould; e ribadisco ancora una volta…»
“Ciao! che tipo di funerale è, signori?” chiese il nuovo arrivato con l’aria di un arbitro esuberante. “Il dottore sta chiedendo qualcosa? È sempre così in una pensione, sapete. Ci sono sempre molte richieste. Nessuna offerta.”
Con la massima delicatezza e imparzialità di cui era capace, Michael riformulò la sua posizione, e indicò in generale che Smith si fosse reso responsabile di certi atti pericolosi e dubbi, e che fosse persino sorta l’accusa che egli fosse pazzo.
«Beh, naturalmente lo è», disse Moses Gould con calma; «non c’è bisogno di vecchio Holmes per capirlo. Il volto da avvoltoio di Holmes,» aggiunse con gusto astratto, «mostrò un segno di delusione, il detective Gould essendoci arrivato prima di lui.»
«Se è pazzo», cominciò Inglewood.
«Beh», disse Mosè, «quando uno esce sul tetto la prima sera, di solito trova una tegola allentata.»
“Non hai mai obiettato prima”, disse la duchessa Diana piuttosto freddamente, “e di solito sei abbastanza libera con le tue lamentele”.
“Non mi lamento di lui”, disse Mosè con magnanimità, “il poveretto è abbastanza innocuo; potreste legarlo nel giardino qui e farebbe rumore contro i ladri”.
“Mosè”, disse Moon con solenne fervore, “sei l’incarnazione del Buon Senso. Pensi che il signor Innocent sia pazzo. Lascia che ti presenti l’incarnazione della Teoria Scientifica. Anche lui pensa che il signor Innocent sia pazzo. — Dottore, questo è il mio amico Gould. — Mosè, questo è il celebre dottor Pym.” Il celebre dottor Cyrus Pym chiuse gli occhi e si inchinò. Anche lui mormorò la sua guerra nazionale a bassa voce, che suonava come “Piacere di conoscerti”.
“Ora voi due persone”, disse Michael allegramente, “che pensate entrambi che il nostro povero amico sia matto, andreste benissimo in quella casa laggiù e lo dimostrereste pazzo. Cosa potrebbe essere più efficace della combinazione di Teoria Scientifica con Buon Senso? Uniti vincerete; divisi perderete. Non sarò così scortese da suggerire che il Dr. Pym non abbia buon senso; mi limito a registrare l’incidente cronologico per cui finora non ce ne ha mostrato alcuno. Mi prendo la libertà di un vecchio amico nel scommetterci la camicia che Mosè non abbia una teoria scientifica. Eppure contro questa forte coalizione sono pronto ad apparire, armato solo di un’intuizione—che in americano vuol dire un’ipotesi.”
«Distinto dall’aiuto del signor Gould», disse Pym aprendo gli occhi di colpo. «Mi sembra di capire che sebbene lui e io siamo identici nella diagnosi primaria, c’è tra noi qualcosa che non può essere chiamato disaccordo, qualcosa che forse potremmo definire un…» Unì la punta del pollice e dell’indice, aprendo con squisita eleganza le altre dita nell’aria, e sembrò aspettare che qualcun altro gli suggerisse cosa dire.
«Stai catturando mosche?» chiese il cordiale Mosè.
«Una divergenza», disse il dottor Pym con un raffinato sospiro di sollievo, «una divergenza. Ammesso che l’uomo in questione sia squilibrato, non sarebbe necessariamente tutto ciò che la scienza richiede in uno psicopatico omicida…»
«Le è mai venuto in mente», osservò Moon, che si era appoggiato di nuovo al cancello e non si voltò, «che se fosse un pazzo omicida avrebbe potuto ucciderci tutti qui mentre parlavamo.»
Qualcosa esplose silenziosamente sotto tutte le loro menti, come dinamite sigillata in qualche cantina dimenticata. Tutti ricordarono per la prima volta per un’ora o due che il mostro di cui stavano parlando era lì tranquillo tra loro. Lo avevano lasciato nel giardino come una statua; avrebbe potuto esserci un delfino che si arrotolava intorno alle sue gambe, o una fontana che sgorgava dalla sua bocca, per quanto riguarda l’attenzione che avevano prestato a Innocent Smith. Era in piedi con la cresta dei suoi capelli biondi spettinati un po’ in avanti, il suo viso fresco, piuttosto miope, guardava pazientemente in basso verso nulla di particolare, le sue enormi spalle curve, e le mani nelle tasche dei pantaloni. Per quanto potessero indovinare non si era mosso affatto. Il suo cappotto verde poteva essere stato tagliato fuori dall’erba verde su cui stava. Nella sua ombra Pym aveva esposto e Rosamund aveva contestato, Michael aveva fatto discorsi infuocati e Mosè si era lamentato. Era rimasto come una cosa scolpita; il dio del giardino. Uno sparrow era appollaiato su una delle sue grosse spalle; e poi, dopo aver corretto il suo costume di piume, volò via.
“Why,” cried Michael, with a shout of laughter, “the Court of Beacon has opened—and shut up again too. You all know now I am right. Your buried common sense has told you what my buried common sense has told me. Smith might have fired off a hundred cannons instead of a pistol, and you would still know he was harmless as I know he is harmless. Back we all go to the house and clear a room for discussion. For the High Court of Beacon, which has already arrived at its decision, is just about to begin its inquiry.”
“Just a goin’ to begin!” cried little Mr. Moses in an extraordinary sort of disinterested excitement, like that of an animal during music or a thunderstorm. “Follow on to the ‘Igh Court of Eggs and Bacon; ‘ave a kipper from the old firm! ‘Is Lordship complimented Mr. Gould on the ‘igh professional delicacy ‘e had shown, and which was worthy of the best traditions of the Saloon Bar— and three of Scotch hot, miss! Oh, chase me, girls!”
The girls betraying no temptation to chase him, he went away in a sort of waddling dance of pure excitement; and had made a circuit of the garden before he reappeared, breathless but still beaming. Moon had known his man when he realized that no people presented to Moses Gould could be quite serious, even if they were quite furious. The glass doors stood open on the side nearest to Mr. Moses Gould; and as the feet of that festive idiot were evidently turned in the same direction, everybody else went that way with the unanimity of some uproarious procession. Only Diana Duke retained enough rigidity to say the thing that had been boiling at her fierce feminine lips for the last few hours. Under the shadow of tragedy she had kept it back as unsympathetic. “In that case,” she said sharply, “these cabs can be sent away.”
“Well, Innocent must have his bag, you know,” said Mary with a smile. “I dare say the cabman would get it down for us.”
“I’ll get the bag,” said Smith, speaking for the first time in hours; his voice sounded remote and rude, like the voice of a statue.
Those who had so long danced and disputed round his immobility were left breathless by his precipitance. With a run and spring he was out of the garden into the street; with a spring and one quivering kick he was actually on the roof of the cab. The cabman happened to be standing by the horse’s head, having just removed its emptied nose-bag. Smith seemed for an instant to be rolling about on the cab’s back in the embraces of his Gladstone bag. The next instant, however, he had rolled, as if by a royal luck, into the high seat behind, and with a shriek of piercing and appalling suddenness had sent the horse flying and scampering down the street.
His evanescence was so violent and swift, that this time it was all the other people who were turned into garden statues. Mr. Moses Gould, however, being ill-adapted both physically and morally for the purposes of permanent sculpture, came to life some time before the rest, and, turning to Moon, remarked, like a man starting chattily with a stranger on an omnibus, “Tile loose, eh? Cab loose anyhow.” There followed a fatal silence; and then Dr. Warner said, with a sneer like a club of stone,—
“This is what comes of the Court of Beacon, Mr. Moon. You have let loose a maniac on the whole metropolis.”
Beacon House stood, as has been said, at the end of a long crescent of continuous houses. The little garden that shut it in ran out into a sharp point like a green cape pushed out into the sea of two streets. Smith and his cab shot up one side of the triangle, and certainly most of those standing inside of it never expected to see him again. At the apex, however, he turned the horse sharply round and drove with equal violence up the other side of the garden, visible to all those in the group. With a common impulse the little crowd ran across the lawn as if to stop him, but they soon had reason to duck and recoil. Even as he vanished up street for the second time, he let the big yellow bag fly from his hand, so that it fell in the centre of the garden, scattering the company like a bomb, and nearly damaging Dr. Warner’s hat for the third time. Long before they had collected themselves, the cab had shot away with a shriek that went into a whisper.
“Well,” said Michael Moon, with a queer note in his voice; “you may as well all go inside anyhow. We’ve got two relics of Mr. Smith at least; his fiancee and his trunk.”
“Why do you want us to go inside?” asked Arthur Inglewood, in whose red brow and rough brown hair botheration seemed to have reached its limit.
“I want the rest to go in,” said Michael in a clear voice, “because I want the whole of this garden in which to talk to you.”
There was an atmosphere of irrational doubt; it was really getting colder, and a night wind had begun to wave the one or two trees in the twilight. Dr. Warner, however, spoke in a voice devoid of indecision.
“I refuse to listen to any such proposal,” he said; “you have lost this ruffian, and I must find him.”
“I don’t ask you to listen to any proposal,” answered Moon quietly; “I only ask you to listen.”
He made a silencing movement with his hand, and immediately the whistling noise that had been lost in the dark streets on one side of the house could be heard from quite a new quarter on the other side. Through the night-maze of streets the noise increased with incredible rapidity, and the next moment the flying hoofs and flashing wheels had swept up to the blue-railed gate at which they had originally stood. Mr. Smith got down from his perch with an air of absent-mindedness, and coming back into the garden stood in the same elephantine attitude as before.
«Ecco» gridò Michael, con uno scoppio di risa, «la Corte di Beacon si è aperta—e anche richiusa. Adesso sapete tutti che ho ragione. Il vostro buon senso sepolto vi ha detto quel che il mio buon senso sepolto ha detto a me. Smith avrebbe potuto sparare cento cannoni invece d’una pistola, e voi sapreste ancora che è innocuo come io so che è innocuo. Torniamo tutti alla casa e sgombriamo una stanza per la discussione. Perché l’Alta Corte di Beacon, che è già giunta alla sua decisione, sta giusto per iniziare la sua inchiesta.»
«Giusto giusto per iniziare!» gridò il piccolo signor Moses in una straordinaria sorta d’eccitazione disinteressata, come quella d’un animale durante la musica o un temporale. «Seguite l’Alta Corte di Uova e Pancetta; prendete un’aringa affumicata della vecchia ditta! Sua Signoria s’è complimentato col signor Gould per l’alta finezza professionale che aveva mostrato, e ch’era degna delle migliori tradizioni del Bar del Saloon— e tre di whisky caldo, signorina! Oh, rincorretemi, ragazze!»
Non tradendo le ragazze alcuna tentazione di rincorrerlo, egli se ne andò in una sorta di danza dondolante di pura eccitazione; e aveva fatto un giro del giardino prima di ricomparire, ansante ma ancora raggiante. Moon aveva conosciuto il suo uomo quando comprese che nessuno, messo davanti a Moses Gould, poteva restare del tutto serio, anche se era del tutto furioso. Le porte a vetri stavano aperte sul lato più vicino al signor Moses Gould; e poiché i piedi di quell’idiota festoso erano evidentemente volti nella stessa direzione, tutti gli altri andarono da quella parte con l’unanimità di qualche chiassosa processione. Solo Diana Duke conservò abbastanza rigidità da dire la cosa che le ribolliva sulle fiere labbra femminili da qualche ora. Sotto l’ombra della tragedia l’aveva trattenuta come inopportuna. «In tal caso» disse tagliente, «queste carrozze possono essere rimandate via.»
«Ebbene, Innocent deve avere la sua borsa, sapete» disse Mary con un sorriso. «Oserei dire che il vetturino ce la tirerebbe giù.»
«Prendo io la borsa» disse Smith, parlando per la prima volta da ore; la voce gli suonava remota e rude, come la voce d’una statua.
Coloro che così a lungo avevano danzato e disputato attorno alla sua immobilità furono lasciati senza fiato dalla sua precipitazione. Con una corsa e un balzo fu fuori dal giardino, nella strada; con un balzo e un solo calcio fremente si trovò addirittura sul tetto della carrozza. Il vetturino si trovava per caso a fianco della testa del cavallo, avendo appena tolto la sacca da naso ormai vuota. Smith parve per un istante rotolarsi sul dorso della carrozza tra gli abbracci della sua borsa Gladstone. L’istante dopo, tuttavia, era rotolato, come per fortuna regale, nell’alto sedile posteriore, e con uno strillo di penetrante e spaventosa subitaneità aveva lanciato il cavallo a volare e galoppare giù per la strada.
La sua sparizione fu tanto violenta e rapida che questa volta furono tutti gli altri a essere mutati in statue da giardino. Il signor Moses Gould, tuttavia, essendo mal adatto sia fisicamente sia moralmente agli scopi della scultura permanente, tornò in vita qualche tempo prima degli altri e, voltandosi verso Moon, osservò, come uno che attacca chiacchiera con uno sconosciuto su un omnibus: «Tegola smossa, eh? Carrozza smossa comunque.» Seguì un fatale silenzio; e poi il dottor Warner disse, con un ghigno simile a una mazza di pietra,—
«Ecco cosa viene dalla Corte di Beacon, signor Moon. Avete scatenato un maniaco su tutta la metropoli.»
Beacon House sorgeva, come s’è detto, all’estremità d’una lunga mezzaluna di case continue. Il piccolo giardino che la racchiudeva sporgeva in una punta acuta, come un verde promontorio spinto nel mare di due strade. Smith e la sua carrozza schizzarono su un lato del triangolo, e certo la maggior parte di quanti stavano dentro non si aspettavano di rivederlo mai più. All’apice, però, egli fece girare bruscamente il cavallo e guidò con pari violenza su per l’altro lato del giardino, visibile a tutti quelli del gruppo. Con un impulso comune la piccola folla corse attraverso il prato come per fermarlo, ma ebbe presto ragione d’abbassarsi e ritrarsi. Proprio mentre spariva su per la strada per la seconda volta, lasciò volare dalla mano la grande borsa gialla, sicché cadde nel centro del giardino, disperdendo la compagnia come una bomba, e per poco non danneggiò il cappello del dottor Warner per la terza volta. Molto prima che si fossero ricomposti, la carrozza era schizzata via con uno strillo che si spense in un sussurro.
«Ebbene» disse Michael Moon, con una strana nota nella voce; «potete bene entrare tutti dentro comunque. Abbiamo almeno due reliquie del signor Smith: la sua fidanzata e il suo baule.»
«Perché volete che entriamo?» chiese Arthur Inglewood, nella cui rossa fronte e ruvida chioma bruna lo sconcerto pareva aver raggiunto il limite.
«Voglio che gli altri entrino» disse Michael con voce chiara, «perché voglio tutto questo giardino per parlare con te.»
C’era un’atmosfera d’irrazionale dubbio; faceva davvero più freddo, e un vento notturno aveva cominciato ad agitare l’uno o due alberi nel crepuscolo. Il dottor Warner, tuttavia, parlò con voce priva d’indecisione.
«Mi rifiuto d’ascoltare qualsiasi simile proposta» disse; «avete perduto questo furfante, e io devo trovarlo.»
«Non vi chiedo d’ascoltare alcuna proposta» rispose Moon con calma; «vi chiedo soltanto d’ascoltare.»
Fece un gesto di silenzio con la mano, e immediatamente il fischio che s’era perduto nelle strade buie da un lato della casa si poté udire da tutt’altra parte, dall’altro lato. Attraverso il notturno labirinto di strade il rumore crebbe con incredibile rapidità, e l’istante dopo gli zoccoli volanti e le ruote lampeggianti avevano spazzato fin verso il cancello dalla cancellata azzurra dove in origine erano stati. Il signor Smith scese dal suo trespolo con aria di distrazione, e rientrando nel giardino si fermò nel medesimo elefantesco atteggiamento di prima.
“Get inside! get inside!” cried Moon hilariously, with the air of one shooing a company of cats. “Come, come, be quick about it! Didn’t I tell you I wanted to talk to Inglewood?”
How they were all really driven into the house again it would have been difficult afterwards to say. They had reached the point of being exhausted with incongruities, as people at a farce are ill with laughing, and the brisk growth of the storm among the trees seemed like a final gesture of things in general. Inglewood lingered behind them, saying with a certain amicable exasperation, “I say, do you really want to speak to me?”
“I do,” said Michael, “very much.”
Night had come as it generally does, quicker than the twilight had seemed to promise. While the human eye still felt the sky as light gray, a very large and lustrous moon appearing abruptly above a bulk of roofs and trees, proved by contrast that the sky was already a very dark gray indeed. A drift of barren leaves across the lawn, a drift of riven clouds across the sky, seemed to be lifted on the same strong and yet laborious wind.
“Arthur,” said Michael, “I began with an intuition; but now I am sure. You and I are going to defend this friend of yours before the blessed Court of Beacon, and to clear him too—clear him of both crime and lunacy. Just listen to me while I preach to you for a bit.” They walked up and down the darkening garden together as Michael Moon went on.
“Can you,” asked Michael, “shut your eyes and see some of those queer old hieroglyphics they stuck up on white walls in the old hot countries. How stiff they were in shape and yet how gaudy in colour. Think of some alphabet of arbitrary figures picked out in black and red, or white and green, with some old Semitic crowd of Nosey Gould’s ancestors staring at it, and try to think why the people put it up at all.”
Inglewood’s first instinct was to think that his perplexing friend had really gone off his head at last; there seemed so reckless a flight of irrelevancy from the tropic-pictured walls he was asked to imagine to the gray, wind-swept, and somewhat chilly suburban garden in which he was actually kicking his heels. How he could be more happy in one by imagining the other he could not conceive. Both (in themselves) were unpleasant.
“Why does everybody repeat riddles,” went on Moon abruptly, “even if they’ve forgotten the answers? Riddles are easy to remember because they are hard to guess. So were those stiff old symbols in black, red, or green easy to remember because they had been hard to guess. Their colours were plain. Their shapes were plain. Everything was plain except the meaning.”
Inglewood was about to open his mouth in an amiable protest, but Moon went on, plunging quicker and quicker up and down the garden and smoking faster and faster. “Dances, too,” he said; “dances were not frivolous. Dances were harder to understand than inscriptions and texts. The old dances were stiff, ceremonial, highly coloured but silent. Have you noticed anything odd about Smith?”
“Well, really,” cried Inglewood, left behind in a collapse of humour, “have I noticed anything else?”
“Have you noticed this about him,” asked Moon, with unshaken persistency, “that he has done so much and said so little? When first he came he talked, but in a gasping, irregular sort of way, as if he wasn’t used to it. All he really did was actions—painting red flowers on black gowns or throwing yellow bags on to the grass. I tell you that big green figure is figurative— like any green figure capering on some white Eastern wall.”
“My dear Michael,” cried Inglewood, in a rising irritation which increased with the rising wind, “you are getting absurdly fanciful.”
“I think of what has just happened,” said Michael steadily. “The man has not spoken for hours; and yet he has been speaking all the time. He fired three shots from a six-shooter and then gave it up to us, when he might have shot us dead in our boots. How could he express his trust in us better than that? He wanted to be tried by us. How could he have shown it better than by standing quite still and letting us discuss it? He wanted to show that he stood there willingly, and could escape if he liked. How could he have shown it better than by escaping in the cab and coming back again? Innocent Smith is not a madman—he is a ritualist. He wants to express himself, not with his tongue, but with his arms and legs— with my body I thee worship, as it says in the marriage service. I begin to understand the old plays and pageants. I see why the mutes at a funeral were mute. I see why the mummers were mum. They MEANT something; and Smith means something too. All other jokes have to be noisy—like little Nosey Gould’s jokes, for instance. The only silent jokes are the practical jokes. Poor Smith, properly considered, is an allegorical practical joker. What he has really done in this house has been as frantic as a war-dance, but as silent as a picture.”
“I suppose you mean,” said the other dubiously, “that we have got to find out what all these crimes meant, as if they were so many coloured picture-puzzles. But even supposing that they do mean something—why, Lord bless my soul!—”
Taking the turn of the garden quite naturally, he had lifted his eyes to the moon, by this time risen big and luminous, and had seen a huge, half-human figure sitting on the garden wall. It was outlined so sharply against the moon that for the first flash it was hard to be certain even that it was human: the hunched shoulders and outstanding hair had rather the air of a colossal cat. It resembled a cat also in the fact that when first startled it sprang up and ran with easy activity along the top of the wall. As it ran, however, its heavy shoulders and small stooping head rather suggested a baboon. The instant it came within reach of a tree it made an ape-like leap and was lost in the branches. The gale, which by this time was shaking every shrub in the garden, made the identification yet more difficult, since it melted the moving limbs of the fugitive in the multitudinous moving limbs of the tree.
“Who is there?” shouted Arthur. “Who are you? Are you Innocent?”
“Not quite,” answered an obscure voice among the leaves. “I cheated you once about a penknife.”
The wind in the garden had gathered strength, and was throwing the tree backwards and forwards with the man in the thick of it, just as it had on the gay and golden afternoon when he had first arrived.
“But are you Smith?” asked Inglewood as in an agony.
“Very nearly,” said the voice out of the tossing tree.
“But you must have some real names,” shrieked Inglewood in despair. “You must call yourself something.”
“Call myself something,” thundered the obscure voice, shaking the tree so that all its ten thousand leaves seemed to be talking at once. “I call myself Roland Oliver Isaiah Charlemagne Arthur Hildebrand Homer Danton Michaelangelo Shakespeare Brakespeare—”
“But, manalive!” began Inglewood in exasperation.
“That’s right! that’s right!” came with a roar out of the rocking tree; “that’s my real name.” And he broke a branch, and one or two autumn leaves fluttered away across the moon.
«Entrate! entrate!» gridò Moon ilare, con l’aria di chi caccia via uno stormo di gatti. «Su, su, spicciatevi! Non v’ho detto che volevo parlare con Inglewood?»
Come fossero stati davvero ricacciati tutti nella casa sarebbe stato difficile dire in seguito. Erano giunti al punto d’essere sfiniti dalle incongruenze, come chi a una farsa sta male dal ridere, e la vivace crescita della tempesta tra gli alberi pareva un gesto finale delle cose in generale. Inglewood indugiò dietro di loro, dicendo con una certa amichevole esasperazione: «Dico, vuoi davvero parlarmi?»
«Sì» disse Michael, «moltissimo.»
La notte era venuta, come generalmente accade, più in fretta di quanto il crepuscolo sembrasse promettere. Mentre l’occhio umano sentiva ancora il cielo come grigio chiaro, una grandissima e lucente luna, comparendo di colpo sopra una massa di tetti e alberi, provò per contrasto che il cielo era in realtà già d’un grigio assai scuro. Un cumulo di sterili foglie attraverso il prato, un cumulo di nuvole squarciate attraverso il cielo, parevano sollevati dallo stesso vento forte eppure laborioso.
«Arthur» disse Michael, «ho cominciato con un’intuizione; ma ora ne sono sicuro. Tu ed io difenderemo questo tuo amico davanti alla benedetta Corte di Beacon, e lo scagioneremo anche—lo scagioneremo sia dal crimine sia dalla follia. Ascoltami un po’ mentre ti faccio la predica.» Camminavano su e giù insieme per il giardino che s’oscurava, mentre Michael Moon proseguiva.
«Riesci» chiese Michael «a chiudere gli occhi e vedere alcuni di quei bizzarri vecchi geroglifici che appiccicavano ai muri bianchi negli antichi paesi caldi? Com’erano rigidi di forma eppure sgargianti di colore. Pensa a un qualche alfabeto di figure arbitrarie ritagliate in nero e rosso, o bianco e verde, con qualche antica folla semitica d’antenati di Nosey Gould a fissarlo, e prova a pensare perché mai la gente lo mettesse lì.»
Il primo istinto di Inglewood fu di pensare che il suo sconcertante amico avesse davvero finalmente perso la testa; sembrava un volo così sconsiderato d’irrilevanza, da quei muri dipinti di tropici che gli si chiedeva d’immaginare al grigio giardino suburbano, spazzato dal vento e alquanto gelido, in cui stava effettivamente battendo i tacchi. Come potesse essere più felice nell’uno immaginando l’altro non riusciva a concepirlo. Entrambi (in sé) erano sgradevoli.
«Perché tutti ripetono gli indovinelli» proseguì Moon bruscamente, «anche se ne hanno dimenticato le risposte? Gli indovinelli sono facili da ricordare perché sono difficili da indovinare. Così quei rigidi vecchi simboli in nero, rosso o verde erano facili da ricordare perché erano stati difficili da indovinare. I loro colori erano chiari. Le loro forme erano chiare. Tutto era chiaro tranne il significato.»
Inglewood stava per aprir bocca in un’amabile protesta, ma Moon proseguì, tuffandosi sempre più svelto su e giù per il giardino e fumando sempre più in fretta. «Anche le danze» disse; «le danze non erano frivole. Le danze erano più difficili da capire delle iscrizioni e dei testi. Le antiche danze erano rigide, cerimoniali, dai colori vivaci ma silenziose. Hai notato qualcosa di strano in Smith?»
«Beh, davvero» esclamò Inglewood, rimasto indietro in un crollo d’umorismo, «ho forse notato qualcos’altro?»
«Hai notato questo di lui» chiese Moon, con incrollabile insistenza, «che ha fatto tanto e detto tanto poco? Quando arrivò la prima volta parlò, ma in modo ansimante e irregolare, come se non ci fosse abituato. Tutto ciò che fece davvero furono azioni—dipingere fiori rossi su toghe nere o gettare borse gialle sull’erba. Ti dico che quella grande figura verde è figurativa— come una qualsiasi figura verde che saltella su un bianco muro orientale.»
«Mio caro Michael» esclamò Inglewood, in un’irritazione crescente che aumentava col crescere del vento, «stai diventando assurdamente fantasioso.»
«Penso a ciò che è appena successo» disse Michael con fermezza. «Quell’uomo non parla da ore; eppure ha parlato per tutto il tempo. Ha sparato tre colpi da una sei-colpi e poi ce l’ha ceduta, quando avrebbe potuto stenderci morti sui nostri stivali. Come avrebbe potuto esprimere meglio di così la sua fiducia in noi? Voleva essere giudicato da noi. Come avrebbe potuto mostrarlo meglio che standosene del tutto immobile e lasciando che ne discutessimo? Voleva mostrare che stava lì di sua volontà, e che poteva fuggire se voleva. Come avrebbe potuto mostrarlo meglio che fuggendo nella carrozza e tornando indietro? Innocent Smith non è un pazzo—è un ritualista. Vuole esprimere se stesso, non con la lingua, ma con le braccia e le gambe— col mio corpo io ti venero, come dice il rito del matrimonio. Comincio a capire le vecchie recite e i cortei. Vedo perché i muti a un funerale erano muti. Vedo perché i mimi erano ammutoliti. SIGNIFICAVANO qualcosa; e anche Smith significa qualcosa. Tutti gli altri scherzi devono essere rumorosi—come gli scherzi del piccolo Nosey Gould, per esempio. Gli unici scherzi silenziosi sono gli scherzi di fatto. Il povero Smith, a ben considerarlo, è un burlone allegorico da fatti. Ciò che ha davvero fatto in questa casa è stato frenetico come una danza di guerra, ma silenzioso come un quadro.»
«Immagino tu voglia dire» disse l’altro dubbioso, «che dobbiamo scoprire che cosa significassero tutti questi crimini, come fossero tanti rompicapo a immagini colorate. Ma anche ammesso che significhino qualcosa—perbacco, Signore benedici l’anima mia!—»
Prendendo la svolta del giardino con tutta naturalezza, aveva sollevato gli occhi alla luna, ormai a quest’ora levatasi grande e luminosa, e aveva visto un’enorme figura mezzo umana seduta sul muro del giardino. Era stagliata così nettamente contro la luna che al primo lampo era difficile essere certi persino che fosse umana: le spalle curve e i capelli irti avevano piuttosto l’aria d’un gatto colossale. Somigliava a un gatto anche nel fatto che, spaventata la prima volta, balzò su e corse con facile agilità lungo la cima del muro. Mentre correva, tuttavia, le sue pesanti spalle e la piccola testa china suggerivano piuttosto un babbuino. Nell’istante in cui giunse a portata d’un albero fece un balzo scimmiesco e si perse tra i rami. La burrasca, che ormai a quest’ora scuoteva ogni arbusto del giardino, rendeva l’identificazione ancor più difficile, poiché fondeva le membra in moto del fuggitivo nelle innumerevoli membra in moto dell’albero.
«Chi va là?» gridò Arthur. «Chi sei? Sei tu Innocent?»
«Non proprio» rispose un’oscura voce tra le foglie. «Una volta ti ho imbrogliato su un temperino.»
Il vento nel giardino aveva preso forza, e scagliava l’albero avanti e indietro con l’uomo nel folto, proprio come aveva fatto nel gaio e dorato pomeriggio in cui egli era arrivato la prima volta.
«Ma sei tu Smith?» chiese Inglewood come in un’agonia.
«Quasi quasi» disse la voce dall’albero sballottato.
«Ma devi pur avere qualche nome vero» strillò Inglewood in preda alla disperazione. «Devi pur chiamarti in qualche modo.»
«Chiamarmi in qualche modo» tuonò l’oscura voce, scuotendo l’albero sicché tutte le sue diecimila foglie parvero parlare tutte insieme. «Mi chiamo Rolando Oliver Isaia Carlomagno Arthur Ildebrando Omero Danton Michelangelo Shakespeare Brakespeare—»
«Ma, manalive!» cominciò Inglewood esasperato.
«Giusto! giusto!» venne con un ruggito dall’albero dondolante; «questo è il mio vero nome.» E spezzò un ramo, e una o due foglie autunnali svolazzarono via attraverso la luna.
Chapter I
The Eye of Death; or, the Murder Charge
The dining-room of the Dukes had been set out for the Court of Beacon with a certain impromptu pomposity that seemed somehow to increase its cosiness. The big room was, as it were, cut up into small rooms, with walls only waist high—the sort of separation that children make when they are playing at shops. This had been done by Moses Gould and Michael Moon (the two most active members of this remarkable inquiry) with the ordinary furniture of the place. At one end of the long mahogany table was set the one enormous garden chair, which was surmounted by the old torn tent or umbrella which Smith himself had suggested as a coronation canopy. Inside this erection could be perceived the dumpy form of Mrs. Duke, with cushions and a form of countenance that already threatened slumber. At the other end sat the accused Smith, in a kind of dock; for he was carefully fenced in with a quadrilateral of light bedroom chairs, any of which he could have tossed out the window with his big toe. He had been provided with pens and paper, out of the latter of which he made paper boats, paper darts, and paper dolls contentedly throughout the whole proceedings. He never spoke or even looked up, but seemed as unconscious as a child on the floor of an empty nursery.
On a row of chairs raised high on the top of a long settee sat the three young ladies with their backs up against the window, and Mary Gray in the middle; it was something between a jury box and the stall of the Queen of Beauty at a tournament. Down the centre of the long table Moon had built a low barrier out of eight bound volumes of “Good Words” to express the moral wall that divided the conflicting parties. On the right side sat the two advocates of the prosecution, Dr. Pym and Mr. Gould; behind a barricade of books and documents, chiefly (in the case of Dr. Pym) solid volumes of criminology. On the other side, Moon and Inglewood, for the defence, were also fortified with books and papers; but as these included several old yellow volumes by Ouida and Wilkie Collins, the hand of Mr. Moon seemed to have been somewhat careless and comprehensive. As for the victim and prosecutor, Dr. Warner, Moon wanted at first to have him kept entirely behind a high screen in the corner, urging the indelicacy of his appearance in court, but privately assuring him of an unofficial permission to peep over the top now and then. Dr. Warner, however, failed to rise to the chivalry of such a course, and after some little disturbance and discussion he was accommodated with a seat on the right side of the table in a line with his legal advisers.
It was before this solidly-established tribunal that Dr. Cyrus Pym, after passing a hand through the honey-coloured hair over each ear, rose to open the case. His statement was clear and even restrained, and such flights of imagery as occurred in it only attracted attention by a certain indescribable abruptness, not uncommon in the flowers of American speech.
He planted the points of his ten frail fingers on the mahogany, closed his eyes, and opened his mouth. “The time has gone by,” he said, “when murder could be regarded as a moral and individual act, important perhaps to the murderer, perhaps to the murdered. Science has profoundly…” here he paused, poising his compressed finger and thumb in the air as if he were holding an elusive idea very tight by its tail, then he screwed up his eyes and said “modified,” and let it go—“has profoundly Modified our view of death. In superstitious ages it was regarded as the termination of life, catastrophic, and even tragic, and was often surrounded by solemnity. Brighter days, however, have dawned, and we now see death as universal and inevitable, as part of that great soul-stirring and heart-upholding average which we call for convenience the order of nature. In the same way we have come to consider murder SOCIALLY. Rising above the mere private feelings of a man while being forcibly deprived of life, we are privileged to behold murder as a mighty whole, to see the rich rotation of the cosmos, bringing, as it brings the golden harvests and the golden-bearded harvesters, the return for ever of the slayers and the slain.”
He looked down, somewhat affected with his own eloquence, coughed slightly, putting up four of his pointed fingers with the excellent manners of Boston, and continued: “There is but one result of this happier and humaner outlook which concerns the wretched man before us. It is that thoroughly elucidated by a Milwaukee doctor, our great secret-guessing Sonnenschein, in his great work, ‘The Destructive Type.’ We do not denounce Smith as a murderer, but rather as a murderous man. The type is such that its very life— I might say its very health—is in killing. Some hold that it is not properly an aberration, but a newer and even a higher creature. My dear old friend Dr. Bulger, who kept ferrets—” (here Moon suddenly ejaculated a loud “hurrah!” but so instantaneously resumed his tragic expression that Mrs. Duke looked everywhere else for the sound); Dr. Pym continued somewhat sternly—“who, in the interests of knowledge, kept ferrets, felt that the creature’s ferocity is not utilitarian, but absolutely an end in itself. However this may be with ferrets, it is certainly so with the prisoner. In his other iniquities you may find the cunning of the maniac; but his acts of blood have almost the simplicity of sanity. But it is the awful sanity of the sun and the elements—a cruel, an evil sanity. As soon stay the iris-leapt cataracts of our virgin West as stay the natural force that sends him forth to slay. No environment, however scientific, could have softened him. Place that man in the silver-silent purity of the palest cloister, and there will be some deed of violence done with the crozier or the alb. Rear him in a happy nursery, amid our brave-browed Anglo-Saxon infancy, and he will find some way to strangle with the skipping-rope or brain with the brick. Circumstances may be favourable, training may be admirable, hopes may be high, but the huge elemental hunger of Innocent Smith for blood will in its appointed season burst like a well-timed bomb.”
Capitolo I
L’Occhio della Morte; ovvero, l’Accusa d’Omicidio
La sala da pranzo dei Duke era stata allestita per la Corte di Beacon con una certa pomposità improvvisata che sembrava in qualche modo accrescerne l’intimità. La grande stanza era, per così dire, ritagliata in stanzette, con pareti alte solo fino alla cintola—quel tipo di separazione che i bambini fanno quando giocano ai negozi. Ciò era stato fatto da Moses Gould e Michael Moon (i due membri più attivi di questa notevole inchiesta) con i comuni mobili del luogo. A un capo del lungo tavolo di mogano era posta l’unica enorme sedia da giardino, sormontata dalla vecchia tenda strappata o dall’ombrello che Smith stesso aveva suggerito come baldacchino d’incoronazione. Dentro questa costruzione si scorgeva la tozza figura della signora Duke, con cuscini e un’espressione del volto che già minacciava sonnolenza. All’altro capo sedeva l’accusato Smith, in una specie di gabbia degli imputati; poiché era accuratamente recintato da un quadrilatero di leggere sedie da camera, ciascuna delle quali avrebbe potuto scaraventare fuori dalla finestra con l’alluce. Gli erano stati forniti penne e carta, con la quale faceva barchette, freccette e bambole di carta, contento, per tutta la durata del procedimento. Non parlava mai né alzava lo sguardo, ma pareva inconsapevole come un bambino sul pavimento d’una stanza dei giochi vuota.
Su una fila di sedie sollevate in alto sopra un lungo divano sedevano le tre giovani signore con le spalle contro la finestra, e Mary Gray nel mezzo; era qualcosa tra un banco della giuria e il seggio della Regina di Bellezza a un torneo. Lungo il centro del lungo tavolo Moon aveva eretto una bassa barriera con otto volumi rilegati di «Good Words» per esprimere il muro morale che divideva le parti in conflitto. Sul lato destro sedevano i due avvocati dell’accusa, il dottor Pym e il signor Gould; dietro una barricata di libri e documenti, per lo più (nel caso del dottor Pym) solidi volumi di criminologia. Sull’altro lato, Moon e Inglewood, per la difesa, erano anch’essi fortificati di libri e carte; ma poiché queste comprendevano parecchi vecchi volumi gialli di Ouida e Wilkie Collins, la mano del signor Moon pareva essere stata alquanto sbadata e onnicomprensiva. Quanto alla vittima e accusatore, il dottor Warner, Moon voleva dapprima tenerlo interamente dietro un alto paravento nell’angolo, adducendo l’indelicatezza della sua apparizione in corte, ma privatamente assicurandogli il permesso ufficioso di sbirciare al di sopra di tanto in tanto. Il dottor Warner, tuttavia, non seppe elevarsi alla cavalleria d’un tal partito, e dopo qualche piccolo disturbo e discussione fu sistemato con un posto sul lato destro del tavolo in linea con i suoi consulenti legali.
Fu davanti a questo tribunale solidamente costituito che il dottor Cyrus Pym, dopo essersi passato una mano tra i capelli color miele sopra ciascun orecchio, si alzò per aprire il caso. La sua esposizione fu chiara e persino contenuta, e i voli d’immaginazione che vi comparivano attiravano l’attenzione soltanto per una certa indescrivibile bruschezza, non insolita nei fiori del parlare americano.
Piantò le punte delle sue dieci fragili dita sul mogano, chiuse gli occhi e aprì la bocca. «Il tempo è passato» disse, «in cui l’omicidio poteva essere considerato un atto morale e individuale, importante forse per l’assassino, forse per l’assassinato. La scienza ha profondamente…» qui fece una pausa, tenendo sospesi in aria il dito e il pollice compressi come se stringesse un’idea sfuggente ben stretta per la coda, poi strizzò gli occhi e disse «modificato», e la lasciò andare—«ha profondamente Modificato la nostra visione della morte. Nelle epoche superstiziose essa era considerata la fine della vita, catastrofica, e perfino tragica, ed era spesso circondata di solennità. Giorni più luminosi, tuttavia, sono spuntati, e ora vediamo la morte come universale e inevitabile, come parte di quella grande media che scuote l’anima e sostiene il cuore, che per comodità chiamiamo l’ordine della natura. Allo stesso modo siamo giunti a considerare l’omicidio SOCIALMENTE. Elevandoci al di sopra dei meri sentimenti privati di un uomo mentre è forzatamente privato della vita, abbiamo il privilegio di contemplare l’omicidio come un possente tutto, di vedere la ricca rotazione del cosmo, che reca, come reca i dorati raccolti e i mietitori dalla barba dorata, il ritorno eterno degli uccisori e degli uccisi.»
Abbassò lo sguardo, alquanto commosso dalla propria eloquenza, tossì lievemente, alzando quattro delle sue dita appuntite con le eccellenti maniere di Boston, e continuò: «V’è un solo risultato di questa più lieta e più umana prospettiva che riguardi il misero uomo dinanzi a noi. È quello elucidato appieno da un dottore di Milwaukee, il nostro grande indovino di segreti Sonnenschein, nella sua grande opera, ‘Il Tipo Distruttivo.’ Non denunciamo Smith come un assassino, ma piuttosto come un uomo omicida. Il tipo è tale che la sua vita stessa— direi la sua salute stessa—sta nell’uccidere. Alcuni ritengono che non sia propriamente un’aberrazione, ma una creatura più nuova e persino più alta. Il mio caro vecchio amico dottor Bulger, che teneva furetti—» (qui Moon d’improvviso proruppe in un forte «urrà!», ma riprese così istantaneamente la sua espressione tragica che la signora Duke cercò dappertutto altrove la fonte del suono); il dottor Pym continuò alquanto severamente—«che, nell’interesse della conoscenza, teneva furetti, riteneva che la ferocia della creatura non sia utilitaristica, ma assolutamente un fine in sé. Comunque stiano le cose coi furetti, è certamente così col prigioniero. Nelle sue altre iniquità potrete trovare l’astuzia del maniaco; ma i suoi atti di sangue hanno quasi la semplicità della sanità mentale. Ma è la spaventosa sanità del sole e degli elementi—una sanità crudele, malvagia. Tanto varrebbe fermare le cateratte balzanti d’iride del nostro vergine Occidente quanto fermare la forza naturale che lo spinge a uccidere. Nessun ambiente, per quanto scientifico, avrebbe potuto ammorbidirlo. Ponete quell’uomo nella purezza argenteo-silente del più pallido chiostro, e vi sarà qualche atto di violenza compiuto col pastorale o col camice. Allevatelo in una lieta stanza dei giochi, tra la nostra infanzia anglosassone dalla fronte fiera, ed egli troverà un qualche modo per strangolare con la corda per saltare o sfracellare il cranio col mattone. Le circostanze potranno essere favorevoli, l’educazione potrà essere ammirevole, le speranze potranno essere alte, ma l’enorme fame elementare d’Innocent Smith di sangue, nella sua stagione stabilita, scoppierà come una bomba a tempo ben regolato.»
Arthur Inglewood glanced curiously for an instant at the huge creature at the foot of the table, who was fitting a paper figure with a cocked hat, and then looked back at Dr. Pym, who was concluding in a quieter tone.
“It only remains for us,” he said, “to bring forward actual evidence of his previous attempts. By an agreement already made with the Court and the leaders of the defence, we are permitted to put in evidence authentic letters from witnesses to these scenes, which the defence is free to examine. Out of several cases of such outrages we have decided to select one— the clearest and most scandalous. I will therefore, without further delay, call on my junior, Mr. Gould, to read two letters—one from the Sub-Warden and the other from the porter of Brakespeare College, in Cambridge University.”
Gould jumped up with a jerk like a jack-in-the-box, an academic-looking paper in his hand and a fever of importance on his face. He began in a loud, high, cockney voice that was as abrupt as a cock-crow:—
“Sir,—Hi am the Sub-Warden of Brikespeare College, Cambridge—”
“Lord have mercy on us,” muttered Moon, making a backward movement as men do when a gun goes off.
“Hi am the Sub-Warden of Brikespeare College, Cambridge,” proclaimed the uncompromising Moses, “and I can endorse the description you gave of the un’appy Smith. It was not alone my unfortunate duty to rebuke many of the lesser violences of his undergraduate period, but I was actually a witness to the last iniquity which terminated that period. Hi happened to passing under the house of my friend the Warden of Brikespeare, which is semi-detached from the College and connected with it by two or three very ancient arches or props, like bridges, across a small strip of water connected with the river. To my grive astonishment I be’eld my eminent friend suspended in mid-air and clinging to one of these pieces of masonry, his appearance and attitude indicatin’ that he suffered from the grivest apprehensions. After a short time I heard two very loud shots, and distinctly perceived the unfortunate undergraduate Smith leaning far out of the Warden’s window and aiming at the Warden repeatedly with a revolver. Upon seeing me, Smith burst into a loud laugh (in which impertinence was mingled with insanity), and appeared to desist. I sent the college porter for a ladder, and he succeeded in detaching the Warden from his painful position. Smith was sent down. The photograph I enclose is from the group of the University Rifle Club prizemen, and represents him as he was when at the College.— Hi am, your obedient servant, Amos Boulter.
“The other letter,” continued Gould in a glow of triumph, “is from the porter, and won’t take long to read.
“Dear Sir,—It is quite true that I am the porter of Brikespeare College, and that I ‘elped the Warden down when the young man was shooting at him, as Mr. Boulter has said in his letter. The young man who was shooting at him was Mr. Smith, the same that is in the photograph Mr. Boulter sends.— Yours respectfully, Samuel Barker.”
Gould handed the two letters across to Moon, who examined them. But for the vocal divergences in the matter of h’s and a’s, the Sub-Warden’s letter was exactly as Gould had rendered it; and both that and the porter’s letter were plainly genuine. Moon handed them to Inglewood, who handed them back in silence to Moses Gould.
“So far as this first charge of continual attempted murder is concerned,” said Dr. Pym, standing up for the last time, “that is my case.”
Michael Moon rose for the defence with an air of depression which gave little hope at the outset to the sympathizers with the prisoner. He did not, he said, propose to follow the doctor into the abstract questions. “I do not know enough to be an agnostic,” he said, rather wearily, “and I can only master the known and admitted elements in such controversies. As for science and religion, the known and admitted facts are plain enough. All that the parsons say is unproved. All that the doctors say is disproved. That’s the only difference between science and religion there’s ever been, or will be. Yet these new discoveries touch me, somehow,” he said, looking down sorrowfully at his boots. “They remind me of a dear old great-aunt of mine who used to enjoy them in her youth. It brings tears to my eyes. I can see the old bucket by the garden fence and the line of shimmering poplars behind—”
“Hi! here, stop the ‘bus a bit,” cried Mr. Moses Gould, rising in a sort of perspiration. “We want to give the defence a fair run—like gents, you know; but any gent would draw the line at shimmering poplars.”
“Well, hang it all,” said Moon, in an injured manner, “if Dr. Pym may have an old friend with ferrets, why mayn’t I have an old aunt with poplars?”
“I am sure,” said Mrs. Duke, bridling, with something almost like a shaky authority, “Mr. Moon may have what aunts he likes.”
“Why, as to liking her,” began Moon, “I—but perhaps, as you say, she is scarcely the core of the question. I repeat that I do not mean to follow the abstract speculations. For, indeed, my answer to Dr. Pym is simple and severely concrete. Dr. Pym has only treated one side of the psychology of murder. If it is true that there is a kind of man who has a natural tendency to murder, is it not equally true”—here he lowered his voice and spoke with a crushing quietude and earnestness—“is it not equally true that there is a kind of man who has a natural tendency to get murdered? Is it not at least a hypothesis holding the field that Dr. Warner is such a man? I do not speak without the book, any more than my learned friend. The whole matter is expounded in Dr. Moonenschein’s monumental work, ‘The Destructible Doctor,’ with diagrams, showing the various ways in which such a person as Dr. Warner may be resolved into his elements. In the light of these facts—”
“Hi, stop the ‘bus! stop the ‘bus!” cried Moses, jumping up and down and gesticulating in great excitement. “My principal’s got something to say! My principal wants to do a bit of talkin’.”
Arthur Inglewood lanciò per un istante uno sguardo curioso all’enorme creatura ai piedi del tavolo, che stava adattando una figura di carta con un cappello a tricorno, poi tornò a guardare il dottor Pym, che concludeva in tono più pacato.
«Non ci resta che» disse, «addurre l’effettiva prova dei suoi tentativi precedenti. In base a un accordo già preso con la Corte e con i capi della difesa, ci è permesso di produrre come prova autentiche lettere di testimoni di quelle scene, che la difesa è libera di esaminare. Fra parecchi casi di tali oltraggi abbiamo deciso di sceglierne uno— il più chiaro e il più scandaloso. Chiamerò dunque, senza ulteriore indugio, il mio assistente, il signor Gould, a leggere due lettere—una del Vice-Rettore e l’altra del portiere del Brakespeare College, dell’Università di Cambridge.»
Gould balzò su di scatto come un pupazzo a molla, un foglio dall’aria accademica in mano e una febbre d’importanza sul volto. Cominciò con una voce alta, acuta, cockney, brusca come un canto di gallo:—
«Signore,—Io so’ il Vice-Rettore del Brikespeare College, Cambridge—»
«Signore, abbi pietà di noi» mormorò Moon, facendo un movimento all’indietro come fanno gli uomini quando spara un fucile.
«Io so’ il Vice-Rettore del Brikespeare College, Cambridge» proclamò l’inflessibile Moses, «e posso avvalorare la descrizione che avete dato dell’infelice Smith. Non fu solo mio sfortunato dovere rimproverare molte delle violenze minori del suo periodo da studente, ma fui addirittura testimone dell’ultima iniquità che pose fine a quel periodo. Mi capitò di passare sotto la casa del mio amico il Rettore di Brikespeare, ch’è semistaccata dal College e a esso collegata da due o tre archi o sostegni assai antichi, come ponti, attraverso una piccola striscia d’acqua collegata al fiume. Con mia grive sorpresa scorsi il mio eminente amico sospeso a mezz’aria e aggrappato a uno di questi pezzi di muratura, l’aspetto e l’atteggiamento indicanti ch’egli soffriva delle più grivi apprensioni. Dopo breve tempo udii due fortissimi spari, e distintamente percepii lo sfortunato studente Smith sporgersi di molto dalla finestra del Rettore e mirare ripetutamente al Rettore con una rivoltella. Al vedermi, Smith proruppe in una forte risata (in cui l’impertinenza si mescolava alla pazzia), e parve desistere. Mandai il portiere del college a prendere una scala, ed egli riuscì a staccare il Rettore dalla sua penosa posizione. Smith fu espulso. La fotografia che accludo è tratta dal gruppo dei vincitori del Rifle Club dell’Università, e lo rappresenta com’era quando stava al College.— Io so’, vostro obbediente servitore, Amos Boulter.
«L’altra lettera» proseguì Gould in un fervore di trionfo, «è del portiere, e non ci vorrà molto a leggerla.
«Egregio Signore,—È verissimo ch’io so’ il portiere del Brikespeare College, e ch’io ‘o aiutato il Rettore a scendere quando il giovane gli sparava, come il signor Boulter ‘a detto nella sua lettera. Il giovane che gli sparava era il signor Smith, lo stesso ch’è nella fotografia che il signor Boulter manda.— Rispettosamente vostro, Samuel Barker.»
Gould porse le due lettere a Moon, che le esaminò. Ma a parte le divergenze vocali in materia di acca e di a, la lettera del Vice-Rettore era esattamente come Gould l’aveva resa; e sia quella sia la lettera del portiere erano palesemente autentiche. Moon le porse a Inglewood, che le restituì in silenzio a Moses Gould.
«Per quanto concerne questa prima accusa di continuo tentato omicidio» disse il dottor Pym, alzandosi per l’ultima volta, «questo è il mio caso.»
Michael Moon si alzò per la difesa con un’aria di depressione che dava fin dal principio poca speranza ai simpatizzanti del prigioniero. Non intendeva, disse, seguire il dottore nelle questioni astratte. «Non ne so abbastanza per essere un agnostico» disse, piuttosto stancamente, «e posso padroneggiare solo gli elementi noti e ammessi in simili controversie. Quanto alla scienza e alla religione, i fatti noti e ammessi sono abbastanza chiari. Tutto ciò che i parroci dicono è indimostrato. Tutto ciò che i dottori dicono è smentito. Questa è l’unica differenza tra scienza e religione che ci sia mai stata, o che mai ci sarà. Eppure queste nuove scoperte mi toccano, in qualche modo» disse, guardando mestamente giù verso i suoi stivali. «Mi ricordano una cara vecchia prozia che se le godeva in gioventù. Mi vengono le lacrime agli occhi. Vedo il vecchio secchio presso lo steccato del giardino e la fila di pioppi scintillanti dietro—»
«Ehi! qua, ferma un po’ l’omnibus» gridò il signor Moses Gould, alzandosi in una specie di sudorazione. «Vogliamo dare alla difesa una corsa leale—da gentiluomini, sapete; ma qualunque gentiluomo tirerebbe una riga davanti ai pioppi scintillanti.»
«Be’, al diavolo» disse Moon, con aria offesa, «se il dottor Pym può avere un vecchio amico coi furetti, perché non posso avere io una vecchia zia coi pioppi?»
«Sono certa» disse la signora Duke, impettendosi, con qualcosa di quasi simile a una traballante autorità, «che il signor Moon può avere le zie che gli pare.»
«Be’, quanto a se mi piacesse» cominciò Moon, «io—ma forse, come dite voi, non è propriamente il nocciolo della questione. Ripeto che non intendo seguire le speculazioni astratte. Perché, invero, la mia risposta al dottor Pym è semplice e severamente concreta. Il dottor Pym ha trattato un solo lato della psicologia dell’omicidio. Se è vero che esiste un tipo d’uomo che ha una naturale tendenza a uccidere, non è forse ugualmente vero»—qui abbassò la voce e parlò con una schiacciante quiete e serietà—«non è forse ugualmente vero che esiste un tipo d’uomo che ha una naturale tendenza a farsi uccidere? Non è almeno un’ipotesi che tiene il campo, che il dottor Warner sia un uomo simile? Non parlo senza il libro, non più del mio dotto amico. L’intera faccenda è esposta nell’opera monumentale del dottor Moonenschein, ‘Il Dottore Distruttibile,’ con diagrammi che mostrano i vari modi in cui una persona come il dottor Warner può essere scomposta nei suoi elementi. Alla luce di questi fatti—»
«Ehi, ferma l’omnibus! ferma l’omnibus!» gridò Moses, saltando su e giù e gesticolando in grande eccitazione. «Il mio committente ha qualcosa da dire! Il mio committente vuol fare un po’ di chiacchiere.»
Dr. Pym was indeed on his feet, looking pallid and rather vicious. “I have strictly CON-fined myself,” he said nasally, “to books to which immediate reference can be made. I have Sonnenschein’s ‘Destructive Type’ here on the table, if the defence wish to see it. Where is this wonderful work on Destructability Mr. Moon is talking about? Does it exist? Can he produce it?”
“Produce it!” cried the Irishman with a rich scorn. “I’ll produce it in a week if you’ll pay for the ink and paper.”
“Would it have much authority?” asked Pym, sitting down.
“Oh, authority!” said Moon lightly; “that depends on a fellow’s religion.”
Dr. Pym jumped up again. “Our authority is based on masses of accurate detail,” he said. “It deals with a region in which things can be handled and tested. My opponent will at least admit that death is a fact of experience.”
“Not of mine,” said Moon mournfully, shaking his head. “I’ve never experienced such a thing in all my life.”
“Well, really,” said Dr. Pym, and sat down sharply amid a crackle of papers.
“So we see,” resumed Moon, in the same melancholy voice, “that a man like Dr. Warner is, in the mysterious workings of evolution, doomed to such attacks. My client’s onslaught, even if it occurred, was not unique. I have in my hand letters from more than one acquaintance of Dr. Warner whom that remarkable man has affected in the same way. Following the example of my learned friends I will read only two of them. The first is from an honest and laborious matron living off the Harrow Road.
“Mr. Moon, Sir,—Yes, I did throw a sorsepan at him. Wot then? It was all I had to throw, all the soft things being porned, and if your Docter Warner doesn’t like having sorsepans thrown at him, don’t let him wear his hat in a respectable woman’s parler, and tell him to leave orf smiling or tell us the joke.—Yours respectfully, Hannah Miles.
“The other letter is from a physician of some note in Dublin, with whom Dr. Warner was once engaged in consultation. He writes as follows:—
“Dear Sir,—The incident to which you refer is one which I regret, and which, moreover, I have never been able to explain. My own branch of medicine is not mental; and I should be glad to have the view of a mental specialist on my singular momentary and indeed almost automatic action. To say that I ‘pulled Dr. Warner’s nose,’ is, however, inaccurate in a respect that strikes me as important. That I punched his nose I must cheerfully admit (I need not say with what regret); but pulling seems to me to imply a precision of objective with which I cannot reproach myself. In comparison with this, the act of punching was an outward, instantaneous, and even natural gesture.— Believe me, yours faithfully, Burton Lestrange.
“I have numberless other letters,” continued Moon, “all bearing witness to this widespread feeling about my eminent friend; and I therefore think that Dr. Pym should have admitted this side of the question in his survey. We are in the presence, as Dr. Pym so truly says, of a natural force. As soon stay the cataract of the London water-works as stay the great tendency of Dr. Warner to be assassinated by somebody. Place that man in a Quakers’ meeting, among the most peaceful of Christians, and he will immediately be beaten to death with sticks of chocolate. Place him among the angels of the New Jerusalem, and he will be stoned to death with precious stones. Circumstances may be beautiful and wonderful, the average may be heart-upholding, the harvester may be golden-bearded, the doctor may be secret-guessing, the cataract may be iris-leapt, the Anglo-Saxon infant may be brave-browed, but against and above all these prodigies the grand simple tendency of Dr. Warner to get murdered will still pursue its way until it happily and triumphantly succeeds at last.”
He pronounced this peroration with an appearance of strong emotion. But even stronger emotions were manifesting themselves on the other side of the table. Dr. Warner had leaned his large body quite across the little figure of Moses Gould and was talking in excited whispers to Dr. Pym. That expert nodded a great many times and finally started to his feet with a sincere expression of sternness.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he cried indignantly, “as my colleague has said, we should be delighted to give any latitude to the defence—if there were a defence. But Mr. Moon seems to think he is there to make jokes— very good jokes I dare say, but not at all adapted to assist his client. He picks holes in science. He picks holes in my client’s social popularity. He picks holes in my literary style, which doesn’t seem to suit his high-toned European taste. But how does this picking of holes affect the issue? This Smith has picked two holes in my client’s hat, and with an inch better aim would have picked two holes in his head. All the jokes in the world won’t unpick those holes or be any use for the defence.”
Inglewood looked down in some embarrassment, as if shaken by the evident fairness of this, but Moon still gazed at his opponent in a dreamy way. “The defence?” he said vaguely—“oh, I haven’t begun that yet.”
“You certainly have not,” said Pym warmly, amid a murmur of applause from his side, which the other side found it impossible to answer. “Perhaps, if you have any defence, which has been doubtful from the very beginning—”
“While you’re standing up,” said Moon, in the same almost sleepy style, “perhaps I might ask you a question.”
“A question? Certainly,” said Pym stiffly. “It was distinctly arranged between us that as we could not cross-examine the witnesses, we might vicariously cross-examine each other. We are in a position to invite all such inquiry.”
“I think you said,” observed Moon absently, “that none of the prisoner’s shots really hit the doctor.”
“For the cause of science,” cried the complacent Pym, “fortunately not.”
Il dottor Pym era davvero in piedi, pallido e piuttosto feroce. «Mi sono rigorosamente li-mitato», disse con voce nasale, «a libri ai quali si possa fare immediato riferimento. Ho qui sul tavolo il “Tipo distruttivo” del Sonnenschein, se la difesa desidera vederlo. Dov’è questa mirabile opera sulla Distruttibilità di cui parla il signor Moon? Esiste? Può produrla?»
«Produrla!» esclamò l’irlandese con ricco disprezzo. «La produco in una settimana, se pagate voi l’inchiostro e la carta.»
«Avrebbe molta autorità?» domandò Pym, sedendosi.
«Oh, autorità!» disse Moon con leggerezza; «questo dipende dalla religione di ciascuno.»
Il dottor Pym balzò di nuovo in piedi. «La nostra autorità si fonda su masse di dettagli accurati», disse. «Tratta di un àmbito in cui le cose possono essere maneggiate e verificate. Il mio avversario ammetterà almeno che la morte è un fatto dell’esperienza.»
«Non della mia», disse Moon mestamente, scuotendo il capo. «In tutta la mia vita non ho mai sperimentato una cosa simile.»
«Ma davvero», disse il dottor Pym, e si sedette di scatto tra un crepitìo di carte.
«Vediamo dunque», riprese Moon, con la stessa voce malinconica, «che un uomo come il dottor Warner è, nei misteriosi meccanismi dell’evoluzione, condannato a simili aggressioni. L’assalto del mio cliente, ammesso che sia avvenuto, non fu un caso unico. Ho tra le mani lettere di più d’una conoscenza del dottor Warner che quell’uomo notevole ha turbato allo stesso modo. Seguendo l’esempio dei miei dotti colleghi ne leggerò soltanto due. La prima è di un’onesta e laboriosa matrona che abita presso la Harrow Road.
«Signor Moon, Egregio,—Sì, gliel’ho tirata una padèla. E allora? Era tutto quel che avevo da tirà, ché le cose morbide eran tutte al monte de pietà, e se al vostro Dotor Warner non je piace che je se tirino le padèle, che non venga a tené il capèlo in casa d’una donna rispettabile, e ditegli de finilla de sogghignà oppure de dicce la battuta.—Vostra rispettosamente, Hannah Miles.
«L’altra lettera è di un medico di una certa fama a Dublino, col quale il dottor Warner fu una volta impegnato in un consulto. Egli scrive quanto segue:—
«Egregio Signore,—L’episodio a cui Ella fa riferimento è uno di quelli che rimpiango, e che, per di più, non sono mai riuscito a spiegarmi. Il mio ramo della medicina non è quello mentale; e sarei lieto di avere il parere di uno specialista in malattie mentali sul mio singolare, momentaneo e invero quasi automatico gesto. Dire che io “tirai il naso al dottor Warner” è, tuttavia, inesatto in un aspetto che mi pare importante. Che gli abbia assestato un pugno sul naso devo ammetterlo di buon grado (inutile dire con quale rammarico); ma il tirare mi sembra implicare una precisione d’intento di cui non posso rimproverarmi. In confronto a ciò, l’atto del colpire fu un gesto esteriore, istantaneo, e persino naturale.— Mi creda, con osservanza, Burton Lestrange.
«Ho innumerevoli altre lettere», proseguì Moon, «tutte a testimonianza di questo diffuso sentimento verso il mio eminente amico; e perciò ritengo che il dottor Pym avrebbe dovuto ammettere questo lato della questione nella sua disamina. Ci troviamo, come tanto giustamente dice il dottor Pym, dinanzi a una forza naturale. Tanto varrebbe arrestare la cateratta delle condutture dell’acqua di Londra quanto arrestare la grande tendenza del dottor Warner a essere assassinato da qualcuno. Mettete quell’uomo in un’adunanza di Quaccheri, fra i più pacifici dei cristiani, e sarà immediatamente bastonato a morte con stecche di cioccolato. Mettetelo tra gli angeli della Nuova Gerusalemme, e sarà lapidato a morte con pietre preziose. Le circostanze possono essere belle e mirabili, la media può sollevare il cuore, il mietitore può avere la barba dorata, il medico può indovinare segreti, la cateratta può balzare d’iride, il pargolo anglosassone può avere la fronte ardita, ma contro e al di sopra di tutti questi prodigi la grande, semplice tendenza del dottor Warner a farsi assassinare seguirà pur sempre la sua via finché non riuscirà, felice e trionfante, alla fine.»
Pronunciò questa perorazione con un’apparenza di forte emozione. Ma emozioni ancor più forti si manifestavano dall’altro lato del tavolo. Il dottor Warner aveva sporto il suo grande corpo fin quasi attraverso l’esile figura di Moses Gould e parlava in eccitati bisbigli al dottor Pym. Quell’esperto annuì molte volte e infine balzò in piedi con una sincera espressione di severità.
«Signore e signori», esclamò indignato, «come ha detto il mio collega, saremmo lietissimi di concedere ogni latitudine alla difesa—se ci fosse una difesa. Ma il signor Moon pare credere di essere qui per fare battute— ottime battute, oserei dire, ma per nulla adatte ad assistere il suo cliente. Egli trova pecche nella scienza. Trova pecche nella popolarità sociale del mio cliente. Trova pecche nel mio stile letterario, che non pare confarsi al suo raffinato gusto europeo. Ma in che modo questo trovar pecche incide sulla questione? Questo Smith ha fatto due buchi nel cappello del mio cliente, e con una mira migliore d’un pollice avrebbe fatto due buchi nella sua testa. Tutte le battute del mondo non ricuciranno quei buchi né saranno d’alcuna utilità alla difesa.»
Inglewood abbassò lo sguardo con un certo imbarazzo, come scosso dall’evidente correttezza di ciò, ma Moon fissava ancora il suo avversario in modo trasognato. «La difesa?» disse vagamente—«oh, non l’ho ancora cominciata.»
«Di certo non l’avete cominciata», disse Pym con calore, tra un mormorio d’applausi dalla sua parte, al quale l’altra parte trovò impossibile rispondere. «Forse, se avete una qualche difesa, il che è stato dubbio fin dal principio—»
«Mentre siete in piedi», disse Moon, nel medesimo tono quasi sonnolento, «forse potrei porvi una domanda.»
«Una domanda? Certamente», disse Pym rigidamente. «Fu distintamente stabilito fra noi che, non potendo controinterrogare i testimoni, avremmo potuto per interposta persona controinterrogarci a vicenda. Siamo nella posizione di invitare ogni simile indagine.»
«Credo abbiate detto», osservò Moon distrattamente, «che nessuno degli spari del prigioniero colpì davvero il dottore.»
«Per la causa della scienza», esclamò il compiaciuto Pym, «fortunatamente no.»
“Yet they were fired from a few feet away.”
“Yes; about four feet.”
“And no shots hit the Warden, though they were fired quite close to him too?” asked Moon.
“That is so,” said the witness gravely.
“I think,” said Moon, suppressing a slight yawn, “that your Sub-Warden mentioned that Smith was one of the University’s record men for shooting.”
“Why, as to that—” began Pym, after an instant of stillness.
“A second question,” continued Moon, comparatively curtly. “You said there were other cases of the accused trying to kill people. Why have you not got evidence of them?”
The American planted the points of his fingers on the table again. “In those cases,” he said precisely, “there was no evidence from outsiders, as in the Cambridge case, but only the evidence of the actual victims.”
“Why didn’t you get their evidence?”
“In the case of the actual victims,” said Pym, “there was some difficulty and reluctance, and—”
“Do you mean,” asked Moon, “that none of the actual victims would appear against the prisoner?”
“That would be exaggerative,” began the other.
“A third question,” said Moon, so sharply that every one jumped. “You’ve got the evidence of the Sub-Warden who heard some shots; where’s the evidence of the Warden himself who was shot at? The Warden of Brakespeare lives, a prosperous gentleman.”
“We did ask for a statement from him,” said Pym a little nervously; “but it was so eccentrically expressed that we suppressed it out of deference to an old gentleman whose past services to science have been great.”
Moon leaned forward. “You mean, I suppose,” he said, “that his statement was favourable to the prisoner.”
“It might be understood so,” replied the American doctor; “but, really, it was difficult to understand at all. In fact, we sent it back to him.”
“You have no longer, then, any statement signed by the Warden of Brakespeare.”
“No.”
“I only ask,” said Michael quietly, “because we have. To conclude my case I will ask my junior, Mr. Inglewood, to read a statement of the true story—a statement attested as true by the signature of the Warden himself.”
Arthur Inglewood rose with several papers in his hand, and though he looked somewhat refined and self-effacing, as he always did, the spectators were surprised to feel that his presence was, upon the whole, more efficient and sufficing than his leader’s. He was, in truth, one of those modest men who cannot speak until they are told to speak; and then can speak well. Moon was entirely the opposite. His own impudences amused him in private, but they slightly embarrassed him in public; he felt a fool while he was speaking, whereas Inglewood felt a fool only because he could not speak. The moment he had anything to say he could speak; and the moment he could speak, speaking seemed quite natural. Nothing in this universe seemed quite natural to Michael Moon.
“As my colleague has just explained,” said Inglewood, “there are two enigmas or inconsistencies on which we base the defence. The first is a plain physical fact. By the admission of everybody, by the very evidence adduced by the prosecution, it is clear that the accused was celebrated as a specially good shot. Yet on both the occasions complained of he shot from a distance of four or five feet, and shot at him four or five times, and never hit him once. That is the first startling circumstance on which we base our argument. The second, as my colleague has urged, is the curious fact that we cannot find a single victim of these alleged outrages to speak for himself. Subordinates speak for him. Porters climb up ladders to him. But he himself is silent. Ladies and gentlemen, I propose to explain on the spot both the riddle of the shots and the riddle of the silence. I will first of all read the covering letter in which the true account of the Cambridge incident is contained, and then that document itself. When you have heard both, there will be no doubt about your decision. The covering letter runs as follows:—
“Dear Sir,—The following is a very exact and even vivid account of the incident as it really happened at Brakespeare College. We, the undersigned, do not see any particular reason why we should refer it to any isolated authorship. The truth is, it has been a composite production; and we have even had some difference of opinion about the adjectives. But every word of it is true.—We are, yours faithfully,
“Wilfred Emerson Eames, Warden of Brakespeare College, Cambridge.
“The enclosed statement,” continued Inglewood, “runs as follows:—
“A celebrated English university backs so abruptly on the river, that it has, so to speak, to be propped up and patched with all sorts of bridges and semi-detached buildings. The river splits itself into several small streams and canals, so that in one or two corners the place has almost the look of Venice. It was so especially in the case with which we are concerned, in which a few flying buttresses or airy ribs of stone sprang across a strip of water to connect Brakespeare College with the house of the Warden of Brakespeare.
“The country around these colleges is flat; but it does not seem flat when one is thus in the midst of the colleges. For in these flat fens there are always wandering lakes and lingering rivers of water. And these always change what might have been a scheme of horizontal lines into a scheme of vertical lines. Wherever there is water the height of high buildings is doubled, and a British brick house becomes a Babylonian tower. In that shining unshaken surface the houses hang head downwards exactly to their highest or lowest chimney. The coral-coloured cloud seen in that abyss is as far below the world as its original appears above it. Every scrap of water is not only a window but a skylight. Earth splits under men’s feet into precipitous aerial perspectives, into which a bird could as easily wing its way as—”
«Eppure furono esplosi da pochi piedi di distanza.»
«Sì; circa quattro piedi.»
«E nessuno sparo colpì il Rettore, benché fossero esplosi assai da presso anche a lui?» chiese Moon.
«Così è», disse il testimone gravemente.
«Mi pare», disse Moon, reprimendo un lieve sbadiglio, «che il vostro Vice-Rettore abbia accennato che Smith era uno dei migliori tiratori nei primati dell’Università.»
«Ebbene, quanto a questo—» cominciò Pym, dopo un istante d’immobilità.
«Una seconda domanda», proseguì Moon, relativamente asciutto. «Avete detto che vi furono altri casi in cui l’accusato tentò di uccidere delle persone. Perché non ne avete le prove?»
L’americano piantò di nuovo le punte delle dita sul tavolo. «In quei casi», disse con precisione, «non vi furono prove da parte di estranei, come nel caso di Cambridge, ma soltanto la testimonianza delle vittime stesse.»
«E perché non avete raccolto la loro testimonianza?»
«Nel caso delle vittime effettive», disse Pym, «vi fu una certa difficoltà e riluttanza, e—»
«Volete dire», chiese Moon, «che nessuna delle vittime effettive volle presentarsi contro il prigioniero?»
«Sarebbe esagerato», cominciò l’altro.
«Una terza domanda», disse Moon, così bruscamente che tutti sobbalzarono. «Avete la testimonianza del Vice-Rettore che udì alcuni spari; dov’è la testimonianza del Rettore stesso, contro cui si sparò? Il Rettore di Brakespeare vive, un signore prospero.»
«Gli chiedemmo effettivamente una dichiarazione», disse Pym un po’ nervosamente; «ma era espressa in modo così eccentrico che la sopprimemmo per deferenza verso un vecchio signore i cui passati servigi alla scienza sono stati grandi.»
Moon si sporse in avanti. «Volete dire, suppongo», disse, «che la sua dichiarazione era favorevole al prigioniero.»
«Si potrebbe intenderla così», rispose il medico americano; «ma, davvero, era difficile intenderla in alcun modo. Anzi, gliela rimandammo indietro.»
«Non avete più, dunque, alcuna dichiarazione firmata dal Rettore di Brakespeare.»
“No.”
«Lo chiedo soltanto», disse Michael con calma, «perché noi l’abbiamo. Per concludere la mia arringa chiederò al mio secondo, il signor Inglewood, di leggere una dichiarazione della vera storia—una dichiarazione attestata come veritiera dalla firma del Rettore stesso.»
Arthur Inglewood si levò con parecchi fogli in mano, e benché avesse l’aria alquanto raffinata e schiva, come sempre, gli spettatori furono sorpresi di avvertire che la sua presenza era, nel complesso, più efficace e appagante di quella del suo capo. Era, in verità, uno di quegli uomini modesti che non sanno parlare finché non venga loro detto di parlare; e allora sanno parlare bene. Moon era tutto l’opposto. Le sue stesse impudenze lo divertivano in privato, ma lo mettevano un poco in imbarazzo in pubblico; si sentiva uno sciocco mentre parlava, mentre Inglewood si sentiva uno sciocco soltanto perché non sapeva parlare. Nel momento in cui aveva qualcosa da dire sapeva parlare; e nel momento in cui sapeva parlare, il parlare pareva del tutto naturale. Nulla in questo universo pareva del tutto naturale a Michael Moon.
«Come il mio collega ha appena spiegato», disse Inglewood, «vi sono due enigmi o incongruenze su cui fondiamo la difesa. Il primo è un semplice fatto fisico. Per ammissione di tutti, per le prove stesse addotte dall’accusa, è chiaro che l’accusato era celebre come tiratore particolarmente valente. Eppure in entrambe le occasioni lamentate sparò da una distanza di quattro o cinque piedi, e gli sparò contro quattro o cinque volte, senza mai colpirlo una sola volta. Questa è la prima circostanza sorprendente su cui fondiamo il nostro argomento. La seconda, come il mio collega ha sostenuto, è il curioso fatto che non riusciamo a trovare una sola vittima di questi presunti oltraggi che parli in prima persona. Parlano per lui i subalterni. I portieri si arrampicano fino a lui con le scale. Ma egli stesso tace. Signore e signori, mi propongo di spiegare qui su due piedi tanto l’enigma degli spari quanto l’enigma del silenzio. Leggerò innanzitutto la lettera di accompagnamento in cui è contenuto il vero racconto dell’episodio di Cambridge, e poi il documento stesso. Quando li avrete uditi entrambi, non vi sarà alcun dubbio sulla vostra decisione. La lettera di accompagnamento recita come segue:—
«Egregio Signore,—Ciò che segue è un resoconto assai esatto e persino vivido dell’ episodio come realmente accadde al Brakespeare College. Noi, sottoscritti, non vediamo alcuna particolare ragione per cui dovremmo attribuirlo a una paternità isolata. La verità è che è stato una produzione collettiva; e abbiamo avuto persino qualche divergenza d’opinione sugli aggettivi. Ma ogni parola è vera.—Siamo, con osservanza, vostri,
«Wilfred Emerson Eames, Rettore del Brakespeare College, Cambridge.
«Il documento accluso», proseguì Inglewood, «recita come segue:—
«Una celebre università inglese sorge così a ridosso del fiume, che deve, per così dire, essere puntellata e rappezzata con ogni sorta di ponti e di edifici a schiera. Il fiume si divide in parecchi rigagnoli e canali, sicché in un angolo o due il luogo ha quasi l’aspetto di Venezia. Così era specialmente nel caso di cui ci occupiamo, in cui alcuni archi rampanti o aeree costole di pietra si slanciavano attraverso una striscia d’acqua a congiungere il Brakespeare College con la casa del Rettore di Brakespeare.
«La campagna intorno a questi collegi è piatta; ma non sembra piatta quando ci si trova così in mezzo ai collegi. Poiché in queste piatte paludi vi sono sempre laghi vaganti e pigri fiumi d’acqua. E questi mutano sempre quello che avrebbe potuto essere uno schema di linee orizzontali in uno schema di linee verticali. Ovunque vi sia acqua l’altezza degli alti edifici è raddoppiata, e una casa britannica di mattoni diventa una torre babilonese. In quella superficie lucente e immota le case pendono a capo in giù esattamente fino al loro comignolo più alto o più basso. La nuvola color corallo veduta in quell’abisso è tanto al di sotto del mondo quanto il suo originale appare al di sopra. Ogni brandello d’acqua non è soltanto una finestra ma un lucernario. La terra si spacca sotto i piedi degli uomini in precipiti prospettive aeree, nelle quali un uccello potrebbe librarsi con la stessa facilità con cui—
Dr. Cyrus Pym rose in protest. The documents he had put in evidence had been confined to cold affirmation of fact. The defence, in a general way, had an indubitable right to put their case in their own way, but all this landscape gardening seemed to him (Dr. Cyrus Pym) to be not up to the business. “Will the leader of the defence tell me,” he asked, “how it can possibly affect this case, that a cloud was cor’l-coloured, or that a bird could have winged itself anywhere?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Michael, lifting himself lazily; “you see, you don’t know yet what our defence is. Till you know that, don’t you see, anything may be relevant. Why, suppose,” he said suddenly, as if an idea had struck him, “suppose we wanted to prove the old Warden colour-blind. Suppose he was shot by a black man with white hair, when he thought he was being shot by a white man with yellow hair! To ascertain if that cloud was really and truly coral-coloured might be of the most massive importance.”
He paused with a seriousness which was hardly generally shared, and continued with the same fluency: “Or suppose we wanted to maintain that the Warden committed suicide—that he just got Smith to hold the pistol as Brutus’s slave held the sword. Why, it would make all the difference whether the Warden could see himself plain in still water. Still water has made hundreds of suicides: one sees oneself so very—well, so very plain.”
“Do you, perhaps,” inquired Pym with austere irony, “maintain that your client was a bird of some sort—say, a flamingo?”
“In the matter of his being a flamingo,” said Moon with sudden severity, “my client reserves his defence.”
No one quite knowing what to make of this, Mr. Moon resumed his seat and Inglewood resumed the reading of his document:—
“There is something pleasing to a mystic in such a land of mirrors. For a mystic is one who holds that two worlds are better than one. In the highest sense, indeed, all thought is reflection.
“This is the real truth, in the saying that second thoughts are best. Animals have no second thoughts; man alone is able to see his own thought double, as a drunkard sees a lamp-post; man alone is able to see his own thought upside down as one sees a house in a puddle. This duplication of mentality, as in a mirror, is (we repeat) the inmost thing of human philosophy. There is a mystical, even a monstrous truth, in the statement that two heads are better than one. But they ought both to grow on the same body.”
“I know it’s a little transcendental at first,” interposed Inglewood, beaming round with a broad apology, “but you see this document was written in collaboration by a don and a—”
“Drunkard, eh?” suggested Moses Gould, beginning to enjoy himself.
“I rather think,” proceeded Inglewood with an unruffled and critical air, “that this part was written by the don. I merely warn the Court that the statement, though indubitably accurate, bears here and there the trace of coming from two authors.”
“In that case,” said Dr. Pym, leaning back and sniffing, “I cannot agree with them that two heads are better than one.”
“The undersigned persons think it needless to touch on a kindred problem so often discussed at committees for University Reform: the question of whether dons see double because they are drunk, or get drunk because they see double. It is enough for them (the undersigned persons) if they are able to pursue their own peculiar and profitable theme—which is puddles. What (the undersigned persons ask themselves) is a puddle? A puddle repeats infinity, and is full of light; nevertheless, if analyzed objectively, a puddle is a piece of dirty water spread very thin on mud. The two great historic universities of England have all this large and level and reflective brilliance. Nevertheless, or, rather, on the other hand, they are puddles—puddles, puddles, puddles, puddles. The undersigned persons ask you to excuse an emphasis inseparable from strong conviction.”
Inglewood ignored a somewhat wild expression on the faces of some present, and continued with eminent cheerfulness:—
“Such were the thoughts that failed to cross the mind of the undergraduate Smith as he picked his way among the stripes of canal and the glittering rainy gutters into which the water broke up round the back of Brakespeare College. Had these thoughts crossed his mind he would have been much happier than he was. Unfortunately he did not know that his puzzles were puddles. He did not know that the academic mind reflects infinity and is full of light by the simple process of being shallow and standing still. In his case, therefore, there was something solemn, and even evil about the infinity implied. It was half-way through a starry night of bewildering brilliancy; stars were both above and below. To young Smith’s sullen fancy the skies below seemed even hollower than the skies above; he had a horrible idea that if he counted the stars he would find one too many in the pool.
“In crossing the little paths and bridges he felt like one stepping on the black and slender ribs of some cosmic Eiffel Tower. For to him, and nearly all the educated youth of that epoch, the stars were cruel things. Though they glowed in the great dome every night, they were an enormous and ugly secret; they uncovered the nakedness of nature; they were a glimpse of the iron wheels and pulleys behind the scenes. For the young men of that sad time thought that the god always comes from the machine. They did not know that in reality the machine only comes from the god. In short, they were all pessimists, and starlight was atrocious to them— atrocious because it was true. All their universe was black with white spots.
Il dottor Cyrus Pym si levò in segno di protesta. I documenti che aveva prodotto in giudizio si erano limitati a fredde affermazioni di fatto. La difesa, in linea generale, aveva l’indubbio diritto di esporre la propria causa a modo suo, ma tutto questo giardinaggio paesaggistico gli sembrava (a lui, il dottor Cyrus Pym) non essere all’altezza della faccenda. «Vorrà il capo della difesa dirmi», chiese, «come possa mai incidere su questo caso il fatto che una nuvola fosse color coràllo, o che un uccello avrebbe potuto librarsi in un luogo qualsiasi?»
«Oh, non lo so», disse Michael, sollevandosi pigramente; «vedete, non sapete ancora quale sia la nostra difesa. Finché non lo sapete, non capite, qualsiasi cosa può essere pertinente. Ma via, supponete», disse d’un tratto, come colpito da un’idea, «supponete che volessimo dimostrare che il vecchio Rettore era daltonico. Supponete che gli avesse sparato un uomo nero dai capelli bianchi, mentre egli credeva che gli sparasse un uomo bianco dai capelli gialli! Accertare se quella nuvola fosse davvero e veramente color corallo potrebbe essere della più massiccia importanza.»
Si fermò con una serietà che era ben poco condivisa in generale, e continuò con la stessa scioltezza: «Oppure supponete che volessimo sostenere che il Rettore commise suicidio—che si limitò a far reggere a Smith la pistola come lo schiavo di Bruto gli resse la spada. Ebbene, farebbe tutta la differenza il fatto che il Rettore potesse vedersi chiaramente in un’acqua immota. L’acqua immota ha prodotto centinaia di suicidi: ci si vede così—beh, così chiaramente.»
«Sostenete forse», domandò Pym con austera ironia, «che il vostro cliente fosse un uccello di qualche specie—diciamo, un fenicottero?»
«Quanto al fatto che sia un fenicottero», disse Moon con improvvisa severità, «il mio cliente si riserva la difesa.»
Non sapendo bene nessuno che cosa farne di ciò, il signor Moon tornò a sedersi e Inglewood riprese la lettura del suo documento:—
«C’è qualcosa di gradevole per un mistico in una simile terra di specchi. Poiché un mistico è colui che ritiene che due mondi siano meglio di uno. Nel senso più alto, invero, ogni pensiero è riflesso.
«Questa è la vera verità, nel detto che i secondi pensieri sono i migliori. Gli animali non hanno secondi pensieri; l’uomo solo è capace di vedere il proprio pensiero doppio, come un ubriaco vede un lampione; l’uomo solo è capace di vedere il proprio pensiero capovolto come si vede una casa in una pozzanghera. Questo raddoppiamento della mente, come in uno specchio, è (lo ripetiamo) la cosa più intima della filosofia umana. Vi è una mistica, anzi mostruosa verità, nell’affermazione che due teste sono meglio di una. Ma dovrebbero crescere entrambe sul medesimo corpo.»
«So che all’inizio è un po’ trascendentale», si intromise Inglewood, raggiante e con un’ampia scusa, «ma vedete, questo documento fu scritto in collaborazione da un docente e da un—»
«Ubriacone, eh?» suggerì Moses Gould, cominciando a divertirsi.
«Sono piuttosto propenso a credere», proseguì Inglewood con aria imperturbata e critica, «che questa parte l’abbia scritta il docente. Avverto soltanto la Corte che la dichiarazione, benché indubitabilmente accurata, reca qua e là la traccia di provenire da due autori.»
«In tal caso», disse il dottor Pym, reclinandosi all’indietro e annusando, «non posso concordare con loro che due teste siano meglio di una.»
«I sottoscritti ritengono superfluo toccare un problema affine così spesso discusso nelle commissioni per la Riforma universitaria: la questione se i docenti vedano doppio perché sono ubriachi, oppure si ubriachino perché vedono doppio. Basta loro (ai sottoscritti) poter perseguire il proprio peculiare e proficuo tema—che sono le pozzanghere. Che cos’è (si domandano i sottoscritti) una pozzanghera? Una pozzanghera ripete l’infinito, ed è colma di luce; nondimeno, se analizzata oggettivamente, una pozzanghera è un pezzo d’acqua sporca spalmata assai sottile sul fango. Le due grandi università storiche d’Inghilterra hanno tutta questa vasta e piana e riflettente brillantezza. Nondimeno, o, piuttosto, d’altra parte, sono pozzanghere—pozzanghere, pozzanghere, pozzanghere, pozzanghere. I sottoscritti vi chiedono di scusare un’enfasi inseparabile da una salda convinzione.»
Inglewood ignorò un’espressione alquanto stralunata sui volti di alcuni presenti, e continuò con eminente allegria:—
«Tali erano i pensieri che non riuscirono ad attraversare la mente dello studente Smith mentre si faceva strada tra le strisce di canale e le luccicanti grondaie piovose in cui l’acqua si frangeva intorno al retro del Brakespeare College. Se questi pensieri gli avessero attraversato la mente sarebbe stato molto più felice di quanto fosse. Purtroppo egli non sapeva che i suoi rompicapi erano pozzanghere. Non sapeva che la mente accademica riflette l’infinito ed è colma di luce per il semplice processo di essere poco profonda e di starsene immobile. Nel suo caso, dunque, vi era qualcosa di solenne, e persino di malvagio, nell’infinito implicato. Si era a metà d’una stellata notte di sconcertante splendore; le stelle erano tanto in alto quanto in basso. Alla cupa fantasia del giovane Smith i cieli in basso parevano ancor più cavi dei cieli in alto; aveva l’orribile idea che, se avesse contato le stelle, ne avrebbe trovata una di troppo nella pozza.
«Attraversando i piccoli sentieri e ponti si sentiva come chi cammina sulle nere ed esili costole di una cosmica Torre Eiffel. Poiché per lui, e per quasi tutta la gioventù istruita di quell’epoca, le stelle erano cose crudeli. Benché ardessero nella grande cupola ogni notte, erano un enorme e brutto segreto; scoprivano la nudità della natura; erano uno scorcio delle ruote di ferro e delle carrucole dietro le quinte. Poiché i giovani di quel triste tempo credevano che il dio venga sempre dalla macchina. Non sapevano che in realtà la macchina viene soltanto dal dio. In breve, erano tutti pessimisti, e la luce delle stelle era per loro atroce— atroce perché era vera. Tutto il loro universo era nero con macchie bianche.
“Smith looked up with relief from the glittering pools below to the glittering skies and the great black bulk of the college. The only light other than stars glowed through one peacock-green curtain in the upper part of the building, marking where Dr. Emerson Eames always worked till morning and received his friends and favourite pupils at any hour of the night. Indeed, it was to his rooms that the melancholy Smith was bound. Smith had been at Dr. Eames’s lecture for the first half of the morning, and at pistol practice and fencing in a saloon for the second half. He had been sculling madly for the first half of the afternoon and thinking idly (and still more madly) for the second half. He had gone to a supper where he was uproarious, and on to a debating club where he was perfectly insufferable, and the melancholy Smith was melancholy still. Then, as he was going home to his diggings he remembered the eccentricity of his friend and master, the Warden of Brakespeare, and resolved desperately to turn in to that gentleman’s private house.
“Emerson Eames was an eccentric in many ways, but his throne in philosophy and metaphysics was of international eminence; the university could hardly have afforded to lose him, and, moreover, a don has only to continue any of his bad habits long enough to make them a part of the British Constitution. The bad habits of Emerson Eames were to sit up all night and to be a student of Schopenhauer. Personally, he was a lean, lounging sort of man, with a blond pointed beard, not so very much older than his pupil Smith in the matter of mere years, but older by centuries in the two essential respects of having a European reputation and a bald head.
“‘I came, against the rules, at this unearthly hour,’ said Smith, who was nothing to the eye except a very big man trying to make himself small, ‘because I am coming to the conclusion that existence is really too rotten. I know all the arguments of the thinkers that think otherwise—bishops, and agnostics, and those sort of people. And knowing you were the greatest living authority on the pessimist thinkers—’
“‘All thinkers,’ said Eames, ‘are pessimist thinkers.’
“After a patch of pause, not the first—for this depressing conversation had gone on for some hours with alternations of cynicism and silence— the Warden continued with his air of weary brilliancy: ‘It’s all a question of wrong calculation. The moth flies into the candle because he doesn’t happen to know that the game is not worth the candle. The wasp gets into the jam in hearty and hopeful efforts to get the jam into him. IN the same way the vulgar people want to enjoy life just as they want to enjoy gin—because they are too stupid to see that they are paying too big a price for it. That they never find happiness—that they don’t even know how to look for it—is proved by the paralyzing clumsiness and ugliness of everything they do. Their discordant colours are cries of pain. Look at the brick villas beyond the college on this side of the river. There’s one with spotted blinds; look at it! just go and look at it!’
“‘Of course,’ he went on dreamily, ‘one or two men see the sober fact a long way off—they go mad. Do you notice that maniacs mostly try either to destroy other things, or (if they are thoughtful) to destroy themselves? The madman is the man behind the scenes, like the man that wanders about the coulisse of a theater. He has only opened the wrong door and come into the right place. He sees things at the right angle. But the common world—’
“‘Oh, hang the common world!’ said the sullen Smith, letting his fist fall on the table in an idle despair.
“‘Let’s give it a bad name first,’ said the Professor calmly, ‘and then hang it. A puppy with hydrophobia would probably struggle for life while we killed it; but if we were kind we should kill it. So an omniscient god would put us out of our pain. He would strike us dead.’
“‘Why doesn’t he strike us dead?’ asked the undergraduate abstractedly, plunging his hands into his pockets.
“‘He is dead himself,’ said the philosopher; ‘that is where he is really enviable.’
“‘To any one who thinks,’ proceeded Eames, ‘the pleasures of life, trivial and soon tasteless, are bribes to bring us into a torture chamber. We all see that for any thinking man mere extinction is the… What are you doing?… Are you mad?… Put that thing down.’
“Dr. Eames had turned his tired but still talkative head over his shoulder, and had found himself looking into a small round black hole, rimmed by a six-sided circlet of steel, with a sort of spike standing up on the top. It fixed him like an iron eye. Through those eternal instants during which the reason is stunned he did not even know what it was. Then he saw behind it the chambered barrel and cocked hammer of a revolver, and behind that the flushed and rather heavy face of Smith, apparently quite unchanged, or even more mild than before.
“‘I’ll help you out of your hole, old man,’ said Smith, with rough tenderness. ‘I’ll put the puppy out of his pain.’
“Emerson Eames retreated towards the window. ‘Do you mean to kill me?’ he cried.
“‘It’s not a thing I’d do for every one,’ said Smith with emotion; ‘but you and I seem to have got so intimate to-night, somehow. I know all your troubles now, and the only cure, old chap.’
“‘Put that thing down,’ shouted the Warden.
“‘It’ll soon be over, you know,’ said Smith with the air of a sympathetic dentist. And as the Warden made a run for the window and balcony, his benefactor followed him with a firm step and a compassionate expression.
“Both men were perhaps surprised to see that the gray and white of early daybreak had already come. One of them, however, had emotions calculated to swallow up surprise. Brakespeare College was one of the few that retained real traces of Gothic ornament, and just beneath Dr. Eames’s balcony there ran out what had perhaps been a flying buttress, still shapelessly shaped into gray beasts and devils, but blinded with mosses and washed out with rains. With an ungainly and most courageous leap, Eames sprang out on this antique bridge, as the only possible mode of escape from the maniac. He sat astride of it, still in his academic gown, dangling his long thin legs, and considering further chances of flight. The whitening daylight opened under as well as over him that impression of vertical infinity already remarked about the little lakes round Brakespeare. Looking down and seeing the spires and chimneys pendent in the pools, they felt alone in space. They felt as if they were looking over the edge from the North Pole and seeing the South Pole below.
«Smith alzò lo sguardo con sollievo dalle luccicanti pozze in basso verso i luccicanti cieli e la grande mole nera del collegio. L’unica luce oltre alle stelle brillava attraverso una tenda verde-pavone nella parte alta dell’edificio, a segnare dove il dottor Emerson Eames lavorava sempre fino al mattino e riceveva i suoi amici e allievi prediletti a qualsiasi ora della notte. Ed era infatti verso le sue stanze che il malinconico Smith era diretto. Smith era stato alla lezione del dottor Eames per la prima metà della mattina, e all’esercizio di pistola e alla scherma in un salone per la seconda metà. Aveva remato all’impazzata per la prima metà del pomeriggio e pensato oziosamente (e ancor più follemente) per la seconda metà. Era andato a una cena dove fu chiassoso, e poi a un circolo di dibattito dove fu perfettamente insopportabile, e il malinconico Smith era malinconico ancora. Poi, mentre tornava a casa verso il suo alloggio, si ricordò dell’eccentricità del suo amico e maestro, il Rettore di Brakespeare, e risolse disperatamente di far capo alla casa privata di quel signore.
«Emerson Eames era per molti versi un eccentrico, ma il suo trono nella filosofia e nella metafisica era di eminenza internazionale; l’università difficilmente avrebbe potuto permettersi di perderlo, e, per di più, a un docente basta perseverare in una qualsiasi delle sue cattive abitudini abbastanza a lungo per farne parte della Costituzione britannica. Le cattive abitudini di Emerson Eames erano di vegliare tutta la notte e di essere uno studioso di Schopenhauer. Di persona, era un uomo magro, dall’aria indolente, con una bionda barba a punta, non molto più anziano del suo allievo Smith in fatto di meri anni, ma più anziano di secoli nei due aspetti essenziali di avere una fama europea e una testa calva.
«‘Sono venuto, contro le regole, a quest’ora impossibile’, disse Smith, che non era nulla all’occhio se non un uomo assai grande che cercava di farsi piccolo, ‘perché sto giungendo alla conclusione che l’esistenza è davvero troppo marcia. Conosco tutti gli argomenti dei pensatori che la pensano altrimenti—vescovi, e agnostici, e gente di quella sorta. E sapendo che eravate la più grande autorità vivente sui pensatori pessimisti—’
«‘Tutti i pensatori’, disse Eames, ‘sono pensatori pessimisti.’
«Dopo un tratto di pausa, non il primo—poiché questa deprimente conversazione andava avanti da alcune ore con alternanze di cinismo e silenzio— il Rettore continuò con la sua aria di stanca brillantezza: ‘È tutta una questione di calcolo sbagliato. La falena vola nella candela perché per caso non sa che il gioco non vale la candela. La vespa finisce nella marmellata in vigorosi e speranzosi sforzi di far entrare la marmellata in sé. ALLO stesso modo la gente volgare vuole godersi la vita proprio come vuole godersi il gin—perché è troppo stupida per vedere che ne sta pagando un prezzo troppo alto. Che non trovi mai la felicità—che non sappia nemmeno come cercarla—è provato dalla paralizzante goffaggine e bruttezza di tutto ciò che fa. I loro colori discordanti sono grida di dolore. Guarda le ville di mattoni oltre il collegio, da questo lato del fiume. Ce n’è una con le persiane a chiazze; guardala! va’ e guardala!’
«‘Naturalmente’, proseguì sognante, ‘uno o due uomini vedono il sobrio fatto da lontano—e impazziscono. Hai notato che i maniaci per lo più cercano o di distruggere le altre cose, o (se sono riflessivi) di distruggere se stessi? Il pazzo è l’uomo dietro le quinte, come l’uomo che vaga per la quinta di un teatro. Non ha fatto che aprire la porta sbagliata ed entrare nel posto giusto. Vede le cose dall’angolazione giusta. Ma il mondo comune—’
«‘Oh, al diavolo il mondo comune!’ disse il cupo Smith, lasciando cadere il pugno sul tavolo in un’oziosa disperazione.
«‘Diamogli prima un cattivo nome’, disse il Professore con calma, ‘e poi impicchiamolo. Un cucciolo con l’idrofobia probabilmente lotterebbe per la vita mentre lo uccidiamo; ma se fossimo benevoli lo uccideremmo. Così un dio onnisciente ci porrebbe fine al nostro dolore. Ci colpirebbe a morte.’
«‘Perché non ci colpisce a morte?’ chiese lo studente distrattamente, affondando le mani nelle tasche.
«‘È morto lui stesso’, disse il filosofo; ‘ed è lì che è davvero da invidiare.’
«‘Per chiunque pensi’, proseguì Eames, ‘i piaceri della vita, banali e presto insipidi, sono lusinghe per attirarci in una camera di tortura. Tutti vediamo che per ogni uomo pensante la mera estinzione è la… Che stai facendo?… Sei impazzito?… Metti giù quella cosa.’
«Il dottor Eames aveva girato la sua testa stanca ma ancora loquace sopra la spalla, e si era ritrovato a fissare un piccolo foro nero e rotondo, cerchiato da un anello d’acciaio a sei lati, con una specie di punta ritta in cima. Lo teneva fermo come un occhio di ferro. Per quegli eterni istanti durante i quali la ragione resta stordita, egli non seppe nemmeno che cosa fosse. Poi vide dietro di esso la canna a tamburo e il cane armato di un revolver, e dietro ancora il volto arrossato e piuttosto pesante di Smith, in apparenza del tutto immutato, o persino più mite di prima.
«‘Ti tirerò fuori dal tuo buco, vecchio mio’, disse Smith, con rude tenerezza. ‘Metterò fine al dolore del cucciolo.’
«Emerson Eames indietreggiò verso la finestra. ‘Vuoi uccidermi?’ gridò.
«‘Non è cosa che farei per chiunque’, disse Smith con emozione; ‘ma tu e io pare che siamo diventati così intimi questa notte, chissà come. Ora conosco tutti i tuoi tormenti, e l’unica cura, vecchio mio.’
«‘Metti giù quella cosa’, gridò il Rettore.
«‘Sarà presto finita, sai’, disse Smith con l’aria di un dentista compassionevole. E mentre il Rettore si slanciava verso la finestra e il balcone, il suo benefattore lo seguì con passo fermo e un’espressione piena di compassione.
«Entrambi gli uomini rimasero forse sorpresi nel vedere che il grigio e il bianco del primo albeggiare erano già venuti. Uno di loro, tuttavia, aveva emozioni tali da inghiottire la sorpresa. Il Brakespeare College era uno dei pochi che conservavano vere tracce di ornamento gotico, e proprio sotto il balcone del dottor Eames si sporgeva quello che forse era stato un arco rampante, ancora informemente foggiato in bestie grigie e diavoli, ma accecato dai muschi e dilavato dalle piogge. Con un balzo sgraziato e coraggiosissimo, Eames si slanciò su questo antico ponte, quale unico modo possibile di sfuggire al maniaco. Vi sedette a cavalcioni, ancora nella sua toga accademica, dondolando le lunghe gambe sottili, e considerando ulteriori possibilità di fuga. La luce del giorno che imbiancava apriva sotto di lui non meno che sopra quell’ impressione di infinito verticale già rilevata a proposito dei piccoli laghi intorno a Brakespeare. Guardando in basso e vedendo le guglie e i comignoli sospesi nelle pozze, si sentirono soli nello spazio. Si sentirono come se guardassero oltre l’orlo dal Polo Nord e vedessero il Polo Sud in basso.
“‘Hang the world, we said,’ observed Smith, ‘and the world is hanged. “He has hanged the world upon nothing,” says the Bible. Do you like being hanged upon nothing? I’m going to be hanged upon something myself. I’m going to swing for you… Dear, tender old phrase,’ he murmured; ‘never true till this moment. I am going to swing for you. For you, dear friend. For your sake. At your express desire.’
“‘Help!’ cried the Warden of Brakespeare College; ‘help!’
“‘The puppy struggles,’ said the undergraduate, with an eye of pity, ‘the poor puppy struggles. How fortunate it is that I am wiser and kinder than he,’ and he sighted his weapon so as exactly to cover the upper part of Eames’s bald head.
“‘Smith,’ said the philosopher with a sudden change to a sort of ghastly lucidity, ‘I shall go mad.’
“‘And so look at things from the right angle,’ observed Smith, sighing gently. ‘Ah, but madness is only a palliative at best, a drug. The only cure is an operation—an operation that is always successful: death.’
“As he spoke the sun rose. It seemed to put colour into everything, with the rapidity of a lightning artist. A fleet of little clouds sailing across the sky changed from pigeon-gray to pink. All over the little academic town the tops of different buildings took on different tints: here the sun would pick out the green enameled on a pinnacle, there the scarlet tiles of a villa; here the copper ornament on some artistic shop, and there the sea-blue slates of some old and steep church roof. All these coloured crests seemed to have something oddly individual and significant about them, like crests of famous knights pointed out in a pageant or a battlefield: they each arrested the eye, especially the rolling eye of Emerson Eames as he looked round on the morning and accepted it as his last. Through a narrow chink between a black timber tavern and a big gray college he could see a clock with gilt hands which the sunshine set on fire. He stared at it as though hypnotized; and suddenly the clock began to strike, as if in personal reply. As if at a signal, clock after clock took up the cry: all the churches awoke like chickens at cockcrow. The birds were already noisy in the trees behind the college. The sun rose, gathering glory that seemed too full for the deep skies to hold, and the shallow waters beneath them seemed golden and brimming and deep enough for the thirst of the gods. Just round the corner of the College, and visible from his crazy perch, were the brightest specks on that bright landscape, the villa with the spotted blinds which he had made his text that night. He wondered for the first time what people lived in them.
“Suddenly he called out with mere querulous authority, as he might have called to a student to shut a door.
“‘Let me come off this place,’ he cried; ‘I can’t bear it.’
“‘I rather doubt if it will bear you,’ said Smith critically; ‘but before you break your neck, or I blow out your brains, or let you back into this room (on which complex points I am undecided) I want the metaphysical point cleared up. Do I understand that you want to get back to life?’
“‘I’d give anything to get back,’ replied the unhappy professor.
“‘Give anything!’ cried Smith; ‘then, blast your impudence, give us a song!’
“‘What song do you mean?’ demanded the exasperated Eames; ‘what song?’
“‘A hymn, I think, would be most appropriate,’ answered the other gravely. ‘I’ll let you off if you’ll repeat after me the words—
“‘I thank the goodness and the grace That on my birth have smiled. And perched me on this curious place, A happy English child.’
“Dr. Emerson Eames having briefly complied, his persecutor abruptly told him to hold his hands up in the air. Vaguely connecting this proceeding with the usual conduct of brigands and bushrangers, Mr. Eames held them up, very stiffly, but without marked surprise. A bird alighting on his stone seat took no more notice of him than of a comic statue.
“‘You are now engaged in public worship,’ remarked Smith severely, ‘and before I have done with you, you shall thank God for the very ducks on the pond.’
“The celebrated pessimist half articulately expressed his perfect readiness to thank God for the ducks on the pond.
“‘Not forgetting the drakes,’ said Smith sternly. (Eames weakly conceded the drakes.) ‘Not forgetting anything, please. You shall thank heaven for churches and chapels and villas and vulgar people and puddles and pots and pans and sticks and rags and bones and spotted blinds.’
“‘All right, all right,’ repeated the victim in despair; ‘sticks and rags and bones and blinds.’
“‘Spotted blinds, I think we said,’ remarked Smith with a rogueish ruthlessness, and wagging the pistol-barrel at him like a long metallic finger.
“‘Spotted blinds,’ said Emerson Eames faintly.
“‘You can’t say fairer than that,’ admitted the younger man, ‘and now I’ll just tell you this to wind up with. If you really were what you profess to be, I don’t see that it would matter to snail or seraph if you broke your impious stiff neck and dashed out all your drivelling devil-worshipping brains. But in strict biographical fact you are a very nice fellow, addicted to talking putrid nonsense, and I love you like a brother. I shall therefore fire off all my cartridges round your head so as not to hit you (I am a good shot, you may be glad to hear), and then we will go in and have some breakfast.’
“He then let off two barrels in the air, which the Professor endured with singular firmness, and then said, ‘But don’t fire them all off.’
“‘Why not’ asked the other buoyantly.
“‘Keep them,’ asked his companion, ‘for the next man you meet who talks as we were talking.’
“It was at this moment that Smith, looking down, perceived apoplectic terror upon the face of the Sub-Warden, and heard the refined shriek with which he summoned the porter and the ladder.
«‘Al diavolo il mondo, dicevamo’, osservò Smith, ‘e il mondo è impiccato. “Egli ha appeso il mondo sopra il nulla”, dice la Bibbia. Ti piace essere appeso sopra il nulla? Io stesso sto per essere appeso a qualcosa. Sto per penzolare per te… Cara, tenera vecchia frase’, mormorò; ‘mai vera fino a questo momento. Sto per penzolare per te. Per te, caro amico. Per amor tuo. Per tuo espresso desiderio.’
«‘Aiuto!’ gridò il Rettore del Brakespeare College; ‘aiuto!’
«‘Il cucciolo si dibatte’, disse lo studente, con occhio di pietà, ‘il povero cucciolo si dibatte. Che fortuna che io sia più saggio e più benevolo di lui’, e puntò l’arma in modo da coprire esattamente la parte superiore della calva testa di Eames.
«‘Smith’, disse il filosofo con un improvviso mutamento verso una sorta di spettrale lucidità, ‘impazzirò.’
«‘E così guarderai le cose dall’angolazione giusta’, osservò Smith, sospirando dolcemente. ‘Ah, ma la follia è nel migliore dei casi solo un palliativo, una droga. L’unica cura è un’operazione—un’operazione che ha sempre successo: la morte.’
«Mentre parlava, il sole sorse. Parve infondere colore in ogni cosa, con la rapidità di un artista fulmineo. Una flotta di piccole nuvole che veleggiavano per il cielo passò dal grigio-colombo al rosa. Su tutta la piccola città accademica le cime dei diversi edifici assunsero diverse tinte: qui il sole faceva risaltare il verde smaltato su un pinnacolo, là le tegole scarlatte di una villa; qui l’ornamento di rame su qualche bottega d’arte, e là le ardesie azzurro-mare di qualche vecchio e ripido tetto di chiesa. Tutte queste creste colorate parevano avere qualcosa di stranamente individuale e significativo, come cimieri di famosi cavalieri additati in un corteo o su un campo di battaglia: ciascuna arrestava l’occhio, specialmente l’occhio roteante di Emerson Eames mentre si volgeva a guardare il mattino e lo accettava come il suo ultimo. Attraverso una stretta fessura tra una taverna di legno nero e un grande grigio collegio poteva scorgere un orologio dalle lancette dorate che il sole incendiava. Lo fissò come ipnotizzato; e d’un tratto l’orologio cominciò a battere, come in risposta personale. Come a un segnale, orologio dopo orologio riprese il grido: tutte le chiese si destarono come galletti al canto del gallo. Gli uccelli erano già rumorosi tra gli alberi dietro il collegio. Il sole sorse, radunando una gloria che pareva troppo piena perché i profondi cieli la contenessero, e le basse acque sottostanti parevano dorate e traboccanti e profonde abbastanza per la sete degli dèi. Proprio dietro l’angolo del Collegio, e visibili dal suo folle trespolo, c’erano le macchie più luminose di quel luminoso paesaggio, la villa con le persiane a chiazze che quella notte egli aveva preso a suo tema. Si domandò per la prima volta chi vi abitasse.
«D’un tratto chiamò con mera autorità querula, come avrebbe potuto chiamare uno studente perché chiudesse una porta.
«‘Lasciatemi scendere da questo posto’, gridò; ‘non lo sopporto.’
«‘Piuttosto dubito che ti regga’, disse Smith in tono critico; ‘ma prima che tu ti rompa il collo, o che io ti faccia saltare le cervella, o ti lasci rientrare in questa stanza (su quali complessi punti io sono indeciso) voglio che il punto metafisico sia chiarito. Ho capito bene che vuoi tornare alla vita?’
«‘Darei qualunque cosa per tornare indietro’, rispose l’infelice professore.
«‘Darai qualunque cosa!’ esclamò Smith; ‘allora, che tu sia dannato per la tua impudenza, dacci una canzone!’
«‘Che canzone intendi?’ domandò l’esasperato Eames; ‘quale canzone?’
«‘Un inno, credo, sarebbe quanto mai appropriato’, rispose l’altro gravemente. ‘Ti lascerò andare se ripeterai dopo di me le parole—
«‘Ringrazio la bontà e la grazia Che sulla mia nascita hanno sorriso, E su questo curioso luogo m’han posato, Un lieto fanciullo inglese.’
«Avendo il dottor Emerson Eames brevemente obbedito, il suo persecutore bruscamente gli disse di tenere le mani in alto. Collegando vagamente questo procedimento con la solita condotta di briganti e predoni dell’entroterra, il signor Eames le tenne alzate, assai rigidamente, ma senza marcata sorpresa. Un uccello che si posò sul suo sedile di pietra non gli badò più di quanto avrebbe badato a una statua comica.
«‘Sei ora impegnato in un pubblico culto’, osservò Smith severamente, ‘e prima che io abbia finito con te, ringrazierai Dio persino per le anatre dello stagno.’
«Il celebre pessimista espresse in modo semiarticolato la sua perfetta prontezza a ringraziare Dio per le anatre dello stagno.
«‘Senza dimenticare i maschi delle anatre’, disse Smith con severità. (Eames debolmente concesse i maschi delle anatre.) ‘Senza dimenticare nulla, prego. Ringrazierai il cielo per le chiese e le cappelle e le ville e la gente volgare e le pozzanghere e le pentole e i tegami e i bastoni e gli stracci e le ossa e le persiane a chiazze.’
«‘Va bene, va bene’, ripeté la vittima in preda alla disperazione; ‘bastoni e stracci e ossa e persiane.’
«‘Persiane a chiazze, mi pare avessimo detto’, osservò Smith con una furfantesca spietatezza, e agitandogli contro la canna della pistola come un lungo dito metallico.
«‘Persiane a chiazze’, disse Emerson Eames flebilmente.
«‘Non puoi essere più giusto di così’, ammise il più giovane, ‘e ora ti dirò soltanto questo per concludere. Se davvero fossi ciò che professi di essere, non vedo che cosa importerebbe a lumaca o serafino se ti rompessi l’empio rigido collo e ti spappolassi tutte le tue farneticanti cervella adoratrici del diavolo. Ma in rigoroso fatto biografico tu sei un tipo assai simpatico, dedito a dire putride sciocchezze, e ti voglio bene come a un fratello. Sparerò dunque tutte le mie cartucce intorno alla tua testa così da non colpirti (sono un buon tiratore, ti farà piacere saperlo), e poi entreremo a fare colazione.’
«Poi scaricò due colpi in aria, che il Professore sopportò con singolare fermezza, e poi disse: ‘Ma non spararle tutte.’
«‘Perché no’ chiese l’altro con baldanza.
«‘Conservale’, chiese il suo compagno, ‘per il prossimo uomo che incontrerai che parli come stavamo parlando noi.’
«Fu in questo momento che Smith, guardando in basso, scorse un apoplettico terrore sul volto del Vice-Rettore, e udì lo strillo raffinato con cui costui chiamò il portiere e la scala.
“It took Dr. Eames some little time to disentangle himself from the ladder, and some little time longer to disentangle himself from the Sub-Warden. But as soon as he could do so unobtrusively, he rejoined his companion in the late extraordinary scene. He was astonished to find the gigantic Smith heavily shaken, and sitting with his shaggy head on his hands. When addressed, he lifted a very pale face.
“‘Why, what is the matter?’ asked Eames, whose own nerves had by this time twittered themselves quiet, like the morning birds.
“‘I must ask your indulgence,’ said Smith, rather brokenly. ‘I must ask you to realize that I have just had an escape from death.’
“‘YOU have had an escape from death?’ repeated the Professor in not unpardonable irritation. ‘Well, of all the cheek—’
“‘Oh, don’t you understand, don’t you understand?’ cried the pale young man impatiently. ‘I had to do it, Eames; I had to prove you wrong or die. When a man’s young, he nearly always has some one whom he thinks the top-water mark of the mind of man— some one who knows all about it, if anybody knows.
“‘Well, you were that to me; you spoke with authority, and not as the scribes. Nobody could comfort me if YOU said there was no comfort. If you really thought there was nothing anywhere, it was because you had been there to see. Don’t you see that I HAD to prove you didn’t really mean it?— or else drown myself in the canal.’
“‘Well,’ said Eames hesitatingly, ‘I think perhaps you confuse—’
“‘Oh, don’t tell me that!’ cried Smith with the sudden clairvoyance of mental pain; ‘don’t tell me I confuse enjoyment of existence with the Will to Live! That’s German, and German is High Dutch, and High Dutch is Double Dutch. The thing I saw shining in your eyes when you dangled on that bridge was enjoyment of life and not “the Will to Live.” What you knew when you sat on that damned gargoyle was that the world, when all is said and done, is a wonderful and beautiful place; I know it, because I knew it at the same minute. I saw the gray clouds turn pink, and the little gilt clock in the crack between the houses. It was THOSE things you hated leaving, not Life, whatever that is. Eames, we’ve been to the brink of death together; won’t you admit I’m right?’
“‘Yes’, said Eames very slowly, ‘I think you are right. You shall have a First!’
“‘Right!’ cried Smith, springing up reanimated. ‘I’ve passed with honours, and now let me go and see about being sent down.’
“‘You needn’t be sent down,’ said Eames with the quiet confidence of twelve years of intrigue. ‘Everything with us comes from the man on top to the people just round him: I am the man on top, and I shall tell the people round me the truth.’
“The massive Mr. Smith rose and went firmly to the window, but he spoke with equal firmness. ‘I must be sent down,’ he said, ‘and the people must not be told the truth.’
“‘And why not’ asked the other.
“‘Because I mean to follow your advice,’ answered the massive youth, ‘I mean to keep the remaining shots for people in the shameful state you and I were in last night—I wish we could even plead drunkenness. I mean to keep those bullets for pessimists—pills for pale people. And in this way I want to walk the world like a wonderful surprise— to float as idly as the thistledown, and come as silently as the sunrise; not to be expected any more than the thunderbolt, not to be recalled any more than the dying breeze. I don’t want people to anticipate me as a well-known practical joke. I want both my gifts to come virgin and violent, the death and the life after death. I am going to hold a pistol to the head of the Modern Man. But I shall not use it to kill him—only to bring him to life. I begin to see a new meaning in being the skeleton at the feast.’
“‘You can scarcely be called a skeleton,’ said Dr. Eames, smiling.
“‘That comes of being so much at the feast,’ answered the massive youth.
‘No skeleton can keep his figure if he is always dining out.
But that is not quite what I meant: what I mean is that I caught
a kind of glimpse of the meaning of death and all that—the skull
and cross-bones, the memento mori. It isn’t only meant to remind
us of a future life, but to remind us of a present life too.
With our weak spirits we should grow old in eternity if we were not kept
young by death. Providence has to cut immortality into lengths for us,
as nurses cut the bread and butter into fingers.’
“Then he added suddenly in a voice of unnatural actuality, ‘But I know something now, Eames. I knew it when I saw the clouds turn pink.’
“‘What do you mean?’ asked Eames. ‘What did you know?’
“‘I knew for the first time that murder is really wrong.’
“He gripped Dr. Eames’s hand and groped his way somewhat unsteadily to the door. Before he had vanished through it he had added, ‘It’s very dangerous, though, when a man thinks for a split second that he understands death.’
“Dr. Eames remained in repose and rumination some hours after his late assailant had left. Then he rose, took his hat and umbrella, and went for a brisk if rotatory walk. Several times, however, he stood outside the villa with the spotted blinds, studying them intently with his head slightly on one side. Some took him for a lunatic and some for an intending purchaser. He is not yet sure that the two characters would be widely different.
“The above narrative has been constructed on a principle which is, in the opinion of the undersigned persons, new in the art of letters. Each of the two actors is described as he appeared to the other. But the undersigned persons absolutely guarantee the exactitude of the story; and if their version of the thing be questioned, they, the undersigned persons, would deucedly well like to know who does know about it if they don’t.
“The undersigned persons will now adjourn to ‘The Spotted Dog’ for beer. Farewell.
“(Signed) James Emerson Eames, Warden of Brakespeare College, Cambridge.
“Innocent Smith.”
«Al dottor Eames occorse un po’ di tempo per districarsi dalla scala, e un po’ più di tempo per districarsi dal Vice-Rettore. Ma non appena poté farlo senza dar nell’occhio, raggiunse il suo compagno della recente straordinaria scena. Fu stupito di trovare il gigantesco Smith profondamente scosso, seduto con la testa irsuta tra le mani. Quando gli fu rivolta la parola, sollevò un volto assai pallido.
«‘Ma via, che cosa c’è?’ chiese Eames, i cui nervi a quest’ora si erano cinguettati fino alla quiete, come gli uccelli del mattino.
«‘Devo chiederti indulgenza’, disse Smith, con voce piuttosto rotta. ‘Devo chiederti di renderti conto che sono appena scampato alla morte.’
«‘TU sei scampato alla morte?’ ripeté il Professore con non imperdonabile irritazione. ‘Beh, questa poi è la faccia tosta—’
«‘Oh, non capisci, non capisci?’ gridò il pallido giovane con impazienza. ‘Dovevo farlo, Eames; dovevo dimostrare che avevi torto, o morire. Quando un uomo è giovane, quasi sempre ha qualcuno che considera il segno d’alta marea della mente umana— qualcuno che sa tutto, se qualcuno lo sa.
«‘Ebbene, quello eri tu per me; parlavi con autorità, e non come gli scribi. Nessuno poteva consolarmi se TU dicevi che non c’era consolazione. Se davvero pensavi che non ci fosse nulla in nessun luogo, era perché c’eri stato a vedere. Non capisci che DOVEVO dimostrare che non lo pensavi davvero?— o altrimenti annegarmi nel canale.’
«‘Beh’, disse Eames esitante, ‘credo che forse tu confonda—’
«‘Oh, non dirmi questo!’ gridò Smith con l’improvvisa chiaroveggenza del dolore mentale; ‘non dirmi che confondo il godimento dell’esistenza con la Volontà di Vivere! Questo è tedesco, e il tedesco è alto-tedesco, e l’alto-tedesco è arabo. La cosa che vidi risplendere nei tuoi occhi quando penzolavi da quel ponte era il godimento della vita e non “la Volontà di Vivere”. Ciò che sapevi quando sedevi su quel maledetto doccione era che il mondo, a conti fatti, è un luogo meraviglioso e bello; lo so, perché lo seppi nello stesso minuto. Vidi le grigie nuvole farsi rosa, e il piccolo orologio dorato nella fessura tra le case. Erano QUELLE cose che ti dispiaceva lasciare, non la Vita, qualunque cosa essa sia. Eames, siamo stati insieme sull’orlo della morte; non vuoi ammettere che ho ragione?’
«‘Sì’, disse Eames assai lentamente, ‘credo che tu abbia ragione. Avrai il massimo dei voti!’
«‘Bene!’ gridò Smith, balzando su rianimato. ‘Sono stato promosso con lode, e ora lasciami andare a occuparmi di farmi espellere.’
«‘Non hai bisogno di essere espulso’, disse Eames con la tranquilla sicurezza di dodici anni d’intrigo. ‘Da noi tutto discende dall’uomo in cima alle persone che gli stanno intorno: io sono l’uomo in cima, e dirò la verità alle persone intorno a me.’
«Il massiccio signor Smith si alzò e andò con fermezza alla finestra, ma parlò con uguale fermezza. ‘Devo essere espulso’, disse, ‘e alle persone non deve essere detta la verità.’
«‘E perché no’ chiese l’altro.
«‘Perché intendo seguire il tuo consiglio’, rispose il massiccio giovane, ‘intendo serbare i colpi rimanenti per le persone nel vergognoso stato in cui io e te eravamo la scorsa notte—vorrei che potessimo persino addurre l’ubriachezza. Intendo serbare quelle pallottole per i pessimisti—pillole per gente pallida. E in questo modo voglio camminare per il mondo come una meravigliosa sorpresa— fluttuare ozioso come il pappo del cardo, e giungere silenzioso come l’alba; non essere atteso più di quanto lo sia il fulmine, non essere richiamato più di quanto lo sia la brezza morente. Non voglio che la gente mi preveda come uno scherzo ben noto. Voglio che entrambi i miei doni giungano vergini e violenti, la morte e la vita dopo la morte. Sto per puntare una pistola alla testa dell’Uomo Moderno. Ma non la userò per ucciderlo—solo per portarlo alla vita. Comincio a vedere un nuovo significato nell’essere lo scheletro al banchetto.’
«‘Difficilmente ti si può chiamare uno scheletro’, disse il dottor Eames, sorridendo.
«‘Questo viene dallo stare tanto al banchetto’, rispose il massiccio giovane.
‘Nessuno scheletro può mantenere la linea se è sempre a cena fuori.
Ma non è proprio ciò che intendevo: quello che intendo è che colsi
una sorta di barlume del significato della morte e di tutto il resto—il teschio
e le tibie incrociate, il memento mori. Non serve soltanto a ricordarci
una vita futura, ma a ricordarci anche una vita presente.
Con i nostri deboli spiriti invecchieremmo nell’eternità se non fossimo mantenuti
giovani dalla morte. La Provvidenza deve tagliarci l’immortalità a pezzi,
come le balie tagliano il pane e burro a bastoncini.’
«Poi aggiunse d’un tratto con voce di innaturale concretezza: ‘Ma ora so qualcosa, Eames. Lo seppi quando vidi le nuvole farsi rosa.’
«‘Che cosa intendi?’ chiese Eames. ‘Che cosa sapesti?’
«‘Seppi per la prima volta che l’omicidio è davvero un male.’
«Strinse la mano del dottor Eames e si avviò a tentoni, alquanto malfermo, verso la porta. Prima di sparire attraverso di essa aveva aggiunto: ‘È molto pericoloso, però, quando un uomo crede per una frazione di secondo di comprendere la morte.’
«Il dottor Eames rimase in riposo e in ruminazione per alcune ore dopo che il suo recente aggressore se n’era andato. Poi si alzò, prese cappello e ombrello, e fece una vivace, per quanto rotatoria, passeggiata. Parecchie volte, tuttavia, sostò fuori dalla villa con le persiane a chiazze, studiandole intentamente con la testa leggermente inclinata da un lato. Alcuni lo presero per un pazzo e alcuni per un aspirante acquirente. Non è ancora certo che i due personaggi sarebbero molto diversi.
«La narrazione di cui sopra è stata costruita su un principio che è, a parere dei sottoscritti, nuovo nell’arte delle lettere. Ciascuno dei due attori è descritto come appariva all’altro. Ma i sottoscritti garantiscono in modo assoluto l’esattezza della storia; e se la loro versione della cosa fosse messa in dubbio, essi, i sottoscritti, vorrebbero dannatamente bene sapere chi mai ne sappia qualcosa se non loro.
«I sottoscritti si ritireranno ora al ‘Cane a Chiazze’ per una birra. Addio.
«(Firmato) James Emerson Eames, Rettore del Brakespeare College, Cambridge.
«Innocent Smith.»
Chapter II
The Two Curates; or, the Burglary Charge
Arthur Inglewood handed the document he had just read to the leaders of the prosecution, who examined it with their heads together. Both the Jew and the American were of sensitive and excitable stocks, and they revealed by the jumpings and bumpings of the black head and the yellow that nothing could be done in the way of denial of the document. The letter from the Warden was as authentic as the letter from the Sub-Warden, however regrettably different in dignity and social tone.
“Very few words,” said Inglewood, “are required to conclude our case in this matter. Surely it is now plain that our client carried his pistol about with the eccentric but innocent purpose of giving a wholesome scare to those whom he regarded as blasphemers. In each case the scare was so wholesome that the victim himself has dated from it as from a new birth. Smith, so far from being a madman, is rather a mad doctor— he walks the world curing frenzies and not distributing them. That is the answer to the two unanswerable questions which I put to the prosecutors. That is why they dared not produce a line by any one who had actually confronted the pistol. All who had actually confronted the pistol confessed that they had profited by it. That was why Smith, though a good shot, never hit anybody. He never hit anybody because he was a good shot. His mind was as clear of murder as his hands are of blood. This, I say, is the only possible explanation of these facts and of all the other facts. No one can possibly explain the Warden’s conduct except by believing the Warden’s story. Even Dr. Pym, who is a very factory of ingenious theories, could find no other theory to cover the case.”
“There are promising per-spectives in hypnotism and dual personality,” said Dr. Cyrus Pym dreamily; “the science of criminology is in its infancy, and—”
“Infancy!” cried Moon, jerking his red pencil in the air with a gesture of enlightenment; “why, that explains it!”
“I repeat,” proceeded Inglewood, “that neither Dr. Pym nor any one else can account on any other theory but ours for the Warden’s signature, for the shots missed and the witnesses missing.”
The little Yankee had slipped to his feet with some return of a cock-fighting coolness. “The defence,” he said, “omits a coldly colossal fact. They say we produce none of the actual victims. Wal, here is one victim—England’s celebrated and stricken Warner. I reckon he is pretty well produced. And they suggest that all the outrages were followed by reconciliation. Wal, there’s no flies on England’s Warner; and he isn’t reconciliated much.”
“My learned friend,” said Moon, getting elaborately to his feet, “must remember that the science of shooting Dr. Warner is in its infancy. Dr. Warner would strike the idlest eye as one specially difficult to startle into any recognition of the glory of God. We admit that our client, in this one instance, failed, and that the operation was not successful. But I am empowered to offer, on behalf of my client, a proposal for operating on Dr. Warner again, at his earliest convenience, and without further fees.”
“‘Ang it all, Michael,” cried Gould, quite serious for the first time in his life, “you might give us a bit of bally sense for a chinge.”
“What was Dr. Warner talking about just before the first shot?” asked Moon sharply.
“The creature,” said Dr. Warner superciliously, “asked me, with characteristic rationality, whether it was my birthday.”
“And you answered, with characteristic swank,” cried Moon, shooting out a long lean finger, as rigid and arresting as the pistol of Smith, “that you didn’t keep your birthday.”
“Something like that,” assented the doctor.
“Then,” continued Moon, “he asked you why not, and you said it was because you didn’t see that birth was anything to rejoice over. Agreed? Now is there any one who doubts that our tale is true?”
There was a cold crash of stillness in the room; and Moon said, “Pax populi vox Dei; it is the silence of the people that is the voice of God. Or in Dr. Pym’s more civilized language, it is up to him to open the next charge. On this we claim an acquittal.”
It was about an hour later. Dr. Cyrus Pym had remained for an unprecedented time with his eyes closed and his thumb and finger in the air. It almost seemed as if he had been “struck so,” as the nurses say; and in the deathly silence Michael Moon felt forced to relieve the strain with some remark. For the last half-hour or so the eminent criminologist had been explaining that science took the same view of offences against property as it did of offences against life. “Most murder,” he had said, “is a variation of homicidal mania, and in the same way most theft is a version of kleptomania. I cannot entertain any doubt that my learned friends opposite adequately con-ceive how this must involve a scheme of punishment more tol’rant and humane than the cruel methods of ancient codes. They will doubtless exhibit consciousness of a chasm so eminently yawning, so thought-arresting, so—” It was here that he paused and indulged in the delicate gesture to which allusion has been made; and Michael could bear it no longer.
“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently, “we admit the chasm. The old cruel codes accuse a man of theft and send him to prison for ten years. The tolerant and humane ticket accuses him of nothing and sends him to prison for ever. We pass the chasm.”
It was characteristic of the eminent Pym, in one of his trances of verbal fastidiousness, that he went on, unconscious not only of his opponent’s interruption, but even of his own pause.
“So stock-improving,” continued Dr. Cyrus Pym, “so fraught with real high hopes of the future. Science therefore regards thieves, in the abstract, just as it regards murderers. It regards them not as sinners to be punished for an arbitrary period, but as patients to be detained and cared for,” (his first two digits closed again as he hesitated)—“in short, for the required period. But there is something special in the case we investigate here. Kleptomania commonly con-joins itself—”
Capitolo II
I Due Curati; ossia, l’Accusa di Furto con Scasso
Arthur Inglewood porse il documento che aveva appena letto ai capi dell’accusa, i quali lo esaminarono con le teste unite. Tanto l’ebreo quanto l’americano erano di stirpe sensibile ed eccitabile, e rivelarono, con i sussulti e gli scossoni della testa nera e di quella gialla, che nulla si poteva fare quanto a smentire il documento. La lettera del Rettore era autentica quanto la lettera del Vice-Rettore, per quanto deplorevolmente diversa in dignità e tono sociale.
«Pochissime parole», disse Inglewood, «occorrono per concludere la nostra causa in questa faccenda. Di certo è ormai chiaro che il nostro cliente portava con sé la pistola con l’eccentrico ma innocente scopo di dare un salutare spavento a coloro che egli considerava bestemmiatori. In ogni caso lo spavento fu tanto salutare che la vittima stessa lo ha datato come una nuova nascita. Smith, ben lungi dall’essere un pazzo, è piuttosto un medico dei pazzi— va per il mondo curando le frenesie, non distribuendole. Questa è la risposta alle due domande senza risposta che io posi agli accusatori. È per questo che non osarono produrre una sola riga di chi avesse effettivamente affrontato la pistola. Tutti coloro che avevano effettivamente affrontato la pistola confessarono di averne tratto profitto. Ecco perché Smith, benché buon tiratore, non colpì mai nessuno. Non colpì mai nessuno perché era un buon tiratore. La sua mente era sgombra d’omicidio come le sue mani lo sono di sangue. Questa, io dico, è l’unica spiegazione possibile di questi fatti e di tutti gli altri fatti. Nessuno può in alcun modo spiegare la condotta del Rettore se non credendo alla storia del Rettore. Persino il dottor Pym, che è una vera fabbrica d’ingegnose teorie, non ha saputo trovare altra teoria che copra il caso.»
«Vi sono promettenti pro-spettive nell’ipnotismo e nella doppia personalità», disse il dottor Cyrus Pym sognante; «la scienza della criminologia è nella sua infanzia, e—»
«Infanzia!» esclamò Moon, agitando in aria la sua matita rossa con un gesto d’illuminazione; «ma certo, questo spiega tutto!»
«Ripeto», proseguì Inglewood, «che né il dottor Pym né alcun altro può rendere ragione, con altra teoria che non sia la nostra, della firma del Rettore, degli spari mancati e dei testimoni mancanti.»
Il piccolo yankee era scivolato in piedi con un certo ritorno di una freddezza da gallo da combattimento. «La difesa», disse, «omette un fatto freddamente colossale. Dicono che non produciamo nessuna delle vittime effettive. Beh, ecco una vittima—il celebre e colpito Warner d’Inghilterra. Direi che è prodotto piuttosto bene. E insinuano che tutti gli oltraggi furono seguiti da riconciliazione. Beh, non c’è mosca che si posi sul Warner d’Inghilterra; e lui non è per niente tanto riconciliato.»
«Il mio dotto amico», disse Moon, alzandosi in piedi con studiata lentezza, «deve ricordare che la scienza dello sparare al dottor Warner è nella sua infanzia. Il dottor Warner colpirebbe anche l’occhio più pigro come uno particolarmente difficile da destare a un qualche riconoscimento della gloria di Dio. Ammettiamo che il nostro cliente, in questo unico caso, abbia fallito, e che l’operazione non abbia avuto successo. Ma sono autorizzato a offrire, a nome del mio cliente, una proposta per operare di nuovo il dottor Warner, alla sua prima comodità, e senza ulteriori onorari.»
«Al diàvolo, Michael», esclamò Gould, serio per la prima volta in vita sua, «potresti dàrcene un po’ di dannato buonsenso, tanto per cambià.»
«Di che cosa parlava il dottor Warner appena prima del primo sparo?» chiese Moon bruscamente.
«La creatura», disse il dottor Warner con alterigia, «mi chiese, con caratteristica razionalità, se fosse il mio compleanno.»
«E voi rispondeste, con caratteristica boria», esclamò Moon, protendendo un lungo dito scarno, rigido e trattenente quanto la pistola di Smith, «che non festeggiavate il vostro compleanno.»
«Qualcosa del genere», ammise il dottore.
«Poi», continuò Moon, «vi chiese perché no, e voi diceste che era perché non vedevate nella nascita nulla di cui rallegrarsi. D’accordo? Ora, c’è qualcuno che dubiti che il nostro racconto sia vero?»
Ci fu un freddo fragore d’immobilità nella sala; e Moon disse: «Pax populi vox Dei; è il silenzio del popolo a essere la voce di Dio. O, nel più civile linguaggio del dottor Pym, tocca a lui aprire il capo d’accusa successivo. Su questo reclamiamo un’assoluzione.»
Era circa un’ora più tardi. Il dottor Cyrus Pym era rimasto per un tempo senza precedenti con gli occhi chiusi e il pollice e l’indice sospesi in aria. Sembrava quasi che fosse stato «colpito così», come dicono le balie; e nel silenzio mortale Michael Moon si sentì costretto ad alleviare la tensione con qualche osservazione. Nell’ultima mezz’ora circa l’eminente criminologo aveva spiegato che la scienza assumeva la stessa posizione riguardo ai reati contro la proprietà come riguardo ai reati contro la vita. «La maggior parte degli omicidi», aveva detto, «è una variazione della mania omicida, e allo stesso modo la maggior parte dei furti è una versione della cleptomania. Non posso nutrire alcun dubbio che i miei dotti amici di fronte concepiscano adeguatamente come questo debba comportare uno schema di pena più tol-lerante e umano dei crudeli metodi degli antichi codici. Essi esibiranno senza dubbio la consapevolezza di un abisso così eminentemente spalancato, così arrestante il pensiero, così—» Fu a questo punto che si fermò e si concesse il delicato gesto a cui si è fatto allusione; e Michael non poté più sopportarlo.
«Sì, sì», disse con impazienza, «ammettiamo l’abisso. I vecchi crudeli codici accusano un uomo di furto e lo mandano in prigione per dieci anni. Il tollerante e umano cartellino non lo accusa di nulla e lo manda in prigione per sempre. Superiamo l’abisso.»
Fu tipico dell’eminente Pym, in una delle sue trance di scrupolosità verbale, che proseguisse, inconsapevole non solo dell’interruzione del suo avversario, ma persino della propria pausa.
«Così migliorativo della stirpe», continuò il dottor Cyrus Pym, «così gravido di vere alte speranze per il futuro. La scienza pertanto considera i ladri, in astratto, proprio come considera gli assassini. Li considera non come peccatori da punire per un periodo arbitrario, ma come pazienti da trattenere e curare», (le sue prime due dita si richiusero di nuovo mentre esitava)—«in breve, per il periodo richiesto. Ma vi è qualcosa di speciale nel caso che qui investighiamo. La cleptomania comunemente si con-giunge—»
“I beg pardon,” said Michael; “I did not ask just now because, to tell the truth, I really thought Dr. Pym, though seemingly vertical, was enjoying well-earned slumber, with a pinch in his fingers of scentless and delicate dust. But now that things are moving a little more, there is something I should really like to know. I have hung on Dr. Pym’s lips, of course, with an interest that it were weak to call rapture, but I have so far been unable to form any conjecture about what the accused, in the present instance, is supposed to have been and gone and done.”
“If Mr. Moon will have patience,” said Pym with dignity, “he will find that this was the very point to which my exposition was di-rected. Kleptomania, I say, exhibits itself as a kind of physical attraction to certain defined materials; and it has been held (by no less a man than Harris) that this is the ultimate explanation of the strict specialism and vurry narrow professional outlook of most criminals. One will have an irresistible physical impulsion towards pearl sleeve-links, while he passes over the most elegant and celebrated diamond sleeve-links, placed about in the most conspicuous locations. Another will impede his flight with no less than forty-seven buttoned boots, while elastic-sided boots leave him cold, and even sarcastic. The specialism of the criminal, I repeat, is a mark rather of insanity than of any brightness of business habits; but there is one kind of depredator to whom this principle is at first sight hard to apply. I allude to our fellow-citizen the housebreaker.
“It has been maintained by some of our boldest young truth-seekers, that the eye of a burglar beyond the back-garden wall could hardly be caught and hypnotized by a fork that is insulated in a locked box under the butler’s bed. They have thrown down the gauntlet to American science on this point. They declare that diamond links are not left about in conspicuous locations in the haunts of the lower classes, as they were in the great test experiment of Calypso College. We hope this experiment here will be an answer to that young ringing challenge, and will bring the burglar once more into line and union with his fellow criminals.”
Moon, whose face had gone through every phase of black bewilderment for five minutes past, suddenly lifted his hand and struck the table in explosive enlightenment.
“Oh, I see!” he cried; “you mean that Smith is a burglar.”
“I thought I made it quite ad’quately lucid,” said Mr. Pym, folding up his eyelids. It was typical of this topsy-turvy private trial that all the eloquent extras, all the rhetoric or digression on either side, was exasperating and unintelligible to the other. Moon could not make head or tail of the solemnity of a new civilization. Pym could not make head or tail of the gaiety of an old one.
“All the cases in which Smith has figured as an expropriator,” continued the American doctor, “are cases of burglary. Pursuing the same course as in the previous case, we select the indubitable instance from the rest, and we take the most correct cast-iron evidence. I will now call on my colleague, Mr. Gould, to read a letter we have received from the earnest, unspotted Canon of Durham, Canon Hawkins.”
Mr. Moses Gould leapt up with his usual alacrity to read the letter from the earnest and unspotted Hawkins. Moses Gould could imitate a farmyard well, Sir Henry Irving not so well, Marie Lloyd to a point of excellence, and the new motor horns in a manner that put him upon the platform of great artists. But his imitation of a Canon of Durham was not convincing; indeed, the sense of the letter was so much obscured by the extraordinary leaps and gasps of his pronunciation that it is perhaps better to print it here as Moon read it when, a little later, it was handed across the table.
“Dear Sir,—I can scarcely feel surprise that the incident you mention, private as it was, should have filtered through our omnivorous journals to the mere populace; for the position I have since attained makes me, I conceive, a public character, and this was certainly the most extraordinary incident in a not uneventful and perhaps not an unimportant career. I am by no means without experience in scenes of civil tumult. I have faced many a political crisis in the old Primrose League days at Herne Bay, and, before I broke with the wilder set, have spent many a night at the Christian Social Union. But this other experience was quite inconceivable. I can only describe it as the letting loose of a place which it is not for me, as a clergyman, to mention.
“It occurred in the days when I was, for a short period, a curate at Hoxton; and the other curate, then my colleague, induced me to attend a meeting which he described, I must say profanely described, as calculated to promote the kingdom of God. I found, on the contrary, that it consisted entirely of men in corduroys and greasy clothes whose manners were coarse and their opinions extreme.
“Of my colleague in question I wish to speak with the fullest respect and friendliness, and I will therefore say little. No one can be more convinced than I of the evil of politics in the pulpit; and I never offer my congregation any advice about voting except in cases in which I feel strongly that they are likely to make an erroneous selection. But, while I do not mean to touch at all upon political or social problems, I must say that for a clergyman to countenance, even in jest, such discredited nostrums of dissipated demagogues as Socialism or Radicalism partakes of the character of the betrayal of a sacred trust. Far be it from me to say a word against the Reverend Raymond Percy, the colleague in question. He was brilliant, I suppose, and to some apparently fascinating; but a clergyman who talks like a Socialist, wears his hair like a pianist, and behaves like an intoxicated person, will never rise in his profession, or even obtain the admiration of the good and wise. Nor is it for me to utter my personal judgements of the appearance of the people in the hall. Yet a glance round the room, revealing ranks of debased and envious faces—”
“Chiedo scusa,” disse Michael; “non l’ho domandato poco fa perché, a dire il vero, credevo davvero che il dottor Pym, per quanto in apparenza verticale, stesse godendo di un meritato sonnellino, con tra le dita un pizzico di polvere inodore e delicata. Ma ora che le cose si muovono un poco di più, c’è qualcosa che desidererei proprio sapere. Sono stato appeso alle labbra del dottor Pym, s’intende, con un interesse che sarebbe fiacco chiamare rapimento, ma finora mi è stato impossibile formulare una qualsiasi congettura su ciò che l’accusato, nella fattispecie, si suppone abbia pensato bene di andare a fare.”
“Se il signor Moon avrà pazienza,” disse Pym con dignità, “scoprirà che questo era esattamente il punto verso cui era di-retta la mia esposizione. La cleptomania, dico, si manifesta come una sorta di attrazione fisica verso certe materie ben definite; e si è sostenuto (da un uomo non meno autorevole di Harris) che questa è la spiegazione ultima del rigoroso specialismo e della vurry angusta prospettiva professionale della maggior parte dei criminali. L’uno proverà un impulso fisico irresistibile verso i gemelli da polsino di perla, mentre trascurerà i più eleganti e celebri gemelli di diamante, disposti nei luoghi più cospicui. Un altro impaccerà la propria fuga con non meno di quarantasette stivali abbottonati, mentre gli stivali con i fianchi elastici lo lasciano freddo, e persino sarcastico. Lo specialismo del criminale, lo ripeto, è un segno di follia più che di una qualche vivacità nelle abitudini d’affari; ma vi è una specie di predone a cui questo principio, a prima vista, mal si applica. Alludo al nostro concittadino lo svaligiatore di case.
“È stato sostenuto da alcuni dei nostri più arditi giovani cercatori di verità che l’occhio di uno scassinatore, di là dal muro del giardino sul retro, difficilmente potrebbe essere catturato e ipnotizzato da una forchetta isolata in una cassetta chiusa a chiave sotto il letto del maggiordomo. Hanno gettato il guanto di sfida alla scienza americana su questo punto. Dichiarano che i gemelli di diamante non vengono lasciati in giro in luoghi cospicui nei covi delle classi inferiori, come lo furono nel grande esperimento di verifica del Calypso College. Speriamo che questo esperimento qui costituisca una risposta a quella giovane e squillante sfida, e riporti lo scassinatore ancora una volta in fila e in unione con i suoi compagni criminali.”
Moon, il cui volto era passato attraverso ogni fase di un cupo smarrimento negli ultimi cinque minuti, alzò a un tratto la mano e batté sul tavolo in un’esplosiva illuminazione.
“Oh, capisco!” esclamò; “volete dire che Smith è uno scassinatore.”
“Credevo di averlo reso abbastanza ad’guatamente lucido,” disse il signor Pym, ripiegando le palpebre. Era tipico di questo capovolto processo privato che tutti gli eloquenti extra, tutta la retorica o le digressioni dell’una e dell’altra parte, riuscissero esasperanti e incomprensibili all’altro. Moon non riusciva a raccapezzarsi nella solennità di una nuova civiltà. Pym non riusciva a raccapezzarsi nella gaiezza di una vecchia.
“Tutti i casi in cui Smith ha figurato come espropriatore,” proseguì il dottore americano, “sono casi di scasso. Seguendo lo stesso corso del caso precedente, scegliamo l’istanza indubitabile fra le altre, e prendiamo la prova più corretta e di ferro battuto. Chiamerò ora il mio collega, il signor Gould, a leggere una lettera che abbiamo ricevuto dal fervente e immacolato Canonico di Durham, il canonico Hawkins.”
Il signor Moses Gould balzò in piedi con la sua consueta alacrità per leggere la lettera del fervente e immacolato Hawkins. Moses Gould sapeva imitare bene un’aia, Sir Henry Irving non altrettanto bene, Marie Lloyd fino a un punto d’eccellenza, e i nuovi clacson delle automobili in un modo che lo poneva sul podio dei grandi artisti. Ma la sua imitazione di un Canonico di Durham non era convincente; anzi, il senso della lettera fu talmente oscurato dagli straordinari salti e ansimi della sua pronuncia che è forse meglio stamparla qui come la lesse Moon quando, poco più tardi, gli fu passata attraverso il tavolo.
“Egregio signore,—stento a provare sorpresa che l’incidente da lei menzionato, per quanto privato, sia filtrato attraverso i nostri onnivori giornali fino al mero volgo; poiché la posizione che ho da allora conseguito mi rende, ritengo, un personaggio pubblico, e questo fu di certo l’incidente più straordinario in una carriera non priva di eventi e forse non priva d’importanza. Non sono affatto sprovvisto di esperienza in scene di tumulto civile. Ho affrontato più d’una crisi politica nei vecchi giorni della Primrose League a Herne Bay, e, prima di rompere con la cerchia più sfrenata, ho trascorso più d’una notte alla Christian Social Union. Ma quest’ altra esperienza fu del tutto inconcepibile. Posso solo descriverla come lo scatenarsi di un luogo che non spetta a me, in quanto ecclesiastico, nominare.
“Accadde nei giorni in cui ero, per un breve periodo, curato a Hoxton; e l’altro curato, allora mio collega, mi indusse a presenziare a una riunione che egli descrisse, devo dire profanamente descrisse, come atta a promuovere il regno di Dio. Trovai, al contrario, che essa era composta interamente di uomini in velluto a coste e vestiti unti, i cui modi erano rozzi e le cui opinioni estreme.
“Del collega in questione desidero parlare con il più pieno rispetto e cordialità, e perciò dirò poco. Nessuno può essere più convinto di me del male della politica sul pulpito; e non offro mai alla mia congregazione alcun consiglio sul voto salvo nei casi in cui senta fortemente che sono propensi a compiere una scelta erronea. Ma, pur non intendendo toccare affatto i problemi politici o sociali, devo dire che, per un ecclesiastico, avallare, anche per scherzo, tali screditati toccasana di dissipati demagoghi quali il Socialismo o il Radicalismo partecipa del carattere del tradimento di un sacro incarico. Lungi da me dire una parola contro il reverendo Raymond Percy, il collega in questione. Era brillante, suppongo, e per alcuni apparentemente affascinante; ma un ecclesiastico che parla come un Socialista, porta i capelli come un pianista, e si comporta come una persona ubriaca, non salirà mai nella sua professione, né otterrà mai l’ammirazione dei buoni e dei saggi. Né spetta a me pronunciare i miei personali giudizi sull’aspetto della gente nella sala. Eppure un’occhiata attorno alla stanza, che rivelava file di volti avviliti e invidiosi—”
“Adopting,” said Moon explosively, for he was getting restive—“adopting the reverend gentleman’s favourite figure of logic, may I say that while tortures would not tear from me a whisper about his intellect, he is a blasted old jackass.”
“Really!” said Dr. Pym; “I protest.”
“You must keep quiet, Michael,” said Inglewood; “they have a right to read their story.”
“Chair! Chair! Chair!” cried Gould, rolling about exuberantly in his own; and Pym glanced for a moment towards the canopy which covered all the authority of the Court of Beacon.
“Oh, don’t wake the old lady,” said Moon, lowering his voice in a moody good-humour. “I apologize. I won’t interrupt again.”
Before the little eddy of interruption was ended the reading of the clergyman’s letter was already continuing.
“The proceedings opened with a speech from my colleague, of which I will say nothing. It was deplorable. Many of the audience were Irish, and showed the weakness of that impetuous people. When gathered together into gangs and conspiracies they seem to lose altogether that lovable good-nature and readiness to accept anything one tells them which distinguishes them as individuals.”
With a slight start, Michael rose to his feet, bowed solemnly, and sat down again.
“These persons, if not silent, were at least applausive during the speech of Mr. Percy. He descended to their level with witticisms about rent and a reserve of labour. Confiscation, expropriation, arbitration, and such words with which I cannot soil my lips, recurred constantly. Some hours afterward the storm broke. I had been addressing the meeting for some time, pointing out the lack of thrift in the working classes, their insufficient attendance at evening service, their neglect of the Harvest Festival, and of many other things that might materially help them to improve their lot. It was, I think, about this time that an extraordinary interruption occurred. An enormous, powerful man, partly concealed with white plaster, arose in the middle of the hall, and offered (in a loud, roaring voice, like a bull’s) some observations which seemed to be in a foreign language. Mr. Raymond Percy, my colleague, descended to his level by entering into a duel of repartee, in which he appeared to be the victor. The meeting began to behave more respectfully for a little; yet before I had said twelve sentences more the rush was made for the platform. The enormous plasterer, in particular, plunged towards us, shaking the earth like an elephant; and I really do not know what would have happened if a man equally large, but not quite so ill-dressed, had not jumped up also and held him away. This other big man shouted a sort of speech to the mob as he was shoving them back. I don’t know what he said, but, what with shouting and shoving and such horseplay, he got us out at a back door, while the wretched people went roaring down another passage.
“Then follows the truly extraordinary part of my story. When he had got us outside, in a mean backyard of blistered grass leading into a lane with a very lonely-looking lamp-post, this giant addressed me as follows: ‘You’re well out of that, sir; now you’d better come along with me. I want you to help me in an act of social justice, such as we’ve all been talking about. Come along!’ And turning his big back abruptly, he led us down the lean old lane with the one lean old lamp-post, we scarcely knowing what to do but to follow him. He had certainly helped us in a most difficult situation, and, as a gentleman, I could not treat such a benefactor with suspicion without grave grounds. Such also was the view of my Socialistic colleague, who (with all his dreadful talk of arbitration) is a gentleman also. In fact, he comes of the Staffordshire Percys, a branch of the old house and has the black hair and pale, clear-cut face of the whole family. I cannot but refer it to vanity that he should heighten his personal advantages with black velvet or a red cross of considerable ostentation, and certainly—but I digress.
“A fog was coming up the street, and that last lost lamp-post faded behind us in a way that certainly depressed the mind. The large man in front of us looked larger and larger in the haze. He did not turn round, but he said with his huge back to us, ‘All that talking’s no good; we want a little practical Socialism.’
“‘I quite agree,’ said Percy; ‘but I always like to understand things in theory before I put them into practice.’
“‘Oh, you just leave that to me,’ said the practical Socialist, or whatever he was, with the most terrifying vagueness. ‘I have a way with me. I’m a Permeator.’
“I could not imagine what he meant, but my companion laughed, so I was sufficiently reassured to continue the unaccountable journey for the present. It led us through most singular ways; out of the lane, where we were already rather cramped, into a paved passage, at the end of which we passed through a wooden gate left open. We then found ourselves, in the increasing darkness and vapour, crossing what appeared to be a beaten path across a kitchen garden. I called out to the enormous person going on in front, but he answered obscurely that it was a short cut.
“I was just repeating my very natural doubt to my clerical companion when I was brought up against a short ladder, apparently leading to a higher level of road. My thoughtless colleague ran up it so quickly that I could not do otherwise than follow as best I could. The path on which I then planted my feet was quite unprecedentedly narrow. I had never had to walk along a thoroughfare so exiguous. Along one side of it grew what, in the dark and density of air, I first took to be some short, strong thicket of shrubs. Then I saw that they were not short shrubs; they were the tops of tall trees. I, an English gentleman and clergyman of the Church of England—I was walking along the top of a garden wall like a tom cat.
“I am glad to say that I stopped within my first five steps, and let loose my just reprobation, balancing myself as best I could all the time.
«Adottando», disse Moon con foga, poiché cominciava a spazientirsi, «adottando la figura logica prediletta dal reverendo signore, mi sia concesso di dire che, mentre nemmeno le torture mi strapperebbero una sillaba sul suo intelletto, egli è un vecchio somaro rimbecillito.»
«Davvero!» esclamò il dottor Pym; «io protesto.»
«Devi startene quieto, Michael», disse Inglewood; «hanno il diritto di leggere la loro storia.»
«Ordine! Ordine! Ordine!» gridò Gould, dimenandosi con esuberanza sulla propria sedia; e Pym volse per un istante lo sguardo verso il baldacchino che copriva tutta l’autorità della Corte del Faro.
«Oh, non svegliate la vecchia signora», disse Moon, abbassando la voce con un cupo buonumore. «Chiedo scusa. Non interromperò più.»
Prima che il piccolo mulinello dell’interruzione si fosse placato, la lettura della lettera del reverendo era già ripresa.
«L’assemblea si aprì con un discorso del mio collega, del quale non dirò nulla. Fu deplorevole. Molti fra il pubblico erano Irlandesi, e mostravano la debolezza di quel popolo impetuoso. Radunati in bande e cospirazioni, sembrano perdere del tutto quell’amabile bonarietà e quella prontezza ad accettare qualunque cosa venga loro detta che li contraddistingue come singoli individui.»
Con un leggero sussulto, Michael si levò in piedi, s’inchinò solennemente, e tornò a sedersi.
«Costoro, se non silenziosi, furono almeno plaudenti durante il discorso del signor Percy. Egli discese al loro livello con arguzie sull’affitto e su una riserva di manodopera. Confisca, espropriazione, arbitrato, e simili parole con cui non intendo lordarmi le labbra, ricorrevano di continuo. Alcune ore più tardi scoppiò la tempesta. Stavo parlando all’assemblea già da qualche tempo, additando la mancanza di parsimonia nelle classi lavoratrici, la loro insufficiente frequenza alle funzioni serali, la loro negligenza verso la Festa del Raccolto, e molte altre cose che avrebbero potuto materialmente aiutarle a migliorare la propria sorte. Fu, credo, all’incirca in quel momento che si verificò una straordinaria interruzione. Un uomo enorme e possente, in parte coperto di calce bianca, si alzò in mezzo alla sala, e offrì (con voce alta e ruggente, come quella d’un toro) alcune osservazioni che parvero essere in una lingua straniera. Il signor Raymond Percy, mio collega, discese al suo livello impegnandosi in un duello di frizzi, dal quale parve uscire vincitore. L’assemblea prese a comportarsi con maggior rispetto per un poco; eppure, prima che avessi pronunciato altre dodici frasi, si fece ressa verso il palco. L’enorme imbianchino, in particolare, si scagliò verso di noi, scuotendo la terra come un elefante; e non so davvero che cosa sarebbe accaduto se un uomo altrettanto grande, ma non altrettanto malvestito, non fosse balzato in piedi anch’egli tenendolo lontano. Quest’altro omone lanciò una sorta di discorso alla folla mentre la respingeva. Non so che cosa dicesse, ma, tra il gridare e lo spingere e simili strapazzi, ci fece uscire da una porta sul retro, mentre la sciagurata gente andava ruggendo giù per un altro corridoio.
«Segue poi la parte davvero straordinaria della mia storia. Quando ci ebbe condotti fuori, in un misero cortile di erba riarsa che dava in un vicolo con un lampione dall’aria assai solitaria, questo gigante mi si rivolse in questi termini: ‘L’avete scampata bella, signore; ora fareste meglio a venire con me. Voglio che mi aiutiate in un atto di giustizia sociale, di quelli di cui tutti andiamo parlando. Venite!’ E voltando bruscamente le sue larghe spalle, ci guidò giù per lo smilzo e vecchio vicolo col suo unico smilzo e vecchio lampione, senza che noi sapessimo far altro che seguirlo. Certo egli ci aveva aiutati in una situazione oltremodo difficile, e, da gentiluomo, non potevo trattare con sospetto un tale benefattore senza gravi motivi. Tale era del resto anche l’opinione del mio collega socialista, il quale (con tutto il suo terribile parlare di arbitrato) è pur esso un gentiluomo. In verità, egli discende dai Percy dello Staffordshire, un ramo dell’antica casata, e ha i capelli neri e il volto pallido e dai tratti netti di tutta la famiglia. Non posso non attribuire alla vanità che egli accresca i suoi vantaggi personali con velluto nero o con una croce rossa di considerevole ostentazione, e certamente… ma divago.
«Una nebbia risaliva la via, e quell’ultimo lampione smarrito svaniva alle nostre spalle in un modo che di certo deprimeva l’animo. L’omone davanti a noi appariva sempre più grande nella foschia. Non si voltò, ma disse volgendoci l’immenso dorso: ‘Tutto questo parlare non serve a nulla; ci vuole un po’ di socialismo pratico.’
«‘Sono pienamente d’accordo’, disse Percy; ‘ma mi piace sempre comprendere le cose in teoria prima di metterle in pratica.’
«‘Oh, lasciate pur fare a me’, disse il socialista pratico, o qualunque cosa fosse, con la più terrificante vaghezza. ‘Io ho un mio metodo. Sono un Permeatore.’
«Non riuscivo a immaginare che cosa intendesse, ma il mio compagno rise, sicché mi sentii abbastanza rassicurato da proseguire per il momento quell’inspiegabile viaggio. Esso ci condusse per vie oltremodo singolari; fuori dal vicolo, dove già eravamo piuttosto pigiati, in un passaggio lastricato, in fondo al quale attraversammo un cancello di legno lasciato aperto. Ci trovammo allora, nell’oscurità e nel vapore crescenti, ad attraversare quello che pareva un sentiero battuto in mezzo a un orto. Chiamai l’enorme individuo che procedeva davanti, ma egli rispose oscuramente che era una scorciatoia.
«Stavo appunto ripetendo il mio dubbio, quanto mai naturale, al mio compagno ecclesiastico, allorché venni arrestato da una corta scala, che pareva condurre a un livello più alto della strada. Il mio sconsiderato collega vi salì così in fretta che non potei far altro che seguirlo alla meglio. Il sentiero su cui allora posai i piedi era di una strettezza affatto inaudita. Non avevo mai dovuto camminare lungo un passaggio tanto angusto. Lungo un suo lato cresceva ciò che, nel buio e nella densità dell’aria, presi dapprima per qualche basso e fitto boschetto d’arbusti. Poi vidi che non erano bassi arbusti; erano le cime di alti alberi. Io, un gentiluomo inglese e sacerdote della Chiesa d’Inghilterra… io camminavo lungo la sommità del muro di un giardino come un gatto randagio.
«Sono lieto di dire che mi fermai entro i miei primi cinque passi, e diedi sfogo alla mia giusta riprovazione, mantenendomi in equilibrio come meglio potevo per tutto quel tempo.
“‘It’s a right-of-way,’ declared my indefensible informant. ‘It’s closed to traffic once in a hundred years.’
“‘Mr. Percy, Mr. Percy!’ I called out; ‘you are not going on with this blackguard?’
“‘Why, I think so,’ answered my unhappy colleague flippantly. ‘I think you and I are bigger blackguards than he is, whatever he is.’
“‘I am a burglar,’ explained the big creature quite calmly. ‘I am a member of the Fabian Society. I take back the wealth stolen by the capitalist, not by sweeping civil war and revolution, but by reform fitted to the special occasion—here a little and there a little. Do you see that fifth house along the terrace with the flat roof? I’m permeating that one to-night.’
“‘Whether this is a crime or a joke,’ I cried, ‘I desire to be quit of it.’
“‘The ladder is just behind you,’ answered the creature with horrible courtesy; ‘and, before you go, do let me give you my card.’
“If I had had the presence of mind to show any proper spirit I should have flung it away, though any adequate gesture of the kind would have gravely affected my equilibrium upon the wall. As it was, in the wildness of the moment, I put it in my waistcoat pocket, and, picking my way back by wall and ladder, landed in the respectable streets once more. Not before, however, I had seen with my own eyes the two awful and lamentable facts— that the burglar was climbing up a slanting roof towards the chimneys, and that Raymond Percy (a priest of God and, what was worse, a gentleman) was crawling up after him. I have never seen either of them since that day.
“In consequence of this soul-searching experience I severed my connection with the wild set. I am far from saying that every member of the Christian Social Union must necessarily be a burglar. I have no right to bring any such charge. But it gave me a hint of what such courses may lead to in many cases; and I saw them no more.
“I have only to add that the photograph you enclose, taken by a Mr. Inglewood, is undoubtedly that of the burglar in question. When I got home that night I looked at his card, and he was inscribed there under the name of Innocent Smith.—Yours faithfully, John Clement Hawkins.”
Moon merely went through the form of glancing at the paper. He knew that the prosecutors could not have invented so heavy a document; that Moses Gould (for one) could no more write like a canon than he could read like one. After handing it back he rose to open the defence on the burglary charge.
“We wish,” said Michael, “to give all reasonable facilities to the prosecution; especially as it will save the time of the whole court. The latter object I shall once again pursue by passing over all those points of theory which are so dear to Dr. Pym. I know how they are made. Perjury is a variety of aphasia, leading a man to say one thing instead of another. Forgery is a kind of writer’s cramp, forcing a man to write his uncle’s name instead of his own. Piracy on the high seas is probably a form of sea-sickness. But it is unnecessary for us to inquire into the causes of a fact which we deny. Innocent Smith never did commit burglary at all.
“I should like to claim the power permitted by our previous arrangement, and ask the prosecution two or three questions.”
Dr. Cyrus Pym closed his eyes to indicate a courteous assent.
“In the first place,” continued Moon, “have you the date of Canon Hawkins’s last glimpse of Smith and Percy climbing up the walls and roofs?”
“Ho, yus!” called out Gould smartly. “November thirteen, eighteen ninety-one.”
“Have you,” continued Moon, “identified the houses in Hoxton up which they climbed?”
“Must have been Ladysmith Terrace out of the highroad,” answered Gould with the same clockwork readiness.
“Well,” said Michael, cocking an eyebrow at him, “was there any burglary in that terrace that night? Surely you could find that out.”
“There may well have been,” said the doctor primly, after a pause, “an unsuccessful one that led to no legalities.”
“Another question,” proceeded Michael. “Canon Hawkins, in his blood-and-thunder boyish way, left off at the exciting moment. Why don’t you produce the evidence of the other clergyman, who actually followed the burglar and presumably was present at the crime?”
Dr. Pym rose and planted the points of his fingers on the table, as he did when he was specially confident of the clearness of his reply.
“We have entirely failed,” he said, “to track the other clergyman, who seems to have melted into the ether after Canon Hawkins had seen him as-cending the gutters and the leads. I am fully aware that this may strike many as sing’lar; yet, upon reflection, I think it will appear pretty natural to a bright thinker. This Mr. Raymond Percy is admittedly, by the canon’s evidence, a minister of eccentric ways. His con-nection with England’s proudest and fairest does not seemingly prevent a taste for the society of the real low-down. On the other hand, the prisoner Smith is, by general agreement, a man of irr’sistible fascination. I entertain no doubt that Smith led the Revered Percy into the crime and forced him to hide his head in the real crim’nal class. That would fully account for his non-appearance, and the failure of all attempts to trace him.”
“It is impossible, then, to trace him?” asked Moon.
“Impossible,” repeated the specialist, shutting his eyes.
“You are sure it’s impossible?”
“Oh dry up, Michael,” cried Gould, irritably. “We’d ‘ave found ‘im if we could, for you bet ‘e saw the burglary. Don’t YOU start looking for ‘im. Look for your own ‘ead in the dustbin. You’ll find that—after a bit,” and his voice died away in grumbling.
“Arthur,” directed Michael Moon, sitting down, “kindly read Mr. Raymond Percy’s letter to the court.”
“Wishing, as Mr. Moon has said, to shorten the proceedings as much as possible,” began Inglewood, “I will not read the first part of the letter sent to us. It is only fair to the prosecution to admit the account given by the second clergyman fully ratifies, as far as facts are concerned, that given by the first clergyman. We concede, then, the canon’s story so far as it goes. This must necessarily be valuable to the prosecutor and also convenient to the court. I begin Mr. Percy’s letter, then, at the point when all three men were standing on the garden wall:—
“‘È un diritto di passaggio,’ dichiarò il mio indifendibile informatore. ‘Viene chiuso al transito una volta ogni cent’anni.’
“‘Signor Percy, signor Percy!’ gridai; ‘non vorrà mica proseguire con questo furfante?’
“‘Ma sì, credo di sì,’ rispose con leggerezza il mio infelice collega. ‘Credo che io e lei siamo furfanti ben più grandi di lui, qualunque cosa egli sia.’
“‘Sono un ladro,’ spiegò con perfetta calma quella grossa creatura. ‘Sono un membro della Fabian Society. Riprendo la ricchezza rubata dal capitalista, non con una guerra civile o una rivoluzione dilagante, ma con riforme adatte all’occasione particolare—qui un poco e là un poco. Vede quella quinta casa lungo la fila, quella dal tetto piatto? Stanotte la sto permeando.’
“‘Che si tratti di un delitto o di uno scherzo,’ esclamai, ‘desidero esserne fuori.’
“‘La scala è proprio dietro di lei,’ rispose la creatura con orribile cortesia; ‘e, prima che se ne vada, mi permetta di darle il mio biglietto.’
“Se avessi avuto la presenza di spirito di mostrare un contegno dignitoso, l’avrei scagliato via, benché qualunque gesto adeguato di quel genere avrebbe gravemente compromesso il mio equilibrio sul muro. Così com’era, nella follia del momento, me lo cacciai nel taschino del panciotto, e, aprendomi la via del ritorno per muro e scala, sbarcai di nuovo nelle strade rispettabili. Non prima, tuttavia, di aver visto con i miei occhi i due fatti terribili e deplorevoli— che il ladro stava arrampicandosi su per un tetto spiovente verso i comignoli, e che Raymond Percy (un sacerdote di Dio e, cosa ancor peggiore, un gentiluomo) gli si trascinava dietro carponi. Non ho più rivisto né l’uno né l’altro da quel giorno.
“In conseguenza di questa esperienza che mi scavò nell’anima, ruppi i miei rapporti con quella cerchia scapestrata. Sono ben lungi dal dire che ogni membro della Christian Social Union debba per forza essere un ladro. Non ho alcun diritto di muovere una simile accusa. Ma quel fatto mi diede un indizio di dove tali strade possano condurre in molti casi; e non li vidi mai più.
“Non mi resta che aggiungere che la fotografia da voi allegata, scattata da un certo signor Inglewood, è senza alcun dubbio quella del ladro in questione. Quando quella notte tornai a casa guardai il suo biglietto, ed egli vi era iscritto sotto il nome di Innocent Smith.—Vostro devotissimo, John Clement Hawkins.”
Moon si limitò a compiere la formalità di gettare un’occhiata al foglio. Sapeva che gli accusatori non avrebbero potuto inventare un documento così solenne; che Moses Gould (tanto per dirne uno) non sapeva scrivere come un canonico più di quanto sapesse leggere come tale. Dopo averlo restituito si alzò per aprire la difesa sull’accusa di furto con scasso.
“Desideriamo,” disse Michael, “concedere ogni ragionevole agevolazione all’accusa; tanto più che ciò farà risparmiare tempo all’intera corte. Quest’ultimo scopo lo perseguirò ancora una volta sorvolando su tutti quei punti di teoria tanto cari al dottor Pym. So bene come vengono costruiti. Lo spergiuro è una varietà di afasia, che induce un uomo a dire una cosa al posto di un’altra. Il falso è una specie di crampo dello scrivano, che costringe un uomo a scrivere il nome di suo zio invece del proprio. La pirateria in alto mare è probabilmente una forma di mal di mare. Ma è inutile per noi indagare le cause di un fatto che neghiamo. Innocent Smith non ha mai commesso alcun furto con scasso.
“Vorrei avvalermi della facoltà consentita dal nostro precedente accordo, e porre all’accusa due o tre domande.”
Il dottor Cyrus Pym chiuse gli occhi per indicare un cortese assenso.
“In primo luogo,” proseguì Moon, “avete la data dell’ultimo momento in cui il canonico Hawkins scorse Smith e Percy arrampicarsi su per i muri e i tetti?”
“Eh, sì!” gridò prontamente Gould. “Tredici novembre, milleottocentonovantuno.”
“Avete,” continuò Moon, “identificato le case di Hoxton su cui si arrampicarono?”
“Dev’essere stato Ladysmith Terrace, appena fuori dalla strada maestra,” rispose Gould con la stessa prontezza da orologeria.
“Bene,” disse Michael, inarcando un sopracciglio verso di lui, “ci fu qualche furto con scasso in quella fila di case, quella notte? Certo che potreste scoprirlo.”
“Può ben darsi che ci sia stato,” disse il dottore compassato, dopo una pausa, “uno tentato senza successo, che non condusse ad alcuna conseguenza legale.”
“Un’altra domanda,” proseguì Michael. “Il canonico Hawkins, nella sua fanciullesca maniera da romanzo d’avventura, s’è interrotto sul più bello. Perché non producete la testimonianza dell’altro ecclesiastico, che di fatto seguì il ladro e presumibilmente fu presente al delitto?”
Il dottor Pym si alzò e piantò le punte delle dita sul tavolo, come faceva quando era particolarmente sicuro della limpidezza della propria risposta.
“Abbiamo completamente fallito,” disse, “nel rintracciare l’altro ecclesiastico, che sembra essersi dileguato nell’etere dopo che il canonico Hawkins l’ebbe visto sa-lire su per le grondaie e le lamiere di piombo. Sono pienamente consapevole che ciò possa colpire molti come singo-lare; eppure, a ben riflettere, credo apparirà piuttosto naturale a un pensatore acuto. Questo signor Raymond Percy è, come lo stesso canonico attesta, un ministro dai modi eccentrici. Il suo lega-me con la più fiera e nobile schiatta d’Inghilterra non pare impedirgli il gusto per la compagnia della vera feccia. D’altra parte, il prigioniero Smith è, per generale consenso, un uomo dal fascino irre-sistibile. Non nutro alcun dubbio che Smith abbia trascinato il reverendo Percy nel delitto e l’abbia costretto a nascondere il capo nella vera classe crimi-nale. Ciò spiegherebbe pienamente la sua mancata comparsa, e il fallimento di ogni tentativo di rintracciarlo.”
“È impossibile, dunque, rintracciarlo?” chiese Moon.
“Impossibile,” ripeté lo specialista, chiudendo gli occhi.
“Siete sicuro che sia impossibile?”
“Oh, piàntala, Michael,” gridò Gould, spazientito. “L’avremmo trovato se avessimo potuto, perché ci puoi scommettere che ha visto il furto. Non metterti TU a cercarlo. Cerca piuttosto la tua stessa testa nella pattumiera. Quella la troverai—dopo un po’,” e la sua voce si spense in un borbottio.
“Arthur,” ordinò Michael Moon, sedendosi, “abbi la cortesia di leggere alla corte la lettera del signor Raymond Percy.”
“Desiderando, come ha detto il signor Moon, abbreviare il più possibile il procedimento,” cominciò Inglewood, “non leggerò la prima parte della lettera che ci è stata inviata. È solo giusto verso l’accusa ammettere che il resoconto fornito dal secondo ecclesiastico ratifica pienamente, per quanto concerne i fatti, quello fornito dal primo ecclesiastico. Concediamo, dunque, la versione del canonico per quel che vale. Ciò dev’essere necessariamente prezioso per l’accusatore e insieme comodo per la corte. Comincio dunque la lettera del signor Percy dal punto in cui tutti e tre gli uomini si trovavano in piedi sul muro del giardino:—
“As I watched Hawkins wavering on the wall, I made up my own mind not to waver. A cloud of wrath was on my brain, like the cloud of copper fog on the houses and gardens round. My decision was violent and simple; yet the thoughts that led up to it were so complicated and contradictory that I could not retrace them now. I knew Hawkins was a kind, innocent gentleman; and I would have given ten pounds for the pleasure of kicking him down the road. That God should allow good people to be as bestially stupid as that— rose against me like a towering blasphemy.
“At Oxford, I fear, I had the artistic temperament rather badly; and artists love to be limited. I liked the church as a pretty pattern; discipline was mere decoration. I delighted in mere divisions of time; I liked eating fish on Friday. But then I like fish; and the fast was made for men who like meat. Then I came to Hoxton and found men who had fasted for five hundred years; men who had to gnaw fish because they could not get meat—and fish-bones when they could not get fish. As too many British officers treat the army as a review, so I had treated the Church Militant as if it were the Church Pageant. Hoxton cures that. Then I realized that for eighteen hundred years the Church Militant had not been a pageant, but a riot—and a suppressed riot. There, still living patiently in Hoxton, were the people to whom the tremendous promises had been made. In the face of that I had to become a revolutionary if I was to continue to be religious. In Hoxton one cannot be a conservative without being also an atheist— and a pessimist. Nobody but the devil could want to conserve Hoxton.
“On the top of all this comes Hawkins. If he had cursed all the Hoxton men, excommunicated them, and told them they were going to hell, I should have rather admired him. If he had ordered them all to be burned in the market-place, I should still have had that patience that all good Christians have with the wrongs inflicted on other people. But there is no priestcraft about Hawkins—nor any other kind of craft. He is as perfectly incapable of being a priest as he is of being a carpenter or a cabman or a gardener or a plasterer. He is a perfect gentleman; that is his complaint. He does not impose his creed, but simply his class. He never said a word of religion in the whole of his damnable address. He simply said all the things his brother, the major, would have said. A voice from heaven assures me that he has a brother, and that this brother is a major.
“When this helpless aristocrat had praised cleanliness in the body and convention in the soul to people who could hardly keep body and soul together, the stampede against our platform began. I took part in his undeserved rescue, I followed his obscure deliverer, until (as I have said) we stood together on the wall above the dim gardens, already clouding with fog. Then I looked at the curate and at the burglar, and decided, in a spasm of inspiration, that the burglar was the better man of the two. The burglar seemed quite as kind and human as the curate was— and he was also brave and self-reliant, which the curate was not. I knew there was no virtue in the upper class, for I belong to it myself; I knew there was not so very much in the lower class, for I had lived with it a long time. Many old texts about the despised and persecuted came back to my mind, and I thought that the saints might well be hidden in the criminal class. About the time Hawkins let himself down the ladder I was crawling up a low, sloping, blue-slate roof after the large man, who went leaping in front of me like a gorilla.
“This upward scramble was short, and we soon found ourselves tramping along a broad road of flat roofs, broader than many big thoroughfares, with chimney-pots here and there that seemed in the haze as bulky as small forts. The asphyxiation of the fog seemed to increase the somewhat swollen and morbid anger under which my brain and body laboured. The sky and all those things that are commonly clear seemed overpowered by sinister spirits. Tall spectres with turbans of vapour seemed to stand higher than the sun or moon, eclipsing both. I thought dimly of illustrations to the ‘Arabian Nights’ on brown paper with rich but sombre tints, showing genii gathering round the Seal of Solomon. By the way, what was the Seal of Solomon? Nothing to do with sealing-wax really, I suppose; but my muddled fancy felt the thick clouds as being of that heavy and clinging substance, of strong opaque colour, poured out of boiling pots and stamped into monstrous emblems.
“The first effect of the tall turbaned vapours was that discoloured look of pea-soup or coffee brown of which Londoners commonly speak. But the scene grew subtler with familiarity. We stood above the average of the housetops and saw something of that thing called smoke, which in great cities creates the strange thing called fog. Beneath us rose a forest of chimney-pots. And there stood in every chimney-pot, as if it were a flower-pot, a brief shrub or a tall tree of coloured vapour. The colours of the smoke were various; for some chimneys were from firesides and some from factories, and some again from mere rubbish heaps. And yet, though the tints were all varied, they all seemed unnatural, like fumes from a witch’s pot. It was as if the shameful and ugly shapes growing shapeless in the cauldron sent up each its separate spurt of steam, coloured according to the fish or flesh consumed. Here, aglow from underneath, were dark red clouds, such as might drift from dark jars of sacrificial blood; there the vapour was dark indigo gray, like the long hair of witches steeped in the hell-broth. In another place the smoke was of an awful opaque ivory yellow, such as might be the disembodiment of one of their old, leprous waxen images. But right across it ran a line of bright, sinister, sulphurous green, as clear and crooked as Arabic—”
Mr. Moses Gould once more attempted the arrest of the ‘bus. He was understood to suggest that the reader should shorten the proceedings by leaving out all the adjectives. Mrs. Duke, who had woken up, observed that she was sure it was all very nice, and the decision was duly noted down by Moses with a blue, and by Michael with a red pencil. Inglewood then resumed the reading of the document.
“Mentre osservavo Hawkins vacillare sul muro, decisi tra me e me di non vacillare. Una nube d’ira gravava sul mio cervello, come la nube di nebbia ramata sulle case e sui giardini all’intorno. La mia decisione fu violenta e semplice; eppure i pensieri che vi condussero erano tanto intricati e contraddittori che ora non saprei più ripercorrerli. Sapevo che Hawkins era un gentiluomo buono e innocente; e avrei dato dieci sterline per il piacere di scaraventarlo giù per la strada a calci. Che Dio permettesse a gente buona d’essere tanto bestialmente stupida— si levò contro di me come una torreggiante bestemmia.
“A Oxford, temo, ebbi il temperamento artistico piuttosto forte; e gli artisti amano essere limitati. Amavo la chiesa come un bel disegno; la disciplina non era che ornamento. Mi dilettavo di semplici divisioni del tempo; mi piaceva mangiar pesce il venerdì. Ma poi, il pesce mi piace; e il digiuno era fatto per gli uomini a cui piace la carne. Poi giunsi a Hoxton e vi trovai uomini che avevano digiunato per cinquecento anni; uomini costretti a rosicchiare pesce perché non potevano procurarsi carne—e lische di pesce quando non potevano procurarsi pesce. Come troppi ufficiali britannici trattano l’esercito come una parata, così io avevo trattato la Chiesa Militante come se fosse la Chiesa in Corteo. Hoxton guarisce da questo. Allora compresi che per milleottocento anni la Chiesa Militante non era stata un corteo, ma una sommossa—e una sommossa soffocata. Là, ancora viventi pazientemente a Hoxton, stavano coloro ai quali erano state fatte le tremende promesse. Di fronte a ciò dovevo diventare un rivoluzionario se volevo continuare a essere religioso. A Hoxton non si può essere conservatori senza essere anche atei— e pessimisti. Nessuno se non il diavolo potrebbe voler conservare Hoxton.
“Sopra tutto questo giunge Hawkins. Se avesse maledetto tutti gli uomini di Hoxton, scomunicandoli e dicendo loro che sarebbero andati all’inferno, l’avrei piuttosto ammirato. Se avesse ordinato che fossero tutti arsi sulla pubblica piazza, avrei ancora avuto quella pazienza che tutti i buoni cristiani hanno per i torti inflitti ad altri. Ma in Hawkins non c’è nulla dell’arte del prete—né di alcun’altra arte. Egli è perfettamente incapace di essere prete quanto lo è d’essere falegname o vetturino o giardiniere o intonacatore. È un perfetto gentiluomo; questa è la sua malattia. Non impone il suo credo, ma semplicemente la sua classe. Non disse una sola parola di religione in tutto il suo dannato discorso. Disse semplicemente tutte le cose che avrebbe detto suo fratello, il maggiore. Una voce dal cielo mi assicura che egli ha un fratello, e che questo fratello è un maggiore.
“Quando quest’aristocratico impotente ebbe lodato la pulizia del corpo e la convenzione dell’anima a gente che a stento riusciva a tenere insieme corpo e anima, cominciò la fuga precipitosa contro la nostra tribuna. Presi parte al suo immeritato salvataggio, seguii il suo oscuro liberatore, finché (come ho detto) ci trovammo insieme sul muro sopra i giardini indistinti, già velati di nebbia. Poi guardai il curato e il ladro, e decisi, in uno spasimo d’ispirazione, che il ladro era il migliore dei due. Il ladro sembrava altrettanto buono e umano di quanto lo fosse il curato— ed era anche coraggioso e sicuro di sé, ciò che il curato non era. Sapevo che non c’era virtù nella classe alta, poiché vi appartengo io stesso; sapevo che non ce n’era poi molta nella classe bassa, poiché vi avevo vissuto a lungo. Molti vecchi testi sui disprezzati e i perseguitati mi tornarono alla mente, e pensai che i santi ben potessero celarsi nella classe criminale. Verso il momento in cui Hawkins si calava giù per la scala io mi arrampicavo su un basso tetto spiovente d’ardesia azzurra dietro l’omone, che andava saltando davanti a me come un gorilla.
“Questa arrampicata all’insù fu breve, e presto ci trovammo a camminare lungo un’ampia strada di tetti piatti, più larga di molte grandi vie di transito, con comignoli qua e là che nella foschia parevano massicci come piccoli forti. L’asfissia della nebbia sembrava accrescere l’ira alquanto gonfia e morbosa sotto cui affaticavano il mio cervello e il mio corpo. Il cielo e tutte quelle cose che di solito sono limpide parevano soggiogate da spiriti sinistri. Alti spettri con turbanti di vapore sembravano ergersi più in alto del sole o della luna, eclissando entrambi. Pensai vagamente alle illustrazioni delle ‘Mille e una notte’ su carta bruna dai colori ricchi ma cupi, che mostravano i geni raccolti attorno al Sigillo di Salomone. A proposito, cos’era il Sigillo di Salomone? Nulla che avesse a che fare con la ceralacca, in verità, suppongo; ma la mia fantasia confusa sentiva le dense nubi come fatte di quella sostanza pesante e vischiosa, dal colore forte e opaco, versata da pentole in ebollizione e impressa in emblemi mostruosi.
“Il primo effetto degli alti vapori inturbantati fu quell’aspetto scolorito da zuppa di piselli o da caffè scuro di cui i londinesi parlano di solito. Ma la scena si fece più sottile con la familiarità. Stavamo al di sopra della media dei tetti e vedemmo qualcosa di quella cosa chiamata fumo, che nelle grandi città crea la strana cosa chiamata nebbia. Sotto di noi si levava rosa una foresta di comignoli. E in ogni comignolo stava, come se fosse un vaso da fiori, un breve arbusto o un alto albero di vapore colorato. I colori del fumo erano vari; poiché certi camini venivano da focolari e certi da fabbriche, e certi ancora da meri mucchi di rifiuti. Eppure, benché le tinte fossero tutte diverse, parevano tutte innaturali, come esalazioni dalla pentola di una strega. Era come se le forme vergognose e brutte che si disfacevano informi nel calderone mandassero su ciascuna il suo separato getto di vapore, colorato secondo il pesce o la carne consumata. Qui, ardenti di sotto, stavano nubi rosso scuro, quali potrebbero levarsi da cupi orci di sangue sacrificale; là il vapore era d’un grigio indaco scuro, come le lunghe chiome di streghe immerse nel brodo infernale. In un altro luogo il fumo era d’un tremendo giallo avorio opaco, quale potrebbe essere la scorporazione di una delle loro vecchie, lebbrose immagini di cera. Ma proprio attraverso di esso correva una linea d’un verde brillante, sinistro, sulfureo, netta e tortuosa come l’arabo—”
Il signor Moses Gould tentò ancora una volta di fermare l’omnibus. Si intese che egli suggerisse di abbreviare il procedimento tralasciando tutti gli aggettivi. La signora Duke, che si era svegliata, osservò che era certa che fosse tutto molto bello, e la decisione fu debitamente annotata da Moses con una matita blu, e da Michael con una matita rossa. Inglewood riprese allora la lettura del documento.
“Then I read the writing of the smoke. Smoke was like the modern city that makes it; it is not always dull or ugly, but it is always wicked and vain.
“Modern England was like a cloud of smoke; it could carry all colours, but it could leave nothing but a stain. It was our weakness and not our strength that put a rich refuse in the sky. These were the rivers of our vanity pouring into the void. We had taken the sacred circle of the whirlwind, and looked down on it, and seen it as a whirlpool. And then we had used it as a sink. It was a good symbol of the mutiny in my own mind. Only our worst things were going to heaven. Only our criminals could still ascend like angels.
“As my brain was blinded with such emotions, my guide stopped by one of the big chimney-pots that stood at the regular intervals like lamp-posts along that uplifted and aerial highway. He put his heavy hand upon it, and for the moment I thought he was merely leaning on it, tired with his steep scramble along the terrace. So far as I could guess from the abysses, full of fog on either side, and the veiled lights of red brown and old gold glowing through them now and again, we were on the top of one of those long, consecutive, and genteel rows of houses which are still to be found lifting their heads above poorer districts, the remains of some rage of optimism in earlier speculative builders. Probably enough, they were entirely untenanted, or tenanted only by such small clans of the poor as gather also in the old emptied palaces of Italy. Indeed, some little time later, when the fog had lifted a little, I discovered that we were walking round a semi-circle of crescent which fell away below us into one flat square or wide street below another, like a giant stairway, in a manner not unknown in the eccentric building of London, and looking like the last ledges of the land. But a cloud sealed the giant stairway as yet.
“My speculations about the sullen skyscape, however, were interrupted by something as unexpected as the moon falling from the sky. Instead of my burglar lifting his hand from the chimney he leaned on, he leaned on it a little more heavily, and the whole chimney-pot turned over like the opening top of an inkstand. I remembered the short ladder leaning against the low wall and felt sure he had arranged his criminal approach long before.
“The collapse of the big chimney-pot ought to have been the culmination of my chaotic feelings; but, to tell the truth, it produced a sudden sense of comedy and even of comfort. I could not recall what connected this abrupt bit of housebreaking with some quaint but still kindly fancies. Then I remembered the delightful and uproarious scenes of roofs and chimneys in the harlequinades of my childhood, and was darkly and quite irrationally comforted by a sense of unsubstantiality in the scene, as if the houses were of lath and paint and pasteboard, and were only meant to be tumbled in and out of by policemen and pantaloons. The law-breaking of my companion seemed not only seriously excusable, but even comically excusable. Who were all these pompous preposterous people with their footmen and their foot-scrapers, their chimney-pots and their chimney-pot hats, that they should prevent a poor clown from getting sausages if he wanted them? One would suppose that property was a serious thing. I had reached, as it were, a higher level of that mountainous and vapourous visions, the heaven of a higher levity.
“My guide had jumped down into the dark cavity revealed by the displaced chimney-pot. He must have landed at a level considerably lower, for, tall as he was, nothing but his weirdly tousled head remained visible. Something again far off, and yet familiar, pleased me about this way of invading the houses of men. I thought of little chimney-sweeps, and ‘The Water Babies;’ but I decided that it was not that. Then I remembered what it was that made me connect such topsy-turvy trespass with ideas quite opposite to the idea of crime. Christmas Eve, of course, and Santa Claus coming down the chimney.
“Almost at the same instant the hairy head disappeared into the black hole; but I heard a voice calling to me from below. A second or two afterwards, the hairy head reappeared; it was dark against the more fiery part of the fog, and nothing could be spelt of its expression, but its voice called on me to follow with that enthusiastic impatience proper only among old friends. I jumped into the gulf, and as blindly as Curtius, for I was still thinking of Santa Claus and the traditional virtue of such vertical entrance.
“In every well-appointed gentleman’s house, I reflected, there was the front door for the gentlemen, and the side door for the tradesmen; but there was also the top door for the gods. The chimney is, so to speak, the underground passage between earth and heaven. By this starry tunnel Santa Claus manages—like the skylark— to be true to the kindred points of heaven and home. Nay, owing to certain conventions, and a widely distributed lack of courage for climbing, this door was, perhaps, little used. But Santa Claus’s door was really the front door: it was the door fronting the universe.
“I thought this as I groped my way across the black garret, or loft below the roof, and scrambled down the squat ladder that let us down into a yet larger loft below. Yet it was not till I was half-way down the ladder that I suddenly stood still, and thought for an instant of retracing all my steps, as my companion had retraced them from the beginning of the garden wall. The name of Santa Claus had suddenly brought me back to my senses. I remembered why Santa Clause came, and why he was welcome.
“I was brought up in the propertied classes, and with all their horror of offences against property. I had heard all the regular denunciations of robbery, both right and wrong; I had read the Ten Commandments in church a thousand times. And then and there, at the age of thirty-four, half-way down a ladder in a dark room in the bodily act of burglar, I saw suddenly for the first time that theft, after all, is really wrong.
«Poi lessi la scrittura del fumo. Il fumo era come la moderna città che lo produce; non è sempre spento o brutto, ma è sempre malvagio e vano.
«L’Inghilterra moderna era come una nube di fumo; poteva recare tutti i colori, ma non poteva lasciare altro che una macchia. Era la nostra debolezza e non la nostra forza a mettere un ricco rifiuto nel cielo. Questi erano i fiumi della nostra vanità che si riversavano nel vuoto. Avevamo preso il cerchio sacro del turbine, e l’avevamo guardato dall’alto, e l’avevamo visto come un gorgo. E poi l’avevamo usato come un lavandino. Era un buon simbolo dell’ammutinamento nella mia stessa mente. Solo le nostre cose peggiori salivano al cielo. Solo i nostri criminali riuscivano ancora ad ascendere come angeli.
«Mentre la mia mente era accecata da simili emozioni, la mia guida si fermò presso uno di quei grossi comignoli che si ergevano a intervalli regolari come lampioni lungo quella strada sopraelevata e aerea. Vi posò sopra la sua mano pesante, e per un momento pensai che stesse semplicemente appoggiandovisi, stanco della sua ripida arrampicata lungo la terrazza. Per quanto potessi indovinare dagli abissi, colmi di nebbia da entrambi i lati, e dalle luci velate di rosso bruno e vecchio oro che vi brillavano attraverso di tanto in tanto, ci trovavamo in cima a una di quelle lunghe, consecutive e signorili file di case che si possono ancora trovare a levare il capo al di sopra dei quartieri più poveri, i resti di qualche furore di ottimismo dei primi costruttori speculatori. Con ogni probabilità erano del tutto disabitate, o abitate soltanto da quelle piccole tribù di poveri che si radunano anche nei vecchi palazzi svuotati d’Italia. In effetti, qualche po’ di tempo più tardi, quando la nebbia si fu un poco sollevata, scoprii che stavamo camminando lungo il semicerchio di una mezzaluna che digradava sotto di noi in una piazza piana o in un’ampia strada dietro l’altra, come una scalinata gigantesca, in una maniera non ignota all’eccentrica edilizia di Londra, e simile agli ultimi cigli della terra. Ma una nube sigillava ancora la scalinata gigantesca.
«Le mie speculazioni sul cupo paesaggio del cielo, tuttavia, furono interrotte da qualcosa di inatteso come la caduta della luna dal firmamento. Invece di sollevare la mano dal comignolo su cui si appoggiava, il mio scassinatore vi si appoggiò un poco più pesantemente, e l’intero comignolo si ribaltò come il coperchio apribile di un calamaio. Ricordai la scala corta appoggiata al muretto e fui certo che avesse predisposto il suo approccio criminale molto tempo prima.
«Il crollo del grosso comignolo avrebbe dovuto essere il culmine dei miei sentimenti caotici; ma, a dire la verità, produsse un improvviso senso di commedia e perfino di conforto. Non riuscivo a ricordare che cosa collegasse questo brusco frammento di scasso ad alcune fantasie bizzarre eppure benevole. Poi ricordai le scene deliziose e chiassose di tetti e comignoli nelle arlecchinate della mia infanzia, e fui oscuramente e del tutto irrazionalmente confortato da un senso di inconsistenza nella scena, come se le case fossero di assicelle e vernice e cartone, e servissero soltanto ad essere ribaltate da poliziotti e pantaloni che vi entravano e uscivano. La violazione della legge da parte del mio compagno mi pareva non solo seriamente scusabile, ma persino comicamente scusabile. Chi erano tutte queste persone pompose e assurde con i loro lacchè e i loro raschiatoi da scarpe, i loro comignoli e i loro cappelli a cilindro, per impedire a un povero pagliaccio di procurarsi delle salsicce se le desiderava? Si sarebbe supposto che la proprietà fosse una cosa seria. Avevo raggiunto, per così dire, un livello più alto di quelle visioni montuose e vaporose, il cielo di una leggerezza più alta.
«La mia guida era saltata giù nella scura cavità rivelata dal comignolo spostato. Doveva essere atterrata a un livello considerevolmente più basso, poiché, per quanto fosse alto, non restava visibile altro che la sua testa stranamente arruffata. Qualcosa di nuovo, lontano eppure familiare, mi compiaceva in questo modo di invadere le case degli uomini. Pensai ai piccoli spazzacamini, e a ‘I Bambini dell’Acqua’; ma decisi che non era quello. Poi ricordai che cosa fosse a farmi collegare una simile sottosopra violazione con idee del tutto opposte all’idea del delitto. La vigilia di Natale, naturalmente, e Babbo Natale che scende dal camino.
«Quasi nello stesso istante la testa irsuta scomparve nel buco nero; ma udii una voce che mi chiamava dal basso. Un secondo o due dopo, la testa irsuta riapparve; era scura contro la parte più infuocata della nebbia, e non se ne poteva decifrare l’espressione, ma la sua voce mi chiamava a seguirla con quell’impaziente entusiasmo proprio soltanto dei vecchi amici. Saltai nell’abisso, e alla cieca come Curzio, poiché stavo ancora pensando a Babbo Natale e alla tradizionale virtù di tale ingresso verticale.
«In ogni casa di gentiluomo ben provvista, riflettei, c’era la porta d’ingresso per i signori, e la porta di servizio per i fornitori; ma c’era anche la porta in cima per gli dèi. Il camino è, per così dire, il passaggio sotterraneo tra la terra e il cielo. Attraverso questo tunnel stellato Babbo Natale riesce—come l’allodola— a essere fedele ai punti affini del cielo e della casa. Anzi, a causa di certe convenzioni, e di una mancanza largamente diffusa di coraggio nell’arrampicarsi, questa porta era, forse, poco usata. Ma la porta di Babbo Natale era davvero la porta d’ingresso: era la porta che si affaccia sull’universo.
«Questo pensavo mentre procedevo a tentoni per la nera soffitta, o solaio sotto il tetto, e scendevo goffamente lungo la tozza scala che ci calava in un solaio ancora più grande sottostante. Eppure non fu che a metà della scala che improvvisamente mi fermai, e pensai per un istante di rifare tutti i miei passi, come il mio compagno li aveva rifatti dall’inizio del muro del giardino. Il nome di Babbo Natale mi aveva improvvisamente riportato alla ragione. Ricordai perché Babbo Natale venisse, e perché fosse il benvenuto.
«Ero stato allevato nelle classi possidenti, e con tutto il loro orrore delle offese contro la proprietà. Avevo udito tutte le consuete denunce del furto, giuste e sbagliate; avevo letto i Dieci Comandamenti in chiesa un migliaio di volte. E lì, in quel momento, all’età di trentaquattro anni, a metà di una scala in una stanza buia, nell’atto materiale dello scassinatore, vidi improvvisamente per la prima volta che il furto, dopo tutto, è davvero sbagliato.
“It was too late to turn back, however, and I followed the strangely soft footsteps of my huge companion across the lower and larger loft, till he knelt down on a part of the bare flooring and, after a few fumbling efforts, lifted a sort of trapdoor. This released a light from below, and we found ourselves looking down into a lamp-lit sitting room, of the sort that in large houses often leads out of a bedroom, and is an adjunct to it. Light thus breaking from beneath our feet like a soundless explosion, showed that the trapdoor just lifted was clogged with dust and rust, and had doubtless been long disused until the advent of my enterprising friend. But I did not look at this long, for the sight of the shining room underneath us had an almost unnatural attractiveness. To enter a modern interior at so strange an angle, by so forgotten a door, was an epoch in one’s psychology. It was like having found a fourth dimension.
“My companion dropped from the aperture into the room so suddenly and soundlessly, that I could do nothing but follow him; though, for lack of practice in crime, I was by no means soundless. Before the echo of my boots had died away, the big burglar had gone quickly to the door, half opened it, and stood looking down the staircase and listening. Then, leaving the door still half open, he came back into the middle of the room, and ran his roving blue eye round its furniture and ornament. The room was comfortably lined with books in that rich and human way that makes the walls seem alive; it was a deep and full, but slovenly, bookcase, of the sort that is constantly ransacked for the purposes of reading in bed. One of those stunted German stoves that look like red goblins stood in a corner, and a sideboard of walnut wood with closed doors in its lower part. There were three windows, high but narrow. After another glance round, my housebreaker plucked the walnut doors open and rummaged inside. He found nothing there, apparently, except an extremely handsome cut-glass decanter, containing what looked like port. Somehow the sight of the thief returning with this ridiculous little luxury in his hand woke within me once more all the revelation and revulsion I had felt above.
“‘Don’t do it!’ I cried quite incoherently, ‘Santa Claus—’
“‘Ah,’ said the burglar, as he put the decanter on the table and stood looking at me, ‘you’ve thought about that, too.’
“‘I can’t express a millionth part of what I’ve thought of,’ I cried, ‘but it’s something like this… oh, can’t you see it? Why are children not afraid of Santa Claus, though he comes like a thief in the night? He is permitted secrecy, trespass, almost treachery—because there are more toys where he has been. What should we feel if there were less? Down what chimney from hell would come the goblin that should take away the children’s balls and dolls while they slept? Could a Greek tragedy be more gray and cruel than that daybreak and awakening? Dog-stealer, horse-stealer, man-stealer—can you think of anything so base as a toy-stealer?’
“The burglar, as if absently, took a large revolver from his pocket and laid it on the table beside the decanter, but still kept his blue reflective eyes fixed on my face.
“‘Man!’ I said, ‘all stealing is toy-stealing. That’s why it’s really wrong. The goods of the unhappy children of men should be really respected because of their worthlessness. I know Naboth’s vineyard is as painted as Noah’s Ark. I know Nathan’s ewe-lamb is really a woolly baa-lamb on a wooden stand. That is why I could not take them away. I did not mind so much, as long as I thought of men’s things as their valuables; but I dare not put a hand upon their vanities.’
“After a moment I added abruptly, ‘Only saints and sages ought to be robbed. They may be stripped and pillaged; but not the poor little worldly people of the things that are their poor little pride.’
“He set out two wineglasses from the cupboard, filled them both, and lifted one of them with a salutation towards his lips.
“‘Don’t do it!’ I cried. ‘It might be the last bottle of some rotten vintage or other. The master of this house may be quite proud of it. Don’t you see there’s something sacred in the silliness of such things?’
“‘It’s not the last bottle,’ answered my criminal calmly; ‘there’s plenty more in the cellar.’
“‘You know the house, then?’ I said.
“‘Too well,’ he answered, with a sadness so strange as to have something eerie about it. ‘I am always trying to forget what I know— and to find what I don’t know.’ He drained his glass. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘it will do him good.’
“‘What will do him good?’
“‘The wine I’m drinking,’ said the strange person.
“‘Does he drink too much, then?’ I inquired.
“‘No,’ he answered, ‘not unless I do.’
“‘Do you mean,’ I demanded, ‘that the owner of this house approves of all you do?’
“‘God forbid,’ he answered; ‘but he has to do the same.’
“The dead face of the fog looking in at all three windows unreasonable increased a sense of riddle, and even terror, about this tall, narrow house we had entered out of the sky. I had once more the notion about the gigantic genii— I fancied that enormous Egyptian faces, of the dead reds and yellows of Egypt, were staring in at each window of our little lamp-lit room as at a lighted stage of marionettes. My companion went on playing with the pistol in front of him, and talking with the same rather creepy confidentialness.
“‘I am always trying to find him—to catch him unawares. I come in through skylights and trapdoors to find him; but whenever I find him—he is doing what I am doing.’
“I sprang to my feet with a thrill of fear. ‘There is some one coming,’ I cried, and my cry had something of a shriek in it. Not from the stairs below, but along the passage from the inner bedchamber (which seemed somehow to make it more alarming), footsteps were coming nearer. I am quite unable to say what mystery, or monster, or double, I expected to see when the door was pushed open from within. I am only quite certain that I did not expect to see what I did see.
“Era però troppo tardi per tornare indietro, e seguii i passi stranamente ovattati del mio enorme compagno attraverso il solaio più basso e più ampio, finché egli non si inginocchiò su un punto del pavimento nudo e, dopo qualche armeggìo, sollevò una specie di botola. Ne uscì una luce dal basso, e ci trovammo a guardare giù in un salotto illuminato da una lampada, di quel genere che nelle grandi case spesso si apre da una camera da letto, e ne è un annesso. La luce che così irrompeva sotto i nostri piedi come un’esplosione silenziosa mostrò che la botola appena sollevata era incrostata di polvere e ruggine, e senza dubbio era rimasta a lungo in disuso fino all’arrivo del mio intraprendente amico. Ma non la osservai a lungo, perché la vista della stanza scintillante sotto di noi aveva un fascino quasi innaturale. Entrare in un interno moderno da un’angolazione così strana, per una porta tanto dimenticata, era un’epoca nella propria psicologia. Era come aver trovato una quarta dimensione.
“Il mio compagno si lasciò cadere dall’apertura nella stanza così all’improvviso e senza rumore, che non potei far altro che seguirlo; sebbene, per mancanza di pratica nel crimine, non fossi affatto silenzioso. Prima che l’eco dei miei stivali si spegnesse, il grosso scassinatore era andato rapido alla porta, l’aveva socchiusa, e stava a guardare giù per la scala, in ascolto. Poi, lasciando la porta ancora socchiusa, tornò in mezzo alla stanza, e fece scorrere il suo occhio azzurro e vagabondo sui mobili e gli ornamenti. La stanza era comodamente rivestita di libri in quel modo ricco e umano che fa sembrare vive le pareti; era una libreria profonda e piena, ma disordinata, di quel genere che viene di continuo saccheggiato per leggere a letto. Una di quelle tozze stufe tedesche che paiono folletti rossi stava in un angolo, e una credenza di legno di noce con gli sportelli chiusi nella parte inferiore. C’erano tre finestre, alte ma strette. Dopo un altro sguardo in giro, il mio ladro spalancò gli sportelli di noce e frugò all’interno. Non vi trovò nulla, a quanto pare, se non una caraffa di cristallo intagliato assai bella, che conteneva ciò che pareva porto. In qualche modo la vista del ladro che tornava con quel ridicolo piccolo lusso in mano risvegliò di nuovo in me tutta la rivelazione e la repulsione che avevo provato di sopra.
“«Non farlo!» gridai in modo del tutto incoerente, «Babbo Natale…»
“«Ah,» disse lo scassinatore, mentre posava la caraffa sul tavolo e restava a guardarmi, «anche tu ci hai pensato.»
“«Non posso esprimere un milionesimo di quel che ho pensato,» gridai, «ma è qualcosa del genere… oh, non lo vedi? Perché i bambini non hanno paura di Babbo Natale, benché venga come un ladro nella notte? Gli sono permessi il segreto, la violazione di domicilio, quasi il tradimento… perché ci sono più giocattoli là dove è passato. Che cosa proveremmo se ce ne fossero di meno? Da quale camino d’inferno scenderebbe il folletto che dovesse portar via ai bambini le palle e le bambole mentre dormono? Potrebbe una tragedia greca essere più grigia e crudele di quell’alba e di quel risveglio? Ladro di cani, ladro di cavalli, ladro d’uomini… riesci a pensare a qualcosa di tanto abietto come un ladro di giocattoli?»
“Lo scassinatore, come distratto, trasse dalla tasca un grosso revolver e lo posò sul tavolo accanto alla caraffa, ma tenne ancora i suoi occhi azzurri e riflessivi fissi sul mio volto.
“«Amico!» dissi, «ogni furto è furto di giocattoli. Ecco perché è davvero male. I beni degli infelici figli degli uomini dovrebbero essere davvero rispettati proprio per la loro nullità. So che la vigna di Nabot è dipinta come l’Arca di Noè. So che l’agnellina di Natan è in realtà un lanoso agnellino belante su un piedistallo di legno. Ecco perché non potevo portarli via. Non mi importava tanto, finché pensavo alle cose degli uomini come ai loro oggetti di valore; ma non oso posare una mano sulle loro vanità.»
“Dopo un momento aggiunsi bruscamente: «Solo i santi e i saggi dovrebbero essere derubati. Loro possono essere spogliati e saccheggiati; ma non i poveri piccoli mondani delle cose che sono il loro povero piccolo orgoglio.»
“Prese dalla credenza due bicchieri da vino, li riempì entrambi, e ne sollevò uno con un cenno di saluto verso le labbra.
“«Non farlo!» gridai. «Potrebbe essere l’ultima bottiglia di una qualche annata scadente. Il padrone di questa casa potrebbe esserne assai fiero. Non vedi che c’è qualcosa di sacro nella scempiaggine di simili cose?»
“«Non è l’ultima bottiglia,» rispose il mio criminale con calma; «ce n’è molto altro in cantina.»
“«Conosci la casa, allora?» dissi.
“«Troppo bene,» rispose, con una tristezza così strana da avere in sé qualcosa di sinistro. «Cerco sempre di dimenticare ciò che so… e di trovare ciò che non so.» Vuotò il bicchiere. «Del resto,» aggiunse, «gli farà bene.»
“«Che cosa gli farà bene?»
“«Il vino che sto bevendo,» disse lo strano individuo.
“«Beve troppo, dunque?» chiesi.
“«No,» rispose, «a meno che non lo faccia io.»
“«Vuoi dire,» domandai, «che il proprietario di questa casa approva tutto ciò che fai?»
“«Dio non voglia,» rispose; «ma è costretto a fare lo stesso.»
“Il volto morto della nebbia che sbirciava a tutte e tre le finestre accrebbe irragionevolmente un senso di enigma, e persino di terrore, intorno a quella casa alta e stretta in cui eravamo entrati dal cielo. Ebbi ancora una volta l’idea dei giganteschi geni… immaginai che enormi volti egizi, dei rossi e dei gialli morti dell’Egitto, scrutassero dentro ogni finestra della nostra stanzetta illuminata dalla lampada come a un palcoscenico illuminato di marionette. Il mio compagno continuava a giocherellare con la pistola davanti a sé, e a parlare con la stessa confidenzialità piuttosto inquietante.
“«Cerco sempre di trovarlo… di coglierlo alla sprovvista. Entro dai lucernari e dalle botole per trovarlo; ma ogni volta che lo trovo… sta facendo ciò che faccio io.»
“Balzai in piedi con un brivido di paura. «C’è qualcuno che viene,» gridai, e nel mio grido c’era qualcosa di uno strillo. Non dalle scale sottostanti, ma lungo il corridoio dalla camera da letto interna (il che in qualche modo lo rendeva più allarmante), dei passi si avvicinavano. Sono del tutto incapace di dire quale mistero, o mostro, o doppio, mi aspettassi di vedere quando la porta fu spinta dall’interno. Sono soltanto certissimo che non mi aspettavo di vedere ciò che vidi.
“Framed in the open doorway stood, with an air of great serenity, a rather tall young woman, definitely though indefinably artistic— her dress the colour of spring and her hair of autumn leaves, with a face which, though still comparatively young, conveyed experience as well as intelligence. All she said was, ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’
“‘I came in another way,’ said the Permeator, somewhat vaguely. ‘I’d left my latchkey at home.’
“I got to my feet in a mixture of politeness and mania. ‘I’m really very sorry,’ I cried. ‘I know my position is irregular. Would you be so obliging as to tell me whose house this is?’
“‘Mine,’ said the burglar, ‘May I present you to my wife?’
“I doubtfully, and somewhat slowly, resumed my seat; and I did not get out of it till nearly morning. Mrs. Smith (such was the prosaic name of this far from prosaic household) lingered a little, talking slightly and pleasantly. She left on my mind the impression of a certain odd mixture of shyness and sharpness; as if she knew the world well, but was still a little harmlessly afraid of it. Perhaps the possession of so jumpy and incalculable a husband had left her a little nervous. Anyhow, when she had retired to the inner chamber once more, that extraordinary man poured forth his apologia and autobiography over the dwindling wine.
“He had been sent to Cambridge with a view to a mathematical and scientific, rather than a classical or literary, career. A starless nihilism was then the philosophy of the schools; and it bred in him a war between the members and the spirit, but one in which the members were right. While his brain accepted the black creed, his very body rebelled against it. As he put it, his right hand taught him terrible things. As the authorities of Cambridge University put it, unfortunately, it had taken the form of his right hand flourishing a loaded firearm in the very face of a distinguished don, and driving him to climb out of the window and cling to a waterspout. He had done it solely because the poor don had professed in theory a preference for non-existence. For this very unacademic type of argument he had been sent down. Vomiting as he was with revulsion, from the pessimism that had quailed under his pistol, he made himself a kind of fanatic of the joy of life. He cut across all the associations of serious-minded men. He was gay, but by no means careless. His practical jokes were more in earnest than verbal ones. Though not an optimist in the absurd sense of maintaining that life is all beer and skittles, he did really seem to maintain that beer and skittles are the most serious part of it. ‘What is more immortal,’ he would cry, ‘than love and war? Type of all desire and joy—beer. Type of all battle and conquest—skittles.’
“There was something in him of what the old world called the solemnity of revels—when they spoke of ‘solemnizing’ a mere masquerade or wedding banquet. Nevertheless he was not a mere pagan any more than he was a mere practical joker. His eccentricities sprang from a static fact of faith, in itself mystical, and even childlike and Christian.
“‘I don’t deny,’ he said, ‘that there should be priests to remind men that they will one day die. I only say that at certain strange epochs it is necessary to have another kind of priests, called poets, actually to remind men that they are not dead yet. The intellectuals among whom I moved were not even alive enough to fear death. They hadn’t enough blood in them to be cowards. Until a pistol barrel was poked under their very noses they never even knew they had been born. For ages looking up an eternal perspective it might be true that life is a learning to die. But for these little white rats it was just as true that death was their only chance of learning to live.’
“His creed of wonder was Christian by this absolute test; that he felt it continually slipping from himself as much as from others. He had the same pistol for himself, as Brutus said of the dagger. He continually ran preposterous risks of high precipice or headlong speed to keep alive the mere conviction that he was alive. He treasured up trivial and yet insane details that had once reminded him of the awful subconscious reality. When the don had hung on the stone gutter, the sight of his long dangling legs, vibrating in the void like wings, somehow awoke the naked satire of the old definition of man as a two-legged animal without feathers. The wretched professor had been brought into peril by his head, which he had so elaborately cultivated, and only saved by his legs, which he had treated with coldness and neglect. Smith could think of no other way of announcing or recording this, except to send a telegram to an old friend (by this time a total stranger) to say that he had just seen a man with two legs; and that the man was alive.
“The uprush of his released optimism burst into stars like a rocket when he suddenly fell in love. He happened to be shooting a high and very headlong weir in a canoe, by way of proving to himself that he was alive; and he soon found himself involved in some doubt about the continuance of the fact. What was worse, he found he had equally jeopardized a harmless lady alone in a rowing-boat, and one who had provoked death by no professions of philosophic negation. He apologized in wild gasps through all his wild wet labours to bring her to the shore, and when he had done so at last, he seems to have proposed to her on the bank. Anyhow, with the same impetuosity with which he had nearly murdered her, he completely married her; and she was the lady in green to whom I had recently said ‘good-night.’
“They had settled down in these high narrow houses near Highbury. Perhaps, indeed, that is hardly the word. One could strictly say that Smith was married, that he was very happily married, that he not only did not care for any woman but his wife, but did not seem to care for any place but his home; but perhaps one could hardly say that he had settled down. ‘I am a very domestic fellow,’ he explained with gravity, ‘and have often come in through a broken window rather than be late for tea.’
“Incorniciata nel vano della porta aperta se ne stava, con un’aria di grande serenità, una giovane donna piuttosto alta, decisamente benché indefinibilmente artistica— la veste del colore della primavera e i capelli di autunno e di foglie, con un volto che, per quanto ancora relativamente giovane, tradiva l’esperienza oltre che l’intelligenza. Tutto ciò che disse fu: ‘Non vi ho sentito entrare.’
“‘Sono entrato per un’altra via,’ disse il Permeatore, alquanto vagamente. ‘Avevo lasciato la chiave di casa a casa.’
“Mi alzai in piedi in un misto di cortesia e follia. ‘Sono davvero molto spiacente,’ esclamai. ‘So che la mia posizione è irregolare. Vorreste avere la cortesia di dirmi di chi è questa casa?’
“‘Mia,’ disse lo scassinatore. ‘Posso presentarvi a mia moglie?’
“Riluttante, e con una certa lentezza, ripresi il mio posto; e non me ne mossi fin quasi al mattino. La signora Smith (tale era il prosaico nome di quella tutt’altro che prosaica famiglia) si trattenne un poco, conversando con leggerezza e cordialità. Lasciò nella mia mente l’impressione di una certa curiosa mescolanza di timidezza e acume; come se conoscesse bene il mondo, ma ne fosse ancora un poco, e innocuamente, intimorita. Forse il possesso di un marito tanto scattante e imprevedibile l’aveva resa un poco nervosa. Comunque sia, quando si fu ritirata di nuovo nella stanza interna, quello straordinario uomo riversò la sua apologia e la sua autobiografia sul vino che andava scemando.
“Era stato mandato a Cambridge in vista di una carriera matematica e scientifica, piuttosto che classica o letteraria. Un nichilismo senza stelle era allora la filosofia delle scuole; e generò in lui una guerra fra le membra e lo spirito, ma una guerra nella quale le membra avevano ragione. Mentre il suo cervello accettava il nero credo, il suo stesso corpo vi si ribellava. Come diceva lui, la sua mano destra gli insegnò cose terribili. Come dicevano le autorità dell’Università di Cambridge, purtroppo, ciò aveva preso la forma della sua mano destra che brandiva un’arma da fuoco carica proprio in faccia a un illustre docente, costringendolo ad arrampicarsi fuori dalla finestra e ad aggrapparsi a un pluviale. L’aveva fatto unicamente perché il povero docente aveva professato in teoria una preferenza per la non-esistenza. Per questo tipo di argomentazione assai poco accademica fu espulso. Rigettando com’era, per la ripugnanza, il pessimismo che si era acquattato sotto la sua pistola, si fece una sorta di fanatico della gioia di vivere. Tagliò trasversalmente tutte le consuetudini degli uomini seri. Era gaio, ma niente affatto sventato. I suoi scherzi pratici erano più seri di quelli verbali. Pur non essendo un ottimista nel senso assurdo di sostenere che la vita sia tutta birra e birilli, sembrava davvero sostenere che la birra e i birilli ne siano la parte più seria. ‘Che cosa è più immortale,’ gridava, ‘dell’amore e della guerra? Emblema di ogni desiderio e gioia—la birra. Emblema di ogni battaglia e conquista—i birilli.’
“C’era in lui qualcosa di ciò che il vecchio mondo chiamava la solennità dei baldorie—quando parlavano di ‘solennizzare’ una semplice mascherata o un banchetto di nozze. Nondimeno egli non era un semplice pagano, non più di quanto fosse un semplice burlone. Le sue eccentricità nascevano da un fatto statico di fede, in sé mistico, e persino fanciullesco e cristiano.
“‘Non nego,’ disse, ‘che debbano esservi sacerdoti a ricordare agli uomini che un giorno moriranno. Dico solo che in certe strane epoche è necessario avere un altro genere di sacerdoti, detti poeti, che ricordino agli uomini, per l’appunto, che non sono ancora morti. Gli intellettuali fra i quali mi muovevo non erano neppure abbastanza vivi da temere la morte. Non avevano abbastanza sangue in corpo per essere codardi. Finché una canna di pistola non veniva cacciata proprio sotto il loro naso non sapevano nemmeno di essere nati. Per epoche intere, guardando su per un’eterna prospettiva, poteva esser vero che la vita è un imparare a morire. Ma per questi piccoli topi bianchi era altrettanto vero che la morte era la loro unica occasione di imparare a vivere.’
“Il suo credo della meraviglia era cristiano per questa prova assoluta: che egli lo sentiva scivolar via di continuo da sé quanto dagli altri. Aveva la stessa pistola per sé, come Brutus disse del pugnale. Correva di continuo rischi assurdi di alti precipizi o di sfrenata velocità per tener viva la mera convinzione di essere vivo. Faceva tesoro di dettagli banali eppure folli che una volta gli avevano ricordato la terribile realtà subconscia. Quando il docente si era appeso alla grondaia di pietra, la vista delle sue lunghe gambe penzolanti, vibranti nel vuoto come ali, ridestò in qualche modo la nuda satira della vecchia definizione dell’uomo come animale bipede senza penne. Il misero professore era stato messo in pericolo dalla sua testa, che aveva coltivato con tanta cura, e salvato soltanto dalle sue gambe, che aveva trattato con freddezza e trascuratezza. Smith non riusciva a pensare ad altro modo di annunciare o registrare la cosa, se non mandare un telegramma a un vecchio amico (ormai a questo punto un perfetto estraneo) per dire che aveva appena visto un uomo con due gambe; e che l’uomo era vivo.
“Lo slancio del suo ottimismo liberato esplose in stelle come un razzo quando all’improvviso s’innamorò. Gli capitava di discendere in canoa una chiusa alta e ripidissima, per provare a sé stesso di essere vivo; e ben presto si trovò coinvolto in qualche dubbio circa il perdurare di tale fatto. Quel che era peggio, scoprì di aver egualmente messo in pericolo un’innocua signora sola in una barca a remi, e per giunta una che non aveva provocato la morte con alcuna professione di negazione filosofica. Le porse le sue scuse in ansimi disperati durante tutte le sue disperate fatiche zuppe per portarla a riva, e quando alla fine vi riuscì, pare che le abbia fatto la proposta sulla sponda. Comunque, con la stessa impetuosità con cui l’aveva quasi uccisa, la sposò senz’altro; ed ella era la signora in verde a cui poco prima avevo dato la ‘buonanotte.’
“Si erano stabiliti in queste alte e strette case presso Highbury. Forse, invero, non è la parola giusta. Si potrebbe a rigore dire che Smith era sposato, che era assai felicemente sposato, che non solo non gli importava di nessuna donna tranne sua moglie, ma non sembrava importargli di nessun luogo tranne casa sua; ma forse non si potrebbe proprio dire che si fosse messo tranquillo. ‘Sono un tipo molto casalingo,’ spiegò con gravità, ‘e più di una volta sono entrato da una finestra rotta pur di non essere in ritardo per il tè.’
“He lashed his soul with laughter to prevent it falling asleep. He lost his wife a series of excellent servants by knocking at the door as a total stranger, and asking if Mr. Smith lived there and what kind of a man he was. The London general servant is not used to the master indulging in such transcendental ironies. And it was found impossible to explain to her that he did it in order to feel the same interest in his own affairs that he always felt in other people’s.
“‘I know there’s a fellow called Smith,’ he said in his rather weird way, ‘living in one of the tall houses in this terrace. I know he is really happy, and yet I can never catch him at it.’
“Sometimes he would, of a sudden, treat his wife with a kind of paralyzed politeness, like a young stranger struck with love at first sight. Sometimes he would extend this poetic fear to the very furniture; would seem to apologize to the chair he sat on, and climb the staircase as cautiously as a cragsman, to renew in himself the sense of their skeleton of reality. Every stair is a ladder and every stool a leg, he said. And at other times he would play the stranger exactly in the opposite sense, and would enter by another way, so as to feel like a thief and a robber. He would break and violate his own home, as he had done with me that night. It was near morning before I could tear myself from this queer confidence of the Man Who Would Not Die, and as I shook hands with him on the doorstep the last load of fog was lifting, and rifts of daylight revealed the stairway of irregular street levels that looked like the end of the world.
“It will be enough for many to say that I had passed a night with a maniac. What other term, it will be said, could be applied to such a being? A man who reminds himself that he is married by pretending not to be married! A man who tries to covet his own goods instead of his neighbor’s! On this I have but one word to say, and I feel it of my honour to say it, though no one understands. I believe the maniac was one of those who do not merely come, but are sent; sent like a great gale upon ships by Him who made His angels winds and His messengers a flaming fire. This, at least, I know for certain. Whether such men have laughed or wept, we have laughed at their laughter as much as at their weeping. Whether they cursed or blessed the world, they have never fitted it. It is true that men have shrunk from the sting of a great satirist as if from the sting of an adder. But it is equally true that men flee from the embrace of a great optimist as from the embrace of a bear. Nothing brings down more curses than a real benediction. For the goodness of good things, like the badness of bad things, is a prodigy past speech; it is to be pictured rather than spoken. We shall have gone deeper than the deeps of heaven and grown older than the oldest angels before we feel, even in its first faint vibrations, the everlasting violence of that double passion with which God hates and loves the world.—I am, yours faithfully, “Raymond Percy.”
“Oh, ‘oly, ‘oly, ‘oly!” said Mr. Moses Gould.
The instant he had spoken all the rest knew they had been in an almost religious state of submission and assent. Something had bound them together; something in the sacred tradition of the last two words of the letter; something also in the touching and boyish embarrassment with which Inglewood had read them— for he had all the thin-skinned reverence of the agnostic. Moses Gould was as good a fellow in his way as ever lived; far kinder to his family than more refined men of pleasure, simple and steadfast in his admiration, a thoroughly wholesome animal and a thoroughly genuine character. But wherever there is conflict, crises come in which any soul, personal or racial, unconsciously turns on the world the most hateful of its hundred faces. English reverence, Irish mysticism, American idealism, looked up and saw on the face of Moses a certain smile. It was that smile of the Cynic Triumphant, which has been the tocsin for many a cruel riot in Russian villages or mediaeval towns.
“Oh, ‘oly, ‘oly, ‘oly!” said Moses Gould.
Finding that this was not well received, he explained further, exuberance deepening on his dark exuberant features.
“Always fun to see a bloke swallow a wasp when ‘e’s corfin’ up a fly,” he said pleasantly. “Don’t you see you’ve bunged up old Smith anyhow. If this parson’s tale’s O.K.—why, Smith is ‘ot. ‘E’s pretty ‘ot. We find him elopin’ with Miss Gray (best respects!) in a cab. Well, what abart this Mrs. Smith the curate talks of, with her blarsted shyness—transmigogrified into a blighted sharpness? Miss Gray ain’t been very sharp, but I reckon she’ll be pretty shy.”
“Don’t be a brute,” growled Michael Moon.
None could lift their eyes to look at Mary; but Inglewood sent a glance along the table at Innocent Smith. He was still bowed above his paper toys, and a wrinkle was on his forehead that might have been worry or shame. He carefully plucked out one corner of a complicated paper and tucked it in elsewhere; then the wrinkle vanished and he looked relieved.
“Sferzava la propria anima con la risata per impedirle di addormentarsi. Fece perdere alla moglie una serie di ottimi domestici bussando alla porta come un perfetto sconosciuto, e chiedendo se il signor Smith abitasse lì e che razza d’uomo fosse. La domestica tuttofare londinese non è abituata a un padrone che si concede simili ironie trascendentali. E si rivelò impossibile spiegarle che lo faceva per provare per le proprie faccende lo stesso interesse che provava sempre per quelle altrui.
“‘So che c’è un tale di nome Smith,’ diceva col suo modo piuttosto bizzarro, ‘che abita in una di quelle case alte di questa fila. So che è davvero felice, eppure non riesco mai a coglierlo sul fatto.’
“A volte, all’improvviso, trattava la moglie con una specie di cortesia paralizzata, come un giovane forestiero colpito dall’amore a prima vista. A volte estendeva questo timore poetico persino ai mobili; pareva chiedere scusa alla sedia su cui sedeva, e saliva le scale con la stessa cautela di uno scalatore di rocce, per rinnovare in sé il senso del loro scheletro di realtà. Ogni gradino è una scala a pioli e ogni sgabello una gamba, diceva. E altre volte recitava la parte dell’estraneo esattamente nel senso opposto, ed entrava per un’altra via, così da sentirsi un ladro e un brigante. Sfondava e violava la propria casa, come aveva fatto con me quella notte. Era quasi mattino prima che riuscissi a staccarmi da questa strana confidenza dell’Uomo Che Non Voleva Morire, e mentre gli stringevo la mano sulla soglia l’ultimo carico di nebbia si stava sollevando, e squarci di luce diurna rivelavano la scalinata degli irregolari livelli stradali che pareva la fine del mondo.
“A molti basterà dire che avevo trascorso una notte con un maniaco. Quale altro termine, si dirà, si potrebbe applicare a un tale essere? Un uomo che si ricorda di essere sposato fingendo di non esserlo! Un uomo che cerca di bramare i propri beni invece di quelli del suo prossimo! Su questo ho una sola parola da dire, e sento che è mio onore dirla, benché nessuno la comprenda. Credo che quel maniaco fosse uno di quelli che non semplicemente vengono, ma sono mandati; mandati come una grande burrasca sulle navi da Colui che fece dei suoi angeli venti e dei suoi messaggeri una fiamma ardente. Questo, almeno, lo so per certo. Che tali uomini abbiano riso o pianto, noi abbiamo riso della loro risata tanto quanto del loro pianto. Che abbiano maledetto o benedetto il mondo, non vi si sono mai adattati. È vero che gli uomini hanno rifuggito il pungiglione di un grande satirico come dal pungiglione di una vipera. Ma è altrettanto vero che gli uomini fuggono l’abbraccio di un grande ottimista come dall’abbraccio di un orso. Nulla attira più maledizioni di una vera benedizione. Poiché la bontà delle cose buone, come la malvagità delle cose cattive, è un prodigio che va oltre le parole; è cosa da raffigurare piuttosto che da dire. Saremo scesi più a fondo degli abissi del cielo e invecchiati più dei più antichi angeli prima di sentire, anche solo nelle sue prime deboli vibrazioni, l’eterna violenza di quella duplice passione con cui Dio odia e ama il mondo.—Vostro devotissimo, “Raymond Percy.”
“Oh, santo, santo, santo!” disse il signor Moses Gould.
Nell’istante in cui ebbe parlato tutti gli altri seppero di essere stati in uno stato di sottomissione e assenso quasi religioso. Qualcosa li aveva uniti; qualcosa nella sacra tradizione delle ultime due parole della lettera; qualcosa anche nel commovente e fanciullesco imbarazzo con cui Inglewood le aveva lette—poiché egli aveva tutta la delicata reverenza dell’agnostico. Moses Gould era un buon diavolo nel suo genere quanto mai ne sia vissuto uno; assai più affettuoso con la sua famiglia di quanto lo siano gli uomini di piacere più raffinati, semplice e fedele nella sua ammirazione, un animale del tutto sano e un carattere del tutto genuino. Ma dovunque vi sia conflitto, sopraggiungono crisi in cui un’anima qualsiasi, personale o razziale, volge inconsciamente al mondo la più odiosa delle sue cento facce. La reverenza inglese, il misticismo irlandese, l’idealismo americano, alzarono lo sguardo e videro sul volto di Moses un certo sorriso. Era quel sorriso del Cinico Trionfante, che è stato la campana a martello di più d’un crudele tumulto nei villaggi russi o nelle città medievali.
“Oh, santo, santo, santo!” disse Moses Gould.
Constatando che ciò non era ben accolto, si spiegò ulteriormente, mentre l’esuberanza si faceva più marcata sui suoi scuri lineamenti esuberanti.
“Sempre uno spasso vedere un tizio ingoiare una vespa mentre sta tossendo per sputare una mosca,” disse amabilmente. “Non vedete che avete comunque messo nei guai il vecchio Smith? Se la storia di questo pretino è a posto—be’, Smith è cotto. È bell’e cotto. Lo becchiamo che scappa con la signorina Gray (coi miei rispetti!) in carrozza. Be’, e che ne dite di questa signora Smith di cui parla il curato, con la sua maledetta timidezza—trasmigogrificata in una disgraziata spigolosità? La signorina Gray non è stata molto spigolosa, ma scommetto che sarà piuttosto timida.”
“Non fare la bestia,” ringhiò Michael Moon.
Nessuno riusciva a sollevare gli occhi per guardare Mary; ma Inglewood lanciò uno sguardo lungo il tavolo verso Innocent Smith. Era ancora chino sui suoi giocattoli di carta, e aveva sulla fronte una ruga che poteva essere preoccupazione o vergogna. Estrasse con cura un angolo di un complicato foglio di carta e lo infilò altrove; poi la ruga svanì ed egli parve sollevato.
Chapter III
The Round Road; or, the Desertion Charge
Pym rose with sincere embarrassment; for he was an American, and his respect for ladies was real, and not at all scientific.
“Ignoring,” he said, “the delicate and considerable knightly protests that have been called forth by my colleague’s native sense of oration, and apologizing to all for whom our wild search for truth seems unsuitable to the grand ruins of a feudal land, I still think my colleague’s question by no means devoid of rel’vancy. The last charge against the accused was one of burglary; the next charge on the paper is of bigamy and desertion. It does without question appear that the defence, in aspiring to rebut this last charge, have really admitted the next. Either Innocent Smith is still under a charge of attempted burglary, or else that is exploded; but he is pretty well fixed for attempted bigamy. It all depends on what view we take of the alleged letter from Curate Percy. Under these conditions I feel justified in claiming my right to questions. May I ask how the defence got hold of the letter from Curate Percy? Did it come direct from the prisoner?”
“We have had nothing direct from the prisoner,” said Moon quietly. “The few documents which the defence guarantees came to us from another quarter.”
“From what quarter?” asked Dr. Pym.
“If you insist,” answered Moon, “we had them from Miss Gray.
“Dr. Cyrus Pym quite forgot to close his eyes, and, instead, opened them very wide.
“Do you really mean to say,” he said, “that Miss Gray was in possession of this document testifying to a previous Mrs. Smith?”
“Quite so,” said Inglewood, and sat down.
The doctor said something about infatuation in a low and painful voice, and then with visible difficulty continued his opening remarks.
“Unfortunately the tragic truth revealed by Curate Percy’s narrative is only too crushingly confirmed by other and shocking documents in our own possession. Of these the principal and most certain is the testimony of Innocent Smith’s gardener, who was present at the most dramatic and eye-opening of his many acts of marital infidelity. Mr. Gould, the gardener, please.”
Mr. Gould, with his tireless cheerfulness, arose to present the gardener. That functionary explained that he had served Mr. and Mrs. Innocent Smith when they had a little house on the edge of Croydon. From the gardener’s tale, with its many small allusions, Inglewood grew certain he had seen the place. It was one of those corners of town or country that one does not forget, for it looked like a frontier. The garden hung very high above the lane, and its end was steep and sharp, like a fortress. Beyond was a roll of real country, with a white path sprawling across it, and the roots, boles, and branches of great gray trees writhing and twisting against the sky. But as if to assert that the lane itself was suburban, were sharply relieved against that gray and tossing upland a lamp-post painted a peculiar yellow-green and a red pillar-box that stood exactly at the corner. Inglewood was sure of the place; he had passed it twenty times in his constitutionals on the bicycle; he had always dimly felt it was a place where something might occur. But it gave him quite a shiver to feel that the face of his frightful friend or enemy Smith might at any time have appeared over the garden bushes above. The gardener’s account, unlike the curate’s, was quite free from decorative adjectives, however many he may have uttered privately when writing it. He simply said that on a particular morning Mr. Smith came out and began to play about with a rake, as he often did. Sometimes he would tickle the nose of his eldest child (he had two children); sometimes he would hook the rake on to the branch of a tree, and hoist himself up with horrible gymnastic jerks, like those of a giant frog in its final agony. Never, apparently, did he think of putting the rake to any of its proper uses, and the gardener, in consequence, treated his actions with coldness and brevity. But the gardener was certain that on one particular morning in October he (the gardener) had come round the corner of the house carrying the hose, had seen Mr. Smith standing on the lawn in a striped red and white jacket (which might have been his smoking-jacket, but was quite as like a part of his pyjamas), and had heard him then and there call out to his wife, who was looking out of the bedroom window on to the garden, these decisive and very loud expressions—
“I won’t stay here any longer. I’ve got another wife and much better children a long way from here. My other wife’s got redder hair than yours, and my other garden’s got a much finer situation; and I’m going off to them.”
With these words, apparently, he sent the rake flying far up into the sky, higher than many could have shot an arrow, and caught it again. Then he cleared the hedge at a leap and alighted on his feet down in the lane below, and set off up the road without even a hat. Much of the picture was doubtless supplied by Inglewood’s accidental memory of the place. He could see with his mind’s eye that big bare-headed figure with the ragged rake swaggering up the crooked woodland road, and leaving lamp-post and pillar-box behind. But the gardener, on his own account, was quite prepared to swear to the public confession of bigamy, to the temporary disappearance of the rake in the sky, and the final disappearance of the man up the road. Moreover, being a local man, he could swear that, beyond some local rumours that Smith had embarked on the south-eastern coast, nothing was known of him again.
This impression was somewhat curiously clinched by Michael Moon in the few but clear phrases in which he opened the defence upon the third charge. So far from denying that Smith had fled from Croydon and disappeared on the Continent, he seemed prepared to prove all this on his own account. “I hope you are not so insular,” he said, “that you will not respect the word of a French innkeeper as much as that of an English gardener. By Mr. Inglewood’s favour we will hear the French innkeeper.”
Capitolo III
La strada che gira; ovvero, l’accusa di abbandono
Pym si alzò con sincero imbarazzo; era infatti un americano, e il suo rispetto per le signore era reale, e per nulla scientifico.
«Sorvolando», disse, «sulle delicate e non trascurabili proteste cavalleresche che il senso oratorio innato del mio collega ha suscitato, e chiedendo scusa a tutti coloro ai quali la nostra selvaggia ricerca della verità appare inadatta alle grandi rovine di una terra feudale, continuo a ritenere la domanda del mio collega tutt’altro che priva di rilevanza. L’ultima accusa contro l’imputato era di effrazione; la successiva accusa in elenco è di bigamia e abbandono. Appare senza dubbio che la difesa, nell’aspirare a confutare quest’ultima accusa, abbia in realtà ammesso la precedente. O Innocent Smith è ancora sotto accusa per tentata effrazione, oppure quella è demolita; ma resta piuttosto ben inchiodato per tentata bigamia. Tutto dipende da quale interpretazione diamo della presunta lettera del curato Percy. In queste condizioni mi sento autorizzato a rivendicare il mio diritto a porre domande. Posso chiedere come la difesa sia entrata in possesso della lettera del curato Percy? È giunta direttamente dal prigioniero?»
«Non abbiamo ricevuto nulla direttamente dal prigioniero», disse Moon con calma. «I pochi documenti che la difesa garantisce ci sono pervenuti da un’altra fonte.»
«Da quale fonte?» chiese il dottor Pym.
«Se insiste», rispose Moon, «li abbiamo avuti dalla signorina Gray.
«Il dottor Cyrus Pym dimenticò del tutto di chiudere gli occhi, e, al contrario, li spalancò moltissimo.
«Vuole davvero dirmi», disse, «che la signorina Gray era in possesso di questo documento attestante l’esistenza di una precedente signora Smith?»
«Proprio così», disse Inglewood, e si sedette.
Il dottore mormorò qualcosa a proposito di infatuazione con voce bassa e dolente, e poi, con visibile difficoltà, riprese le sue osservazioni introduttive.
«Purtroppo la tragica verità rivelata dal racconto del curato Percy è confermata fin troppo schiacciantemente da altri e sconvolgenti documenti in nostro possesso. Di questi il principale e più certo è la testimonianza del giardiniere di Innocent Smith, che era presente al più drammatico e rivelatore dei suoi molti atti di infedeltà coniugale. Il signor Gould, il giardiniere, prego.»
Il signor Gould, con la sua instancabile allegria, si alzò per presentare il giardiniere. Quel funzionario spiegò di aver servito il signore e la signora Innocent Smith quando avevano una piccola casa ai margini di Croydon. Dal racconto del giardiniere, con le sue molte piccole allusioni, Inglewood si convinse di aver visto il luogo. Era uno di quegli angoli di città o di campagna che non si dimenticano, perché sembrava una frontiera. Il giardino era sospeso assai in alto sopra il viottolo, e il suo limite era ripido e tagliente, come una fortezza. Al di là si stendeva un tratto di vera campagna, con un sentiero bianco che vi serpeggiava attraverso, e le radici, i tronchi e i rami di grandi alberi grigi che si contorcevano e si attorcigliavano contro il cielo. Ma, come per affermare che il viottolo stesso era suburbano, si stagliavano nitidamente contro quell’altura grigia e agitata un lampione dipinto di un peculiare verde-giallo e una cassetta postale rossa che sorgeva esattamente all’angolo. Inglewood era certo del luogo; c’era passato venti volte nelle sue passeggiate salutari in bicicletta; aveva sempre oscuramente avvertito che era un posto dove qualcosa poteva accadere. Ma gli venne un vero brivido al pensiero che il volto del suo spaventoso amico o nemico Smith potesse essere apparso, in un momento qualsiasi, al di sopra dei cespugli del giardino, lassù. Il resoconto del giardiniere, diversamente da quello del curato, era del tutto privo di aggettivi ornamentali, per quanti ne possa aver pronunciati in privato mentre lo redigeva. Disse semplicemente che, in una certa mattina, il signor Smith era uscito e si era messo a gingillarsi con un rastrello, come faceva spesso. A volte solleticava il naso del figlio maggiore (aveva due figli); a volte agganciava il rastrello al ramo di un albero, e si issava con orribili scatti ginnici, simili a quelli di un rospo gigante nella sua agonia finale. Mai, a quanto pareva, gli veniva in mente di usare il rastrello per uno qualsiasi dei suoi scopi propri, e il giardiniere, di conseguenza, trattava le sue azioni con freddezza e brevità. Ma il giardiniere era certo che una certa mattina d’ottobre lui (il giardiniere) aveva svoltato l’angolo della casa portando la canna dell’acqua, aveva visto il signor Smith in piedi sul prato con una giacca a righe rosse e bianche (che poteva essere la sua giacca da camera, ma somigliava del pari a un pezzo del suo pigiama), e lo aveva sentito allora e lì gridare alla moglie, che si affacciava dalla finestra della camera da letto sul giardino, queste espressioni decisive e assai sonore:
«Non resto qui un momento di più. Ho un’altra moglie e figli molto migliori a gran distanza da qui. La mia altra moglie ha i capelli più rossi dei tuoi, e il mio altro giardino gode di una posizione ben più bella; e me ne vado da loro.»
Con queste parole, a quanto pare, scagliò il rastrello in alto nel cielo, più in alto di quanto molti avrebbero saputo scoccare una freccia, e lo riafferrò. Poi superò la siepe con un balzo e atterrò in piedi giù nel viottolo sottostante, e s’incamminò su per la strada senza nemmeno un cappello. Buona parte del quadro fu senza dubbio fornita dal ricordo casuale che Inglewood aveva del luogo. Poteva vedere con l’occhio della mente quella grande figura a capo scoperto, col rastrello logoro, incedere spavaldamente su per la tortuosa strada boschiva, lasciandosi dietro il lampione e la cassetta postale. Ma il giardiniere, per parte sua, era del tutto pronto a giurare sulla pubblica confessione di bigamia, sulla temporanea scomparsa del rastrello nel cielo, e sulla scomparsa definitiva dell’uomo su per la strada. Inoltre, essendo un uomo del posto, poteva giurare che, oltre a certe voci locali secondo cui Smith si era imbarcato sulla costa sud-orientale, non se ne era più saputo nulla.
Questa impressione fu, in modo alquanto curioso, suggellata da Michael Moon nelle poche ma chiare frasi con cui aprì la difesa sulla terza accusa. Ben lungi dal negare che Smith fosse fuggito da Croydon e scomparso sul Continente, sembrava pronto a dimostrare tutto questo per conto proprio. «Spero che non siate così insulari», disse, «da non rispettare la parola di un locandiere francese quanto quella di un giardiniere inglese. Con il permesso del signor Inglewood ascolteremo il locandiere francese.»
Before the company had decided the delicate point Inglewood was already reading the account in question. It was in French. It seemed to them to run something like this:—
“Sir,—Yes; I am Durobin of Durobin’s Cafe on the sea-front at Gras, rather north of Dunquerque. I am willing to write all I know of the stranger out of the sea.
“I have no sympathy with eccentrics or poets. A man of sense looks for beauty in things deliberately intended to be beautiful, such as a trim flower-bed or an ivory statuette. One does not permit beauty to pervade one’s whole life, just as one does not pave all the roads with ivory or cover all the fields with geraniums. My faith, but we should miss the onions!
“But whether I read things backwards through my memory, or whether there are indeed atmospheres of psychology which the eye of science cannot as yet pierce, it is the humiliating fact that on that particular evening I felt like a poet—like any little rascal of a poet who drinks absinthe in the mad Montmartre.
“Positively the sea itself looked like absinthe, green and bitter and poisonous. I had never known it look so unfamiliar before. In the sky was that early and stormy darkness that is so depressing to the mind, and the wind blew shrilly round the little lonely coloured kiosk where they sell the newspapers, and along the sand-hills by the shore. There I saw a fishing-boat with a brown sail standing in silently from the sea. It was already quite close, and out of it clambered a man of monstrous stature, who came wading to shore with the water not up to his knees, though it would have reached the hips of many men. He leaned on a long rake or pole, which looked like a trident, and made him look like a Triton. Wet as he was, and with strips of seaweed clinging to him, he walked across to my cafe, and, sitting down at a table outside, asked for cherry brandy, a liqueur which I keep, but is seldom demanded. Then the monster, with great politeness, invited me to partake of a vermouth before my dinner, and we fell into conversation. He had apparently crossed from Kent by a small boat got at a private bargain because of some odd fancy he had for passing promptly in an easterly direction, and not waiting for any of the official boats. He was, he somewhat vaguely explained, looking for a house. When I naturally asked him where the house was, he answered that he did not know; it was on an island; it was somewhere to the east; or, as he expressed it with a hazy and yet impatient gesture, ‘over there.’
“I asked him how, if he did not know the place, he would know it when he saw it. Here he suddenly ceased to be hazy, and became alarmingly minute. He gave a description of the house detailed enough for an auctioneer. I have forgotten nearly all the details except the last two, which were that the lamp-post was painted green, and that there was a red pillar-box at the corner.
“‘A red pillar-box!’ I cried in astonishment. ‘Why, the place must be in England!’
“‘I had forgotten,’ he said, nodding heavily. ‘That is the island’s name.’
“‘But, nom du nom,’ I cried testily, ‘you’ve just come
from England, my boy.’
“‘They SAID it was England,’ said my imbecile, conspiratorially. ‘They said it was Kent. But Kentish men are such liars one can’t believe anything they say.’
“‘Monsieur,’ I said, ‘you must pardon me. I am elderly,
and the fumisteries of the young men are beyond me.
I go by common sense, or, at the largest, by that extension
of applied common sense called science.’
“‘Science!’ cried the stranger. ‘There is only one good thing science ever discovered—a good thing, good tidings of great joy— that the world is round.’
“I told him with civility that his words conveyed no impression to my intelligence. ‘I mean,’ he said, ‘that going right round the world is the shortest way to where you are already.’
“‘Is it not even shorter,’ I asked, ‘to stop where you are?’
“‘No, no, no!’ he cried emphatically. ‘That way is long and very weary. At the end of the world, at the back of the dawn, I shall find the wife I really married and the house that is really mine. And that house will have a greener lamp-post and a redder pillar-box. Do you,’ he asked with a sudden intensity, ‘do you never want to rush out of your house in order to find it?’
“‘No, I think not,’ I replied; ‘reason tells a man from the first to adapt his desires to the probable supply of life. I remain here, content to fulfil the life of man. All my interests are here, and most of my friends, and—’
“‘And yet,’ he cried, starting to his almost terrific height, ‘you made the French Revolution!’
“‘Pardon me,’ I said, ‘I am not quite so elderly. A relative perhaps.’
“‘I mean your sort did!’ exclaimed this personage. ‘Yes, your damned smug, settled, sensible sort made the French Revolution. Oh! I know some say it was no good, and you’re just back where you were before. Why, blast it all, that’s just where we all want to be—back where we were before! That is revolution—going right round! Every revolution, like a repentance, is a return.’
“He was so excited that I waited till he had taken his seat again, and then said something indifferent and soothing; but he struck the tiny table with his colossal fist and went on.
“‘I am going to have a revolution, not a French Revolution, but an English Revolution. God has given to each tribe its own type of mutiny. The Frenchmen march against the citadel of the city together; the Englishman marches to the outskirts of the city, and alone. But I am going to turn the world upside down, too. I’m going to turn myself upside down. I’m going to walk upside down in the cursed upsidedownland of the Antipodes, where trees and men hang head downward in the sky. But my revolution, like yours, like the earth’s, will end up in the holy, happy place— the celestial, incredible place—the place where we were before.’
“With these remarks, which can scarcely be reconciled with reason, he leapt from the seat and strode away into the twilight, swinging his pole and leaving behind him an excessive payment, which also pointed to some loss of mental balance. This is all I know of the episode of the man landed from the fishing-boat, and I hope it may serve the interests of justice.— Accept, Sir, the assurances of the very high consideration, with which I have the honour to be your obedient servant, “Jules Durobin.”
Prima che la compagnia avesse deciso il delicato punto, Inglewood stava già leggendo il resoconto in questione. Era in francese. Pareva loro suonasse pressappoco così:—
“Signore,—Sì; io sono Durobin del Caffè Durobin sul lungomare a Gras, un po’ a nord di Dunquerque. Sono disposto a scrivere tutto ciò che so dello straniero venuto dal mare.
“Non ho alcuna simpatia per gli eccentrici o i poeti. Un uomo di buon senso cerca la bellezza nelle cose deliberatamente destinate a essere belle, come un’aiuola ben curata o una statuetta d’avorio. Non si permette alla bellezza di pervadere l’intera vita, così come non si lastricano tutte le strade d’avorio né si coprono tutti i campi di gerani. In fede mia, ci mancherebbero le cipolle!
“Ma sia che io legga le cose all’indietro attraverso la mia memoria, sia che esistano davvero atmosfere della psiche che l’occhio della scienza non riesce ancora a penetrare, resta il fatto umiliante che quella particolare sera mi sentii come un poeta—come un qualunque piccolo furfante di poeta che beve assenzio nella folle Montmartre.
“Il mare stesso pareva addirittura assenzio, verde e amaro e velenoso. Non l’avevo mai visto così estraneo. Nel cielo c’era quell’oscurità precoce e tempestosa che tanto deprime la mente, e il vento fischiava stridulo intorno al piccolo chiosco solitario e variopinto dove vendono i giornali, e lungo le dune di sabbia presso la riva. Là vidi una barca da pesca con una vela bruna avanzare silenziosa dal mare. Era già assai vicina, e ne discese arrampicandosi un uomo di statura mostruosa, che venne guadando verso la riva con l’acqua che non gli arrivava alle ginocchia, benché avrebbe raggiunto i fianchi di molti uomini. Si appoggiava a un lungo rastrello o palo, che sembrava un tridente, e lo faceva assomigliare a un Tritone. Bagnato com’era, e con strisce d’alga aggrappate addosso, attraversò fino al mio caffè e, sedutosi a un tavolo all’aperto, chiese del cherry brandy, un liquore che tengo, ma di rado richiesto. Poi il mostro, con grande cortesia, mi invitò a prendere un vermouth prima della mia cena, e attaccammo discorso. A quanto pareva aveva attraversato dal Kent con una piccola barca ottenuta con un accordo privato per via di qualche bizzarra fantasia che aveva di procedere prontamente in direzione orientale, senza attendere nessuna delle imbarcazioni ufficiali. Cercava, spiegò in modo alquanto vago, una casa. Quando gli domandai, com’era naturale, dove fosse la casa, rispose che non lo sapeva; era su un’isola; era da qualche parte a oriente; oppure, come si espresse con un gesto nebuloso eppure impaziente, ‘laggiù’.
“Gli chiesi come, se non conosceva il luogo, l’avrebbe riconosciuto vedendolo. Qui d’un tratto cessò di essere nebuloso, e divenne spaventosamente minuzioso. Diede una descrizione della casa abbastanza dettagliata per un banditore. Ho dimenticato quasi tutti i particolari tranne gli ultimi due, che erano che il lampione era dipinto di verde, e che c’era una cassetta postale rossa all’angolo.
“‘Una cassetta postale rossa!’ esclamai stupito. ‘Ma allora il posto dev’essere in Inghilterra!’
“‘L’avevo dimenticato,’ disse, annuendo pesantemente. ‘È il nome dell’isola.’
“‘Ma, nom du nom,’ esclamai spazientito, ‘vieni proprio adesso
dall’Inghilterra, ragazzo mio.’
“‘DICEVANO che era l’Inghilterra,’ disse il mio imbecille, con aria di complotto. ‘Dicevano che era il Kent. Ma gli uomini del Kent sono tali bugiardi che non si può credere a nulla di ciò che dicono.’
“‘Monsieur,’ dissi, ‘dovete perdonarmi. Sono anziano,
e le fumisteries dei giovani mi superano.
Vado per buon senso, o, tutt’al più, per quell’estensione
del buon senso applicato che si chiama scienza.’
“‘Scienza!’ esclamò lo straniero. ‘C’è una sola cosa buona che la scienza abbia mai scoperto—una cosa buona, una buona novella di grande gioia— che il mondo è rotondo.’
“Gli dissi con garbo che le sue parole non trasmettevano alcuna impressione alla mia intelligenza. ‘Voglio dire,’ disse, ‘che fare tutto il giro del mondo è la via più breve per arrivare dove già ti trovi.’
“‘Non è forse ancor più breve,’ chiesi, ‘fermarsi dove si è?’
“‘No, no, no!’ esclamò con enfasi. ‘Quella via è lunga e faticosissima. Alla fine del mondo, dietro l’alba, troverò la moglie che davvero ho sposato e la casa che davvero è mia. E quella casa avrà un lampione più verde e una cassetta postale più rossa. Voi,’ chiese con un’improvvisa intensità, ‘voi non desiderate mai precipitarvi fuori di casa vostra per trovarla?’
“‘No, credo di no,’ risposi; ‘la ragione insegna all’uomo fin da principio ad adattare i propri desideri alla probabile provvista della vita. Io resto qui, contento di compiere la vita dell’uomo. Tutti i miei interessi sono qui, e la maggior parte dei miei amici, e—’
“‘Eppure,’ esclamò, drizzandosi alla sua statura quasi terrificante, ‘voi avete fatto la Rivoluzione francese!’
“‘Perdonatemi,’ dissi, ‘non sono poi così anziano. Un parente, forse.’
“‘Voglio dire che è stata la vostra razza!’ esclamò questo personaggio. ‘Sì, la vostra maledetta razza compiaciuta, assestata, assennata ha fatto la Rivoluzione francese. Oh! So che qualcuno dice che non è servita a nulla, e che siete di nuovo esattamente dov’eravate prima. Ma, accidenti a tutto, è proprio lì che tutti vogliamo essere—di nuovo dov’eravamo prima! Questa è la rivoluzione—fare tutto il giro! Ogni rivoluzione, come un pentimento, è un ritorno.’
“Era così agitato che aspettai finché non si fosse rimesso a sedere, e poi dissi qualcosa di indifferente e rassicurante; ma egli colpì il minuscolo tavolo col suo pugno colossale e proseguì.
“‘Io farò una rivoluzione, non una Rivoluzione francese, ma una Rivoluzione inglese. Dio ha dato a ogni tribù il proprio tipo di ammutinamento. I francesi marciano contro la cittadella della città tutti insieme; l’inglese marcia verso i sobborghi della città, e solo. Ma anch’io metterò il mondo a rovescio. Metterò me stesso a rovescio. Camminerò a testa in giù nel maledetto paese capovolto degli Antipodi, dove alberi e uomini pendono a testa in giù nel cielo. Ma la mia rivoluzione, come la vostra, come quella della terra, finirà nel luogo santo e felice— il luogo celeste, incredibile—il luogo dove eravamo prima.’
“Con queste osservazioni, che a stento si conciliano con la ragione, balzò dal sedile e si allontanò a grandi passi nel crepuscolo, facendo roteare il suo palo e lasciandosi dietro un pagamento eccessivo, che pure indicava una certa perdita di equilibrio mentale. Questo è tutto ciò che so dell’episodio dell’uomo sbarcato dalla barca da pesca, e spero possa servire agli interessi della giustizia.— Gradite, Signore, le assicurazioni dell’altissima considerazione, con la quale ho l’onore di essere il vostro obbediente servitore, “Jules Durobin.”
“The next document in our dossier,” continued Inglewood, “comes from the town of Crazok, in the central plains of Russia, and runs as follows:—
“Sir,—My name is Paul Nickolaiovitch: I am the stationmaster at the station near Crazok. The great trains go by across the plains taking people to China, but very few people get down at the platform where I have to watch. This makes my life rather lonely, and I am thrown back much upon the books I have. But I cannot discuss these very much with my neighbours, for enlightened ideas have not spread in this part of Russia so much as in other parts. Many of the peasants round here have never heard of Bernard Shaw.
“I am a Liberal, and do my best to spread Liberal ideas; but since the failure of the revolution this has been even more difficult. The revolutionists committed many acts contrary to the pure principles of humanitarianism, with which indeed, owing to the scarcity of books, they were ill acquainted. I did not approve of these cruel acts, though provoked by the tyranny of the government; but now there is a tendency to reproach all Intelligents with the memory of them. This is very unfortunate for Intelligents.
“It was when the railway strike was almost over, and a few trains came through at long intervals, that I stood one day watching a train that had come in. Only one person got out of the train, far away up at the other end of it, for it was a very long train. It was evening, with a cold, greenish sky. A little snow had fallen, but not enough to whiten the plain, which stretched away a sort of sad purple in all directions, save where the flat tops of some distant tablelands caught the evening light like lakes. As the solitary man came stamping along on the thin snow by the train he grew larger and larger; I thought I had never seen so large a man. But he looked even taller than he was, I think, because his shoulders were very big and his head comparatively little. From the big shoulders hung a tattered old jacket, striped dull red and dirty white, very thin for the winter, and one hand rested on a huge pole such as peasants rake in weeds with to burn them.
“Before he had traversed the full length of the train he was entangled in one of those knots of rowdies that were the embers of the extinct revolution, though they mostly disgraced themselves upon the government side. I was just moving to his assistance, when he whirled up his rake and laid out right and left with such energy that he came through them without scathe and strode right up to me, leaving them staggered and really astonished.
“Yet when he reached me, after so abrupt an assertion of his aim, he could only say rather dubiously in French that he wanted a house.
“‘There are not many houses to be had round here,’ I answered in the same language, ‘the district has been very disturbed. A revolution, as you know, has recently been suppressed. Any further building—’
“‘Oh! I don’t mean that,’ he cried; ‘I mean a real house—a live house. It really is a live house, for it runs away from me.’
“‘I am ashamed to say that something in his phrase or gesture moved me profoundly. We Russians are brought up in an atmosphere of folk-lore, and its unfortunate effects can still be seen in the bright colours of the children’s dolls and of the ikons. For an instant the idea of a house running away from a man gave me pleasure, for the enlightenment of man moves slowly.
“‘Have you no other house of your own?’ I asked.
“‘I have left it,’ he said very sadly. ‘It was not the house that grew dull, but I that grew dull in it. My wife was better than all women, and yet I could not feel it.’
“‘And so,’ I said with sympathy, ‘you walked straight out of the front door, like a masculine Nora.’
“‘Nora?’ he inquired politely, apparently supposing it to be a Russian word.
“‘I mean Nora in “The Doll’s House,”’ I replied.
“At this he looked very much astonished, and I knew he was an Englishman; for Englishmen always think that Russians study nothing but ‘ukases.’
”‘“The Doll’s House”?’ he cried vehemently; ‘why, that is just where Ibsen was so wrong! Why, the whole aim of a house is to be a doll’s house. Don’t you remember, when you were a child, how those little windows WERE windows, while the big windows weren’t. A child has a doll’s house, and shrieks when a front door opens inwards. A banker has a real house, yet how numerous are the bankers who fail to emit the faintest shriek when their real front doors open inwards.’
“Something from the folk-lore of my infancy still kept me foolishly silent; and before I could speak, the Englishman had leaned over and was saying in a sort of loud whisper, ‘I have found out how to make a big thing small. I have found out how to turn a house into a doll’s house. Get a long way off it: God lets us turn all things into toys by his great gift of distance. Once let me see my old brick house standing up quite little against the horizon, and I shall want to go back to it again. I shall see the funny little toy lamp-post painted green against the gate, and all the dear little people like dolls looking out of the window. For the windows really open in my doll’s house.’
“‘But why?’ I asked, ‘should you wish to return to that particular doll’s house? Having taken, like Nora, the bold step against convention, having made yourself in the conventional sense disreputable, having dared to be free, why should you not take advantage of your freedom? As the greatest modern writers have pointed out, what you called your marriage was only your mood. You have a right to leave it all behind, like the clippings of your hair or the parings of your nails. Having once escaped, you have the world before you. Though the words may seem strange to you, you are free in Russia.’
“He sat with his dreamy eyes on the dark circles of the plains, where the only moving thing was the long and labouring trail of smoke out of the railway engine, violet in tint, volcanic in outline, the one hot and heavy cloud of that cold clear evening of pale green.
«Il documento successivo del nostro incartamento,» proseguì Inglewood, «proviene dalla cittadina di Crazok, nelle pianure centrali della Russia, e recita così:—
«Signore,—Il mio nome è Paul Nickolaiovitch: sono il capostazione della stazione presso Crazok. I grandi treni passano attraverso le pianure portando gente in Cina, ma pochissimi scendono sul marciapiede che io devo sorvegliare. Questo rende la mia vita piuttosto solitaria, e sono costretto a ripiegare molto sui libri che possiedo. Ma non posso discuterne granché con i miei vicini, perché le idee illuminate non si sono diffuse in questa parte della Russia tanto quanto in altre. Molti dei contadini di qui non hanno mai sentito parlare di Bernard Shaw.
«Sono un Liberale, e faccio del mio meglio per diffondere le idee liberali; ma dopo il fallimento della rivoluzione ciò è divenuto ancora più difficile. I rivoluzionari commisero molti atti contrari ai puri princìpi dell’umanitarismo, coi quali del resto, data la scarsità di libri, avevano scarsa dimestichezza. Io non approvavo quegli atti crudeli, benché provocati dalla tirannia del governo; ma ora vi è la tendenza a rimproverare a tutti gli Intelligenti il ricordo di essi. Il che è assai sfortunato per gli Intelligenti.
«Fu quando lo sciopero ferroviario era quasi finito, e pochi treni passavano a lunghi intervalli, che un giorno mi trovai a osservare un treno appena arrivato. Una sola persona scese dal treno, laggiù in fondo, all’altra estremità, poiché era un treno molto lungo. Era sera, con un cielo freddo e verdastro. Era caduta un po’ di neve, ma non abbastanza da imbiancare la pianura, che si stendeva d’una sorta di triste violaceo in ogni direzione, salvo dove le sommità piatte di alcuni altipiani lontani coglievano la luce della sera come laghi. Mentre l’uomo solitario avanzava battendo i piedi sulla neve sottile lungo il treno, si faceva sempre più grande; mi parve di non aver mai visto un uomo così grande. Ma sembrava persino più alto di quanto fosse, credo, perché le sue spalle erano assai larghe e la testa relativamente piccola. Dalle grandi spalle pendeva una vecchia giacca sbrindellata, a righe d’un rosso spento e d’un bianco sudicio, molto leggera per l’inverno, e una mano posava su un enorme palo simile a quelli con cui i contadini rastrellano le erbacce per bruciarle.
«Prima che avesse percorso l’intera lunghezza del treno, si trovò impigliato in uno di quei capannelli di teppisti che erano le braci della rivoluzione ormai spenta, sebbene per lo più si disonorassero dalla parte del governo. Stavo giusto muovendomi in suo soccorso, quando egli fece roteare il rastrello e menò colpi a destra e a manca con tale energia che ne uscì incolume e mi venne dritto incontro, lasciandoli storditi e davvero attoniti.
«Eppure quando mi raggiunse, dopo un’affermazione tanto brusca del suo intento, non seppe dire che dubbiosamente, in francese, di volere una casa.
«‘Non ci sono molte case disponibili da queste parti,’ risposi nella medesima lingua, ‘il distretto è stato molto turbato. Una rivoluzione, come sapete, è stata di recente soffocata. Qualunque ulteriore costruzione—’
«‘Oh! non intendo questo,’ esclamò; ‘intendo una vera casa—una casa viva. È proprio una casa viva, perché scappa via da me.’
«‘Mi vergogno di dirlo, ma qualcosa nella sua frase o nel suo gesto mi commosse profondamente. Noi Russi siamo cresciuti in un’atmosfera di folclore, e i suoi sfortunati effetti si possono ancora scorgere nei colori vivaci delle bambole dei bambini e delle icone. Per un istante l’idea di una casa che scappa via da un uomo mi diede piacere, poiché l’illuminazione dell’uomo procede lenta.
«‘Non avete nessun’altra casa vostra?’ domandai.
«‘L’ho lasciata,’ disse assai tristemente. ‘Non era la casa a essere divenuta scialba, ma io a divenire scialbo in essa. Mia moglie era migliore di tutte le donne, eppure io non riuscivo a sentirlo.’
«‘E così,’ dissi con simpatia, ‘siete uscito dritto dalla porta d’ingresso, come una Nora al maschile.’
«‘Nora?’ s’informò cortesemente, supponendola a quanto pare una parola russa.
«‘Intendo Nora in “Casa di bambola,”’ replicai.
«A questo parve oltremodo stupito, e capii che era un Inglese; perché gli Inglesi credono sempre che i Russi non studino altro che ‘ukaz.’
«‘“Casa di bambola”?’ esclamò con veemenza; ‘ma è proprio lì che Ibsen sbagliava di grosso! Perché, lo scopo intero di una casa è di essere una casa di bambola. Non ricordate, quando eravate bambino, come quelle piccole finestre ERANO finestre, mentre le grandi finestre non lo erano? Un bambino ha una casa di bambola, e strilla quando una porta d’ingresso si apre verso l’interno. Un banchiere ha una casa vera, eppure quanto numerosi sono i banchieri che non riescono a emettere il più flebile strillo quando le loro vere porte d’ingresso si aprono verso l’interno.’
«Qualcosa del folclore della mia infanzia mi tratteneva ancora in uno sciocco silenzio; e prima che potessi parlare, l’Inglese si era chinato e stava dicendo in una sorta di forte sussurro: ‘Ho scoperto come rendere piccola una cosa grande. Ho scoperto come mutare una casa in una casa di bambola. Allontanatevene di molto: Dio ci concede di mutare ogni cosa in giocattolo col suo grande dono della distanza. Lasciate che veda una volta la mia vecchia casa di mattoni ergersi ben piccola contro l’orizzonte, e vorrò tornarvi di nuovo. Vedrò il buffo lampioncino giocattolo dipinto di verde contro il cancello, e tutta la cara gente minuta simile a bambole affacciata alla finestra. Perché le finestre si aprono davvero nella mia casa di bambola.’
«‘Ma perché,’ domandai, ‘dovreste desiderare di tornare a quella particolare casa di bambola? Avendo compiuto, come Nora, l’audace passo contro le convenzioni, essendovi reso disonorevole nel senso convenzionale, avendo osato essere libero, perché non dovreste approfittare della vostra libertà? Come i massimi scrittori moderni hanno rilevato, ciò che chiamavate il vostro matrimonio era soltanto il vostro umore. Avete il diritto di lasciarvelo tutto alle spalle, come i ritagli dei vostri capelli o i frammenti delle vostre unghie. Una volta fuggito, avete il mondo dinanzi a voi. Per quanto le parole possano parervi strane, siete libero in Russia.’
«Sedeva con gli occhi sognanti sui cerchi oscuri delle pianure, dove l’unica cosa in movimento era la lunga e faticosa scia di fumo della locomotiva, di tinta violacea, di profilo vulcanico, l’unica nube calda e greve di quella fredda sera limpida d’un verde pallido.
“‘Yes,’ he said with a huge sigh, ‘I am free in Russia. You are right. I could really walk into that town over there and have love all over again, and perhaps marry some beautiful woman and begin again, and nobody could ever find me. Yes, you have certainly convinced me of something.’
“His tone was so queer and mystical that I felt impelled to ask him what he meant, and of what exactly I had convinced him.
“‘You have convinced me,’ he said with the same dreamy eye, ‘why it is really wicked and dangerous for a man to run away from his wife.’
“‘And why is it dangerous?’ I inquired.
“‘Why, because nobody can find him,’ answered this odd person, ‘and we all want to be found.’
“‘The most original modern thinkers,’ I remarked, ‘Ibsen, Gorki, Nietzsche, Shaw, would all rather say that what we want most is to be lost: to find ourselves in untrodden paths, and to do unprecedented things: to break with the past and belong to the future.’
“He rose to his whole height somewhat sleepily, and looked round on what was, I confess, a somewhat desolate scene—the dark purple plains, the neglected railroad, the few ragged knots of malcontents. ‘I shall not find the house here,’ he said. ‘It is still eastward— further and further eastward.’
“Then he turned upon me with something like fury, and struck the foot of his pole upon the frozen earth.
“‘And if I do go back to my country,’ he cried, ‘I may be locked up in a madhouse before I reach my own house. I have been a bit unconventional in my time! Why, Nietzsche stood in a row of ramrods in the silly old Prussian army, and Shaw takes temperance beverages in the suburbs; but the things I do are unprecedented things. This round road I am treading is an untrodden path. I do believe in breaking out; I am a revolutionist. But don’t you see that all these real leaps and destructions and escapes are only attempts to get back to Eden— to something we have had, to something we at least have heard of? Don’t you see one only breaks the fence or shoots the moon in order to get HOME?’
“‘No,’ I answered after due reflection, ‘I don’t think I should accept that.’
“‘Ah,’ he said with a sort of a sigh, ‘then you have explained a second thing to me.’
“‘What do you mean?’ I asked; ‘what thing?’
“‘Why your revolution has failed,’ he said; and walking across quite suddenly to the train he got into it just as it was steaming away at last. And as I saw the long snaky tail of it disappear along the darkening flats.
“I saw no more of him. But though his views were adverse to the best advanced thought, he struck me as an interesting person: I should like to find out if he has produced any literary works.—Yours, etc.,
“Paul Nickolaiovitch.”
There was something in this odd set of glimpses into foreign lives which kept the absurd tribunal quieter than it had hitherto been, and it was again without interruption that Inglewood opened another paper upon his pile. “The Court will be indulgent,” he said, “if the next note lacks the special ceremonies of our letter-writing. It is ceremonious enough in its own way:—
“The Celestial Principles are permanent: Greeting.—I am Wong-Hi, and I tend the temple of all the ancestors of my family in the forest of Fu. The man that broke through the sky and came to me said that it must be very dull, but I showed him the wrongness of his thought. I am indeed in one place, for my uncle took me to this temple when I was a boy, and in this I shall doubtless die. But if a man remain in one place he shall see that the place changes. The pagoda of my temple stands up silently out of all the trees, like a yellow pagoda above many green pagodas. But the skies are sometimes blue like porcelain, and sometimes green like jade, and sometimes red like garnet. But the night is always ebony and always returns, said the Emperor Ho.
“The sky-breaker came at evening very suddenly, for I had hardly seen any stirring in the tops of the green trees over which I look as over a sea, when I go to the top of the temple at morning. And yet when he came, it was as if an elephant had strayed from the armies of the great kings of India. For palms snapped, and bamboos broke, and there came forth in the sunshine before the temple one taller than the sons of men.
“Strips of red and white hung about him like ribbons of a carnival, and he carried a pole with a row of teeth on it like the teeth of a dragon. His face was white and discomposed, after the fashion of the foreigners, so that they look like dead men filled with devils; and he spoke our speech brokenly.
“He said to me, ‘This is only a temple; I am trying to find a house.’ And then he told me with indelicate haste that the lamp outside his house was green, and that there was a red post at the corner of it.
“‘I have not seen your house nor any houses,’ I answered. ‘I dwell in this temple and serve the gods.’
“‘Do you believe in the gods?’ he asked with hunger in his eyes, like the hunger of dogs. And this seemed to me a strange question to ask, for what should a man do except what men have done?
“‘My Lord,’ I said, ‘it must be good for men to hold up their hands even if the skies are empty. For if there are gods, they will be pleased, and if there are none, then there are none to be displeased. Sometimes the skies are gold and sometimes porphyry and sometimes ebony, but the trees and the temple stand still under it all. So the great Confucius taught us that if we do always the same things with our hands and our feet as do the wise beasts and birds, with our heads we may think many things: yes, my Lord, and doubt many things. So long as men offer rice at the right season, and kindle lanterns at the right hour, it matters little whether there be gods or no. For these things are not to appease gods, but to appease men.’
“He came yet closer to me, so that he seemed enormous; yet his look was very gentle.
“‘Break your temple,’ he said, ‘and your gods will be freed.’
“‘Sì,’ disse con un enorme sospiro, ‘io sono libero in Russia. Avete ragione. Potrei davvero incamminarmi verso quella città laggiù e ricominciare da capo con l’amore, e forse sposare qualche bella donna e ricominciare tutto, e nessuno potrebbe mai ritrovarmi. Sì, di certo mi avete convinto di qualcosa.’
“Il suo tono era così strano e mistico che mi sentii spinto a chiedergli che cosa intendesse, e di che cosa esattamente lo avessi convinto.
“‘Mi avete convinto,’ disse con quello stesso occhio sognante, ‘del perché sia davvero malvagio e pericoloso per un uomo fuggire dalla propria moglie.’
“‘E perché è pericoloso?’ domandai.
“‘Ma perché nessuno può ritrovarlo,’ rispose quello strano individuo, ‘e tutti noi desideriamo essere ritrovati.’
“‘I più originali pensatori moderni,’ osservai, ‘Ibsen, Gorki, Nietzsche, Shaw, direbbero piuttosto che ciò che più desideriamo è perderci: ritrovarci su sentieri mai calcati, e compiere cose senza precedenti: rompere col passato e appartenere al futuro.’
“Si levò in tutta la sua statura in modo un po’ sonnolento, e volse lo sguardo su quella che era, lo confesso, una scena piuttosto desolata: le pianure di un cupo violetto, la ferrovia abbandonata, i pochi laceri capannelli di malcontenti. ‘Non troverò la casa qui,’ disse. ‘È ancora più a oriente… sempre più e più a oriente.’
“Poi si volse verso di me con qualcosa di simile alla furia, e battè il piede del suo palo sulla terra gelata.
“‘E se davvero torno al mio paese,’ gridò, ‘potrei essere rinchiuso in un manicomio prima di raggiungere la mia stessa casa. Sono stato un po’ anticonformista ai miei tempi! Ma vedete, Nietzsche stava impettito in fila come una bacchetta nel vecchio, sciocco esercito prussiano, e Shaw sorseggia bevande temperanti in periferia; ma le cose che faccio io sono cose senza precedenti. Questa strada circolare che sto percorrendo è un sentiero mai calcato. Io credo davvero nell’evadere; sono un rivoluzionario. Ma non capite che tutti questi veri salti e distruzioni e fughe non sono altro che tentativi di tornare all’Eden… a qualcosa che abbiamo avuto, a qualcosa di cui almeno abbiamo sentito parlare? Non capite che si scavalca la staccionata o si punta alla luna soltanto per tornare a CASA?’
“‘No,’ risposi dopo la dovuta riflessione, ‘non credo che potrei accettarlo.’
“‘Ah,’ disse con una sorta di sospiro, ‘allora mi avete spiegato una seconda cosa.’
“‘Che cosa intendete?’ chiesi; ‘quale cosa?’
“‘Ma perché la vostra rivoluzione è fallita,’ disse; e attraversando del tutto d’improvviso verso il treno vi salì proprio mentre finalmente si allontanava sbuffando. E mentre vedevo la lunga coda serpentina di esso sparire lungo le pianure che si oscuravano.
“Non lo vidi più. Ma per quanto le sue idee fossero contrarie al miglior pensiero avanzato, mi colpì come una persona interessante: mi piacerebbe scoprire se ha prodotto qualche opera letteraria. —Vostro, ecc.,
“Paul Nickolaiovitch.”
C’era qualcosa in questa strana serie di scorci su vite straniere che tenne l’assurdo tribunale più tranquillo di quanto fosse stato finora, e fu di nuovo senza interruzioni che Inglewood aprì un altro foglio dalla sua pila. “La Corte sarà indulgente,” disse, “se la prossima nota difetta delle particolari cerimonie del nostro modo di scrivere lettere. È abbastanza cerimoniosa a modo suo:—
“I Principi Celesti sono permanenti: Salute.—Io sono Wong-Hi, e custodisco il tempio di tutti gli antenati della mia famiglia nella foresta di Fu. L’uomo che sfondò il cielo e venne da me disse che doveva essere ben tedioso, ma io gli mostrai l’errore del suo pensiero. Io sto invero in un solo luogo, poiché mio zio mi condusse a questo tempio quand’ero fanciullo, e in esso senza dubbio morirò. Ma se un uomo rimane in un solo luogo vedrà che quel luogo muta. La pagoda del mio tempio si erge silenziosa al di sopra di tutti gli alberi, come una pagoda gialla sopra molte pagode verdi. Ma i cieli sono a volte azzurri come la porcellana, e a volte verdi come la giada, e a volte rossi come il granato. Ma la notte è sempre d’ebano e sempre ritorna, disse l’Imperatore Ho.
“Colui che sfonda il cielo venne di sera all’improvviso, poiché avevo appena scorto un fremito nelle cime dei verdi alberi su cui volgo lo sguardo come su un mare, quando salgo in cima al tempio al mattino. Eppure quando venne, fu come se un elefante si fosse smarrito dagli eserciti dei grandi re dell’India. Poiché le palme si spezzarono, e i bambù si ruppero, e apparve nel sole dinanzi al tempio uno più alto dei figli degli uomini.
“Strisce rosse e bianche gli pendevano addosso come nastri di un carnevale, e portava un palo con una fila di denti come i denti di un drago. Il suo volto era bianco e sconvolto, alla maniera degli stranieri, sicché somigliano a morti pieni di demoni; e parlava la nostra lingua in modo stentato.
“Mi disse: ‘Questo è soltanto un tempio; io sto cercando una casa.’ E poi mi raccontò con sconveniente fretta che la lampada fuori dalla sua casa era verde, e che c’era un palo rosso all’angolo di essa.
“‘Non ho visto la vostra casa né alcuna casa,’ risposi. ‘Io dimoro in questo tempio e servo gli dèi.’
“‘Credete negli dèi?’ chiese con la fame negli occhi, come la fame dei cani. E questa mi parve una strana domanda da porre, poiché che cosa dovrebbe fare un uomo se non ciò che gli uomini hanno fatto?
“‘Mio Signore,’ dissi, ‘dev’essere bene per gli uomini levare le mani anche se i cieli sono vuoti. Poiché se vi sono dèi, ne saranno compiaciuti, e se non ve ne sono, allora non ve n’è alcuno da scontentare. A volte i cieli sono d’oro e a volte di porfido e a volte d’ebano, ma gli alberi e il tempio restano immobili sotto tutto ciò. Così il grande Confucio ci insegnò che se facciamo sempre le stesse cose con le mani e coi piedi come fanno le sagge bestie e gli uccelli, con la testa possiamo pensare molte cose: sì, mio Signore, e dubitare di molte cose. Finché gli uomini offrono riso nella giusta stagione, e accendono lanterne nell’ora giusta, poco importa se vi siano dèi o no. Poiché queste cose non servono a placare gli dèi, ma a placare gli uomini.’
“Si fece ancora più vicino a me, sicché parve enorme; eppure il suo sguardo era assai gentile.
“‘Spezza il tuo tempio,’ disse, ‘e i tuoi dèi saranno liberati.’
“And I, smiling at his simplicity, answered: ‘And so, if there be no gods, I shall have nothing but a broken temple.’
“And at this, that giant from whom the light of reason was withheld threw out his mighty arms and asked me to forgive him. And when I asked him for what he should be forgiven he answered: ‘For being right.’
“‘Your idols and emperors are so old and wise and satisfying,’ he cried, ‘it is a shame that they should be wrong. We are so vulgar and violent, we have done you so many iniquities— it is a shame we should be right after all.’
“And I, still enduring his harmlessness, asked him why he thought that he and his people were right.
“And he answered: ‘We are right because we are bound where men should be bound, and free where men should be free. We are right because we doubt and destroy laws and customs— but we do not doubt our own right to destroy them. For you live by customs, but we live by creeds. Behold me! In my country I am called Smip. My country is abandoned, my name is defiled, because I pursue around the world what really belongs to me. You are steadfast as the trees because you do not believe. I am as fickle as the tempest because I do believe. I do believe in my own house, which I shall find again. And at the last remaineth the green lantern and the red post.’
“I said to him: ‘At the last remaineth only wisdom.’
“But even as I said the word he uttered a horrible shout, and rushing forward disappeared among the trees. I have not seen this man again nor any other man. The virtues of the wise are of fine brass. “Wong-Hi.”
“The next letter I have to read,” proceeded Arthur Inglewood, “will probably make clear the nature of our client’s curious but innocent experiment. It is dated from a mountain village in California, and runs as follows:—
“Sir,—A person answering to the rather extraordinary description required certainly went, some time ago, over the high pass of the Sierras on which I live and of which I am probably the sole stationary inhabitant. I keep a rudimentary tavern, rather ruder than a hut, on the very top of this specially steep and threatening pass. My name is Louis Hara, and the very name may puzzle you about my nationality. Well, it puzzles me a great deal. When one has been for fifteen years without society it is hard to have patriotism; and where there is not even a hamlet it is difficult to invent a nation. My father was an Irishman of the fiercest and most free-shooting of the old Californian kind. My mother was a Spaniard, proud of descent from the old Spanish families round San Francisco, yet accused for all that of some admixture of Red Indian blood. I was well educated and fond of music and books. But, like many other hybrids, I was too good or too bad for the world; and after attempting many things I was glad enough to get a sufficient though a lonely living in this little cabaret in the mountains. In my solitude I fell into many of the ways of a savage. Like an Eskimo, I was shapeless in winter; like a Red Indian, I wore in hot summers nothing but a pair of leather trousers, with a great straw hat as big as a parasol to defend me from the sun. I had a bowie knife at my belt and a long gun under my arm; and I dare say I produced a pretty wild impression on the few peaceable travellers that could climb up to my place. But I promise you I never looked as mad as that man did. Compared with him I was Fifth Avenue.
“I dare say that living under the very top of the Sierras has an odd effect on the mind; one tends to think of those lonely rocks not as peaks coming to a point, but rather as pillars holding up heaven itself. Straight cliffs sail up and away beyond the hope of the eagles; cliffs so tall that they seem to attract the stars and collect them as sea-crags collect a mere glitter of phosphorous. These terraces and towers of rock do not, like smaller crests, seem to be the end of the world. Rather they seem to be its awful beginning: its huge foundations. We could almost fancy the mountain branching out above us like a tree of stone, and carrying all those cosmic lights like a candelabrum. For just as the peaks failed us, soaring impossibly far, so the stars crowded us (as it seemed), coming impossibly near. The spheres burst about us more like thunderbolts hurled at the earth than planets circling placidly about it.
“All this may have driven me mad; I am not sure. I know there is one angle of the road down the pass where the rock leans out a little, and on windy nights I seem to hear it clashing overhead with other rocks— yes, city against city and citadel against citadel, far up into the night. It was on such an evening that the strange man struggled up the pass. Broadly speaking, only strange men did struggle up the pass. But I had never seen one like this one before.
“He carried (I cannot conceive why) a long, dilapidated garden rake, all bearded and bedraggled with grasses, so that it looked like the ensign of some old barbarian tribe. His hair, which was as long and rank as the grass, hung down below his huge shoulders; and such clothes as clung about him were rags and tongues of red and yellow, so that he had the air of being dressed like an Indian in feathers or autumn leaves. The rake or pitchfork, or whatever it was, he used sometimes as an alpenstock, sometimes (I was told) as a weapon. I do not know why he should have used it as a weapon, for he had, and afterwards showed me, an excellent six-shooter in his pocket. ‘But THAT,’ he said, ‘I use only for peaceful purposes.’ I have no notion what he meant.
“He sat down on the rough bench outside my inn and drank some wine from the vineyards below, sighing with ecstasy over it like one who had travelled long among alien, cruel things and found at last something that he knew. Then he sat staring rather foolishly at the rude lantern of lead and coloured glass that hangs over my door. It is old, but of no value; my grandmother gave it to me long ago: she was devout, and it happens that the glass is painted with a crude picture of Bethlehem and the Wise Men and the Star. He seemed so mesmerized with the transparent glow of Our Lady’s blue gown and the big gold star behind, that he led me also to look at the thing, which I had not done for fourteen years.
E io, sorridendo della sua semplicità, risposi: «E così, se non ci sono dei, non avrò altro che un tempio in rovina».
“E a questo punto quel gigante al quale era stata negata la luce della ragione allargò le sue possenti braccia e mi chiese di perdonarlo. E quando gli domandai per cosa dovesse essere perdonato, egli rispose: «Per aver ragione».
«I vostri idoli e imperatori sono così vecchi e saggi e soddisfacenti», esclamò «è un peccato che abbiano torto. Noi siamo così volgari e violenti, vi abbiamo fatto tante ingiustizie— è un peccato che alla fine avessimo ragione.»
E io, continuando a sopportare la sua innocuità, gli chiesi perché pensasse che lui e il suo popolo avessero ragione.
Egli rispose: «Abbiamo ragione perché siamo legati dove gli uomini dovrebbero essere legati e liberi dove gli uomini dovrebbero essere liberi. Abbiamo ragione perché dubitiamo e distruggiamo leggi e costumi, ma non dubitiamo del nostro diritto di distruggerli. Voi vivete secondo i costumi, noi viviamo secondo le credenze. Guardatemi! Nel mio paese mi chiamano Smip. Il mio paese è abbandonato, il mio nome è macchiato perché io inseguo in giro per il mondo ciò che mi appartiene veramente. Voi siete fermi come gli alberi perché non credete. Io sono mutevole come la tempesta perché credo. Credo nella mia casa, che ritroverò. E alla fine rimane la lanterna verde e il palo rosso».
Gli dissi: «Alla fine rimane solo la saggezza».
«Ma mentre pronunciavo queste parole, emise un urlo orribile e, precipitandosi avanti, scomparve tra gli alberi. Non ho più rivisto quell’uomo né altri uomini. Le virtù dei saggi sono di ottone fine. Wong-Hi.»
“La prossima lettera che devo leggere,” continuò Arthur Inglewood, “probabilmente chiarirà la natura dell’esperimento curioso ma innocente del nostro cliente. È datata da un villaggio di montagna in California e recita come segue:—
“Signore,—Una persona che corrispondeva alla piuttosto straordinaria descrizione richiesta attraversò certamente qualche tempo fa il passo montano delle Sierras su cui vivo e di cui sono probabilmente l’unico abitante stanziale. Gestisco una taverna rudimentale, più rudimentale di una capanna, proprio in cima a questo passo particolarmente ripido e minaccioso. Mi chiamo Louis Hara, e il nome stesso potrebbe confonderla riguardo alla mia nazionalità. Beh, mi confonde parecchio anche me. Dopo quindici anni senza compagnia è difficile avere un senso di patriottismo; e dove non c’è nemmeno un borghetto è difficile inventarsi una nazione. Mio padre era un irlandese del tipo più feroce e propenso agli spari dei vecchi californiani. Mia madre era una spagnola, orgogliosa della sua discendenza dalle antiche famiglie spagnole intorno a San Francisco, ma accusata per questo di avere qualche mescolanza di sangue indiano rosso. Io fui bene istruito e amavo la musica e i libri. Ma come molti altri ibridi ero troppo buono o troppo cattivo per il mondo; dopo aver tentato molte cose, mi accontentai di guadagnarmi da vivere in modo sufficiente sebbene solitario con questo piccolo cabaret tra le montagne. Nella mia solitudine caddi in molti dei modi di un selvaggio. Come un eschimese, ero senza forma d’inverno; come un indiano rosso, d’estate calda portavo solo un paio di pantaloni di pelle e un grande cappello di paglia grande quanto un ombrello per proteggermi dal sole. Avevo un coltello bowie alla cintura e un fucile lungo sotto il braccio; e credo di aver fatto una bella impressione selvaggia sui pochi viaggiatori pacifici che riuscivano a salire fino al mio posto. Ma le prometto che non avevo mai l’aspetto folle come quello dell’uomo in questione. Rispetto a lui ero la Fifth Avenue.”
Oso dire che vivere proprio sotto la cima delle Sierras ha un effetto strano sulla mente; si tende a pensare a quelle rocce solitarie non come a vette appuntite, ma piuttosto come pilastri che sostengono lo stesso cielo. Dirupi verticali salgono e si allontanano oltre la speranza degli aquili; dirupi così alti da sembrare attrarre le stelle e raccoglierle come gli scogli marini raccolgono un semplice bagliore di fosforo. Queste terrazze e torri di roccia non appaiono, a differenza delle creste più piccole, la fine del mondo. Piuttosto sembrano il suo terribile inizio: le sue enormi fondamenta. Potremmo quasi immaginare che la montagna si dirami sopra di noi come un albero di pietra e porti tutte quelle luci cosmiche come un candelabro. Infatti, proprio come le vette ci hanno deluso, innalzandosi in modo impossibilmente lontano, così le stelle ci hanno assediato (così sembrava), avvicinandosi in modo incredibile. Le sfere scoppiarono intorno a noi più come fulmini scagliati contro la terra che pianeti che vi ruotavano placidamente attorno.
“Tutto questo potrebbe avermi fatto impazzire; non ne sono sicuro. So che c’è un punto della strada nella gola dove la roccia sporge leggermente, e nelle notti ventose mi sembra di sentirla scontrarsi sopra di me con altre rocce — sì, città contro città e cittadella contro cittadella, fino in fondo alla notte. Fu una sera così che lo strano uomo si arrampicò faticosamente nella gola. In generale, solo uomini strani lottavano per salire la gola. Ma non ne avevo mai visto uno come questo prima d’ora.”
Portava (non riesco a capire perché) un lungo rastrello da giardino malandato, tutto impigliato e imbrattato di erba, tanto che sembrava l’insegna di qualche vecchia tribù barbara. I suoi capelli, lunghi e scarmigliati come l’erba, gli cadevano sotto le enormi spalle; e i vestiti che gli aderivano addosso erano stracci e brandelli rossi e gialli, tanto che sembrava vestito come un indiano con piume o autunnali foglie. Il rastrello o la forca, o qualsiasi cosa fosse, lo usava a volte come un alpenstock, altre (mi dissero) come arma. Non so perché avrebbe dovuto usarlo come arma, dato che aveva, e in seguito mi mostrò, una splendida pistola a sei colpi in tasca. «Ma QUESTA», disse, «la uso solo per scopi pacifici». Non ho idea di cosa intendesse.
Si sedette sulla grezza panca fuori dalla mia locanda e bevve del vino dai vigneti sottostanti, sospirando di estasi come uno che avesse viaggiato a lungo tra cose aliene e crudeli e avesse finalmente trovato qualcosa che conosceva. Poi si mise a fissare piuttosto stupidamente la rozza lanterna di piombo e vetro colorato che pende sopra la mia porta. È vecchia, ma senza valore; me l’ha data mia nonna tanto tempo fa: era devota, ed è capitato che il vetro sia dipinto con un grezzo ritratto di Betlemme e i Re Magi e la Stella. Sembrava così ammaliato dallo splendore trasparente dell’abito blu della Madonna e della grande stella dorata sullo sfondo, che mi portò anche a guardare quella cosa, cosa che non facevo da quattordici anni.
“Then he slowly withdrew his eyes from this and looked out eastward where the road fell away below us. The sunset sky was a vault of rich velvet, fading away into mauve and silver round the edges of the dark mountain amphitheatre; and between us and the ravine below rose up out of the deeps and went up into the heights the straight solitary rock we call Green Finger. Of a queer volcanic colour, and wrinkled all over with what looks undecipherable writing, it hung there like a Babylonian pillar or needle.
“The man silently stretched out his rake in that direction, and before he spoke I knew what he meant. Beyond the great green rock in the purple sky hung a single star.
“‘A star in the east,’ he said in a strange hoarse voice like one of our ancient eagles’. ‘The wise men followed the star and found the house. But if I followed the star, should I find the house?’
“‘It depends perhaps,’ I said, smiling, ‘on whether you are a wise man.’ I refrained from adding that he certainly didn’t look it.
“‘You may judge for yourself,’ he answered. ‘I am a man who left his own house because he could no longer bear to be away from it.’
“‘It certainly sounds paradoxical,’ I said.
“‘I heard my wife and children talking and saw them moving about the room,’ he continued, ‘and all the time I knew they were walking and talking in another house thousands of miles away, under the light of different skies, and beyond the series of the seas. I loved them with a devouring love, because they seemed not only distant but unattainable. Never did human creatures seem so dear and so desirable: but I seemed like a cold ghost; therefore I cast off their dust from my feet for a testimony. Nay, I did more. I spurned the world under my feet so that it swung full circle like a treadmill.’
“‘Do you really mean,’ I cried, ‘that you have come right round the world? Your speech is English, yet you are coming from the west.’
“‘My pilgrimage is not yet accomplished,’ he replied sadly. ‘I have become a pilgrim to cure myself of being an exile.’
“Something in the word ‘pilgrim’ awoke down in the roots of my ruinous experience memories of what my fathers had felt about the world, and of something from whence I came. I looked again at the little pictured lantern at which I had not looked for fourteen years.
“‘My grandmother,’ I said in a low tone, ‘would have said that we were all in exile, and that no earthly house could cure the holy home-sickness that forbids us rest.’
“He was silent a long while, and watched a single eagle drift out beyond the Green Finger into the darkening void.
“Then he said, ‘I think your grandmother was right,’ and stood up leaning on his grassy pole. ‘I think that must be the reason,’ he said—‘the secret of this life of man, so ecstatic and so unappeased. But I think there is more to be said. I think God has given us the love of special places, of a hearth and of a native land, for a good reason.’
“‘I dare say,’ I said. ‘What reason?’
“‘Because otherwise,’ he said, pointing his pole out at the sky and the abyss, ‘we might worship that.’
“‘What do you mean?’ I demanded.
“‘Eternity,’ he said in his harsh voice, ‘the largest of the idols— the mightiest of the rivals of God.’
“‘You mean pantheism and infinity and all that,’ I suggested.
“‘I mean,’ he said with increasing vehemence, ‘that if there be a house for me in heaven it will either have a green lamp-post and a hedge, or something quite as positive and personal as a green lamp-post and a hedge. I mean that God bade me love one spot and serve it, and do all things however wild in praise of it, so that this one spot might be a witness against all the infinities and the sophistries, that Paradise is somewhere and not anywhere, is something and not anything. And I would not be so very much surprised if the house in heaven had a real green lamp-post after all.’
“With which he shouldered his pole and went striding down the perilous paths below, and left me alone with the eagles. But since he went a fever of homelessness will often shake me. I am troubled by rainy meadows and mud cabins that I have never seen; and I wonder whether America will endure.— Yours faithfully, Louis Hara.”
After a short silence Inglewood said: “And, finally, we desire to put in as evidence the following document:—
“This is to say that I am Ruth Davis, and have been housemaid to Mrs. I. Smith at ‘The Laurels’ in Croydon for the last six months. When I came the lady was alone, with two children; she was not a widow, but her husband was away. She was left with plenty of money and did not seem disturbed about him, though she often hoped he would be back soon. She said he was rather eccentric and a little change did him good. One evening last week I was bringing the tea-things out on to the lawn when I nearly dropped them. The end of a long rake was suddenly stuck over the hedge, and planted like a jumping-pole; and over the hedge, just like a monkey on a stick, came a huge, horrible man, all hairy and ragged like Robinson Crusoe. I screamed out, but my mistress didn’t even get out of her chair, but smiled and said he wanted shaving. Then he sat down quite calmly at the garden table and took a cup of tea, and then I realized that this must be Mr. Smith himself. He has stopped here ever since and does not really give much trouble, though I sometimes fancy he is a little weak in his head.
“Ruth Davis.
“P.S.—I forgot to say that he looked round at the garden and said, very loud and strong: ‘Oh, what a lovely place you’ve got;’ just as if he’d never seen it before.”
The room had been growing dark and drowsy; the afternoon sun sent one heavy shaft of powdered gold across it, which fell with an intangible solemnity upon the empty seat of Mary Gray, for the younger women had left the court before the more recent of the investigations. Mrs. Duke was still asleep, and Innocent Smith, looking like a large hunchback in the twilight, was bending closer and closer to his paper toys. But the five men really engaged in the controversy, and concerned not to convince the tribunal but to convince each other, still sat round the table like the Committee of Public Safety.
“Poi lentamente distolse gli occhi da tutto ciò e guardò verso oriente, dove la strada digradava sotto di noi. Il cielo del tramonto era una volta di ricco velluto, che sfumava nel malva e nell’argento intorno ai bordi del cupo anfiteatro di montagne; e fra noi e il burrone sottostante si levava dagli abissi e saliva verso le altezze la roccia diritta e solitaria che chiamiamo Dito Verde. Di uno strano colore vulcanico, e tutta corrugata da quella che pare una scrittura indecifrabile, se ne stava sospesa lassù come un pilastro o un ago babilonese.
“L’uomo tese in silenzio il suo rastrello in quella direzione, e prima ancora che parlasse capii cosa intendeva. Oltre la grande roccia verde, nel cielo purpureo, pendeva una sola stella.
“«Una stella a oriente», disse con una strana voce roca simile a quella di una delle nostre antiche aquile. «I re magi seguirono la stella e trovarono la casa. Ma se io seguissi la stella, troverei la casa?»
“«Dipende forse», dissi sorridendo, «dal fatto che tu sia o meno un saggio». Mi trattenni dall’aggiungere che di certo non ne aveva l’aspetto.
“«Puoi giudicare da te», rispose. «Sono un uomo che ha lasciato la propria casa perché non sopportava più di starne lontano».
“«Suona certamente paradossale», dissi.
“«Udivo mia moglie e i miei figli parlare e li vedevo muoversi per la stanza», proseguì, «e per tutto quel tempo sapevo che camminavano e parlavano in un’altra casa lontana migliaia di miglia, sotto la luce di cieli diversi, e al di là della sequenza dei mari. Li amavo di un amore divorante, perché mi parevano non solo distanti ma irraggiungibili. Mai creature umane mi parvero così care e così desiderabili: ma io ero come un freddo fantasma; perciò scossi via la loro polvere dai miei piedi in testimonianza. Anzi, feci di più. Spinsi via il mondo sotto i miei piedi finché non girò tutt’intorno come una ruota da mulino».
“«Vuoi davvero dire», esclamai, «che hai fatto tutto il giro del mondo? Il tuo modo di parlare è inglese, eppure vieni da occidente».
“«Il mio pellegrinaggio non è ancora compiuto», rispose tristemente. «Sono diventato un pellegrino per guarire dall’essere un esule».
“Qualcosa nella parola «pellegrino» risvegliò giù nelle radici della mia rovinosa esperienza i ricordi di ciò che i miei padri avevano sentito riguardo al mondo, e di qualcosa da cui io stesso provenivo. Guardai di nuovo la piccola lanterna istoriata che non guardavo da quattordici anni.
“«Mia nonna», dissi a voce bassa, «avrebbe detto che eravamo tutti in esilio, e che nessuna casa terrena poteva guarire la santa nostalgia di casa che ci vieta ogni riposo».
“Rimase in silenzio a lungo, e osservò una sola aquila allontanarsi oltre il Dito Verde nel vuoto che si oscurava.
“Poi disse: «Credo che tua nonna avesse ragione», e si alzò appoggiandosi al suo palo erboso. «Credo che debba essere questa la ragione», disse, «il segreto di questa vita dell’uomo, così estatica e così inappagata. Ma credo che ci sia dell’altro da dire. Credo che Dio ci abbia dato l’amore per i luoghi speciali, per un focolare e per una terra natia, per una buona ragione».
“«Può darsi», dissi. «Quale ragione?»
“«Perché altrimenti», disse, indicando col palo il cielo e l’abisso, «potremmo adorare quello».
“«Che cosa vuoi dire?», domandai.
“«L’eternità», disse con la sua voce aspra, «il più grande degli idoli, il più possente dei rivali di Dio».
“«Vuoi dire il panteismo e l’infinito e tutto il resto», suggerii.
“«Voglio dire», disse con crescente veemenza, «che se c’è una casa per me in cielo, o avrà un lampione verde e una siepe, oppure qualcosa di altrettanto concreto e personale quanto un lampione verde e una siepe. Voglio dire che Dio mi ha comandato di amare un solo luogo e di servirlo, e di compiere ogni cosa, per quanto folle, in sua lode, cosicché questo unico luogo possa essere una testimonianza contro tutte le infinità e i sofismi, che il Paradiso è in qualche luogo e non ovunque, è qualcosa e non una cosa qualunque. E non mi stupirei poi molto se la casa in cielo avesse davvero un vero lampione verde dopotutto».
“Con ciò si caricò il palo in spalla e discese a grandi passi i sentieri pericolosi in basso, e mi lasciò solo con le aquile. Ma da quando se n’è andato una febbre di sradicamento spesso mi scuote. Mi turbano prati piovosi e capanne di fango che non ho mai visto; e mi domando se l’America durerà.— Vostro devotissimo, Louis Hara.”
Dopo un breve silenzio Inglewood disse: “E, infine, desideriamo presentare come prova il seguente documento:—
“Con la presente dichiaro di essere Ruth Davis, e di essere stata cameriera della signora I. Smith a «The Laurels» a Croydon negli ultimi sei mesi. Quando arrivai la signora era sola, con due bambini; non era vedova, ma il marito era via. Le era stato lasciato denaro in abbondanza e non sembrava in pena per lui, benché sperasse spesso che tornasse presto. Diceva che era piuttosto eccentrico e che un po’ di svago gli faceva bene. Una sera della scorsa settimana stavo portando il servizio da tè sul prato quando per poco non lo lasciai cadere. L’estremità di un lungo rastrello si conficcò all’improvviso oltre la siepe, piantata come un palo per il salto; e oltre la siepe, proprio come una scimmia su un bastone, arrivò un uomo enorme e orribile, tutto peloso e cencioso come Robinson Crusoe. Cacciai un urlo, ma la mia padrona non si alzò nemmeno dalla sedia, e sorridendo disse che aveva bisogno di farsi la barba. Poi lui si sedette tranquillissimo al tavolo del giardino e prese una tazza di tè, e allora capii che quello doveva essere il signor Smith in persona. Da allora è rimasto qui e in verità non dà molto fastidio, benché a volte mi venga il sospetto che sia un po’ debole di testa.
“Ruth Davis.
“P.S.—Dimenticavo di dire che si guardò intorno nel giardino e disse, molto forte e a voce alta: «Oh, che posto delizioso avete;» proprio come se non l’avesse mai visto prima.”
La stanza si era andata facendo buia e sonnolenta; il sole del pomeriggio lanciava attraverso di essa un pesante fascio d’oro polverizzato, che cadeva con un’intangibile solennità sul seggio vuoto di Mary Gray, poiché le donne più giovani avevano lasciato la corte prima delle più recenti indagini. La signora Duke dormiva ancora, e Innocent Smith, simile a un grande gobbo nella penombra, si chinava sempre più vicino ai suoi giocattoli di carta. Ma i cinque uomini davvero impegnati nella controversia, e desiderosi non di convincere il tribunale ma di convincersi a vicenda, sedevano ancora intorno al tavolo come il Comitato di Salute Pubblica.
Suddenly Moses Gould banged one big scientific book on top of another, cocked his little legs up against the table, tipped his chair backwards so far as to be in direct danger of falling over, emitted a startling and prolonged whistle like a steam engine, and asserted that it was all his eye.
When asked by Moon what was all his eye, he banged down behind the books again and answered with considerable excitement, throwing his papers about. “All those fairy-tales you’ve been reading out,” he said. “Oh! don’t talk to me! I ain’t littery and that, but I know fairy-tales when I hear ‘em. I got a bit stumped in some of the philosophical bits and felt inclined to go out for a B. and S. But we’re living in West ‘Ampstead and not in ‘Ell; and the long and the short of it is that some things ‘appen and some things don’t ‘appen. Those are the things that don’t ‘appen.”
“I thought,” said Moon gravely, “that we quite clearly explained—”
“Oh yes, old chap, you quite clearly explained,” assented Mr. Gould with extraordinary volubility. “You’d explain an elephant off the doorstep, you would. I ain’t a clever chap like you; but I ain’t a born natural, Michael Moon, and when there’s an elephant on my doorstep I don’t listen to no explanations. ‘It’s got a trunk,’ I says.—‘My trunk,’ you says: ‘I’m fond of travellin’, and a change does me good.’—‘But the blasted thing’s got tusks,’ I says.—‘Don’t look a gift ‘orse in the mouth,’ you says, ‘but thank the goodness and the graice that on your birth ‘as smiled.’—‘But it’s nearly as big as the ‘ouse,’ I says.—‘That’s the bloomin’ perspective,’ you says, ‘and the sacred magic of distance.’—‘Why, the elephant’s trumpetin’ like the Day of Judgement,’ I says.—‘That’s your own conscience a-talking to you, Moses Gould,’ you says in a grive and tender voice. Well, I ‘ave got a conscience as much as you. I don’t believe most of the things they tell you in church on Sundays; and I don’t believe these ‘ere things any more because you goes on about ‘em as if you was in church. I believe an elephant’s a great big ugly dingerous beast— and I believe Smith’s another.”
“Do you mean to say,” asked Inglewood, “that you still doubt the evidence of exculpation we have brought forward?”
“Yes, I do still doubt it,” said Gould warmly. “It’s all a bit too far-fetched, and some of it a bit too far off. ‘Ow can we test all those tales? ‘Ow can we drop in and buy the ‘Pink ‘Un’ at the railway station at Kosky Wosky or whatever it was? ‘Ow can we go and do a gargle at the saloon-bar on top of the Sierra Mountains? But anybody can go and see Bunting’s boarding-house at Worthing.”
Moon regarded him with an expression of real or assumed surprise.
“Any one,” continued Gould, “can call on Mr. Trip.”
“It is a comforting thought,” replied Michael with restraint; “but why should any one call on Mr. Trip?”
“For just exactly the sime reason,” cried the excited Moses, hammering on the table with both hands, “for just exactly the sime reason that he should communicate with Messrs. ‘Anbury and Bootle of Paternoster Row and with Miss Gridley’s ‘igh class Academy at ‘Endon, and with old Lady Bullingdon who lives at Penge.”
“Again, to go at once to the moral roots of life,” said Michael, “why is it among the duties of man to communicate with old Lady Bullingdon who lives at Penge?”
“It ain’t one of the duties of man,” said Gould, “nor one of his pleasures, either, I can tell you. She takes the crumpet, does Lady Bullingdon at Penge. But it’s one of the duties of a prosecutor pursuin’ the innocent, blameless butterfly career of your friend Smith, and it’s the sime with all the others I mentioned.”
“But why do you bring in these people here?” asked Inglewood.
“Why! Because we’ve got proof enough to sink a steamboat,” roared Moses; “because I’ve got the papers in my very ‘and; because your precious Innocent is a blackguard and ‘ome smasher, and these are the ‘omes he’s smashed. I don’t set up for a ‘oly man; but I wouldn’t ‘ave all those poor girls on my conscience for something. And I think a chap that’s capable of deserting and perhaps killing ‘em all is about capable of cracking a crib or shootin’ an old schoolmaster—so I don’t care much about the other yarns one way or another.”
“I think,” said Dr. Cyrus Pym with a refined cough, “that we are approaching this matter rather irregularly. This is really the fourth charge on the charge sheet, and perhaps I had better put it before you in an ordered and scientific manner.”
Nothing but a faint groan from Michael broke the silence of the darkening room.
D’un tratto Moses Gould sbatté un grosso libro scientifico sopra un altro, puntò le gambette contro il tavolo, inclinò la sedia all’indietro fino a rischiare seriamente di rovesciarsi, emise un fischio sorprendente e prolungato come una locomotiva a vapore, e dichiarò che erano tutte fandonie.
Quando Moon gli chiese che cosa fossero le fandonie, lui si rituffò dietro i libri e rispose con notevole eccitazione, spargendo in giro le sue carte. «Tutte quelle favole che siete stati a leggerci», disse. «Oh! non venite a raccontarle a me! Non sarò un letterato e via dicendo, ma le favole le riconosco quando le sento. Su certi passaggi filosofici mi sono un po’ impantanato e mi veniva voglia di uscire a farmi un brandy e soda. Ma abitiamo a West ‘Ampstead, mica all’Inferno; e il nocciolo della faccenda è che certe cose succedono e certe cose non succedono. Quelle lì sono le cose che non succedono.»
«Credevo», disse Moon con gravità, «che avessimo spiegato molto chiaramente…»
«Oh sì, vecchio mio, avete spiegato molto chiaramente», assentì il signor Gould con straordinaria loquacità. «Voi spieghereste via anche un elefante dallo zerbino di casa, ecco cosa fareste. Non sono uno in gamba come voi; ma non sono neanche uno scemo nato, Michael Moon, e quando c’è un elefante sul mio zerbino non sto a sentire nessuna spiegazione. ‘Ha una proboscide,’ dico io. —‘La mia proboscide,’ dite voi: ‘Mi piace viaggiare, e un po’ di cambiamento mi fa bene.’—‘Ma quel maledetto affare ha le zanne,’ dico io.—‘A caval donato non si guarda in bocca,’ dite voi, ‘ma ringrazia la bontà e la grazia che sulla tua nascita hanno sorriso.’ —‘Ma è grande quasi quanto la casa,’ dico io.—‘Quella è la maledetta prospettiva,’ dite voi, ‘e la sacra magia della distanza.’ —‘Ma insomma, l’elefante barrisce come il Giorno del Giudizio,’ dico io.—‘È la tua coscienza che ti parla, Moses Gould,’ dite voi con voce grave e tenera. Beh, ce l’ho una coscienza anch’io, quanto voi. Non credo alla maggior parte delle cose che ti raccontano in chiesa la domenica; e non credo di più a queste cose qui solo perché voi ci ricamate sopra come se foste in chiesa. Io credo che un elefante sia un bestione grande, brutto e pericoloso—e credo che Smith sia un altro.»
«Vuoi dire», chiese Inglewood, «che dubiti ancora delle prove a discarico che abbiamo portato?»
«Sì, che le dubito ancora», disse Gould con calore. «È tutto un po’ troppo tirato per i capelli, e certe cose un po’ troppo lontane. Come facciamo a verificare tutte quelle storie? Come facciamo a fare un salto a comprare il ‘Pink ‘Un’ alla stazione di Kosky Wosky o come diavolo si chiamava? Come facciamo ad andare a farci una bevuta al bar in cima ai Monti della Sierra? Ma chiunque può andare a vedersi la pensione di Bunting a Worthing.»
Moon lo osservò con un’espressione di sorpresa reale o simulata.
«Chiunque», proseguì Gould, «può andare a trovare il signor Trip.»
«È un pensiero consolante», replicò Michael con contegno; «ma perché mai qualcuno dovrebbe andare a trovare il signor Trip?»
«Esattamente per la stessa ragione», gridò l’eccitato Moses, martellando il tavolo con entrambe le mani, «esattamente per la stessa ragione per cui dovrebbe mettersi in contatto con gli egregi signori ‘Anbury e Bootle di Paternoster Row e con l’Accademia di gran classe della signorina Gridley a ‘Endon, e con la vecchia Lady Bullingdon che abita a Penge.»
«Di nuovo, per andare subito alle radici morali della vita», disse Michael, «perché mai rientra tra i doveri dell’uomo mettersi in contatto con la vecchia Lady Bullingdon che abita a Penge?»
«Non rientra tra i doveri dell’uomo», disse Gould, «e nemmeno tra i suoi piaceri, questo te lo garantisco. È il colmo, la Lady Bullingdon di Penge. Ma rientra tra i doveri di un accusatore che dà la caccia all’innocente, immacolata carriera da farfalla del vostro amico Smith, ed è lo stesso con tutti gli altri che ho nominato.»
«Ma perché tiri in ballo questa gente qui?» chiese Inglewood.
«Perché! Perché abbiamo prove abbastanza da affondare un piroscafo», ruggì Moses; «perché ho le carte proprio qui in mano; perché il vostro prezioso Innocent è un mascalzone e un distruttore di focolari, e questi sono i focolari che ha distrutto. Non faccio il santarello; ma non me le vorrei sulla coscienza tutte quelle povere ragazze per niente al mondo. E penso che un tipo capace di abbandonarle e magari di ammazzarle tutte sia più o meno capace di svaligiare una casa o di sparare a un vecchio maestro di scuola—così degli altri raccontini non m’importa granché, in un senso o nell’altro.»
«Io credo», disse il dottor Cyrus Pym con un tossicchio raffinato, «che stiamo affrontando la questione in modo piuttosto irregolare. Questa è in realtà la quarta imputazione del capo d’accusa, e forse è meglio che ve la esponga in maniera ordinata e scientifica.»
Nient’altro che un debole gemito di Michael ruppe il silenzio della stanza che si andava oscurando.
Chapter IV
The Wild Weddings; or, the Polygamy Charge
“A modern man,” said Dr. Cyrus Pym, “must, if he be thoughtful, approach the problem of marriage with some caution. Marriage is a stage—doubtless a suitable stage—in the long advance of mankind towards a goal which we cannot as yet conceive; which we are not, perhaps, as yet fitted even to desire. What, gentlemen, is the ethical position of marriage? Have we outlived it?”
“Outlived it?” broke out Moon; “why, nobody’s ever survived it! Look at all the people married since Adam and Eve—and all as dead as mutton.”
“This is no doubt an inter-pellation joc’lar in its character,” said Dr. Pym frigidly. “I cannot tell what may be Mr. Moon’s matured and ethical view of marriage—”
“I can tell,” said Michael savagely, out of the gloom. “Marriage is a duel to the death, which no man of honour should decline.”
“Michael,” said Arthur Inglewood in a low voice, “you MUST keep quiet.”
“Mr. Moon,” said Pym with exquisite good temper, “probably regards
the institution in a more antiquated manner. Probably he would make
it stringent and uniform. He would treat divorce in some great soul
of steel—the divorce of a Julius Caesar or of a Salt Ring Robinson—
exactly as he would treat some no-account tramp or labourer who
scoots from his wife. Science has views broader and more humane.
Just as murder for the scientist is a thirst for absolute destruction,
just as theft for the scientist is a hunger for monotonous acquisition,
so polygamy for the scientist is an extreme development of the instinct
for variety. A man thus afflicted is incapable of constancy.
Doubtless there is a physical cause for this flitting from flower to flower—
as there is, doubtless, for the intermittent groaning which appears
to afflict Mr. Moon at the present moment. Our own world-scorning
Winterbottom has even dared to say, ‘For a certain rare and fine
physical type polygamy is but the realization of the variety of females,
as comradeship is the realization of the variety of males.’
In any case, the type that tends to variety is recognized by all
authoritative inquirers. Such a type, if the widower of a negress,
does in many ascertained cases espouse en seconde noces an albino;
such a type, when freed from the gigantic embraces of a female Patagonian,
will often evolve from its own imaginative instinct the consoling figure of
an Eskimo. To such a type there can be no doubt that the prisoner belongs.
If blind doom and unbearable temptation constitute any slight excuse
for a man, there is no doubt that he has these excuses.
“Earlier in the inquiry the defence showed real chivalric ideality in admitting half of our story without further dispute. We should like to acknowledge and imitate so eminently large-hearted a style by conceding also that the story told by Curate Percy about the canoe, the weir, and the young wife seems to be substantially true. Apparently Smith did marry a young woman he had nearly run down in a boat; it only remains to be considered whether it would not have been kinder of him to have murdered her instead of marrying her. In confirmation of this fact I can now con-cede to the defence an unquestionable record of such a marriage.”
So saying, he handed across to Michael a cutting from the “Maidenhead Gazette” which distinctly recorded the marriage of the daughter of a “coach,” a tutor well known in the place, to Mr. Innocent Smith, late of Brakespeare College, Cambridge.
When Dr. Pym resumed it was realized that his face had grown at once both tragic and triumphant.
“I pause upon this pre-liminary fact,” he said seriously, “because this fact alone would give us the victory, were we aspiring after victory and not after truth. As far as the personal and domestic problem holds us, that problem is solved. Dr. Warner and I entered this house at an instant of highly emotional diff’culty. England’s Warner has entered many houses to save human kind from sickness; this time he entered to save an innocent lady from a walking pestilence. Smith was just about to carry away a young girl from this house; his cab and bag were at the very door. He had told her she was going to await the marriage license at the house of his aunt. That aunt,” continued Cyrus Pym, his face darkening grandly—“that visionary aunt had been the dancing will-o’-the-wisp who had led many a high-souled maiden to her doom. Into how many virginal ears has he whispered that holy word? When he said ‘aunt’ there glowed about her all the merriment and high morality of the Anglo-Saxon home. Kettles began to hum, pussy cats to purr, in that very wild cab that was being driven to destruction.”
Inglewood looked up, to find, to his astonishment (as many another denizen of the eastern hemisphere has found), that the American was not only perfectly serious, but was really eloquent and affecting— when the difference of the hemispheres was adjusted.
“It is therefore atrociously evident that the man Smith has at least represented himself to one innocent female of this house as an eligible bachelor, being, in fact, a married man. I agree with my colleague, Mr. Gould, that no other crime could approximate to this. As to whether what our ancestors called purity has any ultimate ethical value indeed, science hesitates with a high, proud hesitation. But what hesitation can there be about the baseness of a citizen who ventures, by brutal experiments upon living females, to anticipate the verdict of science on such a point?
“The woman mentioned by Curate Percy as living with Smith in Highbury may or may not be the same as the lady he married in Maidenhead. If one short sweet spell of constancy and heart repose interrupted the plunging torrent of his profligate life, we will not deprive him of that long past possibility. After that conjectural date, alas, he seems to have plunged deeper and deeper into the shaking quagmires of infidelity and shame.”
Capitolo IV
Le nozze selvagge; ovvero, l’accusa di poligamia
“Un uomo moderno,” disse il dottor Cyrus Pym, “deve, se è uomo di pensiero, accostarsi al problema del matrimonio con una certa cautela. Il matrimonio è una tappa—senza dubbio una tappa opportuna—nella lunga avanzata dell’umanità verso una meta che ancora non siamo in grado di concepire; che forse non siamo ancora nemmeno degni di desiderare. Qual è, signori, la posizione etica del matrimonio? Gli siamo forse sopravvissuti?”
“Sopravvissuti?” scattò Moon; “ma nessuno gli è mai sopravvissuto! Guardate tutte le persone sposate da Adamo ed Eva in poi—e tutte morte stecchite.”
“Questa è senza dubbio un’inter-pellanza di carattere joc’lare,” disse gelidamente il dottor Pym. “Non saprei dire quale possa essere la matura e ponderata visione etica del signor Moon sul matrimonio—”
“Io so dirlo,” disse Michael ferocemente, fuori dall’oscurità. “Il matrimonio è un duello mortale, che nessun uomo d’onore dovrebbe rifiutare.”
“Michael,” disse Arthur Inglewood a voce bassa, “DEVI startene zitto.”
“Il signor Moon,” disse Pym con squisita amabilità, “probabilmente considera
l’istituzione in maniera più antiquata. Probabilmente la vorrebbe
rigorosa e uniforme. Tratterebbe il divorzio in qualche grande anima
d’acciaio—il divorzio di un Giulio Cesare o di un Salt Ring Robinson—
esattamente come tratterebbe qualche insignificante vagabondo o bracciante che
se la svigna dalla moglie. La scienza ha vedute più ampie e più umane.
Così come per lo scienziato l’omicidio è una sete di distruzione assoluta,
così come per lo scienziato il furto è una fame di monotona acquisizione,
così per lo scienziato la poligamia è uno sviluppo estremo dell’istinto
di varietà. Un uomo così afflitto è incapace di costanza.
Senza dubbio vi è una causa fisica per questo svolazzare di fiore in fiore—
come vi è, senza dubbio, per il gemito intermittente che pare
affliggere il signor Moon in questo preciso momento. Il nostro sprezzatore
del mondo Winterbottom ha persino osato dire: ‘Per un certo raro e fine
tipo fisico la poligamia non è che la realizzazione della varietà delle femmine,
come il cameratismo è la realizzazione della varietà dei maschi.’
In ogni caso, il tipo che tende alla varietà è riconosciuto da tutti
gli inquisitori autorevoli. Un tale tipo, se vedovo di una negra,
in molti casi accertati sposa en seconde noces un’albina;
un tale tipo, quando liberato dai giganteschi amplessi di una femmina patagone,
spesso evolve dal proprio istinto immaginativo la consolante figura di
un’eschimese. A un tale tipo non vi può essere dubbio che appartenga il prigioniero.
Se cieca condanna e insopportabile tentazione costituiscono una pur lieve scusa
per un uomo, non vi è dubbio che egli abbia queste scuse.
“In una fase precedente dell’inchiesta la difesa ha mostrato un vero idealismo cavalleresco ammettendo metà della nostra storia senza ulteriore contestazione. Vorremmo riconoscere e imitare uno stile così eminentemente magnanimo concedendo a nostra volta che il racconto fatto dal curato Percy a proposito della canoa, della chiusa e della giovane sposa sembra essere sostanzialmente vero. A quanto pare Smith sposò davvero una giovane donna che aveva quasi travolto con una barca; resta solo da valutare se non sarebbe stato più gentile da parte sua ucciderla anziché sposarla. A conferma di questo fatto posso ora con-cedere alla difesa un incontestabile documento di tale matrimonio.”
Così dicendo, porse a Michael un ritaglio della “Maidenhead Gazette” che registrava distintamente il matrimonio della figlia di un “ripetitore,” un tutore ben noto nel luogo, col signor Innocent Smith, già del Brakespeare College, di Cambridge.
Quando il dottor Pym riprese, ci si accorse che il suo volto era divenuto a un tempo tragico e trionfante.
“Mi soffermo su questo fatto pre-liminare,” disse gravemente, “perché questo fatto da solo ci darebbe la vittoria, se aspirassimo alla vittoria e non alla verità. Per quanto ci trattiene il problema personale e domestico, quel problema è risolto. Il dottor Warner e io entrammo in questa casa in un istante di difficoltà altamente emotiva. Il Warner d’Inghilterra è entrato in molte case per salvare il genere umano dalla malattia; questa volta entrò per salvare una dama innocente da una pestilenza ambulante. Smith stava proprio per portar via una giovane fanciulla da questa casa; la sua carrozza e la sua borsa erano già sulla porta stessa. Le aveva detto che sarebbe andata ad attendere la licenza di matrimonio a casa di sua zia. Quella zia,” proseguì Cyrus Pym, con il volto che si oscurava solennemente—“quella zia visionaria era stata il danzante fuoco fatuo che aveva condotto molte fanciulle d’animo elevato alla loro rovina. In quante orecchie verginali ha egli sussurrato quella sacra parola? Quando diceva ‘zia’ brillava intorno a lei tutta l’allegria e l’alta moralità del focolare anglosassone. Le teiere cominciavano a canticchiare, i gattini a fare le fusa, in quella stessa selvaggia carrozza che veniva condotta alla distruzione.”
Inglewood alzò lo sguardo e scoprì, con suo stupore (come molti altri abitanti dell’emisfero orientale hanno scoperto), che l’americano era non solo perfettamente serio, ma davvero eloquente e commovente— una volta operato l’aggiustamento per la differenza tra gli emisferi.
“È dunque atrocemente evidente che l’uomo Smith ha per lo meno rappresentato se stesso a un’innocente femmina di questa casa come uno scapolo idoneo, essendo, di fatto, un uomo sposato. Concordo con il mio collega, il signor Gould, che nessun altro delitto potrebbe avvicinarsi a questo. Quanto al fatto se ciò che i nostri antenati chiamavano purezza abbia un qualche valore etico ultimo, la scienza esita davvero con un’alta, orgogliosa esitazione. Ma quale esitazione può esservi sulla bassezza di un cittadino che si arrischia, con brutali esperimenti su femmine vive, ad anticipare il verdetto della scienza su un tale punto?
“La donna menzionata dal curato Percy come convivente di Smith a Highbury può essere o non essere la stessa dama che egli sposò a Maidenhead. Se un breve dolce periodo di costanza e di riposo del cuore interruppe il torrente precipitoso della sua vita dissoluta, non lo priveremo di quella lontana possibilità. Dopo quella data congetturale, ahimè, egli sembra essersi tuffato sempre più profondamente nelle tremule paludi dell’infedeltà e della vergogna.”
Dr. Pym closed his eyes, but the unfortunate fact that there was no more light left this familiar signal without its full and proper moral effect. After a pause, which almost partook of the character of prayer, he continued.
“The first instance of the accused’s repeated and irregular nuptials,” he exclaimed, “comes from Lady Bullingdon, who expresses herself with the high haughtiness which must be excused in those who look out upon all mankind from the turrets of a Norman and ancestral keep. The communication she has sent to us runs as follows:—
“Lady Bullingdon recalls the painful incident to which reference is made, and has no desire to deal with it in detail. The girl Polly Green was a perfectly adequate dressmaker, and lived in the village for about two years. Her unattached condition was bad for her as well as for the general morality of the village. Lady Bullingdon, therefore, allowed it to be understood that she favoured the marriage of the young woman. The villagers, naturally wishing to oblige Lady Bullingdon, came forward in several cases; and all would have been well had it not been for the deplorable eccentricity or depravity of the girl Green herself. Lady Bullingdon supposes that where there is a village there must be a village idiot, and in her village, it seems, there was one of these wretched creatures. Lady Bullingdon only saw him once, and she is quite aware that it is really difficult to distinguish between actual idiots and the ordinary heavy type of the rural lower classes. She noticed, however, the startling smallness of his head in comparison to the rest of his body; and, indeed, the fact of his having appeared upon election day wearing the rosette of both the two opposing parties appears to Lady Bullingdon to put the matter quite beyond doubt. Lady Bullingdon was astounded to learn that this afflicted being had put himself forward as one of the suitors of the girl in question. Lady Bullingdon’s nephew interviewed the wretch upon the point, telling him that he was a ‘donkey’ to dream of such a thing, and actually received, along with an imbecile grin, the answer that donkeys generally go after carrots. But Lady Bullingdon was yet further amazed to find the unhappy girl inclined to accept this monstrous proposal, though she was actually asked in marriage by Garth, the undertaker, a man in a far superior position to her own. Lady Bullingdon could not, of course, countenance such an arrangement for a moment, and the two unhappy persons escaped for a clandestine marriage. Lady Bullingdon cannot exactly recall the man’s name, but thinks it was Smith. He was always called in the village the Innocent. Later, Lady Bullingdon believes he murdered Green in a mental outbreak.”
“The next communication,” proceeded Pym, “is more conspicuous for brevity, but I am of the opinion that it will adequately convey the upshot. It is dated from the offices of Messrs. Hanbury and Bootle, publishers, and is as follows:—
“Sir,—Yrs. rcd. and conts. noted. Rumour re typewriter possibly refers to a Miss Blake or similar name, left here nine years ago to marry an organ-grinder. Case was undoubtedly curious, and attracted police attention. Girl worked excellently till about Oct. 1907, when apparently went mad. Record was written at the time, part of which I enclose.— Yrs., etc., W. Trip.
“The fuller statement runs as follows:—
“On October 12 a letter was sent from this office to Messrs. Bernard and Juke, bookbinders. Opened by Mr. Juke, it was found to contain the following: ‘Sir, our Mr. Trip will call at 3, as we wish to know whether it is really decided 00000073bb!!!!!xy.’ To this Mr. Juke, a person of a playful mind, returned the answer: ‘Sir, I am in a position to give it as my most decided opinion that it is not really decided that 00000073bb!!!!!xy. Yrs., etc., J. Juke.’
“On receiving this extraordinary reply, our Mr. Trip asked for the original letter sent from him, and found that the typewriter had indeed substituted these demented hieroglyphics for the sentences really dictated to her. Our Mr. Trip interviewed the girl, fearing that she was in an unbalanced state, and was not much reassured when she merely remarked that she always went like that when she heard the barrel organ. Becoming yet more hysterical and extravagant, she made a series of most improbable statements—as, that she was engaged to the barrel-organ man, that he was in the habit of serenading her on that instrument, that she was in the habit of playing back to him upon the typewriter (in the style of King Richard and Blondel), and that the organ man’s musical ear was so exquisite and his adoration of herself so ardent that he could detect the note of the different letters on the machine, and was enraptured by them as by a melody. To all these statements of course our Mr. Trip and the rest of us only paid that sort of assent that is paid to persons who must as quickly as possible be put in the charge of their relations. But on our conducting the lady downstairs, her story received the most startling and even exasperating confirmation; for the organ-grinder, an enormous man with a small head and manifestly a fellow-lunatic, had pushed his barrel organ in at the office doors like a battering-ram, and was boisterously demanding his alleged fiancee. When I myself came on the scene he was flinging his great, ape-like arms about and reciting a poem to her. But we were used to lunatics coming and reciting poems in our office, and we were not quite prepared for what followed. The actual verse he uttered began, I think,
“‘O vivid, inviolate head, Ringed —’
“but he never got any further. Mr. Trip made a sharp movement towards him, and the next moment the giant picked up the poor lady typewriter like a doll, sat her on top of the organ, ran it with a crash out of the office doors, and raced away down the street like a flying wheelbarrow. I put the police upon the matter; but no trace of the amazing pair could be found. I was sorry myself; for the lady was not only pleasant but unusually cultivated for her position. As I am leaving the service of Messrs. Hanbury and Bootle, I put these things in a record and leave it with them. (Signed) Aubrey Clarke, Publishers’ Reader.
Il dottor Pym chiuse gli occhi, ma la sfortunata circostanza che non vi fosse più luce lasciò questo consueto segnale privo del suo pieno e dovuto effetto morale. Dopo una pausa, che quasi partecipava del carattere della preghiera, proseguì.
“Il primo caso delle ripetute e irregolari nozze dell’accusato,” esclamò, “proviene da Lady Bullingdon, la quale si esprime con quell’alta alterigia che va scusata in coloro che guardano l’intera umanità dalle torri di un maniero normanno e avito. La comunicazione che ci ha inviato recita come segue:—
“Lady Bullingdon rammenta il penoso incidente cui si fa riferimento, e non ha alcun desiderio di trattarlo in dettaglio. La ragazza Polly Green era una sarta perfettamente adeguata, e visse nel villaggio per circa due anni. La sua condizione di nubile era dannosa per lei quanto per la moralità generale del villaggio. Lady Bullingdon, pertanto, lasciò intendere di essere favorevole al matrimonio della giovane donna. I paesani, desiderosi com’è naturale di compiacere Lady Bullingdon, si fecero avanti in più d’un caso; e tutto sarebbe andato bene se non fosse stato per la deplorevole eccentricità o depravazione della ragazza Green stessa. Lady Bullingdon suppone che dove c’è un villaggio debba esserci uno scemo del villaggio, e nel suo villaggio, a quanto pare, ve n’era una di queste misere creature. Lady Bullingdon lo vide una sola volta, ed è ben consapevole che è davvero difficile distinguere tra veri idioti e l’ordinario tipo ottuso dei ceti rurali inferiori. Notò, tuttavia, la sorprendente piccolezza della sua testa in confronto al resto del corpo; e, in effetti, il fatto che fosse comparso il giorno delle elezioni portando la coccarda di entrambi i due partiti avversi pare a Lady Bullingdon porre la questione del tutto fuor di dubbio. Lady Bullingdon fu sbalordita nell’apprendere che questo essere afflitto si era proposto come uno dei pretendenti della ragazza in questione. Il nipote di Lady Bullingdon interrogò lo sciagurato sul punto, dicendogli che era un ‘asino’ a sognare una cosa simile, e ricevette effettivamente, insieme a un ghigno imbecille, la risposta che gli asini in genere vanno dietro alle carote. Ma Lady Bullingdon fu ancor più stupefatta nel trovare l’infelice ragazza incline ad accettare questa mostruosa proposta, benché fosse stata chiesta in matrimonio da Garth, l’impresario di pompe funebri, un uomo in posizione di gran lunga superiore alla sua. Lady Bullingdon non poté, naturalmente, avallare per un solo istante un simile accordo, e le due infelici persone fuggirono per un matrimonio clandestino. Lady Bullingdon non riesce a ricordare esattamente il nome dell’uomo, ma pensa fosse Smith. Nel villaggio veniva sempre chiamato l’Innocente. Più tardi, Lady Bullingdon crede che egli abbia assassinato la Green in un accesso di follia.”
“La comunicazione seguente,” proseguì Pym, “spicca di più per brevità, ma ritengo che riuscirà a rendere adeguatamente il succo. È datata dagli uffici dei signori Hanbury e Bootle, editori, e recita come segue:—
“Egr. Sig.,—Vs. ric. e cont. annotato. Voce re dattilografa forse riferita a una signorina Blake o nome simile, andatasene di qui nove anni fa per sposare un suonatore d’organetto. Il caso fu senza dubbio curioso, e attirò l’attenzione della polizia. La ragazza lavorò egregiamente fino a circa l’ott. 1907, quando parve impazzire. Fu redatto al momento un resoconto, parte del quale accludo.— Vs., ecc., W. Trip.
“La versione più ampia recita come segue:—
“Il 12 ottobre una lettera fu spedita da questo ufficio ai signori Bernard e Juke, rilegatori. Aperta dal signor Juke, si scoprì che conteneva quanto segue: ‘Egr. Sig., il nostro sig. Trip passerà alle 3, poiché desideriamo sapere se è davvero deciso 00000073bb!!!!!xy.’ A ciò il signor Juke, persona d’animo faceto, restituì la risposta: ‘Egr. Sig., sono in grado di dare come mia più decisa opinione che non è affatto deciso che 00000073bb!!!!!xy. Vs., ecc., J. Juke.’
“Nel ricevere questa straordinaria risposta, il nostro sig. Trip chiese la lettera originale da lui spedita, e scoprì che la dattilografa aveva davvero sostituito questi dementi geroglifici alle frasi realmente dettatele. Il nostro sig. Trip interrogò la ragazza, temendo che fosse in uno stato di squilibrio, e non fu troppo rassicurato quando ella si limitò a osservare che le veniva sempre così quando sentiva l’organetto. Facendosi ancor più isterica e stravagante, ella fece una serie di affermazioni del tutto improbabili—come, che era fidanzata col suonatore d’organetto, che costui aveva l’abitudine di farle la serenata con quello strumento, che lei aveva l’abitudine di rispondergli suonando sulla macchina da scrivere (alla maniera di Re Riccardo e Blondel), e che l’orecchio musicale del suonatore era tanto squisito e la sua adorazione per lei tanto ardente che egli sapeva distinguere la nota delle diverse lettere sulla macchina, e ne era rapito come da una melodia. A tutte queste affermazioni naturalmente il nostro sig. Trip e il resto di noi prestammo solo quel genere di assenso che si presta alle persone che vanno affidate quanto più rapidamente possibile alle cure dei propri parenti. Ma nell’accompagnare la signorina al pianterreno, la sua storia ricevette la più sorprendente e persino esasperante conferma; poiché il suonatore d’organetto, un uomo enorme dalla testa piccola e manifestamente un altro forsennato, aveva spinto il suo organetto contro le porte dell’ufficio come un ariete, e reclamava chiassosamente la sua presunta fidanzata. Quando io stesso comparvi sulla scena egli agitava le sue grandi braccia scimmiesche e le recitava una poesia. Ma eravamo abituati a matti che venivano a recitare poesie nel nostro ufficio, e non eravamo del tutto preparati a ciò che seguì. Il verso che effettivamente pronunciò cominciava, credo,
“‘O vivida, inviolata testa, Cinta—’
“ma non andò oltre. Il sig. Trip fece un brusco movimento verso di lui, e l’istante dopo il gigante sollevò la povera dattilografa come una bambola, la fece sedere in cima all’organetto, lo spinse fragorosamente fuori dalle porte dell’ufficio, e sfrecciò via lungo la strada come una carriola volante. Misi la polizia sulla faccenda; ma non si poté trovare traccia della sorprendente coppia. Me ne dispiacque io stesso; poiché la signorina era non solo piacevole ma insolitamente colta per la sua posizione. Poiché sto lasciando il servizio dei signori Hanbury e Bootle, metto queste cose in un resoconto e lo lascio a loro. (Firmato) Aubrey Clarke, Lettore Editoriale.
“And the last document,” said Dr. Pym complacently, “is from one of those high-souled women who have in this age introduced your English girlhood to hockey, the higher mathematics, and every form of ideality.
“Dear Sir (she writes),—I have no objection to telling you
the facts about the absurd incident you mention; though I would
ask you to communicate them with some caution, for such things,
however entertaining in the abstract, are not always auxiliary
to the success of a girls’ school. The truth is this:
I wanted some one to deliver a lecture on a philological
or historical question—a lecture which, while containing
solid educational matter, should be a little more popular and
entertaining than usual, as it was the last lecture of the term.
I remembered that a Mr. Smith of Cambridge had written somewhere
or other an amusing essay about his own somewhat ubiquitous name—
an essay which showed considerable knowledge of genealogy
and topography. I wrote to him, asking if he would come and
give us a bright address upon English surnames; and he did.
It was very bright, almost too bright. To put the matter otherwise,
by the time that he was halfway through it became apparent
to the other mistresses and myself that the man was totally
and entirely off his head. He began rationally enough by dealing
with the two departments of place names and trade names, and he said
(quite rightly, I dare say) that the loss of all significance
in names was an instance of the deadening of civilization.
But then he went on calmly to maintain that every man who had
a place name ought to go to live in that place, and that every
man who had a trade name ought instantly to adopt that trade;
that people named after colours should always dress in those colours,
and that people named after trees or plants (such as Beech or Rose)
ought to surround and decorate themselves with these vegetables.
In a slight discussion that arose afterwards among the elder girls
the difficulties of the proposal were clearly, and even eagerly,
pointed out. It was urged, for instance, by Miss Younghusband
that it was substantially impossible for her to play the part
assigned to her; Miss Mann was in a similar dilemma, from which
no modern views on the sexes could apparently extricate her;
and some young ladies, whose surnames happened to be Low, Coward,
and Craven, were quite enthusiastic against the idea.
But all this happened afterwards. What happened at the crucial
moment was that the lecturer produced several horseshoes and a
large iron hammer from his bag, announced his immediate intention
of setting up a smithy in the neighbourhood, and called on every
one to rise in the same cause as for a heroic revolution.
The other mistresses and I attempted to stop the wretched man,
but I must confess that by an accident this very intercession
produced the worst explosion of his insanity. He was waving
the hammer, and wildly demanding the names of everybody;
and it so happened that Miss Brown, one of the younger teachers,
was wearing a brown dress—a reddish-brown dress that went quietly
enough with the warmer colour of her hair, as well she knew.
She was a nice girl, and nice girls do know about those things.
But when our maniac discovered that we really had a Miss Brown
who WAS brown, his idee fixe blew up like a powder magazine,
and there, in the presence of all the mistresses and girls,
he publicly proposed to the lady in the red-brown dress.
You can imagine the effect of such a scene at a girls’ school.
At least, if you fail to imagine it, I certainly fail
to describe it.
“Of course, the anarchy died down in a week or two, and I can think of it now as a joke. There was only one curious detail, which I will tell you, as you say your inquiry is vital; but I should desire you to consider it a little more confidential than the rest. Miss Brown, who was an excellent girl in every way, did quite suddenly and surreptitiously leave us only a day or two afterwards. I should never have thought that her head would be the one to be really turned by so absurd an excitement.—Believe me, yours faithfully, Ada Gridley.
“I think,” said Pym, with a really convincing simplicity and seriousness, “that these letters speak for themselves.”
Mr. Moon rose for the last time in a darkness that gave no hint of whether his native gravity was mixed with his native irony.
“Throughout this inquiry,” he said, “but especially in this its closing phase, the prosecution has perpetually relied upon one argument; I mean the fact that no one knows what has become of all the unhappy women apparently seduced by Smith. There is no sort of proof that they were murdered, but that implication is perpetually made when the question is asked as to how they died. Now I am not interested in how they died, or when they died, or whether they died. But I am interested in another analogous question—that of how they were born, and when they were born, and whether they were born. Do not misunderstand me. I do not dispute the existence of these women, or the veracity of those who have witnessed to them. I merely remark on the notable fact that only one of these victims, the Maidenhead girl, is described as having any home or parents. All the rest are boarders or birds of passage—a guest, a solitary dressmaker, a bachelor-girl doing typewriting. Lady Bullingdon, looking from her turrets, which she bought from the Whartons with the old soap-boiler’s money when she jumped at marrying an unsuccessful gentleman from Ulster—Lady Bullingdon, looking out from those turrets, did really see an object which she describes as Green. Mr. Trip, of Hanbury and Bootle, really did have a typewriter betrothed to Smith. Miss Gridley, though idealistic, is absolutely honest. She did house, feed, and teach a young woman whom Smith succeeded in decoying away. We admit that all these women really lived. But we still ask whether they were ever born?”
“Oh, crikey!” said Moses Gould, stifled with amusement.
“E l’ultimo documento,” disse il dottor Pym compiaciuto, “proviene da una di quelle donne d’animo elevato che in quest’epoca hanno introdotto la vostra gioventù femminile inglese all’hockey, alla matematica superiore, e a ogni forma di idealità.
“Egregio Signore (scrive lei),—Non ho obiezioni a riferirle
i fatti circa l’assurdo incidente che lei menziona; benché io la
preghi di comunicarli con una certa cautela, poiché tali cose,
per quanto divertenti in astratto, non sempre giovano
al buon esito di una scuola femminile. La verità è questa:
volevo qualcuno che tenesse una conferenza su una questione filologica
o storica—una conferenza che, pur contenendo
solida materia educativa, fosse un po’ più popolare e
divertente del solito, essendo l’ultima conferenza del trimestre.
Ricordavo che un certo signor Smith di Cambridge aveva scritto da qualche
parte un divertente saggio sul proprio nome alquanto ubiquo—
un saggio che rivelava una notevole conoscenza di genealogia
e topografia. Gli scrissi, chiedendogli se volesse venire a
tenerci un brillante discorso sui cognomi inglesi; e lo fece.
Fu molto brillante, quasi troppo brillante. Per dirla altrimenti,
quando fu arrivato a metà divenne evidente
alle altre insegnanti e a me stessa che l’uomo era del tutto
e interamente fuori di senno. Cominciò abbastanza razionalmente trattando
le due categorie dei nomi di luogo e dei nomi di mestiere, e disse
(giustissimamente, oserei dire) che la perdita di ogni significato
nei nomi era un esempio dell’intorpidimento della civiltà.
Ma poi proseguì tranquillamente sostenendo che ogni uomo che avesse
un nome di luogo dovrebbe andare a vivere in quel luogo, e che ogni
uomo che avesse un nome di mestiere dovrebbe adottare all’istante quel mestiere;
che le persone chiamate col nome di colori dovrebbero sempre vestirsi di quei colori,
e che le persone chiamate col nome di alberi o piante (come Beech, faggio, o Rose, rosa)
dovrebbero circondarsi e adornarsi di questi vegetali.
In una breve discussione sorta in seguito tra le ragazze più grandi
le difficoltà della proposta furono chiaramente, e persino con foga,
messe in luce. Si obiettò, per esempio, dalla signorina Younghusband
che le era sostanzialmente impossibile recitare la parte
assegnatale; la signorina Mann si trovava in un dilemma analogo, dal quale
nessuna moderna veduta sui sessi pareva poterla trarre;
e alcune signorine, i cui cognomi si davano per Low (basso), Coward (vile)
e Craven (codardo), erano decisamente entusiaste contro l’idea.
Ma tutto questo accadde in seguito. Ciò che accadde nel momento
cruciale fu che il conferenziere estrasse dalla borsa vari ferri di cavallo e un
grosso martello di ferro, annunciò la sua immediata intenzione
di impiantare una fucina nel vicinato, e chiamò tutti
a insorgere nella stessa causa come per un’eroica rivoluzione.
Le altre insegnanti e io tentammo di fermare lo sciagurato,
ma devo confessare che per un accidente proprio questa intercessione
produsse la peggiore esplosione della sua follia. Agitava
il martello, e reclamava selvaggiamente i nomi di tutti;
e volle il caso che la signorina Brown, una delle insegnanti più giovani,
indossasse un abito marrone—un abito bruno-rossastro che si accordava
abbastanza sommessamente col tono più caldo dei suoi capelli, come lei ben sapeva.
Era una brava ragazza, e le brave ragazze sanno queste cose.
Ma quando il nostro maniaco scoprì che avevamo davvero una signorina Brown
che ERA brown, la sua idée fixe esplose come una polveriera,
e lì, alla presenza di tutte le insegnanti e ragazze,
egli propose pubblicamente il matrimonio alla dama in abito bruno-rosso.
Potete immaginare l’effetto di una scena simile in una scuola femminile.
O per lo meno, se non riuscite a immaginarla, io di certo non riesco
a descriverla.
“Naturalmente, l’anarchia si placò in una o due settimane, e ora posso pensarci come a uno scherzo. Vi fu un solo dettaglio curioso, che le racconterò, dato che dice che la sua indagine è vitale; ma dovrei pregarla di considerarlo un po’ più confidenziale del resto. La signorina Brown, che era un’eccellente ragazza sotto ogni aspetto, ci lasciò del tutto improvvisamente e furtivamente appena un giorno o due dopo. Non avrei mai pensato che sarebbe stata la sua la testa davvero sconvolta da un’eccitazione così assurda.—Mi creda, sua devotissima, Ada Gridley.
“Ritengo,” disse Pym, con una semplicità e serietà davvero convincenti, “che queste lettere parlino da sé.”
Il signor Moon si alzò per l’ultima volta in un buio che non dava alcun indizio se la sua nativa gravità fosse mescolata alla sua nativa ironia.
“Nel corso di tutta questa inchiesta,” disse, “ma specialmente in questa sua fase conclusiva, l’accusa si è perpetuamente appoggiata a un solo argomento; intendo il fatto che nessuno sa che ne sia stato di tutte le infelici donne apparentemente sedotte da Smith. Non c’è alcuna sorta di prova che siano state assassinate, ma tale implicazione viene perpetuamente insinuata quando si pone la domanda su come siano morte. Ora, io non sono interessato a come siano morte, o quando siano morte, o se siano morte. Sono invece interessato a un’altra questione analoga—quella di come siano nate, e quando siano nate, e se siano nate. Non fraintendetemi. Non contesto l’esistenza di queste donne, né la veridicità di coloro che le hanno testimoniate. Rilevo semplicemente il fatto notevole che una sola di queste vittime, la ragazza di Maidenhead, è descritta come avente una qualche casa o dei genitori. Tutte le altre sono pensionanti o uccelli di passo—un’ospite, una solitaria sarta, una ragazza scapola addetta alla dattilografia. Lady Bullingdon, guardando dalle sue torri, che comprò dai Wharton con il denaro del vecchio fabbricante di sapone quando colse al volo l’occasione di sposare un gentiluomo squattrinato dell’Ulster—Lady Bullingdon, guardando fuori da quelle torri, vide davvero un oggetto che descrive come Green. Il signor Trip, di Hanbury e Bootle, ebbe davvero una dattilografa promessa a Smith. La signorina Gridley, per quanto idealista, è assolutamente onesta. Ella ospitò, nutrì e istruì davvero una giovane donna che Smith riuscì ad adescare e portar via. Ammettiamo che tutte queste donne siano davvero vissute. Ma continuiamo a chiederci: sono mai nate?”
“Oh, perbacco!” disse Moses Gould, soffocato dal divertimento.
“There could hardly,” interposed Pym with a quiet smile, “be a better instance of the neglect of true scientific process. The scientist, when once convinced of the fact of vitality and consciousness, would infer from these the previous process of generation.”
“If these gals,” said Gould impatiently—“if these gals were all alive (all alive O!) I’d chance a fiver they were all born.”
“You’d lose your fiver,” said Michael, speaking gravely out of the gloom. “All those admirable ladies were alive. They were more alive for having come into contact with Smith. They were all quite definitely alive, but only one of them was ever born.”
“Are you asking us to believe—” began Dr. Pym.
“I am asking you a second question,” said Moon sternly. “Can the court now sitting throw any light on a truly singular circumstance? Dr. Pym, in his interesting lecture on what are called, I believe, the relations of the sexes, said that Smith was the slave of a lust for variety which would lead a man first to a negress and then to an albino, first to a Patagonian giantess and then to a tiny Eskimo. But is there any evidence of such variety here? Is there any trace of a gigantic Patagonian in the story? Was the typewriter an Eskimo? So picturesque a circumstance would not surely have escaped remark. Was Lady Bullingdon’s dressmaker a negress? A voice in my bosom answers, ‘No!’ Lady Bullingdon, I am sure, would think a negress so conspicuous as to be almost Socialistic, and would feel something a little rakish even about an albino.
“But was there in Smith’s taste any such variety as the learned doctor describes? So far as our slight materials go, the very opposite seems to be the case. We have only one actual description of any of the prisoner’s wives— the short but highly poetic account by the aesthetic curate. ‘Her dress was the colour of spring, and her hair of autumn leaves.’ Autumn leaves, of course, are of various colours, some of which would be rather startling in hair (green, for instance); but I think such an expression would be most naturally used of the shades from red-brown to red, especially as ladies with their coppery-coloured hair do frequently wear light artistic greens. Now when we come to the next wife, we find the eccentric lover, when told he is a donkey, answering that donkeys always go after carrots; a remark which Lady Bullingdon evidently regarded as pointless and part of the natural table-talk of a village idiot, but which has an obvious meaning if we suppose that Polly’s hair was red. Passing to the next wife, the one he took from the girls’ school, we find Miss Gridley noticing that the schoolgirl in question wore ‘a reddish-brown dress, that went quietly enough with the warmer colour of her hair.’ In other words, the colour of the girl’s hair was something redder than red-brown. Lastly, the romantic organ-grinder declaimed in the office some poetry that only got as far as the words,—
“‘O vivid, inviolate head, Ringed —’
“But I think that a wide study of the worst modern poets will enable us to guess that ‘ringed with a glory of red,’ or ‘ringed with its passionate red,’ was the line that rhymed to ‘head.’ In this case once more, therefore, there is good reason to suppose that Smith fell in love with a girl with some sort of auburn or darkish-red hair—rather,” he said, looking down at the table, “rather like Miss Gray’s hair.”
Cyrus Pym was leaning forward with lowered eyelids, ready with one of his more pedantic interpellations; but Moses Gould suddenly struck his forefinger on his nose, with an expression of extreme astonishment and intelligence in his brilliant eyes.
“Mr. Moon’s contention at present,” interposed Pym, “is not, even if veracious, inconsistent with the lunatico-criminal view of I. Smith, which we have nailed to the mast. Science has long anticipated such a complication. An incurable attraction to a particular type of physical woman is one of the commonest of criminal per-versities, and when not considered narrowly, but in the light of induction and evolution—”
“At this late stage,” said Michael Moon very quietly, “I may perhaps relieve myself of a simple emotion that has been pressing me throughout the proceedings, by saying that induction and evolution may go and boil themselves. The Missing Link and all that is well enough for kids, but I’m talking about things we know here. All we know of the Missing Link is that he is missing—and he won’t be missed either. I know all about his human head and his horrid tail; they belong to a very old game called ‘Heads I win, tails you lose.’ If you do find a fellow’s bones, it proves he lived a long while ago; if you don’t find his bones, it proves how long ago he lived. That is the game you’ve been playing with this Smith affair. Because Smith’s head is small for his shoulders you call him microcephalous; if it had been large, you’d have called it water-on-the-brain. As long as poor old Smith’s seraglio seemed pretty various, variety was the sign of madness: now, because it’s turning out to be a bit monochrome—now monotony is the sign of madness. I suffer from all the disadvantages of being a grown-up person, and I’m jolly well going to get some of the advantages too; and with all politeness I propose not to be bullied with long words instead of short reasons, or consider your business a triumphant progress merely because you’re always finding out that you were wrong. Having relieved myself of these feelings, I have merely to add that I regard Dr. Pym as an ornament to the world far more beautiful than the Parthenon, or the monument on Bunker’s Hill, and that I propose to resume and conclude my remarks on the many marriages of Mr. Innocent Smith.
“Besides this red hair, there is another unifying thread that runs through these scattered incidents. There is something very peculiar and suggestive about the names of these women. Mr. Trip, you will remember, said he thought the typewriter’s name was Blake, but could not remember exactly. I suggest that it might have been Black, and in that case we have a curious series: Miss Green in Lady Bullingdon’s village; Miss Brown at the Hendon School; Miss Black at the publishers. A chord of colours, as it were, which ends up with Miss Gray at Beacon House, West Hampstead.”
“Difficilmente potrebbe esservi,” s’intromise Pym con un tranquillo sorriso, “un esempio migliore della trascuratezza del vero procedimento scientifico. Lo scienziato, una volta convinto del fatto della vitalità e della coscienza, dedurrebbe da queste il precedente processo di generazione.”
“Se queste ragazze,” disse Gould con impazienza—“se queste ragazze erano tutte vive (tutte vive, oh!), scommetterei un biglietto da cinque che erano tutte nate.”
“Perderesti il tuo biglietto da cinque,” disse Michael, parlando gravemente fuori dall’oscurità. “Tutte quelle ammirevoli dame erano vive. Erano ancor più vive per essere venute a contatto con Smith. Erano tutte decisamente vive, ma una sola di loro era mai nata.”
“Ci sta chiedendo di credere—” cominciò il dottor Pym.
“Le sto ponendo una seconda domanda,” disse Moon severamente. “Può la corte qui riunita gettare qualche luce su una circostanza davvero singolare? Il dottor Pym, nella sua interessante conferenza su ciò che si chiamano, credo, i rapporti tra i sessi, ha detto che Smith era schiavo di una brama di varietà che condurrebbe un uomo prima a una negra e poi a un’albina, prima a una gigantessa patagone e poi a una minuscola eschimese. Ma vi è qui una qualche prova di tale varietà? Vi è qualche traccia di una gigantesca patagone in questa storia? Era la dattilografa un’eschimese? Una circostanza così pittoresca non sarebbe di certo sfuggita all’osservazione. Era la sarta di Lady Bullingdon una negra? Una voce nel mio petto risponde: ‘No!’ Lady Bullingdon, ne sono certo, troverebbe una negra tanto vistosa da essere quasi socialista, e proverebbe un che di leggermente dissoluto persino di fronte a un’albina.
“Ma vi era nei gusti di Smith una tale varietà quale la dotta descrive? Per quanto vanno i nostri scarsi materiali, sembra proprio il contrario. Abbiamo una sola descrizione effettiva di una qualsiasi delle mogli del prigioniero— il breve ma altamente poetico ritratto tracciato dall’estetico curato. ‘Il suo abito aveva il colore della primavera, e i suoi capelli quello delle foglie d’autunno.’ Le foglie d’autunno, certo, sono di vari colori, alcuni dei quali sarebbero piuttosto sorprendenti in una capigliatura (il verde, per esempio); ma penso che una tale espressione si userebbe assai più naturalmente per le sfumature dal rosso-bruno al rosso, tanto più che le dame dai capelli color rame indossano spesso verdi chiari e artistici. Ora, quando passiamo alla moglie successiva, troviamo l’eccentrico amante, quando gli si dice che è un asino, rispondere che gli asini vanno sempre dietro alle carote; un’osservazione che Lady Bullingdon evidentemente considerò priva di senso e parte del naturale cicaleccio di uno scemo del villaggio, ma che ha un ovvio significato se supponiamo che i capelli di Polly fossero rossi. Passando alla moglie successiva, quella che egli prese dalla scuola femminile, troviamo la signorina Gridley che nota come la scolara in questione indossasse ‘un abito bruno-rossastro, che si accordava abbastanza sommessamente col tono più caldo dei suoi capelli.’ In altre parole, il colore dei capelli della ragazza era qualcosa di più rosso del rosso-bruno. Infine, il romantico suonatore d’organetto declamò nell’ufficio una poesia che non andò oltre le parole,—
“‘O vivida, inviolata testa, Cinta—’
“Ma penso che un ampio studio dei peggiori poeti moderni ci consentirà di indovinare che ‘cinta di una gloria di rosso,’ oppure ‘cinta del suo rosso appassionato,’ fosse il verso che rimava con ‘testa.’ Anche in questo caso, dunque, vi è buon motivo di supporre che Smith si accendesse d’amore per una ragazza dai capelli di un qualche rosso ramato o rosso scuro—piuttosto,” disse, abbassando lo sguardo sul tavolo, “piuttosto come i capelli della signorina Gray.”
Cyrus Pym era proteso in avanti con le palpebre abbassate, pronto con una delle sue più pedantesche interpellanze; ma Moses Gould d’un tratto si batté l’indice sul naso, con un’espressione di estremo stupore e intelligenza nei suoi occhi brillanti.
“La tesi del signor Moon al momento,” s’intromise Pym, “non è, anche se veridica, incoerente con la veduta lunatico-criminale di I. Smith, che abbiamo inchiodato all’albero maestro. La scienza ha da tempo previsto una simile complicazione. Un’incurabile attrazione verso un particolare tipo di donna fisica è una delle più comuni per-versità criminali, e quando considerata non angustamente, ma alla luce dell’induzione e dell’evoluzione—”
“A questo tardo stadio,” disse Michael Moon molto pacatamente, “posso forse sgravarmi di una semplice emozione che mi ha oppresso per tutto il corso del procedimento, dicendo che l’induzione e l’evoluzione possono andarsi a cuocere. L’Anello Mancante e tutto il resto va bene per i bambini, ma io parlo di cose che conosciamo qui. Tutto ciò che sappiamo dell’Anello Mancante è che è mancante—e non mancherà nemmeno a nessuno. So tutto della sua testa umana e della sua orrida coda; appartengono a un giochetto molto vecchio che si chiama ‘Testa vinco io, croce perdi tu.’ Se trovate le ossa di un tale, ciò prova che visse molto tempo fa; se non trovate le sue ossa, ciò prova quanto tempo fa visse. Questo è il gioco che avete giocato con questa faccenda di Smith. Poiché la testa di Smith è piccola per le sue spalle lo chiamate microcefalo; se fosse stata grande, l’avreste chiamata idrocefalia. Finché il serraglio del povero vecchio Smith è parso piuttosto vario, la varietà era il segno della follia: ora, poiché si scopre essere un po’ monocromatico—ora la monotonia è il segno della follia. Soffro di tutti gli svantaggi dell’essere una persona adulta, e sono ben deciso a prendermi anche qualcuno dei vantaggi; e con tutta cortesia propongo di non lasciarmi tiranneggiare con parole lunghe al posto di brevi ragioni, né di considerare i vostri affari un progresso trionfale solo perché scoprite di continuo di aver avuto torto. Sgravatomi di questi sentimenti, non mi resta che aggiungere che considero il dottor Pym un ornamento del mondo assai più bello del Partenone, o del monumento sul Bunker’s Hill, e che propongo di riprendere e concludere le mie osservazioni sui molti matrimoni del signor Innocent Smith.
“Oltre a questi capelli rossi, vi è un altro filo unificante che corre attraverso questi episodi sparsi. Vi è qualcosa di molto peculiare e suggestivo nei nomi di queste donne. Il signor Trip, ricorderete, disse di pensare che il nome della dattilografa fosse Blake, ma non riusciva a rammentarlo esattamente. Suggerisco che potrebbe essere stato Black, e in tal caso abbiamo una curiosa serie: la signorina Green nel villaggio di Lady Bullingdon; la signorina Brown alla scuola di Hendon; la signorina Black presso gli editori. Un accordo di colori, per così dire, che si conclude con la signorina Gray a Beacon House, West Hampstead.”
Amid a dead silence Moon continued his exposition. “What is the meaning of this queer coincidence about colours? Personally I cannot doubt for a moment that these names are purely arbitrary names, assumed as part of some general scheme or joke. I think it very probable that they were taken from a series of costumes— that Polly Green only meant Polly (or Mary) when in green, and that Mary Gray only means Mary (or Polly) when in gray. This would explain—”
Cyrus Pym was standing up rigid and almost pallid. “Do you actually mean to suggest—” he cried.
“Yes,” said Michael; “I do mean to suggest that. Innocent Smith has had many wooings, and many weddings for all I know; but he has had only one wife. She was sitting on that chair an hour ago, and is now talking to Miss Duke in the garden.
“Yes, Innocent Smith has behaved here, as he has on hundreds of other occasions, upon a plain and perfectly blameless principle. It is odd and extravagant in the modern world, but not more than any other principle plainly applied in the modern world would be. His principle can be quite simply stated: he refuses to die while he is still alive. He seeks to remind himself, by every electric shock to the intellect, that he is still a man alive, walking on two legs about the world. For this reason he fires bullets at his best friends; for this reason he arranges ladders and collapsible chimneys to steal his own property; for this reason he goes plodding around a whole planet to get back to his own home; and for this reason he has been in the habit of taking the woman whom he loved with a permanent loyalty, and leaving her about (so to speak) at schools, boarding-houses, and places of business, so that he might recover her again and again with a raid and a romantic elopement. He seriously sought by a perpetual recapture of his bride to keep alive the sense of her perpetual value, and the perils that should be run for her sake.
“So far his motives are clear enough; but perhaps his convictions are not quite so clear. I think Innocent Smith has an idea at the bottom of all this. I am by no means sure that I believe it myself, but I am quite sure that it is worth a man’s uttering and defending.
“The idea that Smith is attacking is this. Living in an entangled civilization, we have come to think certain things wrong which are not wrong at all. We have come to think outbreak and exuberance, banging and barging, rotting and wrecking, wrong. In themselves they are not merely pardonable; they are unimpeachable. There is nothing wicked about firing a pistol off even at a friend, so long as you do not mean to hit him and know you won’t. It is no more wrong than throwing a pebble at the sea—less, for you do occasionally hit the sea. There is nothing wrong in bashing down a chimney-pot and breaking through a roof, so long as you are not injuring the life or property of other men. It is no more wrong to choose to enter a house from the top than to choose to open a packing-case from the bottom. There is nothing wicked about walking round the world and coming back to your own house; it is no more wicked than walking round the garden and coming back to your own house. And there is nothing wicked about picking up your wife here, there, and everywhere, if, forsaking all others, you keep only to her so long as you both shall live. It is as innocent as playing a game of hide-and-seek in the garden. You associate such acts with blackguardism by a mere snobbish association, as you think there is something vaguely vile about going (or being seen going) into a pawnbroker’s or a public-house. You think there is something squalid and commonplace about such a connection. You are mistaken.
“This man’s spiritual power has been precisely this, that he has distinguished between custom and creed. He has broken the conventions, but he has kept the commandments. It is as if a man were found gambling wildly in a gambling hell, and you found that he only played for trouser buttons. It is as if you found a man making a clandestine appointment with a lady at a Covent Garden ball, and then you found it was his grandmother. Everything is ugly and discreditable, except the facts; everything is wrong about him, except that he has done no wrong.
“It will then be asked, ‘Why does Innocent Smith continue far into his middle age a farcical existence, that exposes him to so many false charges?’ To this I merely answer that he does it because he really is happy, because he really is hilarious, because he really is a man and alive. He is so young that climbing garden trees and playing silly practical jokes are still to him what they once were to us all. And if you ask me yet again why he alone among men should be fed with such inexhaustible follies, I have a very simple answer to that, though it is one that will not be approved.
“There is but one answer, and I am sorry if you don’t like it. If Innocent is happy, it is because he IS innocent. If he can defy the conventions, it is just because he can keep the commandments. It is just because he does not want to kill but to excite to life that a pistol is still as exciting to him as it is to a schoolboy. It is just because he does not want to steal, because he does not covet his neighbour’s goods, that he has captured the trick (oh, how we all long for it!), the trick of coveting his own goods. It is just because he does not want to commit adultery that he achieves the romance of sex; it is just because he loves one wife that he has a hundred honeymoons. If he had really murdered a man, if he had really deserted a woman, he would not be able to feel that a pistol or a love-letter was like a song— at least, not a comic song.”
“Do not imagine, please, that any such attitude is easy to me or appeals in any particular way to my sympathies. I am an Irishman, and a certain sorrow is in my bones, bred either of the persecutions of my creed, or of my creed itself. Speaking singly, I feel as if man was tied to tragedy, and there was no way out of the trap of old age and doubt. But if there is a way out, then, by Christ and St. Patrick, this is the way out. If one could keep as happy as a child or a dog, it would be by being as innocent as a child, or as sinless as a dog. Barely and brutally to be good—that may be the road, and he may have found it. Well, well, well, I see a look of skepticism on the face of my old friend Moses. Mr. Gould does not believe that being perfectly good in all respects would make a man merry.”
“No,” said Gould, with an unusual and convincing gravity; “I do not believe that being perfectly good in all respects would make a man merry.”
“Well,” said Michael quietly, “will you tell me one thing? Which of us has ever tried it?”
A silence ensued, rather like the silence of some long geological epoch which awaits the emergence of some unexpected type; for there rose at last in the stillness a massive figure that the other men had almost completely forgotten.
“Well, gentlemen,” said Dr. Warner cheerfully, “I’ve been pretty well entertained with all this pointless and incompetent tomfoolery for a couple of days; but it seems to be wearing rather thin, and I’m engaged for a city dinner. Among the hundred flowers of futility on both sides I was unable to detect any sort of reason why a lunatic should be allowed to shoot me in the back garden.”
He had settled his silk hat on his head and gone out sailing placidly to the garden gate, while the almost wailing voice of Pym still followed him: “But really the bullet missed you by several feet.” And another voice added: “The bullet missed him by several years.”
There was a long and mainly unmeaning silence, and then Moon said suddenly, “We have been sitting with a ghost. Dr. Herbert Warner died years ago.”
In mezzo a un silenzio di tomba Moon proseguì la sua esposizione. “Qual è il significato di questa strana coincidenza sui colori? Personalmente non posso dubitare per un solo istante che questi nomi siano puramente nomi arbitrari, assunti come parte di un qualche schema o scherzo generale. Ritengo molto probabile che fossero tratti da una serie di costumi— che Polly Green significasse solo Polly (o Mary) quando in verde, e che Mary Gray significhi solo Mary (o Polly) quando in grigio. Questo spiegherebbe—”
Cyrus Pym si era alzato rigido e quasi pallido. “Intende davvero suggerire—” gridò.
“Sì,” disse Michael; “intendo davvero suggerire proprio questo. Innocent Smith ha avuto molti corteggiamenti, e molte nozze per quel che ne so; ma ha avuto una sola moglie. Un’ora fa era seduta su quella sedia, e ora sta parlando con la signorina Duke nel giardino.
“Sì, Innocent Smith si è comportato qui, come si è comportato in centinaia di altre occasioni, secondo un principio semplice e perfettamente irreprensibile. È strano e stravagante nel mondo moderno, ma non più di quanto lo sarebbe qualsiasi altro principio applicato con chiarezza nel mondo moderno. Il suo principio può essere enunciato in modo assai semplice: egli rifiuta di morire finché è ancora vivo. Cerca di rammentare a se stesso, con ogni scossa elettrica all’intelletto, di essere ancora un uomo vivo, che cammina su due gambe per il mondo. Per questa ragione spara pallottole ai suoi migliori amici; per questa ragione sistema scale e comignoli pieghevoli per rubare la propria proprietà; per questa ragione arranca attorno a un intero pianeta per tornare alla propria casa; e per questa ragione ha preso l’abitudine di prendere la donna che amava con lealtà permanente, e di lasciarla in giro (per così dire) a scuole, pensioni e luoghi di lavoro, così da poterla riconquistare più e più volte con un’incursione e una romantica fuga d’amore. Cercava seriamente, con una perpetua ricattura della sua sposa, di mantenere vivo il senso del suo perpetuo valore, e dei pericoli che andrebbero corsi per amor suo.
“Fin qui i suoi moventi sono abbastanza chiari; ma forse le sue convinzioni non sono altrettanto chiare. Penso che Innocent Smith abbia un’idea in fondo a tutto questo. Non sono affatto sicuro di crederci io stesso, ma sono del tutto sicuro che vale la pena che un uomo la enunci e la difenda.
“L’idea che Smith attacca è questa. Vivendo in una civiltà ingarbugliata, siamo giunti a ritenere sbagliate certe cose che non sono affatto sbagliate. Siamo giunti a ritenere sbagliati l’impeto e l’esuberanza, lo strepitare e l’urtare, il fracassare e il devastare. In se stessi essi non sono soltanto perdonabili; sono inattaccabili. Non c’è nulla di malvagio nello sparare una pistola anche contro un amico, purché non si intenda colpirlo e si sappia che non lo si colpirà. Non è più sbagliato che gettare un ciottolo nel mare—meno, poiché il mare ogni tanto lo colpite. Non c’è nulla di male nell’abbattere un comignolo e sfondare un tetto, purché non si danneggino la vita o la proprietà di altri uomini. Non è più sbagliato scegliere di entrare in una casa dal tetto che scegliere di aprire una cassa da imballaggio dal fondo. Non c’è nulla di malvagio nel camminare attorno al mondo e tornare alla propria casa; non è più malvagio che camminare attorno al giardino e tornare alla propria casa. E non c’è nulla di malvagio nel raccogliere la propria moglie qui, là e ovunque, se, abbandonando tutte le altre, ci si tiene solo a lei finché entrambi vivrete. È innocente quanto giocare a nascondino nel giardino. Associate tali atti alla mascalzoneria per una mera associazione snobistica, così come pensate che vi sia qualcosa di vagamente vile nell’andare (o nell’essere visti andare) da un prestatore su pegno o in un’osteria. Pensate che vi sia qualcosa di squallido e ordinario in una simile frequentazione. Vi sbagliate.
“La potenza spirituale di quest’uomo è stata precisamente questa, che egli ha distinto tra usanza e credo. Ha infranto le convenzioni, ma ha osservato i comandamenti. È come se un uomo fosse trovato a giocare selvaggiamente in una bisca, e scopriste che giocava solo per bottoni da pantaloni. È come se trovaste un uomo che fissa un clandestino appuntamento con una dama a un ballo di Covent Garden, e poi scopriste che era sua nonna. Tutto è brutto e disdicevole, tranne i fatti; tutto è sbagliato in lui, tranne che non ha commesso alcun male.
“Si chiederà allora: ‘Perché Innocent Smith prosegue fin nella sua mezza età un’esistenza farsesca, che lo espone a tante false accuse?’ A ciò rispondo semplicemente che lo fa perché è davvero felice, perché è davvero ilare, perché è davvero un uomo e vivo. È così giovane che arrampicarsi sugli alberi del giardino e fare sciocchi scherzi pratici sono ancora per lui ciò che un tempo furono per tutti noi. E se mi chiedete ancora una volta perché egli solo fra gli uomini debba essere nutrito di follie così inesauribili, ho una risposta molto semplice a questo, benché sia una che non verrà approvata.
“Vi è una sola risposta, e mi dispiace se non vi piace. Se Innocent è felice, è perché È innocente. Se sa sfidare le convenzioni, è proprio perché sa osservare i comandamenti. È proprio perché non vuole uccidere ma eccitare alla vita che una pistola è ancora tanto eccitante per lui quanto lo è per uno scolaretto. È proprio perché non vuole rubare, perché non brama i beni del suo prossimo, che ha carpito il trucco (oh, come tutti lo agogniamo!), il trucco di bramare i propri beni. È proprio perché non vuole commettere adulterio che egli consegue il romanticismo del sesso; è proprio perché ama una sola moglie che ha cento lune di miele. Se avesse davvero assassinato un uomo, se avesse davvero abbandonato una donna, non sarebbe capace di sentire che una pistola o una lettera d’amore è come una canzone— o per lo meno, non una canzone comica.”
“Non immaginate, vi prego, che un simile atteggiamento sia facile per me o si accordi in modo particolare con le mie simpatie. Sono un irlandese, e una certa tristezza è nelle mie ossa, generata sia dalle persecuzioni del mio credo, sia dal mio credo stesso. A parlare per me solo, sento come se l’uomo fosse legato alla tragedia, e non vi fosse via d’uscita dalla trappola della vecchiaia e del dubbio. Ma se una via d’uscita c’è, allora, per Cristo e san Patrizio, questa è la via d’uscita. Se si potesse restare felici come un bambino o un cane, sarebbe con l’essere innocenti come un bambino, o senza peccato come un cane. Nudamente e brutalmente essere buoni—quella può essere la via, ed egli può averla trovata. Beh, beh, beh, vedo un’aria di scetticismo sul volto del mio vecchio amico Moses. Il signor Gould non crede che l’essere perfettamente buoni sotto ogni aspetto renderebbe un uomo allegro.”
“No,” disse Gould, con una gravità insolita e convincente; “non credo che l’essere perfettamente buoni sotto ogni aspetto renderebbe un uomo allegro.”
“Beh,” disse Michael pacatamente, “mi dirai una cosa sola? Chi di noi ha mai provato?”
Ne seguì un silenzio, piuttosto simile al silenzio di qualche lunga epoca geologica che attende l’emergere di un tipo inatteso; poiché si levò infine nella quiete una massiccia figura che gli altri uomini avevano quasi completamente dimenticato.
“Ebbene, signori,” disse il dottor Warner allegramente, “sono stato piuttosto bene intrattenuto con tutta questa insulsa e incompetente pagliacciata per un paio di giorni; ma sembra farsi alquanto sottile, e sono impegnato per un pranzo in città. Fra i cento fiori di futilità da entrambe le parti non sono riuscito a scorgere alcuna sorta di ragione per cui a un pazzo dovrebbe essere consentito di spararmi nel giardino sul retro.”
Si era calcato in testa il suo cilindro di seta ed era uscito, veleggiando placido verso il cancello del giardino, mentre la voce quasi lamentosa di Pym ancora lo inseguiva: “Ma in realtà la pallottola l’ha mancata di parecchi piedi.” E un’altra voce aggiunse: “La pallottola l’ha mancato di parecchi anni.”
Vi fu un lungo e per lo più insensato silenzio, e poi Moon disse d’un tratto: “Siamo stati seduti con un fantasma. Il dottor Herbert Warner è morto anni fa.”
Chapter V
How the Great Wind Went from Beacon House
Mary was walking between Diana and Rosamund slowly up and down the garden; they were silent, and the sun had set. Such spaces of daylight as remained open in the west were of a warm-tinted white, which can be compared to nothing but a cream cheese; and the lines of plumy cloud that ran across them had a soft but vivid violet bloom, like a violet smoke. All the rest of the scene swept and faded away into a dove-like gray, and seemed to melt and mount into Mary’s dark-gray figure until she seemed clothed with the garden and the skies. There was something in these last quiet colours that gave her a setting and a supremacy; and the twilight, which concealed Diana’s statelier figure and Rosamund’s braver array, exhibited and emphasized her, leaving her the lady of the garden, and alone.
When they spoke at last it was evident that a conversation long fallen silent was being revived.
“But where is your husband taking you?” asked Diana in her practical voice.
“To an aunt,” said Mary; “that’s just the joke. There really is an aunt, and we left the children with her when I arranged to be turned out of the other boarding-house down the road. We never take more than a week of this kind of holiday, but sometimes we take two of them together.”
“Does the aunt mind much?” asked Rosamund innocently. “Of course, I dare say it’s very narrow-minded and—what’s that other word?— you know, what Goliath was—but I’ve known many aunts who would think it—well, silly.”
“Silly?” cried Mary with great heartiness. “Oh, my Sunday hat! I should think it was silly! But what do you expect? He really is a good man, and it might have been snakes or something.”
“Snakes?” inquired Rosamund, with a slightly puzzled interest.
“Uncle Harry kept snakes, and said they loved him,” replied Mary with perfect simplicity. “Auntie let him have them in his pockets, but not in the bedroom.”
“And you—” began Diana, knitting her dark brows a little.
“Oh, I do as auntie did,” said Mary; “as long as we’re not away from the children more than a fortnight together I play the game. He calls me ‘Manalive;’ and you must write it all one word, or he’s quite flustered.”
“But if men want things like that,” began Diana.
“Oh, what’s the good of talking about men?” cried Mary impatiently; “why, one might as well be a lady novelist or some horrid thing. There aren’t any men. There are no such people. There’s a man; and whoever he is he’s quite different.”
“So there is no safety,” said Diana in a low voice.
“Oh, I don’t know,” answered Mary, lightly enough; “there’s only two things generally true of them. At certain curious times they’re just fit to take care of us, and they’re never fit to take care of themselves.”
“There is a gale getting up,” said Rosamund suddenly. “Look at those trees over there, a long way off, and the clouds going quicker.”
“I know what you’re thinking about,” said Mary; “and don’t you be silly fools. Don’t you listen to the lady novelists. You go down the king’s highway; for God’s truth, it is God’s. Yes, my dear Michael will often be extremely untidy. Arthur Inglewood will be worse—he’ll be untidy. But what else are all the trees and clouds for, you silly kittens?”
“The clouds and trees are all waving about,” said Rosamund. “There is a storm coming, and it makes me feel quite excited, somehow. Michael is really rather like a storm: he frightens me and makes me happy.”
“Don’t you be frightened,” said Mary. “All over, these men have one advantage; they are the sort that go out.”
A sudden thrust of wind through the trees drifted the dying leaves along the path, and they could hear the far-off trees roaring faintly.
“I mean,” said Mary, “they are the kind that look outwards and get interested in the world. It doesn’t matter a bit whether it’s arguing, or bicycling, or breaking down the ends of the earth as poor old Innocent does. Stick to the man who looks out of the window and tries to understand the world. Keep clear of the man who looks in at the window and tries to understand you. When poor old Adam had gone out gardening (Arthur will go out gardening), the other sort came along and wormed himself in, nasty old snake.”
“You agree with your aunt,” said Rosamund, smiling: “no snakes in the bedroom.”
“I didn’t agree with my aunt very much,” replied Mary simply, “but I think she was right to let Uncle Harry collect dragons and griffins, so long as it got him out of the house.”
Almost at the same moment lights sprang up inside the darkened house, turning the two glass doors into the garden into gates of beaten gold. The golden gates were burst open, and the enormous Smith, who had sat like a clumsy statue for so many hours, came flying and turning cart-wheels down the lawn and shouting, “Acquitted! acquitted!” Echoing the cry, Michael scampered across the lawn to Rosamund and wildly swung her into a few steps of what was supposed to be a waltz. But the company knew Innocent and Michael by this time, and their extravagances were gaily taken for granted; it was far more extraordinary that Arthur Inglewood walked straight up to Diana and kissed her as if it had been his sister’s birthday. Even Dr. Pym, though he refrained from dancing, looked on with real benevolence; for indeed the whole of the absurd revelation had disturbed him less than the others; he half supposed that such irresponsible tribunals and insane discussions were part of the mediaeval mummeries of the Old Land.
While the tempest tore the sky as with trumpets, window after window was lighted up in the house within; and before the company, broken with laughter and the buffeting of the wind, had groped their way to the house again, they saw that the great apish figure of Innocent Smith had clambered out of his own attic window, and roaring again and again, “Beacon House!” whirled round his head a huge log or trunk from the wood fire below, of which the river of crimson flame and purple smoke drove out on the deafening air.
He was evident enough to have been seen from three counties; but when the wind died down, and the party, at the top of their evening’s merriment, looked again for Mary and for him, they were not to be found.
The End
Capitolo V
Come il Gran Vento Se ne Andò da Beacon House
Mary passeggiava tra Diana e Rosamund su e giù lentamente per il giardino; tacevano, e il sole era tramontato. Quegli spazi di luce diurna ancora aperti a occidente erano di un bianco dal tono caldo, che non si può paragonare a nulla se non a un formaggio cremoso; e le linee di nuvole piumate che correvano attraverso di essi avevano una soffusa ma vivida fioritura violetta, come un fumo violetto. Tutto il resto della scena si stemperava e svaniva in un grigio di colomba, e pareva fondersi e salire nella figura grigio scuro di Mary, finché ella pareva vestita del giardino e dei cieli. Vi era qualcosa in quegli ultimi quieti colori che le conferiva una cornice e una supremazia; e il crepuscolo, che celava la figura più maestosa di Diana e l’abbigliamento più ardito di Rosamund, esibiva e sottolineava lei, lasciandola signora del giardino, e sola.
Quando parlarono infine, fu evidente che si stava riprendendo una conversazione a lungo caduta nel silenzio.
“Ma dove ti sta portando tuo marito?” chiese Diana con la sua voce pratica.
“Da una zia,” disse Mary; “è proprio questo il bello. C’è davvero una zia, e lasciammo i bambini con lei quando organizzai di farmi cacciare dall’altra pensione giù per la strada. Non ci concediamo mai più di una settimana di questa specie di vacanza, ma a volte ne prendiamo due di fila.”
“E la zia se la prende molto?” chiese Rosamund ingenuamente. “Certo, oserei dire che è una cosa molto gretta e—com’è quell’altra parola?— sai, quella che era Golia—ma ho conosciuto molte zie che la riterrebbero—beh, sciocca.”
“Sciocca?” esclamò Mary con grande cordialità. “Oh, per il mio cappello della domenica! Direi proprio che era sciocca! Ma cosa ti aspetti? Lui è davvero un brav’uomo, e avrebbero potuto essere serpenti o qualcosa del genere.”
“Serpenti?” domandò Rosamund, con un interesse un po’ perplesso.
“Lo zio Harry teneva serpenti, e diceva che gli volevano bene,” rispose Mary con perfetta semplicità. “La zia gli permetteva di tenerli in tasca, ma non in camera da letto.”
“E tu—” cominciò Diana, corrugando un poco le scure sopracciglia.
“Oh, io faccio come faceva la zia,” disse Mary; “finché non stiamo lontani dai bambini più di una quindicina di giorni di fila, sto al gioco. Lui mi chiama ‘Manalive’; e devi scriverlo tutto in una parola, o si agita moltissimo.”
“Ma se gli uomini vogliono cose del genere,” cominciò Diana.
“Oh, a che serve parlare degli uomini?” esclamò Mary con impazienza; “ma via, tanto varrebbe essere una romanziera o qualche cosa orribile. Non esistono gli uomini. Non esiste gente simile. Esiste un uomo; e chiunque egli sia è del tutto diverso.”
“Allora non c’è sicurezza,” disse Diana a bassa voce.
“Oh, non saprei,” rispose Mary, con sufficiente leggerezza; “ci sono solo due cose generalmente vere di loro. In certi curiosi momenti sono proprio adatti a prendersi cura di noi, e non sono mai adatti a prendersi cura di se stessi.”
“Si sta levando una burrasca,” disse Rosamund d’un tratto. “Guarda quegli alberi laggiù, molto lontani, e le nuvole che vanno più veloci.”
“So a cosa stai pensando,” disse Mary; “e non fare la sciocca. Non date retta alle romanziere. Voi andate per la strada maestra del re; per la verità di Dio, è di Dio. Sì, il mio caro Michael sarà spesso estremamente disordinato. Arthur Inglewood sarà peggio—sarà disordinato. Ma a che altro servono tutti gli alberi e le nuvole, sciocche gattine?”
“Le nuvole e gli alberi ondeggiano tutti,” disse Rosamund. “Sta arrivando una tempesta, e in qualche modo mi fa sentire tutta eccitata. Michael è davvero un po’ come una tempesta: mi spaventa e mi rende felice.”
“Non spaventarti,” disse Mary. “In fondo, questi uomini hanno un vantaggio; sono di quel genere che esce fuori.”
Una raffica improvvisa di vento fra gli alberi trascinò lungo il sentiero le foglie morenti, e si udivano i lontani alberi ruggire fiocamente.
“Voglio dire,” disse Mary, “sono di quel tipo che guarda all’esterno e si interessa al mondo. Non importa affatto se si tratta di discutere, o di andare in bicicletta, o di abbattere i confini della terra come fa il povero vecchio Innocent. Tieniti stretto l’uomo che guarda fuori dalla finestra e cerca di capire il mondo. Sta’ alla larga dall’uomo che guarda dentro dalla finestra e cerca di capire te. Quando il povero vecchio Adamo era andato a fare giardinaggio (Arthur andrà a fare giardinaggio), l’altra specie sopraggiunse e si insinuò strisciando, sporco vecchio serpente.”
“Sei d’accordo con tua zia,” disse Rosamund, sorridendo: “niente serpenti in camera da letto.”
“Non ero molto d’accordo con mia zia,” rispose Mary semplicemente, “ma penso che facesse bene a lasciare che lo zio Harry collezionasse draghi e grifoni, purché ciò lo tenesse fuori dalla casa.”
Quasi nello stesso istante delle luci sfolgorarono dentro la casa oscurata, trasformando le due porte a vetri sul giardino in cancelli d’oro battuto. I cancelli dorati furono spalancati, e l’enorme Smith, che se ne era stato seduto come una goffa statua per tante ore, venne volando e facendo capriole giù per il prato gridando: “Assolto! assolto!” Facendo eco al grido, Michael corse a precipizio attraverso il prato fino a Rosamund e la fece roteare selvaggiamente in qualche passo di quello che voleva essere un valzer. Ma ormai la compagnia conosceva Innocent e Michael a questo punto, e le loro stravaganze venivano allegramente date per scontate; fu di gran lunga più straordinario che Arthur Inglewood si dirigesse dritto verso Diana e la baciasse come se fosse stato il compleanno di sua sorella. Persino il dottor Pym, benché si astenesse dal ballare, guardava con vera benevolenza; poiché in effetti l’intera assurda rivelazione lo aveva turbato meno degli altri; supponeva a metà che simili irresponsabili tribunali e folli discussioni fossero parte delle medievali buffonate della Vecchia Terra.
Mentre la tempesta squarciava il cielo come con trombe, finestra dopo finestra si illuminava nella casa all’interno; e prima che la compagnia, sfinita dal ridere e sballottata dal vento, si fosse fatta strada a tentoni verso la casa di nuovo, videro che la grande scimmiesca figura di Innocent Smith si era arrampicata fuori dalla finestra della propria soffitta, e ruggendo di continuo: “Beacon House!” faceva roteare sopra il capo un enorme ceppo o tronco preso dal fuoco di legna sottostante, del quale il fiume di fiamma cremisi e di fumo purpureo si spandeva nell’aria assordante.
Era abbastanza visibile da poter essere scorto da tre contee; ma quando il vento si placò, e la compagnia, all’apice del proprio spasso serale, cercò di nuovo Mary e lui, non li si trovò da nessuna parte.
Fine