I - The Face in the Target * Harold March, the rising reviewer and social critic, was walking
vigorously across a great tableland of moors and commons, the
horizon of which was fringed with the far-off woods of the famous
estate of Torwood Park. He was a good-looking young man in tweeds,
with very pale curly hair and pale clear eyes. Walking in wind and
sun in the very landscape of liberty, he was still young enough to
remember his politics and not merely try to forget them. For his
errand at Torwood Park was a political one; it was the place of
appointment named by no less a person than the Chancellor of the
Exchequer, Sir Howard Horne, then introducing his so-called
Socialist budget, and prepared to expound it in an interview with so
promising a penman. Harold March was the sort of man who knows
everything about politics, and nothing about politicians. He also
knew a great deal about art, letters, philosophy, and general
culture; about almost everything, indeed, except the world he was
living in. Abruptly, in the middle of those sunny and windy flats, he came upon
a sort of cleft almost narrow enough to be called a crack in the
land. It was just large enough to be the water-course for a small
stream which vanished at intervals under green tunnels of
undergrowth, as if in a dwarfish forest. Indeed, he had an odd
feeling as if he were a giant looking over the valley of the
pygmies. When he dropped into the hollow, however, the impression
was lost; the rocky banks, though hardly above the height of a
cottage, hung over and had the profile of a precipice. As he began
to wander down the course of the stream, in idle but romantic
curiosity, and saw the water shining in short strips between the
great gray boulders and bushes as soft as great green mosses, he
fell into quite an opposite vein of fantasy. It was rather as if the
earth had opened and swallowed him into a sort of underworld of
dreams. And when he became conscious of a human figure dark against
the silver stream, sitting on a large boulder and looking rather
like a large bird, it was perhaps with some of the premonitions
proper to a man who meets the strangest friendship of his life. The man was apparently fishing; or at least was fixed in a
fisherman’s attitude with more than a fisherman’s immobility. March
was able to examine the man almost as if he had been a statue for
some minutes before the statue spoke. He was a tall, fair man,
cadaverous, and a little lackadaisical, with heavy eyelids and a
highbridged nose. When his face was shaded with his wide white hat,
his light mustache and lithe figure gave him a look of youth. But
the Panama lay on the moss beside him; and the spectator could see
that his brow was prematurely bald; and this, combined with a
certain hollowness about the eyes, had an air of headwork and even
headache. But the most curious thing about him, realized after a
short scrutiny, was that, though he looked like a fisherman, he was
not fishing. He was holding, instead of a rod, something that might have been a
landing-net which some fishermen use, but which was much more like
the ordinary toy net which children carry, and which they generally
use indifferently for shrimps or butterflies. He was dipping this
into the water at intervals, gravely regarding its harvest of weed
or mud, and emptying it out again. “No, I haven’t caught anything,” he remarked, calmly, as if
answering an unspoken query. “When I do I have to throw it back
again; especially the big fish. But some of the little beasts
interest me when I get ‘em.” “A scientific interest, I suppose?” observed March. “Of a rather amateurish sort, I fear,” answered the strange
fisherman. “I have a sort of hobby about what they call ‘phenomena
of phosphorescence.’ But it would be rather awkward to go about in
society carrying stinking fish.” “I suppose it would,” said March, with a smile. “Rather odd to enter a drawing-room carrying a large luminous cod,”
continued the stranger, in his listless way. “How quaint it would
be if one could carry it about like a lantern, or have little sprats
for candles. Some of the seabeasts would really be very pretty like
lampshades; the blue sea-snail that glitters all over like
starlight; and some of the red starfish really shine like red stars.
But, naturally, I’m not looking for them here.” March thought of asking him what he was looking for; but, feeling
unequal to a technical discussion at least as deep as the deep-sea
fishes, he returned to more ordinary topics. “Delightful sort of hole this is,” he said. “This little dell and
river here. It’s like those places Stevenson talks about, where
something ought to happen.” “I know,” answered the other. “I think it’s because the place
itself, so to speak, seems to happen and not merely to exist.
Perhaps that’s what old Picasso and some of the Cubists are trying
to express by angles and jagged lines. Look at that wall like low
cliffs that juts forward just at right angles to the slope of turf
sweeping up to it. That’s like a silent collision. It’s like a
breaker and the back-wash of a wave.” March looked at the low-browed crag overhanging the green slope and
nodded. He was interested in a man who turned so easily from the
technicalities of science to those of art; and asked him if he
admired the new angular artists. “As I feel it, the Cubists are not Cubist enough,” replied the
stranger. “I mean they’re not thick enough. By making things
mathematical they make them thin. Take the living lines out of that
landscape, simplify it to a right angle, and you flatten it out to a
mere diagram on paper. Diagrams have their own beauty; but it is of
just the other sort. They stand for the unalterable things; the
calm, eternal, mathematical sort of truths; what somebody calls the
‘white radiance of’—” He stopped, and before the next word came something had happened
almost too quickly and completely to be realized. From behind the
overhanging rock came a noise and rush like that of a railway train;
and a great motor car appeared. It topped the crest of cliff, black
against the sun, like a battle-chariot rushing to destruction in
some wild epic. March automatically put out his hand in one futile
gesture, as if to catch a falling tea-cup in a drawing-room. For the fraction of a flash it seemed to leave the ledge of rock
like a flying ship; then the very sky seemed to turn over like a
wheel, and it lay a ruin amid the tall grasses below, a line of gray
smoke going up slowly from it into the silent air. A little lower
the figure of a man with gray hair lay tumbled down the steep green
slope, his limbs lying all at random, and his face turned away. The eccentric fisherman dropped his net and walked swiftly toward
the spot, his new acquaintance following him. As they drew near
there seemed a sort of monstrous irony in the fact that the dead
machine was still throbbing and thundering as busily as a factory,
while the man lay so still. He was unquestionably dead. The blood flowed in the grass from a
hopelessly fatal fracture at the back of the skull; but the face,
which was turned to the sun, was uninjured and strangely arresting
in itself. It was one of those cases of a strange face so
unmistakable as to feel familiar. We feel, somehow, that we ought to
recognize it, even though we do not. It was of the broad, square
sort with great jaws, almost like that of a highly intellectual ape;
the wide mouth shut so tight as to be traced by a mere line; the
nose short with the sort of nostrils that seem to gape with an
appetite for the air. The oddest thing about the face was that one
of the eyebrows was cocked up at a much sharper angle than the
other. March thought he had never seen a face so naturally alive as
that dead one. And its ugly energy seemed all the stranger for its
halo of hoary hair. Some papers lay half fallen out of the pocket,
and from among them March extracted a card-case. He read the name on
the card aloud. “Sir Humphrey Turnbull. I’m sure I’ve heard that name somewhere.” His companion only gave a sort of a little sigh and was silent for a
moment, as if ruminating, then he merely said, “The poor fellow is
quite gone,” and added some scientific terms in which his auditor
once more found himself out of his depth. “As things are,” continued the same curiously well-informed person,
“it will be more legal for us to leave the body as it is until the
police are informed. In fact, I think it will be well if nobody
except the police is informed. Don’t be surprised if I seem to be
keeping it dark from some of our neighbors round here.” Then, as if
prompted to regularize his rather abrupt confidence, he said: “I’ve
come down to see my cousin at Torwood; my name is Horne Fisher.
Might be a pun on my pottering about here, mightn’t it?” “Is Sir Howard Horne your cousin?” asked March. “I’m going to
Torwood Park to see him myself; only about his public work, of
course, and the wonderful stand he is making for his principles. I
think this Budget is the greatest thing in English history. If it
fails, it will be the most heroic failure in English history. Are
you an admirer of your great kinsman, Mr. Fisher?” “Rather,” said Mr. Fisher. “He’s the best shot I know.” Then, as if sincerely repentant of his nonchalance, he added, with a
sort of enthusiasm: “No, but really, he’s a beautiful shot.” As if fired by his own words, he took a sort of leap at the ledges
of the rock above him, and scaled them with a sudden agility in
startling contrast to his general lassitude. He had stood for some
seconds on the headland above, with his aquiline profile under the
Panama hat relieved against the sky and peering over the countryside
before his companion had collected himself sufficiently to scramble
up after him. The level above was a stretch of common turf on which the tracks of
the fated car were plowed plainly enough; but the brink of it was
broken as with rocky teeth; broken boulders of all shapes and sizes
lay near the edge; it was almost incredible that any one could have
deliberately driven into such a death trap, especially in broad
daylight. “I can’t make head or tail of it,” said March. “Was he blind? Or
blind drunk?” “Neither, by the look of him,” replied the other. “Then it was suicide.” “It doesn’t seem a cozy way of doing it,” remarked the man called
Fisher. “Besides, I don’t fancy poor old Puggy would commit suicide,
somehow.” “Poor old who?” inquired the wondering journalist. “Did you know
this unfortunate man?” “Nobody knew him exactly,” replied Fisher, with some vagueness. “But
one knew him, of course. He’d been a terror in his time, in
Parliament and the courts, and so on; especially in that row about
the aliens who were deported as undesirables, when he wanted one of
‘em hanged for murder. He was so sick about it that he retired from
the bench. Since then he mostly motored about by himself; but he was
coming to Torwood, too, for the week-end; and I don’t see why he
should deliberately break his neck almost at the very door. I
believe Hoggs—I mean my cousin Howard—was coming down specially to
meet him.” “Torwood Park doesn’t belong to your cousin?” inquired March. “No; it used to belong to the Winthrops, you know,” replied the
other. “Now a new man’s got it; a man from Montreal named Jenkins.
Hoggs comes for the shooting; I told you he was a lovely shot.” This repeated eulogy on the great social statesman affected Harold
March as if somebody had defined Napoleon as a distinguished player
of nap. But he had another half-formed impression struggling in this
flood of unfamiliar things, and he brought it to the surface before
it could vanish. “Jenkins,” he repeated. “Surely you don’t mean Jefferson Jenkins,
the social reformer? I mean the man who’s fighting for the new
cottage-estate scheme. It would be as interesting to meet him as any
Cabinet Minister in the world, if you’ll excuse my saying so.” “Yes; Hoggs told him it would have to be cottages,” said Fisher.
“He said the breed of cattle had improved too often, and people were
beginning to laugh. And, of course, you must hang a peerage on to
something; though the poor chap hasn’t got it yet. Hullo, here’s
somebody else.” They had started walking in the tracks of the car, leaving it behind
them in the hollow, still humming horribly like a huge insect that
had killed a man. The tracks took them to the corner of the road,
one arm of which went on in the same line toward the distant gates
of the park. It was clear that the car had been driven down the long
straight road, and then, instead of turning with the road to the
left, had gone straight on over the turf to its doom. But it was not
this discovery that had riveted Fisher’s eye, but something even
more solid. At the angle of the white road a dark and solitary
figure was standing almost as still as a finger post. It was that of
a big man in rough shooting-clothes, bareheaded, and with tousled
curly hair that gave him a rather wild look. On a nearer approach
this first more fantastic impression faded; in a full light the
figure took on more conventional colors, as of an ordinary gentleman
who happened to have come out without a hat and without very
studiously brushing his hair. But the massive stature remained, and
something deep and even cavernous about the setting of the eyes
redeemed his animal good looks from the commonplace. But March had
no time to study the man more closely, for, much to his
astonishment, his guide merely observed, “Hullo, Jack!” and walked
past him as if he had indeed been a signpost, and without attempting
to inform him of the catastrophe beyond the rocks. It was relatively
a small thing, but it was only the first in a string of singular
antics on which his new and eccentric friend was leading him. The man they had passed looked after them in rather a suspicious
fashion, but Fisher continued serenely on his way along the straight
road that ran past the gates of the great estate. “That’s John Burke, the traveler,” he condescended to explain. “I
expect you’ve heard of him; shoots big game and all that. Sorry I
couldn’t stop to introduce you, but I dare say you’ll meet him later
on.” “I know his book, of course,” said March, with renewed interest.
“That is certainly a fine piece of description, about their being
only conscious of the closeness of the elephant when the colossal
head blocked out the moon.” “Yes, young Halkett writes jolly well, I think. What? Didn’t you
know Halkett wrote Burke’s book for him? Burke can’t use anything
except a gun; and you can’t write with that. Oh, he’s genuine enough
in his way, you know, as brave as a lion, or a good deal braver by
all accounts.” “You seem to know all about him,” observed March, with a rather
bewildered laugh, “and about a good many other people.” Fisher’s bald brow became abruptly corrugated, and a curious
expression came into his eyes. “I know too much,” he said. “That’s what’s the matter with me.
That’s what’s the matter with all of us, and the whole show; we know
too much. Too much about one another; too much about ourselves.
That’s why I’m really interested, just now, about one thing that I
don’t know.” “And that is?” inquired the other. “Why that poor fellow is dead.” They had walked along the straight road for nearly a mile,
conversing at intervals in this fashion; and March had a singular
sense of the whole world being turned inside out. Mr. Horne Fisher
did not especially abuse his friends and relatives in fashionable
society; of some of them he spoke with affection. But they seemed to
be an entirely new set of men and women, who happened to have the
same nerves as the men and women mentioned most often in the
newspapers. Yet no fury of revolt could have seemed to him more
utterly revolutionary than this cold familiarity. It was like
daylight on the other side of stage scenery. They reached the great lodge gates of the park, and, to March’s
surprise, passed them and continued along the interminable white,
straight road. But he was himself too early for his appointment with
Sir Howard, and was not disinclined to see the end of his new
friend’s experiment, whatever it might be. They had long left the
moorland behind them, and half the white road was gray in the great
shadow of the Torwood pine forests, themselves like gray bars
shuttered against the sunshine and within, amid that clear noon,
manufacturing their own midnight. Soon, however, rifts began to
appear in them like gleams of colored windows; the trees thinned and
fell away as the road went forward, showing the wild, irregular
copses in which, as Fisher said, the house-party had been blazing
away all day. And about two hundred yards farther on they came to
the first turn of the road. At the corner stood a sort of decayed inn with the dingy sign of The
Grapes. The signboard was dark and indecipherable by now, and hung
black against the sky and the gray moorland beyond, about as
inviting as a gallows. March remarked that it looked like a tavern
for vinegar instead of wine. “A good phrase,” said Fisher, “and so it would be if you were silly
enough to drink wine in it. But the beer is very good, and so is the
brandy.” March followed him to the bar parlor with some wonder, and his dim
sense of repugnance was not dismissed by the first sight of the
innkeeper, who was widely different from the genial innkeepers of
romance, a bony man, very silent behind a black mustache, but with
black, restless eyes. Taciturn as he was, the investigator succeeded
at last in extracting a scrap of information from him, by dint of
ordering beer and talking to him persistently and minutely on the
subject of motor cars. He evidently regarded the innkeeper as in
some singular way an authority on motor cars; as being deep in the
secrets of the mechanism, management, and mismanagement of motor
cars; holding the man all the time with a glittering eye like the
Ancient Mariner. Out of all this rather mysterious conversation
there did emerge at last a sort of admission that one particular
motor car, of a given description, had stopped before the inn about
an hour before, and that an elderly man had alighted, requiring some
mechanical assistance. Asked if the visitor required any other
assistance, the innkeeper said shortly that the old gentleman had
filled his flask and taken a packet of sandwiches. And with these
words the somewhat inhospitable host had walked hastily out of the
bar, and they heard him banging doors in the dark interior. Fisher’s weary eye wandered round the dusty and dreary inn parlor
and rested dreamily on a glass case containing a stuffed bird, with
a gun hung on hooks above it, which seemed to be its only ornament. “Puggy was a humorist,” he observed, “at least in his own rather
grim style. But it seems rather too grim a joke for a man to buy a
packet of sandwiches when he is just going to commit suicide.” “If you come to that,” answered March, “it isn’t very usual for a
man to buy a packet of sandwiches when he’s just outside the door of
a grand house he’s going to stop at.” “No … no,” repeated Fisher, almost mechanically; and then
suddenly cocked his eye at his interlocutor with a much livelier
expression. “By Jove! that’s an idea. You’re perfectly right. And that suggests
a very queer idea, doesn’t it?” There was a silence, and then March started with irrational
nervousness as the door of the inn was flung open and another man
walked rapidly to the counter. He had struck it with a coin and
called out for brandy before he saw the other two guests, who were
sitting at a bare wooden table under the window. When he turned
about with a rather wild stare, March had yet another unexpected
emotion, for his guide hailed the man as Hoggs and introduced him as
Sir Howard Horne. He looked rather older than his boyish portraits in the illustrated
papers, as is the way of politicians; his flat, fair hair was
touched with gray, but his face was almost comically round, with a
Roman nose which, when combined with his quick, bright eyes, raised
a vague reminiscence of a parrot. He had a cap rather at the back of
his head and a gun under his arm. Harold March had imagined many
things about his meeting with the great political reformer, but he
had never pictured him with a gun under his arm, drinking brandy in
a public house. “So you’re stopping at Jink’s, too,” said Fisher. “Everybody seems
to be at Jink’s.” “Yes,” replied the Chancellor of the Exchequer. “Jolly good
shooting. At least all of it that isn’t Jink’s shooting. I never
knew a chap with such good shooting that was such a bad shot. Mind
you, he’s a jolly good fellow and all that; I don’t say a word
against him. But he never learned to hold a gun when he was packing
pork or whatever he did. They say he shot the cockade off his own
servant’s hat; just like him to have cockades, of course. He shot
the weathercock off his own ridiculous gilded summerhouse. It’s the
only cock he’ll ever kill, I should think. Are you coming up there
now?” Fisher said, rather vaguely, that he was following soon, when he had
fixed something up; and the Chancellor of the Exchequer left the
inn. March fancied he had been a little upset or impatient when he
called for the brandy; but he had talked himself back into a
satisfactory state, if the talk had not been quite what his literary
visitor had expected. Fisher, a few minutes afterward, slowly led
the way out of the tavern and stood in the middle of the road,
looking down in the direction from which they had traveled. Then he
walked back about two hundred yards in that direction and stood
still again. “I should think this is about the place,” he said. “What place?” asked his companion. “The place where the poor fellow was killed,” said Fisher, sadly. “What do you mean?” demanded March. “He was smashed up on the rocks a mile and a half from here.” “No, he wasn’t,” replied Fisher. “He didn’t fall on the rocks at
all. Didn’t you notice that he only fell on the slope of soft grass
underneath? But I saw that he had a bullet in him already.” Then after a pause he added: “He was alive at the inn, but he was dead long before he came to the
rocks. So he was shot as he drove his car down this strip of
straight road, and I should think somewhere about here. After that,
of course, the car went straight on with nobody to stop or turn it.
It’s really a very cunning dodge in its way; for the body would be
found far away, and most people would say, as you do, that it was an
accident to a motorist. The murderer must have been a clever brute.” “But wouldn’t the shot be heard at the inn or somewhere?” asked
March. “It would be heard. But it would not be noticed. That,” continued
the investigator, “is where he was clever again. Shooting was going
on all over the place all day; very likely he timed his shot so as
to drown it in a number of others. Certainly he was a first-class
criminal. And he was something else as well.” “What do you mean?” asked his companion, with a creepy premonition
of something coming, he knew not why. “He was a first-class shot,” said Fisher. He had turned his back
abruptly and was walking down a narrow, grassy lane, little more
than a cart track, which lay opposite the inn and marked the end of
the great estate and the beginning of the open moors. March plodded
after him with the same idle perseverance, and found him staring
through a gap in giant weeds and thorns at the flat face of a
painted paling. From behind the paling rose the great gray columns
of a row of poplars, which filled the heavens above them with
dark-green shadow and shook faintly in a wind which had sunk slowly
into a breeze. The afternoon was already deepening into evening, and
the titanic shadows of the poplars lengthened over a third of the
landscape. “Are you a first-class criminal?” asked Fisher, in a friendly tone.
“I’m afraid I’m not. But I think I can manage to be a sort of
fourth-rate burglar.” And before his companion could reply he had managed to swing himself
up and over the fence; March followed without much bodily effort,
but with considerable mental disturbance. The poplars grew so close
against the fence that they had some difficulty in slipping past
them, and beyond the poplars they could see only a high hedge of
laurel, green and lustrous in the level sun. Something in this
limitation by a series of living walls made him feel as if he were
really entering a shattered house instead of an open field. It was
as if he came in by a disused door or window and found the way
blocked by furniture. When they had circumvented the laurel hedge,
they came out on a sort of terrace of turf, which fell by one green
step to an oblong lawn like a bowling green. Beyond this was the
only building in sight, a low conservatory, which seemed far away
from anywhere, like a glass cottage standing in its own fields in
fairyland. Fisher knew that lonely look of the outlying parts of a
great house well enough. He realized that it is more of a satire on
aristocracy than if it were choked with weeds and littered with
ruins. For it is not neglected and yet it is deserted; at any rate,
it is disused. It is regularly swept and garnished for a master who
never comes. Looking over the lawn, however, he saw one object which he had not
apparently expected. It was a sort of tripod supporting a large disk
like the round top of a table tipped sideways, and it was not until
they had dropped on to the lawn and walked across to look at it that
March realized that it was a target. It was worn and weatherstained;
the gay colors of its concentric rings were faded; possibly it had
been set up in those far-off Victorian days when there was a fashion
of archery. March had one of his vague visions of ladies in cloudy
crinolines and gentlemen in outlandish hats and whiskers revisiting
that lost garden like ghosts. Fisher, who was peering more closely at the target, startled him by
an exclamation. “Hullo!” he said. “Somebody has been peppering this thing with
shot, after all, and quite lately, too. Why, I believe old Jink’s
been trying to improve his bad shooting here.” “Yes, and it looks as if it still wanted improving,” answered March,
laughing. “Not one of these shots is anywhere near the bull’s-eye;
they seem just scattered about in the wildest way.” “In the wildest way,” repeated Fisher, still peering intently at the
target. He seemed merely to assent, but March fancied his eye was
shining under its sleepy lid and that he straightened his stooping
figure with a strange effort. “Excuse me a moment,” he said, feeling in his pockets. “I think I’ve
got some of my chemicals; and after that we’ll go up to the house.”
And he stooped again over the target, putting something with his
finger over each of the shot-holes, so far as March could see merely
a dull-gray smear. Then they went through the gathering twilight up
the long green avenues to the great house. Here again, however, the eccentric investigator did not enter by the
front door. He walked round the house until he found a window open,
and, leaping into it, introduced his friend to what appeared to be
the gun-room. Rows of the regular instruments for bringing down
birds stood against the walls; but across a table in the window lay
one or two weapons of a heavier and more formidable pattern. “Hullo! these are Burke’s big-game rifles,” said Fisher. “I never
knew he kept them here.” He lifted one of them, examined it briefly,
and put it down again, frowning heavily. Almost as he did so a
strange young man came hurriedly into the room. He was dark and
sturdy, with a bumpy forehead and a bulldog jaw, and he spoke with a
curt apology. “I left Major Burke’s guns here,” he said, “and he wants them packed
up. He’s going away to-night.” And he carried off the two rifles without casting a glance at the
stranger; through the open window they could see his short, dark
figure walking away across the glimmering garden. Fisher got out of
the window again and stood looking after him. “That’s Halkett, whom I told you about,” he said. “I knew he was a
sort of secretary and had to do with Burke’s papers; but I never
knew he had anything to do with his guns. But he’s just the sort of
silent, sensible little devil who might be very good at anything;
the sort of man you know for years before you find he’s a chess
champion.” He had begun to walk in the direction of the disappearing secretary,
and they soon came within sight of the rest of the house-party
talking and laughing on the lawn. They could see the tall figure and
loose mane of the lion-hunter dominating the little group. “By the way,” observed Fisher, “when we were talking about Burke and
Halkett, I said that a man couldn’t very well write with a gun.
Well, I’m not so sure now. Did you ever hear of an artist so clever
that he could draw with a gun? There’s a wonderful chap loose about
here.” Sir Howard hailed Fisher and his friend the journalist with almost
boisterous amiability. The latter was presented to Major Burke and
Mr. Halkett and also (by way of a parenthesis) to his host, Mr.
Jenkins, a commonplace little man in loud tweeds, whom everybody
else seemed to treat with a sort of affection, as if he were a baby. The irrepressible Chancellor of the Exchequer was still talking
about the birds he had brought down, the birds that Burke and
Halkett had brought down, and the birds that Jenkins, their host,
had failed to bring down. It seemed to be a sort of sociable
monomania. “You and your big game,” he ejaculated, aggressively, to Burke.
“Why, anybody could shoot big game. You want to be a shot to shoot
small game.” “Quite so,” interposed Horne Fisher. “Now if only a hippopotamus
could fly up in the air out of that bush, or you preserved flying
elephants on the estate, why, then—” “Why even Jink might hit that sort of bird,” cried Sir Howard,
hilariously slapping his host on the back. “Even he might hit a
haystack or a hippopotamus.” “Look here, you fellows,” said Fisher. “I want you to come along
with me for a minute and shoot at something else. Not a
hippopotamus. Another kind of queer animal I’ve found on the estate.
It’s an animal with three legs and one eye, and it’s all the colors
of the rainbow.” “What the deuce are you talking about?” asked Burke. “You come along and see,” replied Fisher, cheerfully. Such people seldom reject anything nonsensical, for they are always
seeking for something new. They gravely rearmed themselves from the
gun-room and trooped along at the tail of their guide, Sir Howard
only pausing, in a sort of ecstasy, to point out the celebrated gilt
summerhouse on which the gilt weathercock still stood crooked. It
was dusk turning to dark by the time they reached the remote green
by the poplars and accepted the new and aimless game of shooting at
the old mark. The last light seemed to fade from the lawn, and the poplars against
the sunset were like great plumes upon a purple hearse, when the
futile procession finally curved round, and came out in front of the
target. Sir Howard again slapped his host on the shoulder, shoving
him playfully forward to take the first shot. The shoulder and arm
he touched seemed unnaturally stiff and angular. Mr. Jenkins was
holding his gun in an attitude more awkward than any that his
satiric friends had seen or expected. At the same instant a horrible scream seemed to come from nowhere.
It was so unnatural and so unsuited to the scene that it might have
been made by some inhuman thing flying on wings above them or
eavesdropping in the dark woods beyond. But Fisher knew that it had
started and stopped on the pale lips of Jefferson Jenkins, of
Montreal, and no one at that moment catching sight of Jefferson
Jenkins’s face would have complained that it was commonplace. The
next moment a torrent of guttural but good-humored oaths came from
Major Burke as he and the two other men saw what was in front of
them. The target stood up in the dim grass like a dark goblin
grinning at them, and it was literally grinning. It had two eyes
like stars, and in similar livid points of light were picked out the
two upturned and open nostrils and the two ends of the wide and
tight mouth. A few white dots above each eye indicated the hoary
eyebrows; and one of them ran upward almost erect. It was a
brilliant caricature done in bright dotted lines and March knew of
whom. It shone in the shadowy grass, smeared with sea fire as if one
of the submarine monsters had crawled into the twilight garden; but
it had the head of a dead man. “It’s only luminous paint,” said Burke. “Old Fisher’s been having a
joke with that phosphorescent stuff of his.” “Seems to be meant for old Puggy”’ observed Sir Howard. “Hits him
off very well.” With that they all laughed, except Jenkins. When they had all done,
he made a noise like the first effort of an animal to laugh, and
Horne Fisher suddenly strode across to him and said: “Mr. Jenkins, I must speak to you at once in private.” It was by the little watercourse in the moors, on the slope under
the hanging rock, that March met his new friend Fisher, by
appointment, shortly after the ugly and almost grotesque scene that
had broken up the group in the garden. “It was a monkey-trick of mine,” observed Fisher, gloomily, “putting
phosphorus on the target; but the only chance to make him jump was
to give him the horrors suddenly. And when he saw the face he’d shot
at shining on the target he practiced on, all lit up with an
infernal light, he did jump. Quite enough for my own intellectual
satisfaction.” “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand even now,” said March, “exactly
what he did or why he did it.” “You ought to,” replied Fisher, with his rather dreary smile, “for
you gave me the first suggestion yourself. Oh yes, you did; and it
was a very shrewd one. You said a man wouldn’t take sandwiches with
him to dine at a great house. It was quite true; and the inference
was that, though he was going there, he didn’t mean to dine there.
Or, at any rate, that he might not be dining there. It occurred to
me at once that he probably expected the visit to be unpleasant, or
the reception doubtful, or something that would prevent his
accepting hospitality. Then it struck me that Turnbull was a terror
to certain shady characters in the past, and that he had come down
to identify and denounce one of them. The chances at the start
pointed to the host—that is, Jenkins. I’m morally certain now that
Jenkins was the undesirable alien Turnbull wanted to convict in
another shooting-affair, but you see the shooting gentleman had
another shot in his locker.” “But you said he would have to be a very good shot,” protested
March. “Jenkins is a very good shot,” said Fisher. “A very good shot who
can pretend to be a very bad shot. Shall I tell you the second hint
I hit on, after yours, to make me think it was Jenkins? It was my
cousin’s account of his bad shooting. He’d shot a cockade off a hat
and a weathercock off a building. Now, in fact, a man must shoot
very well indeed to shoot so badly as that. He must shoot very
neatly to hit the cockade and not the head, or even the hat. If the
shots had really gone at random, the chances are a thousand to one
that they would not have hit such prominent and picturesque objects.
They were chosen because they were prominent and picturesque
objects. They make a story to go the round of society. He keeps the
crooked weathercock in the summerhouse to perpetuate the story of a
legend. And then he lay in wait with his evil eye and wicked gun,
safely ambushed behind the legend of his own incompetence. “But there is more than that. There is the summerhouse itself. I
mean there is the whole thing. There’s all that Jenkins gets chaffed
about, the gilding and the gaudy colors and all the vulgarity that’s
supposed to stamp him as an upstart. Now, as a matter of fact,
upstarts generally don’t do this. God knows there’s enough of ‘em in
society; and one knows ‘em well enough. And this is the very last
thing they do. They’re generally only too keen to know the right
thing and do it; and they instantly put themselves body and soul
into the hands of art decorators and art experts, who do the whole
thing for them. There’s hardly another millionaire alive who has the
moral courage to have a gilt monogram on a chair like that one in
the gun-room. For that matter, there’s the name as well as the
monogram. Names like Tompkins and Jenkins and Jinks are funny
without being vulgar; I mean they are vulgar without being common.
If you prefer it, they are commonplace without being common. They
are just the names to be chosen to look ordinary, but they’re
really rather extraordinary. Do you know many people called
Tompkins? It’s a good deal rarer than Talbot. It’s pretty much the
same with the comic clothes of the parvenu. Jenkins dresses like a
character in Punch. But that’s because he is a character in Punch. I
mean he’s a fictitious character. He’s a fabulous animal. He doesn’t
exist. “Have you ever considered what it must be like to be a man who
doesn’t exist? I mean to be a man with a fictitious character that
he has to keep up at the expense not merely of personal talents: To
be a new kind of hypocrite hiding a talent in a new kind of napkin.
This man has chosen his hypocrisy very ingeniously; it was really a
new one. A subtle villain has dressed up as a dashing gentleman and
a worthy business man and a philanthropist and a saint; but the loud
checks of a comical little cad were really rather a new disguise.
But the disguise must be very irksome to a man who can really do
things. This is a dexterous little cosmopolitan guttersnipe who can
do scores of things, not only shoot, but draw and paint, and
probably play the fiddle. Now a man like that may find the hiding of
his talents useful; but he could never help wanting to use them
where they were useless. If he can draw, he will draw absent-mindedly
on blotting paper. I suspect this rascal has often drawn poor old
Puggy’s face on blotting paper. Probably he began doing it in blots
as he afterward did it in dots, or rather shots. It was the same
sort of thing; he found a disused target in a deserted yard and
couldn’t resist indulging in a little secret shooting, like secret
drinking. You thought the shots all scattered and irregular, and so
they were; but not accidental. No two distances were alike; but the
different points were exactly where he wanted to put them. There’s
nothing needs such mathematical precision as a wild caricature. I’ve
dabbled a little in drawing myself, and I assure you that to put one
dot where you want it is a marvel with a pen close to a piece of
paper. It was a miracle to do it across a garden with a gun. But a
man who can work those miracles will always itch to work them, if
it’s only in the dark.” After a pause March observed, thoughtfully, “But he couldn’t have
brought him down like a bird with one of those little guns.” “No; that was why I went into the gun-room,” replied Fisher. “He
did it with one of Burke’s rifles, and Burke thought he knew the
sound of it. That’s why he rushed out without a hat, looking so
wild. He saw nothing but a car passing quickly, which he followed
for a little way, and then concluded he’d made a mistake.” There was another silence, during which Fisher sat on a great stone
as motionless as on their first meeting, and watched the gray and
silver river eddying past under the bushes. Then March said,
abruptly, “Of course he knows the truth now.” “Nobody knows the truth but you and I,” answered Fisher, with a
certain softening in his voice. “And I don’t think you and I will
ever quarrel.” “What do you mean?” asked March, in an altered accent. “What have
you done about it?” Horne Fisher continued to gaze steadily at the eddying stream. At
last he said, “The police have proved it was a motor accident.” “But you know it was not.” “I told you that I know too much,” replied Fisher, with his eye on
the river. “I know that, and I know a great many other things. I
know the atmosphere and the way the whole thing works. I know this
fellow has succeeded in making himself something incurably
commonplace and comic. I know you can’t get up a persecution of old
Toole or Little Tich. If I were to tell Hoggs or Halkett that old
Jink was an assassin, they would almost die of laughter before my
eyes. Oh, I don’t say their laughter’s quite innocent, though it’s
genuine in its way. They want old Jink, and they couldn’t do without
him. I don’t say I’m quite innocent. I like Hoggs; I don’t want him
to be down and out; and he’d be done for if Jink can’t pay for his
coronet. They were devilish near the line at the last election. But
the only real objection to it is that it’s impossible. Nobody would
believe it; it’s not in the picture. The crooked weathercock would
always turn it into a joke.” “Don’t you think this is infamous?” asked March, quietly. “I think a good many things,” replied the other. “If you people
ever happen to blow the whole tangle of society to hell with
dynamite, I don’t know that the human race will be much the worse.
But don’t be too hard on me merely because I know what society is.
That’s why I moon away my time over things like stinking fish.” There was a pause as he settled himself down again by the stream;
and then he added: “I told you before I had to throw back the big fish.”
II - The Vanishing Prince * This tale begins among a tangle of tales round a name that is at
once recent and legendary. The name is that of Michael O’Neill,
popularly called Prince Michael, partly because he claimed descent
from ancient Fenian princes, and partly because he was credited with
a plan to make himself prince president of Ireland, as the last
Napoleon did of France. He was undoubtedly a gentleman of honorable
pedigree and of many accomplishments, but two of his accomplishments
emerged from all the rest. He had a talent for appearing when he was
not wanted and a talent for disappearing when he was wanted,
especially when he was wanted by the police. It may be added that
his disappearances were more dangerous than his appearances. In the
latter he seldom went beyond the sensational—pasting up seditious
placards, tearing down official placards, making flamboyant
speeches, or unfurling forbidden flags. But in order to effect the
former he would sometimes fight for his freedom with startling
energy, from which men were sometimes lucky to escape with a broken
head instead of a broken neck. His most famous feats of escape,
however, were due to dexterity and not to violence. On a cloudless
summer morning he had come down a country road white with dust, and,
pausing outside a farmhouse, had told the farmer’s daughter, with
elegant indifference, that the local police were in pursuit of him.
The girl’s name was Bridget Royce, a somber and even sullen type of
beauty, and she looked at him darkly, as if in doubt, and said, “Do
you want me to hide you?” Upon which he only laughed, leaped lightly
over the stone wall, and strode toward the farm, merely throwing
over his shoulder the remark, “Thank you, I have generally been
quite capable of hiding myself.” In which proceeding he acted with a
tragic ignorance of the nature of women; and there fell on his path
in that sunshine a shadow of doom. While he disappeared through the farmhouse the girl remained for a
few moments looking up the road, and two perspiring policemen came
plowing up to the door where she stood. Though still angry, she was
still silent, and a quarter of an hour later the officers had
searched the house and were already inspecting the kitchen garden
and cornfield behind it. In the ugly reaction of her mood she might
have been tempted even to point out the fugitive, but for a small
difficulty that she had no more notion than the policemen had of
where he could possibly have gone. The kitchen garden was inclosed
by a very low wall, and the cornfield beyond lay aslant like a
square patch on a great green hill on which he could still have been
seen even as a dot in the distance. Everything stood solid in its
familiar place; the apple tree was too small to support or hide a
climber; the only shed stood open and obviously empty; there was no
sound save the droning of summer flies and the occasional flutter of
a bird unfamiliar enough to be surprised by the scarecrow in the
field; there was scarcely a shadow save a few blue lines that fell
from the thin tree; every detail was picked out by the brilliant day
light as if in a microscope. The girl described the scene later,
with all the passionate realism of her race, and, whether or no the
policemen had a similar eye for the picturesque, they had at least
an eye for the facts of the case, and were compelled to give up the
chase and retire from the scene. Bridget Royce remained as if in a
trance, staring at the sunlit garden in which a man had just
vanished like a fairy. She was still in a sinister mood, and the
miracle took in her mind a character of unfriendliness and fear, as
if the fairy were decidedly a bad fairy. The sun upon the glittering
garden depressed her more than the darkness, but she continued to
stare at it. Then the world itself went half-witted and she
screamed. The scarecrow moved in the sun light. It had stood with
its back to her in a battered old black hat and a tattered garment,
and with all its tatters flying, it strode away across the hill. She did not analyze the audacious trick by which the man had turned
to his advantage the subtle effects of the expected and the obvious;
she was still under the cloud of more individual complexities, and
she noticed most of all that the vanishing scarecrow did not even
turn to look at the farm. And the fates that were running so adverse
to his fantastic career of freedom ruled that his next adventure,
though it had the same success in another quarter, should increase
the danger in this quarter. Among the many similar adventures
related of him in this manner it is also said that some days
afterward another girl, named Mary Cregan, found him concealed on
the farm where she worked; and if the story is true, she must also
have had the shock of an uncanny experience, for when she was busy
at some lonely task in the yard she heard a voice speaking out of
the well, and found that the eccentric had managed to drop himself
into the bucket which was some little way below, the well only
partly full of water. In this case, however, he had to appeal to the
woman to wind up the rope. And men say it was when this news was
told to the other woman that her soul walked over the border line of
treason. Such, at least, were the stories told of him in the countryside, and
there were many more—as that he had stood insolently in a splendid
green dressing gown on the steps of a great hotel, and then led the
police a chase through a long suite of grand apartments, and finally
through his own bedroom on to a balcony that overhung the river. The
moment the pursuers stepped on to the balcony it broke under them,
and they dropped pell-mell into the eddying waters, while Michael,
who had thrown off his gown and dived, was able to swim away. It was
said that he had carefully cut away the props so that they would not
support anything so heavy as a policeman. But here again he was
immediately fortunate, yet ultimately unfortunate, for it is said
that one of the men was drowned, leaving a family feud which made a
little rift in his popularity. These stories can now be told in some
detail, not because they are the most marvelous of his many
adventures, but because these alone were not covered with silence by
the loyalty of the peasantry. These alone found their way into
official reports, and it is these which three of the chief officials
of the country were reading and discussing when the more remarkable
part of this story begins. Night was far advanced and the lights shone in the cottage that
served for a temporary police station near the coast. On one side of
it were the last houses of the straggling village, and on the other
nothing but a waste moorland stretching away toward the sea, the
line of which was broken by no landmark except a solitary tower of
the prehistoric pattern still found in Ireland, standing up as
slender as a column, but pointed like a pyramid. At a wooden table
in front of the window, which normally looked out on this landscape,
sat two men in plain clothes, but with something of a military
bearing, for indeed they were the two chiefs of the detective
service of that district. The senior of the two, both in age and
rank, was a sturdy man with a short white beard, and frosty eyebrows
fixed in a frown which suggested rather worry than severity. His name was Morton, and he was a Liverpool man long pickled in the
Irish quarrels, and doing his duty among them in a sour fashion not
altogether unsympathetic. He had spoken a few sentences to his
companion, Nolan, a tall, dark man with a cadaverous equine Irish
face, when he seemed to remember something and touched a bell which
rang in another room. The subordinate he had summoned immediately
appeared with a sheaf of papers in his hand. “Sit down, Wilson,” he said. “Those are the depositions, I
suppose.” “Yes,” replied the third officer. “I think I’ve got all there is to
be got out of them, so I sent the people away.” “Did Mary Cregan give evidence?” asked Morton, with a frown that
looked a little heavier than usual. “No, but her master did,” answered the man called Wilson, who had
flat, red hair and a plain, pale face, not without sharpness. “I
think he’s hanging round the girl himself and is out against a
rival. There’s always some reason of that sort when we are told the
truth about anything. And you bet the other girl told right enough.” “Well, let’s hope they’ll be some sort of use,” remarked Nolan, in a
somewhat hopeless manner, gazing out into the darkness. “Anything is to the good,” said Morton, “that lets us know anything
about him.” “Do we know anything about him?” asked the melancholy Irishman. “We know one thing about him,” said Wilson, “and it’s the one thing
that nobody ever knew before. We know where he is.” “Are you sure?” inquired Morton, looking at him sharply. “Quite sure,” replied his assistant. “At this very minute he is in
that tower over there by the shore. If you go near enough you’ll see
the candle burning in the window.” As he spoke the noise of a horn sounded on the road outside, and a
moment after they heard the throbbing of a motor car brought to a
standstill before the door. Morton instantly sprang to his feet. “Thank the Lord that’s the car from Dublin,” he said. “I can’t do
anything without special authority, not if he were sitting on the
top of the tower and putting out his tongue at us. But the chief can
do what he thinks best.” He hurried out to the entrance and was soon exchanging greetings
with a big handsome man in a fur coat, who brought into the dingy
little station the indescribable glow of the great cities and the
luxuries of the great world. For this was Sir Walter Carey, an official of such eminence in
Dublin Castle that nothing short of the case of Prince Michael would
have brought him on such a journey in the middle of the night. But
the case of Prince Michael, as it happened, was complicated by
legalism as well as lawlessness. On the last occasion he had escaped
by a forensic quibble and not, as usual, by a private escapade; and
it was a question whether at the moment he was amenable to the law
or not. It might be necessary to stretch a point, but a man like Sir
Walter could probably stretch it as far as he liked. Whether he intended to do so was a question to be considered.
Despite the almost aggressive touch of luxury in the fur coat, it
soon became apparent that Sir Walter’s large leonine head was for
use as well as ornament, and he considered the matter soberly and
sanely enough. Five chairs were set round the plain deal table, for
who should Sir Walter bring with him but his young relative and
secretary, Horne Fisher. Sir Walter listened with grave attention,
and his secretary with polite boredom, to the string of episodes by
which the police had traced the flying rebel from the steps of the
hotel to the solitary tower beside the sea. There at least he was
cornered between the moors and the breakers; and the scout sent by
Wilson reported him as writing under a solitary candle, perhaps
composing another of his tremendous proclamations. Indeed, it would
have been typical of him to choose it as the place in which finally
to turn to bay. He had some remote claim on it, as on a family
castle; and those who knew him thought him capable of imitating the
primitive Irish chieftains who fell fighting against the sea. “I saw some queer-looking people leaving as I came in,” said Sir
Walter Carey. “I suppose they were your witnesses. But why do they
turn up here at this time of night?” Morton smiled grimly. “They come here by night because they would
be dead men if they came here by day. They are criminals committing
a crime that is more horrible here than theft or murder.” “What crime do you mean?” asked the other, with some curiosity. “They are helping the law,” said Morton. There was a silence, and Sir Walter considered the papers before him
with an abstracted eye. At last he spoke. “Quite so; but look here, if the local feeling is as lively as that
there are a good many points to consider. I believe the new Act will
enable me to collar him now if I think it best. But is it best? A
serious rising would do us no good in Parliament, and the government
has enemies in England as well as Ireland. It won’t do if I have
done what looks a little like sharp practice, and then only raised a
revolution.” “It’s all the other way,” said the man called Wilson, rather
quickly. “There won’t be half so much of a revolution if you arrest
him as there will if you leave him loose for three days longer. But,
anyhow, there can’t be anything nowadays that the proper police
can’t manage.” “Mr. Wilson is a Londoner,” said the Irish detective, with a smile. “Yes, I’m a cockney, all right,” replied Wilson, “and I think I’m
all the better for that. Especially at this job, oddly enough.” Sir Walter seemed slightly amused at the pertinacity of the third
officer, and perhaps even more amused at the slight accent with
which he spoke, which rendered rather needless his boast about his
origin. “Do you mean to say,” he asked, “that you know more about the
business here because you have come from London?” “Sounds funny, I know, but I do believe it,” answered Wilson. “I
believe these affairs want fresh methods. But most of all I believe
they want a fresh eye.” The superior officers laughed, and the redhaired man went on with a
slight touch of temper: “Well, look at the facts. See how the fellow got away every time,
and you’ll understand what I mean. Why was he able to stand in the
place of the scarecrow, hidden by nothing but an old hat? Because it
was a village policeman who knew the scarecrow was there, was
expecting it, and therefore took no notice of it. Now I never expect
a scarecrow. I’ve never seen one in the street, and I stare at one
when I see it in the field. It’s a new thing to me and worth
noticing. And it was just the same when he hid in the well. You are
ready to find a well in a place like that; you look for a well, and
so you don’t see it. I don’t look for it, and therefore I do look at
it.” “It is certainly an idea,” said Sir Walter, smiling, “but what about
the balcony? Balconies are occasionally seen in London.” “But not rivers right under them, as if it was in Venice,” replied
Wilson. “It is certainly a new idea,” repeated Sir Walter, with something
like respect. He had all the love of the luxurious classes for new
ideas. But he also had a critical faculty, and was inclined to
think, after due reflection, that it was a true idea as well. Growing dawn had already turned the window panes from black to gray
when Sir Walter got abruptly to his feet. The others rose also,
taking this for a signal that the arrest was to be undertaken. But
their leader stood for a moment in deep thought, as if conscious
that he had come to a parting of the ways. Suddenly the silence was pierced by a long, wailing cry from the
dark moors outside. The silence that followed it seemed more
startling than the shriek itself, and it lasted until Nolan said,
heavily: “‘Tis the banshee. Somebody is marked for the grave.” His long, large-featured face was as pale as a moon, and it was easy
to remember that he was the only Irishman in the room. “Well, I know that banshee,” said Wilson, cheerfully, “ignorant as
you think I am of these things. I talked to that banshee myself an
hour ago, and I sent that banshee up to the tower and told her to
sing out like that if she could get a glimpse of our friend writing
his proclamation.” “Do you mean that girl Bridget Royce?” asked Morton, drawing his
frosty brows together. “Has she turned king’s evidence to that
extent?” “Yes,” answered Wilson. “I know very little of these local things,
you tell me, but I reckon an angry woman is much the same in all
countries.” Nolan, however, seemed still moody and unlike himself. “It’s an ugly
noise and an ugly business altogether,” he said. “If it’s really the
end of Prince Michael it may well be the end of other things as
well. When the spirit is on him he would escape by a ladder of dead
men, and wade through that sea if it were made of blood.” “Is that the real reason of your pious alarms?” asked Wilson, with a
slight sneer. The Irishman’s pale face blackened with a new passion. “I have faced as many murderers in County Clare as you ever fought
with in Clapham Junction, Mr. Cockney,” he said. “Hush, please,” said Morton, sharply. “Wilson, you have no kind of
right to imply doubt of your superior’s conduct. I hope you will
prove yourself as courageous and trustworthy as he has always been.” The pale face of the red-haired man seemed a shade paler, but he was
silent and composed, and Sir Walter went up to Nolan with marked
courtesy, saying, “Shall we go outside now, and get this business
done?” Dawn had lifted, leaving a wide chasm of white between a great gray
cloud and the great gray moorland, beyond which the tower was
outlined against the daybreak and the sea. Something in its plain and primitive shape vaguely suggested the
dawn in the first days of the earth, in some prehistoric time when
even the colors were hardly created, when there was only blank
daylight between cloud and clay. These dead hues were relieved only
by one spot of gold—the spark of the candle alight in the window
of the lonely tower, and burning on into the broadening daylight. As
the group of detectives, followed by a cordon of policemen, spread
out into a crescent to cut off all escape, the light in the tower
flashed as if it were moved for a moment, and then went out. They
knew the man inside had realized the daylight and blown out his
candle. “There are other windows, aren’t there?” asked Morton, “and a door,
of course, somewhere round the corner? Only a round tower has no
corners.” “Another example of my small suggestion,” observed Wilson, quietly.
“That queer tower was the first thing I saw when I came to these
parts; and I can tell you a little more about it—or, at any rate,
the outside of it. There are four windows altogether, one a little
way from this one, but just out of sight. Those are both on the
ground floor, and so is the third on the other side, making a sort
of triangle. But the fourth is just above the third, and I suppose
it looks on an upper floor.” “It’s only a sort of loft, reached by a ladder, said Nolan. “I’ve
played in the place when I was a child. It’s no more than an empty
shell.” And his sad face grew sadder, thinking perhaps of the
tragedy of his country and the part that he played in it. “The man must have got a table and chair, at any rate,” said Wilson,
“but no doubt he could have got those from some cottage. If I might
make a suggestion, sir, I think we ought to approach all the five
entrances at once, so to speak. One of us should go to the door and
one to each window; Macbride here has a ladder for the upper
window.” Mr. Horne Fisher languidly turned to his distinguished relative and
spoke for the first time. “I am rather a convert to the cockney school of psychology,” he said
in an almost inaudible voice. The others seemed to feel the same influence in different ways, for
the group began to break up in the manner indicated. Morton moved
toward the window immediately in front of them, where the hidden
outlaw had just snuffed the candle; Nolan, a little farther westward
to the next window; while Wilson, followed by Macbride with the
ladder, went round to the two windows at the back. Sir Walter Carey
himself, followed by his secretary, began to walk round toward the
only door, to demand admittance in a more regular fashion. “He will be armed, of course,” remarked Sir Walter, casually. “By all accounts,” replied Horne Fisher, “he can do more with a
candlestick than most men with a pistol. But he is pretty sure to
have the pistol, too.” Even as he spoke the question was answered with a tongue of thunder.
Morton had just placed himself in front of the nearest window, his
broad shoulders blocking the aperture. For an instant it was lit
from within as with red fire, followed by a thundering throng of
echoes. The square shoulders seemed to alter in shape, and the
sturdy figure collapsed among the tall, rank grasses at the foot of
the tower. A puff of smoke floated from the window like a little
cloud. The two men behind rushed to the spot and raised him, but he
was dead. Sir Walter straightened himself and called out something that was
lost in another noise of firing; it was possible that the police
were already avenging their comrade from the other side. Fisher had
already raced round to the next window, and a new cry of
astonishment from him brought his patron to the same spot. Nolan,
the Irish policeman, had also fallen, sprawling all his great length
in the grass, and it was red with his blood. He was still alive when
they reached him, but there was death on his face, and he was only
able to make a final gesture telling them that all was over; and,
with a broken word and a heroic effort, motioning them on to where
his other comrades were besieging the back of the tower. Stunned by
these rapid and repeated shocks, the two men could only vaguely obey
the gesture, and, finding their way to the other windows at the
back, they discovered a scene equally startling, if less final and
tragic. The other two officers were not dead or mortally wounded,
but Macbride lay with a broken leg and his ladder on top of him,
evidently thrown down from the top window of the tower; while Wilson
lay on his face, quite still as if stunned, with his red head among
the gray and silver of the sea holly. In him, however, the impotence
was but momentary, for he began to move and rise as the others came
round the tower. “My God! it’s like an explosion!” cried Sir Walter; and indeed it
was the only word for this unearthly energy, by which one man had
been able to deal death or destruction on three sides of the same
small triangle at the same instant. Wilson had already scrambled to his feet and with splendid energy
flew again at the window, revolver in hand. He fired twice into the
opening and then disappeared in his own smoke; but the thud of his
feet and the shock of a falling chair told them that the intrepid
Londoner had managed at last to leap into the room. Then followed a
curious silence; and Sir Walter, walking to the window through the
thinning smoke, looked into the hollow shell of the ancient tower.
Except for Wilson, staring around him, there was nobody there. The inside of the tower was a single empty room, with nothing but a
plain wooden chair and a table on which were pens, ink and paper,
and the candlestick. Halfway up the high wall there was a rude
timber platform under the upper window, a small loft which was more
like a large shelf. It was reached only by a ladder, and it seemed
to be as bare as the bare walls. Wilson completed his survey of the
place and then went and stared at the things on the table. Then he
silently pointed with his lean forefinger at the open page of the
large notebook. The writer had suddenly stopped writing, even in the
middle of a word. “I said it was like an explosion,” said Sir Walter Carey at last.
“And really the man himself seems to have suddenly exploded. But he
has blown himself up somehow without touching the tower. He’s burst
more like a bubble than a bomb.” “He has touched more valuable things than the tower,” said Wilson,
gloomily. There was a long silence, and then Sir Walter said, seriously:
“Well, Mr. Wilson, I am not a detective, and these unhappy
happenings have left you in charge of that branch of the business.
We all lament the cause of this, but I should like to say that I
myself have the strongest confidence in your capacity for carrying
on the work. What do you think we should do next?” Wilson seemed to rouse himself from his depression and acknowledged
the speaker’s words with a warmer civility than he had hitherto
shown to anybody. He called in a few of the police to assist in
routing out the interior, leaving the rest to spread themselves in a
search party outside. “I think,” he said, “the first thing is to make quite sure about the
inside of this place, as it was hardly physically possible for him
to have got outside. I suppose poor Nolan would have brought in his
banshee and said it was supernaturally possible. But I’ve got no use
for disembodied spirits when I’m dealing with facts. And the facts
before me are an empty tower with a ladder, a chair, and a table.” “The spiritualists,” said Sir Walter, with a smile, “would say that
spirits could find a great deal of use for a table.” “I dare say they could if the spirits were on the table—in a
bottle,” replied Wilson, with a curl of his pale lip. “The people
round here, when they’re all sodden up with Irish whisky, may
believe in such things. I think they want a little education in this
country.” Horne Fisher’s heavy eyelids fluttered in a faint attempt to rise,
as if he were tempted to a lazy protest against the contemptuous
tone of the investigator. “The Irish believe far too much in spirits to believe in
spiritualism,” he murmured. “They know too much about ‘em. If you
want a simple and childlike faith in any spirit that comes along you
can get it in your favorite London.” “I don’t want to get it anywhere,” said Wilson, shortly. “I say I’m
dealing with much simpler things than your simple faith, with a
table and a chair and a ladder. Now what I want to say about them at
the start is this. They are all three made roughly enough of plain
wood. But the table and the chair are fairly new and comparatively
clean. The ladder is covered with dust and there is a cobweb under
the top rung of it. That means that he borrowed the first two quite
recently from some cottage, as we supposed, but the ladder has been
a long time in this rotten old dustbin. Probably it was part of the
original furniture, an heirloom in this magnificent palace of the
Irish kings.” Again Fisher looked at him under his eyelids, but seemed too sleepy
to speak, and Wilson went on with his argument. “Now it’s quite clear that something very odd has just happened in
this place. The chances are ten to one, it seems to me, that it had
something specially to do with this place. Probably he came here
because he could do it only here; it doesn’t seem very inviting
otherwise. But the man knew it of old; they say it belonged to his
family, so that altogether, I think, everything points to something
in the construction of the tower itself.” “Your reasoning seems to me excellent,” said Sir Walter, who was
listening attentively. “But what could it be?” “You see now what I mean about the ladder,” went on the detective;
“it’s the only old piece of furniture here and the first thing that
caught that cockney eye of mine. But there is something else. That
loft up there is a sort of lumber room without any lumber. So far as
I can see, it’s as empty as everything else; and, as things are, I
don’t see the use of the ladder leading to it. It seems to me, as I
can’t find anything unusual down here, that it might pay us to look
up there.” He got briskly off the table on which he was sitting (for the only
chair was allotted to Sir Walter) and ran rapidly up the ladder to
the platform above. He was soon followed by the others, Mr. Fisher
going last, however, with an appearance of considerable nonchalance. At this stage, however, they were destined to disappointment; Wilson
nosed in every corner like a terrier and examined the roof almost in
the posture of a fly, but half an hour afterward they had to confess
that they were still without a clew. Sir Walter’s private secretary
seemed more and more threatened with inappropriate slumber, and,
having been the last to climb up the ladder, seemed now to lack the
energy even to climb down again. “Come along, Fisher,” called out Sir Walter from below, when the
others had regained the floor. “We must consider whether we’ll pull
the whole place to pieces to see what it’s made of.” “I’m coming in a minute,” said the voice from the ledge above their
heads, a voice somewhat suggestive of an articulate yawn. “What are you waiting for?” asked Sir Walter, impatiently. “Can you
see anything there?” “Well, yes, in a way,” replied the voice, vaguely. “In fact, I see
it quite plain now.” “What is it?” asked Wilson, sharply, from the table on which he sat
kicking his heels restlessly. “Well, it’s a man,” said Horne Fisher. Wilson bounded off the table as if he had been kicked off it. “What
do you mean?” he cried. “How can you possibly see a man?” “I can see him through the window,” replied the secretary, mildly.
“I see him coming across the moor. He’s making a bee line across the
open country toward this tower. He evidently means to pay us a
visit. And, considering who it seems to be, perhaps it would be more
polite if we were all at the door to receive him.” And in a
leisurely manner the secretary came down the ladder. “Who it seems to be!” repeated Sir Walter in astonishment. “Well, I think it’s the man you call Prince Michael,” observed Mr.
Fisher, airily. “In fact, I’m sure it is. I’ve seen the police
portraits of him.” There was a dead silence, and Sir Walter’s usually steady brain
seemed to go round like a windmill. “But, hang it all!” he said at last, “even supposing his own
explosion could have thrown him half a mile away, without passing
through any of the windows, and left him alive enough for a country
walk—even then, why the devil should he walk in this direction?
The murderer does not generally revisit the scene of his crime so
rapidly as all that.” “He doesn’t know yet that it is the scene of his crime,” answered
Horne Fisher. “What on earth do you mean? You credit him with rather singular
absence of mind.” “Well, the truth is, it isn’t the scene of his crime,” said Fisher,
and went and looked out of the window. There was another silence, and then Sir Walter said, quietly: “What
sort of notion have you really got in your head, Fisher? Have you
developed a new theory about how this fellow escaped out of the ring
round him?” “He never escaped at all,” answered the man at the window, without
turning round. “He never escaped out of the ring because he was
never inside the ring. He was not in this tower at all, at least not
when we were surrounding it.” He turned and leaned back against the window, but, in spite of his
usual listless manner, they almost fancied that the face in shadow
was a little pale. “I began to guess something of the sort when we were some way from
the tower,” he said. “Did you notice that sort of flash or flicker
the candle gave before it was extinguished? I was almost certain it
was only the last leap the flame gives when a candle burns itself
out. And then I came into this room and I saw that.” He pointed at the table and Sir Walter caught his breath with a sort
of curse at his own blindness. For the candle in the candlestick had
obviously burned itself away to nothing and left him, mentally, at
least, very completely in the dark. “Then there is a sort of mathematical question,” went on Fisher,
leaning back in his limp way and looking up at the bare walls, as if
tracing imaginary diagrams there. “It’s not so easy for a man in the
third angle to face the other two at the same moment, especially if
they are at the base of an isosceles. I am sorry if it sounds like a
lecture on geometry, but—” “I’m afraid we have no time for it,” said Wilson, coldly. “If this
man is really coming back, I must give my orders at once.” “I think I’ll go on with it, though,” observed Fisher, staring at
the roof with insolent serenity. “I must ask you, Mr. Fisher, to let me conduct my inquiry on my own
lines,” said Wilson, firmly. “I am the officer in charge now.” “Yes,” remarked Horne Fisher, softly, but with an accent that
somehow chilled the hearer. “Yes. But why?” Sir Walter was staring, for he had never seen his rather
lackadaisical young friend look like that before. Fisher was looking
at Wilson with lifted lids, and the eyes under them seemed to have
shed or shifted a film, as do the eyes of an eagle. “Why are you the officer in charge now?” he asked. “Why can you
conduct the inquiry on your own lines now? How did it come about, I
wonder, that the elder officers are not here to interfere with
anything you do?” Nobody spoke, and nobody can say how soon anyone would have
collected his wits to speak when a noise came from without. It was
the heavy and hollow sound of a blow upon the door of the tower, and
to their shaken spirits it sounded strangely like the hammer of
doom. The wooden door of the tower moved on its rusty hinges under the
hand that struck it and Prince Michael came into the room. Nobody
had the smallest doubt about his identity. His light clothes, though
frayed with his adventures, were of fine and almost foppish cut, and
he wore a pointed beard, or imperial, perhaps as a further
reminiscence of Louis Napoleon; but he was a much taller and more
graceful man that his prototype. Before anyone could speak he had
silenced everyone for an instant with a slight but splendid gesture
of hospitality. “Gentlemen,” he said, “this is a poor place now, but you are
heartily welcome.” Wilson was the first to recover, and he took a stride toward the
newcomer. “Michael O’Neill, I arrest you in the king’s name for the murder of
Francis Morton and James Nolan. It is my duty to warn you—” “No, no, Mr. Wilson,” cried Fisher, suddenly. “You shall not commit
a third murder.” Sir Walter Carey rose from his chair, which fell over with a crash
behind him. “What does all this mean?” he called out in an
authoritative manner. “It means,” said Fisher, “that this man, Hooker Wilson, as soon as
he had put his head in at that window, killed his two comrades who
had put their heads in at the other windows, by firing across the
empty room. That is what it means. And if you want to know, count
how many times he is supposed to have fired and then count the
charges left in his revolver.” Wilson, who was still sitting on the table, abruptly put a hand out
for the weapon that lay beside him. But the next movement was the
most unexpected of all, for the prince standing in the doorway
passed suddenly from the dignity of a statue to the swiftness of an
acrobat and rent the revolver out of the detective’s hand. “You dog!” he cried. “So you are the type of English truth, as I am
of Irish tragedy—you who come to kill me, wading through the blood
of your brethren. If they had fallen in a feud on the hillside, it
would be called murder, and yet your sin might be forgiven you. But
I, who am innocent, I was to be slain with ceremony. There would
be long speeches and patient judges listening to my vain plea of
innocence, noting down my despair and disregarding it. Yes, that is
what I call assassination. But killing may be no murder; there is
one shot left in this little gun, and I know where it should go.” Wilson turned quickly on the table, and even as he turned he twisted
in agony, for Michael shot him through the body where he sat, so
that he tumbled off the table like lumber. The police rushed to lift him; Sir Walter stood speechless; and
then, with a strange and weary gesture, Horne Fisher spoke. “You are indeed a type of the Irish tragedy,” he said. “You were
entirely in the right, and you have put yourself in the wrong.” The prince’s face was like marble for a space then there dawned in
his eyes a light not unlike that of despair. He laughed suddenly and
flung the smoking pistol on the ground. “I am indeed in the wrong,” he said. “I have committed a crime that
may justly bring a curse on me and my children.” Horne Fisher did not seem entirely satisfied with this very sudden
repentance; he kept his eyes on the man and only said, in a low
voice, “What crime do you mean?” “I have helped English justice,” replied Prince Michael. “I have
avenged your king’s officers; I have done the work of his hangman.
For that truly I deserve to be hanged.” And he turned to the police with a gesture that did not so much
surrender to them, but rather command them to arrest him. This was the story that Horne Fisher told to Harold March, the
journalist, many years after, in a little, but luxurious, restaurant
near Piccadilly. He had invited March to dinner some time after the
affair he called “The Face in the Target,” and the conversation had
naturally turned on that mystery and afterward on earlier memories
of Fisher’s life and the way in which he was led to study such
problems as those of Prince Michael. Horne Fisher was fifteen years
older; his thin hair had faded to frontal baldness, and his long,
thin hands dropped less with affectation and more with fatigue. And
he told the story of the Irish adventure of his youth, because it
recorded the first occasion on which he had ever come in contact
with crime, or discovered how darkly and how terribly crime can be
entangled with law. “Hooker Wilson was the first criminal I ever knew, and he was a
policeman,” explained Fisher, twirling his wine glass. “And all my
life has been a mixed-up business of the sort. He was a man of very
real talent, and perhaps genius, and well worth studying, both as a
detective and a criminal. His white face and red hair were typical
of him, for he was one of those who are cold and yet on fire for
fame; and he could control anger, but not ambition. He swallowed the
snubs of his superiors in that first quarrel, though he boiled with
resentment; but when he suddenly saw the two heads dark against the
dawn and framed in the two windows, he could not miss the chance,
not only of revenge, but of the removal of the two obstacles to his
promotion. He was a dead shot and counted on silencing both, though
proof against him would have been hard in any case. But, as a matter
of fact, he had a narrow escape, in the case of Nolan, who lived
just long enough to say, ‘Wilson’ and point. We thought he was
summoning help for his comrade, but he was really denouncing his
murderer. After that it was easy to throw down the ladder above him
(for a man up a ladder cannot see clearly what is below and behind)
and to throw himself on the ground as another victim of the
catastrophe. “But there was mixed up with his murderous ambition a real belief,
not only in his own talents, but in his own theories. He did believe
in what he called a fresh eye, and he did want scope for fresh
methods. There was something in his view, but it failed where such
things commonly fail, because the fresh eye cannot see the unseen.
It is true about the ladder and the scarecrow, but not about the
life and the soul; and he made a bad mistake about what a man like
Michael would do when he heard a woman scream. All Michael’s very
vanity and vainglory made him rush out at once; he would have walked
into Dublin Castle for a lady’s glove. Call it his pose or what you
will, but he would have done it. What happened when he met her is
another story, and one we may never know, but from tales I’ve heard
since, they must have been reconciled. Wilson was wrong there; but
there was something, for all that, in his notion that the newcomer
sees most, and that the man on the spot may know too much to know
anything. He was right about some things. He was right about me.” “About you?” asked Harold March in some wonder. “I am the man who knows too much to know anything, or, at any rate,
to do anything,” said Horne Fisher. “I don’t mean especially about
Ireland. I mean about England. I mean about the whole way we are
governed, and perhaps the only way we can be governed. You asked me
just now what became of the survivors of that tragedy. Well, Wilson
recovered and we managed to persuade him to retire. But we had to
pension that damnable murderer more magnificently than any hero who
ever fought for England. I managed to save Michael from the worst,
but we had to send that perfectly innocent man to penal servitude
for a crime we know he never committed, and it was only afterward
that we could connive in a sneakish way at his escape. And Sir
Walter Carey is Prime Minister of this country, which he would
probably never have been if the truth had been told of such a
horrible scandal in his department. It might have done for us
altogether in Ireland; it would certainly have done for him. And he
is my father’s old friend, and has always smothered me with
kindness. I am too tangled up with the whole thing, you see, and I
was certainly never born to set it right. You look distressed, not
to say shocked, and I’m not at all offended at it. Let us change the
subject by all means, if you like. What do you think of this
Burgundy? It’s rather a discovery of mine, like the restaurant
itself.” And he proceeded to talk learnedly and luxuriantly on all the wines
of the world; on which subject, also, some moralists would consider
that he knew too much.
III - The Soul of the Schoolboy * A large map of London would be needed to display the wild and zigzag
course of one day’s journey undertaken by an uncle and his nephew;
or, to speak more truly, of a nephew and his uncle. For the nephew,
a schoolboy on a holiday, was in theory the god in the car, or in
the cab, tram, tube, and so on, while his uncle was at most a priest
dancing before him and offering sacrifices. To put it more soberly,
the schoolboy had something of the stolid air of a young duke doing
the grand tour, while his elderly relative was reduced to the
position of a courier, who nevertheless had to pay for everything
like a patron. The schoolboy was officially known as Summers Minor,
and in a more social manner as Stinks, the only public tribute to
his career as an amateur photographer and electrician. The uncle was
the Rev. Thomas Twyford, a lean and lively old gentleman with a red,
eager face and white hair. He was in the ordinary way a country
clergyman, but he was one of those who achieve the paradox of being
famous in an obscure way, because they are famous in an obscure
world. In a small circle of ecclesiastical archaeologists, who were
the only people who could even understand one another’s discoveries,
he occupied a recognized and respectable place. And a critic might
have found even in that day’s journey at least as much of the
uncle’s hobby as of the nephew’s holiday. His original purpose had been wholly paternal and festive. But,
like many other intelligent people, he was not above the weakness of
playing with a toy to amuse himself, on the theory that it would
amuse a child. His toys were crowns and miters and croziers and
swords of state; and he had lingered over them, telling himself that
the boy ought to see all the sights of London. And at the end of the
day, after a tremendous tea, he rather gave the game away by winding
up with a visit in which hardly any human boy could be conceived as
taking an interest—an underground chamber supposed to have been a
chapel, recently excavated on the north bank of the Thames, and
containing literally nothing whatever but one old silver coin. But
the coin, to those who knew, was more solitary and splendid than the
Koh-i-noor. It was Roman, and was said to bear the head of St. Paul;
and round it raged the most vital controversies about the ancient
British Church. It could hardly be denied, however, that the
controversies left Summers Minor comparatively cold. Indeed, the things that interested Summers Minor, and the things
that did not interest him, had mystified and amused his uncle for
several hours. He exhibited the English schoolboy’s startling
ignorance and startling knowledge—knowledge of some special
classification in which he can generally correct and confound his
elders. He considered himself entitled, at Hampton Court on a
holiday, to forget the very names of Cardinal Wolsey or William of
Orange; but he could hardly be dragged from some details about the
arrangement of the electric bells in the neighboring hotel. He was
solidly dazed by Westminster Abbey, which is not so unnatural since
that church became the lumber room of the larger and less successful
statuary of the eighteenth century. But he had a magic and minute
knowledge of the Westminster omnibuses, and indeed of the whole
omnibus system of London, the colors and numbers of which he knew as
a herald knows heraldry. He would cry out against a momentary
confusion between a light-green Paddington and a dark-green
Bayswater vehicle, as his uncle would at the identification of a
Greek ikon and a Roman image. “Do you collect omnibuses like stamps?” asked his uncle. “They must
need a rather large album. Or do you keep them in your locker?” “I keep them in my head,” replied the nephew, with legitimate
firmness. “It does you credit, I admit,” replied the clergyman. “I suppose it
were vain to ask for what purpose you have learned that out of a
thousand things. There hardly seems to be a career in it, unless you
could be permanently on the pavement to prevent old ladies getting
into the wrong bus. Well, we must get out of this one, for this is
our place. I want to show you what they call St. Paul’s Penny.” “Is it like St. Paul’s Cathedral?” asked the youth with resignation,
as they alighted. At the entrance their eyes were arrested by a singular figure
evidently hovering there with a similar anxiety to enter. It was
that of a dark, thin man in a long black robe rather like a cassock;
but the black cap on his head was of too strange a shape to be a
biretta. It suggested, rather, some archaic headdress of Persia or
Babylon. He had a curious black beard appearing only at the corners
of his chin, and his large eyes were oddly set in his face like the
flat decorative eyes painted in old Egyptian profiles. Before they
had gathered more than a general impression of him, he had dived
into the doorway that was their own destination. Nothing could be seen above ground of the sunken sanctuary except a
strong wooden hut, of the sort recently run up for many military and
official purposes, the wooden floor of which was indeed a mere
platform over the excavated cavity below. A soldier stood as a
sentry outside, and a superior soldier, an Anglo-Indian officer of
distinction, sat writing at the desk inside. Indeed, the sightseers
soon found that this particular sight was surrounded with the most
extraordinary precautions. I have compared the silver coin to the
Koh-i-noor, and in one sense it was even conventionally comparable,
since by a historical accident it was at one time almost counted
among the Crown jewels, or at least the Crown relics, until one of
the royal princes publicly restored it to the shrine to which it was
supposed to belong. Other causes combined to concentrate official
vigilance upon it; there had been a scare about spies carrying
explosives in small objects, and one of those experimental orders
which pass like waves over bureaucracy had decreed first that all
visitors should change their clothes for a sort of official
sackcloth, and then (when this method caused some murmurs) that they
should at least turn out their pockets. Colonel Morris, the officer
in charge, was a short, active man with a grim and leathery face,
but a lively and humorous eye—a contradiction borne out by his
conduct, for he at once derided the safeguards and yet insisted on
them. “I don’t care a button myself for Paul’s Penny, or such things,” he
admitted in answer to some antiquarian openings from the clergyman
who was slightly acquainted with him, “but I wear the King’s coat,
you know, and it’s a serious thing when the King’s uncle leaves a
thing here with his own hands under my charge. But as for saints and
relics and things, I fear I’m a bit of a Voltairian; what you would
call a skeptic.” “I’m not sure it’s even skeptical to believe in the royal family and
not in the ‘Holy’ Family,” replied Mr. Twyford. “But, of course, I
can easily empty my pockets, to show I don’t carry a bomb.” The little heap of the parson’s possessions which he left on the
table consisted chiefly of papers, over and above a pipe and a
tobacco pouch and some Roman and Saxon coins. The rest were
catalogues of old books, and pamphlets, like one entitled “The Use
of Sarum,” one glance at which was sufficient both for the colonel
and the schoolboy. They could not see the use of Sarum at all. The
contents of the boy’s pockets naturally made a larger heap, and
included marbles, a ball of string, an electric torch, a magnet, a
small catapult, and, of course, a large pocketknife, almost to be
described as a small tool box, a complex apparatus on which he
seemed disposed to linger, pointing out that it included a pair of
nippers, a tool for punching holes in wood, and, above all, an
instrument for taking stones out of a horse’s hoof. The comparative
absence of any horse he appeared to regard as irrelevant, as if it
were a mere appendage easily supplied. But when the turn came of the
gentleman in the black gown, he did not turn out his pockets, but
merely spread out his hands. “I have no possessions,” he said. “I’m afraid I must ask you to empty your pockets and make sure,”
observed the colonel, gruffly. “I have no pockets,” said the stranger. Mr. Twyford was looking at the long black gown with a learned eye. “Are you a monk?” he asked, in a puzzled fashion. “I am a magus,” replied the stranger. “You have heard of the magi,
perhaps? I am a magician.” “Oh, I say!” exclaimed Summers Minor, with prominent eyes. “But I was once a monk,” went on the other. “I am what you would
call an escaped monk. Yes, I have escaped into eternity. But the
monks held one truth at least, that the highest life should be
without possessions. I have no pocket money and no pockets, and all
the stars are my trinkets.” “They are out of reach, anyhow,” observed Colonel Morris, in a tone
which suggested that it was well for them. “I’ve known a good many
magicians myself in India—mango plant and all. But the Indian ones
are all frauds, I’ll swear. In fact, I had a good deal of fun
showing them up. More fun than I have over this dreary job, anyhow.
But here comes Mr. Symon, who will show you over the old cellar
downstairs.” Mr. Symon, the official guardian and guide, was a young man,
prematurely gray, with a grave mouth which contrasted curiously with
a very small, dark mustache with waxed points, that seemed somehow,
separate from it, as if a black fly had settled on his face. He
spoke with the accent of Oxford and the permanent official, but in
as dead a fashion as the most indifferent hired guide. They
descended a dark stone staircase, at the floor of which Symon
pressed a button and a door opened on a dark room, or, rather, a
room which had an instant before been dark. For almost as the heavy
iron door swung open an almost blinding blaze of electric lights
filled the whole interior. The fitful enthusiasm of Stinks at once
caught fire, and he eagerly asked if the lights and the door worked
together. “Yes, it’s all one system,” replied Symon. “It was all fitted up
for the day His Royal Highness deposited the thing here. You see,
it’s locked up behind a glass case exactly as he left it.” A glance showed that the arrangements for guarding the treasure were
indeed as strong as they were simple. A single pane of glass cut off
one corner of the room, in an iron framework let into the rock walls
and the wooden roof above; there was now no possibility of reopening
the case without elaborate labor, except by breaking the glass,
which would probably arouse the night watchman who was always within
a few feet of it, even if he had fallen asleep. A close examination
would have showed many more ingenious safeguards; but the eye of the
Rev. Thomas Twyford, at least, was already riveted on what
interested him much more—the dull silver disk which shone in the
white light against a plain background of black velvet. “St. Paul’s Penny, said to commemorate the visit of St. Paul to
Britain, was probably preserved in this chapel until the eighth
century,” Symon was saying in his clear but colorless voice. “In the
ninth century it is supposed to have been carried away by the
barbarians, and it reappears, after the conversion of the northern
Goths, in the possession of the royal family of Gothland. His Royal
Highness, the Duke of Gothland, retained it always in his own
private custody, and when he decided to exhibit it to the public,
placed it here with his own hand. It was immediately sealed up in
such a manner—” Unluckily at this point Summers Minor, whose attention had somewhat
strayed from the religious wars of the ninth century, caught sight
of a short length of wire appearing in a broken patch in the wall.
He precipitated himself at it, calling out, “I say, does that
connect?” It was evident that it did connect, for no sooner had the boy given
it a twitch than the whole room went black, as if they had all been
struck blind, and an instant afterward they heard the dull crash of
the closing door. “Well, you’ve done it now,” said Symon, in his tranquil fashion.
Then after a pause he added, “I suppose they’ll miss us sooner or
later, and no doubt they can get it open; but it may take some
little time.” There was a silence, and then the unconquerable Stinks observed: “Rotten that I had to leave my electric torch.” “I think,” said his uncle, with restraint, “that we are sufficiently
convinced of your interest in electricity.” Then after a pause he remarked, more amiably: “I suppose if I
regretted any of my own impedimenta, it would be the pipe. Though,
as a matter of fact, it’s not much fun smoking in the dark.
Everything seems different in the dark.” “Everything is different in the dark,” said a third voice, that of
the man who called himself a magician. It was a very musical voice,
and rather in contrast with his sinister and swarthy visage, which
was now invisible. “Perhaps you don’t know how terrible a truth that
is. All you see are pictures made by the sun, faces and furniture
and flowers and trees. The things themselves may be quite strange to
you. Something else may be standing now where you saw a table or a
chair. The face of your friend may be quite different in the dark.” A short, indescribable noise broke the stillness. Twyford started
for a second, and then said, sharply: “Really, I don’t think it’s a suitable occasion for trying to
frighten a child.” “Who’s a child?” cried the indignant Summers, with a voice that had
a crow, but also something of a crack in it. “And who’s a funk,
either? Not me.” “I will be silent, then,” said the other voice out of the darkness.
“But silence also makes and unmakes.” The required silence remained unbroken for a long time until at last
the clergyman said to Symon in a low voice: “I suppose it’s all right about air?” “Oh, yes,” replied the other aloud; “there’s a fireplace and a
chimney in the office just by the door.” A bound and the noise of a falling chair told them that the
irrepressible rising generation had once more thrown itself across
the room. They heard the ejaculation: “A chimney! Why, I’ll be—”
and the rest was lost in muffled, but exultant, cries. The uncle called repeatedly and vainly, groped his way at last to
the opening, and, peering up it, caught a glimpse of a disk of
daylight, which seemed to suggest that the fugitive had vanished in
safety. Making his way back to the group by the glass case, he fell
over the fallen chair and took a moment to collect himself again. He
had opened his mouth to speak to Symon, when he stopped, and
suddenly found himself blinking in the full shock of the white
light, and looking over the other man’s shoulder, he saw that the
door was standing open. “So they’ve got at us at last,” he observed to Symon. The man in the black robe was leaning against the wall some yards
away, with a smile carved on his face. “Here comes Colonel Morris,” went on Twyford, still speaking to
Symon. “One of us will have to tell him how the light went out. Will
you?” But Symon still said nothing. He was standing as still as a statue,
and looking steadily at the black velvet behind the glass screen. He
was looking at the black velvet because there was nothing else to
look at. St. Paul’s Penny was gone. Colonel Morris entered the room with two new visitors; presumably
two new sightseers delayed by the accident. The foremost was a tall,
fair, rather languid-looking man with a bald brow and a high-bridged
nose; his companion was a younger man with light, curly hair and
frank, and even innocent, eyes. Symon scarcely seemed to hear the
newcomers; it seemed almost as if he had not realized that the
return of the light revealed his brooding attitude. Then he started
in a guilty fashion, and when he saw the elder of the two strangers,
his pale face seemed to turn a shade paler. “Why it’s Horne Fisher!” and then after a pause he said in a low
voice, “I’m in the devil of a hole, Fisher.” “There does seem a bit of a mystery to be cleared up,” observed the
gentleman so addressed. “It will never be cleared up,” said the pale Symon. “If anybody
could clear it up, you could. But nobody could.” “I rather think I could,” said another voice from outside the group,
and they turned in surprise to realize that the man in the black
robe had spoken again. “You!” said the colonel, sharply. “And how do you propose to play
the detective?” “I do not propose to play the detective,” answered the other, in a
clear voice like a bell. “I propose to play the magician. One of the
magicians you show up in India, Colonel.” No one spoke for a moment, and then Horne Fisher surprised everybody
by saying, “Well, let’s go upstairs, and this gentleman can have a
try.” He stopped Symon, who had an automatic finger on the button, saying:
“No, leave all the lights on. It’s a sort of safeguard.” “The thing can’t be taken away now,” said Symon, bitterly. “It can be put back,” replied Fisher. Twyford had already run upstairs for news of his vanishing nephew,
and he received news of him in a way that at once puzzled and
reassured him. On the floor above lay one of those large paper darts
which boys throw at each other when the schoolmaster is out of the
room. It had evidently been thrown in at the window, and on being
unfolded displayed a scrawl of bad handwriting which ran: “Dear
Uncle; I am all right. Meet you at the hotel later on,” and then the
signature. Insensibly comforted by this, the clergyman found his thoughts
reverting voluntarily to his favorite relic, which came a good
second in his sympathies to his favorite nephew, and before he knew
where he was he found himself encircled by the group discussing its
loss, and more or less carried away on the current of their
excitement. But an undercurrent of query continued to run in his
mind, as to what had really happened to the boy, and what was the
boy’s exact definition of being all right. Meanwhile Horne Fisher had considerably puzzled everybody with his
new tone and attitude. He had talked to the colonel about the
military and mechanical arrangements, and displayed a remarkable
knowledge both of the details of discipline and the technicalities
of electricity. He had talked to the clergyman, and shown an equally
surprising knowledge of the religious and historical interests
involved in the relic. He had talked to the man who called himself a
magician, and not only surprised but scandalized the company by an
equally sympathetic familiarity with the most fantastic forms of
Oriental occultism and psychic experiment. And in this last and
least respectable line of inquiry he was evidently prepared to go
farthest; he openly encouraged the magician, and was plainly
prepared to follow the wildest ways of investigation in which that
magus might lead him. “How would you begin now?” he inquired, with an anxious politeness
that reduced the colonel to a congestion of rage. “It is all a question of a force; of establishing communications for
a force,” replied that adept, affably, ignoring some military
mutterings about the police force. “It is what you in the West used
to call animal magnetism, but it is much more than that. I had
better not say how much more. As to setting about it, the usual
method is to throw some susceptible person into a trance, which
serves as a sort of bridge or cord of communication, by which the
force beyond can give him, as it were, an electric shock, and awaken
his higher senses. It opens the sleeping eye of the mind.” “I’m suspectible,” said Fisher, either with simplicity or with a
baffling irony. “Why not open my mind’s eye for me? My friend Harold
March here will tell you I sometimes see things, even in the dark.” “Nobody sees anything except in the dark,” said the magician. Heavy clouds of sunset were closing round the wooden hut, enormous
clouds, of which only the corners could be seen in the little
window, like purple horns and tails, almost as if some huge monsters
were prowling round the place. But the purple was already deepening
to dark gray; it would soon be night. “Do not light the lamp,” said the magus with quiet authority,
arresting a movement in that direction. “I told you before that
things happen only in the dark.” How such a topsy-turvy scene ever came to be tolerated in the
colonel’s office, of all places, was afterward a puzzle in the
memory of many, including the colonel. They recalled it like a sort
of nightmare, like something they could not control. Perhaps there
was really a magnetism about the mesmerist; perhaps there was even
more magnetism about the man mesmerized. Anyhow, the man was being
mesmerized, for Horne Fisher had collapsed into a chair with his
long limbs loose and sprawling and his eyes staring at vacancy; and
the other man was mesmerizing him, making sweeping movements with
his darkly draped arms as if with black wings. The colonel had
passed the point of explosion, and he dimly realized that eccentric
aristocrats are allowed their fling. He comforted himself with the
knowledge that he had already sent for the police, who would break
up any such masquerade, and with lighting a cigar, the red end of
which, in the gathering darkness, glowed with protest. “Yes, I see pockets,” the man in the trance was saying. “I see many
pockets, but they are all empty. No; I see one pocket that is not
empty.” There was a faint stir in the stillness, and the magician said, “Can
you see what is in the pocket?” “Yes,” answered the other; “there are two bright things. I think
they are two bits of steel. One of the pieces of steel is bent or
crooked.” “Have they been used in the removal of the relic from downstairs?” “Yes.” There was another pause and the inquirer added, “Do you see anything
of the relic itself?” “I see something shining on the floor, like the shadow or the ghost
of it. It is over there in the corner beyond the desk.” There was a movement of men turning and then a sudden stillness, as
of their stiffening, for over in the corner on the wooden floor
there was really a round spot of pale light. It was the only spot of
light in the room. The cigar had gone out. “It points the way,” came the voice of the oracle. “The spirits are
pointing the way to penitence, and urging the thief to restitution.
I can see nothing more.” His voice trailed off into a silence that
lasted solidly for many minutes, like the long silence below when
the theft had been committed. Then it was broken by the ring of
metal on the floor, and the sound of something spinning and falling
like a tossed halfpenny. “Light the lamp!” cried Fisher in a loud and even jovial voice,
leaping to his feet with far less languor than usual. “I must be
going now, but I should like to see it before I go. Why, I came on
purpose to see it.” The lamp was lit, and he did see it, for St. Paul’s Penny was lying
on the floor at his feet. “Oh, as for that,” explained Fisher, when he was entertaining March
and Twyford at lunch about a month later, “I merely wanted to play
with the magician at his own game.” “I thought you meant to catch him in his own trap,” said Twyford.
“I can’t make head or tail of anything yet, but to my mind he was
always the suspect. I don’t think he was necessarily a thief in the
vulgar sense. The police always seem to think that silver is stolen
for the sake of silver, but a thing like that might well be stolen
out of some religious mania. A runaway monk turned mystic might well
want it for some mystical purpose.” “No,” replied Fisher, “the runaway monk is not a thief. At any rate
he is not the thief. And he’s not altogether a liar, either. He said
one true thing at least that night.” “And what was that?” inquired March. “He said it was all magnetism. As a matter of fact, it was done by
means of a magnet.” Then, seeing they still looked puzzled, he
added, “It was that toy magnet belonging to your nephew, Mr.
Twyford.” “But I don’t understand,” objected March. “If it was done with the
schoolboy’s magnet, I suppose it was done by the schoolboy.” “Well,” replied Fisher, reflectively, “it rather depends which
schoolboy.” “What on earth do you mean?” “The soul of a schoolboy is a curious thing,” Fisher continued, in a
meditative manner. “It can survive a great many things besides
climbing out of a chimney. A man can grow gray in great campaigns,
and still have the soul of a schoolboy. A man can return with a
great reputation from India and be put in charge of a great public
treasure, and still have the soul of a schoolboy, waiting to be
awakened by an accident. And it is ten times more so when to the
schoolboy you add the skeptic, who is generally a sort of stunted
schoolboy. You said just now that things might be done by religious
mania. Have you ever heard of irreligious mania? I assure you it
exists very violently, especially in men who like showing up
magicians in India. But here the skeptic had the temptation of
showing up a much more tremendous sham nearer home.” A light came into Harold March’s eyes as he suddenly saw, as if afar
off, the wider implication of the suggestion. But Twyford was still
wrestling with one problem at a time. “Do you really mean,” he said, “that Colonel Morris took the relic?” “He was the only person who could use the magnet,” replied Fisher.
“In fact, your obliging nephew left him a number of things he could
use. He had a ball of string, and an instrument for making a hole in
the wooden floor—I made a little play with that hole in the floor
in my trance, by the way; with the lights left on below, it shone
like a new shilling.” Twyford suddenly bounded on his chair. “But in
that case,” he cried, in a new and altered voice, “why then of
course— You said a piece of steel—?” “I said there were two pieces of steel,” said Fisher. “The bent
piece of steel was the boy’s magnet. The other was the relic in the
glass case.” “But that is silver,” answered the archaeologist, in a voice now
almost unrecognizable. “Oh,” replied Fisher, soothingly, “I dare say it was painted with
silver a little.” There was a heavy silence, and at last Harold March said, “But where
is the real relic?” “Where it has been for five years,” replied Horne Fisher, “in the
possession of a mad millionaire named Vandam, in Nebraska. There was
a playful little photograph about him in a society paper the other
day, mentioning his delusion, and saying he was always being taken
in about relics.” Harold March frowned at the tablecloth; then, after an interval, he
said: “I think I understand your notion of how the thing was
actually done; according to that, Morris just made a hole and fished
it up with a magnet at the end of a string. Such a monkey trick
looks like mere madness, but I suppose he was mad, partly with the
boredom of watching over what he felt was a fraud, though he
couldn’t prove it. Then came a chance to prove it, to himself at
least, and he had what he called ‘fun’ with it. Yes, I think I see a
lot of details now. But it’s just the whole thing that knocks me.
How did it all come to be like that?” Fisher was looking at him with level lids and an immovable manner. “Every precaution was taken,” he said. “The Duke carried the relic
on his own person, and locked it up in the case with his own hands.” March was silent; but Twyford stammered. “I don’t understand you.
You give me the creeps. Why don’t you speak plainer?” “If I spoke plainer you would understand me less,” said Horne
Fisher. “All the same I should try,” said March, still without lifting his
head. “Oh, very well,” replied Fisher, with a sigh; “the plain truth is,
of course, that it’s a bad business. Everybody knows it’s a bad
business who knows anything about it. But it’s always happening, and
in one way one can hardly blame them. They get stuck on to a foreign
princess that’s as stiff as a Dutch doll, and they have their fling.
In this case it was a pretty big fling.” The face of the Rev. Thomas Twyford certainly suggested that he was
a little out of his depth in the seas of truth, but as the other
went on speaking vaguely the old gentleman’s features sharpened and
set. “If it were some decent morganatic affair I wouldn’t say; but he
must have been a fool to throw away thousands on a woman like that.
At the end it was sheer blackmail; but it’s something that the old
ass didn’t get it out of the taxpayers. He could only get it out of
the Yank, and there you are.” The Rev. Thomas Twyford had risen to his feet. “Well, I’m glad my nephew had nothing to do with it,” he said. “And
if that’s what the world is like, I hope he will never have anything
to do with it.” “I hope not,” answered Horne Fisher. “No one knows so well as I do
that one can have far too much to do with it.” For Summers Minor had indeed nothing to do with it; and it is part
of his higher significance that he has really nothing to do with the
story, or with any such stories. The boy went like a bullet through
the tangle of this tale of crooked politics and crazy mockery and
came out on the other side, pursuing his own unspoiled purposes.
From the top of the chimney he climbed he had caught sight of a new
omnibus, whose color and name he had never known, as a naturalist
might see a new bird or a botanist a new flower. And he had been
sufficiently enraptured in rushing after it, and riding away upon
that fairy ship.
IV - The Bottomless Well * In an oasis, or green island, in the red and yellow seas of sand
that stretch beyond Europe toward the sunrise, there can be found a
rather fantastic contrast, which is none the less typical of such a
place, since international treaties have made it an outpost of the
British occupation. The site is famous among archaeologists for
something that is hardly a monument, but merely a hole in the
ground. But it is a round shaft, like that of a well, and probably a
part of some great irrigation works of remote and disputed date,
perhaps more ancient than anything in that ancient land. There is a
green fringe of palm and prickly pear round the black mouth of the
well; but nothing of the upper masonry remains except two bulky and
battered stones standing like the pillars of a gateway of nowhere,
in which some of the more transcendental archaeologists, in certain
moods at moonrise or sunset, think they can trace the faint lines of
figures or features of more than Babylonian monstrosity; while the
more rationalistic archaeologists, in the more rational hours of
daylight, see nothing but two shapeless rocks. It may have been
noticed, however, that all Englishmen are not archaeologists. Many
of those assembled in such a place for official and military
purposes have hobbies other than archaeology. And it is a solemn
fact that the English in this Eastern exile have contrived to make a
small golf links out of the green scrub and sand; with a comfortable
clubhouse at one end of it and this primeval monument at the other.
They did not actually use this archaic abyss as a bunker, because it
was by tradition unfathomable, and even for practical purposes
unfathomed. Any sporting projectile sent into it might be counted
most literally as a lost ball. But they often sauntered round it in
their interludes of talking and smoking cigarettes, and one of them
had just come down from the clubhouse to find another gazing
somewhat moodily into the well. Both the Englishmen wore light clothes and white pith helmets and
puggrees, but there, for the most part, their resemblance ended. And
they both almost simultaneously said the same word, but they said it
on two totally different notes of the voice. “Have you heard the news?” asked the man from the club. “Splendid.” “Splendid,” replied the man by the well. But the first man
pronounced the word as a young man might say it about a woman, and
the second as an old man might say it about the weather, not without
sincerity, but certainly without fervor. And in this the tone of the two men was sufficiently typical of
them. The first, who was a certain Captain Boyle, was of a bold and
boyish type, dark, and with a sort of native heat in his face that
did not belong to the atmosphere of the East, but rather to the
ardors and ambitions of the West. The other was an older man and
certainly an older resident, a civilian official—Horne Fisher; and
his drooping eyelids and drooping light mustache expressed all the
paradox of the Englishman in the East. He was much too hot to be
anything but cool. Neither of them thought it necessary to mention what it was that was
splendid. That would indeed have been superfluous conversation about
something that everybody knew. The striking victory over a menacing
combination of Turks and Arabs in the north, won by troops under the
command of Lord Hastings, the veteran of so many striking victories,
was already spread by the newspapers all over the Empire, let alone
to this small garrison so near to the battlefield. “Now, no other nation in the world could have done a thing like
that,” cried Captain Boyle, emphatically. Horne Fisher was still looking silently into the well; a moment
later he answered: “We certainly have the art of unmaking mistakes.
That’s where the poor old Prussians went wrong. They could only make
mistakes and stick to them. There is really a certain talent in
unmaking a mistake.” “What do you mean,” asked Boyle, “what mistakes?” “Well, everybody knows it looked like biting off more than he could
chew,” replied Horne Fisher. It was a peculiarity of Mr. Fisher that
he always said that everybody knew things which about one person in
two million was ever allowed to hear of. “And it was certainly jolly
lucky that Travers turned up so well in the nick of time. Odd how
often the right thing’s been done for us by the second in command,
even when a great man was first in command. Like Colborne at
Waterloo.” “It ought to add a whole province to the Empire,” observed the
other. “Well, I suppose the Zimmernes would have insisted on it as far as
the canal,” observed Fisher, thoughtfully, “though everybody knows
adding provinces doesn’t always pay much nowadays.” Captain Boyle frowned in a slightly puzzled fashion. Being cloudily
conscious of never having heard of the Zimmernes in his life, he
could only remark, stolidly: “Well, one can’t be a Little Englander.” Horne Fisher smiled, and he had a pleasant smile. “Every man out here is a Little Englander,” he said. “He wishes he
were back in Little England.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m afraid,” said the
younger man, rather suspiciously. “One would think you didn’t really
admire Hastings or—or—anything.” “I admire him no end,” replied Fisher. “He’s by far the best man
for this post; he understands the Moslems and can do anything with
them. That’s why I’m all against pushing Travers against him, merely
because of this last affair.” “I really don’t understand what you’re driving at,” said the other,
frankly. “Perhaps it isn’t worth understanding,” answered Fisher, lightly,
“and, anyhow, we needn’t talk politics. Do you know the Arab legend
about that well?” “I’m afraid I don’t know much about Arab legends,” said Boyle,
rather stiffly. “That’s rather a mistake,” replied Fisher, “especially from your
point of view. Lord Hastings himself is an Arab legend. That is
perhaps the very greatest thing he really is. If his reputation went
it would weaken us all over Asia and Africa. Well, the story about
that hole in the ground, that goes down nobody knows where, has
always fascinated me, rather. It’s Mohammedan in form now, but I
shouldn’t wonder if the tale is a long way older than Mohammed. It’s
all about somebody they call the Sultan Aladdin, not our friend of
the lamp, of course, but rather like him in having to do with genii
or giants or something of that sort. They say he commanded the
giants to build him a sort of pagoda, rising higher and higher above
all the stars. The Utmost for the Highest, as the people said when
they built the Tower of Babel. But the builders of the Tower of
Babel were quite modest and domestic people, like mice, compared
with old Aladdin. They only wanted a tower that would reach heaven—
a mere trifle. He wanted a tower that would pass heaven and rise
above it, and go on rising for ever and ever. And Allah cast him
down to earth with a thunderbolt, which sank into the earth, boring
a hole deeper and deeper, till it made a well that was without a
bottom as the tower was to have been without a top. And down that
inverted tower of darkness the soul of the proud Sultan is falling
forever and ever.” “What a queer chap you are,” said Boyle. “You talk as if a fellow
could believe those fables.” “Perhaps I believe the moral and not the fable,” answered Fisher.
“But here comes Lady Hastings. You know her, I think.” The clubhouse on the golf links was used, of course, for many other
purposes besides that of golf. It was the only social center of the
garrison beside the strictly military headquarters; it had a
billiard room and a bar, and even an excellent reference library for
those officers who were so perverse as to take their profession
seriously. Among these was the great general himself, whose head of
silver and face of bronze, like that of a brazen eagle, were often
to be found bent over the charts and folios of the library. The
great Lord Hastings believed in science and study, as in other
severe ideals of life, and had given much paternal advice on the
point to young Boyle, whose appearances in that place of research
were rather more intermittent. It was from one of these snatches of
study that the young man had just come out through the glass doors
of the library on to the golf links. But, above all, the club was so
appointed as to serve the social conveniences of ladies at least as
much as gentlemen, and Lady Hastings was able to play the queen in
such a society almost as much as in her own ballroom. She was
eminently calculated and, as some said, eminently inclined to play
such a part. She was much younger than her husband, an attractive
and sometimes dangerously attractive lady; and Mr. Horne Fisher
looked after her a little sardonically as she swept away with the
young soldier. Then his rather dreary eye strayed to the green and
prickly growths round the well, growths of that curious cactus
formation in which one thick leaf grows directly out of the other
without stalk or twig. It gave his fanciful mind a sinister feeling
of a blind growth without shape or purpose. A flower or shrub in the
West grows to the blossom which is its crown, and is content. But
this was as if hands could grow out of hands or legs grow out of
legs in a nightmare. “Always adding a province to the Empire,” he
said, with a smile, and then added, more sadly, “but I doubt if I
was right, after all!” A strong but genial voice broke in on his meditations and he looked
up and smiled, seeing the face of an old friend. The voice was,
indeed, rather more genial than the face, which was at the first
glance decidedly grim. It was a typically legal face, with angular
jaws and heavy, grizzled eyebrows; and it belonged to an eminently
legal character, though he was now attached in a semimilitary
capacity to the police of that wild district. Cuthbert Grayne was
perhaps more of a criminologist than either a lawyer or a policeman,
but in his more barbarous surroundings he had proved successful in
turning himself into a practical combination of all three. The
discovery of a whole series of strange Oriental crimes stood to his
credit. But as few people were acquainted with, or attracted to,
such a hobby or branch of knowledge, his intellectual life was
somewhat solitary. Among the few exceptions was Horne Fisher, who
had a curious capacity for talking to almost anybody about almost
anything. “Studying botany, or is it archaeology?” inquired Grayne. “I shall
never come to the end of your interests, Fisher. I should say that
what you don’t know isn’t worth knowing.” “You are wrong,” replied Fisher, with a very unusual abruptness, and
even bitterness. “It’s what I do know that isn’t worth knowing. All
the seamy side of things, all the secret reasons and rotten motives
and bribery and blackmail they call politics. I needn’t be so proud
of having been down all these sewers that I should brag about it to
the little boys in the street.” “What do you mean? What’s the matter with you?” asked his friend.
“I never knew you taken like this before.” “I’m ashamed of myself,” replied Fisher. “I’ve just been throwing
cold water on the enthusiasms of a boy.” “Even that explanation is hardly exhaustive,” observed the criminal
expert. “Damned newspaper nonsense the enthusiasms were, of course,”
continued Fisher, “but I ought to know that at that age illusions
can be ideals. And they’re better than the reality, anyhow. But
there is one very ugly responsibility about jolting a young man out
of the rut of the most rotten ideal.” “And what may that be?” inquired his friend. “It’s very apt to set him off with the same energy in a much worse
direction,” answered Fisher; “a pretty endless sort of direction, a
bottomless pit as deep as the bottomless well.” Fisher did not see his friend until a fortnight later, when he found
himself in the garden at the back of the clubhouse on the opposite
side from the links, a garden heavily colored and scented with sweet
semitropical plants in the glow of a desert sunset. Two other men
were with him, the third being the now celebrated second in command,
familiar to everybody as Tom Travers, a lean, dark man, who looked
older than his years, with a furrow in his brow and something morose
about the very shape of his black mustache. They had just been
served with black coffee by the Arab now officiating as the
temporary servant of the club, though he was a figure already
familiar, and even famous, as the old servant of the general. He
went by the name of Said, and was notable among other Semites for
that unnatural length of his yellow face and height of his narrow
forehead which is sometimes seen among them, and gave an irrational
impression of something sinister, in spite of his agreeable smile. “I never feel as if I could quite trust that fellow,” said Grayne,
when the man had gone away. “It’s very unjust, I take it, for he was
certainly devoted to Hastings, and saved his life, they say. But
Arabs are often like that, loyal to one man. I can’t help feeling he
might cut anybody else’s throat, and even do it treacherously.” “Well,” said Travers, with a rather sour smile, “so long as he
leaves Hastings alone the world won’t mind much.” There was a rather embarrassing silence, full of memories of the
great battle, and then Horne Fisher said, quietly: “The newspapers aren’t the world, Tom. Don’t you worry about them.
Everybody in your world knows the truth well enough.” “I think we’d better not talk about the general just now,” remarked
Grayne, “for he’s just coming out of the club.” “He’s not coming here,” said Fisher. “He’s only seeing his wife to
the car.” As he spoke, indeed, the lady came out on the steps of the club,
followed by her husband, who then went swiftly in front of her to
open the garden gate. As he did so she turned back and spoke for a
moment to a solitary man still sitting in a cane chair in the shadow
of the doorway, the only man left in the deserted club save for the
three that lingered in the garden. Fisher peered for a moment into
the shadow, and saw that it was Captain Boyle. The next moment, rather to their surprise, the general reappeared
and, remounting the steps, spoke a word or two to Boyle in his turn.
Then he signaled to Said, who hurried up with two cups of coffee,
and the two men re-entered the club, each carrying his cup in his
hand. The next moment a gleam of white light in the growing darkness
showed that the electric lamps had been turned on in the library
beyond. “Coffee and scientific researches,” said Travers, grimly. “All the
luxuries of learning and theoretical research. Well, I must be
going, for I have my work to do as well.” And he got up rather
stiffly, saluted his companions, and strode away into the dusk. “I only hope Boyle is sticking to scientific researches,” said Horne
Fisher. “I’m not very comfortable about him myself. But let’s talk
about something else.” They talked about something else longer than they probably imagined,
until the tropical night had come and a splendid moon painted the
whole scene with silver; but before it was bright enough to see by
Fisher had already noted that the lights in the library had been
abruptly extinguished. He waited for the two men to come out by the
garden entrance, but nobody came. “They must have gone for a stroll on the links,” he said. “Very possibly,” replied Grayne. “It’s going to be a beautiful
night.” A moment or two after he had spoken they heard a voice hailing them
out of the shadow of the clubhouse, and were astonished to perceive
Travers hurrying toward them, calling out as he came: “I shall want your help, you fellows,” he cried. “There’s something
pretty bad out on the links.” They found themselves plunging through the club smoking room and the
library beyond, in complete darkness, mental as well as material.
But Horne Fisher, in spite of his affectation of indifference, was a
person of a curious and almost transcendental sensibility to
atmospheres, and he already felt the presence of something more than
an accident. He collided with a piece of furniture in the library,
and almost shuddered with the shock, for the thing moved as he could
never have fancied a piece of furniture moving. It seemed to move
like a living thing, yielding and yet striking back. The next moment
Grayne had turned on the lights, and he saw he had only stumbled
against one of the revolving bookstands that had swung round and
struck him; but his involuntary recoil had revealed to him his own
subconscious sense of something mysterious and monstrous. There were
several of these revolving bookcases standing here and there about
the library; on one of them stood the two cups of coffee, and on
another a large open book. It was Budge’s book on Egyptian
hieroglyphics, with colored plates of strange birds and gods, and
even as he rushed past, he was conscious of something odd about the
fact that this, and not any work of military science, should be open
in that place at that moment. He was even conscious of the gap in
the well-lined bookshelf from which it had been taken, and it seemed
almost to gape at him in an ugly fashion, like a gap in the teeth of
some sinister face. A run brought them in a few minutes to the other side of the ground
in front of the bottomless well, and a few yards from it, in a
moonlight almost as broad as daylight, they saw what they had come
to see. The great Lord Hastings lay prone on his face, in a posture in which
there was a touch of something strange and stiff, with one elbow
erect above his body, the arm being doubled, and his big, bony hand
clutching the rank and ragged grass. A few feet away was Boyle,
almost as motionless, but supported on his hands and knees, and
staring at the body. It might have been no more than shock and
accident; but there was something ungainly and unnatural about the
quadrupedal posture and the gaping face. It was as if his reason had
fled from him. Behind, there was nothing but the clear blue southern
sky, and the beginning of the desert, except for the two great
broken stones in front of the well. And it was in such a light and
atmosphere that men could fancy they traced in them enormous and
evil faces, looking down. Horne Fisher stooped and touched the strong hand that was still
clutching the grass, and it was as cold as a stone. He knelt by the
body and was busy for a moment applying other tests; then he rose
again, and said, with a sort of confident despair: “Lord Hastings is dead.” There was a stony silence, and then Travers remarked, gruffly: “This
is your department, Grayne; I will leave you to question Captain
Boyle. I can make no sense of what he says.” Boyle had pulled himself together and risen to his feet, but his
face still wore an awful expression, making it like a new mask or
the face of another man. “I was looking at the well,” he said, “and when I turned he had
fallen down.” Grayne’s face was very dark. “As you say, this is my affair,” he
said. “I must first ask you to help me carry him to the library and
let me examine things thoroughly.” When they had deposited the body in the library, Grayne turned to
Fisher and said, in a voice that had recovered its fullness and
confidence, “I am going to lock myself in and make a thorough
examination first. I look to you to keep in touch with the others
and make a preliminary examination of Boyle. I will talk to him
later. And just telephone to headquarters for a policeman, and let
him come here at once and stand by till I want him.” Without more words the great criminal investigator went into the
lighted library, shutting the door behind him, and Fisher, without
replying, turned and began to talk quietly to Travers. “It is
curious,” he said, “that the thing should happen just in front of
that place.” “It would certainly be very curious,” replied Travers, “if the place
played any part in it.” “I think,” replied Fisher, “that the part it didn’t play is more
curious still.” And with these apparently meaningless words he turned to the shaken
Boyle and, taking his arm, began to walk him up and down in the
moonlight, talking in low tones. Dawn had begun to break abrupt and white when Cuthbert Grayne turned
out the lights in the library and came out on to the links. Fisher
was lounging about alone, in his listless fashion; but the police
messenger for whom he had sent was standing at attention in the
background. “I sent Boyle off with Travers,” observed Fisher, carelessly; “he’ll
look after him, and he’d better have some sleep, anyhow.” “Did you get anything out of him?” asked Grayne. “Did he tell you
what he and Hastings were doing?” “Yes,” answered Fisher, “he gave me a pretty clear account, after
all. He said that after Lady Hastings went off in the car the
general asked him to take coffee with him in the library and look up
a point about local antiquities. He himself was beginning to look
for Budge’s book in one of the revolving bookstands when the general
found it in one of the bookshelves on the wall. After looking at
some of the plates they went out, it would seem, rather abruptly, on
to the links, and walked toward the old well; and while Boyle was
looking into it he heard a thud behind him, and turned round to find
the general lying as we found him. He himself dropped on his knees
to examine the body, and then was paralyzed with a sort of terror
and could not come nearer to it or touch it. But I think very little
of that; people caught in a real shock of surprise are sometimes
found in the queerest postures.” Grayne wore a grim smile of attention, and said, after a short
silence: “Well, he hasn’t told you many lies. It’s really a creditably clear
and consistent account of what happened, with everything of
importance left out.” “Have you discovered anything in there?” asked Fisher. “I have discovered everything,” answered Grayne. Fisher maintained a somewhat gloomy silence, as the other resumed
his explanation in quiet and assured tones. “You were quite right, Fisher, when you said that young fellow was
in danger of going down dark ways toward the pit. Whether or no, as
you fancied, the jolt you gave to his view of the general had
anything to do with it, he has not been treating the general well
for some time. It’s an unpleasant business, and I don’t want to
dwell on it; but it’s pretty plain that his wife was not treating
him well, either. I don’t know how far it went, but it went as far
as concealment, anyhow; for when Lady Hastings spoke to Boyle it was
to tell him she had hidden a note in the Budge book in the library.
The general overheard, or came somehow to know, and he went straight
to the book and found it. He confronted Boyle with it, and they had
a scene, of course. And Boyle was confronted with something else; he
was confronted with an awful alternative, in which the life of one
old man meant ruin and his death meant triumph and even happiness.” “Well,” observed Fisher, at last, “I don’t blame him for not telling
you the woman’s part of the story. But how do you know about the
letter?” “I found it on the general’s body,” answered Grayne, “but I found
worse things than that. The body had stiffened in the way rather
peculiar to poisons of a certain Asiatic sort. Then I examined the
coffee cups, and I knew enough chemistry to find poison in the dregs
of one of them. Now, the General went straight to the bookcase,
leaving his cup of coffee on the bookstand in the middle of the
room. While his back was turned, and Boyle was pretending to examine
the bookstand, he was left alone with the coffee cup. The poison
takes about ten minutes to act, and ten minutes’ walk would bring
them to the bottomless well.” “Yes,” remarked Fisher, “and what about the bottomless well?” “What has the bottomless well got to do with it?” asked his friend. “It has nothing to do with it,” replied Fisher. “That is what I
find utterly confounding and incredible.” “And why should that particular hole in the ground have anything to
do with it?” “It is a particular hole in your case,” said Fisher. “But I won’t
insist on that just now. By the way, there is another thing I ought
to tell you. I said I sent Boyle away in charge of Travers. It would
be just as true to say I sent Travers in charge of Boyle.” “You don’t mean to say you suspect Tom Travers?” cried the other. “He was a deal bitterer against the general than Boyle ever was,”
observed Horne Fisher, with a curious indifference. “Man, you’re not saying what you mean,” cried Grayne. “I tell you I
found the poison in one of the coffee cups.” “There was always Said, of course,” added Fisher, “either for hatred
or hire. We agreed he was capable of almost anything.” “And we agreed he was incapable of hurting his master,” retorted
Grayne. “Well, well,” said Fisher, amiably, “I dare say you are right; but I
should just like to have a look at the library and the coffee cups.” He passed inside, while Grayne turned to the policeman in attendance
and handed him a scribbled note, to be telegraphed from
headquarters. The man saluted and hurried off; and Grayne, following
his friend into the library, found him beside the bookstand in the
middle of the room, on which were the empty cups. “This is where Boyle looked for Budge, or pretended to look for him,
according to your account,” he said. As Fisher spoke he bent down in a half-crouching attitude, to look
at the volumes in the low, revolving shelf, for the whole bookstand
was not much higher than an ordinary table. The next moment he
sprang up as if he had been stung. “Oh, my God!” he cried. Very few people, if any, had ever seen Mr. Horne Fisher behave as he
behaved just then. He flashed a glance at the door, saw that the
open window was nearer, went out of it with a flying leap, as if
over a hurdle, and went racing across the turf, in the track of the
disappearing policeman. Grayne, who stood staring after him, soon
saw his tall, loose figure, returning, restored to all its normal
limpness and air of leisure. He was fanning himself slowly with a
piece of paper, the telegram he had so violently intercepted. “Lucky I stopped that,” he observed. “We must keep this affair as
quiet as death. Hastings must die of apoplexy or heart disease.” “What on earth is the trouble?” demanded the other investigator. “The trouble is,” said Fisher, “that in a few days we should have
had a very agreeable alternative—of hanging an innocent man or
knocking the British Empire to hell.” “Do you mean to say,” asked Grayne, “that this infernal crime is not
to be punished?” Fisher looked at him steadily. “It is already punished,” he said. After a moment’s pause he went on. “You reconstructed the crime
with admirable skill, old chap, and nearly all you said was true.
Two men with two coffee cups did go into the library and did put
their cups on the bookstand and did go together to the well, and one
of them was a murderer and had put poison in the other’s cup. But it
was not done while Boyle was looking at the revolving bookcase. He
did look at it, though, searching for the Budge book with the note
in it, but I fancy that Hastings had already moved it to the shelves
on the wall. It was part of that grim game that he should find it
first. “Now, how does a man search a revolving bookcase? He does not
generally hop all round it in a squatting attitude, like a frog. He
simply gives it a touch and makes it revolve.” He was frowning at the floor as he spoke, and there was a light
under his heavy lids that was not often seen there. The mysticism
that was buried deep under all the cynicism of his experience was
awake and moving in the depths. His voice took unexpected turns and
inflections, almost as if two men were speaking. “That was what Boyle did; he barely touched the thing, and it went
round as easily as the world goes round. Yes, very much as the
world goes round, for the hand that turned it was not his. God, who
turns the wheel of all the stars, touched that wheel and brought it
full circle, that His dreadful justice might return.” “I am beginning,” said Grayne, slowly, “to have some hazy and
horrible idea of what you mean.” “It is very simple,” said Fisher, “when Boyle straightened himself
from his stooping posture, something had happened which he had not
noticed, which his enemy had not noticed, which nobody had noticed.
The two coffee cups had exactly changed places.” The rocky face of Grayne seemed to have sustained a shock in
silence; not a line of it altered, but his voice when it came was
unexpectedly weakened. “I see what you mean,” he said, “and, as you say, the less said
about it the better. It was not the lover who tried to get rid of
the husband, but—the other thing. And a tale like that about a man
like that would ruin us here. Had you any guess of this at the
start?” “The bottomless well, as I told you,” answered Fisher, quietly;
“that was what stumped me from the start. Not because it had
anything to do with it, because it had nothing to do with it.” He paused a moment, as if choosing an approach, and then went on:
“When a man knows his enemy will be dead in ten minutes, and takes
him to the edge of an unfathomable pit, he means to throw his body
into it. What else should he do? A born fool would have the sense to
do it, and Boyle is not a born fool. Well, why did not Boyle do it?
The more I thought of it the more I suspected there was some mistake
in the murder, so to speak. Somebody had taken somebody there to
throw him in, and yet he was not thrown in. I had already an ugly,
unformed idea of some substitution or reversal of parts; then I
stooped to turn the bookstand myself, by accident, and I instantly
knew everything, for I saw the two cups revolve once more, like
moons in the sky.” After a pause, Cuthbert Grayne said, “And what are we to say to the
newspapers?” “My friend, Harold March, is coming along from Cairo to-day,” said
Fisher. “He is a very brilliant and successful journalist. But for
all that he’s a thoroughly honorable man, so you must not tell him
the truth.” Half an hour later Fisher was again walking to and fro in front of
the clubhouse, with Captain Boyle, the latter by this time with a
very buffeted and bewildered air; perhaps a sadder and a wiser man. “What about me, then?” he was saying. “Am I cleared? Am I not going
to be cleared?” “I believe and hope,” answered Fisher, “that you are not going to be
suspected. But you are certainly not going to be cleared. There must
be no suspicion against him, and therefore no suspicion against you.
Any suspicion against him, let alone such a story against him, would
knock us endways from Malta to Mandalay. He was a hero as well as a
holy terror among the Moslems. Indeed, you might almost call him a
Moslem hero in the English service. Of course he got on with them
partly because of his own little dose of Eastern blood; he got it
from his mother, the dancer from Damascus; everybody knows that.” “Oh,” repeated Boyle, mechanically, staring at him with round eyes,
“everybody knows that.” “I dare say there was a touch of it in his jealousy and ferocious
vengeance,” went on Fisher. “But, for all that, the crime would ruin
us among the Arabs, all the more because it was something like a
crime against hospitality. It’s been hateful for you and it’s pretty
horrid for me. But there are some things that damned well can’t be
done, and while I’m alive that’s one of them.” “What do you mean?” asked Boyle, glancing at him curiously. “Why
should you, of all people, be so passionate about it?” Horne Fisher looked at the young man with a baffling expression. “I suppose,” he said, “it’s because I’m a Little Englander.” “I can never make out what you mean by that sort of thing,” answered
Boyle, doubtfully. “Do you think England is so little as all that?” said Fisher, with a
warmth in his cold voice, “that it can’t hold a man across a few
thousand miles. You lectured me with a lot of ideal patriotism, my
young friend; but it’s practical patriotism now for you and me, and
with no lies to help it. You talked as if everything always went
right with us all over the world, in a triumphant crescendo
culminating in Hastings. I tell you everything has gone wrong with
us here, except Hastings. He was the one name we had left to conjure
with, and that mustn’t go as well, no, by God! It’s bad enough that
a gang of infernal Jews should plant us here, where there’s no
earthly English interest to serve, and all hell beating up against
us, simply because Nosey Zimmern has lent money to half the Cabinet.
It’s bad enough that an old pawnbroker from Bagdad should make us
fight his battles; we can’t fight with our right hand cut off. Our
one score was Hastings and his victory, which was really somebody
else’s victory. Tom Travers has to suffer, and so have you.” Then, after a moment’s silence, he pointed toward the bottomless
well and said, in a quieter tone: “I told you that I didn’t believe in the philosophy of the Tower of
Aladdin. I don’t believe in the Empire growing until it reaches the
sky; I don’t believe in the Union Jack going up and up eternally
like the Tower. But if you think I am going to let the Union Jack go
down and down eternally, like the bottomless well, down into the
blackness of the bottomless pit, down in defeat and derision, amid
the jeers of the very Jews who have sucked us dry—no I won’t, and
that’s flat; not if the Chancellor were blackmailed by twenty
millionaires with their gutter rags, not if the Prime Minister
married twenty Yankee Jewesses, not if Woodville and Carstairs had
shares in twenty swindling mines. If the thing is really tottering,
God help it, it mustn’t be we who tip it over.” Boyle was regarding him with a bewilderment that was almost fear,
and had even a touch of distaste. “Somehow,” he said, “there seems to be something rather horrid about
the things you know.” “There is,” replied Horne Fisher. “I am not at all pleased with my
small stock of knowledge and reflection. But as it is partly
responsible for your not being hanged, I don’t know that you need
complain of it.” And, as if a little ashamed of his first boast, he turned and
strolled away toward the bottomless well.
V - The Fad of the Fisherman * A thing can sometimes be too extraordinary to be remembered. If it
is clean out of the course of things, and has apparently no causes
and no consequences, subsequent events do not recall it, and it
remains only a subconscious thing, to be stirred by some accident
long after. It drifts apart like a forgotten dream; and it was in
the hour of many dreams, at daybreak and very soon after the end of
dark, that such a strange sight was given to a man sculling a boat
down a river in the West country. The man was awake; indeed, he
considered himself rather wide awake, being the political
journalist, Harold March, on his way to interview various political
celebrities in their country seats. But the thing he saw was so
inconsequent that it might have been imaginary. It simply slipped
past his mind and was lost in later and utterly different events;
nor did he even recover the memory till he had long afterward
discovered the meaning. Pale mists of morning lay on the fields and the rushes along one
margin of the river; along the other side ran a wall of tawny brick
almost overhanging the water. He had shipped his oars and was
drifting for a moment with the stream, when he turned his head and
saw that the monotony of the long brick wall was broken by a bridge;
rather an elegant eighteenth-century sort of bridge with little
columns of white stone turning gray. There had been floods and the
river still stood very high, with dwarfish trees waist deep in it,
and rather a narrow arc of white dawn gleamed under the curve of the
bridge. As his own boat went under the dark archway he saw another boat
coming toward him, rowed by a man as solitary as himself. His
posture prevented much being seen of him, but as he neared the
bridge he stood up in the boat and turned round. He was already so
close to the dark entry, however, that his whole figure was black
against the morning light, and March could see nothing of his face
except the end of two long whiskers or mustaches that gave something
sinister to the silhouette, like horns in the wrong place. Even
these details March would never have noticed but for what happened
in the same instant. As the man came under the low bridge he made a
leap at it and hung, with his legs dangling, letting the boat float
away from under him. March had a momentary vision of two black
kicking legs; then of one black kicking leg; and then of nothing
except the eddying stream and the long perspective of the wall. But
whenever he thought of it again, long afterward, when he understood
the story in which it figured, it was always fixed in that one
fantastic shape—as if those wild legs were a grotesque graven
ornament of the bridge itself, in the manner of a gargoyle. At the
moment he merely passed, staring, down the stream. He could see no
flying figure on the bridge, so it must have already fled; but he
was half conscious of some faint significance in the fact that among
the trees round the bridgehead opposite the wall he saw a lamp-post;
and, beside the lamp-post, the broad blue back of an unconscious
policeman. Even before reaching the shrine of his political pilgrimage he had
many other things to think of besides the odd incident of the
bridge; for the management of a boat by a solitary man was not
always easy even on such a solitary stream. And indeed it was only
by an unforeseen accident that he was solitary. The boat had been
purchased and the whole expedition planned in conjunction with a
friend, who had at the last moment been forced to alter all his
arrangements. Harold March was to have traveled with his friend
Horne Fisher on that inland voyage to Willowood Place, where the
Prime Minister was a guest at the moment. More and more people were
hearing of Harold March, for his striking political articles were
opening to him the doors of larger and larger salons; but he had
never met the Prime Minister yet. Scarcely anybody among the general
public had ever heard of Horne Fisher; but he had known the Prime
Minister all his life. For these reasons, had the two taken the
projected journey together, March might have been slightly disposed
to hasten it and Fisher vaguely content to lengthen it out. For
Fisher was one of those people who are born knowing the Prime
Minister. The knowledge seemed to have no very exhilarant effect,
and in his case bore some resemblance to being born tired. But he
was distinctly annoyed to receive, just as he was doing a little
light packing of fishing tackle and cigars for the journey, a
telegram from Willowood asking him to come down at once by train, as
the Prime Minister had to leave that night. Fisher knew that his
friend the journalist could not possibly start till the next day,
and he liked his friend the journalist, and had looked forward to a
few days on the river. He did not particularly like or dislike the
Prime Minister, but he intensely disliked the alternative of a few
hours in the train. Nevertheless, he accepted Prime Ministers as he
accepted railway trains—as part of a system which he, at least, was
not the revolutionist sent on earth to destroy. So he telephoned to
March, asking him, with many apologetic curses and faint damns, to
take the boat down the river as arranged, that they might meet at
Willowood by the time settled; then he went outside and hailed a
taxicab to take him to the railway station. There he paused at the
bookstall to add to his light luggage a number of cheap murder
stories, which he read with great pleasure, and without any
premonition that he was about to walk into as strange a story in
real life. A little before sunset he arrived, with his light suitcase in hand,
before the gate of the long riverside gardens of Willowood Place,
one of the smaller seats of Sir Isaac Hook, the master of much
shipping and many newspapers. He entered by the gate giving on the
road, at the opposite side to the river, but there was a mixed
quality in all that watery landscape which perpetually reminded a
traveler that the river was near. White gleams of water would shine
suddenly like swords or spears in the green thickets. And even in
the garden itself, divided into courts and curtained with hedges and
high garden trees, there hung everywhere in the air the music of
water. The first of the green courts which he entered appeared to be
a somewhat neglected croquet lawn, in which was a solitary young man
playing croquet against himself. Yet he was not an enthusiast for
the game, or even for the garden; and his sallow but well-featured
face looked rather sullen than otherwise. He was only one of those
young men who cannot support the burden of consciousness unless they
are doing something, and whose conceptions of doing something are
limited to a game of some kind. He was dark and well dressed in a
light holiday fashion, and Fisher recognized him at once as a young
man named James Bullen, called, for some unknown reason, Bunker. He
was the nephew of Sir Isaac; but, what was much more important at
the moment, he was also the private secretary of the Prime Minister. “Hullo, Bunker!” observed Horne Fisher. “You’re the sort of man I
wanted to see. Has your chief come down yet?” “He’s only staying for dinner,” replied Bullen, with his eye on the
yellow ball. “He’s got a great speech to-morrow at Birmingham and
he’s going straight through to-night. He’s motoring himself there;
driving the car, I mean. It’s the one thing he’s really proud of.” “You mean you’re staying here with your uncle, like a good boy?”
replied Fisher. “But what will the Chief do at Birmingham without
the epigrams whispered to him by his brilliant secretary?” “Don’t you start ragging me,” said the young man called Bunker.
“I’m only too glad not to go trailing after him. He doesn’t know a
thing about maps or money or hotels or anything, and I have to dance
about like a courier. As for my uncle, as I’m supposed to come into
the estate, it’s only decent to be here sometimes.” “Very proper,” replied the other. “Well, I shall see you later on,”
and, crossing the lawn, he passed out through a gap in the hedge. He was walking across the lawn toward the landing stage on the
river, and still felt all around him, under the dome of golden
evening, an Old World savor and reverberation in that riverhaunted
garden. The next square of turf which he crossed seemed at first
sight quite deserted, till he saw in the twilight of trees in one
corner of it a hammock and in the hammock a man, reading a newspaper
and swinging one leg over the edge of the net. Him also he hailed by name, and the man slipped to the ground and
strolled forward. It seemed fated that he should feel something of
the past in the accidents of that place, for the figure might well
have been an early-Victorian ghost revisiting the ghosts of the
croquet hoops and mallets. It was the figure of an elderly man with
long whiskers that looked almost fantastic, and a quaint and careful
cut of collar and cravat. Having been a fashionable dandy forty
years ago, he had managed to preserve the dandyism while ignoring
the fashions. A white top-hat lay beside the Morning Post in the
hammock behind him. This was the Duke of Westmoreland, the relic of
a family really some centuries old; and the antiquity was not
heraldry but history. Nobody knew better than Fisher how rare such
noblemen are in fact, and how numerous in fiction. But whether the
duke owed the general respect he enjoyed to the genuineness of his
pedigree or to the fact that he owned a vast amount of very valuable
property was a point about which Mr. Fisher’s opinion might have
been more interesting to discover. “You were looking so comfortable,” said Fisher, “that I thought you
must be one of the servants. I’m looking for somebody to take this
bag of mine; I haven’t brought a man down, as I came away in a
hurry.” “Nor have I, for that matter,” replied the duke, with some pride. “I
never do. If there’s one animal alive I loathe it’s a valet. I
learned to dress myself at an early age and was supposed to do it
decently. I may be in my second childhood, but I’ve not go so far as
being dressed like a child.” “The Prime Minister hasn’t brought a valet; he’s brought a secretary
instead,” observed Fisher. “Devilish inferior job. Didn’t I hear
that Harker was down here?” “He’s over there on the landing stage,” replied the duke,
indifferently, and resumed the study of the Morning Post. Fisher made his way beyond the last green wall of the garden on to a
sort of towing path looking on the river and a wooden island
opposite. There, indeed, he saw a lean, dark figure with a stoop
almost like that of a vulture, a posture well known in the law
courts as that of Sir John Harker, the Attorney-General. His face
was lined with headwork, for alone among the three idlers in the
garden he was a man who had made his own way; and round his bald
brow and hollow temples clung dull red hair, quite flat, like plates
of copper. “I haven’t seen my host yet,” said Horne Fisher, in a slightly more
serious tone than he had used to the others, “but I suppose I shall
meet him at dinner.” “You can see him now; but you can’t meet him,” answered Harker. He nodded his head toward one end of the island opposite, and,
looking steadily in the same direction, the other guest could see
the dome of a bald head and the top of a fishing rod, both equally
motionless, rising out of the tall undergrowth against the
background of the stream beyond. The fisherman seemed to be seated
against the stump of a tree and facing toward the other bank, so
that his face could not be seen, but the shape of his head was
unmistakable. “He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s fishing,” continued
Harker. “It’s a sort of fad of his to eat nothing but fish, and he’s
very proud of catching his own. Of course he’s all for simplicity,
like so many of these millionaires. He likes to come in saying he’s
worked for his daily bread like a laborer.” “Does he explain how he blows all the glass and stuffs all the
upholstery,” asked Fisher, “and makes all the silver forks, and
grows all the grapes and peaches, and designs all the patterns on
the carpets? I’ve always heard he was a busy man.” “I don’t think he mentioned it,” answered the lawyer. “What is the
meaning of this social satire?” “Well, I am a trifle tired,” said Fisher, “of the Simple Life and
the Strenuous Life as lived by our little set. We’re all really
dependent in nearly everything, and we all make a fuss about being
independent in something. The Prime Minister prides himself on doing
without a chauffeur, but he can’t do without a factotum and
Jack-of-all-trades; and poor old Bunker has to play the part of a
universal genius, which God knows he was never meant for. The duke
prides himself on doing without a valet, but, for all that, he must
give a lot of people an infernal lot of trouble to collect such
extraordinary old clothes as he wears. He must have them looked up
in the British Museum or excavated out of the tombs. That white hat
alone must require a sort of expedition fitted out to find it, like
the North Pole. And here we have old Hook pretending to produce his
own fish when he couldn’t produce his own fish knives or fish forks
to eat it with. He may be simple about simple things like food, but
you bet he’s luxurious about luxurious things, especially little
things. I don’t include you; you’ve worked too hard to enjoy playing
at work.” “I sometimes think,” said Harker, “that you conceal a horrid secret
of being useful sometimes. Haven’t you come down here to see Number
One before he goes on to Birmingham?” Horne Fisher answered, in a lower voice: “Yes; and I hope to be
lucky enough to catch him before dinner. He’s got to see Sir Isaac
about something just afterward.” “Hullo!” exclaimed Harker. “Sir Isaac’s finished his fishing. I
know he prides himself on getting up at sunrise and going in at
sunset.” The old man on the island had indeed risen to his feet, facing round
and showing a bush of gray beard with rather small, sunken features,
but fierce eyebrows and keen, choleric eyes. Carefully carrying his
fishing tackle, he was already making his way back to the mainland
across a bridge of flat stepping-stones a little way down the
shallow stream; then he veered round, coming toward his guests and
civilly saluting them. There were several fish in his basket and he
was in a good temper. “Yes,” he said, acknowledging Fisher’s polite expression of
surprise, “I get up before anybody else in the house, I think. The
early bird catches the worm.” “Unfortunately,” said Harker, “it is the early fish that catches the
worm.” “But the early man catches the fish,” replied the old man, gruffly. “But from what I hear, Sir Isaac, you are the late man, too,”
interposed Fisher. “You must do with very little sleep.” “I never had much time for sleeping,” answered Hook, “and I shall
have to be the late man to-night, anyhow. The Prime Minister wants
to have a talk, he tells me, and, all things considered, I think
we’d better be dressing for dinner.” Dinner passed off that evening without a word of politics and little
enough but ceremonial trifles. The Prime Minister, Lord Merivale,
who was a long, slim man with curly gray hair, was gravely
complimentary to his host about his success as a fisherman and the
skill and patience he displayed; the conversation flowed like the
shallow stream through the stepping-stones. “It wants patience to wait for them, no doubt,” said Sir Isaac, “and
skill to play them, but I’m generally pretty lucky at it.” “Does a big fish ever break the line and get away?” inquired the
politician, with respectful interest. “Not the sort of line I use,” answered Hook, with satisfaction. “I
rather specialize in tackle, as a matter of fact. If he were strong
enough to do that, he’d be strong enough to pull me into the river.” “A great loss to the community,” said the Prime Minister, bowing. Fisher had listened to all these futilities with inward impatience,
waiting for his own opportunity, and when the host rose he sprang to
his feet with an alertness he rarely showed. He managed to catch
Lord Merivale before Sir Isaac bore him off for the final interview.
He had only a few words to say, but he wanted to get them said. He said, in a low voice as he opened the door for the Premier, “I
have seen Montmirail; he says that unless we protest immediately on
behalf of Denmark, Sweden will certainly seize the ports.” Lord Merivale nodded. “I’m just going to hear what Hook has to say
about it,” he said. “I imagine,” said Fisher, with a faint smile, “that there is very
little doubt what he will say about it.” Merivale did not answer, but lounged gracefully toward the library,
whither his host had already preceded him. The rest drifted toward
the billiard room, Fisher merely remarking to the lawyer: “They
won’t be long. We know they’re practically in agreement.” “Hook entirely supports the Prime Minister,” assented Harker. “Or the Prime Minister entirely supports Hook,” said Horne Fisher,
and began idly to knock the balls about on the billiard table. Horne Fisher came down next morning in a late and leisurely fashion,
as was his reprehensible habit; he had evidently no appetite for
catching worms. But the other guests seemed to have felt a similar
indifference, and they helped themselves to breakfast from the
sideboard at intervals during the hours verging upon lunch. So that
it was not many hours later when the first sensation of that strange
day came upon them. It came in the form of a young man with light
hair and a candid expression, who came sculling down the river and
disembarked at the landing stage. It was, in fact, no other than Mr.
Harold March, whose journey had begun far away up the river in the
earliest hours of that day. He arrived late in the afternoon, having
stopped for tea in a large riverside town, and he had a pink evening
paper sticking out of his pocket. He fell on the riverside garden
like a quiet and well-behaved thunderbolt, but he was a thunderbolt
without knowing it. The first exchange of salutations and introductions was commonplace
enough, and consisted, indeed, of the inevitable repetition of
excuses for the eccentric seclusion of the host. He had gone fishing
again, of course, and must not be disturbed till the appointed hour,
though he sat within a stone’s throw of where they stood. “You see it’s his only hobby,” observed Harker, apologetically,
“and, after all, it’s his own house; and he’s very hospitable in
other ways.” “I’m rather afraid,” said Fisher, in a lower voice, “that it’s
becoming more of a mania than a hobby. I know how it is when a man
of that age begins to collect things, if it’s only collecting those
rotten little river fish. You remember Talbot’s uncle with his
toothpicks, and poor old Buzzy and the waste of cigar ashes. Hook
has done a lot of big things in his time—the great deal in the
Swedish timber trade and the Peace Conference at Chicago—but I
doubt whether he cares now for any of those big things as he cares
for those little fish.” “Oh, come, come,” protested the Attorney-General. “You’ll make Mr.
March think he has come to call on a lunatic. Believe me, Hook only
does it for fun, like any other sport, only he’s of the kind that
takes his fun sadly. But I bet if there were big news about timber
or shipping, he would drop his fun and his fish all right.” “Well, I wonder,” said Horne Fisher, looking sleepily at the island
in the river. “By the way, is there any news of anything?” asked Harker of Harold
March. “I see you’ve got an evening paper; one of those enterprising
evening papers that come out in the morning.” “The beginning of Lord Merivale’s Birmingham speech,” replied March,
handing him the paper. “It’s only a paragraph, but it seems to me
rather good.” Harker took the paper, flapped and refolded it, and looked at the
“Stop Press” news. It was, as March had said, only a paragraph. But
it was a paragraph that had a peculiar effect on Sir John Harker.
His lowering brows lifted with a flicker and his eyes blinked, and
for a moment his leathery jaw was loosened. He looked in some odd
fashion like a very old man. Then, hardening his voice and handing
the paper to Fisher without a tremor, he simply said: “Well, here’s a chance for the bet. You’ve got your big news to
disturb the old man’s fishing.” Horne Fisher was looking at the paper, and over his more languid and
less expressive features a change also seemed to pass. Even that
little paragraph had two or three large headlines, and his eye
encountered, “Sensational Warning to Sweden,” and, “We Shall
Protest.” “What the devil—” he said, and his words softened first to a
whisper and then a whistle. “We must tell old Hook at once, or he’ll never forgive us,” said
Harker. “He’ll probably want to see Number One instantly, though it
may be too late now. I’m going across to him at once. I bet I’ll
make him forget his fish, anyhow.” And, turning his back, he made
his way hurriedly along the riverside to the causeway of flat
stones. March was staring at Fisher, in amazement at the effect his pink
paper had produced. “What does it all mean?” he cried. “I always supposed we should
protest in defense of the Danish ports, for their sakes and our own.
What is all this botheration about Sir Isaac and the rest of you? Do
you think it bad news?” “Bad news!” repeated Fisher, with a sort of soft emphasis beyond
expression. “Is it as bad as all that?” asked his friend, at last. “As bad as all that?” repeated Fisher. “Why of course it’s as good
as it can be. It’s great news. It’s glorious news! That’s where the
devil of it comes in, to knock us all silly. It’s admirable. It’s
inestimable. It is also quite incredible.” He gazed again at the gray and green colors of the island and the
river, and his rather dreary eye traveled slowly round to the hedges
and the lawns. “I felt this garden was a sort of dream,” he said, “and I suppose I
must be dreaming. But there is grass growing and water moving; and
something impossible has happened.” Even as he spoke the dark figure with a stoop like a vulture
appeared in the gap of the hedge just above him. “You have won your bet,” said Harker, in a harsh and almost croaking
voice. “The old fool cares for nothing but fishing. He cursed me and
told me he would talk no politics.” “I thought it might be so,” said Fisher, modestly. “What are you
going to do next?” “I shall use the old idiot’s telephone, anyhow,” replied the lawyer.
“I must find out exactly what has happened. I’ve got to speak for
the Government myself to-morrow.” And he hurried away toward the
house. In the silence that followed, a very bewildering silence so far as
March was concerned, they saw the quaint figure of the Duke of
Westmoreland, with his white hat and whiskers, approaching them
across the garden. Fisher instantly stepped toward him with the pink
paper in his hand, and, with a few words, pointed out the
apocalyptic paragraph. The duke, who had been walking slowly, stood
quite still, and for some seconds he looked like a tailor’s dummy
standing and staring outside some antiquated shop. Then March heard
his voice, and it was high and almost hysterical: “But he must see it; he must be made to understand. It cannot have
been put to him properly.” Then, with a certain recovery of fullness
and even pomposity in the voice, “I shall go and tell him myself.” Among the queer incidents of that afternoon, March always remembered
something almost comical about the clear picture of the old
gentleman in his wonderful white hat carefully stepping from stone
to stone across the river, like a figure crossing the traffic in
Piccadilly. Then he disappeared behind the trees of the island, and
March and Fisher turned to meet the Attorney-General, who was coming
out of the house with a visage of grim assurance. “Everybody is saying,” he said, “that the Prime Minister has made
the greatest speech of his life. Peroration and loud and prolonged
cheers. Corrupt financiers and heroic peasants. We will not desert
Denmark again.” Fisher nodded and turned away toward the towing path, where he saw
the duke returning with a rather dazed expression. In answer to
questions he said, in a husky and confidential voice: “I really think our poor friend cannot be himself. He refused to
listen; he—ah—suggested that I might frighten the fish.” A keen ear might have detected a murmur from Mr. Fisher on the
subject of a white hat, but Sir John Harker struck it more
decisively: “Fisher was quite right. I didn’t believe it myself, but it’s quite
clear that the old fellow is fixed on this fishing notion by now. If
the house caught fire behind him he would hardly move till sunset.” Fisher had continued his stroll toward the higher embanked ground of
the towing path, and he now swept a long and searching gaze, not
toward the island, but toward the distant wooded heights that were
the walls of the valley. An evening sky as clear as that of the
previous day was settling down all over the dim landscape, but
toward the west it was now red rather than gold; there was scarcely
any sound but the monotonous music of the river. Then came the sound
of a half-stifled exclamation from Horne Fisher, and Harold March
looked up at him in wonder. “You spoke of bad news,” said Fisher. “Well, there is really bad
news now. I am afraid this is a bad business.” “What bad news do you mean?” asked his friend, conscious of
something strange and sinister in his voice. “The sun has set,” answered Fisher. He went on with the air of one conscious of having said something
fatal. “We must get somebody to go across whom he will really listen
to. He may be mad, but there’s method in his madness. There nearly
always is method in madness. It’s what drives men mad, being
methodical. And he never goes on sitting there after sunset, with
the whole place getting dark. Where’s his nephew? I believe he’s
really fond of his nephew.” “Look!” cried March, abruptly. “Why, he’s been across already.
There he is coming back.” And, looking up the river once more, they saw, dark against the
sunset reflections, the figure of James Bullen stepping hastily and
rather clumsily from stone to stone. Once he slipped on a stone with
a slight splash. When he rejoined the group on the bank his olive
face was unnaturally pale. The other four men had already gathered on the same spot and almost
simultaneously were calling out to him, “What does he say now?” “Nothing. He says—nothing.” Fisher looked at the young man steadily for a moment; then he
started from his immobility and, making a motion to March to follow
him, himself strode down to the river crossing. In a few moments
they were on the little beaten track that ran round the wooded
island, to the other side of it where the fisherman sat. Then they
stood and looked at him, without a word. Sir Isaac Hook was still sitting propped up against the stump of the
tree, and that for the best of reasons. A length of his own
infallible fishing line was twisted and tightened twice round his
throat and then twice round the wooden prop behind him. The leading
investigator ran forward and touched the fisherman’s hand, and it
was as cold as a fish. “The sun has set,” said Horne Fisher, in the same terrible tones,
“and he will never see it rise again.” Ten minutes afterward the five men, shaken by such a shock, were
again together in the garden, looking at one another with white but
watchful faces. The lawyer seemed the most alert of the group; he
was articulate if somewhat abrupt. “We must leave the body as it is and telephone for the police,” he
said. “I think my own authority will stretch to examining the
servants and the poor fellow’s papers, to see if there is anything
that concerns them. Of course, none of you gentlemen must leave this
place.” Perhaps there was something in his rapid and rigorous legality that
suggested the closing of a net or trap. Anyhow, young Bullen
suddenly broke down, or perhaps blew up, for his voice was like an
explosion in the silent garden. “I never touched him,” he cried. “I swear I had nothing to do with
it!” “Who said you had?” demanded Harker, with a hard eye. “Why do you
cry out before you’re hurt?” “Because you all look at me like that,” cried the young man,
angrily. “Do you think I don’t know you’re always talking about my
damned debts and expectations?” Rather to March’s surprise, Fisher had drawn away from this first
collision, leading the duke with him to another part of the garden.
When he was out of earshot of the others he said, with a curious
simplicity of manner: “Westmoreland, I am going straight to the point.” “Well?” said the other, staring at him stolidly. “You have a motive for killing him,” said Fisher. The duke continued to stare, but he seemed unable to speak. “I hope you had a motive for killing him,” continued Fisher, mildly.
“You see, it’s rather a curious situation. If you have a motive for
murdering, you probably didn’t murder. But if you hadn’t any motive,
why, then perhaps, you did.” “What on earth are you talking about?” demanded the duke, violently. “It’s quite simple,” said Fisher. “When you went across he was
either alive or dead. If he was alive, it might be you who killed
him, or why should you have held your tongue about his death? But if
he was dead, and you had a reason for killing him, you might have
held your tongue for fear of being accused.” Then after a silence he
added, abstractedly: “Cyprus is a beautiful place, I believe.
Romantic scenery and romantic people. Very intoxicating for a young
man.” The duke suddenly clenched his hands and said, thickly, “Well, I had
a motive.” “Then you’re all right,” said Fisher, holding out his hand with an
air of huge relief. “I was pretty sure you wouldn’t really do it;
you had a fright when you saw it done, as was only natural. Like a
bad dream come true, wasn’t it?” While this curious conversation was passing, Harker had gone into
the house, disregarding the demonstrations of the sulky nephew, and
came back presently with a new air of animation and a sheaf of
papers in his hand. “I’ve telephoned for the police,” he said, stopping to speak to
Fisher, “but I think I’ve done most of their work for them. I
believe I’ve found out the truth. There’s a paper here—” He
stopped, for Fisher was looking at him with a singular expression;
and it was Fisher who spoke next: “Are there any papers that are not there, I wonder? I mean that are
not there now?” After a pause he added: “Let us have the cards on
the table. When you went through his papers in such a hurry, Harker,
weren’t you looking for something to—to make sure it shouldn’t be
found?” Harker did not turn a red hair on his hard head, but he looked at
the other out of the corners of his eyes. “And I suppose,” went on Fisher, smoothly, “that is why you, too,
told us lies about having found Hook alive. You knew there was
something to show that you might have killed him, and you didn’t
dare tell us he was killed. But, believe me, it’s much better to be
honest now.” Harker’s haggard face suddenly lit up as if with infernal flames. “Honest,” he cried, “it’s not so damned fine of you fellows to be
honest. You’re all born with silver spoons in your mouths, and then
you swagger about with everlasting virtue because you haven’t got
other people’s spoons in your pockets. But I was born in a Pimlico
lodging house and I had to make my spoon, and there’d be plenty to
say I only spoiled a horn or an honest man. And if a struggling man
staggers a bit over the line in his youth, in the lower parts of the
law which are pretty dingy, anyhow, there’s always some old vampire
to hang on to him all his life for it.” “Guatemalan Golcondas, wasn’t it?” said Fisher, sympathetically. Harker suddenly shuddered. Then he said, “I believe you must know
everything, like God Almighty.” “I know too much,” said Horne Fisher, “and all the wrong things.” The other three men were drawing nearer to them, but before they
came too near, Harker said, in a voice that had recovered all its
firmness: “Yes, I did destroy a paper, but I really did find a paper, too; and
I believe that it clears us all.” “Very well,” said Fisher, in a louder and more cheerful tone; “let
us all have the benefit of it.” “On the very top of Sir Isaac’s papers,” explained Harker, “there
was a threatening letter from a man named Hugo. It threatens to kill
our unfortunate friend very much in the way that he was actually
killed. It is a wild letter, full of taunts; you can see it for
yourselves; but it makes a particular point of poor Hook’s habit of
fishing from the island. Above all, the man professes to be writing
from a boat. And, since we alone went across to him,” and he smiled
in a rather ugly fashion, “the crime must have been committed by a
man passing in a boat.” “Why, dear me!” cried the duke, with something almost amounting to
animation. “Why, I remember the man called Hugo quite well! He was a
sort of body servant and bodyguard of Sir Isaac. You see, Sir Isaac
was in some fear of assault. He was—he was not very popular with
several people. Hugo was discharged after some row or other; but I
remember him well. He was a great big Hungarian fellow with great
mustaches that stood out on each side of his face.” A door opened in the darkness of Harold March’s memory, or, rather,
oblivion, and showed a shining landscape, like that of a lost dream.
It was rather a waterscape than a landscape, a thing of flooded
meadows and low trees and the dark archway of a bridge. And for one
instant he saw again the man with mustaches like dark horns leap up
on to the bridge and disappear. “Good heavens!” he cried. “Why, I met the murderer this morning!” * Horne Fisher and Harold March had their day on the river, after all,
for the little group broke up when the police arrived. They declared
that the coincidence of March’s evidence had cleared the whole
company, and clinched the case against the flying Hugo. Whether that
Hungarian fugitive would ever be caught appeared to Horne Fisher to
be highly doubtful; nor can it be pretended that he displayed any
very demoniac detective energy in the matter as he leaned back in
the boat cushions, smoking, and watching the swaying reeds slide
past. “It was a very good notion to hop up on to the bridge,” he said. “An
empty boat means very little; he hasn’t been seen to land on either
bank, and he’s walked off the bridge without walking on to it, so to
speak. He’s got twenty-four hours’ start; his mustaches will
disappear, and then he will disappear. I think there is every hope
of his escape.” “Hope?” repeated March, and stopped sculling for an instant. “Yes, hope,” repeated the other. “To begin with, I’m not going to
be exactly consumed with Corsican revenge because somebody has
killed Hook. Perhaps you may guess by this time what Hook was. A
damned blood-sucking blackmailer was that simple, strenuous,
self-made captain of industry. He had secrets against nearly
everybody; one against poor old Westmoreland about an early marriage
in Cyprus that might have put the duchess in a queer position; and
one against Harker about some flutter with his client’s money when
he was a young solicitor. That’s why they went to pieces when they
found him murdered, of course. They felt as if they’d done it in a
dream. But I admit I have another reason for not wanting our
Hungarian friend actually hanged for the murder.” “And what is that?” asked his friend. “Only that he didn’t commit the murder,” answered Fisher. Harold March laid down the oars and let the boat drift for a moment. “Do you know, I was half expecting something like that,” he said.
“It was quite irrational, but it was hanging about in the
atmosphere, like thunder in the air.” “On the contrary, it’s finding Hugo guilty that’s irrational,”
replied Fisher. “Don’t you see that they’re condemning him for the
very reason for which they acquit everybody else? Harker and
Westmoreland were silent because they found him murdered, and knew
there were papers that made them look like the murderers. Well, so
did Hugo find him murdered, and so did Hugo know there was a paper
that would make him look like the murderer. He had written it
himself the day before.” “But in that case,” said March, frowning, “at what sort of unearthly
hour in the morning was the murder really committed? It was barely
daylight when I met him at the bridge, and that’s some way above the
island.” “The answer is very simple,” replied Fisher. “The crime was not
committed in the morning. The crime was not committed on the
island.” March stared at the shining water without replying, but Fisher
resumed like one who had been asked a question: “Every intelligent murder involves taking advantage of some one
uncommon feature in a common situation. The feature here was the
fancy of old Hook for being the first man up every morning, his
fixed routine as an angler, and his annoyance at being disturbed.
The murderer strangled him in his own house after dinner on the
night before, carried his corpse, with all his fishing tackle,
across the stream in the dead of night, tied him to the tree, and
left him there under the stars. It was a dead man who sat fishing
there all day. Then the murderer went back to the house, or, rather,
to the garage, and went off in his motor car. The murderer drove his
own motor car.” Fisher glanced at his friend’s face and went on. “You look
horrified, and the thing is horrible. But other things are horrible,
too. If some obscure man had been hag-ridden by a blackmailer and
had his family life ruined, you wouldn’t think the murder of his
persecutor the most inexcusable of murders. Is it any worse when a
whole great nation is set free as well as a family? By this warning
to Sweden we shall probably prevent war and not precipitate it, and
save many thousand lives rather more valuable than the life of that
viper. Oh, I’m not talking sophistry or seriously justifying the
thing, but the slavery that held him and his country was a thousand
times less justifiable. If I’d really been sharp I should have
guessed it from his smooth, deadly smiling at dinner that night. Do
you remember that silly talk about how old Isaac could always play
his fish? In a pretty hellish sense he was a fisher of men.” Harold March took the oars and began to row again. “I remember,” he said, “and about how a big fish might break the
line and get away.”
VI - The Hole in the Wall * Two men, the one an architect and the other an archaeologist, met on
the steps of the great house at Prior’s Park; and their host, Lord
Bulmer, in his breezy way, thought it natural to introduce them. It
must be confessed that he was hazy as well as breezy, and had no
very clear connection in his mind, beyond the sense that an
architect and an archaeologist begin with the same series of
letters. The world must remain in a reverent doubt as to whether he
would, on the same principles, have presented a diplomatist to a
dipsomaniac or a ratiocinator to a rat catcher. He was a big, fair,
bull-necked young man, abounding in outward gestures, unconsciously
flapping his gloves and flourishing his stick. “You two ought to have something to talk about,” he said,
cheerfully. “Old buildings and all that sort of thing; this is
rather an old building, by the way, though I say it who shouldn’t. I
must ask you to excuse me a moment; I’ve got to go and see about the
cards for this Christmas romp my sister’s arranging. We hope to see
you all there, of course. Juliet wants it to be a fancy-dress
affair—abbots and crusaders and all that. My ancestors, I suppose,
after all.” “I trust the abbot was not an ancestor,” said the archaeological
gentleman, with a smile. “Only a sort of great-uncle, I imagine,” answered the other,
laughing; then his rather rambling eye rolled round the ordered
landscape in front of the house; an artificial sheet of water
ornamented with an antiquated nymph in the center and surrounded by
a park of tall trees now gray and black and frosty, for it was in
the depth of a severe winter. “It’s getting jolly cold,” his lordship continued. “My sister hopes
we shall have some skating as well as dancing.” “If the crusaders come in full armor,” said the other, “you must be
careful not to drown your ancestors.” “Oh, there’s no fear of that,” answered Bulmer; “this precious lake
of ours is not two feet deep anywhere.” And with one of his
flourishing gestures he stuck his stick into the water to
demonstrate its shallowness. They could see the short end bent in
the water, so that he seemed for a moment to lean his large weight
on a breaking staff. “The worst you can expect is to see an abbot sit down rather
suddenly,” he added, turning away. “Well, au revoir; I’ll let you
know about it later.” The archaeologist and the architect were left on the great stone
steps smiling at each other; but whatever their common interests,
they presented a considerable personal contrast, and the fanciful
might even have found some contradiction in each considered
individually. The former, a Mr. James Haddow, came from a drowsy den
in the Inns of Court, full of leather and parchment, for the law was
his profession and history only his hobby; he was indeed, among
other things, the solicitor and agent of the Prior’s Park estate.
But he himself was far from drowsy and seemed remarkably wide awake,
with shrewd and prominent blue eyes, and red hair brushed as neatly
as his very neat costume. The latter, whose name was Leonard Crane,
came straight from a crude and almost cockney office of builders and
house agents in the neighboring suburb, sunning itself at the end of
a new row of jerry-built houses with plans in very bright colors and
notices in very large letters. But a serious observer, at a second
glance, might have seen in his eyes something of that shining sleep
that is called vision; and his yellow hair, while not affectedly
long, was unaffectedly untidy. It was a manifest if melancholy truth
that the architect was an artist. But the artistic temperament was
far from explaining him; there was something else about him that was
not definable, but which some even felt to be dangerous. Despite his
dreaminess, he would sometimes surprise his friends with arts and
even sports apart from his ordinary life, like memories of some
previous existence. On this occasion, nevertheless, he hastened to
disclaim any authority on the other man’s hobby. “I mustn’t appear on false pretences,” he said, with a smile. “I
hardly even know what an archaeologist is, except that a rather
rusty remnant of Greek suggests that he is a man who studies old
things.” “Yes,” replied Haddow, grimly. “An archaeologist is a man who
studies old things and finds they are new.” Crane looked at him steadily for a moment and then smiled again. “Dare one suggest,” he said, “that some of the things we have been
talking about are among the old things that turn out not to be old?” His companion also was silent for a moment, and the smile on his
rugged face was fainter as he replied, quietly: “The wall round the park is really old. The one gate in it is
Gothic, and I cannot find any trace of destruction or restoration.
But the house and the estate generally—well the romantic ideas read
into these things are often rather recent romances, things almost
like fashionable novels. For instance, the very name of this place,
Prior’s Park, makes everybody think of it as a moonlit mediaeval
abbey; I dare say the spiritualists by this time have discovered the
ghost of a monk there. But, according to the only authoritative
study of the matter I can find, the place was simply called Prior’s
as any rural place is called Podger’s. It was the house of a Mr.
Prior, a farmhouse, probably, that stood here at some time or other
and was a local landmark. Oh, there are a great many examples of the
same thing, here and everywhere else. This suburb of ours used to be
a village, and because some of the people slurred the name and
pronounced it Holliwell, many a minor poet indulged in fancies about
a Holy Well, with spells and fairies and all the rest of it, filling
the suburban drawing-rooms with the Celtic twilight. Whereas anyone
acquainted with the facts knows that ‘Hollinwall’ simply means ‘the
hole in the wall,’ and probably referred to some quite trivial
accident. That’s what I mean when I say that we don’t so much find
old things as we find new ones.” Crane seemed to have grown somewhat inattentive to the little
lecture on antiquities and novelties, and the cause of his
restlessness was soon apparent, and indeed approaching. Lord
Bulmer’s sister, Juliet Bray, was coming slowly across the lawn,
accompanied by one gentleman and followed by two others. The young
architect was in the illogical condition of mind in which he
preferred three to one. The man walking with the lady was no other than the eminent Prince
Borodino, who was at least as famous as a distinguished diplomatist
ought to be, in the interests of what is called secret diplomacy. He
had been paying a round of visits at various English country houses,
and exactly what he was doing for diplomacy at Prior’s Park was as
much a secret as any diplomatist could desire. The obvious thing to
say of his appearance was that he would have been extremely handsome
if he had not been entirely bald. But, indeed, that would itself be
a rather bald way of putting it. Fantastic as it sounds, it would
fit the case better to say that people would have been surprised to
see hair growing on him; as surprised as if they had found hair
growing on the bust of a Roman emperor. His tall figure was buttoned
up in a tight-waisted fashion that rather accentuated his potential
bulk, and he wore a red flower in his buttonhole. Of the two men
walking behind one was also bald, but in a more partial and also a
more premature fashion, for his drooping mustache was still yellow,
and if his eyes were somewhat heavy it was with languor and not with
age. It was Horne Fisher, and he was talking as easily and idly
about everything as he always did. His companion was a more
striking, and even more sinister, figure, and he had the added
importance of being Lord Bulmer’s oldest and most intimate friend. He
was generally known with a severe simplicity as Mr. Brain; but it was
understood that he had been a judge and police official in India, and
that he had enemies, who had represented his measures against crime as
themselves almost criminal. He was a brown skeleton of a man with dark,
deep, sunken eyes and a black mustache that hid the meaning of his
mouth. Though he had the look of one wasted by some tropical disease,
his movements were much more alert than those of his lounging companion. “It’s all settled,” announced the lady, with great animation, when
they came within hailing distance. “You’ve all got to put on
masquerade things and very likely skates as well, though the prince
says they don’t go with it; but we don’t care about that. It’s
freezing already, and we don’t often get such a chance in England.” “Even in India we don’t exactly skate all the year round,” observed
Mr. Brain. “And even Italy is not primarily associated with ice,” said the
Italian. “Italy is primarily associated with ices,” remarked Mr. Horne
Fisher. “I mean with ice cream men. Most people in this country
imagine that Italy is entirely populated with ice cream men and
organ grinders. There certainly are a lot of them; perhaps they’re
an invading army in disguise.” “How do you know they are not the secret emissaries of our
diplomacy?” asked the prince, with a slightly scornful smile. “An
army of organ grinders might pick up hints, and their monkeys might
pick up all sort of things.” “The organs are organized in fact,” said the flippant Mr. Fisher.
“Well, I’ve known it pretty cold before now in Italy and even in
India, up on the Himalayan slopes. The ice on our own little round
pond will be quite cozy by comparison.” Juliet Bray was an attractive lady with dark hair and eyebrows and
dancing eyes, and there was a geniality and even generosity in her
rather imperious ways. In most matters she could command her
brother, though that nobleman, like many other men of vague ideas,
was not without a touch of the bully when he was at bay. She could
certainly command her guests, even to the extent of decking out the
most respectable and reluctant of them with her mediaeval
masquerade. And it really seemed as if she could command the
elements also, like a witch. For the weather steadily hardened and
sharpened; that night the ice of the lake, glimmering in the
moonlight, was like a marble floor, and they had begun to dance and
skate on it before it was dark. Prior’s Park, or, more properly, the surrounding district of
Holinwall, was a country seat that had become a suburb; having once
had only a dependent village at its doors, it now found outside all
its doors the signals of the expansion of London. Mr. Haddow, who
was engaged in historical researches both in the library and the
locality, could find little assistance in the latter. He had already
realized, from the documents, that Prior’s Park had originally been
something like Prior’s Farm, named after some local figure, but the
new social conditions were all against his tracing the story by its
traditions. Had any of the real rustics remained, he would probably
have found some lingering legend of Mr. Prior, however remote he
might be. But the new nomadic population of clerks and artisans,
constantly shifting their homes from one suburb to another, or their
children from one school to another, could have no corporate
continuity. They had all that forgetfulness of history that goes
everywhere with the extension of education. Nevertheless, when he came out of the library next morning and saw
the wintry trees standing round the frozen pond like a black forest,
he felt he might well have been far in the depths of the country.
The old wall running round the park kept that inclosure itself still
entirely rural and romantic, and one could easily imagine that the
depths of that dark forest faded away indefinitely into distant
vales and hills. The gray and black and silver of the wintry wood
were all the more severe or somber as a contrast to the colored
carnival groups that already stood on and around the frozen pool.
For the house party had already flung themselves impatiently into
fancy dress, and the lawyer, with his neat black suit and red hair,
was the only modern figure among them. “Aren’t you going to dress up?” asked Juliet, indignantly shaking at
him a horned and towering blue headdress of the fourteenth century
which framed her face very becomingly, fantastic as it was.
“Everybody here has to be in the Middle Ages. Even Mr. Brain has put
on a sort of brown dressing gown and says he’s a monk; and Mr.
Fisher got hold of some old potato sacks in the kitchen and sewed
them together; he’s supposed to be a monk, too. As to the prince,
he’s perfectly glorious, in great crimson robes as a cardinal. He
looks as if he could poison everybody. You simply must be
something.” “I will be something later in the day,” he replied. “At present I am
nothing but an antiquary and an attorney. I have to see your brother
presently, about some legal business and also some local
investigations he asked me to make. I must look a little like a
steward when I give an account of my stewardship.” “Oh, but my brother has dressed up!” cried the girl. “Very much so.
No end, if I may say so. Why he’s bearing down on you now in all his
glory.” The noble lord was indeed marching toward them in a magnificent
sixteenth-century costume of purple and gold, with a gold-hilted
sword and a plumed cap, and manners to match. Indeed, there was
something more than his usual expansiveness of bodily action in his
appearance at that moment. It almost seemed, so to speak, that the
plumes on his hat had gone to his head. He flapped his great,
gold-lined cloak like the wings of a fairy king in a pantomime; he
even drew his sword with a flourish and waved it about as he did his
walking stick. In the light of after events there seemed to be
something monstrous and ominous about that exuberance, something of
the spirit that is called fey. At the time it merely crossed a few
people’s minds that he might possibly be drunk. As he strode toward his sister the first figure he passed was that
of Leonard Crane, clad in Lincoln green, with the horn and baldrick
and sword appropriate to Robin Hood; for he was standing nearest to
the lady, where, indeed, he might have been found during a
disproportionate part of the time. He had displayed one of his
buried talents in the matter of skating, and now that the skating
was over seemed disposed to prolong the partnership. The boisterous
Bulmer playfully made a pass at him with his drawn sword, going
forward with the lunge in the proper fencing fashion, and making a
somewhat too familiar Shakespearean quotation about a rodent and a
Venetian coin. Probably in Crane also there was a subdued excitement just then;
anyhow, in one flash he had drawn his own sword and parried; and
then suddenly, to the surprise of everyone, Bulmer’s weapon seemed
to spring out of his hand into the air and rolled away on the
ringing ice. “Well, I never!” said the lady, as if with justifiable indignation.
“You never told me you could fence, too.” Bulmer put up his sword with an air rather bewildered than annoyed,
which increased the impression of something irresponsible in his
mood at the moment; then he turned rather abruptly to his lawyer,
saying: “We can settle up about the estate after dinner; I’ve missed nearly
all the skating as it is, and I doubt if the ice will hold till
to-morrow night. I think I shall get up early and have a spin by
myself.” “You won’t be disturbed with my company,” said Horne Fisher, in his
weary fashion. “If I have to begin the day with ice, in the American
fashion, I prefer it in smaller quantities. But no early hours for
me in December. The early bird catches the cold.” “Oh, I shan’t die of catching a cold,” answered Bulmer, and
laughed. * A considerable group of the skating party had consisted of the
guests staying at the house, and the rest had tailed off in twos and
threes some time before most of the guests began to retire for the
night. Neighbors, always invited to Prior’s Park on such occasions,
went back to their own houses in motors or on foot; the legal and
archeological gentleman had returned to the Inns of Court by a late
train, to get a paper called for during his consultation with his
client; and most of the other guests were drifting and lingering at
various stages on their way up to bed. Horne Fisher, as if to
deprive himself of any excuse for his refusal of early rising, had
been the first to retire to his room; but, sleepy as he looked, he
could not sleep. He had picked up from a table the book of
antiquarian topography, in which Haddow had found his first hints
about the origin of the local name, and, being a man with a quiet
and quaint capacity for being interested in anything, he began to
read it steadily, making notes now and then of details on which his
previous reading left him with a certain doubt about his present
conclusions. His room was the one nearest to the lake in the center
of the woods, and was therefore the quietest, and none of the last
echoes of the evening’s festivity could reach him. He had followed
carefully the argument which established the derivation from Mr.
Prior’s farm and the hole in the wall, and disposed of any
fashionable fancy about monks and magic wells, when he began to be
conscious of a noise audible in the frozen silence of the night. It
was not a particularly loud noise, but it seemed to consist of a
series of thuds or heavy blows, such as might be struck on a wooden
door by a man seeking to enter. They were followed by something like
a faint creak or crack, as if the obstacle had either been opened or
had given way. He opened his own bedroom door and listened, but as
he heard talk and laughter all over the lower floors, he had no
reason to fear that a summons would be neglected or the house left
without protection. He went to his open window, looking out over the
frozen pond and the moonlit statue in the middle of their circle of
darkling woods, and listened again. But silence had returned to that
silent place, and, after straining his ears for a considerable time,
he could hear nothing but the solitary hoot of a distant departing
train. Then he reminded himself how many nameless noises can be
heard by the wakeful during the most ordinary night, and shrugging
his shoulders, went wearily to bed. He awoke suddenly and sat up in bed with his ears filled, as with
thunder, with the throbbing echoes of a rending cry. He remained
rigid for a moment, and then sprang out of bed, throwing on the
loose gown of sacking he had worn all day. He went first to the
window, which was open, but covered with a thick curtain, so that
his room was still completely dark; but when he tossed the curtain
aside and put his head out, he saw that a gray and silver daybreak
had already appeared behind the black woods that surrounded the
little lake, and that was all that he did see. Though the sound had
certainly come in through the open window from this direction, the
whole scene was still and empty under the morning light as under the
moonlight. Then the long, rather lackadaisical hand he had laid on a
window sill gripped it tighter, as if to master a tremor, and his
peering blue eyes grew bleak with fear. It may seem that his emotion
was exaggerated and needless, considering the effort of common sense
by which he had conquered his nervousness about the noise on the
previous night. But that had been a very different sort of noise. It
might have been made by half a hundred things, from the chopping of
wood to the breaking of bottles. There was only one thing in nature
from which could come the sound that echoed through the dark house
at daybreak. It was the awful articulate voice of man; and it was
something worse, for he knew what man. He knew also that it had been a shout for help. It seemed to him
that he had heard the very word; but the word, short as it was, had
been swallowed up, as if the man had been stifled or snatched away
even as he spoke. Only the mocking reverberations of it remained
even in his memory, but he had no doubt of the original voice. He
had no doubt that the great bull’s voice of Francis Bray, Baron
Bulmer, had been heard for the last time between the darkness and
the lifting dawn. How long he stood there he never knew, but he was startled into life
by the first living thing that he saw stirring in that half-frozen
landscape. Along the path beside the lake, and immediately under his
window, a figure was walking slowly and softly, but with great
composure—a stately figure in robes of a splendid scarlet; it was
the Italian prince, still in his cardinal’s costume. Most of the
company had indeed lived in their costumes for the last day or two,
and Fisher himself had assumed his frock of sacking as a convenient
dressing gown; but there seemed, nevertheless, something unusually
finished and formal, in the way of an early bird, about this
magnificent red cockatoo. It was as if the early bird had been up
all night. “What is the matter?” he called, sharply, leaning out of the window,
and the Italian turned up his great yellow face like a mask of
brass. “We had better discuss it downstairs,” said Prince Borodino. Fisher ran downstairs, and encountered the great, red-robed figure
entering the doorway and blocking the entrance with his bulk. “Did you hear that cry?” demanded Fisher. “I heard a noise and I came out,” answered the diplomatist, and his
face was too dark in the shadow for its expression to be read. “It was Bulmer’s voice,” insisted Fisher. “I’ll swear it was
Bulmer’s voice.” “Did you know him well?” asked the other. The question seemed irrelevant, though it was not illogical, and
Fisher could only answer in a random fashion that he knew Lord
Bulmer only slightly. “Nobody seems to have known him well,” continued the Italian, in
level tones. “Nobody except that man Brain. Brain is rather older
than Bulmer, but I fancy they shared a good many secrets.” Fisher moved abruptly, as if waking from a momentary trance, and
said, in a new and more vigorous voice, “But look here, hadn’t we
better get outside and see if anything has happened.” “The ice seems to be thawing,” said the other, almost with
indifference. When they emerged from the house, dark stains and stars in the gray
field of ice did indeed indicate that the frost was breaking up, as
their host had prophesied the day before, and the very memory of
yesterday brought back the mystery of to-day. “He knew there would be a thaw,” observed the prince. “He went out
skating quite early on purpose. Did he call out because he landed in
the water, do you think?” Fisher looked puzzled. “Bulmer was the last man to bellow like that
because he got his boots wet. And that’s all he could do here; the
water would hardly come up to the calf of a man of his size. You can
see the flat weeds on the floor of the lake, as if it were through a
thin pane of glass. No, if Bulmer had only broken the ice he
wouldn’t have said much at the moment, though possibly a good deal
afterward. We should have found him stamping and damning up and down
this path, and calling for clean boots.” “Let us hope we shall find him as happily employed,” remarked the
diplomatist. “In that case the voice must have come out of the
wood.” “I’ll swear it didn’t come out of the house,” said Fisher; and the
two disappeared together into the twilight of wintry trees. The plantation stood dark against the fiery colors of sunrise, a
black fringe having that feathery appearance which makes trees when
they are bare the very reverse of rugged. Hours and hours afterward,
when the same dense, but delicate, margin was dark against the
greenish colors opposite the sunset, the search thus begun at
sunrise had not come to an end. By successive stages, and to slowly
gathering groups of the company, it became apparent that the most
extraordinary of all gaps had appeared in the party; the guests
could find no trace of their host anywhere. The servants reported
that his bed had been slept in and his skates and his fancy costume
were gone, as if he had risen early for the purpose he had himself
avowed. But from the top of the house to the bottom, from the walls
round the park to the pond in the center, there was no trace of Lord
Bulmer, dead or alive. Horne Fisher realized that a chilling
premonition had already prevented him from expecting to find the man
alive. But his bald brow was wrinkled over an entirely new and
unnatural problem, in not finding the man at all. He considered the possibility of Bulmer having gone off of his own
accord, for some reason; but after fully weighing it he finally
dismissed it. It was inconsistent with the unmistakable voice heard
at daybreak, and with many other practical obstacles. There was only
one gateway in the ancient and lofty wall round the small park; the
lodge keeper kept it locked till late in the morning, and the lodge
keeper had seen no one pass. Fisher was fairly sure that he had
before him a mathematical problem in an inclosed space. His instinct
had been from the first so attuned to the tragedy that it would have
been almost a relief to him to find the corpse. He would have been
grieved, but not horrified, to come on the nobleman’s body dangling
from one of his own trees as from a gibbet, or floating in his own
pool like a pallid weed. What horrified him was to find nothing. He soon become conscious that he was not alone even in his most
individual and isolated experiments. He often found a figure
following him like his shadow, in silent and almost secret clearings
in the plantation or outlying nooks and corners of the old wall. The
dark-mustached mouth was as mute as the deep eyes were mobile,
darting incessantly hither and thither, but it was clear that Brain
of the Indian police had taken up the trail like an old hunter after
a tiger. Seeing that he was the only personal friend of the vanished
man, this seemed natural enough, and Fisher resolved to deal frankly
with him. “This silence is rather a social strain,” he said. “May I break the
ice by talking about the weather?—which, by the way, has already
broken the ice. I know that breaking the ice might be a rather
melancholy metaphor in this case.” “I don’t think so,” replied Brain, shortly. “I don’t fancy the ice
had much to do with it. I don’t see how it could.” “What would you propose doing?” asked Fisher. “Well, we’ve sent for the authorities, of course, but I hope to find
something out before they come,” replied the Anglo-Indian. “I can’t
say I have much hope from police methods in this country. Too much
red tape, habeas corpus and that sort of thing. What we want is to
see that nobody bolts; the nearest we could get to it would be to
collect the company and count them, so to speak. Nobody’s left
lately, except that lawyer who was poking about for antiquities.” “Oh, he’s out of it; he left last night,” answered the other. “Eight
hours after Bulmer’s chauffeur saw his lawyer off by the train I
heard Bulmer’s own voice as plain as I hear yours now.” “I suppose you don’t believe in spirits?” said the man from India.
After a pause he added: “There’s somebody else I should like to
find, before we go after a fellow with an alibi in the Inner Temple.
What’s become of that fellow in green—the architect dressed up as
a forester? I haven’t seem him about.” Mr. Brain managed to secure his assembly of all the distracted
company before the arrival of the police. But when he first began
to comment once more on the young architect’s delay in putting in
an appearance, he found himself in the presence of a minor mystery,
and a psychological development of an entirely unexpected kind. Juliet Bray had confronted the catastrophe of her brother’s
disappearance with a somber stoicism in which there was, perhaps,
more paralysis than pain; but when the other question came to the
surface she was both agitated and angry. “We don’t want to jump to any conclusions about anybody,” Brain was
saying in his staccato style. “But we should like to know a little
more about Mr. Crane. Nobody seems to know much about him, or where
he comes from. And it seems a sort of coincidence that yesterday he
actually crossed swords with poor Bulmer, and could have stuck him,
too, since he showed himself the better swordsman. Of course, that
may be an accident and couldn’t possibly be called a case against
anybody; but then we haven’t the means to make a real case against
anybody. Till the police come we are only a pack of very amateur
sleuthhounds.” “And I think you’re a pack of snobs,” said Juliet. “Because Mr.
Crane is a genius who’s made his own way, you try to suggest he’s a
murderer without daring to say so. Because he wore a toy sword and
happened to know how to use it, you want us to believe he used it
like a bloodthirsty maniac for no reason in the world. And because
he could have hit my brother and didn’t, you deduce that he did.
That’s the sort of way you argue. And as for his having disappeared,
you’re wrong in that as you are in everything else, for here he
comes.” And, indeed, the green figure of the fictitious Robin Hood slowly
detached itself from the gray background of the trees, and came
toward them as she spoke. He approached the group slowly, but with composure; but he was
decidedly pale, and the eyes of Brain and Fisher had already taken
in one detail of the green-clad figure more clearly than all the
rest. The horn still swung from his baldrick, but the sword was
gone. Rather to the surprise of the company, Brain did not follow up the
question thus suggested; but, while retaining an air of leading the
inquiry, had also an appearance of changing the subject. “Now we’re all assembled,” he observed, quietly, “there is a
question I want to ask to begin with. Did anybody here actually see
Lord Bulmer this morning?” Leonard Crane turned his pale face round the circle of faces till he
came to Juliet’s; then he compressed his lips a little and said: “Yes, I saw him.” “Was he alive and well?” asked Brain, quickly. “How was he
dressed?” “He appeared exceedingly well,” replied Crane, with a curious
intonation. “He was dressed as he was yesterday, in that purple
costume copied from the portrait of his ancestor in the sixteenth
century. He had his skates in his hand.” “And his sword at his side, I suppose,” added the questioner. “Where
is your own sword, Mr. Crane?” “I threw it away.” In the singular silence that ensued, the train of thought in many
minds became involuntarily a series of colored pictures. They had grown used to their fanciful garments looking more gay and
gorgeous against the dark gray and streaky silver of the forest, so
that the moving figures glowed like stained-glass saints walking.
The effect had been more fitting because so many of them had idly
parodied pontifical or monastic dress. But the most arresting
attitude that remained in their memories had been anything but
merely monastic; that of the moment when the figure in bright green
and the other in vivid violet had for a moment made a silver cross
of their crossing swords. Even when it was a jest it had been
something of a drama; and it was a strange and sinister thought that
in the gray daybreak the same figures in the same posture might have
been repeated as a tragedy. “Did you quarrel with him?” asked Brain, suddenly. “Yes,” replied the immovable man in green. “Or he quarreled with
me.” “Why did he quarrel with you?” asked the investigator; and Leonard
Crane made no reply. Horne Fisher, curiously enough, had only given half his attention to
this crucial cross-examination. His heavy-lidded eyes had languidly
followed the figure of Prince Borodino, who at this stage had
strolled away toward the fringe of the wood; and, after a pause, as
of meditation, had disappeared into the darkness of the trees. He was recalled from his irrelevance by the voice of Juliet Bray,
which rang out with an altogether new note of decision: “If that is the difficulty, it had best be cleared up. I am engaged
to Mr. Crane, and when we told my brother he did not approve of it;
that is all.” Neither Brain nor Fisher exhibited any surprise, but the former
added, quietly: “Except, I suppose, that he and your brother went off into the wood
to discuss it, where Mr. Crane mislaid his sword, not to mention his
companion.” “And may I ask,” inquired Crane, with a certain flicker of mockery
passing over his pallid features, “what I am supposed to have done
with either of them? Let us adopt the cheerful thesis that I am a
murderer; it has yet to be shown that I am a magician. If I ran your
unfortunate friend through the body, what did I do with the body?
Did I have it carried away by seven flying dragons, or was it merely
a trifling matter of turning it into a milk-white hind?” “It is no occasion for sneering,” said the Anglo-Indian judge, with
abrupt authority. “It doesn’t make it look better for you that you
can joke about the loss.” Fisher’s dreamy, and even dreary, eye was still on the edge of the
wood behind, and he became conscious of masses of dark red, like a
stormy sunset cloud, glowing through the gray network of the thin
trees, and the prince in his cardinal’s robes reemerged on to the
pathway. Brain had had half a notion that the prince might have gone
to look for the lost rapier. But when he reappeared he was carrying
in his hand, not a sword, but an ax. The incongruity between the masquerade and the mystery had created a
curious psychological atmosphere. At first they had all felt
horribly ashamed at being caught in the foolish disguises of a
festival, by an event that had only too much the character of a
funeral. Many of them would have already gone back and dressed in
clothes that were more funereal or at least more formal. But somehow
at the moment this seemed like a second masquerade, more artificial
and frivolous than the first. And as they reconciled themselves to
their ridiculous trappings, a curious sensation had come over some
of them, notably over the more sensitive, like Crane and Fisher and
Juliet, but in some degree over everybody except the practical Mr.
Brain. It was almost as if they were the ghosts of their own
ancestors haunting that dark wood and dismal lake, and playing some
old part that they only half remembered. The movements of those
colored figures seemed to mean something that had been settled long
before, like a silent heraldry. Acts, attitudes, external objects,
were accepted as an allegory even without the key; and they knew
when a crisis had come, when they did not know what it was. And
somehow they knew subconsciously that the whole tale had taken a new
and terrible turn, when they saw the prince stand in the gap of the
gaunt trees, in his robes of angry crimson and with his lowering
face of bronze, bearing in his hand a new shape of death. They could
not have named a reason, but the two swords seemed indeed to have
become toy swords and the whole tale of them broken and tossed away
like a toy. Borodino looked like the Old World headsman, clad in
terrible red, and carrying the ax for the execution of the criminal.
And the criminal was not Crane. Mr. Brain of the Indian police was glaring at the new object, and it
was a moment or two before he spoke, harshly and almost hoarsely. “What are you doing with that?” he asked. “Seems to be a woodman’s
chopper.” “A natural association of ideas,” observed Horne Fisher. “If you
meet a cat in a wood you think it’s a wildcat, though it may have
just strolled from the drawing-room sofa. As a matter of fact, I
happen to know that is not the woodman’s chopper. It’s the kitchen
chopper, or meat ax, or something like that, that somebody has
thrown away in the wood. I saw it in the kitchen myself when I was
getting the potato sacks with which I reconstructed a mediaeval
hermit.” “All the same, it is not without interest,” remarked the prince,
holding out the instrument to Fisher, who took it and examined it
carefully. “A butcher’s cleaver that has done butcher’s work.” “It was certainly the instrument of the crime,” assented Fisher, in
a low voice. Brain was staring at the dull blue gleam of the ax head with fierce
and fascinated eyes. “I don’t understand you,” he said. “There is
no—there are no marks on it.” “It has shed no blood,” answered Fisher, “but for all that it has
committed a crime. This is as near as the criminal came to the crime
when he committed it.” “What do you mean?” “He was not there when he did it,” explained Fisher. “It’s a poor
sort of murderer who can’t murder people when he isn’t there.” “You seem to be talking merely for the sake of mystification,” said
Brain. “If you have any practical advice to give you might as well
make it intelligible.” “The only practical advice I can suggest,” said Fisher,
thoughtfully, “is a little research into local topography and
nomenclature. They say there used to be a Mr. Prior, who had a farm
in this neighborhood. I think some details about the domestic life
of the late Mr. Prior would throw a light on this terrible
business.” “And you have nothing more immediate than your topography to offer,”
said Brain, with a sneer, “to help me avenge my friend?” “Well,” said Fisher, “I should find out the truth about the Hole in
the Wall.” * That night, at the close of a stormy twilight and under a strong
west wind that followed the breaking of the frost, Leonard Crane was
wending his way in a wild rotatory walk round and round the high,
continuous wall that inclosed the little wood. He was driven by a
desperate idea of solving for himself the riddle that had clouded
his reputation and already even threatened his liberty. The police
authorities, now in charge of the inquiry, had not arrested him, but
he knew well enough that if he tried to move far afield he would be
instantly arrested. Horne Fisher’s fragmentary hints, though he had
refused to expand them as yet, had stirred the artistic temperament
of the architect to a sort of wild analysis, and he was resolved to
read the hieroglyph upside down and every way until it made sense.
If it was something connected with a hole in the wall he would find
the hole in the wall; but, as a matter of fact, he was unable to
find the faintest crack in the wall. His professional knowledge told
him that the masonry was all of one workmanship and one date, and,
except for the regular entrance, which threw no light on the
mystery, he found nothing suggesting any sort of hiding place or
means of escape. Walking a narrow path between the winding wall and
the wild eastward bend and sweep of the gray and feathery trees,
seeing shifting gleams of a lost sunset winking almost like
lightning as the clouds of tempest scudded across the sky and
mingling with the first faint blue light from a slowly strengthened
moon behind him, he began to feel his head going round as his heels
were going round and round the blind recurrent barrier. He had
thoughts on the border of thought; fancies about a fourth dimension
which was itself a hole to hide anything, of seeing everything from
a new angle out of a new window in the senses; or of some mystical
light and transparency, like the new rays of chemistry, in which he
could see Bulmer’s body, horrible and glaring, floating in a lurid
halo over the woods and the wall. He was haunted also with the hint,
which somehow seemed to be equally horrifying, that it all had
something to do with Mr. Prior. There seemed even to be something
creepy in the fact that he was always respectfully referred to as
Mr. Prior, and that it was in the domestic life of the dead farmer
that he had been bidden to seek the seed of these dreadful things.
As a matter of fact, he had found that no local inquiries had
revealed anything at all about the Prior family. The moonlight had broadened and brightened, the wind had driven off
the clouds and itself died fitfully away, when he came round again
to the artificial lake in front of the house. For some reason it
looked a very artificial lake; indeed, the whole scene was like a
classical landscape with a touch of Watteau; the Palladian facade of
the house pale in the moon, and the same silver touching the very
pagan and naked marble nymph in the middle of the pond. Rather to
his surprise, he found another figure there beside the statue,
sitting almost equally motionless; and the same silver pencil traced
the wrinkled brow and patient face of Horne Fisher, still dressed as
a hermit and apparently practicing something of the solitude of a
hermit. Nevertheless, he looked up at Leonard Crane and smiled,
almost as if he had expected him. “Look here,” said Crane, planting himself in front of him, “can you
tell me anything about this business?” “I shall soon have to tell everybody everything about it,” replied
Fisher, “but I’ve no objection to telling you something first. But,
to begin with, will you tell me something? What really happened when
you met Bulmer this morning? You did throw away your sword, but you
didn’t kill him.” “I didn’t kill him because I threw away my sword,” said the other.
“I did it on purpose—or I’m not sure what might have happened.” After a pause he went on, quietly: “The late Lord Bulmer was a very
breezy gentleman, extremely breezy. He was very genial with his
inferiors, and would have his lawyer and his architect staying in
his house for all sorts of holidays and amusements. But there was
another side to him, which they found out when they tried to be his
equals. When I told him that his sister and I were engaged,
something happened which I simply can’t and won’t describe. It
seemed to me like some monstrous upheaval of madness. But I suppose
the truth is painfully simple. There is such a thing as the
coarseness of a gentleman. And it is the most horrible thing in
humanity.” “I know,” said Fisher. “The Renaissance nobles of the Tudor time
were like that.” “It is odd that you should say that,” Crane went on. “For while we
were talking there came on me a curious feeling that we were
repeating some scene of the past, and that I was really some outlaw,
found in the woods like Robin Hood, and that he had really stepped
in all his plumes and purple out of the picture frame of the
ancestral portrait. Anyhow, he was the man in possession, and he
neither feared God nor regarded man. I defied him, of course, and
walked away. I might really have killed him if I had not walked
away.” “Yes,” said Fisher, nodding, “his ancestor was in possession and he
was in possession, and this is the end of the story. It all fits
in.” “Fits in with what?” cried his companion, with sudden impatience. “I
can’t make head or tail of it. You tell me to look for the secret in
the hole in the wall, but I can’t find any hole in the wall.” “There isn’t any,” said Fisher. “That’s the secret.” After
reflecting a moment, he added: “Unless you call it a hole in the
wall of the world. Look here; I’ll tell you if you like, but I’m
afraid it involves an introduction. You’ve got to understand one of
the tricks of the modern mind, a tendency that most people obey
without noticing it. In the village or suburb outside there’s an inn
with the sign of St. George and the Dragon. Now suppose I went about
telling everybody that this was only a corruption of King George and
the Dragoon. Scores of people would believe it, without any inquiry,
from a vague feeling that it’s probable because it’s prosaic. It
turns something romantic and legendary into something recent and
ordinary. And that somehow makes it sound rational, though it is
unsupported by reason. Of course some people would have the sense to
remember having seen St. George in old Italian pictures and French
romances, but a good many wouldn’t think about it at all. They would
just swallow the skepticism because it was skepticism. Modern
intelligence won’t accept anything on authority. But it will accept
anything without authority. That’s exactly what has happened here. “When some critic or other chose to say that Prior’s Park was not a
priory, but was named after some quite modern man named Prior,
nobody really tested the theory at all. It never occurred to anybody
repeating the story to ask if there was any Mr. Prior, if anybody
had ever seen him or heard of him. As a matter of fact, it was a
priory, and shared the fate of most priories—that is, the Tudor
gentleman with the plumes simply stole it by brute force and turned
it into his own private house; he did worse things, as you shall
hear. But the point here is that this is how the trick works, and
the trick works in the same way in the other part of the tale. The
name of this district is printed Holinwall in all the best maps
produced by the scholars; and they allude lightly, not without a
smile, to the fact that it was pronounced Holiwell by the most
ignorant and old-fashioned of the poor. But it is spelled wrong and
pronounced right.” “Do you mean to say,” asked Crane, quickly, “that there really was a
well?” “There is a well,” said Fisher, “and the truth lies at the bottom of
it.” As he spoke he stretched out his hand and pointed toward the sheet
of water in front of him. “The well is under that water somewhere,” he said, “and this is not
the first tragedy connected with it. The founder of this house did
something which his fellow ruffians very seldom did; something that
had to be hushed up even in the anarchy of the pillage of the
monasteries. The well was connected with the miracles of some saint,
and the last prior that guarded it was something like a saint
himself; certainly he was something very like a martyr. He defied
the new owner and dared him to pollute the place, till the noble, in
a fury, stabbed him and flung his body into the well, whither, after
four hundred years, it has been followed by an heir of the usurper,
clad in the same purple and walking the world with the same pride.” “But how did it happen,” demanded Crane, “that for the first time
Bulmer fell in at that particular spot?” “Because the ice was only loosened at that particular spot, by the
only man who knew it,” answered Horne Fisher. “It was cracked
deliberately, with the kitchen chopper, at that special place; and I
myself heard the hammering and did not understand it. The place had
been covered with an artificial lake, if only because the whole
truth had to be covered with an artificial legend. But don’t you see
that it is exactly what those pagan nobles would have done, to
desecrate it with a sort of heathen goddess, as the Roman Emperor
built a temple to Venus on the Holy Sepulchre. But the truth could
still be traced out, by any scholarly man determined to trace it.
And this man was determined to trace it.” “What man?” asked the other, with a shadow of the answer in his
mind. “The only man who has an alibi,” replied Fisher. “James Haddow, the
antiquarian lawyer, left the night before the fatality, but he left
that black star of death on the ice. He left abruptly, having
previously proposed to stay; probably, I think, after an ugly scene
with Bulmer, at their legal interview. As you know yourself, Bulmer
could make a man feel pretty murderous, and I rather fancy the
lawyer had himself irregularities to confess, and was in danger of
exposure by his client. But it’s my reading of human nature that a
man will cheat in his trade, but not in his hobby. Haddow may have
been a dishonest lawyer, but he couldn’t help being an honest
antiquary. When he got on the track of the truth about the Holy Well
he had to follow it up; he was not to be bamboozled with newspaper
anecdotes about Mr. Prior and a hole in the wall; he found out
everything, even to the exact location of the well, and he was
rewarded, if being a successful assassin can be regarded as a
reward.” “And how did you get on the track of all this hidden history?” asked
the young architect. A cloud came across the brow of Horne Fisher. “I knew only too much
about it already,” he said, “and, after all, it’s shameful for me to
be speaking lightly of poor Bulmer, who has paid his penalty; but
the rest of us haven’t. I dare say every cigar I smoke and every
liqueur I drink comes directly or indirectly from the harrying of
the holy places and the persecution of the poor. After all, it needs
very little poking about in the past to find that hole in the wall,
that great breach in the defenses of English history. It lies just
under the surface of a thin sheet of sham information and
instruction, just as the black and blood-stained well lies just
under that floor of shallow water and flat weeds. Oh, the ice is
thin, but it bears; it is strong enough to support us when we dress
up as monks and dance on it, in mockery of the dear, quaint old
Middle Ages. They told me I must put on fancy dress; so I did put on
fancy dress, according to my own taste and fancy. I put on the only
costume I think fit for a man who has inherited the position of a
gentleman, and yet has not entirely lost the feelings of one.” In answer to a look of inquiry, he rose with a sweeping and downward
gesture. “Sackcloth,” he said; “and I would wear the ashes as well if they
would stay on my bald head.”
VII - The Temple of Silence * Harold March and the few who cultivated the friendship of Horne
Fisher, especially if they saw something of him in his own social
setting, were conscious of a certain solitude in his very
sociability. They seemed to be always meeting his relations and
never meeting his family. Perhaps it would be truer to say that they
saw much of his family and nothing of his home. His cousins and
connections ramified like a labyrinth all over the governing class
of Great Britain, and he seemed to be on good, or at least on
good-humored, terms with most of them. For Horne Fisher was
remarkable for a curious impersonal information and interest
touching all sorts of topics, so that one could sometimes fancy that
his culture, like his colorless, fair mustache and pale, drooping
features, had the neutral nature of a chameleon. Anyhow, he could
always get on with viceroys and Cabinet Ministers and all the great
men responsible for great departments, and talk to each of them on
his own subject, on the branch of study with which he was most
seriously concerned. Thus he could converse with the Minister for
War about silkworms, with the Minister of Education about detective
stories, with the Minister of Labor about Limoges enamel, and with
the Minister of Missions and Moral Progress (if that be his correct
title) about the pantomime boys of the last four decades. And as the
first was his first cousin, the second his second cousin, the third
his brother-in-law, and the fourth his uncle by marriage, this
conversational versatility certainly served in one sense to create a
happy family. But March never seemed to get a glimpse of that
domestic interior to which men of the middle classes are accustomed
in their friendships, and which is indeed the foundation of
friendship and love and everything else in any sane and stable
society. He wondered whether Horne Fisher was both an orphan and an
only child. It was, therefore, with something like a start that he found that
Fisher had a brother, much more prosperous and powerful than
himself, though hardly, March thought, so entertaining. Sir Henry
Harland Fisher, with half the alphabet after his name, was something
at the Foreign Office far more tremendous than the Foreign
Secretary. Apparently, it ran in the family, after all; for it
seemed there was another brother, Ashton Fisher, in India, rather
more tremendous than the Viceroy. Sir Henry Fisher was a heavier,
but handsomer edition of his brother, with a brow equally bald, but
much more smooth. He was very courteous, but a shade patronizing,
not only to March, but even, as March fancied, to Horne Fisher as
well. The latter gentleman, who had many intuitions about the
half-formed thoughts of others, glanced at the topic himself as they
came away from the great house in Berkeley Square. “Why, don’t you know,” he observed quietly, “that I am the fool of
the family?” “It must be a clever family,” said Harold March, with a smile. “Very gracefully expressed,” replied Fisher; “that is the best of
having a literary training. Well, perhaps it is an exaggeration to
say I am the fool of the family. It’s enough to say I am the failure
of the family.” “It seems queer to me that you should fail especially,” remarked the
journalist. “As they say in the examinations, what did you fail in?” “Politics,” replied his friend. “I stood for Parliament when I was
quite a young man and got in by an enormous majority, with loud
cheers and chairing round the town. Since then, of course, I’ve been
rather under a cloud.” “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand the ‘of course,’” answered
March, laughing. “That part of it isn’t worth understanding,” said Fisher. “But as a
matter of fact, old chap, the other part of it was rather odd and
interesting. Quite a detective story in its way, as well as the
first lesson I had in what modern politics are made of. If you like,
I’ll tell you all about it.” And the following, recast in a less
allusive and conversational manner, is the story that he told. Nobody privileged of late years to meet Sir Henry Harland Fisher
would believe that he had ever been called Harry. But, indeed, he
had been boyish enough when a boy, and that serenity which shone on
him through life, and which now took the form of gravity, had once
taken the form of gayety. His friends would have said that he was
all the more ripe in his maturity for having been young in his
youth. His enemies would have said that he was still light minded,
but no longer light hearted. But in any case, the whole of the story
Horne Fisher had to tell arose out of the accident which had made
young Harry Fisher private secretary to Lord Saltoun. Hence his
later connection with the Foreign Office, which had, indeed, come to
him as a sort of legacy from his lordship when that great man was
the power behind the throne. This is not the place to say much about
Saltoun, little as was known of him and much as there was worth
knowing. England has had at least three or four such secret
statesmen. An aristocratic polity produces every now and then an
aristocrat who is also an accident, a man of intellectual
independence and insight, a Napoleon born in the purple. His vast
work was mostly invisible, and very little could be got out of him
in private life except a crusty and rather cynical sense of humor.
But it was certainly the accident of his presence at a family dinner
of the Fishers, and the unexpected opinion he expressed, which
turned what might have been a dinner-table joke into a sort of small
sensational novel. Save for Lord Saltoun, it was a family party of Fishers, for the
only other distinguished stranger had just departed after dinner,
leaving the rest to their coffee and cigars. This had been a figure
of some interest—a young Cambridge man named Eric Hughes who was
the rising hope of the party of Reform, to which the Fisher family,
along with their friend Saltoun, had long been at least formally
attached. The personality of Hughes was substantially summed up in
the fact that he talked eloquently and earnestly through the whole
dinner, but left immediately after to be in time for an appointment.
All his actions had something at once ambitious and conscientious;
he drank no wine, but was slightly intoxicated with words. And his
face and phrases were on the front page of all the newspapers just
then, because he was contesting the safe seat of Sir Francis Verner
in the great by-election in the west. Everybody was talking about
the powerful speech against squirarchy which he had just delivered;
even in the Fisher circle everybody talked about it except Horne
Fisher himself who sat in a corner, lowering over the fire. “We jolly well have to thank him for putting some new life into the
old party,” Ashton Fisher was saying. “This campaign against the old
squires just hits the degree of democracy there is in this county.
This act for extending county council control is practically his
bill; so you may say he’s in the government even before he’s in the
House.” “One’s easier than the other,” said Harry, carelessly. “I bet the
squire’s a bigger pot than the county council in that county. Verner
is pretty well rooted; all these rural places are what you call
reactionary. Damning aristocrats won’t alter it.” “He damns them rather well,” observed Ashton. “We never had a
better meeting than the one in Barkington, which generally goes
Constitutional. And when he said, ‘Sir Francis may boast of blue
blood; let us show we have red blood,’ and went on to talk about
manhood and liberty, the room simply rose at him.” “Speaks very well,” said Lord Saltoun, gruffly, making his only
contribution to the conversation so far. Then the almost equally silent Horne Fisher suddenly spoke, without
taking his brooding eyes off the fire. “What I can’t understand,” he said, “is why nobody is ever slanged
for the real reason.” “Hullo!” remarked Harry, humorously, “you beginning to take notice?” “Well, take Verner,” continued Horne Fisher. “If we want to attack
Verner, why not attack him? Why compliment him on being a romantic
reactionary aristocrat? Who is Verner? Where does he come from? His
name sounds old, but I never heard of it before, as the man said of
the Crucifixion. Why talk about his blue blood? His blood may be
gamboge yellow with green spots, for all anybody knows. All we know
is that the old squire, Hawker, somehow ran through his money (and
his second wife’s, I suppose, for she was rich enough), and sold the
estate to a man named Verner. What did he make his money in? Oil?
Army contracts?” “I don’t know,” said Saltoun, looking at him thoughtfully. “First thing I ever knew you didn’t know,” cried the exuberant
Harry. “And there’s more, besides,” went on Horne Fisher, who seemed to
have suddenly found his tongue. “If we want country people to vote
for us, why don’t we get somebody with some notion about the
country? We don’t talk to people in Threadneedle Street about
nothing but turnips and pigsties. Why do we talk to people in
Somerset about nothing but slums and socialism? Why don’t we give
the squire’s land to the squire’s tenants, instead of dragging in
the county council?” “Three acres and a cow,” cried Harry, emitting what the
Parliamentary reports call an ironical cheer. “Yes,” replied his brother, stubbornly. “Don’t you think
agricultural laborers would rather have three acres and a cow than
three acres of printed forms and a committee? Why doesn’t somebody
start a yeoman party in politics, appealing to the old traditions of
the small landowner? And why don’t they attack men like Verner for
what they are, which is something about as old and traditional as an
American oil trust?” “You’d better lead the yeoman party yourself,” laughed Harry.
“Don’t you think it would be a joke, Lord Saltoun, to see my brother
and his merry men, with their bows and bills, marching down to
Somerset all in Lincoln green instead of Lincoln and Bennet hats?” “No,” answered Old Saltoun, “I don’t think it would be a joke. I
think it would be an exceedingly serious and sensible idea.” “Well, I’m jiggered!” cried Harry Fisher, staring at him. “I said
just now it was the first fact you didn’t know, and I should say
this is the first joke you didn’t see.” “I’ve seen a good many things in my time,” said the old man, in his
rather sour fashion. “I’ve told a good many lies in my time, too,
and perhaps I’ve got rather sick of them. But there are lies and
lies, for all that. Gentlemen used to lie just as schoolboys lie,
because they hung together and partly to help one another out. But
I’m damned if I can see why we should lie for these cosmopolitan
cads who only help themselves. They’re not backing us up any more;
they’re simply crowding us out. If a man like your brother likes to
go into Parliament as a yeoman or a gentleman or a Jacobite or an
Ancient Briton, I should say it would be a jolly good thing.” In the rather startled silence that followed Horne Fisher sprang to
his feet and all his dreary manner dropped off him. “I’m ready to do it to-morrow,” he cried. “I suppose none of you
fellows would back me up.” Then Harry Fisher showed the finer side of his impetuosity. He made
a sudden movement as if to shake hands. “You’re a sport,” he said, “and I’ll back you up, if nobody else
will. But we can all back you up, can’t we? I see what Lord Saltoun
means, and, of course, he’s right. He’s always right.” “So I will go down to Somerset,” said Horne Fisher. “Yes, it is on the way to Westminster,” said Lord Saltoun, with a
smile. And so it happened that Horne Fisher arrived some days later at the
little station of a rather remote market town in the west,
accompanied by a light suitcase and a lively brother. It must not be
supposed, however, that the brother’s cheerful tone consisted
entirely of chaff. He supported the new candidate with hope as well
as hilarity; and at the back of his boisterous partnership there was
an increasing sympathy and encouragement. Harry Fisher had always
had an affection for his more quiet and eccentric brother, and was
now coming more and more to have a respect for him. As the campaign
proceeded the respect increased to ardent admiration. For Harry was
still young, and could feel the sort of enthusiasm for his captain
in electioneering that a schoolboy can feel for his captain in
cricket. Nor was the admiration undeserved. As the new three-cornered
contest developed it became apparent to others besides his devoted
kinsman that there was more in Horne Fisher than had ever met the
eye. It was clear that his outbreak by the family fireside had been
but the culmination of a long course of brooding and studying on the
question. The talent he retained through life for studying his
subject, and even somebody else’s subject, had long been
concentrated on this idea of championing a new peasantry against a
new plutocracy. He spoke to a crowd with eloquence and replied to an
individual with humor, two political arts that seemed to come to him
naturally. He certainly knew much more about rural problems than
either Hughes, the Reform candidate, or Verner, the Constitutional
candidate. And he probed those problems with a human curiosity, and
went below the surface in a way that neither of them dreamed of
doing. He soon became the voice of popular feelings that are never
found in the popular press. New angles of criticism, arguments that
had never before been uttered by an educated voice, tests and
comparisons that had been made only in dialect by men drinking in
the little local public houses, crafts half forgotten that had come
down by sign of hand and tongue from remote ages when their fathers
were free—all this created a curious and double excitement. It
startled the well informed by being a new and fantastic idea they
had never encountered. It startled the ignorant by being an old and
familiar idea they never thought to have seen revived. Men saw
things in a new light, and knew not even whether it was the sunset
or the dawn. Practical grievances were there to make the movement formidable. As
Fisher went to and fro among the cottages and country inns, it was
borne in on him without difficulty that Sir Francis Verner was a
very bad landlord. Nor was the story of his acquisition of the land
any more ancient and dignified than he had supposed; the story was
well known in the county and in most respects was obvious enough.
Hawker, the old squire, had been a loose, unsatisfactory sort of
person, had been on bad terms with his first wife (who died, as some
said, of neglect), and had then married a flashy South American
Jewess with a fortune. But he must have worked his way through this
fortune also with marvelous rapidity, for he had been compelled to
sell the estate to Verner and had gone to live in South America,
possibly on his wife’s estates. But Fisher noticed that the laxity
of the old squire was far less hated than the efficiency of the new
squire. Verner’s history seemed to be full of smart bargains and
financial flutters that left other people short of money and temper.
But though he heard a great deal about Verner, there was one thing
that continually eluded him; something that nobody knew, that even
Saltoun had not known. He could not find out how Verner had
originally made his money. “He must have kept it specially dark,” said Horne Fisher to himself.
“It must be something he’s really ashamed of. Hang it all! what is
a man ashamed of nowadays?” And as he pondered on the possibilities they grew darker and more
distorted in his mind; he thought vaguely of things remote and
repulsive, strange forms of slavery or sorcery, and then of ugly
things yet more unnatural but nearer home. The figure of Verner
seemed to be blackened and transfigured in his imagination, and to
stand against varied backgrounds and strange skies. As he strode up a village street, brooding thus, his eyes
encountered a complete contrast in the face of his other rival, the
Reform candidate. Eric Hughes, with his blown blond hair and eager
undergraduate face, was just getting into his motor car and saying a
few final words to his agent, a sturdy, grizzled man named Gryce.
Eric Hughes waved his hand in a friendly fashion; but Gryce eyed him
with some hostility. Eric Hughes was a young man with genuine
political enthusiasms, but he knew that political opponents are
people with whom one may have to dine any day. But Mr. Gryce was a
grim little local Radical, a champion of the chapel, and one of
those happy people whose work is also their hobby. He turned his
back as the motor car drove away, and walked briskly up the sunlit
high street of the little town, whistling, with political papers
sticking out of his pocket. Fisher looked pensively after the resolute figure for a moment, and
then, as if by an impulse, began to follow it. Through the busy
market place, amid the baskets and barrows of market day, under the
painted wooden sign of the Green Dragon, up a dark side entry, under
an arch, and through a tangle of crooked cobbled streets the two
threaded their way, the square, strutting figure in front and the
lean, lounging figure behind him, like his shadow in the sunshine.
At length they came to a brown brick house with a brass plate, on
which was Mr. Gryce’s name, and that individual turned and beheld
his pursuer with a stare. “Could I have a word with you, sir?” asked Horne Fisher, politely.
The agent stared still more, but assented civilly, and led the other
into an office littered with leaflets and hung all round with highly
colored posters which linked the name of Hughes with all the higher
interests of humanity. “Mr. Horne Fisher, I believe,” said Mr. Gryce. “Much honored by the
call, of course. Can’t pretend to congratulate you on entering the
contest, I’m afraid; you won’t expect that. Here we’ve been keeping
the old flag flying for freedom and reform, and you come in and
break the battle line.” For Mr. Elijah Gryce abounded in military metaphors and in
denunciations of militarism. He was a square-jawed, blunt-featured
man with a pugnacious cock of the eyebrow. He had been pickled in
the politics of that countryside from boyhood, he knew everybody’s
secrets, and electioneering was the romance of his life. “I suppose you think I’m devoured with ambition,” said Horne Fisher,
in his rather listless voice, “aiming at a dictatorship and all
that. Well, I think I can clear myself of the charge of mere selfish
ambition. I only want certain things done. I don’t want to do them.
I very seldom want to do anything. And I’ve come here to say that
I’m quite willing to retire from the contest if you can convince me
that we really want to do the same thing.” The agent of the Reform party looked at him with an odd and slightly
puzzled expression, and before he could reply, Fisher went on in the
same level tones: “You’d hardly believe it, but I keep a conscience concealed about
me; and I am in doubt about several things. For instance, we both
want to turn Verner out of Parliament, but what weapon are we to
use? I’ve heard a lot of gossip against him, but is it right to act
on mere gossip? Just as I want to be fair to you, so I want to be
fair to him. If some of the things I’ve heard are true he ought to
be turned out of Parliament and every other club in London. But I
don’t want to turn him out of Parliament if they aren’t true.” At this point the light of battle sprang into Mr. Gryce’s eyes and
he became voluble, not to say violent. He, at any rate, had no doubt
that the stories were true; he could testify, to his own knowledge,
that they were true. Verner was not only a hard landlord, but a mean
landlord, a robber as well as a rackrenter; any gentleman would be
justified in hounding him out. He had cheated old Wilkins out of his
freehold by a trick fit for a pickpocket; he had driven old Mother
Biddle to the workhouse; he had stretched the law against Long Adam,
the poacher, till all the magistrates were ashamed of him. “So if you’ll serve under the old banner,” concluded Mr. Gryce, more
genially, “and turn out a swindling tyrant like that, I’m sure
you’ll never regret it.” “And if that is the truth,” said Horne Fisher, “are you going to
tell it?” “What do you mean? Tell the truth?” demanded Gryce. “I mean you are going to tell the truth as you have just told it,”
replied Fisher. “You are going to placard this town with the
wickedness done to old Wilkins. You are going to fill the newspapers
with the infamous story of Mrs. Biddle. You are going to denounce
Verner from a public platform, naming him for what he did and naming
the poacher he did it to. And you’re going to find out by what trade
this man made the money with which he bought the estate; and when
you know the truth, as I said before, of course you are going to
tell it. Upon those terms I come under the old flag, as you call it,
and haul down my little pennon.” The agent was eying him with a curious expression, surly but not
entirely unsympathetic. “Well,” he said, slowly, “you have to do
these things in a regular way, you know, or people don’t understand.
I’ve had a lot of experience, and I’m afraid what you say wouldn’t
do. People understand slanging squires in a general way, but those
personalities aren’t considered fair play. Looks like hitting below
the belt.” “Old Wilkins hasn’t got a belt, I suppose,” replied Horne Fisher.
“Verner can hit him anyhow, and nobody must say a word. It’s
evidently very important to have a belt. But apparently you have to
be rather high up in society to have one. Possibly,” he added,
thoughtfully—“possibly the explanation of the phrase ‘a belted
earl,’ the meaning of which has always escaped me.” “I mean those personalities won’t do,” returned Gryce, frowning at
the table. “And Mother Biddle and Long Adam, the poacher, are not
personalities,” said Fisher, “and suppose we mustn’t ask how Verner
made all the money that enabled him to become—a personality.” Gryce was still looking at him under lowering brows, but the
singular light in his eyes had brightened. At last he said, in
another and much quieter voice: “Look here, sir. I like you, if you don’t mind my saying so. I
think you are really on the side of the people and I’m sure you’re a
brave man. A lot braver than you know, perhaps. We daren’t touch
what you propose with a barge pole; and so far from wanting you in
the old party, we’d rather you ran your own risk by yourself. But
because I like you and respect your pluck, I’ll do you a good turn
before we part. I don’t want you to waste time barking up the wrong
tree. You talk about how the new squire got the money to buy, and
the ruin of the old squire, and all the rest of it. Well, I’ll give
you a hint about that, a hint about something precious few people
know.” “I am very grateful,” said Fisher, gravely. “What is it?” “It’s in two words,” said the other. “The new squire was quite poor
when he bought. The old squire was quite rich when he sold.” Horne Fisher looked at him thoughtfully as he turned away abruptly
and busied himself with the papers on his desk. Then Fisher uttered
a short phrase of thanks and farewell, and went out into the street,
still very thoughtful. His reflection seemed to end in resolution, and, falling into a more
rapid stride, he passed out of the little town along a road leading
toward the gate of the great park, the country seat of Sir Francis
Verner. A glitter of sunlight made the early winter more like a late
autumn, and the dark woods were touched here and there with red and
golden leaves, like the last rays of a lost sunset. From a higher
part of the road he had seen the long, classical facade of the great
house with its many windows, almost immediately beneath him, but
when the road ran down under the wall of the estate, topped with
towering trees behind, he realized that it was half a mile round to
the lodge gates. After walking for a few minutes along the lane,
however, he came to a place where the wall had cracked and was in
process of repair. As it was, there was a great gap in the gray
masonry that looked at first as black as a cavern and only showed at
a second glance the twilight of the twinkling trees. There was
something fascinating about that unexpected gate, like the opening
of a fairy tale. Horne Fisher had in him something of the aristocrat, which is very
near to the anarchist. It was characteristic of him that he turned
into this dark and irregular entry as casually as into his own front
door, merely thinking that it would be a short cut to the house. He
made his way through the dim wood for some distance and with some
difficulty, until there began to shine through the trees a level
light, in lines of silver, which he did not at first understand. The
next moment he had come out into the daylight at the top of a steep
bank, at the bottom of which a path ran round the rim of a large
ornamental lake. The sheet of water which he had seen shimmering
through the trees was of considerable extent, but was walled in on
every side with woods which were not only dark, but decidedly
dismal. At one end of the path was a classical statue of some
nameless nymph, and at the other end it was flanked by two classical
urns; but the marble was weather-stained and streaked with green and
gray. A hundred other signs, smaller but more significant, told him
that he had come on some outlying corner of the grounds neglected
and seldom visited. In the middle of the lake was what appeared to
be an island, and on the island what appeared to be meant for a
classical temple, not open like a temple of the winds, but with a
blank wall between its Doric pillars. We may say it only seemed like
an island, because a second glance revealed a low causeway of flat
stones running up to it from the shore and turning it into a
peninsula. And certainly it only seemed like a temple, for nobody
knew better than Horne Fisher that no god had ever dwelt in that
shrine. “That’s what makes all this classical landscape gardening so
desolate,” he said to himself. “More desolate than Stonehenge or the
Pyramids. We don’t believe in Egyptian mythology, but the Egyptians
did; and I suppose even the Druids believed in Druidism. But the
eighteenth-century gentleman who built these temples didn’t believe
in Venus or Mercury any more than we do; that’s why the reflection
of those pale pillars in the lake is truly only the shadow of a
shade. They were men of the age of Reason; they, who filled their
gardens with these stone nymphs, had less hope than any men in all
history of really meeting a nymph in the forest.” His monologue stopped abruptly with a sharp noise like a thundercrack
that rolled in dreary echoes round the dismal mere. He knew at once
what it was—somebody had fired off a gun. But as to the meaning of
it he was momentarily staggered, and strange thoughts thronged into
his mind. The next moment he laughed; for he saw lying a little way
along the path below him the dead bird that the shot had brought
down. At the same moment, however, he saw something else, which interested
him more. A ring of dense trees ran round the back of the island
temple, framing the facade of it in dark foliage, and he could have
sworn he saw a stir as of something moving among the leaves. The
next moment his suspicion was confirmed, for a rather ragged figure
came from under the shadow of the temple and began to move along the
causeway that led to the bank. Even at that distance the figure was
conspicuous by its great height and Fisher could see that the man
carried a gun under his arm. There came back into his memory at once
the name Long Adam, the poacher. With a rapid sense of strategy he sometimes showed, Fisher sprang
from the bank and raced round the lake to the head of the little
pier of stones. If once a man reached the mainland he could easily
vanish into the woods. But when Fisher began to advance along the
stones toward the island, the man was cornered in a blind alley and
could only back toward the temple. Putting his broad shoulders
against it, he stood as if at bay; he was a comparatively young man,
with fine lines in his lean face and figure and a mop of ragged red
hair. The look in his eyes might well have been disquieting to
anyone left alone with him on an island in the middle of a lake. “Good morning,” said Horne Fisher, pleasantly. “I thought at first
you were a murderer. But it seems unlikely, somehow, that the
partridge rushed between us and died for love of me, like the
heroines in the romances; so I suppose you are a poacher.” “I suppose you would call me a poacher,” answered the man; and his
voice was something of a surprise coming from such a scarecrow; it
had that hard fastidiousness to be found in those who have made a
fight for their own refinement among rough surroundings. “I consider
I have a perfect right to shoot game in this place. But I am well
aware that people of your sort take me for a thief, and I suppose
you will try to land me in jail.” “There are preliminary difficulties,” replied Fisher. “To begin
with, the mistake is flattering, but I am not a gamekeeper. Still
less am I three gamekeepers, who would be, I imagine, about your
fighting weight. But I confess I have another reason for not wanting
to jail you.” “And what is that?” asked the other. “Only that I quite agree with you,” answered Fisher. “I don’t
exactly say you have a right to poach, but I never could see that it
was as wrong as being a thief. It seems to me against the whole
normal notion of property that a man should own something because it
flies across his garden. He might as well own the wind, or think he
could write his name on a morning cloud. Besides, if we want poor
people to respect property we must give them some property to
respect. You ought to have land of your own; and I’m going to give
you some if I can.” “Going to give me some land!” repeated Long Adam. “I apologize for addressing you as if you were a public meeting,”
said Fisher, “but I am an entirely new kind of public man who says
the same thing in public and in private. I’ve said this to a hundred
huge meetings throughout the country, and I say it to you on this
queer little island in this dismal pond. I would cut up a big estate
like this into small estates for everybody, even for poachers. I
would do in England as they did in Ireland—buy the big men out, if
possible; get them out, anyhow. A man like you ought to have a
little place of his own. I don’t say you could keep pheasants, but
you might keep chickens.” The man stiffened suddenly and he seemed at once to blanch and flame
at the promise as if it were a threat. “Chickens!” he repeated, with a passion of contempt. “Why do you object?” asked the placid candidate. “Because keeping
hens is rather a mild amusement for a poacher? What about poaching
eggs?” “Because I am not a poacher,” cried Adam, in a rending voice that
rang round the hollow shrines and urns like the echoes of his gun.
“Because the partridge lying dead over there is my partridge.
Because the land you are standing on is my land. Because my own land
was only taken from me by a crime, and a worse crime than poaching.
This has been a single estate for hundreds and hundreds of years,
and if you or any meddlesome mountebank comes here and talks of
cutting it up like a cake, if I ever hear a word more of you and
your leveling lies—” “You seem to be a rather turbulent public,” observed Horne Fisher,
“but do go on. What will happen if I try to divide this estate
decently among decent people?” The poacher had recovered a grim composure as he replied. “There
will be no partridge to rush in between.” With that he turned his back, evidently resolved to say no more, and
walked past the temple to the extreme end of the islet, where he
stood staring into the water. Fisher followed him, but, when his
repeated questions evoked no answer, turned back toward the shore.
In doing so he took a second and closer look at the artificial
temple, and noted some curious things about it. Most of these
theatrical things were as thin as theatrical scenery, and he
expected the classic shrine to be a shallow thing, a mere shell or
mask. But there was some substantial bulk of it behind, buried in
the trees, which had a gray, labyrinthian look, like serpents of
stone, and lifted a load of leafy towers to the sky. But what
arrested Fisher’s eye was that in this bulk of gray-white stone
behind there was a single door with great, rusty bolts outside; the
bolts, however, were not shot across so as to secure it. Then he
walked round the small building, and found no other opening except
one small grating like a ventilator, high up in the wall. He
retraced his steps thoughtfully along the causeway to the banks of
the lake, and sat down on the stone steps between the two sculptured
funeral urns. Then he lit a cigarette and smoked it in ruminant
manner; eventually he took out a notebook and wrote down various
phrases, numbering and renumbering them till they stood in the
following order: “(1) Squire Hawker disliked his first wife. (2) He
married his second wife for her money. (3) Long Adam says the estate
is really his. (4) Long Adam hangs round the island temple, which
looks like a prison. (5) Squire Hawker was not poor when he gave up
the estate. (6) Verner was poor when he got the estate.” He gazed at these notes with a gravity which gradually turned to a
hard smile, threw away his cigarette, and resumed his search for a
short cut to the great house. He soon picked up the path which,
winding among clipped hedges and flower beds, brought him in front
of its long Palladian facade. It had the usual appearance of being,
not a private house, but a sort of public building sent into exile
in the provinces. He first found himself in the presence of the butler, who really
looked much older than the building, for the architecture was dated
as Georgian; but the man’s face, under a highly unnatural brown wig,
was wrinkled with what might have been centuries. Only his prominent
eyes were alive and alert, as if with protest. Fisher glanced at
him, and then stopped and said: “Excuse me. Weren’t you with the late squire, Mr. Hawker?” “Yes, sir,” said the man, gravely. “Usher is my name. What can I do
for you?” “Only take me into Sir Francis Verner,” replied the visitor. Sir Francis Verner was sitting in an easy chair beside a small table
in a large room hung with tapestries. On the table were a small
flask and glass, with the green glimmer of a liqueur and a cup of
black coffee. He was clad in a quiet gray suit with a moderately
harmonious purple tie; but Fisher saw something about the turn of
his fair mustache and the lie of his flat hair—it suddenly revealed
that his name was Franz Werner. “You are Mr. Horne Fisher,” he said. “Won’t you sit down?” “No, thank you,” replied Fisher. “I fear this is not a friendly
occasion, and I shall remain standing. Possibly you know that I am
already standing—standing for Parliament, in fact—” “I am aware we are political opponents,” replied Verner, raising his
eyebrows. “But I think it would be better if we fought in a sporting
spirit; in a spirit of English fair play.” “Much better,” assented Fisher. “It would be much better if you
were English and very much better if you had ever played fair. But
what I’ve come to say can be said very shortly. I don’t quite know
how we stand with the law about that old Hawker story, but my chief
object is to prevent England being entirely ruled by people like
you. So whatever the law would say, I will say no more if you will
retire from the election at once.” “You are evidently a lunatic,” said Verner. “My psychology may be a little abnormal,” replied Horne Fisher, in a
rather hazy manner. “I am subject to dreams, especially day-dreams.
Sometimes what is happening to me grows vivid in a curious double
way, as if it had happened before. Have you ever had that mystical
feeling that things have happened before?” “I hope you are a harmless lunatic,” said Verner. But Fisher was still staring in an absent fashion at the golden
gigantic figures and traceries of brown and red in the tapestries on
the walls; then he looked again at Verner and resumed: “I have a
feeling that this interview has happened before, here in this
tapestried room, and we are two ghosts revisiting a haunted chamber.
But it was Squire Hawker who sat where you sit and it was you who
stood where I stand.” He paused a moment and then added, with
simplicity, “I suppose I am a blackmailer, too.” “If you are,” said Sir Francis, “I promise you you shall go to
jail.” But his face had a shade on it that looked like the
reflection of the green wine gleaming on the table. Horne Fisher
regarded him steadily and answered, quietly enough: “Blackmailers do not always go to jail. Sometimes they go to
Parliament. But, though Parliament is rotten enough already, you
shall not go there if I can help it. I am not so criminal as you
were in bargaining with crime. You made a squire give up his country
seat. I only ask you to give up your Parliamentary seat.” Sir Francis Verner sprang to his feet and looked about for one of
the bell ropes of the old-fashioned, curtained room. “Where is Usher?” he cried, with a livid face. “And who is Usher?” said Fisher, softly. “I wonder how much Usher
knows of the truth.” Verner’s hand fell from the bell rope and, after standing for a
moment with rolling eyes, he strode abruptly from the room. Fisher
went but by the other door, by which he had entered, and, seeing no
sign of Usher, let himself out and betook himself again toward the
town. That night he put an electric torch in his pocket and set out alone
in the darkness to add the last links to his argument. There was
much that he did not know yet; but he thought he knew where he could
find the knowledge. The night closed dark and stormy and the black
gap in the wall looked blacker than ever; the wood seemed to have
grown thicker and darker in a day. If the deserted lake with its
black woods and gray urns and images looked desolate even by
daylight, under the night and the growing storm it seemed still more
like the pool of Acheron in the land of lost souls. As he stepped
carefully along the jetty stones he seemed to be traveling farther
and farther into the abyss of night, and to have left behind him the
last points from which it would be possible to signal to the land of
the living. The lake seemed to have grown larger than a sea, but a
sea of black and slimy waters that slept with abominable serenity,
as if they had washed out the world. There was so much of this
nightmare sense of extension and expansion that he was strangely
surprised to come to his desert island so soon. But he knew it for a
place of inhuman silence and solitude; and he felt as if he had been
walking for years. Nerving himself to a more normal mood, he paused under one of the
dark dragon trees that branched out above him, and, taking out his
torch, turned in the direction of the door at the back of the
temple. It was unbolted as before, and the thought stirred faintly
in him that it was slightly open, though only by a crack. The more
he thought of it, however, the more certain he grew that this was
but one of the common illusions of light coming from a different
angle. He studied in a more scientific spirit the details of the
door, with its rusty bolts and hinges, when he became conscious of
something very near him—indeed, nearly above his head. Something
was dangling from the tree that was not a broken branch. For some
seconds he stood as still as a stone, and as cold. What he saw above
him were the legs of a man hanging, presumably a dead man hanged.
But the next moment he knew better. The man was literally alive and
kicking; and an instant after he had dropped to the ground and
turned on the intruder. Simultaneously three or four other trees
seemed to come to life in the same fashion. Five or six other
figures had fallen on their feet from these unnatural nests. It was
as if the place were an island of monkeys. But a moment after they
had made a stampede toward him, and when they laid their hands on
him he knew that they were men. With the electric torch in his hand he struck the foremost of them
so furiously in the face that the man stumbled and rolled over on
the slimy grass; but the torch was broken and extinguished, leaving
everything in a denser obscurity. He flung another man flat against
the temple wall, so that he slid to the ground; but a third and
fourth carried Fisher off his feet and began to bear him,
struggling, toward the doorway. Even in the bewilderment of the
battle he was conscious that the door was standing open. Somebody
was summoning the roughs from inside. The moment they were within they hurled him upon a sort of bench or
bed with violence, but no damage; for the settee, or whatever it
was, seemed to be comfortably cushioned for his reception. Their
violence had in it a great element of haste, and before he could
rise they had all rushed for the door to escape. Whatever bandits
they were that infested this desert island, they were obviously
uneasy about their job and very anxious to be quit of it. He had the
flying fancy that regular criminals would hardly be in such a panic.
The next moment the great door crashed to and he could hear the
bolts shriek as they shot into their place, and the feet of the
retreating men scampering and stumbling along the causeway. But
rapidly as it happened, it did not happen before Fisher had done
something that he wanted to do. Unable to rise from his sprawling
attitude in that flash of time, he had shot out one of his long legs
and hooked it round the ankle of the last man disappearing through
the door. The man swayed and toppled over inside the prison chamber,
and the door closed between him and his fleeing companions. Clearly
they were in too much haste to realize that they had left one of
their company behind. The man sprang to his feet again and hammered and kicked furiously
at the door. Fisher’s sense of humor began to recover from the
struggle and he sat up on his sofa with something of his native
nonchalance. But as he listened to the captive captor beating on the
door of the prison, a new and curious reflection came to him. The natural course for a man thus wishing to attract his friends’
attention would be to call out, to shout as well as kick. This man
was making as much noise as he could with his feet and hands, but
not a sound came from his throat. Why couldn’t he speak? At first he
thought the man might be gagged, which was manifestly absurd. Then
his fancy fell back on the ugly idea that the man was dumb. He
hardly knew why it was so ugly an idea, but it affected his
imagination in a dark and disproportionate fashion. There seemed to
be something creepy about the idea of being left in a dark room with
a deaf mute. It was almost as if such a defect were a deformity. It
was almost as if it went with other and worse deformities. It was as
if the shape he could not trace in the darkness were some shape that
should not see the sun. Then he had a flash of sanity and also of insight. The explanation
was very simple, but rather interesting. Obviously the man did not
use his voice because he did not wish his voice to be recognized. He
hoped to escape from that dark place before Fisher found out who he
was. And who was he? One thing at least was clear. He was one or
other of the four or five men with whom Fisher had already talked in
these parts, and in the development of that strange story. “Now I wonder who you are,” he said, aloud, with all his old lazy
urbanity. “I suppose it’s no use trying to throttle you in order to
find out; it would be displeasing to pass the night with a corpse.
Besides I might be the corpse. I’ve got no matches and I’ve smashed
my torch, so I can only speculate. Who could you be, now? Let us
think.” The man thus genially addressed had desisted from drumming on the
door and retreated sullenly into a corner as Fisher continued to
address him in a flowing monologue. “Probably you are the poacher who says he isn’t a poacher. He says
he’s a landed proprietor; but he will permit me to inform him that,
whatever he is, he’s a fool. What hope can there ever be of a free
peasantry in England if the peasants themselves are such snobs as to
want to be gentlemen? How can we make a democracy with no democrats?
As it is, you want to be a landlord and so you consent to be a
criminal. And in that, you know, you are rather like somebody else.
And, now I think of it, perhaps you are somebody else.” There was a silence broken by breathing from the corner and the
murmur of the rising storm, that came in through the small grating
above the man’s head. Horne Fisher continued: “Are you only a servant, perhaps, that rather sinister old servant
who was butler to Hawker and Verner? If so, you are certainly the
only link between the two periods. But if so, why do you degrade
yourself to serve this dirty foreigner, when you at least saw the
last of a genuine national gentry? People like you are generally at
least patriotic. Doesn’t England mean anything to you, Mr. Usher?
All of which eloquence is possibly wasted, as perhaps you are not
Mr. Usher. “More likely you are Verner himself; and it’s no good wasting
eloquence to make you ashamed of yourself. Nor is it any good to
curse you for corrupting England; nor are you the right person to
curse. It is the English who deserve to be cursed, and are cursed,
because they allowed such vermin to crawl into the high places of
their heroes and their kings. I won’t dwell on the idea that you’re
Verner, or the throttling might begin, after all. Is there anyone
else you could be? Surely you’re not some servant of the other rival
organization. I can’t believe you’re Gryce, the agent; and yet Gryce
had a spark of the fanatic in his eye, too; and men will do
extraordinary things in these paltry feuds of politics. Or if not
the servant, is it the … No, I can’t believe it … not the
red blood of manhood and liberty … not the democratic ideal …” He sprang up in excitement, and at the same moment a growl of
thunder came through the grating beyond. The storm had broken, and
with it a new light broke on his mind. There was something else that
might happen in a moment. “Do you know what that means?” he cried. “It means that God himself
may hold a candle to show me your infernal face.” Then next moment came a crash of thunder; but before the thunder a
white light had filled the whole room for a single split second. Fisher had seen two things in front of him. One was the
black-and-white pattern of the iron grating against the sky; the
other was the face in the corner. It was the face of his brother. Nothing came from Horne Fisher’s lips except a Christian name, which
was followed by a silence more dreadful than the dark. At last the
other figure stirred and sprang up, and the voice of Harry Fisher
was heard for the first time in that horrible room. “You’ve seen me, I suppose,” he said, “and we may as well have a
light now. You could have turned it on at any time, if you’d found
the switch.” He pressed a button in the wall and all the details of that room
sprang into something stronger than daylight. Indeed, the details
were so unexpected that for a moment they turned the captive’s
rocking mind from the last personal revelation. The room, so far
from being a dungeon cell, was more like a drawing-room, even a
lady’s drawing-room, except for some boxes of cigars and bottles of
wine that were stacked with books and magazines on a side table. A
second glance showed him that the more masculine fittings were quite
recent, and that the more feminine background was quite old. His eye
caught a strip of faded tapestry, which startled him into speech, to
the momentary oblivion of bigger matters. “This place was furnished from the great house,” he said. “Yes,” replied the other, “and I think you know why.” “I think I do,” said Horne Fisher, “and before I go on to more
extraordinary things I will, say what I think. Squire Hawker played
both the bigamist and the bandit. His first wife was not dead when
he married the Jewess; she was imprisoned on this island. She bore
him a child here, who now haunts his birthplace under the name of
Long Adam. A bankruptcy company promoter named Werner discovered the
secret and blackmailed the squire into surrendering the estate.
That’s all quite clear and very easy. And now let me go on to
something more difficult. And that is for you to explain what the
devil you are doing kidnaping your born brother.” After a pause Henry Fisher answered: “I suppose you didn’t expect to see me,” he said. “But, after all,
what could you expect?”’ “I’m afraid I don’t follow,” said Horne Fisher. “I mean what else could you expect, after making such a muck of it?”
said his brother, sulkily. “We all thought you were so clever. How
could we know you were going to be—well, really, such a rotten
failure?” “This is rather curious,” said the candidate, frowning. “Without
vanity, I was not under the impression that my candidature was a
failure. All the big meetings were successful and crowds of people
have promised me votes.” “I should jolly well think they had,” said Henry, grimly. “You’ve
made a landslide with your confounded acres and a cow, and Verner
can hardly get a vote anywhere. Oh, it’s too rotten for anything!” “What on earth do you mean?” “I see,” said Fisher, “and you, I think, are a pillar and ornament
of the Reform party. As you say, I am not clever.” The appeal to party loyalty fell on deaf ears; for the pillar of
Reform was brooding on other things. At last he said, in a more
troubled voice: “I didn’t want you to catch me; I knew it would be a shock. But I
tell you what, you never would have caught me if I hadn’t come here
myself, to see they didn’t ill treat you and to make sure everything
was as comfortable as it could be.” There was even a sort of break
in his voice as he added, “I got those cigars because I knew you
liked them.” Emotions are queer things, and the idiocy of this concession
suddenly softened Horne Fisher like an unfathomable pathos. “Never mind, old chap,” he said; “we’ll say no more about it. I’ll
admit that you’re really as kind-hearted and affectionate a
scoundrel and hypocrite as ever sold himself to ruin his country.
There, I can’t say handsomer than that. Thank you for the cigars,
old man. I’ll have one if you don’t mind.” By the time that Horne Fisher had ended his telling of this story to
Harold March they had come out into one of the public parks and
taken a seat on a rise of ground overlooking wide green spaces under
a blue and empty sky; and there was something incongruous in the
words with which the narration ended. “I have been in that room ever since,” said Horne Fisher. “I am in
it now. I won the election, but I never went to the House. My life
has been a life in that little room on that lonely island. Plenty of
books and cigars and luxuries, plenty of knowledge and interest and
information, but never a voice out of that tomb to reach the world
outside. I shall probably die there.” And he smiled as he looked
across the vast green park to the gray horizon.
VIII - The Vengeance of the Statue * It was on the sunny veranda of a seaside hotel, overlooking a
pattern of flower beds and a strip of blue sea, that Horne Fisher
and Harold March had their final explanation, which might be called
an explosion. Harold March had come to the little table and sat down at it with a
subdued excitement smoldering in his somewhat cloudy and dreamy blue
eyes. In the newspapers which he tossed from him on to the table
there was enough to explain some if not all of his emotion. Public
affairs in every department had reached a crisis. The government
which had stood so long that men were used to it, as they are used
to a hereditary despotism, had begun to be accused of blunders and
even of financial abuses. Some said that the experiment of
attempting to establish a peasantry in the west of England, on the
lines of an early fancy of Horne Fisher’s, had resulted in nothing
but dangerous quarrels with more industrial neighbors. There had
been particular complaints of the ill treatment of harmless
foreigners, chiefly Asiatics, who happened to be employed in the new
scientific works constructed on the coast. Indeed, the new Power
which had arisen in Siberia, backed by Japan and other powerful
allies, was inclined to take the matter up in the interests of its
exiled subjects; and there had been wild talk about ambassadors and
ultimatums. But something much more serious, in its personal
interest for March himself, seemed to fill his meeting with his
friend with a mixture of embarrassment and indignation. Perhaps it increased his annoyance that there was a certain unusual
liveliness about the usually languid figure of Fisher. The ordinary
image of him in March’s mind was that of a pallid and bald-browed
gentleman, who seemed to be prematurely old as well as prematurely
bald. He was remembered as a man who expressed the opinions of a
pessimist in the language of a lounger. Even now March could not be
certain whether the change was merely a sort of masquerade of
sunshine, or that effect of clear colors and clean-cut outlines that
is always visible on the parade of a marine resort, relieved against
the blue dado of the sea. But Fisher had a flower in his buttonhole,
and his friend could have sworn he carried his cane with something
almost like the swagger of a fighter. With such clouds gathering
over England, the pessimist seemed to be the only man who carried
his own sunshine. “Look here,” said Harold March, abruptly, “you’ve been no end of a
friend to me, and I never was so proud of a friendship before; but
there’s something I must get off my chest. The more I found out, the
less I understood how you could stand it. And I tell you I’m going
to stand it no longer.” Horne Fisher gazed across at him gravely and attentively, but rather
as if he were a long way off. “You know I always liked you,” said Fisher, quietly, “but I also
respect you, which is not always the same thing. You may possibly
guess that I like a good many people I don’t respect. Perhaps it is
my tragedy, perhaps it is my fault. But you are very different, and
I promise you this: that I will never try to keep you as somebody to
be liked, at the price of your not being respected.” “I know you are magnanimous,” said March after a silence, “and yet
you tolerate and perpetuate everything that is mean.” Then after
another silence he added: “Do you remember when we first met, when
you were fishing in that brook in the affair of the target? And do
you remember you said that, after all, it might do no harm if I
could blow the whole tangle of this society to hell with dynamite.” “Yes, and what of that?” asked Fisher. “Only that I’m going to blow it to hell with dynamite,” said Harold
March, “and I think it right to give you fair warning. For a long
time I didn’t believe things were as bad as you said they were. But
I never felt as if I could have bottled up what you knew, supposing
you really knew it. Well, the long and the short of it is that I’ve
got a conscience; and now, at last, I’ve also got a chance. I’ve
been put in charge of a big independent paper, with a free hand, and
we’re going to open a cannonade on corruption.” “That will be—Attwood, I suppose,” said Fisher, reflectively.
“Timber merchant. Knows a lot about China.” “He knows a lot about England,” said March, doggedly, “and now I
know it, too, we’re not going to hush it up any longer. The people
of this country have a right to know how they’re ruled—or, rather,
ruined. The Chancellor is in the pocket of the money lenders and has
to do as he is told; otherwise he’s bankrupt, and a bad sort of
bankruptcy, too, with nothing but cards and actresses behind it. The
Prime Minister was in the petrol-contract business; and deep in it,
too. The Foreign Minister is a wreck of drink and drugs. When you
say that plainly about a man who may send thousands of Englishmen to
die for nothing, you’re called personal. If a poor engine driver
gets drunk and sends thirty or forty people to death, nobody
complains of the exposure being personal. The engine driver is not a
person.” “I quite agree with you,” said Fisher, calmly. “You are perfectly
right.” “If you agree with us, why the devil don’t you act with us?”
demanded his friend. “If you think it’s right, why don’t you do
what’s right? It’s awful to think of a man of your abilities simply
blocking the road to reform.” “We have often talked about that,” replied Fisher, with the same
composure. “The Prime Minister is my father’s friend. The Foreign
Minister married my sister. The Chancellor of the Exchequer is my
first cousin. I mention the genealogy in some detail just now for a
particular reason. The truth is I have a curious kind of
cheerfulness at the moment. It isn’t altogether the sun and the sea,
sir. I am enjoying an emotion that is entirely new to me; a happy
sensation I never remember having had before.” “What the devil do you mean?” “I am feeling proud of my family,” said Horne Fisher. Harold March stared at him with round blue eyes, and seemed too much
mystified even to ask a question. Fisher leaned back in his chair in
his lazy fashion, and smiled as he continued. “Look here, my dear fellow. Let me ask a question in turn. You
imply that I have always known these things about my unfortunate
kinsmen. So I have. Do you suppose that Attwood hasn’t always known
them? Do you suppose he hasn’t always known you as an honest man who
would say these things when he got a chance? Why does Attwood
unmuzzle you like a dog at this moment, after all these years? I
know why he does; I know a good many things, far too many things.
And therefore, as I have the honor to remark, I am proud of my
family at last.” “But why?” repeated March, rather feebly. “I am proud of the Chancellor because he gambled and the Foreign
Minister because he drank and the Prime Minister because he took a
commission on a contract,” said Fisher, firmly. “I am proud of them
because they did these things, and can be denounced for them, and
know they can be denounced for them, and are standing firm for all
that. I take off my hat to them because they are defying blackmail,
and refusing to smash their country to save themselves. I salute
them as if they were going to die on the battlefield.” After a pause he continued: “And it will be a battlefield, too, and
not a metaphorical one. We have yielded to foreign financiers so
long that now it is war or ruin, Even the people, even the country
people, are beginning to suspect that they are being ruined. That is
the meaning of the regrettable incidents in the newspapers.” “The meaning of the outrages on Orientals?” asked March. “The meaning of the outrages on Orientals,” replied Fisher, “is that
the financiers have introduced Chinese labor into this country with
the deliberate intention of reducing workmen and peasants to
starvation. Our unhappy politicians have made concession after
concession; and now they are asking concessions which amount to our
ordering a massacre of our own poor. If we do not fight now we shall
never fight again. They will have put England in an economic
position of starving in a week. But we are going to fight now; I
shouldn’t wonder if there were an ultimatum in a week and an
invasion in a fortnight. All the past corruption and cowardice is
hampering us, of course; the West country is pretty stormy and
doubtful even in a military sense; and the Irish regiments there,
that are supposed to support us by the new treaty, are pretty well
in mutiny; for, of course, this infernal coolie capitalism is being
pushed in Ireland, too. But it’s to stop now; and if the government
message of reassurance gets through to them in time, they may turn
up after all by the time the enemy lands. For my poor old gang is
going to stand to its guns at last. Of course it’s only natural that
when they have been whitewashed for half a century as paragons,
their sins should come back on them at the very moment when they are
behaving like men for the first time in their lives. Well, I tell
you, March, I know them inside out; and I know they are behaving
like heroes. Every man of them ought to have a statue, and on the
pedestal words like those of the noblest ruffian of the Revolution:
‘Que mon nom soit fletri; que la France soit libre.’” “Good God!” cried March, “shall we never get to the bottom of your
mines and countermines?” After a silence Fisher answered in a lower voice, looking his friend
in the eyes. “Did you think there was nothing but evil at the bottom of them?” he
asked, gently. “Did you think I had found nothing but filth in the
deep seas into which fate has thrown me? Believe me, you never know
the best about men till you know the worst about them. It does not
dispose of their strange human souls to know that they were
exhibited to the world as impossibly impeccable wax works, who never
looked after a woman or knew the meaning of a bribe. Even in a
palace, life can be lived well; and even in a Parliament, life can
be lived with occasional efforts to live it well. I tell you it is
as true of these rich fools and rascals as it is true of every poor
footpad and pickpocket; that only God knows how good they have tried
to be. God alone knows what the conscience can survive, or how a man
who has lost his honor will still try to save his soul.” There was another silence, and March sat staring at the table and
Fisher at the sea. Then Fisher suddenly sprang to his feet and
caught up his hat and stick with all his new alertness and even
pugnacity. “Look here, old fellow,” he cried, “let us make a bargain. Before
you open your campaign for Attwood come down and stay with us for
one week, to hear what we’re really doing. I mean with the Faithful
Few, formerly known as the Old Gang, occasionally to be described as
the Low Lot. There are really only five of us that are quite fixed,
and organizing the national defense; and we’re living like a
garrison in a sort of broken-down hotel in Kent. Come and see what
we’re really doing and what there is to be done, and do us justice.
And after that, with unalterable love and affection for you, publish
and be damned.” Thus it came about that in the last week before war, when events
moved most rapidly, Harold March found himself one of a sort of
small house party of the people he was proposing to denounce. They
were living simply enough, for people with their tastes, in an old
brown-brick inn faced with ivy and surrounded by rather dismal
gardens. At the back of the building the garden ran up very steeply
to a road along the ridge above; and a zigzag path scaled the slope
in sharp angles, turning to and fro amid evergreens so somber that
they might rather be called everblack. Here and there up the slope
were statues having all the cold monstrosity of such minor ornaments
of the eighteenth century; and a whole row of them ran as on a
terrace along the last bank at the bottom, opposite the back door.
This detail fixed itself first in March’s mind merely because it
figured in the first conversation he had with one of the cabinet
ministers. The cabinet ministers were rather older than he had expected to find
them. The Prime Minister no longer looked like a boy, though he
still looked a little like a baby. But it was one of those old and
venerable babies, and the baby had soft gray hair. Everything about
him was soft, to his speech and his way of walking; but over and
above that his chief function seemed to be sleep. People left alone
with him got so used to his eyes being closed that they were almost
startled when they realized in the stillness that the eyes were wide
open, and even watching. One thing at least would always make the
old gentleman open his eyes. The one thing he really cared for in
this world was his hobby of armored weapons, especially Eastern
weapons, and he would talk for hours about Damascus blades and Arab
swordmanship. Lord James Herries, the Chancellor of the Exchequer,
was a short, dark, sturdy man with a very sallow face and a very
sullen manner, which contrasted with the gorgeous flower in his
buttonhole and his festive trick of being always slightly
overdressed. It was something of a euphemism to call him a
well-known man about town. There was perhaps more mystery in the
question of how a man who lived for pleasure seemed to get so little
pleasure out of it. Sir David Archer, the Foreign Secretary, was the
only one of them who was a self-made man, and the only one of them
who looked like an aristocrat. He was tall and thin and very
handsome, with a grizzled beard; his gray hair was very curly, and
even rose in front in two rebellious ringlets that seemed to the
fanciful to tremble like the antennae of some giant insect, or to
stir sympathetically with the restless tufted eyebrows over his
rather haggard eyes. For the Foreign Secretary made no secret of his
somewhat nervous condition, whatever might be the cause of it. “Do you know that mood when one could scream because a mat is
crooked?” he said to March, as they walked up and down in the back
garden below the line of dingy statues. “Women get into it when
they’ve worked too hard; and I’ve been working pretty hard lately,
of course. It drives me mad when Herries will wear his hat a little
crooked—habit of looking like a gay dog. Sometime I swear I’ll
knock it off. That statue of Britannia over there isn’t quite
straight; it sticks forward a bit as if the lady were going to
topple over. The damned thing is that it doesn’t topple over and be
done with it. See, it’s clamped with an iron prop. Don’t be
surprised if I get up in the middle of the night to hike it down.” They paced the path for a few moments in silence and then he
continued. “It’s odd those little things seem specially big when
there are bigger things to worry about. We’d better go in and do
some work.” Horne Fisher evidently allowed for all the neurotic possibilities of
Archer and the dissipated habits of Herries; and whatever his faith
in their present firmness, did not unduly tax their time and
attention, even in the case of the Prime Minister. He had got the
consent of the latter finally to the committing of the important
documents, with the orders to the Western armies, to the care of a
less conspicuous and more solid person—an uncle of his named Horne
Hewitt, a rather colorless country squire who had been a good
soldier, and was the military adviser of the committee. He was
charged with expediting the government pledge, along with the
concerted military plans, to the half-mutinous command in the west;
and the still more urgent task of seeing that it did not fall into
the hands of the enemy, who might appear at any moment from the
east. Over and above this military official, the only other person
present was a police official, a certain Doctor Prince, originally a
police surgeon and now a distinguished detective, sent to be a
bodyguard to the group. He was a square-faced man with big
spectacles and a grimace that expressed the intention of keeping his
mouth shut. Nobody else shared their captivity except the hotel
proprietor, a crusty Kentish man with a crab-apple face, one or two
of his servants, and another servant privately attached to Lord
James Herries. He was a young Scotchman named Campbell, who looked
much more distinguished than his bilious-looking master, having
chestnut hair and a long saturnine face with large but fine
features. He was probably the one really efficient person in the
house. After about four days of the informal council, March had come to
feel a sort of grotesque sublimity about these dubious figures,
defiant in the twilight of danger, as if they were hunchbacks and
cripples left alone to defend a town. All were working hard; and he
himself looked up from writing a page of memoranda in a private room
to see Horne Fisher standing in the doorway, accoutered as if for
travel. He fancied that Fisher looked a little pale; and after a
moment that gentleman shut the door behind him and said, quietly: “Well, the worst has happened. Or nearly the worst.” “The enemy has landed,” cried March, and sprang erect out of his
chair. “Oh, I knew the enemy would land,” said Fisher, with composure.
“Yes, he’s landed; but that’s not the worst that could happen. The
worst is that there’s a leak of some sort, even from this fortress
of ours. It’s been a bit of a shock to me, I can tell you; though I
suppose it’s illogical. After all, I was full of admiration at
finding three honest men in politics. I ought not to be full of
astonishment if I find only two.” He ruminated a moment and then said, in such a fashion that March
could hardly tell if he were changing the subject or no: “It’s hard at first to believe that a fellow like Herries, who had
pickled himself in vice like vinegar, can have any scruple left. But
about that I’ve noticed a curious thing. Patriotism is not the first
virtue. Patriotism rots into Prussianism when you pretend it is the
first virtue. But patriotism is sometimes the last virtue. A man
will swindle or seduce who will not sell his country. But who
knows?” “But what is to be done?” cried March, indignantly. “My uncle has the papers safe enough,” replied Fisher, “and is
sending them west to-night; but somebody is trying to get at them
from outside, I fear with the assistance of somebody inside. All
I can do at present is to try to head off the man outside; and I
must get away now and do it. I shall be back in about twenty-four
hours. While I’m away I want you to keep an eye on these people and
find out what you can. Au revoir.” He vanished down the stairs; and
from the window March could see him mount a motor cycle and trail
away toward the neighboring town. On the following morning, March was sitting in the window seat of
the old inn parlor, which was oak-paneled and ordinarily rather
dark; but on that occasion it was full of the white light of a
curiously clear morning—the moon had shone brilliantly for the
last two or three nights. He was himself somewhat in shadow in the
corner of the window seat; and Lord James Herries, coming in hastily
from the garden behind, did not see him. Lord James clutched the
back of a chair, as if to steady himself, and, sitting down abruptly
at the table, littered with the last meal, poured himself out a
tumbler of brandy and drank it. He sat with his back to March, but
his yellow face appeared in a round mirror beyond and the tinge of it
was like that of some horrible malady. As March moved he started
violently and faced round. “My God!” he cried, “have you seen what’s outside?” “Outside?” repeated the other, glancing over his shoulder at the
garden. “Oh, go and look for yourself,” cried Herries in a sort of fury.
“Hewitt’s murdered and his papers stolen, that’s all.” He turned his back again and sat down with a thud; his square
shoulders were shaking. Harold March darted out of the doorway into
the back garden with its steep slope of statues. The first thing he saw was Doctor Prince, the detective, peering
through his spectacles at something on the ground; the second was
the thing he was peering at. Even after the sensational news he had
heard inside, the sight was something of a sensation. The monstrous stone image of Britannia was lying prone and face
downward on the garden path; and there stuck out at random from
underneath it, like the legs of a smashed fly, an arm clad in a
white shirt sleeve and a leg clad in a khaki trouser, and hair of
the unmistakable sandy gray that belonged to Horne Fisher’s
unfortunate uncle. There were pools of blood and the limbs were
quite stiff in death. “Couldn’t this have been an accident?” said March, finding words at
last. “Look for yourself, I say,” repeated the harsh voice of Herries, who
had followed him with restless movements out of the door. “The
papers are gone, I tell you. The fellow tore the coat off the corpse
and cut the papers out of the inner pocket. There’s the coat over
there on the bank, with the great slash in it.” “But wait a minute,” said the detective, Prince, quietly. “In that
case there seems to be something of a mystery. A murderer might
somehow have managed to throw the statue down on him, as he seems to
have done. But I bet he couldn’t easily have lifted it up again.
I’ve tried; and I’m sure it would want three men at least. Yet we
must suppose, on that theory, that the murderer first knocked him
down as he walked past, using the statue as a stone club, then
lifted it up again, took him out and deprived him of his coat, then
put him back again in the posture of death and neatly replaced the
statue. I tell you it’s physically impossible. And how else could he
have unclothed a man covered with that stone monument? It’s worse
than the conjurer’s trick, when a man shuffles a coat off with his
wrists tied.” “Could he have thrown down the statue after he’d stripped the
corpse?” asked March. “And why?” asked Prince, sharply. “If he’d killed his man and got
his papers, he’d be away like the wind. He wouldn’t potter about in
a garden excavating the pedestals of statues. Besides—Hullo, who’s
that up there?” High on the ridge above them, drawn in dark thin lines against the
sky, was a figure looking so long and lean as to be almost spidery.
The dark silhouette of the head showed two small tufts like horns;
and they could almost have sworn that the horns moved. “Archer!” shouted Herries, with sudden passion, and called to him
with curses to come down. The figure drew back at the first cry,
with an agitated movement so abrupt as almost to be called an antic.
The next moment the man seemed to reconsider and collect himself,
and began to come down the zigzag garden path, but with obvious
reluctance, his feet falling in slower and slower rhythm. Through
March’s mind were throbbing the phrases that this man himself had
used, about going mad in the middle of the night and wrecking the
stone figure. Just so, he could fancy, the maniac who had done such
a thing might climb the crest of the hill, in that feverish dancing
fashion, and look down on the wreck he had made. But the wreck he
had made here was not only a wreck of stone. When the man emerged at last on to the garden path, with the full
light on his face and figure, he was walking slowly indeed, but
easily, and with no appearance of fear. “This is a terrible thing,” he said. “I saw it from above; I was
taking a stroll along the ridge.” “Do you mean that you saw the murder?” demanded March, “or the
accident? I mean did you see the statue fall?” “No,” said Archer, “I mean I saw the statue fallen.” Prince seemed to be paying but little attention; his eye was riveted
on an object lying on the path a yard or two from the corpse. It
seemed to be a rusty iron bar bent crooked at one end. “One thing I don’t understand,” he said, “is all this blood. The
poor fellow’s skull isn’t smashed; most likely his neck is broken;
but blood seems to have spouted as if all his arteries were severed.
I was wondering if some other instrument … that iron thing, for
instance; but I don’t see that even that is sharp enough. I suppose
nobody knows what it is.” “I know what it is,” said Archer in his deep but somewhat shaky
voice. “I’ve seen it in my nightmares. It was the iron clamp or prop
on the pedestal, stuck on to keep the wretched image upright when it
began to wobble, I suppose. Anyhow, it was always stuck in the
stonework there; and I suppose it came out when the thing
collapsed.” Doctor Prince nodded, but he continued to look down at the pools of
blood and the bar of iron. “I’m certain there’s something more underneath all this,” he said at
last. “Perhaps something more underneath the statue. I have a huge
sort of hunch that there is. We are four men now and between us we
can lift that great tombstone there.” They all bent their strength to the business; there was a silence
save for heavy breathing; and then, after an instant of the
tottering and staggering of eight legs, the great carven column of
rock was rolled away, and the body lying in its shirt and trousers
was fully revealed. The spectacles of Doctor Prince seemed almost to
enlarge with a restrained radiance like great eyes; for other things
were revealed also. One was that the unfortunate Hewitt had a deep
gash across the jugular, which the triumphant doctor instantly
identified as having been made with a sharp steel edge like a razor.
The other was that immediately under the bank lay littered three
shining scraps of steel, each nearly a foot long, one pointed and
another fitted into a gorgeously jeweled hilt or handle. It was
evidently a sort of long Oriental knife, long enough to be called a
sword, but with a curious wavy edge; and there was a touch or two of
blood on the point. “I should have expected more blood, hardly on the point,” observed
Doctor Prince, thoughtfully, “but this is certainly the instrument.
The slash was certainly made with a weapon shaped like this, and
probably the slashing of the pocket as well. I suppose the brute
threw in the statue, by way of giving him a public funeral.” March did not answer; he was mesmerized by the strange stones that
glittered on the strange sword hilt; and their possible significance
was broadening upon him like a dreadful dawn. It was a curious
Asiatic weapon. He knew what name was connected in his memory with
curious Asiatic weapons. Lord James spoke his secret thought for
him, and yet it startled him like an irrelevance. “Where is the Prime Minister?” Herries had cried, suddenly, and
somehow like the bark of a dog at some discovery. Doctor Prince turned on him his goggles and his grim face; and it
was grimmer than ever. “I cannot find him anywhere,” he said. “I looked for him at once,
as soon as I found the papers were gone. That servant of yours,
Campbell, made a most efficient search, but there are no traces.” There was a long silence, at the end of which Herries uttered
another cry, but upon an entirely new note. “Well, you needn’t look for him any longer,” he said, “for here he
comes, along with your friend Fisher. They look as if they’d been
for a little walking tour.” The two figures approaching up the path were indeed those of Fisher,
splashed with the mire of travel and carrying a scratch like that of
a bramble across one side of his bald forehead, and of the great and
gray-haired statesman who looked like a baby and was interested in
Eastern swords and swordmanship. But beyond this bodily recognition,
March could make neither head nor tail of their presence or
demeanor, which seemed to give a final touch of nonsense to the
whole nightmare. The more closely he watched them, as they stood
listening to the revelations of the detective, the more puzzled he
was by their attitude—Fisher seemed grieved by the death of his
uncle, but hardly shocked at it; the older man seemed almost openly
thinking about something else, and neither had anything to suggest
about a further pursuit of the fugitive spy and murderer, in spite
of the prodigious importance of the documents he had stolen. When
the detective had gone off to busy himself with that department of
the business, to telephone and write his report, when Herries had
gone back, probably to the brandy bottle, and the Prime Minister had
blandly sauntered away toward a comfortable armchair in another part
of the garden, Horne Fisher spoke directly to Harold March. “My friend,” he said, “I want you to come with me at once; there is
no one else I can trust so much as that. The journey will take us
most of the day, and the chief business cannot be done till
nightfall. So we can talk things over thoroughly on the way. But I
want you to be with me; for I rather think it is my hour.” March and Fisher both had motor bicycles; and the first half of
their day’s journey consisted in coasting eastward amid the
unconversational noise of those uncomfortable engines. But when they
came out beyond Canterbury into the flats of eastern Kent, Fisher
stopped at a pleasant little public house beside a sleepy stream;
and they sat down to eat and to drink and to speak almost for the
first time. It was a brilliant afternoon, birds were singing in the
wood behind, and the sun shone full on their ale bench and table;
but the face of Fisher in the strong sunlight had a gravity never
seen on it before. “Before we go any farther,” he said, “there is something you ought
to know. You and I have seen some mysterious things and got to the
bottom of them before now; and it’s only right that you should get
to the bottom of this one. But in dealing with the death of my uncle
I must begin at the other end from where our old detective yarns
began. I will give you the steps of deduction presently, if you want
to listen to them; but I did not reach the truth of this by steps of
deduction. I will first of all tell you the truth itself, because I
knew the truth from the first. The other cases I approached from the
outside, but in this case I was inside. I myself was the very core
and center of everything.” Something in the speaker’s pendent eyelids and grave gray eyes
suddenly shook March to his foundations; and he cried, distractedly,
“I don’t understand!” as men do when they fear that they do
understand. There was no sound for a space but the happy chatter of
the birds, and then Horne Fisher said, calmly: “It was I who killed my uncle. If you particularly want more, it
was I who stole the state papers from him.” “Fisher!” cried his friend in a strangled voice. “Let me tell you the whole thing before we part,” continued the
other, “and let me put it, for the sake of clearness, as we used to
put our old problems. Now there are two things that are puzzling
people about that problem, aren’t there? The first is how the
murderer managed to slip off the dead man’s coat, when he was
already pinned to the ground with that stone incubus. The other,
which is much smaller and less puzzling, is the fact of the sword
that cut his throat being slightly stained at the point, instead of
a good deal more stained at the edge. Well, I can dispose of the
first question easily. Horne Hewitt took off his own coat before he
was killed. I might say he took off his coat to be killed.” “Do you call that an explanation?” exclaimed March. “The words seem
more meaningless, than the facts.” “Well, let us go on to the other facts,” continued Fisher, equably.
“The reason that particular sword is not stained at the edge with
Hewitt’s blood is that it was not used to kill Hewitt.” “But the doctor,” protested March, “declared distinctly that the
wound was made by that particular sword.” “I beg your pardon,” replied Fisher. “He did not declare that it
was made by that particular sword. He declared it was made by a
sword of that particular pattern.” “But it was quite a queer and exceptional pattern,” argued March;
“surely it is far too fantastic a coincidence to imagine—” “It was a fantastic coincidence,” reflected Horne Fisher. “It’s
extraordinary what coincidences do sometimes occur. By the oddest
chance in the world, by one chance in a million, it so happened that
another sword of exactly the same shape was in the same garden at
the same time. It may be partly explained, by the fact that I
brought them both into the garden myself … come, my dear fellow;
surely you can see now what it means. Put those two things together;
there were two duplicate swords and he took off his coat for
himself. It may assist your speculations to recall the fact that I
am not exactly an assassin.” “A duel!” exclaimed March, recovering himself. “Of course I ought
to have thought of that. But who was the spy who stole the papers?” “My uncle was the spy who stole the papers,” replied Fisher, “or who
tried to steal the papers when I stopped him—in the only way I
could. The papers, that should have gone west to reassure our
friends and give them the plans for repelling the invasion, would in
a few hours have been in the hands of the invader. What could I do?
To have denounced one of our friends at this moment would have been
to play into the hands of your friend Attwood, and all the party of
panic and slavery. Besides, it may be that a man over forty has a
subconscious desire to die as he has lived, and that I wanted, in a
sense, to carry my secrets to the grave. Perhaps a hobby hardens
with age; and my hobby has been silence. Perhaps I feel that I have
killed my mother’s brother, but I have saved my mother’s name.
Anyhow, I chose a time when I knew you were all asleep, and he was
walking alone in the garden. I saw all the stone statues standing in
the moonlight; and I myself was like one of those stone statues
walking. In a voice that was not my own, I told him of his treason
and demanded the papers; and when he refused, I forced him to take
one of the two swords. The swords were among some specimens sent
down here for the Prime Minister’s inspection; he is a collector,
you know; they were the only equal weapons I could find. To cut an
ugly tale short, we fought there on the path in front of the
Britannia statue; he was a man of great strength, but I had somewhat
the advantage in skill. His sword grazed my forehead almost at the
moment when mine sank into the joint in his neck. He fell against
the statue, like Caesar against Pompey’s, hanging on to the iron
rail; his sword was already broken. When I saw the blood from that
deadly wound, everything else went from me; I dropped my sword and
ran as if to lift him up. As I bent toward him something happened
too quick for me to follow. I do not know whether the iron bar was
rotted with rust and came away in his hand, or whether he rent it
out of the rock with his apelike strength; but the thing was in his
hand, and with his dying energies he swung it over my head, as I
knelt there unarmed beside him. I looked up wildly to avoid the
blow, and saw above us the great bulk of Britannia leaning outward
like the figurehead of a ship. The next instant I saw it was leaning
an inch or two more than usual, and all the skies with their
outstanding stars seemed to be leaning with it. For the third second
it was as if the skies fell; and in the fourth I was standing in the
quiet garden, looking down on that flat ruin of stone and bone at
which you were looking to-day. He had plucked out the last prop that
held up the British goddess, and she had fallen and crushed the
traitor in her fall. I turned and darted for the coat which I knew
to contain the package, ripped it up with my sword, and raced away
up the garden path to where my motor bike was waiting on the road
above. I had every reason for haste; but I fled without looking back
at the statue and the body; and I think the thing I fled from was
the sight of that appalling allegory. “Then I did the rest of what I had to do. All through the night and
into the daybreak and the daylight I went humming through the
villages and markets of South England like a traveling bullet, till
I came to the headquarters in the West where the trouble was. I was
just in time. I was able to placard the place, so to speak, with the
news that the government had not betrayed them, and that they would
find supports if they would push eastward against the enemy. There’s
no time to tell you all that happened; but I tell you it was the day
of my life. A triumph like a torchlight procession, with torchlights
that might have been firebrands. The mutinies simmered down; the men
of Somerset and the western counties came pouring into the market
places; the men who died with Arthur and stood firm with Alfred. The
Irish regiments rallied to them, after a scene like a riot, and
marched eastward out of the town singing Fenian songs. There was all
that is not understood, about the dark laughter of that people, in
the delight with which, even when marching with the English to the
defense of England, they shouted at the top of their voices, ‘High
upon the gallows tree stood the noble-hearted three … With
England’s cruel cord about them cast.’ However, the chorus was ‘God
save Ireland,’ and we could all have sung that just then, in one
sense or another. “But there was another side to my mission. I carried the plans of
the defense; and to a great extent, luckily, the plans of the
invasion also. I won’t worry you with strategics; but we knew where
the enemy had pushed forward the great battery that covered all his
movements; and though our friends from the West could hardly arrive
in time to intercept the main movement, they might get within long
artillery range of the battery and shell it, if they only knew
exactly where it was. They could hardly tell that unless somebody
round about here sent up some sort of signal. But, somehow, I rather
fancy that somebody will.” With that he got up from the table, and they remounted their
machines and went eastward into the advancing twilight of evening.
The levels of the landscape were repeated in flat strips of floating
cloud and the last colors of day clung to the circle of the horizon.
Receding farther and farther behind them was the semicircle of the
last hills; and it was quite suddenly that they saw afar off the dim
line of the sea. It was not a strip of bright blue as they had seen
it from the sunny veranda, but of a sinister and smoky violet, a
tint that seemed ominous and dark. Here Horne Fisher dismounted once
more. “We must walk the rest of the way,” he said, “and the last bit of
all I must walk alone.” He bent down and began to unstrap something from his bicycle. It was
something that had puzzled his companion all the way in spite of
what held him to more interesting riddles; it appeared to be several
lengths of pole strapped together and wrapped up in paper. Fisher
took it under his arm and began to pick his way across the turf. The
ground was growing more tumbled and irregular and he was walking
toward a mass of thickets and small woods; night grew darker every
moment. “We must not talk any more,” said Fisher. “I shall whisper
to you when you are to halt. Don’t try to follow me then, for it
will only spoil the show; one man can barely crawl safely to the
spot, and two would certainly be caught.” “I would follow you anywhere,” replied March, “but I would halt,
too, if that is better.” “I know you would,” said his friend in a low voice. “Perhaps you’re
the only man I ever quite trusted in this world.” A few paces farther on they came to the end of a great ridge or
mound looking monstrous against the dim sky; and Fisher stopped with
a gesture. He caught his companion’s hand and wrung it with a
violent tenderness, and then darted forward into the darkness. March
could faintly see his figure crawling along under the shadow of the
ridge, then he lost sight of it, and then he saw it again standing
on another mound two hundred yards away. Beside him stood a singular
erection made apparently of two rods. He bent over it and there was
the flare of a light; all March’s schoolboy memories woke in him,
and he knew what it was. It was the stand of a rocket. The confused,
incongruous memories still possessed him up to the very moment of a
fierce but familiar sound; and an instant after the rocket left its
perch and went up into endless space like a starry arrow aimed at
the stars. March thought suddenly of the signs of the last days and
knew he was looking at the apocalyptic meteor of something like a
Day of judgment. Far up in the infinite heavens the rocket drooped and sprang into
scarlet stars. For a moment the whole landscape out to the sea and
back to the crescent of the wooded hills was like a lake of ruby
light, of a red strangely rich and glorious, as if the world were
steeped in wine rather than blood, or the earth were an earthly
paradise, over which paused forever the sanguine moment of morning. “God save England!” cried Fisher, with a tongue like the peal of a
trumpet. “And now it is for God to save.” As darkness sank again over land and sea, there came another sound;
far away in the passes of the hills behind them the guns spoke like
the baying of great hounds. Something that was not a rocket, that
came not hissing but screaming, went over Harold March’s head and
expanded beyond the mound into light and deafening din, staggering
the brain with unbearable brutalities of noise. Another came, and
then another, and the world was full of uproar and volcanic vapor
and chaotic light. The artillery of the West country and the Irish
had located the great enemy battery, and were pounding it to pieces. In the mad excitement of that moment March peered through the storm,
looking again for the long lean figure that stood beside the stand
of the rocket. Then another flash lit up the whole ridge. The figure
was not there. Before the fires of the rocket had faded from the sky, long before
the first gun had sounded from the distant hills, a splutter of
rifle fire had flashed and flickered all around from the hidden
trenches of the enemy. Something lay in the shadow at the foot of
the ridge, as stiff as the stick of the fallen rocket; and the man
who knew too much knew what is worth knowing.
I - The Face in the Target * Harold March, the rising reviewer and social critic, was walking
vigorously across a great tableland of moors and commons, the
horizon of which was fringed with the far-off woods of the famous
estate of Torwood Park. He was a good-looking young man in tweeds,
with very pale curly hair and pale clear eyes. Walking in wind and
sun in the very landscape of liberty, he was still young enough to
remember his politics and not merely try to forget them. For his
errand at Torwood Park was a political one; it was the place of
appointment named by no less a person than the Chancellor of the
Exchequer, Sir Howard Horne, then introducing his so-called
Socialist budget, and prepared to expound it in an interview with so
promising a penman. Harold March was the sort of man who knows
everything about politics, and nothing about politicians. He also
knew a great deal about art, letters, philosophy, and general
culture; about almost everything, indeed, except the world he was
living in. Abruptly, in the middle of those sunny and windy flats, he came upon
a sort of cleft almost narrow enough to be called a crack in the
land. It was just large enough to be the water-course for a small
stream which vanished at intervals under green tunnels of
undergrowth, as if in a dwarfish forest. Indeed, he had an odd
feeling as if he were a giant looking over the valley of the
pygmies. When he dropped into the hollow, however, the impression
was lost; the rocky banks, though hardly above the height of a
cottage, hung over and had the profile of a precipice. As he began
to wander down the course of the stream, in idle but romantic
curiosity, and saw the water shining in short strips between the
great gray boulders and bushes as soft as great green mosses, he
fell into quite an opposite vein of fantasy. It was rather as if the
earth had opened and swallowed him into a sort of underworld of
dreams. And when he became conscious of a human figure dark against
the silver stream, sitting on a large boulder and looking rather
like a large bird, it was perhaps with some of the premonitions
proper to a man who meets the strangest friendship of his life. The man was apparently fishing; or at least was fixed in a
fisherman’s attitude with more than a fisherman’s immobility. March
was able to examine the man almost as if he had been a statue for
some minutes before the statue spoke. He was a tall, fair man,
cadaverous, and a little lackadaisical, with heavy eyelids and a
highbridged nose. When his face was shaded with his wide white hat,
his light mustache and lithe figure gave him a look of youth. But
the Panama lay on the moss beside him; and the spectator could see
that his brow was prematurely bald; and this, combined with a
certain hollowness about the eyes, had an air of headwork and even
headache. But the most curious thing about him, realized after a
short scrutiny, was that, though he looked like a fisherman, he was
not fishing. He was holding, instead of a rod, something that might have been a
landing-net which some fishermen use, but which was much more like
the ordinary toy net which children carry, and which they generally
use indifferently for shrimps or butterflies. He was dipping this
into the water at intervals, gravely regarding its harvest of weed
or mud, and emptying it out again. “No, I haven’t caught anything,” he remarked, calmly, as if
answering an unspoken query. “When I do I have to throw it back
again; especially the big fish. But some of the little beasts
interest me when I get ‘em.” “A scientific interest, I suppose?” observed March. “Of a rather amateurish sort, I fear,” answered the strange
fisherman. “I have a sort of hobby about what they call ‘phenomena
of phosphorescence.’ But it would be rather awkward to go about in
society carrying stinking fish.” “I suppose it would,” said March, with a smile. “Rather odd to enter a drawing-room carrying a large luminous cod,”
continued the stranger, in his listless way. “How quaint it would
be if one could carry it about like a lantern, or have little sprats
for candles. Some of the seabeasts would really be very pretty like
lampshades; the blue sea-snail that glitters all over like
starlight; and some of the red starfish really shine like red stars.
But, naturally, I’m not looking for them here.” March thought of asking him what he was looking for; but, feeling
unequal to a technical discussion at least as deep as the deep-sea
fishes, he returned to more ordinary topics. “Delightful sort of hole this is,” he said. “This little dell and
river here. It’s like those places Stevenson talks about, where
something ought to happen.” “I know,” answered the other. “I think it’s because the place
itself, so to speak, seems to happen and not merely to exist.
Perhaps that’s what old Picasso and some of the Cubists are trying
to express by angles and jagged lines. Look at that wall like low
cliffs that juts forward just at right angles to the slope of turf
sweeping up to it. That’s like a silent collision. It’s like a
breaker and the back-wash of a wave.” March looked at the low-browed crag overhanging the green slope and
nodded. He was interested in a man who turned so easily from the
technicalities of science to those of art; and asked him if he
admired the new angular artists. “As I feel it, the Cubists are not Cubist enough,” replied the
stranger. “I mean they’re not thick enough. By making things
mathematical they make them thin. Take the living lines out of that
landscape, simplify it to a right angle, and you flatten it out to a
mere diagram on paper. Diagrams have their own beauty; but it is of
just the other sort. They stand for the unalterable things; the
calm, eternal, mathematical sort of truths; what somebody calls the
‘white radiance of’—” He stopped, and before the next word came something had happened
I - Il volto nel bersaglio * Harold March, il recensore e critico sociale in ascesa, camminava
con vigore attraverso un vasto altopiano di brughiere e terreni comuni, il cui
orizzonte era orlato dai boschi lontani della celebre
tenuta di Torwood Park. Era un giovane di bell’aspetto, in tweed,
con capelli chiarissimi e ricci e occhi chiari e limpidi. Camminando nel vento e nel
sole, nel paesaggio stesso della libertà, era ancora abbastanza giovane da
ricordare la propria politica e non limitarsi a cercare di dimenticarla. Poiché la sua
missione a Torwood Park era di natura politica; era il luogo dell’
appuntamento indicato nientemeno che dal Cancelliere dello
Scacchiere, Sir Howard Horne, che allora presentava il suo cosiddetto
bilancio socialista, e si preparava a esporlo in un colloquio con una penna tanto
promettente. Harold March era il tipo d’uomo che sa
tutto della politica e nulla dei politici. Sapeva inoltre
moltissimo di arte, di lettere, di filosofia e di cultura
generale; di quasi tutto, in verità, tranne che del mondo in cui
viveva. Improvvisamente, in mezzo a quelle distese soleggiate e ventose, s’imbatté in
una sorta di fenditura quasi tanto stretta da poter essere chiamata una crepa nella
terra. Era appena abbastanza ampia da fare da corso d’acqua per un piccolo
ruscello che scompariva a tratti sotto verdi gallerie di
sottobosco, come in una foresta di nani. Anzi, provava una strana
sensazione, quasi fosse un gigante che sovrastava la valle dei
pigmei. Quando però scese nell’avvallamento, l’impressione
svanì; le sponde rocciose, benché a malapena più alte di un
cottage, incombevano e avevano il profilo di un precipizio. Quando cominciò
a vagare lungo il corso del ruscello, per oziosa ma romantica
curiosità, e vide l’acqua brillare in brevi strisce tra i
grandi massi grigi e i cespugli soffici come grandi muschi verdi,
cadde in una vena di fantasia del tutto opposta. Era piuttosto come se la
terra si fosse aperta e l’avesse inghiottito in una sorta di oltretomba di
sogni. E quando si accorse di una figura umana scura contro
il ruscello d’argento, seduta su un grande masso e simile piuttosto
a un grande uccello, fu forse con alcune di quelle premonizioni
proprie di un uomo che incontra la più strana amicizia della sua vita. L’uomo pareva pescare; o almeno era immobile in un
atteggiamento da pescatore, con più dell’immobilità di un pescatore. March
poté esaminarlo quasi fosse una statua per
alcuni minuti prima che la statua parlasse. Era un uomo alto e biondo,
cadaverico, e un po’ languido, con palpebre pesanti e un
naso dal dorso alto. Quando il volto era ombreggiato dal suo ampio cappello bianco,
i baffi chiari e la figura agile gli davano un’aria di giovinezza. Ma
il panama giaceva sul muschio accanto a lui; e chi lo osservava poteva vedere
che la fronte era prematuramente calva; e questo, unito a una
certa incavatura attorno agli occhi, aveva un’aria di lavoro intellettuale e persino di
mal di testa. Ma la cosa più curiosa in lui, di cui ci si accorgeva dopo un
breve esame, era che, pur avendo l’aspetto di un pescatore, non stava
pescando. Teneva in mano, invece di una canna, qualcosa che poteva essere una
guadino di quelli che usano certi pescatori, ma che somigliava molto più
alla comune retina giocattolo che portano i bambini, e che di solito
usano indifferentemente per gamberetti o farfalle. La immergeva
nell’acqua a intervalli, osservando con gravità il suo raccolto di alghe
o fango, e la svuotava di nuovo. «No, non ho preso nulla», osservò con calma, come
rispondendo a una domanda non formulata. «Quando ne prendo, devo ributtarlo indietro;
soprattutto i pesci grandi. Ma alcune delle bestioline
mi interessano, quando le acchiappo.» «Un interesse scientifico, suppongo?» osservò March. «Piuttosto dilettantesco, temo», rispose lo strano
pescatore. «Ho una specie di passatempo per ciò che chiamano “fenomeni
di fosforescenza”. Ma sarebbe piuttosto imbarazzante andare in
società portando pesci puzzolenti.» «Immagino di sì», disse March, con un sorriso. «Piuttosto singolare entrare in un salotto reggendo un grosso merluzzo luminoso»,
continuò lo sconosciuto, nel suo modo svogliato. «Come sarebbe bizzarro
poterselo portare in giro come una lanterna, o avere spratti
per candele. Alcune delle bestie marine sarebbero davvero graziose come
paralumi; la lumaca di mare azzurra che luccica tutta come
luce di stelle; e certe stelle marine rosse brillano davvero come rosse stelle.
Ma, naturalmente, non è qui che le cerco.» March pensò di chiedergli cosa cercasse; ma, sentendosi
impari a una discussione tecnica profonda almeno quanto i pesci
degli abissi, tornò ad argomenti più ordinari. «Che luogo delizioso è questo», disse. «Questa piccola valletta e il
fiume qui. È come quei luoghi di cui parla Stevenson, dove
qualcosa dovrebbe accadere.» «Lo so», rispose l’altro. «Credo sia perché il luogo
stesso, per così dire, sembra accadere e non semplicemente esistere.
Forse è ciò che il vecchio Picasso e alcuni dei cubisti cercano
di esprimere con angoli e linee frastagliate. Guardi quella parete simile a basse
scogliere che sporge in avanti proprio ad angolo retto rispetto al pendio erboso
che sale fino a essa. È come una collisione silenziosa. È come un
frangente e il risucchio di un’onda.» March guardò la rupe dalla fronte bassa che incombeva sul verde pendio e
annuì. Lo incuriosiva un uomo che passava così agevolmente dai
tecnicismi della scienza a quelli dell’arte; e gli chiese se
ammirasse i nuovi artisti angolari. «Per come la sento io, i cubisti non sono abbastanza cubisti», replicò lo
sconosciuto. «Voglio dire che non sono abbastanza densi. Rendendo le cose
matematiche le rendono sottili. Togli le linee vive da quel
paesaggio, semplificalo in un angolo retto, e lo appiattisci in un
semplice diagramma su carta. I diagrammi hanno una loro bellezza; ma è di
tutt’altra specie. Rappresentano le cose immutabili; le
verità calme, eterne, di tipo matematico; ciò che qualcuno chiama il
«candido splendore di»— Si fermò, e prima che giungesse la parola successiva qualcosa era accaduto
almost too quickly and completely to be realized. From behind the
overhanging rock came a noise and rush like that of a railway train;
and a great motor car appeared. It topped the crest of cliff, black
against the sun, like a battle-chariot rushing to destruction in
some wild epic. March automatically put out his hand in one futile
gesture, as if to catch a falling tea-cup in a drawing-room. For the fraction of a flash it seemed to leave the ledge of rock
like a flying ship; then the very sky seemed to turn over like a
wheel, and it lay a ruin amid the tall grasses below, a line of gray
smoke going up slowly from it into the silent air. A little lower
the figure of a man with gray hair lay tumbled down the steep green
slope, his limbs lying all at random, and his face turned away. The eccentric fisherman dropped his net and walked swiftly toward
the spot, his new acquaintance following him. As they drew near
there seemed a sort of monstrous irony in the fact that the dead
machine was still throbbing and thundering as busily as a factory,
while the man lay so still. He was unquestionably dead. The blood flowed in the grass from a
hopelessly fatal fracture at the back of the skull; but the face,
which was turned to the sun, was uninjured and strangely arresting
in itself. It was one of those cases of a strange face so
unmistakable as to feel familiar. We feel, somehow, that we ought to
recognize it, even though we do not. It was of the broad, square
sort with great jaws, almost like that of a highly intellectual ape;
the wide mouth shut so tight as to be traced by a mere line; the
nose short with the sort of nostrils that seem to gape with an
appetite for the air. The oddest thing about the face was that one
of the eyebrows was cocked up at a much sharper angle than the
other. March thought he had never seen a face so naturally alive as
that dead one. And its ugly energy seemed all the stranger for its
halo of hoary hair. Some papers lay half fallen out of the pocket,
and from among them March extracted a card-case. He read the name on
the card aloud. “Sir Humphrey Turnbull. I’m sure I’ve heard that name somewhere.” His companion only gave a sort of a little sigh and was silent for a
moment, as if ruminating, then he merely said, “The poor fellow is
quite gone,” and added some scientific terms in which his auditor
once more found himself out of his depth. “As things are,” continued the same curiously well-informed person,
“it will be more legal for us to leave the body as it is until the
police are informed. In fact, I think it will be well if nobody
except the police is informed. Don’t be surprised if I seem to be
keeping it dark from some of our neighbors round here.” Then, as if
prompted to regularize his rather abrupt confidence, he said: “I’ve
come down to see my cousin at Torwood; my name is Horne Fisher.
Might be a pun on my pottering about here, mightn’t it?” “Is Sir Howard Horne your cousin?” asked March. “I’m going to
Torwood Park to see him myself; only about his public work, of
course, and the wonderful stand he is making for his principles. I
think this Budget is the greatest thing in English history. If it
fails, it will be the most heroic failure in English history. Are
you an admirer of your great kinsman, Mr. Fisher?” “Rather,” said Mr. Fisher. “He’s the best shot I know.” Then, as if sincerely repentant of his nonchalance, he added, with a
sort of enthusiasm: “No, but really, he’s a beautiful shot.” As if fired by his own words, he took a sort of leap at the ledges
of the rock above him, and scaled them with a sudden agility in
startling contrast to his general lassitude. He had stood for some
seconds on the headland above, with his aquiline profile under the
Panama hat relieved against the sky and peering over the countryside
before his companion had collected himself sufficiently to scramble
up after him. The level above was a stretch of common turf on which the tracks of
the fated car were plowed plainly enough; but the brink of it was
broken as with rocky teeth; broken boulders of all shapes and sizes
lay near the edge; it was almost incredible that any one could have
deliberately driven into such a death trap, especially in broad
daylight. “I can’t make head or tail of it,” said March. “Was he blind? Or
blind drunk?” “Neither, by the look of him,” replied the other. “Then it was suicide.” “It doesn’t seem a cozy way of doing it,” remarked the man called
Fisher. “Besides, I don’t fancy poor old Puggy would commit suicide,
somehow.” “Poor old who?” inquired the wondering journalist. “Did you know
this unfortunate man?” “Nobody knew him exactly,” replied Fisher, with some vagueness. “But
one knew him, of course. He’d been a terror in his time, in
Parliament and the courts, and so on; especially in that row about
the aliens who were deported as undesirables, when he wanted one of
‘em hanged for murder. He was so sick about it that he retired from
the bench. Since then he mostly motored about by himself; but he was
coming to Torwood, too, for the week-end; and I don’t see why he
should deliberately break his neck almost at the very door. I
believe Hoggs—I mean my cousin Howard—was coming down specially to
meet him.” “Torwood Park doesn’t belong to your cousin?” inquired March. “No; it used to belong to the Winthrops, you know,” replied the
other. “Now a new man’s got it; a man from Montreal named Jenkins.
Hoggs comes for the shooting; I told you he was a lovely shot.” This repeated eulogy on the great social statesman affected Harold
March as if somebody had defined Napoleon as a distinguished player
of nap. But he had another half-formed impression struggling in this
flood of unfamiliar things, and he brought it to the surface before
it could vanish. “Jenkins,” he repeated. “Surely you don’t mean Jefferson Jenkins,
quasi troppo in fretta e troppo compiutamente per essere còlto. Da dietro la
roccia strapiombante giunse un rumore e un impeto simili a quelli di un treno;
e apparve una grande automobile. Superò il ciglio della scogliera, nera
contro il sole, come un carro da battaglia lanciato verso la distruzione in
qualche selvaggia epopea. March tese automaticamente la mano in un gesto vano,
come per afferrare una tazza da tè che cade in un salotto. Per la frazione di un lampo parve lasciare lo sperone di roccia come una
nave in volo; poi il cielo stesso parve rovesciarsi come una
ruota, ed essa giacque in rovina tra le alte erbe sottostanti, una striscia di
fumo grigio che ne saliva lenta nell’aria silenziosa. Poco più in basso
la figura di un uomo dai capelli grigi giaceva ruzzolata giù per il ripido pendio verde,
le membra sparse a caso, e il volto voltato dall’altra parte. L’eccentrico pescatore lasciò cadere la sua rete e si diresse rapido verso
il luogo, seguìto dal suo nuovo conoscente. Man mano che si avvicinavano
pareva esservi una sorta di mostruosa ironia nel fatto che la
macchina morta continuasse a pulsare e a rombare indaffarata come una fabbrica,
mentre l’uomo giaceva così immobile. Era senza dubbio morto. Il sangue scorreva nell’erba da una
frattura irrimediabilmente fatale alla base del cranio; ma il volto,
rivolto al sole, era illeso e stranamente suggestivo
di per sé. Era uno di quei casi di un volto strano così
inconfondibile da parere familiare. Sentiamo, in qualche modo, che dovremmo
riconoscerlo, anche se non è così. Era del tipo largo e squadrato,
con grandi mascelle, quasi come quello di una scimmia altamente intellettuale;
la bocca ampia serrata così stretta da ridursi a una semplice linea; il
naso corto, con quel genere di narici che paiono spalancarsi con
appetito per l’aria. La cosa più singolare di quel volto era che uno
dei sopraccigli era inarcato a un angolo molto più acuto dell’
altro. March pensò di non aver mai visto un volto così naturalmente vivo come
quello morto. E la sua brutta energia pareva ancora più strana per la sua
aureola di capelli canuti. Alcune carte pendevano mezze cadute dalla tasca,
e di mezzo ad esse March estrasse un portabiglietti. Lesse ad alta voce il nome
sul biglietto. «Sir Humphrey Turnbull. Sono certo di aver già sentito quel nome da qualche parte.» Il suo compagno si limitò a emettere una sorta di piccolo sospiro e rimase in silenzio per un
istante, come rimuginando, poi disse soltanto: «Il pover’uomo se n’è
del tutto andato», e aggiunse alcuni termini scientifici nei quali il suo ascoltatore
si ritrovò ancora una volta fuori dalla propria portata. «Stando così le cose», continuò quella stessa persona curiosamente bene
informata, «sarà più legale per noi lasciare il corpo com’è finché non
sia avvertita la polizia. Anzi, penso che sarà bene che nessuno
tranne la polizia ne sia informato. Non si stupisca se sembrerò
tenerlo nascosto ad alcuni dei nostri vicini qui intorno.» Poi, come
spinto a regolarizzare la sua confidenza piuttosto brusca, disse: «Sono
sceso a trovare mio cugino a Torwood; mi chiamo Horne Fisher.
Potrebbe essere un gioco di parole sul mio gironzolare qui intorno, non è vero?» «Sir Howard Horne è suo cugino?» chiese March. «Anch’io mi sto
recando a Torwood Park a trovarlo; solo per il suo lavoro pubblico,
s’intende, e per la meravigliosa presa di posizione che sta compiendo in nome dei suoi principii.
Ritengo che questo Bilancio sia la cosa più grande nella storia inglese. Se
fallisce, sarà il più eroico fallimento della storia inglese. È
lei un ammiratore del suo grande parente, signor Fisher?» «Eccome», disse il signor Fisher. «È il miglior tiratore che io conosca.» Poi, come sinceramente pentito della sua noncuranza, aggiunse, con una
sorta di entusiasmo: «No, ma davvero, è un tiratore magnifico.» Come infiammato dalle sue stesse parole, spiccò una sorta di balzo verso gli spuntoni
della roccia sopra di lui, e li scalò con un’improvvisa agilità in
sorprendente contrasto con la sua generale svogliatezza. Era rimasto per alcuni
secondi sul promontorio in alto, con il suo profilo aquilino sotto il
panama stagliato contro il cielo, a scrutare la campagna
prima che il suo compagno si fosse ripreso a sufficienza per arrampicarsi
su dietro di lui. Il ripiano superiore era una distesa di erba comune sulla quale le tracce
dell’automobile votata alla rovina erano solcate ben chiaramente; ma il suo orlo era
spezzato come da denti di roccia; massi frantumati di ogni forma e dimensione
giacevano presso il ciglio; era quasi incredibile che qualcuno potesse aver
deliberatamente guidato dentro una simile trappola di morte, specie in pieno
giorno. «Non riesco a raccapezzarmici», disse March. «Era cieco? O
ubriaco fradicio?» «Né l’uno né l’altro, a giudicare dal suo aspetto», rispose l’altro. «Allora è stato suicidio.» «Non pare un modo molto comodo di farlo», osservò l’uomo di nome
Fisher. «Oltre tutto, non credo che il povero vecchio Puggy avrebbe commesso suicidio,
in qualche modo.» «Il povero vecchio chi?» domandò il giornalista meravigliato. «Conosceva
quest’uomo sventurato?» «Nessuno lo conosceva esattamente», rispose Fisher, con una certa vaghezza. «Ma
lo si conosceva, naturalmente. Era stato un terrore ai suoi tempi, in
Parlamento e nei tribunali, e via dicendo; specie in quella baruffa sugli
stranieri che furono espulsi come indesiderabili, quando volle che uno di
loro fosse impiccato per omicidio. Ne fu così disgustato che si ritirò dalla
magistratura. Da allora andava per lo più in automobile per conto proprio; ma stava
venendo anche lui a Torwood, per il fine settimana; e non vedo perché
dovesse deliberatamente rompersi il collo quasi sulla soglia stessa.
Credo che Hoggs—voglio dire mio cugino Howard—stesse scendendo apposta per
incontrarlo.» «Torwood Park non appartiene a suo cugino?» s’informò March. «No; un tempo apparteneva ai Winthrop, sa», rispose
l’altro. «Ora ce l’ha un uomo nuovo; un uomo di Montreal di nome Jenkins.
Hoggs viene per la caccia; le ho detto che era un tiratore delizioso.» Questo ripetuto elogio del grande statista sociale colpì Harold
March come se qualcuno avesse definito Napoleone un illustre giocatore
di nap. Ma un’altra impressione ancora informe si dibatteva in lui in quella
piena di cose sconosciute, ed egli la portò in superficie prima che
potesse svanire. «Jenkins», ripeté. «Non vorrà mica dire Jefferson Jenkins,
the social reformer? I mean the man who’s fighting for the new
cottage-estate scheme. It would be as interesting to meet him as any
Cabinet Minister in the world, if you’ll excuse my saying so.” “Yes; Hoggs told him it would have to be cottages,” said Fisher.
“He said the breed of cattle had improved too often, and people were
beginning to laugh. And, of course, you must hang a peerage on to
something; though the poor chap hasn’t got it yet. Hullo, here’s
somebody else.” They had started walking in the tracks of the car, leaving it behind
them in the hollow, still humming horribly like a huge insect that
had killed a man. The tracks took them to the corner of the road,
one arm of which went on in the same line toward the distant gates
of the park. It was clear that the car had been driven down the long
straight road, and then, instead of turning with the road to the
left, had gone straight on over the turf to its doom. But it was not
this discovery that had riveted Fisher’s eye, but something even
more solid. At the angle of the white road a dark and solitary
figure was standing almost as still as a finger post. It was that of
a big man in rough shooting-clothes, bareheaded, and with tousled
curly hair that gave him a rather wild look. On a nearer approach
this first more fantastic impression faded; in a full light the
figure took on more conventional colors, as of an ordinary gentleman
who happened to have come out without a hat and without very
studiously brushing his hair. But the massive stature remained, and
something deep and even cavernous about the setting of the eyes
redeemed his animal good looks from the commonplace. But March had
no time to study the man more closely, for, much to his
astonishment, his guide merely observed, “Hullo, Jack!” and walked
past him as if he had indeed been a signpost, and without attempting
to inform him of the catastrophe beyond the rocks. It was relatively
a small thing, but it was only the first in a string of singular
antics on which his new and eccentric friend was leading him. The man they had passed looked after them in rather a suspicious
fashion, but Fisher continued serenely on his way along the straight
road that ran past the gates of the great estate. “That’s John Burke, the traveler,” he condescended to explain. “I
expect you’ve heard of him; shoots big game and all that. Sorry I
couldn’t stop to introduce you, but I dare say you’ll meet him later
on.” “I know his book, of course,” said March, with renewed interest.
“That is certainly a fine piece of description, about their being
only conscious of the closeness of the elephant when the colossal
head blocked out the moon.” “Yes, young Halkett writes jolly well, I think. What? Didn’t you
know Halkett wrote Burke’s book for him? Burke can’t use anything
except a gun; and you can’t write with that. Oh, he’s genuine enough
in his way, you know, as brave as a lion, or a good deal braver by
all accounts.” “You seem to know all about him,” observed March, with a rather
bewildered laugh, “and about a good many other people.” Fisher’s bald brow became abruptly corrugated, and a curious
expression came into his eyes. “I know too much,” he said. “That’s what’s the matter with me.
That’s what’s the matter with all of us, and the whole show; we know
too much. Too much about one another; too much about ourselves.
That’s why I’m really interested, just now, about one thing that I
don’t know.” “And that is?” inquired the other. “Why that poor fellow is dead.” They had walked along the straight road for nearly a mile,
conversing at intervals in this fashion; and March had a singular
sense of the whole world being turned inside out. Mr. Horne Fisher
did not especially abuse his friends and relatives in fashionable
society; of some of them he spoke with affection. But they seemed to
be an entirely new set of men and women, who happened to have the
same nerves as the men and women mentioned most often in the
newspapers. Yet no fury of revolt could have seemed to him more
utterly revolutionary than this cold familiarity. It was like
daylight on the other side of stage scenery. They reached the great lodge gates of the park, and, to March’s
surprise, passed them and continued along the interminable white,
straight road. But he was himself too early for his appointment with
Sir Howard, and was not disinclined to see the end of his new
friend’s experiment, whatever it might be. They had long left the
moorland behind them, and half the white road was gray in the great
shadow of the Torwood pine forests, themselves like gray bars
shuttered against the sunshine and within, amid that clear noon,
manufacturing their own midnight. Soon, however, rifts began to
appear in them like gleams of colored windows; the trees thinned and
fell away as the road went forward, showing the wild, irregular
copses in which, as Fisher said, the house-party had been blazing
away all day. And about two hundred yards farther on they came to
the first turn of the road. At the corner stood a sort of decayed inn with the dingy sign of The
Grapes. The signboard was dark and indecipherable by now, and hung
black against the sky and the gray moorland beyond, about as
inviting as a gallows. March remarked that it looked like a tavern
for vinegar instead of wine. “A good phrase,” said Fisher, “and so it would be if you were silly
enough to drink wine in it. But the beer is very good, and so is the
brandy.” March followed him to the bar parlor with some wonder, and his dim
sense of repugnance was not dismissed by the first sight of the
innkeeper, who was widely different from the genial innkeepers of
romance, a bony man, very silent behind a black mustache, but with
black, restless eyes. Taciturn as he was, the investigator succeeded
il riformatore sociale? Intendo l’uomo che si batte per il nuovo
piano delle case coloniche. Sarebbe interessante incontrarlo quanto
qualsiasi ministro al mondo, se mi si passa l’espressione.» «Sì; Hoggs gli disse che dovevano essere case coloniche», disse Fisher.
«Disse che la razza dei bovini era stata migliorata troppe volte, e la gente
cominciava a ridere. E, naturalmente, un titolo nobiliare bisogna pur appenderlo a
qualcosa; sebbene il poveretto non l’abbia ancora ottenuto. Ehilà, ecco
qualcun altro.» Avevano cominciato a camminare sulle tracce dell’automobile, lasciandola dietro
di sé nell’avvallamento, ancora ronzante in modo orribile come un enorme insetto che
avesse ucciso un uomo. Le tracce li condussero all’angolo della strada,
uno dei cui bracci proseguiva sulla stessa linea verso i lontani cancelli
del parco. Era chiaro che l’automobile era stata guidata giù per la lunga
strada diritta, e poi, invece di svoltare con la strada verso
sinistra, aveva tirato dritto sull’erba incontro alla sua rovina. Ma non fu
questa scoperta a inchiodare lo sguardo di Fisher, bensì qualcosa di ancora
più solido. All’angolo della bianca strada una figura scura e solitaria
se ne stava immobile quasi quanto un palo indicatore. Era quella di
un uomo massiccio in ruvidi abiti da caccia, a capo scoperto, e con arruffati
capelli ricci che gli davano un aspetto piuttosto selvaggio. A un più ravvicinato esame
questa prima impressione più fantastica svanì; in piena luce la
figura assunse tinte più convenzionali, come di un comune gentiluomo
che si fosse trovato a uscire senza cappello e senza essersi
spazzolato i capelli con troppa cura. Ma la statura massiccia rimaneva, e
qualcosa di profondo e persino cavernoso nell’incastonatura degli occhi
riscattava la sua bellezza animale dalla banalità. Ma March non ebbe
il tempo di studiare l’uomo più da vicino, poiché, con suo grande
stupore, la sua guida si limitò a osservare: «Ehilà, Jack!» e gli passò
accanto come se fosse davvero stato un palo segnaletico, e senza tentare
di informarlo della catastrofe oltre le rocce. Era una cosa relativamente
piccola, ma fu solo la prima di una serie di singolari
stranezze verso cui il suo nuovo ed eccentrico amico lo stava conducendo. L’uomo che avevano oltrepassato li seguì con lo sguardo in modo piuttosto sospettoso
però Fisher proseguì serenamente per la sua via lungo la diritta
strada che correva oltre i cancelli della grande tenuta. «Quello è John Burke, il viaggiatore», si degnò di spiegare. «Immagino
che ne abbiate sentito parlare; caccia la selvaggina grossa e via dicendo. Spiacente di non
essermi potuto fermare a presentarvi, ma oserei dire che lo incontrerete più
tardi.» «Conosco il suo libro, naturalmente», disse March, con rinnovato interesse.
«È senza dubbio una bella pagina descrittiva, quella in cui sono
consapevoli della vicinanza dell’elefante solo quando la colossale
testa oscurò la luna.» «Sì, il giovane Halkett scrive proprio bene, credo. Come? Non
sapevate che fu Halkett a scrivere il libro per Burke? Burke non sa usare nulla
tranne un fucile; e con quello non si può scrivere. Oh, è abbastanza autentico
a modo suo, sapete, coraggioso come un leone, o assai più coraggioso a
detta di tutti.» «Sembra che sappiate tutto di lui», osservò March, con una risata piuttosto
sconcertata, «e di parecchie altre persone.» La fronte calva di Fisher si corrugò di colpo, e una curiosa
espressione gli affiorò negli occhi. «So troppo», disse. «È questo il mio problema.
È il problema di tutti noi, e dell’intera baracca; sappiamo
troppo. Troppo gli uni degli altri; troppo di noi stessi.
Ecco perché in questo momento mi interessa davvero una cosa che
non so.» «E cioè?» domandò l’altro. «Perché quel poveretto è morto.» Avevano camminato lungo la diritta strada per quasi un miglio,
conversando a intervalli in questo modo; e March aveva una singolare
sensazione che il mondo intero venisse rivoltato come un guanto. Il signor Horne Fisher
non malediceva particolarmente i suoi amici e parenti dell’alta
società; di alcuni di loro parlava con affetto. Ma sembravano
una schiera di uomini e donne del tutto nuova, che per caso avevano gli
stessi nervi degli uomini e delle donne menzionati più spesso sui
giornali. Eppure nessuna furia di rivolta gli sarebbe potuta sembrare più
totalmente rivoluzionaria di questa fredda familiarità. Era come
la luce del giorno dall’altro lato delle quinte di un palcoscenico. Raggiunsero i grandi cancelli della portineria del parco, e, con
sorpresa di March, li oltrepassarono e proseguirono lungo l’interminabile bianca,
diritta strada. Ma egli stesso era troppo in anticipo per il suo appuntamento con
Sir Howard, e non era restio a vedere la fine dell’esperimento del suo nuovo
amico, quale che fosse. Da tempo si erano lasciati alle spalle la
brughiera, e metà della bianca strada era grigia nella grande
ombra delle pinete di Torwood, esse stesse simili a grigie sbarre
serrate contro il sole e che dentro, in mezzo a quel limpido mezzogiorno,
fabbricavano la propria mezzanotte. Presto, tuttavia, cominciarono ad aprirvisi squarci
come bagliori di vetrate colorate; gli alberi si diradarono e
vennero meno mentre la strada proseguiva, rivelando i selvaggi, irregolari
boschetti in cui, come disse Fisher, gli ospiti della villa avevano sparato
tutto il giorno. E circa duecento iarde più avanti giunsero alla
prima svolta della strada. All’angolo sorgeva una specie di locanda decrepita con la sudicia insegna del The
Grapes. L’insegna era ormai scura e indecifrabile, e pendeva
nera contro il cielo e la grigia brughiera al di là, invitante
press’a poco quanto una forca. March osservò che sembrava una taverna
per l’aceto anziché per il vino. «Una bella espressione», disse Fisher, «e tale sarebbe se foste tanto sciocco
da bervi del vino. Ma la birra è ottima, e così pure il
brandy.» March lo seguì nella saletta del bar con una certa meraviglia, e il suo vago
senso di ripugnanza non fu dissipato dalla prima vista del
locandiere, ben diverso dai gioviali locandieri del
romanzo, un uomo ossuto, molto silenzioso dietro baffi neri, ma con
occhi neri e inquieti. Per quanto taciturno, l’investigatore riuscì
at last in extracting a scrap of information from him, by dint of
ordering beer and talking to him persistently and minutely on the
subject of motor cars. He evidently regarded the innkeeper as in
some singular way an authority on motor cars; as being deep in the
secrets of the mechanism, management, and mismanagement of motor
cars; holding the man all the time with a glittering eye like the
Ancient Mariner. Out of all this rather mysterious conversation
there did emerge at last a sort of admission that one particular
motor car, of a given description, had stopped before the inn about
an hour before, and that an elderly man had alighted, requiring some
mechanical assistance. Asked if the visitor required any other
assistance, the innkeeper said shortly that the old gentleman had
filled his flask and taken a packet of sandwiches. And with these
words the somewhat inhospitable host had walked hastily out of the
bar, and they heard him banging doors in the dark interior. Fisher’s weary eye wandered round the dusty and dreary inn parlor
and rested dreamily on a glass case containing a stuffed bird, with
a gun hung on hooks above it, which seemed to be its only ornament. “Puggy was a humorist,” he observed, “at least in his own rather
grim style. But it seems rather too grim a joke for a man to buy a
packet of sandwiches when he is just going to commit suicide.” “If you come to that,” answered March, “it isn’t very usual for a
man to buy a packet of sandwiches when he’s just outside the door of
a grand house he’s going to stop at.” “No … no,” repeated Fisher, almost mechanically; and then
suddenly cocked his eye at his interlocutor with a much livelier
expression. “By Jove! that’s an idea. You’re perfectly right. And that suggests
a very queer idea, doesn’t it?” There was a silence, and then March started with irrational
nervousness as the door of the inn was flung open and another man
walked rapidly to the counter. He had struck it with a coin and
called out for brandy before he saw the other two guests, who were
sitting at a bare wooden table under the window. When he turned
about with a rather wild stare, March had yet another unexpected
emotion, for his guide hailed the man as Hoggs and introduced him as
Sir Howard Horne. He looked rather older than his boyish portraits in the illustrated
papers, as is the way of politicians; his flat, fair hair was
touched with gray, but his face was almost comically round, with a
Roman nose which, when combined with his quick, bright eyes, raised
a vague reminiscence of a parrot. He had a cap rather at the back of
his head and a gun under his arm. Harold March had imagined many
things about his meeting with the great political reformer, but he
had never pictured him with a gun under his arm, drinking brandy in
a public house. “So you’re stopping at Jink’s, too,” said Fisher. “Everybody seems
to be at Jink’s.” “Yes,” replied the Chancellor of the Exchequer. “Jolly good
shooting. At least all of it that isn’t Jink’s shooting. I never
knew a chap with such good shooting that was such a bad shot. Mind
you, he’s a jolly good fellow and all that; I don’t say a word
against him. But he never learned to hold a gun when he was packing
pork or whatever he did. They say he shot the cockade off his own
servant’s hat; just like him to have cockades, of course. He shot
the weathercock off his own ridiculous gilded summerhouse. It’s the
only cock he’ll ever kill, I should think. Are you coming up there
now?” Fisher said, rather vaguely, that he was following soon, when he had
fixed something up; and the Chancellor of the Exchequer left the
inn. March fancied he had been a little upset or impatient when he
called for the brandy; but he had talked himself back into a
satisfactory state, if the talk had not been quite what his literary
visitor had expected. Fisher, a few minutes afterward, slowly led
the way out of the tavern and stood in the middle of the road,
looking down in the direction from which they had traveled. Then he
walked back about two hundred yards in that direction and stood
still again. “I should think this is about the place,” he said. “What place?” asked his companion. “The place where the poor fellow was killed,” said Fisher, sadly. “What do you mean?” demanded March. “He was smashed up on the rocks a mile and a half from here.” “No, he wasn’t,” replied Fisher. “He didn’t fall on the rocks at
all. Didn’t you notice that he only fell on the slope of soft grass
underneath? But I saw that he had a bullet in him already.” Then after a pause he added: “He was alive at the inn, but he was dead long before he came to the
rocks. So he was shot as he drove his car down this strip of
straight road, and I should think somewhere about here. After that,
of course, the car went straight on with nobody to stop or turn it.
It’s really a very cunning dodge in its way; for the body would be
found far away, and most people would say, as you do, that it was an
accident to a motorist. The murderer must have been a clever brute.” “But wouldn’t the shot be heard at the inn or somewhere?” asked
March. “It would be heard. But it would not be noticed. That,” continued
the investigator, “is where he was clever again. Shooting was going
on all over the place all day; very likely he timed his shot so as
to drown it in a number of others. Certainly he was a first-class
criminal. And he was something else as well.” “What do you mean?” asked his companion, with a creepy premonition
of something coming, he knew not why. “He was a first-class shot,” said Fisher. He had turned his back
abruptly and was walking down a narrow, grassy lane, little more
than a cart track, which lay opposite the inn and marked the end of
the great estate and the beginning of the open moors. March plodded
after him with the same idle perseverance, and found him staring
a cavargli infine di bocca un frammento d’informazione, a furia di
ordinare birra e parlargli con insistenza e minuzia in
materia di automobili. Egli evidentemente considerava l’oste, in
qualche modo singolare, un’autorità in fatto di automobili; addentro ai
segreti del meccanismo, della gestione e della cattiva gestione delle
automobili; tenendo l’uomo per tutto il tempo con un occhio scintillante come il
Vecchio Marinaio. Da tutta questa conversazione piuttosto misteriosa
emerse infine una sorta di ammissione: che una particolare
automobile, di una data descrizione, si era fermata davanti alla locanda circa
un’ora prima, e che un uomo anziano ne era sceso, avendo bisogno di una qualche
assistenza meccanica. Interrogato se il visitatore avesse richiesto altra
assistenza, l’oste disse seccamente che il vecchio gentiluomo aveva
riempito la sua fiaschetta e preso un pacchetto di panini. E con queste
parole l’ospite alquanto inospitale era uscito in fretta dal
bancone, e lo udirono sbattere porte nel buio interno. L’occhio stanco di Fisher vagò per la polverosa e tetra saletta della locanda
e si posò sognante su una teca di vetro contenente un uccello impagliato, con
un fucile appeso a dei ganci sopra di essa, che pareva esserne l’unico ornamento. «Puggy era un umorista», osservò, «almeno nel suo modo piuttosto
macabro. Ma sembra uno scherzo un po’ troppo macabro, per un uomo, comprare un
pacchetto di panini quando sta giusto per commettere un suicidio.» «Se è per questo», rispose March, «non è molto usuale che un
uomo compri un pacchetto di panini quando è giusto fuori dalla porta di
una grande casa in cui sta per fermarsi.» «No… no», ripeté Fisher, quasi meccanicamente; e poi
improvvisamente drizzò l’occhio verso il suo interlocutore con un’espressione molto più
vivace. «Perbacco! Ecco un’idea. Avete perfettamente ragione. E questo suggerisce
un’idea davvero curiosa, non è vero?» Vi fu un silenzio, e poi March sussultò con un irrazionale
nervosismo quando la porta della locanda fu spalancata e un altro uomo
si diresse rapido al bancone. Vi aveva battuto sopra con una moneta e
aveva chiesto ad alta voce del brandy prima di vedere gli altri due avventori, che
sedevano a un nudo tavolo di legno sotto la finestra. Quando si
voltò con uno sguardo piuttosto stravolto, March ebbe un’altra inattesa
emozione, poiché la sua guida salutò l’uomo chiamandolo Hoggs e lo presentò come
Sir Howard Horne. Egli appariva piuttosto più vecchio dei suoi ritratti giovanili sui giornali
illustrati, come accade ai politici; i suoi capelli lisci e biondi erano
sfiorati di grigio, ma il suo volto era quasi comicamente tondo, con un
naso romano che, unito ai suoi occhi vivaci e brillanti, suscitava
una vaga reminiscenza di un pappagallo. Portava un berretto piuttosto all’indietro sulla
testa e un fucile sotto il braccio. Harold March aveva immaginato molte
cose sul suo incontro con il grande riformatore politico, ma non
lo aveva mai raffigurato con un fucile sotto il braccio, a bere brandy in
un pubblico locale. «Così anche voi alloggiate da Jink», disse Fisher. «Sembra che tutti
siano da Jink.» «Sì», replicò il Cancelliere dello Scacchiere. «Caccia proprio
ottima. Almeno tutta quella che non è la caccia di Jink. Non ho mai
conosciuto un tale con una riserva così buona che fosse un tiratore così scarso. Badate,
è un ottimo compagnone e tutto quanto; non dico una parola
contro di lui. Ma non ha mai imparato a impugnare un fucile quando confezionava
carne di maiale o qualunque cosa facesse. Dicono che abbia fatto saltare la coccarda dal
cappello del proprio servitore; proprio da lui avere coccarde, naturalmente. Fece saltare
il gallo segnavento dal proprio ridicolo padiglione estivo dorato. È l’unico
gallo che ucciderà mai, direi. Salite lassù
adesso?» Fisher disse, piuttosto vagamente, che li avrebbe seguiti presto, non appena avesse
sistemato una faccenda; e il Cancelliere dello Scacchiere lasciò la
locanda. March immaginò che fosse stato un po’ turbato o impaziente quando
aveva chiesto il brandy; ma parlando si era riportato a uno
stato soddisfacente, anche se il discorso non era stato proprio ciò che il suo
visitatore letterario si era aspettato. Fisher, pochi minuti dopo, lentamente aprì
la via fuori dalla taverna e si fermò in mezzo alla strada,
guardando giù nella direzione da cui erano venuti. Poi
tornò indietro di circa duecento iarde in quella direzione e si fermò
di nuovo immobile. «Direi che è più o meno questo il posto», disse. «Quale posto?» chiese il suo compagno. «Il posto dove il povero uomo è stato ucciso», disse Fisher, tristemente. «Che cosa intendete?» incalzò March. «Si è sfracellato sulle rocce a un miglio e mezzo da qui.» «No, non è così», replicò Fisher. «Non è affatto caduto sulle
rocce. Non avete notato che è caduto soltanto sul pendio d’erba morbida
sottostante? Ma io ho visto che aveva già una pallottola in corpo.» Poi, dopo una pausa, aggiunse: «Era vivo alla locanda, ma era morto molto prima di arrivare alle
rocce. Dunque fu colpito mentre guidava l’auto lungo questo tratto di
strada dritta, e direi da qualche parte qui intorno. Dopodiché,
naturalmente, l’auto proseguì dritta senza nessuno a fermarla o a sterzarla.
È davvero uno stratagemma molto astuto, a suo modo; poiché il corpo sarebbe
stato trovato lontano, e i più direbbero, come voi, che si trattasse di un
incidente d’automobilista. L’assassino dev’essere stato un bruto ingegnoso.» «Ma lo sparo non sarebbe stato udito alla locanda o da qualche parte?» chiese
March. «Sarebbe stato udito. Ma non sarebbe stato notato. Ecco», proseguì
l’investigatore, «dove fu di nuovo abile. Si sparava
dappertutto tutto il giorno; molto probabilmente calcolò il momento dello sparo così da
annegarlo in parecchi altri. Di certo era un criminale di prima
categoria. Ed era anche qualcos’altro, per giunta.» «Che cosa intendete?» chiese il suo compagno, con un raccapricciante presentimento
di qualcosa in arrivo, non sapeva perché. «Era un tiratore di prim’ordine», disse Fisher. Aveva voltato le spalle
bruscamente e stava scendendo per uno stretto sentiero erboso, poco più
di una carrareccia, che si trovava di fronte alla locanda e segnava la fine
della grande tenuta e l’inizio delle brughiere aperte. March arrancò
dietro di lui con la stessa oziosa perseveranza, e lo trovò che fissava
through a gap in giant weeds and thorns at the flat face of a
painted paling. From behind the paling rose the great gray columns
of a row of poplars, which filled the heavens above them with
dark-green shadow and shook faintly in a wind which had sunk slowly
into a breeze. The afternoon was already deepening into evening, and
the titanic shadows of the poplars lengthened over a third of the
landscape. “Are you a first-class criminal?” asked Fisher, in a friendly tone.
“I’m afraid I’m not. But I think I can manage to be a sort of
fourth-rate burglar.” And before his companion could reply he had managed to swing himself
up and over the fence; March followed without much bodily effort,
but with considerable mental disturbance. The poplars grew so close
against the fence that they had some difficulty in slipping past
them, and beyond the poplars they could see only a high hedge of
laurel, green and lustrous in the level sun. Something in this
limitation by a series of living walls made him feel as if he were
really entering a shattered house instead of an open field. It was
as if he came in by a disused door or window and found the way
blocked by furniture. When they had circumvented the laurel hedge,
they came out on a sort of terrace of turf, which fell by one green
step to an oblong lawn like a bowling green. Beyond this was the
only building in sight, a low conservatory, which seemed far away
from anywhere, like a glass cottage standing in its own fields in
fairyland. Fisher knew that lonely look of the outlying parts of a
great house well enough. He realized that it is more of a satire on
aristocracy than if it were choked with weeds and littered with
ruins. For it is not neglected and yet it is deserted; at any rate,
it is disused. It is regularly swept and garnished for a master who
never comes. Looking over the lawn, however, he saw one object which he had not
apparently expected. It was a sort of tripod supporting a large disk
like the round top of a table tipped sideways, and it was not until
they had dropped on to the lawn and walked across to look at it that
March realized that it was a target. It was worn and weatherstained;
the gay colors of its concentric rings were faded; possibly it had
been set up in those far-off Victorian days when there was a fashion
of archery. March had one of his vague visions of ladies in cloudy
crinolines and gentlemen in outlandish hats and whiskers revisiting
that lost garden like ghosts. Fisher, who was peering more closely at the target, startled him by
an exclamation. “Hullo!” he said. “Somebody has been peppering this thing with
shot, after all, and quite lately, too. Why, I believe old Jink’s
been trying to improve his bad shooting here.” “Yes, and it looks as if it still wanted improving,” answered March,
laughing. “Not one of these shots is anywhere near the bull’s-eye;
they seem just scattered about in the wildest way.” “In the wildest way,” repeated Fisher, still peering intently at the
target. He seemed merely to assent, but March fancied his eye was
shining under its sleepy lid and that he straightened his stooping
figure with a strange effort. “Excuse me a moment,” he said, feeling in his pockets. “I think I’ve
got some of my chemicals; and after that we’ll go up to the house.”
And he stooped again over the target, putting something with his
finger over each of the shot-holes, so far as March could see merely
a dull-gray smear. Then they went through the gathering twilight up
the long green avenues to the great house. Here again, however, the eccentric investigator did not enter by the
front door. He walked round the house until he found a window open,
and, leaping into it, introduced his friend to what appeared to be
the gun-room. Rows of the regular instruments for bringing down
birds stood against the walls; but across a table in the window lay
one or two weapons of a heavier and more formidable pattern. “Hullo! these are Burke’s big-game rifles,” said Fisher. “I never
knew he kept them here.” He lifted one of them, examined it briefly,
and put it down again, frowning heavily. Almost as he did so a
strange young man came hurriedly into the room. He was dark and
sturdy, with a bumpy forehead and a bulldog jaw, and he spoke with a
curt apology. “I left Major Burke’s guns here,” he said, “and he wants them packed
up. He’s going away to-night.” And he carried off the two rifles without casting a glance at the
stranger; through the open window they could see his short, dark
figure walking away across the glimmering garden. Fisher got out of
the window again and stood looking after him. “That’s Halkett, whom I told you about,” he said. “I knew he was a
sort of secretary and had to do with Burke’s papers; but I never
knew he had anything to do with his guns. But he’s just the sort of
silent, sensible little devil who might be very good at anything;
the sort of man you know for years before you find he’s a chess
champion.” He had begun to walk in the direction of the disappearing secretary,
and they soon came within sight of the rest of the house-party
talking and laughing on the lawn. They could see the tall figure and
loose mane of the lion-hunter dominating the little group. “By the way,” observed Fisher, “when we were talking about Burke and
Halkett, I said that a man couldn’t very well write with a gun.
Well, I’m not so sure now. Did you ever hear of an artist so clever
that he could draw with a gun? There’s a wonderful chap loose about
here.” Sir Howard hailed Fisher and his friend the journalist with almost
boisterous amiability. The latter was presented to Major Burke and
Mr. Halkett and also (by way of a parenthesis) to his host, Mr.
attraverso uno squarcio tra erbacce e rovi giganteschi, sulla piatta faccia di uno
steccato dipinto. Dietro lo steccato si levavano le grandi colonne grigie
di una fila di pioppi, che riempivano il cielo sopra di loro di
ombra verde cupo e tremavano lievemente in un vento che era lentamente calato
in una brezza. Il pomeriggio già si faceva sera, e
le titaniche ombre dei pioppi si allungavano su un terzo del
paesaggio. «Siete un criminale di prima categoria?» chiese Fisher, in tono amichevole.
«Temo di no. Ma credo di poter riuscire a essere una specie di
scassinatore di quart’ordine.» E prima che il suo compagno potesse rispondere era riuscito a issarsi
oltre lo steccato; March lo seguì senza troppa fatica fisica,
ma con notevole turbamento mentale. I pioppi crescevano così addossati
allo steccato che ebbero qualche difficoltà a passar oltre
di essi, e oltre i pioppi non si vedeva che un’alta siepe di
alloro, verde e lucente nel sole radente. Qualcosa in questa
clausura fatta di una serie di muri viventi gli diede la sensazione di
entrare davvero in una casa in rovina anziché in un campo aperto. Era
come se entrasse da una porta o una finestra in disuso e trovasse il passaggio
ostruito dai mobili. Quando ebbero aggirato la siepe d’alloro,
sbucarono su una specie di terrazza erbosa, che scendeva con un verde
gradino a un prato oblungo simile a un campo da bocce. Oltre di esso c’era il
solo edificio in vista, una bassa serra, che pareva lontana
da ogni luogo, come una casetta di vetro posta nei propri campi nel
paese delle fate. Fisher conosceva bene quell’aria solitaria delle parti periferiche di una
grande dimora abbastanza bene. Comprese che essa è più una satira sull’
aristocrazia di quanto lo sarebbe se fosse soffocata dalle erbacce e ingombra di
rovine. Poiché non è trascurata eppure è deserta; in ogni caso,
è in disuso. Viene regolarmente spazzata e adornata per un padrone che
non viene mai. Guardando il prato, tuttavia, vide un oggetto che non aveva
apparentemente previsto. Era una specie di treppiede che sorreggeva un grande disco
simile al piano rotondo di un tavolo inclinato di lato, e fu solo quando
furono scesi sul prato e l’ebbero attraversato per osservarlo che
March capì che era un bersaglio. Era logoro e segnato dalle intemperie;
i colori vivaci dei suoi anelli concentrici erano sbiaditi; forse era stato
collocato in quei lontani giorni vittoriani in cui era di moda
il tiro con l’arco. March ebbe una delle sue vaghe visioni di dame in vaporose
crinoline e di gentiluomini dai cappelli e favoriti stravaganti che rivisitavano
quel giardino perduto come fantasmi. Fisher, che scrutava più da vicino il bersaglio, lo fece trasalire con
un’esclamazione. «Ehilà!» disse. «Qualcuno ha crivellato questo affare di
pallini, dopotutto, e anche di recente. Perbacco, credo che il vecchio Jink
abbia cercato di migliorare qui la sua pessima mira.» «Sì, e pare che avesse ancora bisogno di migliorare» rispose March,
ridendo. «Nemmeno uno di questi colpi è vicino al centro;
sembrano sparsi qua e là nel modo più caotico.» «Nel modo più caotico» ripeté Fisher, ancora scrutando intento il
bersaglio. Sembrava soltanto assentire, ma March immaginò che il suo occhio
brillasse sotto la palpebra assonnata e che raddrizzasse la sua curva
figura con uno strano sforzo. «Scusatemi un momento» disse, frugandosi nelle tasche. «Credo di avere
con me alcune delle mie sostanze chimiche; e dopo saliremo alla casa.»
E si chinò di nuovo sul bersaglio, applicando qualcosa con il
dito su ciascuno dei fori dei colpi, per quanto March potesse vedere solo
una macchia grigio spenta. Poi salirono attraverso il crepuscolo crescente
i lunghi viali verdi verso la grande dimora. Anche qui, tuttavia, l’eccentrico investigatore non entrò dalla
porta principale. Girò attorno alla casa finché non trovò una finestra aperta,
e, saltandovi dentro, introdusse l’amico in quella che sembrava essere
la sala delle armi. File dei consueti strumenti per abbattere
uccelli stavano contro le pareti; ma su un tavolo presso la finestra giacevano
una o due armi di foggia più pesante e più temibile. «Ehilà! questi sono i fucili da caccia grossa di Burke» disse Fisher. «Non ho mai
saputo che li tenesse qui.» Ne sollevò uno, lo esaminò brevemente,
e lo posò di nuovo, aggrottando pesantemente la fronte. Quasi nel farlo un
giovane sconosciuto entrò in fretta nella stanza. Era bruno e
tarchiato, con la fronte bitorzoluta e una mascella da bulldog, e parlò con una
brusca scusa. «Ho lasciato qui i fucili del maggiore Burke» disse «e lui li vuole impacchettati
per bene. Parte questa notte.» E portò via i due fucili senza gettare uno sguardo allo
sconosciuto; attraverso la finestra aperta potevano vedere la sua figura bassa e scura
allontanarsi attraverso il giardino scintillante. Fisher uscì di nuovo dalla
finestra e rimase a guardarlo mentre si allontanava. «Quello è Halkett, di cui vi ho parlato» disse. «Sapevo che era una
specie di segretario e che si occupava delle carte di Burke; ma non ho mai
saputo che avesse a che fare con i suoi fucili. Ma è proprio quel genere di
diavoletto silenzioso e assennato che potrebbe essere bravissimo in qualsiasi cosa;
il tipo d’uomo che conosci per anni prima di scoprire che è un campione di
scacchi.» Aveva cominciato a camminare nella direzione del segretario che spariva,
e presto giunsero in vista del resto degli ospiti della casa
che chiacchieravano e ridevano sul prato. Potevano vedere l’alta figura e
la criniera scomposta del cacciatore di leoni che dominava il gruppetto. «A proposito» osservò Fisher «quando parlavamo di Burke e
Halkett, dissi che un uomo non poteva certo scrivere bene con un fucile.
Beh, ora non ne sono così sicuro. Avete mai sentito di un artista tanto abile
da saper disegnare con un fucile? C’è un tipo straordinario a piede libero da queste
parti.» Sir Howard salutò Fisher e il suo amico giornalista con una cordialità quasi
chiassosa. Quest’ultimo fu presentato al maggiore Burke e a
Mr. Halkett e anche (per inciso) al suo ospite, Mr.
Jenkins, a commonplace little man in loud tweeds, whom everybody
else seemed to treat with a sort of affection, as if he were a baby. The irrepressible Chancellor of the Exchequer was still talking
about the birds he had brought down, the birds that Burke and
Halkett had brought down, and the birds that Jenkins, their host,
had failed to bring down. It seemed to be a sort of sociable
monomania. “You and your big game,” he ejaculated, aggressively, to Burke.
“Why, anybody could shoot big game. You want to be a shot to shoot
small game.” “Quite so,” interposed Horne Fisher. “Now if only a hippopotamus
could fly up in the air out of that bush, or you preserved flying
elephants on the estate, why, then—” “Why even Jink might hit that sort of bird,” cried Sir Howard,
hilariously slapping his host on the back. “Even he might hit a
haystack or a hippopotamus.” “Look here, you fellows,” said Fisher. “I want you to come along
with me for a minute and shoot at something else. Not a
hippopotamus. Another kind of queer animal I’ve found on the estate.
It’s an animal with three legs and one eye, and it’s all the colors
of the rainbow.” “What the deuce are you talking about?” asked Burke. “You come along and see,” replied Fisher, cheerfully. Such people seldom reject anything nonsensical, for they are always
seeking for something new. They gravely rearmed themselves from the
gun-room and trooped along at the tail of their guide, Sir Howard
only pausing, in a sort of ecstasy, to point out the celebrated gilt
summerhouse on which the gilt weathercock still stood crooked. It
was dusk turning to dark by the time they reached the remote green
by the poplars and accepted the new and aimless game of shooting at
the old mark. The last light seemed to fade from the lawn, and the poplars against
the sunset were like great plumes upon a purple hearse, when the
futile procession finally curved round, and came out in front of the
target. Sir Howard again slapped his host on the shoulder, shoving
him playfully forward to take the first shot. The shoulder and arm
he touched seemed unnaturally stiff and angular. Mr. Jenkins was
holding his gun in an attitude more awkward than any that his
satiric friends had seen or expected. At the same instant a horrible scream seemed to come from nowhere.
It was so unnatural and so unsuited to the scene that it might have
been made by some inhuman thing flying on wings above them or
eavesdropping in the dark woods beyond. But Fisher knew that it had
started and stopped on the pale lips of Jefferson Jenkins, of
Montreal, and no one at that moment catching sight of Jefferson
Jenkins’s face would have complained that it was commonplace. The
next moment a torrent of guttural but good-humored oaths came from
Major Burke as he and the two other men saw what was in front of
them. The target stood up in the dim grass like a dark goblin
grinning at them, and it was literally grinning. It had two eyes
like stars, and in similar livid points of light were picked out the
two upturned and open nostrils and the two ends of the wide and
tight mouth. A few white dots above each eye indicated the hoary
eyebrows; and one of them ran upward almost erect. It was a
brilliant caricature done in bright dotted lines and March knew of
whom. It shone in the shadowy grass, smeared with sea fire as if one
of the submarine monsters had crawled into the twilight garden; but
it had the head of a dead man. “It’s only luminous paint,” said Burke. “Old Fisher’s been having a
joke with that phosphorescent stuff of his.” “Seems to be meant for old Puggy”’ observed Sir Howard. “Hits him
off very well.” With that they all laughed, except Jenkins. When they had all done,
he made a noise like the first effort of an animal to laugh, and
Horne Fisher suddenly strode across to him and said: “Mr. Jenkins, I must speak to you at once in private.” It was by the little watercourse in the moors, on the slope under
the hanging rock, that March met his new friend Fisher, by
appointment, shortly after the ugly and almost grotesque scene that
had broken up the group in the garden. “It was a monkey-trick of mine,” observed Fisher, gloomily, “putting
phosphorus on the target; but the only chance to make him jump was
to give him the horrors suddenly. And when he saw the face he’d shot
at shining on the target he practiced on, all lit up with an
infernal light, he did jump. Quite enough for my own intellectual
satisfaction.” “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand even now,” said March, “exactly
what he did or why he did it.” “You ought to,” replied Fisher, with his rather dreary smile, “for
you gave me the first suggestion yourself. Oh yes, you did; and it
was a very shrewd one. You said a man wouldn’t take sandwiches with
him to dine at a great house. It was quite true; and the inference
was that, though he was going there, he didn’t mean to dine there.
Or, at any rate, that he might not be dining there. It occurred to
me at once that he probably expected the visit to be unpleasant, or
the reception doubtful, or something that would prevent his
accepting hospitality. Then it struck me that Turnbull was a terror
to certain shady characters in the past, and that he had come down
to identify and denounce one of them. The chances at the start
pointed to the host—that is, Jenkins. I’m morally certain now that
Jenkins was the undesirable alien Turnbull wanted to convict in
another shooting-affair, but you see the shooting gentleman had
another shot in his locker.” “But you said he would have to be a very good shot,” protested
March. “Jenkins is a very good shot,” said Fisher. “A very good shot who
can pretend to be a very bad shot. Shall I tell you the second hint
I hit on, after yours, to make me think it was Jenkins? It was my
cousin’s account of his bad shooting. He’d shot a cockade off a hat
Jenkins, un ometto insignificante in vistosi tweed, che tutti gli
altri parevano trattare con una sorta di affetto, come se fosse un bambino. L’irrefrenabile Cancelliere dello Scacchiere parlava ancora
degli uccelli che aveva abbattuto, degli uccelli che Burke e
Halkett avevano abbattuto, e degli uccelli che Jenkins, il loro ospite,
non erano riusciti ad abbattere. Sembrava una sorta di socievole
monomania. «Voi e la vostra caccia grossa» esclamò, aggressivo, rivolto a Burke.
«Perbacco, chiunque saprebbe cacciare la selvaggina grossa. Bisogna essere tiratori per cacciare
la selvaggina piccola.» «Proprio così» s’interpose Horne Fisher. «Ora, se solo un ippopotamo
potesse spiccare il volo da quel cespuglio, o se allevaste elefanti
volanti nella tenuta, allora, ebbene—» «Perbacco, persino Jink potrebbe colpire un uccello del genere» gridò Sir Howard,
dando allegramente una pacca sulla schiena all’ospite. «Persino lui potrebbe colpire un
pagliaio o un ippopotamo.» «Sentite, amici» disse Fisher. «Voglio che veniate
con me un momento a sparare a qualcos’altro. Non un
ippopotamo. Un altro tipo di strano animale che ho trovato nella tenuta.
È un animale con tre zampe e un occhio solo, ed è di tutti i colori
dell’arcobaleno.» «Che diavolo state dicendo?» chiese Burke. «Venite a vedere» replicò Fisher, allegro. Gente simile raramente rifiuta qualcosa di assurdo, poiché è sempre
in cerca di qualcosa di nuovo. Si riarmarono con gravità nella
sala delle armi e si accodarono in fila dietro la loro guida, Sir Howard
fermandosi solo, in una sorta di estasi, a indicare la celebre
pergola dorata sulla quale la dorata banderuola stava ancora storta.
Era il crepuscolo che volgeva al buio nel momento in cui raggiunsero il remoto verde
presso i pioppi e accettarono il nuovo e insensato gioco di sparare al
vecchio bersaglio. L’ultima luce pareva svanire dal prato, e i pioppi contro
il tramonto erano come grandi pennacchi su un carro funebre purpureo, quando la
futile processione infine descrisse una curva e sbucò davanti al
bersaglio. Sir Howard diede di nuovo una pacca sulla spalla all’ospite, spingendolo
scherzosamente avanti perché sparasse per primo. La spalla e il braccio
che toccò parevano innaturalmente rigidi e angolosi. Mr. Jenkins
imbracciava il fucile in un atteggiamento più goffo di qualsiasi altro che i suoi
amici canzonatori avessero visto o previsto. Nello stesso istante un urlo orribile parve venire dal nulla.
Era così innaturale e così poco adatto alla scena che poteva
essere stato emesso da qualche cosa disumana in volo su ali sopra di loro o
in ascolto furtivo nei boschi oscuri più oltre. Ma Fisher sapeva che era
iniziato e cessato sulle pallide labbra di Jefferson Jenkins, di
Montreal, e nessuno che in quel momento avesse scorto il volto di Jefferson
Jenkins si sarebbe lamentato che fosse insignificante. L’
istante seguente un torrente di imprecazioni gutturali ma bonarie venne dal
Maggiore Burke mentre lui e gli altri due uomini videro ciò che avevano davanti
a loro. Il bersaglio si ergeva nell’erba fioca come un cupo folletto
che li sogghignava, e sogghignava letteralmente. Aveva due occhi
come stelle, e in simili lividi punti di luce erano tratteggiate le
due narici all’insù e aperte e le due estremità della bocca larga e
serrata. Alcuni punti bianchi sopra ciascun occhio indicavano le canute
sopracciglia; e una di esse saliva quasi ritta. Era una
brillante caricatura fatta di vivide linee punteggiate e March sapeva di
chi. Splendeva nell’erba in ombra, spalmata di fuoco marino come se uno
dei mostri sottomarini fosse strisciato nel giardino crepuscolare; ma
aveva la testa di un morto. «È solo vernice luminosa» disse Burke. «Il vecchio Fisher si è preso una
burla con quella sua roba fosforescente.» «Pare sia fatto per il vecchio Puggy» osservò Sir Howard. «Lo ritrae
davvero bene.» A quel punto risero tutti, tranne Jenkins. Quando ebbero finito,
egli emise un suono simile al primo sforzo di un animale che tenta di ridere, e
Horne Fisher a un tratto gli si avvicinò a grandi passi e disse: «Mr. Jenkins, devo parlarvi subito in privato.» Fu presso il piccolo corso d’acqua nella brughiera, sul pendio sotto
la roccia a strapiombo, che March incontrò il suo nuovo amico Fisher, su
appuntamento, poco dopo la brutta e quasi grottesca scena che
aveva disperso il gruppo nel giardino. «È stata una mia birbonata» osservò Fisher, cupo «mettere
del fosforo sul bersaglio; ma l’unica possibilità di farlo sobbalzare era
dargli d’improvviso il terrore. E quando vide il volto a cui aveva sparato
risplendere sul bersaglio su cui si esercitava, tutto illuminato da una
luce infernale, sobbalzò eccome. Abbastanza per la mia personale soddisfazione
intellettuale.» «Temo di non capire bene neppure ora» disse March «esattamente
cosa abbia fatto o perché l’abbia fatto.» «Dovreste» replicò Fisher, col suo sorriso piuttosto tetro «perché
mi avete dato voi stesso il primo indizio. Oh sì, l’avete fatto; ed
era molto acuto. Diceste che un uomo non si porterebbe dei panini
per cenare in una grande dimora. Era del tutto vero; e se ne deduceva
che, pur andandoci, non intendeva cenarvi.
O, in ogni caso, che poteva darsi non vi cenasse. Mi venne
subito in mente che probabilmente si aspettava che la visita fosse sgradevole, o
l’accoglienza incerta, o qualcosa che gli avrebbe impedito di
accettare ospitalità. Poi mi colpì il pensiero che Turnbull fosse il terrore
di certi loschi individui in passato, e che fosse venuto quaggiù
per identificarne e denunciarne uno. Le probabilità all’inizio
indicavano l’ospite—cioè Jenkins. Ora sono moralmente certo che
Jenkins fosse lo straniero indesiderato che Turnbull voleva far condannare in
un altro affare di sparatoria, ma vedete, il gentiluomo tiratore aveva
un altro colpo in canna.» «Ma avete detto che dovrebbe essere un ottimo tiratore» protestò
March. «Jenkins è un ottimo tiratore» disse Fisher. «Un ottimo tiratore che
sa fingersi un pessimo tiratore. Volete che vi dica il secondo indizio
su cui mi imbattei, dopo il vostro, per farmi pensare che fosse Jenkins? Fu il
racconto di mio cugino sulla sua pessima mira. Aveva staccato con un colpo una coccarda da un cappello
and a weathercock off a building. Now, in fact, a man must shoot
very well indeed to shoot so badly as that. He must shoot very
neatly to hit the cockade and not the head, or even the hat. If the
shots had really gone at random, the chances are a thousand to one
that they would not have hit such prominent and picturesque objects.
They were chosen because they were prominent and picturesque
objects. They make a story to go the round of society. He keeps the
crooked weathercock in the summerhouse to perpetuate the story of a
legend. And then he lay in wait with his evil eye and wicked gun,
safely ambushed behind the legend of his own incompetence. “But there is more than that. There is the summerhouse itself. I
mean there is the whole thing. There’s all that Jenkins gets chaffed
about, the gilding and the gaudy colors and all the vulgarity that’s
supposed to stamp him as an upstart. Now, as a matter of fact,
upstarts generally don’t do this. God knows there’s enough of ‘em in
society; and one knows ‘em well enough. And this is the very last
thing they do. They’re generally only too keen to know the right
thing and do it; and they instantly put themselves body and soul
into the hands of art decorators and art experts, who do the whole
thing for them. There’s hardly another millionaire alive who has the
moral courage to have a gilt monogram on a chair like that one in
the gun-room. For that matter, there’s the name as well as the
monogram. Names like Tompkins and Jenkins and Jinks are funny
without being vulgar; I mean they are vulgar without being common.
If you prefer it, they are commonplace without being common. They
are just the names to be chosen to look ordinary, but they’re
really rather extraordinary. Do you know many people called
Tompkins? It’s a good deal rarer than Talbot. It’s pretty much the
same with the comic clothes of the parvenu. Jenkins dresses like a
character in Punch. But that’s because he is a character in Punch. I
mean he’s a fictitious character. He’s a fabulous animal. He doesn’t
exist. “Have you ever considered what it must be like to be a man who
doesn’t exist? I mean to be a man with a fictitious character that
he has to keep up at the expense not merely of personal talents: To
be a new kind of hypocrite hiding a talent in a new kind of napkin.
This man has chosen his hypocrisy very ingeniously; it was really a
new one. A subtle villain has dressed up as a dashing gentleman and
a worthy business man and a philanthropist and a saint; but the loud
checks of a comical little cad were really rather a new disguise.
But the disguise must be very irksome to a man who can really do
things. This is a dexterous little cosmopolitan guttersnipe who can
do scores of things, not only shoot, but draw and paint, and
probably play the fiddle. Now a man like that may find the hiding of
his talents useful; but he could never help wanting to use them
where they were useless. If he can draw, he will draw absent-mindedly
on blotting paper. I suspect this rascal has often drawn poor old
Puggy’s face on blotting paper. Probably he began doing it in blots
as he afterward did it in dots, or rather shots. It was the same
sort of thing; he found a disused target in a deserted yard and
couldn’t resist indulging in a little secret shooting, like secret
drinking. You thought the shots all scattered and irregular, and so
they were; but not accidental. No two distances were alike; but the
different points were exactly where he wanted to put them. There’s
nothing needs such mathematical precision as a wild caricature. I’ve
dabbled a little in drawing myself, and I assure you that to put one
dot where you want it is a marvel with a pen close to a piece of
paper. It was a miracle to do it across a garden with a gun. But a
man who can work those miracles will always itch to work them, if
it’s only in the dark.” After a pause March observed, thoughtfully, “But he couldn’t have
brought him down like a bird with one of those little guns.” “No; that was why I went into the gun-room,” replied Fisher. “He
did it with one of Burke’s rifles, and Burke thought he knew the
sound of it. That’s why he rushed out without a hat, looking so
wild. He saw nothing but a car passing quickly, which he followed
for a little way, and then concluded he’d made a mistake.” There was another silence, during which Fisher sat on a great stone
as motionless as on their first meeting, and watched the gray and
silver river eddying past under the bushes. Then March said,
abruptly, “Of course he knows the truth now.” “Nobody knows the truth but you and I,” answered Fisher, with a
certain softening in his voice. “And I don’t think you and I will
ever quarrel.” “What do you mean?” asked March, in an altered accent. “What have
you done about it?” Horne Fisher continued to gaze steadily at the eddying stream. At
last he said, “The police have proved it was a motor accident.” “But you know it was not.” “I told you that I know too much,” replied Fisher, with his eye on
the river. “I know that, and I know a great many other things. I
know the atmosphere and the way the whole thing works. I know this
fellow has succeeded in making himself something incurably
commonplace and comic. I know you can’t get up a persecution of old
Toole or Little Tich. If I were to tell Hoggs or Halkett that old
Jink was an assassin, they would almost die of laughter before my
eyes. Oh, I don’t say their laughter’s quite innocent, though it’s
genuine in its way. They want old Jink, and they couldn’t do without
him. I don’t say I’m quite innocent. I like Hoggs; I don’t want him
to be down and out; and he’d be done for if Jink can’t pay for his
coronet. They were devilish near the line at the last election. But
the only real objection to it is that it’s impossible. Nobody would
believe it; it’s not in the picture. The crooked weathercock would
always turn it into a joke.” “Don’t you think this is infamous?” asked March, quietly. “I think a good many things,” replied the other. “If you people
ever happen to blow the whole tangle of society to hell with
dynamite, I don’t know that the human race will be much the worse.
But don’t be too hard on me merely because I know what society is.
That’s why I moon away my time over things like stinking fish.” There was a pause as he settled himself down again by the stream;
and then he added: “I told you before I had to throw back the big fish.”
e una banderuola da un edificio. Ora, in realtà, un uomo deve sparare
davvero molto bene per sparare così male. Deve sparare in modo molto
preciso per colpire la coccarda e non la testa, né il cappello. Se i
colpi fossero andati davvero a caso, ci sono mille probabilità contro una
che non avrebbero colpito oggetti così cospicui e pittoreschi.
Furono scelti proprio perché erano oggetti cospicui e
pittoreschi. Formano una storia che fa il giro della buona società. Egli conserva la
banderuola storta nella pergola per perpetuare la storia di una
leggenda. E poi se ne stava in agguato col suo occhio maligno e il suo fucile crudele,
ben appostato dietro la leggenda della propria incompetenza. «Ma c’è di più. C’è la pergola stessa.
Voglio dire, c’è tutto l’insieme. C’è tutto ciò per cui Jenkins viene canzonato,
le dorature e i colori sgargianti e tutta la volgarità che
dovrebbe bollarlo come un arrivista. Ora, in verità,
gli arrivisti di solito non fanno così. Dio sa se ce ne sono abbastanza nella
buona società; e li si conosce bene abbastanza. E questa è l’ultimissima
cosa che fanno. Di solito non aspettano che di conoscere la cosa
giusta e farla; e si mettono immediatamente corpo e anima
nelle mani di decoratori e di esperti d’arte, che fanno tutto il
lavoro per loro. Non c’è quasi altro milionario vivente che abbia il
coraggio morale di avere un monogramma dorato su una sedia come quella nella
sala delle armi. Del resto, c’è tanto il nome quanto il
monogramma. Nomi come Tompkins e Jenkins e Jinks sono buffi
senza essere volgari; voglio dire, sono volgari senza essere comuni.
Se preferite, sono insignificanti senza essere comuni. Sono
proprio i nomi che si sceglierebbero per apparire ordinari, ma sono
in realtà piuttosto straordinari. Conoscete molte persone di nome
Tompkins? È assai più raro di Talbot. È press’a poco lo
stesso con i buffi abiti del parvenu. Jenkins si veste come un
personaggio del Punch. Ma questo perché è un personaggio del Punch.
Voglio dire, è un personaggio fittizio. È un animale favoloso. Non
esiste. «Avete mai considerato cosa debba significare essere un uomo che
non esiste? Voglio dire, essere un uomo con un carattere fittizio che
deve sostenere a spese non solo dei propri talenti personali: essere
un nuovo genere di ipocrita che nasconde un talento in un nuovo genere di fazzoletto.
Quest’uomo ha scelto la propria ipocrisia con grande ingegno; era davvero una
novità. Un sottile furfante si è camuffato da gentiluomo brillante e
da rispettabile uomo d’affari e da filantropo e da santo; ma i vistosi
quadretti di un comico cafoncello erano davvero un travestimento piuttosto nuovo.
Ma il travestimento dev’essere molto fastidioso per un uomo che sa davvero fare
le cose. Costui è un abile piccolo monello cosmopolita che sa
fare una miriade di cose, non solo sparare, ma disegnare e dipingere, e
probabilmente suonare il violino. Ora, un uomo simile può trovare utile nascondere
i propri talenti; ma non potrebbe mai fare a meno di volerli usare
là dove sono inutili. Se sa disegnare, disegnerà distrattamente
sulla carta assorbente. Sospetto che questo furfante abbia spesso disegnato il volto del povero
vecchio Puggy sulla carta assorbente. Probabilmente cominciò a farlo con le macchie
come poi lo fece coi punti, o meglio coi colpi. Era la stessa
specie di cosa; trovò un bersaglio in disuso in un cortile deserto e
non poté resistere alla tentazione di un po’ di tiro segreto, come si beve
di nascosto. Voi pensavate che i colpi fossero tutti sparsi e irregolari, e così
erano; ma non casuali. Non c’erano due distanze uguali; ma i
diversi punti erano esattamente dove voleva metterli. Non c’è
nulla che richieda tanta precisione matematica quanto una caricatura sfrenata.
Anch’io mi sono dilettato un poco di disegno, e vi assicuro che mettere un
punto dove lo si vuole è un prodigio con una penna vicino a un foglio di
carta. Era un miracolo farlo attraverso un giardino con un fucile. Ma un
uomo capace di compiere quei miracoli non resisterà mai al prurito di compierli, foss’anche
solo nel buio.» Dopo una pausa March osservò, pensieroso: «Ma non avrebbe potuto
abbatterlo come un uccello con uno di quei fucili piccoli.» «No; ecco perché sono andato nella sala delle armi» replicò Fisher. «Lo
fece con uno dei fucili di Burke, e Burke credette di riconoscerne il
suono. Ecco perché si precipitò fuori senza cappello, con un’aria così
stralunata. Non vide altro che un’automobile che passava veloce, che seguì
per un breve tratto, per poi concludere di essersi sbagliato. Vi fu un altro silenzio, durante il quale Fisher sedette su una grande pietra
immobile come al loro primo incontro, e osservò il grigio e
argenteo fiume che scorreva vorticoso sotto i cespugli. Poi March disse,
bruscamente: «Naturalmente ora conosce la verità.» «Nessuno conosce la verità tranne voi e io» rispose Fisher, con un
certo addolcirsi nella voce. «E non credo che voi e io
litigheremo mai.» «Che cosa intendete?» chiese March, con tono mutato. «Che cosa
avete fatto in proposito?» Horne Fisher continuò a fissare fermamente la corrente vorticosa.
Alla fine disse: «La polizia ha provato che è stato un incidente d’auto.» «Ma voi sapete che non lo è stato.» «Vi ho detto che so troppo» replicò Fisher, con l’occhio fisso sul
fiume. «So questo, e so moltissime altre cose.
Conosco l’atmosfera e il modo in cui funziona tutto quanto. So che questo
tipo è riuscito a rendersi qualcosa di inguaribilmente
banale e comico. So che non si può montare una persecuzione contro il vecchio
Toole o Little Tich. Se dicessi a Hoggs o a Halkett che il vecchio
Jink era un assassino, morirebbero quasi dal ridere davanti ai miei
occhi. Oh, non dico che la loro risata sia del tutto innocente, per quanto sia
genuina a suo modo. Vogliono il vecchio Jink, e non potrebbero farne a meno.
Non dico di essere del tutto innocente io. Mi è simpatico Hoggs; non voglio che sia
ridotto sul lastrico; e sarebbe finito se Jink non potesse pagare la sua
corona nobiliare. Erano dannatamente vicini al limite alle ultime elezioni. Ma
l’unica vera obiezione è che è impossibile. Nessuno ci
crederebbe; non ci sta nel quadro. La banderuola storta lo
trasformerebbe sempre in una barzelletta.» «Non pensate che questo sia infame?» chiese March, pacatamente. «Penso parecchie cose» replicò l’altro. «Se voialtri
doveste mai far saltare all’inferno con la dinamite l’intero groviglio della
società, non so se la razza umana ne uscirebbe molto peggiore.
Ma non siate troppo duro con me solo perché io so cos’è la società.
È per questo che sciupo oziosamente il mio tempo su cose come il pesce puzzolente.» Vi fu una pausa mentre si risistemava presso la corrente;
e poi aggiunse: «Vi ho detto prima che dovevo ributtare in acqua il pesce grosso.»
II - The Vanishing Prince * This tale begins among a tangle of tales round a name that is at
once recent and legendary. The name is that of Michael O’Neill,
popularly called Prince Michael, partly because he claimed descent
from ancient Fenian princes, and partly because he was credited with
a plan to make himself prince president of Ireland, as the last
Napoleon did of France. He was undoubtedly a gentleman of honorable
pedigree and of many accomplishments, but two of his accomplishments
emerged from all the rest. He had a talent for appearing when he was
not wanted and a talent for disappearing when he was wanted,
especially when he was wanted by the police. It may be added that
his disappearances were more dangerous than his appearances. In the
latter he seldom went beyond the sensational—pasting up seditious
placards, tearing down official placards, making flamboyant
speeches, or unfurling forbidden flags. But in order to effect the
former he would sometimes fight for his freedom with startling
energy, from which men were sometimes lucky to escape with a broken
head instead of a broken neck. His most famous feats of escape,
however, were due to dexterity and not to violence. On a cloudless
summer morning he had come down a country road white with dust, and,
pausing outside a farmhouse, had told the farmer’s daughter, with
elegant indifference, that the local police were in pursuit of him.
The girl’s name was Bridget Royce, a somber and even sullen type of
beauty, and she looked at him darkly, as if in doubt, and said, “Do
you want me to hide you?” Upon which he only laughed, leaped lightly
over the stone wall, and strode toward the farm, merely throwing
over his shoulder the remark, “Thank you, I have generally been
quite capable of hiding myself.” In which proceeding he acted with a
tragic ignorance of the nature of women; and there fell on his path
in that sunshine a shadow of doom. While he disappeared through the farmhouse the girl remained for a
few moments looking up the road, and two perspiring policemen came
plowing up to the door where she stood. Though still angry, she was
still silent, and a quarter of an hour later the officers had
searched the house and were already inspecting the kitchen garden
and cornfield behind it. In the ugly reaction of her mood she might
have been tempted even to point out the fugitive, but for a small
difficulty that she had no more notion than the policemen had of
where he could possibly have gone. The kitchen garden was inclosed
by a very low wall, and the cornfield beyond lay aslant like a
square patch on a great green hill on which he could still have been
seen even as a dot in the distance. Everything stood solid in its
familiar place; the apple tree was too small to support or hide a
climber; the only shed stood open and obviously empty; there was no
sound save the droning of summer flies and the occasional flutter of
a bird unfamiliar enough to be surprised by the scarecrow in the
field; there was scarcely a shadow save a few blue lines that fell
from the thin tree; every detail was picked out by the brilliant day
light as if in a microscope. The girl described the scene later,
with all the passionate realism of her race, and, whether or no the
policemen had a similar eye for the picturesque, they had at least
an eye for the facts of the case, and were compelled to give up the
chase and retire from the scene. Bridget Royce remained as if in a
trance, staring at the sunlit garden in which a man had just
vanished like a fairy. She was still in a sinister mood, and the
miracle took in her mind a character of unfriendliness and fear, as
if the fairy were decidedly a bad fairy. The sun upon the glittering
garden depressed her more than the darkness, but she continued to
stare at it. Then the world itself went half-witted and she
screamed. The scarecrow moved in the sun light. It had stood with
its back to her in a battered old black hat and a tattered garment,
and with all its tatters flying, it strode away across the hill. She did not analyze the audacious trick by which the man had turned
to his advantage the subtle effects of the expected and the obvious;
she was still under the cloud of more individual complexities, and
she noticed most of all that the vanishing scarecrow did not even
turn to look at the farm. And the fates that were running so adverse
to his fantastic career of freedom ruled that his next adventure,
though it had the same success in another quarter, should increase
the danger in this quarter. Among the many similar adventures
related of him in this manner it is also said that some days
afterward another girl, named Mary Cregan, found him concealed on
the farm where she worked; and if the story is true, she must also
have had the shock of an uncanny experience, for when she was busy
at some lonely task in the yard she heard a voice speaking out of
the well, and found that the eccentric had managed to drop himself
into the bucket which was some little way below, the well only
partly full of water. In this case, however, he had to appeal to the
woman to wind up the rope. And men say it was when this news was
told to the other woman that her soul walked over the border line of
treason. Such, at least, were the stories told of him in the countryside, and
there were many more—as that he had stood insolently in a splendid
green dressing gown on the steps of a great hotel, and then led the
police a chase through a long suite of grand apartments, and finally
through his own bedroom on to a balcony that overhung the river. The
moment the pursuers stepped on to the balcony it broke under them,
II - Il principe che scompariva * Questo racconto comincia in mezzo a un groviglio di racconti attorno a un nome che è al
contempo recente e leggendario. Il nome è quello di Michael O’Neill,
chiamato popolarmente Principe Michael, in parte perché vantava discendenza
da antichi principi feniani, e in parte perché gli si attribuiva
un piano per farsi principe presidente d’Irlanda, come l’ultimo
Napoleone fece della Francia. Era senza dubbio un gentiluomo di onorevole
lignaggio e di molte doti, ma due delle sue doti
emergevano fra tutte le altre. Aveva il talento di comparire quando non era
desiderato e il talento di scomparire quando era ricercato,
specialmente quando era ricercato dalla polizia. Si può aggiungere che
le sue scomparse erano più pericolose delle sue apparizioni. In
queste ultime raramente andava oltre il sensazionale—affiggere manifesti
sediziosi, strappare manifesti ufficiali, tenere fiammeggianti
discorsi, o spiegare bandiere proibite. Ma per effettuare le
prime talvolta lottava per la propria libertà con una sconcertante
energia, dalla quale gli uomini erano talvolta fortunati a scampare con la testa
rotta anziché il collo rotto. Le sue più celebri imprese di fuga,
tuttavia, erano dovute alla destrezza e non alla violenza. In un limpido
mattino d’estate era disceso per una strada di campagna bianca di polvere e,
fermandosi davanti a una fattoria, aveva detto alla figlia del contadino, con
elegante indifferenza, che la polizia locale era sulle sue tracce.
La ragazza si chiamava Bridget Royce, un tipo cupo e perfino imbronciato di
bellezza, e lo guardò con aria scura, come in dubbio, e disse: «Volete
che vi nasconda?» Al che egli si limitò a ridere, saltò leggero
oltre il muretto di pietra, e si diresse a grandi passi verso la fattoria, gettando soltanto
oltre la spalla l’osservazione: «Grazie, di solito sono stato
del tutto capace di nascondermi da me.» In tale procedere egli agì con una
tragica ignoranza della natura delle donne; e cadde sul suo cammino
in quel sole un’ombra di rovina. Mentre spariva attraverso la fattoria la ragazza rimase per
qualche istante a guardare su per la strada, e due poliziotti sudati giunsero
arrancando fino alla porta dove ella stava. Benché ancora adirata, ella era
ancora silenziosa, e un quarto d’ora più tardi gli agenti avevano
perquisito la casa e stavano già ispezionando l’orto
e il campo di grano dietro di essa. Nella brutta reazione del suo umore avrebbe potuto
persino esser tentata di indicare il fuggitivo, se non fosse stato per una piccola
difficoltà: che non aveva più idea dei poliziotti di
dove egli potesse mai essere andato. L’orto era cinto
da un muro molto basso, e il campo di grano oltre giaceva obliquo come una
quadrata pezza su una grande verde collina sulla quale sarebbe ancora potuto essere
visto anche come un puntino in lontananza. Tutto stava saldo al suo
posto familiare; il melo era troppo piccolo per sostenere o nascondere un
arrampicatore; l’unico capanno stava aperto e palesemente vuoto; non c’era
suono salvo il ronzio delle mosche d’estate e l’occasionale battito d’ali di
un uccello abbastanza estraneo da lasciarsi sorprendere dallo spaventapasseri nel
campo; non c’era quasi ombra salvo poche linee azzurre che cadevano
dall’esile albero; ogni dettaglio era messo in risalto dalla brillante luce
del giorno come in un microscopio. La ragazza descrisse la scena in seguito,
con tutto il realismo appassionato della sua stirpe, e, che i
poliziotti avessero o meno un occhio simile per il pittoresco, avevano almeno
un occhio per i fatti del caso, e furono costretti ad abbandonare l’
inseguimento e a ritirarsi dalla scena. Bridget Royce rimase come in
trance, fissando il giardino soleggiato in cui un uomo era appena
svanito come una fata. Era ancora d’umore sinistro, e il
miracolo assunse nella sua mente un carattere di ostilità e di paura, come
se la fata fosse decisamente una fata malvagia. Il sole sul luccicante
giardino la deprimeva più dell’oscurità, ma ella continuò a
fissarlo. Poi il mondo stesso impazzì a metà ed ella
urlò. Lo spaventapasseri si mosse nella luce del sole. Era rimasto con
la schiena rivolta a lei, in un vecchio cappello nero malandato e una veste a brandelli,
e con tutti i suoi cenci al vento, si allontanò a grandi passi per la collina. Ella non analizzò l’audace trucco con cui l’uomo aveva volto
a proprio vantaggio i sottili effetti dell’atteso e dell’ovvio;
era ancora sotto la nube di complessità più personali, e
notò soprattutto che lo spaventapasseri che spariva non si voltò nemmeno
a guardare la fattoria. E i fati che correvano così avversi
alla sua fantastica carriera di libertà vollero che la sua avventura seguente,
benché avesse lo stesso successo in un altro luogo, accrescesse
il pericolo in questo. Fra le molte avventure simili
raccontate di lui in questo modo si narra pure che alcuni giorni
dopo un’altra ragazza, di nome Mary Cregan, lo trovò nascosto nella
fattoria dove lavorava; e se la storia è vera, deve aver
subìto anch’ella lo shock di un’esperienza perturbante, poiché mentre era intenta
a qualche compito solitario nel cortile udì una voce che parlava dal
pozzo, e scoprì che l’eccentrico era riuscito a calarsi
nel secchio che si trovava un po’ più in basso, essendo il pozzo solo
in parte pieno d’acqua. In questo caso, tuttavia, dovette rivolgersi alla
donna perché tirasse su la fune. E si dice che fu quando questa notizia venne
riferita all’altra donna che la sua anima varcò la linea di confine del
tradimento. Tali, almeno, erano le storie che si raccontavano di lui nelle campagne, e
ce n’erano molte altre—come quella che stette insolentemente in uno splendido
vestaglia verde sui gradini di un grande albergo, e poi condusse la
polizia in un inseguimento attraverso una lunga infilata di grandi appartamenti, e infine
attraverso la sua stessa camera da letto fino a un balcone che sovrastava il fiume. Nel
momento in cui gli inseguitori misero piede sul balcone, esso cedette sotto di loro,
and they dropped pell-mell into the eddying waters, while Michael,
who had thrown off his gown and dived, was able to swim away. It was
said that he had carefully cut away the props so that they would not
support anything so heavy as a policeman. But here again he was
immediately fortunate, yet ultimately unfortunate, for it is said
that one of the men was drowned, leaving a family feud which made a
little rift in his popularity. These stories can now be told in some
detail, not because they are the most marvelous of his many
adventures, but because these alone were not covered with silence by
the loyalty of the peasantry. These alone found their way into
official reports, and it is these which three of the chief officials
of the country were reading and discussing when the more remarkable
part of this story begins. Night was far advanced and the lights shone in the cottage that
served for a temporary police station near the coast. On one side of
it were the last houses of the straggling village, and on the other
nothing but a waste moorland stretching away toward the sea, the
line of which was broken by no landmark except a solitary tower of
the prehistoric pattern still found in Ireland, standing up as
slender as a column, but pointed like a pyramid. At a wooden table
in front of the window, which normally looked out on this landscape,
sat two men in plain clothes, but with something of a military
bearing, for indeed they were the two chiefs of the detective
service of that district. The senior of the two, both in age and
rank, was a sturdy man with a short white beard, and frosty eyebrows
fixed in a frown which suggested rather worry than severity. His name was Morton, and he was a Liverpool man long pickled in the
Irish quarrels, and doing his duty among them in a sour fashion not
altogether unsympathetic. He had spoken a few sentences to his
companion, Nolan, a tall, dark man with a cadaverous equine Irish
face, when he seemed to remember something and touched a bell which
rang in another room. The subordinate he had summoned immediately
appeared with a sheaf of papers in his hand. “Sit down, Wilson,” he said. “Those are the depositions, I
suppose.” “Yes,” replied the third officer. “I think I’ve got all there is to
be got out of them, so I sent the people away.” “Did Mary Cregan give evidence?” asked Morton, with a frown that
looked a little heavier than usual. “No, but her master did,” answered the man called Wilson, who had
flat, red hair and a plain, pale face, not without sharpness. “I
think he’s hanging round the girl himself and is out against a
rival. There’s always some reason of that sort when we are told the
truth about anything. And you bet the other girl told right enough.” “Well, let’s hope they’ll be some sort of use,” remarked Nolan, in a
somewhat hopeless manner, gazing out into the darkness. “Anything is to the good,” said Morton, “that lets us know anything
about him.” “Do we know anything about him?” asked the melancholy Irishman. “We know one thing about him,” said Wilson, “and it’s the one thing
that nobody ever knew before. We know where he is.” “Are you sure?” inquired Morton, looking at him sharply. “Quite sure,” replied his assistant. “At this very minute he is in
that tower over there by the shore. If you go near enough you’ll see
the candle burning in the window.” As he spoke the noise of a horn sounded on the road outside, and a
moment after they heard the throbbing of a motor car brought to a
standstill before the door. Morton instantly sprang to his feet. “Thank the Lord that’s the car from Dublin,” he said. “I can’t do
anything without special authority, not if he were sitting on the
top of the tower and putting out his tongue at us. But the chief can
do what he thinks best.” He hurried out to the entrance and was soon exchanging greetings
with a big handsome man in a fur coat, who brought into the dingy
little station the indescribable glow of the great cities and the
luxuries of the great world. For this was Sir Walter Carey, an official of such eminence in
Dublin Castle that nothing short of the case of Prince Michael would
have brought him on such a journey in the middle of the night. But
the case of Prince Michael, as it happened, was complicated by
legalism as well as lawlessness. On the last occasion he had escaped
by a forensic quibble and not, as usual, by a private escapade; and
it was a question whether at the moment he was amenable to the law
or not. It might be necessary to stretch a point, but a man like Sir
Walter could probably stretch it as far as he liked. Whether he intended to do so was a question to be considered.
Despite the almost aggressive touch of luxury in the fur coat, it
soon became apparent that Sir Walter’s large leonine head was for
use as well as ornament, and he considered the matter soberly and
sanely enough. Five chairs were set round the plain deal table, for
who should Sir Walter bring with him but his young relative and
secretary, Horne Fisher. Sir Walter listened with grave attention,
and his secretary with polite boredom, to the string of episodes by
which the police had traced the flying rebel from the steps of the
hotel to the solitary tower beside the sea. There at least he was
cornered between the moors and the breakers; and the scout sent by
Wilson reported him as writing under a solitary candle, perhaps
composing another of his tremendous proclamations. Indeed, it would
have been typical of him to choose it as the place in which finally
to turn to bay. He had some remote claim on it, as on a family
castle; and those who knew him thought him capable of imitating the
primitive Irish chieftains who fell fighting against the sea. “I saw some queer-looking people leaving as I came in,” said Sir
e caddero alla rinfusa nelle acque vorticose, mentre Michael,
che si era gettato via la vestaglia e si era tuffato, poté allontanarsi a nuoto. Si
disse che aveva accuratamente segato i sostegni affinché non
reggessero nulla di tanto pesante quanto un poliziotto. Ma anche qui fu
immediatamente fortunato, eppure alla fine sfortunato, poiché si dice
che uno degli uomini annegò, lasciando una faida familiare che aprì una
piccola incrinatura nella sua popolarità. Queste storie possono ora essere raccontate con qualche
dettaglio, non perché siano le più meravigliose delle sue molte
avventure, ma perché queste soltanto non furono coperte dal silenzio dalla
lealtà dei contadini. Queste soltanto trovarono la via verso i
rapporti ufficiali, ed è questi che tre dei principali funzionari
del paese stavano leggendo e discutendo quando comincia la parte più
notevole di questa storia. La notte era inoltrata e le luci brillavano nel cottage che
fungeva da stazione di polizia provvisoria presso la costa. Da un lato di
esso c’erano le ultime case del villaggio sparpagliato, e dall’altro
nient’altro che una desolata brughiera che si stendeva verso il mare, la cui
linea non era spezzata da alcun punto di riferimento tranne una torre solitaria della
foggia preistorica che si trova ancora in Irlanda, che si ergeva
slanciata come una colonna, ma appuntita come una piramide. A un tavolo di legno
davanti alla finestra, che normalmente dava su questo paesaggio,
sedevano due uomini in borghese, ma con qualcosa di un portamento
militare, poiché erano infatti i due capi del servizio investigativo
di quel distretto. Il più anziano dei due, per età e per
grado, era un uomo tarchiato con una corta barba bianca, e gelide sopracciglia
fissate in un cipiglio che suggeriva piuttosto preoccupazione che severità. Si chiamava Morton, ed era un uomo di Liverpool a lungo marinato nelle
contese irlandesi, e compiva il proprio dovere fra esse in un modo acido non
del tutto antipatico. Aveva scambiato qualche frase col suo
compagno, Nolan, un uomo alto e bruno con un cadaverico volto irlandese
equino, quando parve ricordarsi di qualcosa e toccò un campanello che
suonò in un’altra stanza. Il subalterno che aveva convocato comparve
immediatamente con un fascio di carte in mano. «Sedetevi, Wilson» disse. «Quelle sono le deposizioni,
suppongo.» «Sì» rispose il terzo agente. «Credo di aver ricavato tutto ciò che c’era da
ricavarne, così ho mandato via la gente.» «Mary Cregan ha testimoniato?» chiese Morton, con un cipiglio che
appariva un po’ più cupo del solito. «No, ma il suo padrone sì» rispose l’uomo di nome Wilson, che aveva
capelli lisci e rossi e un volto comune e pallido, non privo di acume. «
Credo che ronzi lui stesso attorno alla ragazza e ce l’abbia con un
rivale. C’è sempre qualche ragione del genere quando ci viene detta la
verità su qualcosa. E scommettete che l’altra ragazza l’ha detta eccome.» «Beh, speriamo che siano di una qualche utilità» osservò Nolan, in un
modo alquanto sconsolato, guardando fuori nell’oscurità. «Tutto è utile» disse Morton «purché ci faccia sapere qualcosa
su di lui.» «Sappiamo qualcosa di lui?» chiese l’malinconico irlandese. «Sappiamo una cosa di lui» disse Wilson «ed è l’unica cosa
che nessuno abbia mai saputo prima. Sappiamo dov’è.» «Ne siete sicuro?» s’informò Morton, guardandolo con acutezza. «Sicurissimo» replicò il suo assistente. «In questo preciso momento si trova in
quella torre laggiù presso la riva. Se vi avvicinate abbastanza vedrete
la candela che arde alla finestra.» Mentre parlava il suono di un clacson risuonò sulla strada all’esterno, e un
istante dopo udirono il rombo pulsante di un’automobile che si arrestava
davanti alla porta. Morton balzò all’istante in piedi. «Grazie al Cielo, è l’auto da Dublino» disse. «Non posso far
nulla senza un’autorità speciale, nemmeno se se ne stesse seduto in
cima alla torre a farci le linguacce. Ma il capo può
fare ciò che ritiene meglio.» Si affrettò all’ingresso e presto scambiava saluti
con un uomo grande e avvenente in una pelliccia, che portò nella squallida
stazioncina l’indescrivibile bagliore delle grandi città e i
lussi del gran mondo. Poiché costui era Sir Walter Carey, un funzionario di tale eminenza al
Castello di Dublino che nulla di meno del caso del Principe Michael
l’avrebbe indotto a un tale viaggio nel cuore della notte. Ma
il caso del Principe Michael, per come stavano le cose, era complicato dal
legalismo tanto quanto dall’illegalità. L’ultima volta era sfuggito
grazie a un cavillo forense e non, come al solito, a una scappatella privata; ed
era una questione se al momento fosse soggetto alla legge
oppure no. Poteva rendersi necessario forzare un punto, ma un uomo come Sir
Walter poteva probabilmente forzarlo fin quanto voleva. Se intendesse farlo era una questione da ponderare.
Nonostante il tocco quasi aggressivo di lusso nella pelliccia,
presto divenne evidente che la grande testa leonina di Sir Walter serviva
tanto all’uso quanto all’ornamento, ed egli considerò la questione con abbastanza sobrietà e
buonsenso. Cinque sedie erano disposte attorno al semplice tavolo di abete, poiché
chi mai avrebbe portato con sé Sir Walter se non il suo giovane parente e
segretario, Horne Fisher. Sir Walter ascoltò con grave attenzione,
e il suo segretario con cortese noia, la serie di episodi con cui
la polizia aveva rintracciato il ribelle in fuga dai gradini dell’
albergo fino alla torre solitaria presso il mare. Lì almeno era
intrappolato tra la brughiera e i frangenti; e l’esploratore mandato da
Wilson lo riferiva intento a scrivere sotto una candela solitaria, forse
mentre componeva un altro dei suoi tremendi proclami. Anzi,
sarebbe stato tipico di lui sceglierlo come il luogo in cui infine
voltarsi a tener testa. Aveva su di essa qualche remota pretesa, come su un
castello di famiglia; e chi lo conosceva lo riteneva capace di imitare gli
primitivi capiclan irlandesi che caddero combattendo contro il mare. «Ho visto certe persone dall’aspetto strano che se ne andavano mentre entravo» disse Sir
Walter Carey. “I suppose they were your witnesses. But why do they
turn up here at this time of night?” Morton smiled grimly. “They come here by night because they would
be dead men if they came here by day. They are criminals committing
a crime that is more horrible here than theft or murder.” “What crime do you mean?” asked the other, with some curiosity. “They are helping the law,” said Morton. There was a silence, and Sir Walter considered the papers before him
with an abstracted eye. At last he spoke. “Quite so; but look here, if the local feeling is as lively as that
there are a good many points to consider. I believe the new Act will
enable me to collar him now if I think it best. But is it best? A
serious rising would do us no good in Parliament, and the government
has enemies in England as well as Ireland. It won’t do if I have
done what looks a little like sharp practice, and then only raised a
revolution.” “It’s all the other way,” said the man called Wilson, rather
quickly. “There won’t be half so much of a revolution if you arrest
him as there will if you leave him loose for three days longer. But,
anyhow, there can’t be anything nowadays that the proper police
can’t manage.” “Mr. Wilson is a Londoner,” said the Irish detective, with a smile. “Yes, I’m a cockney, all right,” replied Wilson, “and I think I’m
all the better for that. Especially at this job, oddly enough.” Sir Walter seemed slightly amused at the pertinacity of the third
officer, and perhaps even more amused at the slight accent with
which he spoke, which rendered rather needless his boast about his
origin. “Do you mean to say,” he asked, “that you know more about the
business here because you have come from London?” “Sounds funny, I know, but I do believe it,” answered Wilson. “I
believe these affairs want fresh methods. But most of all I believe
they want a fresh eye.” The superior officers laughed, and the redhaired man went on with a
slight touch of temper: “Well, look at the facts. See how the fellow got away every time,
and you’ll understand what I mean. Why was he able to stand in the
place of the scarecrow, hidden by nothing but an old hat? Because it
was a village policeman who knew the scarecrow was there, was
expecting it, and therefore took no notice of it. Now I never expect
a scarecrow. I’ve never seen one in the street, and I stare at one
when I see it in the field. It’s a new thing to me and worth
noticing. And it was just the same when he hid in the well. You are
ready to find a well in a place like that; you look for a well, and
so you don’t see it. I don’t look for it, and therefore I do look at
it.” “It is certainly an idea,” said Sir Walter, smiling, “but what about
the balcony? Balconies are occasionally seen in London.” “But not rivers right under them, as if it was in Venice,” replied
Wilson. “It is certainly a new idea,” repeated Sir Walter, with something
like respect. He had all the love of the luxurious classes for new
ideas. But he also had a critical faculty, and was inclined to
think, after due reflection, that it was a true idea as well. Growing dawn had already turned the window panes from black to gray
when Sir Walter got abruptly to his feet. The others rose also,
taking this for a signal that the arrest was to be undertaken. But
their leader stood for a moment in deep thought, as if conscious
that he had come to a parting of the ways. Suddenly the silence was pierced by a long, wailing cry from the
dark moors outside. The silence that followed it seemed more
startling than the shriek itself, and it lasted until Nolan said,
heavily: “‘Tis the banshee. Somebody is marked for the grave.” His long, large-featured face was as pale as a moon, and it was easy
to remember that he was the only Irishman in the room. “Well, I know that banshee,” said Wilson, cheerfully, “ignorant as
you think I am of these things. I talked to that banshee myself an
hour ago, and I sent that banshee up to the tower and told her to
sing out like that if she could get a glimpse of our friend writing
his proclamation.” “Do you mean that girl Bridget Royce?” asked Morton, drawing his
frosty brows together. “Has she turned king’s evidence to that
extent?” “Yes,” answered Wilson. “I know very little of these local things,
you tell me, but I reckon an angry woman is much the same in all
countries.” Nolan, however, seemed still moody and unlike himself. “It’s an ugly
noise and an ugly business altogether,” he said. “If it’s really the
end of Prince Michael it may well be the end of other things as
well. When the spirit is on him he would escape by a ladder of dead
men, and wade through that sea if it were made of blood.” “Is that the real reason of your pious alarms?” asked Wilson, with a
slight sneer. The Irishman’s pale face blackened with a new passion. “I have faced as many murderers in County Clare as you ever fought
with in Clapham Junction, Mr. Cockney,” he said. “Hush, please,” said Morton, sharply. “Wilson, you have no kind of
right to imply doubt of your superior’s conduct. I hope you will
prove yourself as courageous and trustworthy as he has always been.” The pale face of the red-haired man seemed a shade paler, but he was
silent and composed, and Sir Walter went up to Nolan with marked
courtesy, saying, “Shall we go outside now, and get this business
done?” Dawn had lifted, leaving a wide chasm of white between a great gray
cloud and the great gray moorland, beyond which the tower was
outlined against the daybreak and the sea. Something in its plain and primitive shape vaguely suggested the
dawn in the first days of the earth, in some prehistoric time when
Walter Carey. «Suppongo fossero i vostri testimoni. Ma perché
si presentano qui a quest’ora di notte?» Morton sorrise cupamente. «Vengono qui di notte perché sarebbero
uomini morti se venissero di giorno. Sono criminali che commettono
un crimine che qui è più orribile del furto o dell’omicidio.» «Quale crimine intendete?» chiese l’altro, con una certa curiosità. «Aiutano la legge» disse Morton. Vi fu un silenzio, e Sir Walter considerò le carte che aveva davanti
con occhio distratto. Alla fine parlò. «Proprio così; ma sentite, se il sentimento locale è così acceso
ci sono parecchi punti da considerare. Credo che la nuova Legge mi
consentirà di acciuffarlo ora, se lo ritengo opportuno. Ma è opportuno? Una
seria sollevazione non ci gioverebbe in Parlamento, e il governo
ha nemici in Inghilterra tanto quanto in Irlanda. Non va bene se ho
fatto qualcosa che ha un po’ l’aria di un raggiro, per poi suscitare soltanto una
rivoluzione.» «È tutto il contrario» disse l’uomo di nome Wilson, piuttosto
rapidamente. «Non ci sarà una rivoluzione neanche a metà se lo arrestate
di quanta ce ne sarà se lo lasciate libero per altri tre giorni. Ma,
comunque, non può esserci oggigiorno nulla che una polizia come si deve
non sappia gestire.» «Mr. Wilson è un londinese» disse l’investigatore irlandese, con un sorriso. «Sì, sono un cockney, proprio così» replicò Wilson «e credo di essere
tanto migliore per questo. Specialmente in questo lavoro, per quanto strano.» Sir Walter parve lievemente divertito dalla pervicacia del terzo
agente, e forse ancor più divertito dal lieve accento con cui
parlava, che rendeva piuttosto superfluo il suo vanto sulla propria
origine. «Volete forse dire» chiese «che ne sapete di più sulla
faccenda qui perché venite da Londra?» «Suona buffo, lo so, ma ci credo davvero» rispose Wilson. «
Credo che queste faccende richiedano metodi nuovi. Ma soprattutto credo
che richiedano un occhio nuovo.» Gli ufficiali superiori risero, e l’uomo dai capelli rossi proseguì con un
lieve scatto di stizza: «Beh, guardate i fatti. Osservate come il tale se l’è cavata ogni volta,
e capirete cosa intendo. Perché poté stare al
posto dello spaventapasseri, nascosto da null’altro che un vecchio cappello? Perché
era un poliziotto di paese, che sapeva che lo spaventapasseri era lì, se lo
aspettava, e perciò non vi fece caso. Ora, io non mi aspetto mai
uno spaventapasseri. Non ne ho mai visto uno per strada, e ne fisso uno
quando lo vedo nel campo. È una cosa nuova per me e degna di
nota. E fu lo stesso quando si nascose nel pozzo. Voi siete
pronti a trovare un pozzo in un luogo simile; cercate un pozzo, e
così non lo vedete. Io non lo cerco, e perciò lo guardo
eccome.» «È certamente un’idea» disse Sir Walter, sorridendo «ma e
il balcone? Di balconi se ne vedono ogni tanto a Londra.» «Ma non fiumi proprio sotto di essi, come se fosse a Venezia» replicò
Wilson. «È certamente un’idea nuova» ripeté Sir Walter, con qualcosa
di simile al rispetto. Aveva tutto l’amore delle classi lussuose per le
idee nuove. Ma aveva anche una facoltà critica, ed era incline a
pensare, dopo la dovuta riflessione, che fosse un’idea vera per giunta. L’alba crescente aveva già mutato i vetri della finestra dal nero al grigio
quando Sir Walter si alzò bruscamente in piedi. Anche gli altri si levarono,
prendendo ciò per un segnale che l’arresto stesse per compiersi. Ma
il loro capo rimase un momento immerso nei pensieri, come consapevole
di essere giunto a un bivio. D’improvviso il silenzio fu trafitto da un lungo grido lamentoso proveniente dalle
oscure brughiere all’esterno. Il silenzio che lo seguì parve più
sconvolgente dello strillo stesso, e durò finché Nolan disse,
pesantemente: «È la banshee. Qualcuno è segnato per la tomba.» Il suo lungo volto dai grandi lineamenti era pallido come una luna, ed era facile
ricordare che era l’unico irlandese nella stanza. «Beh, la conosco quella banshee» disse Wilson, allegramente «per quanto ignorante
mi crediate di queste cose. Ho parlato io stesso con quella banshee un’
ora fa, e ho mandato quella banshee su alla torre e le ho detto di
strillare così se fosse riuscita a scorgere il nostro amico intento a scrivere
il suo proclama.» «Intendete quella ragazza, Bridget Royce?» chiese Morton, avvicinando le
gelide sopracciglia. «Si è messa a testimoniare per la Corona a tal
punto?» «Sì» rispose Wilson. «So pochissimo di queste faccende locali,
mi dite, ma reputo che una donna adirata sia più o meno la stessa in tutti i
paesi.» Nolan, tuttavia, pareva ancora tetro e diverso dal solito. «È un brutto
suono e una brutta faccenda del tutto» disse. «Se è davvero la
fine del Principe Michael, potrebbe bene essere la fine anche di altre
cose. Quando lo spirito lo prende sfuggirebbe per una scala di uomini
morti, e guaderebbe quel mare fosse pure fatto di sangue.» «È questa la vera ragione dei vostri pii allarmi?» chiese Wilson, con un
lieve ghigno. Il pallido volto dell’irlandese si annerì di una nuova passione. «Ho affrontato tanti assassini nella Contea di Clare quanti voi non ne avete mai combattuti
a Clapham Junction, Mr. Cockney» disse. «Silenzio, per favore» disse Morton, seccamente. «Wilson, non avete alcun
diritto di insinuare dubbi sulla condotta del vostro superiore. Spero che vi
dimostrerete coraggioso e fidato quanto lo è sempre stato lui.» Il pallido volto dell’uomo dai capelli rossi parve un’ombra più pallido, ma egli era
silenzioso e composto, e Sir Walter si avvicinò a Nolan con marcata
cortesia, dicendo: «Usciamo ora, e sbrighiamo questa
faccenda?» L’alba si era levata, lasciando un ampio abisso di bianco tra una grande grigia
nube e la grande grigia brughiera, oltre la quale la torre si
stagliava contro lo spuntar del giorno e il mare. Qualcosa nella sua semplice e primitiva forma suggeriva vagamente l’
alba dei primi giorni della terra, in qualche tempo preistorico in cui
even the colors were hardly created, when there was only blank
daylight between cloud and clay. These dead hues were relieved only
by one spot of gold—the spark of the candle alight in the window
of the lonely tower, and burning on into the broadening daylight. As
the group of detectives, followed by a cordon of policemen, spread
out into a crescent to cut off all escape, the light in the tower
flashed as if it were moved for a moment, and then went out. They
knew the man inside had realized the daylight and blown out his
candle. “There are other windows, aren’t there?” asked Morton, “and a door,
of course, somewhere round the corner? Only a round tower has no
corners.” “Another example of my small suggestion,” observed Wilson, quietly.
“That queer tower was the first thing I saw when I came to these
parts; and I can tell you a little more about it—or, at any rate,
the outside of it. There are four windows altogether, one a little
way from this one, but just out of sight. Those are both on the
ground floor, and so is the third on the other side, making a sort
of triangle. But the fourth is just above the third, and I suppose
it looks on an upper floor.” “It’s only a sort of loft, reached by a ladder, said Nolan. “I’ve
played in the place when I was a child. It’s no more than an empty
shell.” And his sad face grew sadder, thinking perhaps of the
tragedy of his country and the part that he played in it. “The man must have got a table and chair, at any rate,” said Wilson,
“but no doubt he could have got those from some cottage. If I might
make a suggestion, sir, I think we ought to approach all the five
entrances at once, so to speak. One of us should go to the door and
one to each window; Macbride here has a ladder for the upper
window.” Mr. Horne Fisher languidly turned to his distinguished relative and
spoke for the first time. “I am rather a convert to the cockney school of psychology,” he said
in an almost inaudible voice. The others seemed to feel the same influence in different ways, for
the group began to break up in the manner indicated. Morton moved
toward the window immediately in front of them, where the hidden
outlaw had just snuffed the candle; Nolan, a little farther westward
to the next window; while Wilson, followed by Macbride with the
ladder, went round to the two windows at the back. Sir Walter Carey
himself, followed by his secretary, began to walk round toward the
only door, to demand admittance in a more regular fashion. “He will be armed, of course,” remarked Sir Walter, casually. “By all accounts,” replied Horne Fisher, “he can do more with a
candlestick than most men with a pistol. But he is pretty sure to
have the pistol, too.” Even as he spoke the question was answered with a tongue of thunder.
Morton had just placed himself in front of the nearest window, his
broad shoulders blocking the aperture. For an instant it was lit
from within as with red fire, followed by a thundering throng of
echoes. The square shoulders seemed to alter in shape, and the
sturdy figure collapsed among the tall, rank grasses at the foot of
the tower. A puff of smoke floated from the window like a little
cloud. The two men behind rushed to the spot and raised him, but he
was dead. Sir Walter straightened himself and called out something that was
lost in another noise of firing; it was possible that the police
were already avenging their comrade from the other side. Fisher had
already raced round to the next window, and a new cry of
astonishment from him brought his patron to the same spot. Nolan,
the Irish policeman, had also fallen, sprawling all his great length
in the grass, and it was red with his blood. He was still alive when
they reached him, but there was death on his face, and he was only
able to make a final gesture telling them that all was over; and,
with a broken word and a heroic effort, motioning them on to where
his other comrades were besieging the back of the tower. Stunned by
these rapid and repeated shocks, the two men could only vaguely obey
the gesture, and, finding their way to the other windows at the
back, they discovered a scene equally startling, if less final and
tragic. The other two officers were not dead or mortally wounded,
but Macbride lay with a broken leg and his ladder on top of him,
evidently thrown down from the top window of the tower; while Wilson
lay on his face, quite still as if stunned, with his red head among
the gray and silver of the sea holly. In him, however, the impotence
was but momentary, for he began to move and rise as the others came
round the tower. “My God! it’s like an explosion!” cried Sir Walter; and indeed it
was the only word for this unearthly energy, by which one man had
been able to deal death or destruction on three sides of the same
small triangle at the same instant. Wilson had already scrambled to his feet and with splendid energy
flew again at the window, revolver in hand. He fired twice into the
opening and then disappeared in his own smoke; but the thud of his
feet and the shock of a falling chair told them that the intrepid
Londoner had managed at last to leap into the room. Then followed a
curious silence; and Sir Walter, walking to the window through the
thinning smoke, looked into the hollow shell of the ancient tower.
Except for Wilson, staring around him, there was nobody there. The inside of the tower was a single empty room, with nothing but a
plain wooden chair and a table on which were pens, ink and paper,
and the candlestick. Halfway up the high wall there was a rude
timber platform under the upper window, a small loft which was more
like a large shelf. It was reached only by a ladder, and it seemed
persino i colori erano appena creati, quando non c’era che nuda
luce del giorno tra la nube e l’argilla. Queste tinte morte erano ravvivate soltanto
da un’unica macchia d’oro—la scintilla della candela accesa alla finestra
della torre solitaria, che ardeva ancora nella luce del giorno che si allargava. Mentre
il gruppo di investigatori, seguito da un cordone di poliziotti, si
dispiegava a mezzaluna per tagliare ogni via di fuga, la luce nella torre
guizzò come se fosse mossa per un istante, e poi si spense.
Compresero che l’uomo all’interno si era accorto della luce del giorno e aveva spento la sua
candela. «Ci sono altre finestre, non è vero?» chiese Morton «e una porta,
naturalmente, da qualche parte dietro l’angolo? Solo che una torre rotonda non ha
angoli.» «Un altro esempio del mio piccolo suggerimento» osservò Wilson, pacatamente.
«Quella strana torre fu la prima cosa che vidi quando giunsi da queste
parti; e posso dirvene un po’ di più—o, in ogni caso,
dell’esterno di essa. Ci sono quattro finestre in tutto, una poco
discosta da questa, ma appena fuori vista. Queste sono entrambe al
pianterreno, e così pure la terza sull’altro lato, formando una specie
di triangolo. Ma la quarta è proprio sopra la terza, e suppongo
dia su un piano superiore.» «È solo una specie di soppalco, raggiunto da una scala» disse Nolan. «Ci ho
giocato in quel luogo quando ero bambino. Non è altro che un guscio
vuoto.» E il suo volto triste si fece più triste, pensando forse alla
tragedia del suo paese e alla parte che egli vi recitava. «L’uomo deve essersi procurato un tavolo e una sedia, in ogni caso» disse Wilson,
«ma senza dubbio avrà potuto procurarseli da qualche cottage. Se potessi
avanzare un suggerimento, signore, credo che dovremmo avvicinarci a tutti e cinque gli
ingressi in una volta, per così dire. Uno di noi dovrebbe andare alla porta e
uno a ciascuna finestra; Macbride qui ha una scala per l’alta
finestra.» Mr. Horne Fisher si voltò languidamente verso il suo illustre parente e
parlò per la prima volta. «Sono piuttosto un convertito alla scuola cockney di psicologia» disse
con voce quasi impercettibile. Gli altri parvero avvertire la stessa influenza in modi diversi, poiché
il gruppo cominciò a disperdersi nel modo indicato. Morton si mosse
verso la finestra immediatamente di fronte a loro, dove il
fuorilegge nascosto aveva appena spento la candela; Nolan, un po’ più a ovest
verso la finestra successiva; mentre Wilson, seguito da Macbride con la
scala, girò verso le due finestre sul retro. Sir Walter Carey
in persona, seguito dal suo segretario, cominciò a girare verso l’
unica porta, per chiedere accesso in modo più regolare. «Sarà armato, naturalmente» osservò Sir Walter, con noncuranza. «A quanto si dice» replicò Horne Fisher «riesce a fare di più con un
candeliere di quanto la maggior parte degli uomini con una pistola. Ma è pressoché certo che
abbia anche la pistola.» Proprio mentre parlava la domanda ebbe risposta con una lingua di tuono.
Morton si era appena posto davanti alla finestra più vicina, le sue
larghe spalle a ostruire l’apertura. Per un istante essa fu illuminata
dall’interno come da un rosso fuoco, seguìto da una tonante ressa di
echi. Le spalle quadrate parvero mutare forma, e la
tarchiata figura crollò tra le alte, folte erbe ai piedi della
torre. Uno sbuffo di fumo fluttuò dalla finestra come una piccola
nube. I due uomini dietro si precipitarono sul posto e lo sollevarono, ma egli
era morto. Sir Walter si raddrizzò e gridò qualcosa che andò
perduto in un altro rumore di spari; era possibile che la polizia
stesse già vendicando il proprio compagno dall’altro lato. Fisher era
già corso verso la finestra successiva, e un nuovo grido di
stupore da parte sua portò il suo patrono sullo stesso punto. Nolan,
il poliziotto irlandese, era anch’egli caduto, disteso in tutta la sua grande lunghezza
nell’erba, ed essa era rossa del suo sangue. Era ancora vivo quando
lo raggiunsero, ma vi era la morte sul suo volto, ed egli poté soltanto
compiere un gesto finale che diceva loro che tutto era finito; e,
con una parola spezzata e uno sforzo eroico, facendo loro cenno di proseguire verso dove
gli altri suoi compagni assediavano il retro della torre. Sbalorditi da
questi rapidi e ripetuti shock, i due uomini poterono solo vagamente obbedire
al gesto e, trovando la via verso le altre finestre sul
retro, scoprirono una scena ugualmente sconvolgente, se pur meno definitiva e
tragica. Gli altri due agenti non erano morti né feriti a morte,
ma Macbride giaceva con una gamba rotta e la sua scala sopra di sé,
evidentemente gettata giù dalla finestra più alta della torre; mentre Wilson
giaceva bocconi, del tutto immobile come tramortito, con la testa rossa tra
il grigio e l’argento dell’agrifoglio marino. In lui, tuttavia, l’impotenza
fu solo momentanea, poiché cominciò a muoversi e a sollevarsi mentre gli altri giungevano
attorno alla torre. «Dio mio! è come un’esplosione!» gridò Sir Walter; e davvero
era l’unica parola per questa energia ultraterrena, con cui un solo uomo era
riuscito a portare morte o distruzione su tre lati dello stesso
piccolo triangolo nel medesimo istante. Wilson si era già rimesso in piedi a fatica e con splendida energia
si lanciò di nuovo alla finestra, la rivoltella in pugno. Sparò due volte nell’
apertura e poi scomparve nel proprio fumo; ma il tonfo dei suoi
piedi e l’urto di una sedia che cadeva dissero loro che l’intrepido
londinese era riuscito infine a balzare nella stanza. Poi seguì un
curioso silenzio; e Sir Walter, avvicinandosi alla finestra attraverso il
fumo che si diradava, guardò dentro il vuoto guscio dell’antica torre.
Tranne Wilson, che si guardava attorno, non c’era nessuno. L’interno della torre era un’unica stanza vuota, con nient’altro che una
semplice sedia di legno e un tavolo sul quale c’erano penne, inchiostro e carta,
e il candeliere. A metà dell’alta parete c’era una rozza
piattaforma di legname sotto la finestra superiore, un piccolo soppalco che somigliava più
a un grande scaffale. Vi si accedeva solo con una scala, e pareva
to be as bare as the bare walls. Wilson completed his survey of the
place and then went and stared at the things on the table. Then he
silently pointed with his lean forefinger at the open page of the
large notebook. The writer had suddenly stopped writing, even in the
middle of a word. “I said it was like an explosion,” said Sir Walter Carey at last.
“And really the man himself seems to have suddenly exploded. But he
has blown himself up somehow without touching the tower. He’s burst
more like a bubble than a bomb.” “He has touched more valuable things than the tower,” said Wilson,
gloomily. There was a long silence, and then Sir Walter said, seriously:
“Well, Mr. Wilson, I am not a detective, and these unhappy
happenings have left you in charge of that branch of the business.
We all lament the cause of this, but I should like to say that I
myself have the strongest confidence in your capacity for carrying
on the work. What do you think we should do next?” Wilson seemed to rouse himself from his depression and acknowledged
the speaker’s words with a warmer civility than he had hitherto
shown to anybody. He called in a few of the police to assist in
routing out the interior, leaving the rest to spread themselves in a
search party outside. “I think,” he said, “the first thing is to make quite sure about the
inside of this place, as it was hardly physically possible for him
to have got outside. I suppose poor Nolan would have brought in his
banshee and said it was supernaturally possible. But I’ve got no use
for disembodied spirits when I’m dealing with facts. And the facts
before me are an empty tower with a ladder, a chair, and a table.” “The spiritualists,” said Sir Walter, with a smile, “would say that
spirits could find a great deal of use for a table.” “I dare say they could if the spirits were on the table—in a
bottle,” replied Wilson, with a curl of his pale lip. “The people
round here, when they’re all sodden up with Irish whisky, may
believe in such things. I think they want a little education in this
country.” Horne Fisher’s heavy eyelids fluttered in a faint attempt to rise,
as if he were tempted to a lazy protest against the contemptuous
tone of the investigator. “The Irish believe far too much in spirits to believe in
spiritualism,” he murmured. “They know too much about ‘em. If you
want a simple and childlike faith in any spirit that comes along you
can get it in your favorite London.” “I don’t want to get it anywhere,” said Wilson, shortly. “I say I’m
dealing with much simpler things than your simple faith, with a
table and a chair and a ladder. Now what I want to say about them at
the start is this. They are all three made roughly enough of plain
wood. But the table and the chair are fairly new and comparatively
clean. The ladder is covered with dust and there is a cobweb under
the top rung of it. That means that he borrowed the first two quite
recently from some cottage, as we supposed, but the ladder has been
a long time in this rotten old dustbin. Probably it was part of the
original furniture, an heirloom in this magnificent palace of the
Irish kings.” Again Fisher looked at him under his eyelids, but seemed too sleepy
to speak, and Wilson went on with his argument. “Now it’s quite clear that something very odd has just happened in
this place. The chances are ten to one, it seems to me, that it had
something specially to do with this place. Probably he came here
because he could do it only here; it doesn’t seem very inviting
otherwise. But the man knew it of old; they say it belonged to his
family, so that altogether, I think, everything points to something
in the construction of the tower itself.” “Your reasoning seems to me excellent,” said Sir Walter, who was
listening attentively. “But what could it be?” “You see now what I mean about the ladder,” went on the detective;
“it’s the only old piece of furniture here and the first thing that
caught that cockney eye of mine. But there is something else. That
loft up there is a sort of lumber room without any lumber. So far as
I can see, it’s as empty as everything else; and, as things are, I
don’t see the use of the ladder leading to it. It seems to me, as I
can’t find anything unusual down here, that it might pay us to look
up there.” He got briskly off the table on which he was sitting (for the only
chair was allotted to Sir Walter) and ran rapidly up the ladder to
the platform above. He was soon followed by the others, Mr. Fisher
going last, however, with an appearance of considerable nonchalance. At this stage, however, they were destined to disappointment; Wilson
nosed in every corner like a terrier and examined the roof almost in
the posture of a fly, but half an hour afterward they had to confess
that they were still without a clew. Sir Walter’s private secretary
seemed more and more threatened with inappropriate slumber, and,
having been the last to climb up the ladder, seemed now to lack the
energy even to climb down again. “Come along, Fisher,” called out Sir Walter from below, when the
others had regained the floor. “We must consider whether we’ll pull
the whole place to pieces to see what it’s made of.” “I’m coming in a minute,” said the voice from the ledge above their
heads, a voice somewhat suggestive of an articulate yawn. “What are you waiting for?” asked Sir Walter, impatiently. “Can you
see anything there?” “Well, yes, in a way,” replied the voice, vaguely. “In fact, I see
it quite plain now.” “What is it?” asked Wilson, sharply, from the table on which he sat
kicking his heels restlessly. “Well, it’s a man,” said Horne Fisher. Wilson bounded off the table as if he had been kicked off it. “What
do you mean?” he cried. “How can you possibly see a man?” “I can see him through the window,” replied the secretary, mildly.
spoglio quanto le pareti nude. Wilson completò la sua ispezione del
luogo e poi andò a fissare gli oggetti sul tavolo. Poi
indicò in silenzio col suo magro indice la pagina aperta del
grande taccuino. Chi scriveva si era fermato di colpo, persino nel
mezzo di una parola. «Ho detto che pareva un’esplosione», disse infine Sir Walter Carey.
«E davvero l’uomo stesso sembra essere esploso all’improvviso. Ma si
è fatto saltare in aria in qualche modo senza toccare la torre. È scoppiato
più come una bolla che come una bomba.» «Ha toccato cose più preziose della torre», disse Wilson,
cupamente. Vi fu un lungo silenzio, e poi Sir Walter disse, serio:
«Ebbene, signor Wilson, io non sono un investigatore, e questi infelici
eventi vi hanno lasciato a capo di quel ramo della faccenda.
Tutti deploriamo la causa di ciò, ma vorrei dire che io
stesso ho la più ferma fiducia nella vostra capacità di portare
avanti il lavoro. Che cosa pensate dovremmo fare ora?» Wilson parve riscuotersi dal suo abbattimento e accolse
le parole di chi parlava con una cortesia più calda di quella che fin lì
aveva mostrato a chiunque. Chiamò alcuni poliziotti ad aiutarlo a
frugare l’interno, lasciando che gli altri si sparpagliassero in una
squadra di ricerca all’esterno. «Penso», disse, «che la prima cosa sia accertarsi bene di ciò che riguarda
l’interno di questo luogo, poiché era fisicamente quasi impossibile per lui
essere uscito. Suppongo che il povero Nolan avrebbe tirato in ballo la sua
banshee e detto che era possibile per vie soprannaturali. Ma non so che farmene
di spiriti incorporei quando ho a che fare coi fatti. E i fatti
davanti a me sono una torre vuota con una scala, una sedia e un tavolo.» «Gli spiritisti», disse Sir Walter con un sorriso, «direbbero che
gli spiriti saprebbero farsene parecchio, di un tavolo.» «Direi di sì, se gli spiriti fossero sul tavolo… in una
bottiglia», replicò Wilson con una piega del pallido labbro. «La gente
di queste parti, quando è tutta imbevuta di whisky irlandese, può
credere a certe cose. Penso che abbiano bisogno di un po’ d’istruzione in questo
paese.» Le pesanti palpebre di Horne Fisher tremolarono in un debole tentativo di sollevarsi,
come se fosse tentato da una pigra protesta contro il tono sprezzante
dell’investigatore. «Gli irlandesi credono troppo negli spiriti per credere nello
spiritismo», mormorò. «Ne sanno troppo. Se
volete una fede semplice e infantile in qualunque spirito capiti, la
potete trovare nella vostra amata Londra.» «Non voglio trovarla da nessuna parte», disse Wilson, secco. «Dico che ho
a che fare con cose ben più semplici della vostra semplice fede, con un
tavolo e una sedia e una scala. Ora, ciò che voglio dire di essi
in principio è questo. Tutti e tre sono fatti alla buona di semplice
legno. Ma il tavolo e la sedia sono abbastanza nuovi e relativamente
puliti. La scala è coperta di polvere e c’è una ragnatela sotto
il piolo più alto. Ciò significa che i primi due li prese in prestito assai
di recente da qualche casolare, come supponevamo, ma la scala è stata
per molto tempo in questo vecchio e marcio immondezzaio. Probabilmente faceva parte dell’
arredo originale, un cimelio di questo magnifico palazzo dei
re irlandesi.» Di nuovo Fisher lo guardò da sotto le palpebre, ma parve troppo assonnato
per parlare, e Wilson proseguì il suo ragionamento. «Ora è ben chiaro che qualcosa di molto strano è appena accaduto in
questo luogo. Le probabilità sono dieci a uno, mi pare, che avesse
qualcosa a che fare in particolare con questo luogo. Probabilmente venne qui
perché poteva farlo solo qui; per altri versi non pare molto invitante
il posto. Ma l’uomo lo conosceva da tempo; dicono appartenesse alla sua
famiglia, sicché nel complesso, penso, tutto indica qualcosa
nella costruzione stessa della torre.» «Il vostro ragionamento mi pare eccellente», disse Sir Walter, che
ascoltava attento. «Ma che cosa potrebbe essere?» «Ora capite che cosa intendo a proposito della scala», proseguì l’investigatore;
«è l’unico vecchio mobile qui e la prima cosa che
ha colto quel mio occhio da cockney. Ma c’è dell’altro. Quel
soppalco lassù è una specie di ripostiglio senza cianfrusaglie. Per quanto
posso vedere, è vuoto come tutto il resto; e, stando così le cose,
non vedo l’utilità della scala che vi conduce. Mi pare, dato che
non trovo nulla d’insolito quaggiù, che potrebbe valere la pena guardare
lassù.» Scese svelto dal tavolo su cui sedeva (giacché l’unica
sedia era assegnata a Sir Walter) e salì rapido la scala verso
la piattaforma soprastante. Fu presto seguito dagli altri, il signor Fisher
per ultimo, però, con un’aria di considerevole noncuranza. A questo punto, tuttavia, erano destinati alla delusione; Wilson
ficcò il naso in ogni angolo come un terrier ed esaminò il tetto quasi nella
posa di una mosca, ma mezz’ora dopo dovettero confessare
che erano ancora senza un indizio. Il segretario privato di Sir Walter
pareva sempre più minacciato da un sonno inopportuno, e,
essendo stato l’ultimo a salire la scala, pareva ora mancare dell’
energia perfino per ridiscenderla. «Su, venite, Fisher», chiamò Sir Walter dal basso, quando gli
altri ebbero raggiunto il pavimento. «Dobbiamo considerare se ridurre
l’intero luogo a pezzi per vedere di che cosa è fatto.» «Vengo tra un minuto», disse la voce dal ripiano sopra le loro
teste, una voce che ricordava un po’ uno sbadiglio articolato. «Che cosa aspettate?», chiese Sir Walter, spazientito. «Riuscite
a vedere qualcosa lassù?» «Ebbene, sì, in un certo senso», replicò la voce, vagamente. «Anzi, ora la vedo
del tutto chiaramente.» «Che cos’è?», chiese Wilson, brusco, dal tavolo su cui sedeva
battendo i talloni con irrequietezza. «Ebbene, è un uomo», disse Horne Fisher. Wilson balzò giù dal tavolo come se ne fosse stato scalciato via. «Che cosa
intendete?», gridò. «Come diavolo potete vedere un uomo?» «Lo vedo attraverso la finestra», replicò il segretario, mite.
“I see him coming across the moor. He’s making a bee line across the
open country toward this tower. He evidently means to pay us a
visit. And, considering who it seems to be, perhaps it would be more
polite if we were all at the door to receive him.” And in a
leisurely manner the secretary came down the ladder. “Who it seems to be!” repeated Sir Walter in astonishment. “Well, I think it’s the man you call Prince Michael,” observed Mr.
Fisher, airily. “In fact, I’m sure it is. I’ve seen the police
portraits of him.” There was a dead silence, and Sir Walter’s usually steady brain
seemed to go round like a windmill. “But, hang it all!” he said at last, “even supposing his own
explosion could have thrown him half a mile away, without passing
through any of the windows, and left him alive enough for a country
walk—even then, why the devil should he walk in this direction?
The murderer does not generally revisit the scene of his crime so
rapidly as all that.” “He doesn’t know yet that it is the scene of his crime,” answered
Horne Fisher. “What on earth do you mean? You credit him with rather singular
absence of mind.” “Well, the truth is, it isn’t the scene of his crime,” said Fisher,
and went and looked out of the window. There was another silence, and then Sir Walter said, quietly: “What
sort of notion have you really got in your head, Fisher? Have you
developed a new theory about how this fellow escaped out of the ring
round him?” “He never escaped at all,” answered the man at the window, without
turning round. “He never escaped out of the ring because he was
never inside the ring. He was not in this tower at all, at least not
when we were surrounding it.” He turned and leaned back against the window, but, in spite of his
usual listless manner, they almost fancied that the face in shadow
was a little pale. “I began to guess something of the sort when we were some way from
the tower,” he said. “Did you notice that sort of flash or flicker
the candle gave before it was extinguished? I was almost certain it
was only the last leap the flame gives when a candle burns itself
out. And then I came into this room and I saw that.” He pointed at the table and Sir Walter caught his breath with a sort
of curse at his own blindness. For the candle in the candlestick had
obviously burned itself away to nothing and left him, mentally, at
least, very completely in the dark. “Then there is a sort of mathematical question,” went on Fisher,
leaning back in his limp way and looking up at the bare walls, as if
tracing imaginary diagrams there. “It’s not so easy for a man in the
third angle to face the other two at the same moment, especially if
they are at the base of an isosceles. I am sorry if it sounds like a
lecture on geometry, but—” “I’m afraid we have no time for it,” said Wilson, coldly. “If this
man is really coming back, I must give my orders at once.” “I think I’ll go on with it, though,” observed Fisher, staring at
the roof with insolent serenity. “I must ask you, Mr. Fisher, to let me conduct my inquiry on my own
lines,” said Wilson, firmly. “I am the officer in charge now.” “Yes,” remarked Horne Fisher, softly, but with an accent that
somehow chilled the hearer. “Yes. But why?” Sir Walter was staring, for he had never seen his rather
lackadaisical young friend look like that before. Fisher was looking
at Wilson with lifted lids, and the eyes under them seemed to have
shed or shifted a film, as do the eyes of an eagle. “Why are you the officer in charge now?” he asked. “Why can you
conduct the inquiry on your own lines now? How did it come about, I
wonder, that the elder officers are not here to interfere with
anything you do?” Nobody spoke, and nobody can say how soon anyone would have
collected his wits to speak when a noise came from without. It was
the heavy and hollow sound of a blow upon the door of the tower, and
to their shaken spirits it sounded strangely like the hammer of
doom. The wooden door of the tower moved on its rusty hinges under the
hand that struck it and Prince Michael came into the room. Nobody
had the smallest doubt about his identity. His light clothes, though
frayed with his adventures, were of fine and almost foppish cut, and
he wore a pointed beard, or imperial, perhaps as a further
reminiscence of Louis Napoleon; but he was a much taller and more
graceful man that his prototype. Before anyone could speak he had
silenced everyone for an instant with a slight but splendid gesture
of hospitality. “Gentlemen,” he said, “this is a poor place now, but you are
heartily welcome.” Wilson was the first to recover, and he took a stride toward the
newcomer. “Michael O’Neill, I arrest you in the king’s name for the murder of
Francis Morton and James Nolan. It is my duty to warn you—” “No, no, Mr. Wilson,” cried Fisher, suddenly. “You shall not commit
a third murder.” Sir Walter Carey rose from his chair, which fell over with a crash
behind him. “What does all this mean?” he called out in an
authoritative manner. “It means,” said Fisher, “that this man, Hooker Wilson, as soon as
he had put his head in at that window, killed his two comrades who
had put their heads in at the other windows, by firing across the
empty room. That is what it means. And if you want to know, count
how many times he is supposed to have fired and then count the
charges left in his revolver.” Wilson, who was still sitting on the table, abruptly put a hand out
for the weapon that lay beside him. But the next movement was the
most unexpected of all, for the prince standing in the doorway
passed suddenly from the dignity of a statue to the swiftness of an
acrobat and rent the revolver out of the detective’s hand. “You dog!” he cried. “So you are the type of English truth, as I am
«Lo vedo attraversare la brughiera. Punta dritto attraverso la
campagna aperta verso questa torre. Evidentemente intende farci
visita. E, considerando chi sembra essere, forse sarebbe più
cortese se fossimo tutti alla porta a riceverlo.» E con
aria indolente il segretario scese la scala. «Chi sembra essere!» ripeté Sir Walter, sbalordito.
«Ebbene, penso sia l’uomo che voi chiamate il principe Michele», osservò il signor
Fisher, con leggerezza. «Anzi, ne sono certo. Ho visto i ritratti
segnaletici di lui.» Vi fu un silenzio di morte, e il cervello di solito saldo di Sir Walter
parve girare come un mulino a vento. «Ma, diavolo!» disse infine, «anche ammettendo che la sua stessa
esplosione abbia potuto scagliarlo mezzo miglio lontano, senza passare
per nessuna delle finestre, e lasciarlo vivo abbastanza per una passeggiata
in campagna… anche allora, perché diavolo dovrebbe camminare in questa direzione?
L’assassino di solito non torna sulla scena del suo delitto così
rapidamente come tutto ciò.» «Non sa ancora che è la scena del suo delitto», rispose
Horne Fisher. «Che diamine intendete? Gli attribuite una singolare
assenza di mente.» «Ebbene, la verità è che non è la scena del suo delitto», disse Fisher,
e andò a guardare fuori dalla finestra. Vi fu un altro silenzio, e poi Sir Walter disse, sommessamente: «Che
sorta di idea avete davvero in testa, Fisher? Avete
elaborato una nuova teoria su come costui sia sfuggito al cerchio
che lo circondava?» «Non è mai sfuggito affatto», rispose l’uomo alla finestra, senza
voltarsi. «Non è mai sfuggito al cerchio perché non è mai
stato dentro il cerchio. Non era affatto in questa torre, almeno non
quando la circondavamo.» Si voltò e si appoggiò alla finestra, ma, nonostante il suo
solito modo svogliato, quasi immaginarono che il volto in ombra
fosse un po’ pallido. «Cominciai a sospettare qualcosa del genere quando eravamo un po’ lontani dalla
torre», disse. «Avete notato quella sorta di lampo o guizzo
che la candela diede prima di spegnersi? Ero quasi certo
che fosse solo l’ultimo balzo che la fiamma dà quando una candela si
consuma. E poi entrai in questa stanza e vidi quello.» Indicò il tavolo e Sir Walter trattenne il fiato con una specie
di imprecazione contro la propria cecità. Perché la candela nel candeliere si era
evidentemente consumata fino a nulla e lo aveva lasciato, mentalmente almeno,
del tutto all’oscuro. «Poi c’è una specie di questione matematica», proseguì Fisher,
appoggiandosi all’indietro nel suo modo floscio e guardando in alto le pareti nude, come se
vi tracciasse diagrammi immaginari. «Non è così facile per un uomo nel
terzo angolo fronteggiare gli altri due nello stesso momento, specie se
sono alla base di un isoscele. Mi spiace se suona come una
conferenza di geometria, ma…» «Temo che non ne abbiamo il tempo», disse Wilson, freddamente. «Se quest’
uomo sta davvero tornando, devo dare i miei ordini all’istante.» «Penso che io proseguirò comunque», osservò Fisher, fissando
il tetto con insolente serenità. «Devo chiedervi, signor Fisher, di lasciarmi condurre l’indagine a modo
mio», disse Wilson, fermamente. «Ora sono io l’ufficiale in carica.» «Sì», osservò Horne Fisher, sommessamente, ma con un accento che
in qualche modo raggelò chi ascoltava. «Sì. Ma perché?» Sir Walter fissava, poiché non aveva mai visto il suo piuttosto
svagato giovane amico assumere quell’aria. Fisher guardava
Wilson con le palpebre sollevate, e gli occhi sotto di esse parevano aver
gettato o spostato una pellicola, come fanno gli occhi di un’aquila. «Perché ora siete voi l’ufficiale in carica?» chiese. «Perché potete
condurre l’indagine a modo vostro, ora? Come mai è accaduto, mi
chiedo, che gli ufficiali più anziani non siano qui a intralciare
qualsiasi cosa facciate?» Nessuno parlò, e nessuno può dire quanto presto qualcuno avrebbe
radunato l’ingegno per parlare quando un rumore giunse da fuori. Era
il pesante e cupo suono di un colpo sulla porta della torre, e
ai loro spiriti scossi suonò stranamente come il martello del
giudizio. La porta di legno della torre si mosse sui cardini arrugginiti sotto la mano che la percosse e il principe Michele entrò nella stanza. Nessuno
ebbe il minimo dubbio sulla sua identità. Le sue vesti chiare, benché
logorate dalle avventure, erano di taglio fine e quasi vanesio, e
portava una barba a punta, o imperiale, forse come ulteriore
reminiscenza di Luigi Napoleone; ma era un uomo assai più alto e più
aggraziato del suo prototipo. Prima che alcuno potesse parlare aveva
ammutolito tutti per un istante con un lieve ma splendido gesto
di ospitalità. «Signori», disse, «questo è un misero luogo, ora, ma siete
cordialmente i benvenuti.» Wilson fu il primo a riprendersi, e mosse un passo verso il
nuovo venuto. «Michele O’Neill, vi arresto in nome del re per l’omicidio di
Francis Morton e James Nolan. È mio dovere avvertirvi…» «No, no, signor Wilson», gridò Fisher, all’improvviso. «Non commetterete
un terzo omicidio.» Sir Walter Carey si alzò dalla sedia, che cadde con fracasso
dietro di lui. «Che cosa significa tutto questo?» esclamò in modo
autoritario. «Significa», disse Fisher, «che quest’uomo, Hooker Wilson, appena
ebbe messo la testa a quella finestra, uccise i suoi due compagni che
avevano messo la testa alle altre finestre, sparando attraverso la
stanza vuota. Ecco che cosa significa. E se volete saperlo, contate
quante volte si suppone che abbia sparato e poi contate le
cariche rimaste nel suo revolver.» Wilson, che sedeva ancora sul tavolo, tese bruscamente una mano
verso l’arma che gli giaceva accanto. Ma il movimento successivo fu il
più inatteso di tutti, poiché il principe ritto sulla soglia
passò d’improvviso dalla dignità di una statua alla rapidità di un
acrobata e strappò il revolver dalla mano dell’investigatore. «Cane!» gridò. «Dunque tu sei il tipo della verità inglese, come io sono
of Irish tragedy—you who come to kill me, wading through the blood
of your brethren. If they had fallen in a feud on the hillside, it
would be called murder, and yet your sin might be forgiven you. But
I, who am innocent, I was to be slain with ceremony. There would
be long speeches and patient judges listening to my vain plea of
innocence, noting down my despair and disregarding it. Yes, that is
what I call assassination. But killing may be no murder; there is
one shot left in this little gun, and I know where it should go.” Wilson turned quickly on the table, and even as he turned he twisted
in agony, for Michael shot him through the body where he sat, so
that he tumbled off the table like lumber. The police rushed to lift him; Sir Walter stood speechless; and
then, with a strange and weary gesture, Horne Fisher spoke. “You are indeed a type of the Irish tragedy,” he said. “You were
entirely in the right, and you have put yourself in the wrong.” The prince’s face was like marble for a space then there dawned in
his eyes a light not unlike that of despair. He laughed suddenly and
flung the smoking pistol on the ground. “I am indeed in the wrong,” he said. “I have committed a crime that
may justly bring a curse on me and my children.” Horne Fisher did not seem entirely satisfied with this very sudden
repentance; he kept his eyes on the man and only said, in a low
voice, “What crime do you mean?” “I have helped English justice,” replied Prince Michael. “I have
avenged your king’s officers; I have done the work of his hangman.
For that truly I deserve to be hanged.” And he turned to the police with a gesture that did not so much
surrender to them, but rather command them to arrest him. This was the story that Horne Fisher told to Harold March, the
journalist, many years after, in a little, but luxurious, restaurant
near Piccadilly. He had invited March to dinner some time after the
affair he called “The Face in the Target,” and the conversation had
naturally turned on that mystery and afterward on earlier memories
of Fisher’s life and the way in which he was led to study such
problems as those of Prince Michael. Horne Fisher was fifteen years
older; his thin hair had faded to frontal baldness, and his long,
thin hands dropped less with affectation and more with fatigue. And
he told the story of the Irish adventure of his youth, because it
recorded the first occasion on which he had ever come in contact
with crime, or discovered how darkly and how terribly crime can be
entangled with law. “Hooker Wilson was the first criminal I ever knew, and he was a
policeman,” explained Fisher, twirling his wine glass. “And all my
life has been a mixed-up business of the sort. He was a man of very
real talent, and perhaps genius, and well worth studying, both as a
detective and a criminal. His white face and red hair were typical
of him, for he was one of those who are cold and yet on fire for
fame; and he could control anger, but not ambition. He swallowed the
snubs of his superiors in that first quarrel, though he boiled with
resentment; but when he suddenly saw the two heads dark against the
dawn and framed in the two windows, he could not miss the chance,
not only of revenge, but of the removal of the two obstacles to his
promotion. He was a dead shot and counted on silencing both, though
proof against him would have been hard in any case. But, as a matter
of fact, he had a narrow escape, in the case of Nolan, who lived
just long enough to say, ‘Wilson’ and point. We thought he was
summoning help for his comrade, but he was really denouncing his
murderer. After that it was easy to throw down the ladder above him
(for a man up a ladder cannot see clearly what is below and behind)
and to throw himself on the ground as another victim of the
catastrophe. “But there was mixed up with his murderous ambition a real belief,
not only in his own talents, but in his own theories. He did believe
in what he called a fresh eye, and he did want scope for fresh
methods. There was something in his view, but it failed where such
things commonly fail, because the fresh eye cannot see the unseen.
It is true about the ladder and the scarecrow, but not about the
life and the soul; and he made a bad mistake about what a man like
Michael would do when he heard a woman scream. All Michael’s very
vanity and vainglory made him rush out at once; he would have walked
into Dublin Castle for a lady’s glove. Call it his pose or what you
will, but he would have done it. What happened when he met her is
another story, and one we may never know, but from tales I’ve heard
since, they must have been reconciled. Wilson was wrong there; but
there was something, for all that, in his notion that the newcomer
sees most, and that the man on the spot may know too much to know
anything. He was right about some things. He was right about me.” “About you?” asked Harold March in some wonder. “I am the man who knows too much to know anything, or, at any rate,
to do anything,” said Horne Fisher. “I don’t mean especially about
Ireland. I mean about England. I mean about the whole way we are
governed, and perhaps the only way we can be governed. You asked me
just now what became of the survivors of that tragedy. Well, Wilson
recovered and we managed to persuade him to retire. But we had to
pension that damnable murderer more magnificently than any hero who
ever fought for England. I managed to save Michael from the worst,
but we had to send that perfectly innocent man to penal servitude
for a crime we know he never committed, and it was only afterward
that we could connive in a sneakish way at his escape. And Sir
Walter Carey is Prime Minister of this country, which he would
probably never have been if the truth had been told of such a
horrible scandal in his department. It might have done for us
altogether in Ireland; it would certainly have done for him. And he
is my father’s old friend, and has always smothered me with
kindness. I am too tangled up with the whole thing, you see, and I
was certainly never born to set it right. You look distressed, not
to say shocked, and I’m not at all offended at it. Let us change the
subject by all means, if you like. What do you think of this
Burgundy? It’s rather a discovery of mine, like the restaurant
itself.” And he proceeded to talk learnedly and luxuriantly on all the wines
of the world; on which subject, also, some moralists would consider
that he knew too much.
della tragedia irlandese… tu che vieni a uccidermi, guadando il sangue
dei tuoi fratelli. Se fossero caduti in una faida sul pendio,
si chiamerebbe omicidio, eppure il tuo peccato potrebbe esserti perdonato. Ma
io, che sono innocente, dovevo essere ucciso con cerimonia. Vi sarebbero
lunghi discorsi e pazienti giudici in ascolto della mia vana supplica d’
innocenza, che annoterebbero la mia disperazione e la ignorerebbero. Sì, questo
è ciò che io chiamo assassinio. Ma l’uccidere può non essere omicidio; c’è
un colpo rimasto in questa piccola arma, e so dove dovrebbe andare.» Wilson si voltò rapido sul tavolo, e proprio mentre si voltava si contorse
in agonia, poiché Michele gli sparò attraverso il corpo là dove sedeva, così
che ruzzolò giù dal tavolo come un ciarpame. I poliziotti si precipitarono a sollevarlo; Sir Walter restò senza parola; e
poi, con un gesto strano e stanco, Horne Fisher parlò. «Voi siete davvero un tipo della tragedia irlandese», disse. «Eravate
interamente nel giusto, e vi siete messo dalla parte del torto.» Il volto del principe fu come marmo per un istante, poi spuntò nei
suoi occhi una luce non dissimile da quella della disperazione. Rise all’improvviso e
scagliò a terra la pistola fumante. «Sono davvero dalla parte del torto», disse. «Ho commesso un delitto che
può a buon diritto attirare una maledizione su di me e sui miei figli.» Horne Fisher non parve del tutto soddisfatto di questo assai repentino
pentimento; tenne gli occhi sull’uomo e disse solo, a bassa
voce: «Quale delitto intendete?» «Ho aiutato la giustizia inglese», replicò il principe Michele. «Ho
vendicato gli ufficiali del vostro re; ho fatto l’opera del suo boia.
Per questo davvero merito di essere impiccato.» E si volse ai poliziotti con un gesto che non tanto
si arrendeva a loro, quanto piuttosto ordinava loro di arrestarlo. Questa fu la storia che Horne Fisher raccontò a Harold March, il
giornalista, molti anni dopo, in un piccolo ma lussuoso ristorante
presso Piccadilly. Aveva invitato March a cena qualche tempo dopo la
vicenda che egli chiamava «Il volto nel bersaglio», e la conversazione era
naturalmente scivolata su quel mistero e poi su ricordi più antichi
della vita di Fisher e sul modo in cui fu indotto a studiare
problemi come quelli del principe Michele. Horne Fisher aveva quindici anni
di più; i suoi radi capelli si erano diradati in una calvizie frontale, e le sue lunghe,
sottili mani ricadevano meno per affettazione e più per stanchezza. E
raccontò la storia dell’avventura irlandese della sua giovinezza, perché
registrava la prima occasione in cui fosse mai venuto a contatto
col crimine, o avesse scoperto quanto oscuramente e quanto terribilmente il crimine possa
intrecciarsi con la legge. «Hooker Wilson fu il primo criminale che io abbia mai conosciuto, ed era un
poliziotto», spiegò Fisher, facendo roteare il bicchiere di vino. «E tutta la mia
vita è stata una faccenda ingarbugliata del genere. Era un uomo di assai
reale talento, e forse genio, e ben degno di studio, tanto come
investigatore quanto come criminale. Il suo volto bianco e i capelli rossi erano tipici
di lui, poiché era uno di quelli che sono freddi eppure in fiamme per la
fama; e sapeva dominare l’ira, ma non l’ambizione. Inghiottì gli
affronti dei suoi superiori in quel primo alterco, benché ribollisse di
risentimento; ma quando d’improvviso vide le due teste scure contro l’
alba e incorniciate nelle due finestre, non poté lasciarsi sfuggire l’occasione,
non solo di vendetta, ma della rimozione dei due ostacoli alla sua
promozione. Era un tiratore infallibile e contava di ridurre al silenzio entrambi, benché
una prova contro di lui sarebbe stata difficile in ogni caso. Ma, di
fatto, la scampò per un pelo, nel caso di Nolan, che visse
quanto bastava a dire «Wilson» e a indicare. Pensammo stesse
invocando aiuto per il compagno, ma in realtà denunciava il suo
assassino. Dopo di ciò fu facile gettar giù la scala sopra di lui
(poiché un uomo su una scala non può vedere chiaramente ciò che sta sotto e dietro)
e buttarsi a terra come un’altra vittima della
catastrofe. «Ma alla sua omicida ambizione si mescolava una reale convinzione,
non solo nei propri talenti, ma nelle proprie teorie. Credeva davvero
in ciò che chiamava un occhio nuovo, e voleva davvero spazio per nuovi
metodi. C’era qualcosa nella sua idea, ma essa falliva dove simili
cose comunemente falliscono, perché l’occhio nuovo non può vedere l’invisibile.
È vero riguardo alla scala e allo spaventapasseri, ma non riguardo alla
vita e all’anima; e commise un grave errore su ciò che un uomo come
Michele avrebbe fatto udendo gridare una donna. Tutta la Michele stessa
vanità e vanagloria di lui lo fecero precipitare fuori all’istante; sarebbe entrato
nel Castello di Dublino per il guanto di una dama. Chiamatela posa o come
volete, ma l’avrebbe fatto. Ciò che accadde quando la incontrò è
un’altra storia, e forse non la sapremo mai, ma dai racconti che ho udito
da allora, devono essersi riconciliati. Lì Wilson si sbagliava; ma
c’era qualcosa, nonostante tutto, nella sua idea che il nuovo venuto
veda di più, e che l’uomo sul posto possa sapere troppo per sapere
alcunché. Su alcune cose aveva ragione. Aveva ragione su di me.» «Su di voi?» chiese Harold March con un certo stupore. «Io sono l’uomo che sa troppo per sapere alcunché, o, quantomeno,
per fare alcunché», disse Horne Fisher. «Non intendo specialmente riguardo all’
Irlanda. Intendo riguardo all’Inghilterra. Intendo riguardo all’intero modo in cui siamo
governati, e forse l’unico modo in cui possiamo essere governati. Mi avete chiesto
poco fa che ne fu dei sopravvissuti di quella tragedia. Ebbene, Wilson
si riprese e riuscimmo a persuaderlo a ritirarsi. Ma dovemmo
pensionare quel dannato assassino più magnificamente di qualsiasi eroe che
abbia mai combattuto per l’Inghilterra. Riuscii a salvare Michele dal peggio,
ma dovemmo mandare quell’uomo perfettamente innocente ai lavori forzati
per un delitto che sappiamo non aver mai commesso, e fu solo in seguito
che potemmo connivere in modo sornione alla sua fuga. E Sir
Walter Carey è Primo Ministro di questo paese, cosa che
probabilmente non sarebbe mai stato se si fosse detta la verità su un così
orribile scandalo nel suo dicastero. Avrebbe potuto rovinarci
del tutto in Irlanda; avrebbe certo rovinato lui. Ed è
il vecchio amico di mio padre, e mi ha sempre soffocato di
gentilezze. Sono troppo invischiato nell’intera faccenda, vedete, e
di certo non sono nato per raddrizzarla. Avete l’aria afflitta, per non dire
sconvolta, e non me ne offendo affatto. Cambiamo pure
argomento, se volete. Che ne pensate di questo
Borgogna? È piuttosto una mia scoperta, come il ristorante
stesso.» E proseguì a parlare dottamente e sontuosamente di tutti i vini
del mondo; argomento sul quale, anche, alcuni moralisti riterrebbero
che egli sapesse troppo.
III - The Soul of the Schoolboy * A large map of London would be needed to display the wild and zigzag
course of one day’s journey undertaken by an uncle and his nephew;
or, to speak more truly, of a nephew and his uncle. For the nephew,
a schoolboy on a holiday, was in theory the god in the car, or in
the cab, tram, tube, and so on, while his uncle was at most a priest
dancing before him and offering sacrifices. To put it more soberly,
the schoolboy had something of the stolid air of a young duke doing
the grand tour, while his elderly relative was reduced to the
position of a courier, who nevertheless had to pay for everything
like a patron. The schoolboy was officially known as Summers Minor,
and in a more social manner as Stinks, the only public tribute to
his career as an amateur photographer and electrician. The uncle was
the Rev. Thomas Twyford, a lean and lively old gentleman with a red,
eager face and white hair. He was in the ordinary way a country
clergyman, but he was one of those who achieve the paradox of being
famous in an obscure way, because they are famous in an obscure
world. In a small circle of ecclesiastical archaeologists, who were
the only people who could even understand one another’s discoveries,
he occupied a recognized and respectable place. And a critic might
have found even in that day’s journey at least as much of the
uncle’s hobby as of the nephew’s holiday. His original purpose had been wholly paternal and festive. But,
like many other intelligent people, he was not above the weakness of
playing with a toy to amuse himself, on the theory that it would
amuse a child. His toys were crowns and miters and croziers and
swords of state; and he had lingered over them, telling himself that
the boy ought to see all the sights of London. And at the end of the
day, after a tremendous tea, he rather gave the game away by winding
up with a visit in which hardly any human boy could be conceived as
taking an interest—an underground chamber supposed to have been a
chapel, recently excavated on the north bank of the Thames, and
containing literally nothing whatever but one old silver coin. But
the coin, to those who knew, was more solitary and splendid than the
Koh-i-noor. It was Roman, and was said to bear the head of St. Paul;
and round it raged the most vital controversies about the ancient
British Church. It could hardly be denied, however, that the
controversies left Summers Minor comparatively cold. Indeed, the things that interested Summers Minor, and the things
that did not interest him, had mystified and amused his uncle for
several hours. He exhibited the English schoolboy’s startling
ignorance and startling knowledge—knowledge of some special
classification in which he can generally correct and confound his
elders. He considered himself entitled, at Hampton Court on a
holiday, to forget the very names of Cardinal Wolsey or William of
Orange; but he could hardly be dragged from some details about the
arrangement of the electric bells in the neighboring hotel. He was
solidly dazed by Westminster Abbey, which is not so unnatural since
that church became the lumber room of the larger and less successful
statuary of the eighteenth century. But he had a magic and minute
knowledge of the Westminster omnibuses, and indeed of the whole
omnibus system of London, the colors and numbers of which he knew as
a herald knows heraldry. He would cry out against a momentary
confusion between a light-green Paddington and a dark-green
Bayswater vehicle, as his uncle would at the identification of a
Greek ikon and a Roman image. “Do you collect omnibuses like stamps?” asked his uncle. “They must
need a rather large album. Or do you keep them in your locker?” “I keep them in my head,” replied the nephew, with legitimate
firmness. “It does you credit, I admit,” replied the clergyman. “I suppose it
were vain to ask for what purpose you have learned that out of a
thousand things. There hardly seems to be a career in it, unless you
could be permanently on the pavement to prevent old ladies getting
into the wrong bus. Well, we must get out of this one, for this is
our place. I want to show you what they call St. Paul’s Penny.” “Is it like St. Paul’s Cathedral?” asked the youth with resignation,
as they alighted. At the entrance their eyes were arrested by a singular figure
evidently hovering there with a similar anxiety to enter. It was
that of a dark, thin man in a long black robe rather like a cassock;
but the black cap on his head was of too strange a shape to be a
biretta. It suggested, rather, some archaic headdress of Persia or
Babylon. He had a curious black beard appearing only at the corners
of his chin, and his large eyes were oddly set in his face like the
flat decorative eyes painted in old Egyptian profiles. Before they
had gathered more than a general impression of him, he had dived
into the doorway that was their own destination. Nothing could be seen above ground of the sunken sanctuary except a
strong wooden hut, of the sort recently run up for many military and
official purposes, the wooden floor of which was indeed a mere
platform over the excavated cavity below. A soldier stood as a
sentry outside, and a superior soldier, an Anglo-Indian officer of
distinction, sat writing at the desk inside. Indeed, the sightseers
soon found that this particular sight was surrounded with the most
extraordinary precautions. I have compared the silver coin to the
Koh-i-noor, and in one sense it was even conventionally comparable,
since by a historical accident it was at one time almost counted
among the Crown jewels, or at least the Crown relics, until one of
the royal princes publicly restored it to the shrine to which it was
supposed to belong. Other causes combined to concentrate official
III - L’anima dello scolaro * Occorrerebbe una grande mappa di Londra per mostrare il folle e zigzagante
percorso di un giorno di viaggio intrapreso da uno zio e suo nipote;
o, a dire il vero, da un nipote e suo zio. Poiché il nipote,
uno scolaro in vacanza, era in teoria il dio nel carro, o nella
carrozza, nel tram, nella metropolitana e così via, mentre suo zio era al più un sacerdote
che gli danzava davanti e offriva sacrifici. Per dirla più sobriamente,
lo scolaro aveva qualcosa dell’aria impassibile di un giovane duca in
grand tour, mentre il suo anziano parente era ridotto alla
condizione di un cicerone, che nondimeno doveva pagare ogni cosa
come un mecenate. Lo scolaro era ufficialmente noto come Summers Minor,
e in modo più conviviale come Stinks, l’unico tributo pubblico alla
sua carriera di fotografo ed elettricista dilettante. Lo zio era
il rev. Thomas Twyford, un vecchio gentiluomo magro e vivace dal viso rosso e
ardente e dai capelli bianchi. Era, in modo ordinario, un
ecclesiastico di campagna, ma era uno di quelli che raggiungono il paradosso di essere
famosi in modo oscuro, perché sono famosi in un mondo
oscuro. In una piccola cerchia di archeologi ecclesiastici, che erano
le uniche persone capaci anche solo di comprendere le reciproche scoperte,
egli occupava un posto riconosciuto e rispettabile. E un critico avrebbe
potuto trovare anche in quel viaggio di un giorno almeno tanto dell’
hobby dello zio quanto della vacanza del nipote. Il suo intento originario era stato del tutto paterno e festivo. Ma,
come molte altre persone intelligenti, non era immune dalla debolezza di
giocare con un balocco per divertirsi, con la teoria che avrebbe
divertito un bambino. I suoi balocchi erano corone e mitrie e pastorali e
spade di stato; e vi si era attardato, dicendosi che
il ragazzo doveva vedere tutte le attrattive di Londra. E alla fine della
giornata, dopo un tè formidabile, si tradì piuttosto concludendo
con una visita a cui difficilmente si potrebbe concepire un ragazzo in carne e ossa
prendere interesse… una camera sotterranea che si supponeva fosse stata una
cappella, scavata di recente sulla riva nord del Tamigi, e
contenente letteralmente null’altro che una vecchia moneta d’argento. Ma
la moneta, per chi sapeva, era più solitaria e splendida del
Koh-i-noor. Era romana, e si diceva recasse la testa di san Paolo;
e attorno a essa infuriavano le più vitali controversie sull’antica
Chiesa britannica. Non si poteva però negare che le
controversie lasciassero Summers Minor relativamente freddo. Invero, le cose che interessavano Summers Minor, e le cose
che non lo interessavano, avevano sconcertato e divertito suo zio per
parecchie ore. Esibiva la sorprendente ignoranza e la sorprendente
conoscenza dello scolaro inglese… la conoscenza di qualche speciale
classificazione in cui riesce di solito a correggere e confondere i suoi
maggiori. Si riteneva autorizzato, a Hampton Court in un giorno
di vacanza, a dimenticare persino i nomi di Cardinale Wolsey o Guglielmo d’
Orange; ma a stento lo si poteva staccare da certi dettagli sulla
disposizione dei campanelli elettrici nell’albergo vicino. Era
solidamente stordito dall’abbazia di Westminster, il che non è così innaturale dacché
quella chiesa divenne il ripostiglio della statuaria più grande e meno riuscita
del diciottesimo secolo. Ma aveva una magica e minuta
conoscenza degli omnibus di Westminster, e invero dell’intero
sistema di omnibus di Londra, i cui colori e numeri conosceva come
un araldo conosce l’araldica. Protestava contro una momentanea
confusione tra un Paddington verde chiaro e un Bayswater verde
scuro, come suo zio avrebbe fatto all’identificazione di un’
icona greca e di un’immagine romana. «Collezioni omnibus come francobolli?» chiese lo zio. «Devono
richiedere un album piuttosto grande. O li tieni nell’armadietto?» «Li tengo in testa», replicò il nipote, con legittima
fermezza. «Ti fa onore, lo ammetto», replicò l’ecclesiastico. «Suppongo sia
vano chiedere a quale scopo tu abbia imparato ciò tra
mille cose. Non pare esservi una carriera, a meno che tu non
possa stare in permanenza sul marciapiede a impedire alle vecchie signore di salire
sull’autobus sbagliato. Ebbene, dobbiamo scendere da questo, perché è
il nostro posto. Voglio mostrarti ciò che chiamano il Penny di san Paolo.» «È come la Cattedrale di san Paolo?» chiese il ragazzo con rassegnazione,
mentre scendevano. All’ingresso i loro occhi furono arrestati da una singolare figura
che evidentemente si aggirava lì con una simile ansia di entrare. Era
quella di un uomo scuro e magro in una lunga veste nera piuttosto simile a una tonaca;
ma il berretto nero sul capo aveva una forma troppo strana per essere una
berretta. Suggeriva, piuttosto, qualche arcaico copricapo di Persia o
Babilonia. Aveva una curiosa barba nera che spuntava solo agli angoli
del mento, e i suoi grandi occhi erano stranamente incassati nel volto come gli
occhi piatti e decorativi dipinti negli antichi profili egizi. Prima che
avessero colto più di un’impressione generale di lui, si era tuffato
nella soglia che era la loro stessa destinazione. Nulla si poteva vedere in superficie del santuario sommerso salvo una
robusta baracca di legno, del tipo eretto di recente per molti scopi militari e
ufficiali, il cui pavimento di legno era invero una semplice
piattaforma sopra la cavità scavata sottostante. Un soldato stava di
sentinella fuori, e un soldato superiore, un ufficiale anglo-indiano di
distinzione, sedeva scrivendo alla scrivania all’interno. Invero, i visitatori
presto scoprirono che questa particolare attrattiva era circondata dalle più
straordinarie precauzioni. Ho paragonato la moneta d’argento al
Koh-i-noor, e in un certo senso era persino convenzionalmente paragonabile,
poiché per un accidente storico fu a un certo tempo quasi annoverata
tra i gioielli della Corona, o almeno tra le reliquie della Corona, finché uno dei
principi reali la restituì pubblicamente al sacrario a cui si
supponeva appartenesse. Altre cause concorsero a concentrare la vigilanza ufficiale
vigilance upon it; there had been a scare about spies carrying
explosives in small objects, and one of those experimental orders
which pass like waves over bureaucracy had decreed first that all
visitors should change their clothes for a sort of official
sackcloth, and then (when this method caused some murmurs) that they
should at least turn out their pockets. Colonel Morris, the officer
in charge, was a short, active man with a grim and leathery face,
but a lively and humorous eye—a contradiction borne out by his
conduct, for he at once derided the safeguards and yet insisted on
them. “I don’t care a button myself for Paul’s Penny, or such things,” he
admitted in answer to some antiquarian openings from the clergyman
who was slightly acquainted with him, “but I wear the King’s coat,
you know, and it’s a serious thing when the King’s uncle leaves a
thing here with his own hands under my charge. But as for saints and
relics and things, I fear I’m a bit of a Voltairian; what you would
call a skeptic.” “I’m not sure it’s even skeptical to believe in the royal family and
not in the ‘Holy’ Family,” replied Mr. Twyford. “But, of course, I
can easily empty my pockets, to show I don’t carry a bomb.” The little heap of the parson’s possessions which he left on the
table consisted chiefly of papers, over and above a pipe and a
tobacco pouch and some Roman and Saxon coins. The rest were
catalogues of old books, and pamphlets, like one entitled “The Use
of Sarum,” one glance at which was sufficient both for the colonel
and the schoolboy. They could not see the use of Sarum at all. The
contents of the boy’s pockets naturally made a larger heap, and
included marbles, a ball of string, an electric torch, a magnet, a
small catapult, and, of course, a large pocketknife, almost to be
described as a small tool box, a complex apparatus on which he
seemed disposed to linger, pointing out that it included a pair of
nippers, a tool for punching holes in wood, and, above all, an
instrument for taking stones out of a horse’s hoof. The comparative
absence of any horse he appeared to regard as irrelevant, as if it
were a mere appendage easily supplied. But when the turn came of the
gentleman in the black gown, he did not turn out his pockets, but
merely spread out his hands. “I have no possessions,” he said. “I’m afraid I must ask you to empty your pockets and make sure,”
observed the colonel, gruffly. “I have no pockets,” said the stranger. Mr. Twyford was looking at the long black gown with a learned eye. “Are you a monk?” he asked, in a puzzled fashion. “I am a magus,” replied the stranger. “You have heard of the magi,
perhaps? I am a magician.” “Oh, I say!” exclaimed Summers Minor, with prominent eyes. “But I was once a monk,” went on the other. “I am what you would
call an escaped monk. Yes, I have escaped into eternity. But the
monks held one truth at least, that the highest life should be
without possessions. I have no pocket money and no pockets, and all
the stars are my trinkets.” “They are out of reach, anyhow,” observed Colonel Morris, in a tone
which suggested that it was well for them. “I’ve known a good many
magicians myself in India—mango plant and all. But the Indian ones
are all frauds, I’ll swear. In fact, I had a good deal of fun
showing them up. More fun than I have over this dreary job, anyhow.
But here comes Mr. Symon, who will show you over the old cellar
downstairs.” Mr. Symon, the official guardian and guide, was a young man,
prematurely gray, with a grave mouth which contrasted curiously with
a very small, dark mustache with waxed points, that seemed somehow,
separate from it, as if a black fly had settled on his face. He
spoke with the accent of Oxford and the permanent official, but in
as dead a fashion as the most indifferent hired guide. They
descended a dark stone staircase, at the floor of which Symon
pressed a button and a door opened on a dark room, or, rather, a
room which had an instant before been dark. For almost as the heavy
iron door swung open an almost blinding blaze of electric lights
filled the whole interior. The fitful enthusiasm of Stinks at once
caught fire, and he eagerly asked if the lights and the door worked
together. “Yes, it’s all one system,” replied Symon. “It was all fitted up
for the day His Royal Highness deposited the thing here. You see,
it’s locked up behind a glass case exactly as he left it.” A glance showed that the arrangements for guarding the treasure were
indeed as strong as they were simple. A single pane of glass cut off
one corner of the room, in an iron framework let into the rock walls
and the wooden roof above; there was now no possibility of reopening
the case without elaborate labor, except by breaking the glass,
which would probably arouse the night watchman who was always within
a few feet of it, even if he had fallen asleep. A close examination
would have showed many more ingenious safeguards; but the eye of the
Rev. Thomas Twyford, at least, was already riveted on what
interested him much more—the dull silver disk which shone in the
white light against a plain background of black velvet. “St. Paul’s Penny, said to commemorate the visit of St. Paul to
Britain, was probably preserved in this chapel until the eighth
century,” Symon was saying in his clear but colorless voice. “In the
ninth century it is supposed to have been carried away by the
barbarians, and it reappears, after the conversion of the northern
Goths, in the possession of the royal family of Gothland. His Royal
Highness, the Duke of Gothland, retained it always in his own
private custody, and when he decided to exhibit it to the public,
placed it here with his own hand. It was immediately sealed up in
such a manner—” Unluckily at this point Summers Minor, whose attention had somewhat
su di essa; c’era stato uno spavento per via di spie che portavano
esplosivi in piccoli oggetti, e uno di quegli ordini sperimentali
che passano come onde sulla burocrazia aveva decretato dapprima che tutti
i visitatori cambiassero i propri abiti con una sorta di ufficiale
sacco di penitenza, e poi (quando questo metodo causò qualche mormorio) che almeno
vuotassero le tasche. Il colonnello Morris, l’ufficiale
in carica, era un uomo basso e attivo dal volto arcigno e coriaceo,
ma dall’occhio vivace e umoristico… una contraddizione confermata dalla sua
condotta, poiché al tempo stesso derideva le precauzioni e tuttavia le
imponeva. «Personalmente non me ne importa un bottone del Penny di Paolo, o di simili cose»,
ammise in risposta a certe aperture antiquarie dell’ecclesiastico
che lo conosceva un poco, «ma io porto la divisa del re,
sapete, ed è cosa seria quando lo zio del re lascia una
cosa qui con le proprie mani sotto la mia custodia. Ma quanto a santi e
reliquie e cose simili, temo di essere un po’ un volterriano; ciò che voi
chiamereste uno scettico.» «Non sono sicuro che sia perfino scettico credere nella famiglia reale e
non nella ‘Sacra’ Famiglia», replicò il signor Twyford. «Ma, naturalmente,
posso facilmente vuotare le tasche, per mostrare che non porto una bomba.» Il piccolo mucchio dei beni del parroco che egli lasciò sul
tavolo consisteva per lo più di carte, oltre a una pipa e a un
borsello da tabacco e ad alcune monete romane e sassoni. Il resto erano
cataloghi di vecchi libri, e opuscoli, come uno intitolato «L’Uso
di Sarum», al quale una sola occhiata bastò tanto al colonnello
quanto allo scolaro. Non riuscivano proprio a vedere l’uso di Sarum. Il
contenuto delle tasche del ragazzo formava naturalmente un mucchio più grande, e
comprendeva biglie, un gomitolo di spago, una torcia elettrica, una calamita, una
piccola fionda, e, naturalmente, un grande temperino, quasi da
descriversi come una piccola cassetta di attrezzi, un apparecchio complesso su cui
pareva disposto a indugiare, facendo notare che comprendeva un paio di
tenaglie, uno strumento per forare il legno, e, soprattutto, uno
strumento per togliere i sassi dallo zoccolo di un cavallo. La relativa
assenza di un qualsiasi cavallo pareva ritenerla irrilevante, come se
fosse una mera appendice facilmente reperibile. Ma quando venne il turno del
gentiluomo dalla veste nera, egli non vuotò le tasche, ma
si limitò ad allargare le mani. «Non ho beni», disse. «Temo di dovervi chiedere di vuotare le tasche per esserne sicuri»,
osservò il colonnello, burbero. «Non ho tasche», disse lo straniero. Il signor Twyford guardava la lunga veste nera con occhio dotto. «Siete un monaco?» chiese, in modo perplesso. «Sono un mago», replicò lo straniero. «Avrete sentito parlare dei magi,
forse? Sono un mago.» «Oh, ma davvero!» esclamò Summers Minor, con gli occhi sporgenti. «Ma un tempo fui monaco», proseguì l’altro. «Sono ciò che voi
chiamereste un monaco evaso. Sì, sono evaso nell’eternità. Ma i
monaci custodivano almeno una verità, che la vita più alta dovrebbe essere
senza beni. Non ho denaro in tasca né tasche, e tutte
le stelle sono i miei ninnoli.» «Sono comunque fuori portata», osservò il colonnello Morris, in un tono
che suggeriva fosse meglio per loro. «Ho conosciuto parecchi
maghi io stesso in India… pianta di mango e tutto. Ma quelli indiani
sono tutti impostori, lo giuro. Anzi, mi divertii parecchio
a smascherarli. Più di quanto mi diverta con questo tetro incarico, comunque.
Ma ecco che arriva il signor Symon, che vi mostrerà la vecchia cantina
di sotto.» Il signor Symon, il custode e guida ufficiale, era un giovane,
precocemente incanutito, con una bocca grave che contrastava curiosamente con
un baffo piccolissimo e scuro dalle punte impomatate, che pareva in qualche modo
separato da essa, come se una mosca nera si fosse posata sul suo volto. Egli
parlava con l’accento di Oxford e del funzionario di ruolo, ma in
modo tanto spento quanto la più indifferente guida a pagamento. Essi
discesero una buia scala di pietra, al cui fondo Symon
premette un pulsante e una porta si aprì su una stanza buia, o, piuttosto, una
stanza che un istante prima era stata buia. Poiché quasi appena la pesante
porta di ferro si spalancò un bagliore quasi accecante di luci elettriche
riempì l’intero interno. L’incostante entusiasmo di Stinks subito
prese fuoco, ed egli chiese avidamente se le luci e la porta funzionassero
insieme. «Sì, è tutto un unico sistema», replicò Symon. «Fu tutto allestito
per il giorno in cui Sua Altezza Reale depose qui la cosa. Vedete,
è chiusa dietro una teca di vetro esattamente come la lasciò.» Un’occhiata mostrava che i dispositivi per custodire il tesoro erano
invero tanto solidi quanto semplici. Una sola lastra di vetro isolava
un angolo della stanza, in un’intelaiatura di ferro incassata nelle pareti di roccia
e nel soffitto di legno sovrastante; ora non vi era possibilità di riaprire
la teca senza un lavoro elaborato, se non rompendo il vetro,
il che probabilmente avrebbe destato il guardiano notturno che stava sempre a
pochi piedi da essa, anche se si fosse addormentato. Un esame ravvicinato
avrebbe rivelato molte altre ingegnose protezioni; ma l’occhio del
rev. Thomas Twyford, almeno, era già inchiodato su ciò che lo
interessava assai di più… l’opaco disco d’argento che brillava nella
luce bianca contro un semplice sfondo di velluto nero. «Il Penny di san Paolo, che si dice commemori la visita di san Paolo alla
Britannia, fu probabilmente conservato in questa cappella fino all’ottavo
secolo», diceva Symon con la sua voce chiara ma incolore. «Nel
nono secolo si suppone che sia stato portato via dai
barbari, e riappare, dopo la conversione dei Goti
settentrionali, in possesso della famiglia reale di Gothland. Sua Altezza
Reale, il duca di Gothland, lo tenne sempre nella propria
custodia privata, e quando decise di esibirlo al pubblico,
lo pose qui con la propria mano. Fu immediatamente sigillato in
tale maniera…» Sfortunatamente a questo punto Summers Minor, la cui attenzione si era alquanto
strayed from the religious wars of the ninth century, caught sight
of a short length of wire appearing in a broken patch in the wall.
He precipitated himself at it, calling out, “I say, does that
connect?” It was evident that it did connect, for no sooner had the boy given
it a twitch than the whole room went black, as if they had all been
struck blind, and an instant afterward they heard the dull crash of
the closing door. “Well, you’ve done it now,” said Symon, in his tranquil fashion.
Then after a pause he added, “I suppose they’ll miss us sooner or
later, and no doubt they can get it open; but it may take some
little time.” There was a silence, and then the unconquerable Stinks observed: “Rotten that I had to leave my electric torch.” “I think,” said his uncle, with restraint, “that we are sufficiently
convinced of your interest in electricity.” Then after a pause he remarked, more amiably: “I suppose if I
regretted any of my own impedimenta, it would be the pipe. Though,
as a matter of fact, it’s not much fun smoking in the dark.
Everything seems different in the dark.” “Everything is different in the dark,” said a third voice, that of
the man who called himself a magician. It was a very musical voice,
and rather in contrast with his sinister and swarthy visage, which
was now invisible. “Perhaps you don’t know how terrible a truth that
is. All you see are pictures made by the sun, faces and furniture
and flowers and trees. The things themselves may be quite strange to
you. Something else may be standing now where you saw a table or a
chair. The face of your friend may be quite different in the dark.” A short, indescribable noise broke the stillness. Twyford started
for a second, and then said, sharply: “Really, I don’t think it’s a suitable occasion for trying to
frighten a child.” “Who’s a child?” cried the indignant Summers, with a voice that had
a crow, but also something of a crack in it. “And who’s a funk,
either? Not me.” “I will be silent, then,” said the other voice out of the darkness.
“But silence also makes and unmakes.” The required silence remained unbroken for a long time until at last
the clergyman said to Symon in a low voice: “I suppose it’s all right about air?” “Oh, yes,” replied the other aloud; “there’s a fireplace and a
chimney in the office just by the door.” A bound and the noise of a falling chair told them that the
irrepressible rising generation had once more thrown itself across
the room. They heard the ejaculation: “A chimney! Why, I’ll be—”
and the rest was lost in muffled, but exultant, cries. The uncle called repeatedly and vainly, groped his way at last to
the opening, and, peering up it, caught a glimpse of a disk of
daylight, which seemed to suggest that the fugitive had vanished in
safety. Making his way back to the group by the glass case, he fell
over the fallen chair and took a moment to collect himself again. He
had opened his mouth to speak to Symon, when he stopped, and
suddenly found himself blinking in the full shock of the white
light, and looking over the other man’s shoulder, he saw that the
door was standing open. “So they’ve got at us at last,” he observed to Symon. The man in the black robe was leaning against the wall some yards
away, with a smile carved on his face. “Here comes Colonel Morris,” went on Twyford, still speaking to
Symon. “One of us will have to tell him how the light went out. Will
you?” But Symon still said nothing. He was standing as still as a statue,
and looking steadily at the black velvet behind the glass screen. He
was looking at the black velvet because there was nothing else to
look at. St. Paul’s Penny was gone. Colonel Morris entered the room with two new visitors; presumably
two new sightseers delayed by the accident. The foremost was a tall,
fair, rather languid-looking man with a bald brow and a high-bridged
nose; his companion was a younger man with light, curly hair and
frank, and even innocent, eyes. Symon scarcely seemed to hear the
newcomers; it seemed almost as if he had not realized that the
return of the light revealed his brooding attitude. Then he started
in a guilty fashion, and when he saw the elder of the two strangers,
his pale face seemed to turn a shade paler. “Why it’s Horne Fisher!” and then after a pause he said in a low
voice, “I’m in the devil of a hole, Fisher.” “There does seem a bit of a mystery to be cleared up,” observed the
gentleman so addressed. “It will never be cleared up,” said the pale Symon. “If anybody
could clear it up, you could. But nobody could.” “I rather think I could,” said another voice from outside the group,
and they turned in surprise to realize that the man in the black
robe had spoken again. “You!” said the colonel, sharply. “And how do you propose to play
the detective?” “I do not propose to play the detective,” answered the other, in a
clear voice like a bell. “I propose to play the magician. One of the
magicians you show up in India, Colonel.” No one spoke for a moment, and then Horne Fisher surprised everybody
by saying, “Well, let’s go upstairs, and this gentleman can have a
try.” He stopped Symon, who had an automatic finger on the button, saying:
“No, leave all the lights on. It’s a sort of safeguard.” “The thing can’t be taken away now,” said Symon, bitterly. “It can be put back,” replied Fisher. Twyford had already run upstairs for news of his vanishing nephew,
and he received news of him in a way that at once puzzled and
reassured him. On the floor above lay one of those large paper darts
which boys throw at each other when the schoolmaster is out of the
room. It had evidently been thrown in at the window, and on being
unfolded displayed a scrawl of bad handwriting which ran: “Dear
Uncle; I am all right. Meet you at the hotel later on,” and then the
si era allontanata dalle guerre religiose del nono secolo, scorse
un breve tratto di filo che spuntava da una chiazza rotta nel muro.
Vi si precipitò, gridando: «Ehi, questo
fa contatto?» Era evidente che faceva contatto, poiché non appena il ragazzo gli
diede uno strappo l’intera stanza si fece nera, come se fossero stati tutti
colpiti da cecità, e un istante dopo udirono il sordo fragore della
porta che si chiudeva. «Ebbene, adesso l’avete combinata», disse Symon, nel suo modo tranquillo.
Poi dopo una pausa aggiunse: «Suppongo che prima o poi noteranno la nostra assenza,
e senza dubbio riusciranno ad aprirla; ma potrebbe volerci un po’
di tempo.» Vi fu un silenzio, e poi l’indomabile Stinks osservò: «Che seccatura aver dovuto lasciare la mia torcia elettrica.» «Penso», disse suo zio, con ritegno, «che siamo sufficientemente
convinti del tuo interesse per l’elettricità.» Poi dopo una pausa osservò, più amabilmente: «Suppongo che, se
rimpiangessi qualcuno dei miei impedimenti, sarebbe la pipa. Anche se,
a dire il vero, non è un gran divertimento fumare al buio.
Tutto sembra diverso al buio.» «Tutto è diverso al buio», disse una terza voce, quella dell’
uomo che si diceva mago. Era una voce assai musicale,
e piuttosto in contrasto con il suo volto sinistro e bruno, che
ora era invisibile. «Forse non sapete quanto terribile sia questa verità.
Tutto ciò che vedete sono immagini fatte dal sole, volti e mobili
e fiori e alberi. Le cose stesse potrebbero esservi del tutto estranee.
Qualcos’altro potrebbe ora ergersi dove vedevate un tavolo o una
sedia. Il volto del vostro amico potrebbe essere del tutto diverso al buio.» Un breve, indescrivibile rumore ruppe la quiete. Twyford trasalì
per un secondo, e poi disse, bruscamente: «Davvero, non credo sia un’occasione adatta per cercare di
spaventare un bambino.» «Chi è un bambino?» gridò l’indignato Summers, con una voce che aveva
un che di gracchiante, ma anche qualcosa d’incrinato. «E chi è un fifone,
poi? Non io.» «Allora tacerò», disse l’altra voce dal buio.
«Ma anche il silenzio fa e disfa.» Il silenzio richiesto rimase inviolato per molto tempo, finché infine
l’ecclesiastico disse a Symon a bassa voce: «Suppongo che per l’aria vada tutto bene?» «Oh, sì», replicò l’altro ad alta voce; «c’è un camino e una
canna fumaria nell’ufficio proprio accanto alla porta.» Un balzo e il rumore di una sedia che cadeva dissero loro che l’
irreprimibile generazione nascente si era di nuovo gettata attraverso
la stanza. Udirono l’esclamazione: «Una canna fumaria! Perbacco, che io sia…»
e il resto si perse in grida soffocate, ma esultanti. Lo zio chiamò ripetutamente e invano, si aprì infine a tentoni la via fino all’
apertura, e, sbirciandovi su, colse la visione fugace di un disco di
luce diurna, che pareva suggerire che il fuggitivo fosse scomparso al
sicuro. Tornando verso il gruppo presso la teca di vetro, inciampò
nella sedia caduta e impiegò un momento a ricomporsi. Aveva
aperto la bocca per parlare a Symon, quando si fermò, e
d’improvviso si ritrovò a sbattere le palpebre nel pieno urto della luce
bianca, e guardando oltre la spalla dell’altro, vide che la
porta era spalancata. «Così alla fine sono arrivati a noi», osservò a Symon. L’uomo dalla veste nera era appoggiato al muro a qualche iarda
di distanza, con un sorriso scolpito sul volto. «Ecco che arriva il colonnello Morris», proseguì Twyford, ancora rivolto a
Symon. «Uno di noi dovrà dirgli come si è spenta la luce. Volete farlo
voi?» Ma Symon continuava a non dire nulla. Stava immobile come una statua,
e guardava fisso il velluto nero dietro lo schermo di vetro.
Guardava il velluto nero perché non c’era altro da
guardare. Il Penny di san Paolo era sparito. Il colonnello Morris entrò nella stanza con due nuovi visitatori; presumibilmente
due nuovi turisti trattenuti dall’incidente. Il primo era un uomo alto,
biondo, dall’aria piuttosto languida, con la fronte calva e il naso dal dorso
alto; il suo compagno era un uomo più giovane dai capelli chiari e ricci e
dagli occhi franchi, e persino innocenti. Symon parve appena udire i
nuovi venuti; parve quasi che non si fosse reso conto che il
ritorno della luce svelava il suo atteggiamento cupo. Poi trasalì
in modo colpevole, e quando vide il più anziano dei due stranieri,
il suo volto pallido parve farsi di una sfumatura più pallido. «Ma è Horne Fisher!» e poi dopo una pausa disse a bassa
voce: «Sono in un guaio del diavolo, Fisher.» «Pare davvero esserci un po’ di mistero da chiarire», osservò il
gentiluomo così apostrofato. «Non sarà mai chiarito», disse il pallido Symon. «Se qualcuno
potesse chiarirlo, sareste voi. Ma nessuno potrebbe.» «Credo piuttosto che io potrei», disse un’altra voce dall’esterno del gruppo,
ed essi si voltarono sorpresi accorgendosi che l’uomo dalla veste
nera aveva parlato di nuovo. «Voi!» disse il colonnello, brusco. «E come vi proponete di fare l’
investigatore?» «Non mi propongo di fare l’investigatore», rispose l’altro, con una
voce chiara come una campana. «Mi propongo di fare il mago. Uno dei
maghi che smascherate in India, colonnello.» Nessuno parlò per un momento, e poi Horne Fisher sorprese tutti
dicendo: «Ebbene, saliamo di sopra, e questo gentiluomo potrà fare un
tentativo.» Fermò Symon, che aveva un dito automatico sul pulsante, dicendo:
«No, lasciate accese tutte le luci. È una sorta di salvaguardia.» «Ormai la cosa non può essere portata via», disse Symon, amaramente. «Può essere rimessa a posto», replicò Fisher. Twyford era già corso di sopra in cerca di notizie del nipote svanito,
e ne ricevette notizia in un modo che al contempo lo sconcertò e lo
rassicurò. Sul piano di sopra giaceva una di quelle grandi frecce di carta
che i ragazzi si lanciano l’un l’altro quando il maestro è fuori
dalla stanza. Era stata evidentemente lanciata dentro dalla finestra, e una volta
spiegata mostrava uno scarabocchio di brutta calligrafia che diceva: «Caro
zio; sto bene. Ci vediamo all’albergo più tardi», e poi la
signature. Insensibly comforted by this, the clergyman found his thoughts
reverting voluntarily to his favorite relic, which came a good
second in his sympathies to his favorite nephew, and before he knew
where he was he found himself encircled by the group discussing its
loss, and more or less carried away on the current of their
excitement. But an undercurrent of query continued to run in his
mind, as to what had really happened to the boy, and what was the
boy’s exact definition of being all right. Meanwhile Horne Fisher had considerably puzzled everybody with his
new tone and attitude. He had talked to the colonel about the
military and mechanical arrangements, and displayed a remarkable
knowledge both of the details of discipline and the technicalities
of electricity. He had talked to the clergyman, and shown an equally
surprising knowledge of the religious and historical interests
involved in the relic. He had talked to the man who called himself a
magician, and not only surprised but scandalized the company by an
equally sympathetic familiarity with the most fantastic forms of
Oriental occultism and psychic experiment. And in this last and
least respectable line of inquiry he was evidently prepared to go
farthest; he openly encouraged the magician, and was plainly
prepared to follow the wildest ways of investigation in which that
magus might lead him. “How would you begin now?” he inquired, with an anxious politeness
that reduced the colonel to a congestion of rage. “It is all a question of a force; of establishing communications for
a force,” replied that adept, affably, ignoring some military
mutterings about the police force. “It is what you in the West used
to call animal magnetism, but it is much more than that. I had
better not say how much more. As to setting about it, the usual
method is to throw some susceptible person into a trance, which
serves as a sort of bridge or cord of communication, by which the
force beyond can give him, as it were, an electric shock, and awaken
his higher senses. It opens the sleeping eye of the mind.” “I’m suspectible,” said Fisher, either with simplicity or with a
baffling irony. “Why not open my mind’s eye for me? My friend Harold
March here will tell you I sometimes see things, even in the dark.” “Nobody sees anything except in the dark,” said the magician. Heavy clouds of sunset were closing round the wooden hut, enormous
clouds, of which only the corners could be seen in the little
window, like purple horns and tails, almost as if some huge monsters
were prowling round the place. But the purple was already deepening
to dark gray; it would soon be night. “Do not light the lamp,” said the magus with quiet authority,
arresting a movement in that direction. “I told you before that
things happen only in the dark.” How such a topsy-turvy scene ever came to be tolerated in the
colonel’s office, of all places, was afterward a puzzle in the
memory of many, including the colonel. They recalled it like a sort
of nightmare, like something they could not control. Perhaps there
was really a magnetism about the mesmerist; perhaps there was even
more magnetism about the man mesmerized. Anyhow, the man was being
mesmerized, for Horne Fisher had collapsed into a chair with his
long limbs loose and sprawling and his eyes staring at vacancy; and
the other man was mesmerizing him, making sweeping movements with
his darkly draped arms as if with black wings. The colonel had
passed the point of explosion, and he dimly realized that eccentric
aristocrats are allowed their fling. He comforted himself with the
knowledge that he had already sent for the police, who would break
up any such masquerade, and with lighting a cigar, the red end of
which, in the gathering darkness, glowed with protest. “Yes, I see pockets,” the man in the trance was saying. “I see many
pockets, but they are all empty. No; I see one pocket that is not
empty.” There was a faint stir in the stillness, and the magician said, “Can
you see what is in the pocket?” “Yes,” answered the other; “there are two bright things. I think
they are two bits of steel. One of the pieces of steel is bent or
crooked.” “Have they been used in the removal of the relic from downstairs?” “Yes.” There was another pause and the inquirer added, “Do you see anything
of the relic itself?” “I see something shining on the floor, like the shadow or the ghost
of it. It is over there in the corner beyond the desk.” There was a movement of men turning and then a sudden stillness, as
of their stiffening, for over in the corner on the wooden floor
there was really a round spot of pale light. It was the only spot of
light in the room. The cigar had gone out. “It points the way,” came the voice of the oracle. “The spirits are
pointing the way to penitence, and urging the thief to restitution.
I can see nothing more.” His voice trailed off into a silence that
lasted solidly for many minutes, like the long silence below when
the theft had been committed. Then it was broken by the ring of
metal on the floor, and the sound of something spinning and falling
like a tossed halfpenny. “Light the lamp!” cried Fisher in a loud and even jovial voice,
leaping to his feet with far less languor than usual. “I must be
going now, but I should like to see it before I go. Why, I came on
purpose to see it.” The lamp was lit, and he did see it, for St. Paul’s Penny was lying
on the floor at his feet. “Oh, as for that,” explained Fisher, when he was entertaining March
and Twyford at lunch about a month later, “I merely wanted to play
with the magician at his own game.” “I thought you meant to catch him in his own trap,” said Twyford.
“I can’t make head or tail of anything yet, but to my mind he was
always the suspect. I don’t think he was necessarily a thief in the
vulgar sense. The police always seem to think that silver is stolen
firma. Insensibilmente confortato da ciò, l’ecclesiastico trovò i suoi pensieri
tornare spontaneamente alla sua reliquia prediletta, che veniva un buon
secondo, nelle sue simpatie, dopo il nipote prediletto, e prima di rendersi
conto di dove fosse si ritrovò circondato dal gruppo che discuteva della sua
perdita, e più o meno trascinato sulla corrente della loro
eccitazione. Ma una corrente sotterranea d’interrogativi continuava a scorrergli nella
mente, su ciò che fosse davvero accaduto al ragazzo, e su quale fosse l’
esatta definizione, per il ragazzo, dello stare bene. Nel frattempo Horne Fisher aveva notevolmente sconcertato tutti col suo
nuovo tono e atteggiamento. Aveva parlato col colonnello delle
disposizioni militari e meccaniche, e aveva mostrato una notevole
conoscenza tanto dei dettagli della disciplina quanto dei tecnicismi
dell’elettricità. Aveva parlato con l’ecclesiastico, e mostrato un’altrettanto
sorprendente conoscenza degli interessi religiosi e storici
connessi alla reliquia. Aveva parlato con l’uomo che si diceva
mago, e non solo sorprese ma scandalizzò la compagnia con un’
altrettanto benevola dimestichezza con le più fantastiche forme di
occultismo orientale e di esperimento psichico. E in quest’ultima e
meno rispettabile linea d’indagine era evidentemente disposto a spingersi
più oltre; incoraggiava apertamente il mago, ed era palesemente
pronto a seguire le più folli vie d’investigazione in cui quel
mago potesse condurlo. «Come comincereste ora?» s’informò, con un’ansiosa cortesia
che ridusse il colonnello a una congestione di rabbia. «È tutta una questione di una forza; di stabilire comunicazioni per
una forza», replicò quell’adepto, affabilmente, ignorando certi militareschi
borbottii sulla forza di polizia. «È ciò che voi in Occidente
solevate chiamare magnetismo animale, ma è molto di più. Farei
meglio a non dire quanto di più. Quanto al modo di procedervi, il metodo
usuale è gettare qualche persona sensibile in una trance, che
serve come una sorta di ponte o corda di comunicazione, per cui la
forza aldilà può dargli, per così dire, una scossa elettrica, e destare
i suoi sensi più alti. Apre l’occhio dormiente della mente.» «Io sono suscettibile», disse Fisher, o con semplicità o con una
sconcertante ironia. «Perché non aprite voi l’occhio della mia mente? Il mio amico Harold
March qui vi dirà che a volte vedo cose, persino al buio.» «Nessuno vede alcunché se non al buio», disse il mago. Pesanti nubi del tramonto si serravano attorno alla baracca di legno, nubi enormi,
di cui solo gli angoli si scorgevano dalla piccola
finestra, come corna e code purpuree, quasi come se enormi mostri
si aggirassero attorno al luogo. Ma il purpureo già si scuriva
in grigio cupo; presto sarebbe stata notte. «Non accendete la lampada», disse il mago con quieta autorità,
arrestando un movimento in quella direzione. «Vi ho detto prima che
le cose accadono solo al buio.» Come una scena tanto sottosopra sia mai giunta a essere tollerata nell’
ufficio del colonnello, proprio lì, fu poi un rompicapo nella
memoria di molti, colonnello incluso. La rammentavano come una sorta
di incubo, come qualcosa che non potevano controllare. Forse
c’era davvero un magnetismo nel mesmerizzatore; forse ce n’era perfino
di più nell’uomo mesmerizzato. Comunque, l’uomo veniva
mesmerizzato, poiché Horne Fisher era crollato su una sedia con le
lunghe membra molli e scomposte e gli occhi fissi nel vuoto; e
l’altro uomo lo mesmerizzava, compiendo ampi movimenti con
le braccia scuramente drappeggiate come con ali nere. Il colonnello aveva
superato il punto di esplosione, e vagamente comprendeva che gli eccentrici
aristocratici hanno diritto ai loro capricci. Si confortò con la
consapevolezza di aver già mandato a chiamare la polizia, che avrebbe posto fine
a qualsiasi simile mascherata, e con l’accendere un sigaro, la cui punta rossa,
nell’oscurità crescente, ardeva di protesta. «Sì, vedo tasche», diceva l’uomo in trance. «Vedo molte
tasche, ma sono tutte vuote. No; vedo una tasca che non è
vuota.» Vi fu un debole fremito nella quiete, e il mago disse: «Riuscite
a vedere che cosa c’è nella tasca?» «Sì», rispose l’altro; «ci sono due cose lucenti. Credo
siano due pezzetti d’acciaio. Uno dei pezzi d’acciaio è piegato o
storto.» «Sono stati usati per rimuovere la reliquia di sotto?» «Sì.» Vi fu un’altra pausa e chi interrogava aggiunse: «Vedete qualcosa
della reliquia stessa?» «Vedo qualcosa che brilla sul pavimento, come l’ombra o il fantasma
di essa. È laggiù nell’angolo oltre la scrivania.» Vi fu un movimento di uomini che si voltavano e poi un’improvvisa quiete, come
d’irrigidimento, poiché laggiù nell’angolo sul pavimento di legno
c’era davvero una macchia rotonda di luce pallida. Era l’unica macchia di
luce nella stanza. Il sigaro si era spento. «Indica la via», giunse la voce dell’oracolo. «Gli spiriti
indicano la via della penitenza, ed esortano il ladro alla restituzione.
Non riesco a vedere altro.» La sua voce si spense in un silenzio che
durò ininterrotto per molti minuti, come il lungo silenzio di sotto quando
il furto era stato commesso. Poi fu rotto dal tintinnio di
metallo sul pavimento, e dal suono di qualcosa che girava e cadeva
come un mezzo penny lanciato. «Accendete la lampada!» gridò Fisher con voce forte e persino gioviale,
balzando in piedi con assai meno languore del solito. «Ora devo
andare, ma vorrei vederla prima di andarmene. Ma via, sono venuto
apposta per vederla.» La lampada fu accesa, ed egli la vide davvero, poiché il Penny di san Paolo giaceva
sul pavimento ai suoi piedi. «Oh, quanto a questo», spiegò Fisher, mentre intratteneva March
e Twyford a pranzo circa un mese dopo, «volevo semplicemente giocare
col mago al suo stesso gioco.» «Credevo intendeste coglierlo nella sua stessa trappola», disse Twyford.
«Non riesco ancora a raccapezzarmi di nulla, ma a mio avviso egli era
sempre il sospetto. Non credo fosse necessariamente un ladro nel
senso volgare. La polizia pare sempre pensare che l’argento sia rubato
for the sake of silver, but a thing like that might well be stolen
out of some religious mania. A runaway monk turned mystic might well
want it for some mystical purpose.” “No,” replied Fisher, “the runaway monk is not a thief. At any rate
he is not the thief. And he’s not altogether a liar, either. He said
one true thing at least that night.” “And what was that?” inquired March. “He said it was all magnetism. As a matter of fact, it was done by
means of a magnet.” Then, seeing they still looked puzzled, he
added, “It was that toy magnet belonging to your nephew, Mr.
Twyford.” “But I don’t understand,” objected March. “If it was done with the
schoolboy’s magnet, I suppose it was done by the schoolboy.” “Well,” replied Fisher, reflectively, “it rather depends which
schoolboy.” “What on earth do you mean?” “The soul of a schoolboy is a curious thing,” Fisher continued, in a
meditative manner. “It can survive a great many things besides
climbing out of a chimney. A man can grow gray in great campaigns,
and still have the soul of a schoolboy. A man can return with a
great reputation from India and be put in charge of a great public
treasure, and still have the soul of a schoolboy, waiting to be
awakened by an accident. And it is ten times more so when to the
schoolboy you add the skeptic, who is generally a sort of stunted
schoolboy. You said just now that things might be done by religious
mania. Have you ever heard of irreligious mania? I assure you it
exists very violently, especially in men who like showing up
magicians in India. But here the skeptic had the temptation of
showing up a much more tremendous sham nearer home.” A light came into Harold March’s eyes as he suddenly saw, as if afar
off, the wider implication of the suggestion. But Twyford was still
wrestling with one problem at a time. “Do you really mean,” he said, “that Colonel Morris took the relic?” “He was the only person who could use the magnet,” replied Fisher.
“In fact, your obliging nephew left him a number of things he could
use. He had a ball of string, and an instrument for making a hole in
the wooden floor—I made a little play with that hole in the floor
in my trance, by the way; with the lights left on below, it shone
like a new shilling.” Twyford suddenly bounded on his chair. “But in
that case,” he cried, in a new and altered voice, “why then of
course— You said a piece of steel—?” “I said there were two pieces of steel,” said Fisher. “The bent
piece of steel was the boy’s magnet. The other was the relic in the
glass case.” “But that is silver,” answered the archaeologist, in a voice now
almost unrecognizable. “Oh,” replied Fisher, soothingly, “I dare say it was painted with
silver a little.” There was a heavy silence, and at last Harold March said, “But where
is the real relic?” “Where it has been for five years,” replied Horne Fisher, “in the
possession of a mad millionaire named Vandam, in Nebraska. There was
a playful little photograph about him in a society paper the other
day, mentioning his delusion, and saying he was always being taken
in about relics.” Harold March frowned at the tablecloth; then, after an interval, he
said: “I think I understand your notion of how the thing was
actually done; according to that, Morris just made a hole and fished
it up with a magnet at the end of a string. Such a monkey trick
looks like mere madness, but I suppose he was mad, partly with the
boredom of watching over what he felt was a fraud, though he
couldn’t prove it. Then came a chance to prove it, to himself at
least, and he had what he called ‘fun’ with it. Yes, I think I see a
lot of details now. But it’s just the whole thing that knocks me.
How did it all come to be like that?” Fisher was looking at him with level lids and an immovable manner. “Every precaution was taken,” he said. “The Duke carried the relic
on his own person, and locked it up in the case with his own hands.” March was silent; but Twyford stammered. “I don’t understand you.
You give me the creeps. Why don’t you speak plainer?” “If I spoke plainer you would understand me less,” said Horne
Fisher. “All the same I should try,” said March, still without lifting his
head. “Oh, very well,” replied Fisher, with a sigh; “the plain truth is,
of course, that it’s a bad business. Everybody knows it’s a bad
business who knows anything about it. But it’s always happening, and
in one way one can hardly blame them. They get stuck on to a foreign
princess that’s as stiff as a Dutch doll, and they have their fling.
In this case it was a pretty big fling.” The face of the Rev. Thomas Twyford certainly suggested that he was
a little out of his depth in the seas of truth, but as the other
went on speaking vaguely the old gentleman’s features sharpened and
set. “If it were some decent morganatic affair I wouldn’t say; but he
must have been a fool to throw away thousands on a woman like that.
At the end it was sheer blackmail; but it’s something that the old
ass didn’t get it out of the taxpayers. He could only get it out of
the Yank, and there you are.” The Rev. Thomas Twyford had risen to his feet. “Well, I’m glad my nephew had nothing to do with it,” he said. “And
if that’s what the world is like, I hope he will never have anything
to do with it.” “I hope not,” answered Horne Fisher. “No one knows so well as I do
that one can have far too much to do with it.” For Summers Minor had indeed nothing to do with it; and it is part
of his higher significance that he has really nothing to do with the
story, or with any such stories. The boy went like a bullet through
the tangle of this tale of crooked politics and crazy mockery and
came out on the other side, pursuing his own unspoiled purposes.
From the top of the chimney he climbed he had caught sight of a new
omnibus, whose color and name he had never known, as a naturalist
might see a new bird or a botanist a new flower. And he had been
sufficiently enraptured in rushing after it, and riding away upon
that fairy ship.
per amor dell’argento, ma una cosa simile potrebbe benissimo essere rubata
per qualche mania religiosa. Un monaco fuggiasco fattosi mistico potrebbe benissimo
volerlo per qualche scopo mistico.” “No,” replicò Fisher, “il monaco fuggiasco non è un ladro. In ogni caso
non è lui il ladro. E non è nemmeno del tutto un bugiardo. Disse
almeno una cosa vera quella notte.” “E quale sarebbe stata?” domandò March. “Disse che era tutto magnetismo. In realtà, fu fatto per
mezzo d’una calamita.” Poi, vedendoli ancora perplessi, egli
aggiunse: “Era quella calamita giocattolo di vostro nipote, il signor
Twyford.” “Ma non capisco,” obiettò March. “Se fu fatto con la
calamita dello scolaro, suppongo che sia stato lo scolaro a farlo.” “Beh,” replicò Fisher, pensieroso, “dipende piuttosto da quale
scolaro.” “Che diamine intendete?” “L’anima d’uno scolaro è una cosa curiosa,” continuò Fisher, in
tono meditativo. “Può sopravvivere a moltissime cose oltre al
salire su per un camino. Un uomo può incanutire in grandi campagne,
e avere ancora l’anima d’uno scolaro. Un uomo può tornare con una
grande reputazione dall’India ed esser messo a custodia d’un grande pubblico
tesoro, e avere ancora l’anima d’uno scolaro, in attesa d’esser
destata da un caso. Ed è dieci volte più così quando allo
scolaro s’aggiunge lo scettico, che generalmente è una sorta di striminzito
scolaro. Avete appena detto che certe cose potrebbero esser compiute per
mania religiosa. Avete mai sentito parlare di mania irreligiosa? V’assicuro che
esiste in modo violentissimo, specie negli uomini che amano smascherare
i maghi in India. Ma qui lo scettico aveva la tentazione di
smascherare un’impostura ben più tremenda più vicino a casa.” Una luce s’accese negli occhi di Harold March quando d’un tratto scorse, come da
lontano, la più ampia implicazione del suggerimento. Ma Twyford stava ancora
lottando con un problema per volta. “Volete davvero dire,” disse, “che il colonnello Morris prese la reliquia?” “Era l’unica persona che potesse usare la calamita,” replicò Fisher.
“Anzi, il vostro cortese nipote gli lasciò svariate cose che poteva
usare. Aveva un gomitolo di spago, e uno strumento per fare un buco nel
pavimento di legno—mi son preso un piccolo gioco con quel buco nel pavimento
durante la mia trance, tra parentesi; con le luci accese di sotto, splendeva
come uno scellino nuovo.” Twyford sobbalzò all’improvviso sulla sedia. “Ma in
tal caso,” gridò, con voce nuova e alterata, “perché allora
naturalmente— Avete detto un pezzo d’acciaio—?” “Ho detto che c’erano due pezzi d’acciaio,” disse Fisher. “Il pezzo
d’acciaio piegato era la calamita del ragazzo. L’altro era la reliquia nella
teca di vetro.” “Ma quella è d’argento,” rispose l’archeologo, con voce ormai
quasi irriconoscibile. “Oh,” replicò Fisher, in tono rassicurante, “oserei dire che fu dipinta con
un po’ d’argento.” Ci fu un pesante silenzio, e alla fine Harold March disse: “Ma dove
è la vera reliquia?” “Dov’è stata per cinque anni,” replicò Horne Fisher, “in
possesso d’un folle milionario di nome Vandam, nel Nebraska. C’era
una piccola scherzosa fotografia su di lui in un giornale mondano l’altro
giorno, che accennava alla sua fissazione, e diceva che si lasciava sempre gabbare
quanto alle reliquie.” Harold March aggrottò la fronte fissando la tovaglia; poi, dopo un intervallo,
disse: “Credo di capire la vostra idea di come la cosa sia stata
realmente compiuta; secondo essa, Morris fece semplicemente un buco e ripescò
la reliquia con una calamita in cima a uno spago. Una simile buffonata
sembra pura follia, ma suppongo che fosse pazzo, in parte per la
noia di vegliare su ciò che sentiva essere una frode, benché non
potesse provarlo. Poi venne l’occasione di provarlo, almeno a se
stesso, e se la spassò come diceva lui. Sì, credo di vederne
ora un mucchio di dettagli. Ma è proprio l’insieme che mi sconvolge.
Com’è potuto accadere tutto questo?” Fisher lo guardava con palpebre immobili e modi impassibili. “Fu presa ogni precauzione,” disse. “Il Duca portava la reliquia
sulla propria persona, e la chiuse nella teca con le proprie mani.” March taceva; ma Twyford balbettò. “Non vi capisco.
Mi fate venire i brividi. Perché non parlate più chiaro?” “Se parlassi più chiaro mi capireste meno,” disse Horne
Fisher. “Ci proverei lo stesso,” disse March, ancora senza sollevare la
testa. “Oh, e va bene,” replicò Fisher, con un sospiro; “la pura verità è,
naturalmente, che è una brutta faccenda. Tutti sanno che è una brutta
faccenda, chiunque ne sappia qualcosa. Ma succede di continuo, e
per un verso non si può quasi biasimarli. Vengono impancati con una principessa
straniera rigida come una bambola olandese, e si concedono la loro scappatella.
In questo caso fu una scappatella piuttosto grossa.” Il volto del reverendo Thomas Twyford lasciava certo intendere che egli era
un po’ fuori dalla sua profondità nei mari della verità, ma mentre l’altro
continuava a parlare vagamente i lineamenti del vecchio gentiluomo s’affilarono e si
irrigidirono. “Se fosse qualche decente faccenda morganatica non direi nulla; ma dev’essere
stato uno sciocco a gettar via migliaia di sterline per una donna simile.
Alla fine fu puro ricatto; ma è già qualcosa che il vecchio
somaro non l’abbia cavato dai contribuenti. Poteva cavarlo soltanto dallo
yankee, ed ecco fatto.” Il reverendo Thomas Twyford s’era alzato in piedi. “Ebbene, sono contento che mio nipote non c’entrasse nulla,” disse. “E
se il mondo è fatto così, spero che non abbia mai nulla
a che farci.” “Lo spero anch’io,” rispose Horne Fisher. “Nessuno sa così bene come me
che ci si può avere fin troppo a che fare.” Poiché Summers Minor non c’entrava davvero nulla; ed è parte
del suo più alto significato che egli non abbia davvero nulla a che fare con la
storia, né con storie simili. Il ragazzo passò come una pallottola attraverso
il groviglio di questo racconto di politica storta e folle beffa e
ne uscì dall’altra parte, perseguendo i propri intatti propositi.
Dalla cima del camino su cui s’era arrampicato aveva scorto un nuovo
omnibus, di cui non aveva mai conosciuto il colore e il nome, come un naturalista
potrebbe vedere un nuovo uccello o un botanico un nuovo fiore. Ed era stato
abbastanza rapito nel corrergli dietro, e nell’andarsene via su
quel vascello fatato.
IV - The Bottomless Well * In an oasis, or green island, in the red and yellow seas of sand
that stretch beyond Europe toward the sunrise, there can be found a
rather fantastic contrast, which is none the less typical of such a
place, since international treaties have made it an outpost of the
British occupation. The site is famous among archaeologists for
something that is hardly a monument, but merely a hole in the
ground. But it is a round shaft, like that of a well, and probably a
part of some great irrigation works of remote and disputed date,
perhaps more ancient than anything in that ancient land. There is a
green fringe of palm and prickly pear round the black mouth of the
well; but nothing of the upper masonry remains except two bulky and
battered stones standing like the pillars of a gateway of nowhere,
in which some of the more transcendental archaeologists, in certain
moods at moonrise or sunset, think they can trace the faint lines of
figures or features of more than Babylonian monstrosity; while the
more rationalistic archaeologists, in the more rational hours of
daylight, see nothing but two shapeless rocks. It may have been
noticed, however, that all Englishmen are not archaeologists. Many
of those assembled in such a place for official and military
purposes have hobbies other than archaeology. And it is a solemn
fact that the English in this Eastern exile have contrived to make a
small golf links out of the green scrub and sand; with a comfortable
clubhouse at one end of it and this primeval monument at the other.
They did not actually use this archaic abyss as a bunker, because it
was by tradition unfathomable, and even for practical purposes
unfathomed. Any sporting projectile sent into it might be counted
most literally as a lost ball. But they often sauntered round it in
their interludes of talking and smoking cigarettes, and one of them
had just come down from the clubhouse to find another gazing
somewhat moodily into the well. Both the Englishmen wore light clothes and white pith helmets and
puggrees, but there, for the most part, their resemblance ended. And
they both almost simultaneously said the same word, but they said it
on two totally different notes of the voice. “Have you heard the news?” asked the man from the club. “Splendid.” “Splendid,” replied the man by the well. But the first man
pronounced the word as a young man might say it about a woman, and
the second as an old man might say it about the weather, not without
sincerity, but certainly without fervor. And in this the tone of the two men was sufficiently typical of
them. The first, who was a certain Captain Boyle, was of a bold and
boyish type, dark, and with a sort of native heat in his face that
did not belong to the atmosphere of the East, but rather to the
ardors and ambitions of the West. The other was an older man and
certainly an older resident, a civilian official—Horne Fisher; and
his drooping eyelids and drooping light mustache expressed all the
paradox of the Englishman in the East. He was much too hot to be
anything but cool. Neither of them thought it necessary to mention what it was that was
splendid. That would indeed have been superfluous conversation about
something that everybody knew. The striking victory over a menacing
combination of Turks and Arabs in the north, won by troops under the
command of Lord Hastings, the veteran of so many striking victories,
was already spread by the newspapers all over the Empire, let alone
to this small garrison so near to the battlefield. “Now, no other nation in the world could have done a thing like
that,” cried Captain Boyle, emphatically. Horne Fisher was still looking silently into the well; a moment
later he answered: “We certainly have the art of unmaking mistakes.
That’s where the poor old Prussians went wrong. They could only make
mistakes and stick to them. There is really a certain talent in
unmaking a mistake.” “What do you mean,” asked Boyle, “what mistakes?” “Well, everybody knows it looked like biting off more than he could
chew,” replied Horne Fisher. It was a peculiarity of Mr. Fisher that
he always said that everybody knew things which about one person in
two million was ever allowed to hear of. “And it was certainly jolly
lucky that Travers turned up so well in the nick of time. Odd how
often the right thing’s been done for us by the second in command,
even when a great man was first in command. Like Colborne at
Waterloo.” “It ought to add a whole province to the Empire,” observed the
other. “Well, I suppose the Zimmernes would have insisted on it as far as
the canal,” observed Fisher, thoughtfully, “though everybody knows
adding provinces doesn’t always pay much nowadays.” Captain Boyle frowned in a slightly puzzled fashion. Being cloudily
conscious of never having heard of the Zimmernes in his life, he
could only remark, stolidly: “Well, one can’t be a Little Englander.” Horne Fisher smiled, and he had a pleasant smile. “Every man out here is a Little Englander,” he said. “He wishes he
were back in Little England.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m afraid,” said the
younger man, rather suspiciously. “One would think you didn’t really
admire Hastings or—or—anything.” “I admire him no end,” replied Fisher. “He’s by far the best man
for this post; he understands the Moslems and can do anything with
them. That’s why I’m all against pushing Travers against him, merely
because of this last affair.” “I really don’t understand what you’re driving at,” said the other,
frankly. “Perhaps it isn’t worth understanding,” answered Fisher, lightly,
“and, anyhow, we needn’t talk politics. Do you know the Arab legend
about that well?” “I’m afraid I don’t know much about Arab legends,” said Boyle,
rather stiffly. “That’s rather a mistake,” replied Fisher, “especially from your
IV - Il Pozzo Senza Fondo * In un’oasi, o isola verde, nei mari rossi e gialli di sabbia
che si stendono oltre l’Europa verso il levante, si può trovare un
contrasto piuttosto fantastico, che non è per questo meno tipico d’un simile
luogo, giacché i trattati internazionali ne hanno fatto un avamposto dell’
occupazione britannica. Il sito è famoso tra gli archeologi per
qualcosa che è a malapena un monumento, ma soltanto un buco nel
terreno. Ma è un condotto rotondo, come quello d’un pozzo, e probabilmente
parte di qualche grande opera d’irrigazione di data remota e discussa,
forse più antica di qualunque cosa in quell’antica terra. C’è una
verde frangia di palme e fichi d’India intorno alla nera bocca del
pozzo; ma nulla resta della muratura superiore tranne due massicce e
malridotte pietre erette come i pilastri d’un portale del nulla,
in cui alcuni degli archeologi più trascendentali, in certi
stati d’animo al sorger della luna o al tramonto, credono di poter tracciare le fioche linee di
figure o lineamenti d’una mostruosità più che babilonese; mentre i
più razionalistici archeologi, nelle ore più razionali del
giorno, non vedono altro che due rocce informi. Si sarà forse
notato, tuttavia, che non tutti gli inglesi sono archeologi. Molti
di coloro riuniti in un simile luogo per scopi ufficiali e militari
hanno passatempi diversi dall’archeologia. Ed è un fatto
solenne che gli inglesi in questo esilio orientale siano riusciti a ricavare un
piccolo campo da golf dalla verde boscaglia e dalla sabbia; con un comodo
circolo a un capo di esso e questo monumento primordiale all’altro.
Non usavano davvero quest’arcaico abisso come bunker, perché esso
era per tradizione insondabile, e persino a fini pratici
insondato. Qualsiasi proiettile sportivo lanciato al suo interno poteva contarsi
quanto mai letteralmente come palla perduta. Ma spesso vi passeggiavano intorno nei
loro intervalli di chiacchiere e sigarette, e uno di loro
era appena sceso dal circolo per trovare un altro che fissava
un po’ cupamente dentro il pozzo. Entrambi gli inglesi indossavano abiti leggeri e bianchi caschi coloniali e
puggaree, ma lì, per lo più, la loro somiglianza finiva. E
entrambi dissero quasi simultaneamente la stessa parola, ma la dissero
su due note della voce del tutto diverse. “Avete sentito la notizia?” chiese l’uomo venuto dal circolo. “Splendida.” “Splendida,” rispose l’uomo presso il pozzo. Ma il primo
pronunciò la parola come un giovane potrebbe dirla d’una donna, e
il secondo come un vecchio potrebbe dirla del tempo, non senza
sincerità, ma certo senza fervore. E in questo il tono dei due uomini era abbastanza tipico di
loro. Il primo, che era un certo capitano Boyle, era d’un tipo ardito e
fanciullesco, bruno, e con una sorta d’innato calore sul viso che
non apparteneva all’atmosfera dell’Oriente, ma piuttosto agli
ardori e alle ambizioni dell’Occidente. L’altro era un uomo più anziano e
certo un residente più antico, un funzionario civile—Horne Fisher; e
le sue palpebre cascanti e i cascanti baffi chiari esprimevano tutto il
paradosso dell’inglese in Oriente. Aveva troppo caldo per essere
altro che freddo. Nessuno dei due ritenne necessario menzionare che cosa fosse ciò che era
splendido. Sarebbe stata davvero una conversazione superflua su
qualcosa che tutti sapevano. La clamorosa vittoria su una minacciosa
combinazione di turchi e arabi nel nord, riportata da truppe al
comando di Lord Hastings, il veterano di tante clamorose vittorie,
era già diffusa dai giornali per tutto l’Impero, per non dire
di questa piccola guarnigione così vicina al campo di battaglia. “Ora, nessun’altra nazione al mondo avrebbe potuto compiere una cosa
simile,” gridò il capitano Boyle, con enfasi. Horne Fisher stava ancora guardando in silenzio dentro il pozzo; un istante
dopo rispose: “Abbiamo di certo l’arte di disfare gli errori.
È qui che sbagliarono i poveri vecchi prussiani. Sapevano solo commettere
errori e ostinarvisi. C’è davvero un certo talento nel
disfare un errore.” “Che intendete,” chiese Boyle, “quali errori?” “Beh, tutti sanno che pareva un boccone più grosso di quanto potesse
masticare,” replicò Horne Fisher. Era una peculiarità del signor Fisher che
egli dicesse sempre che tutti sapevano cose di cui circa una persona su
due milioni veniva mai ammessa a sentir parlare. “E fu di certo una gran
fortuna che Travers spuntasse così bene sul filo del tempo. Strano come
spesso la cosa giusta l’abbia fatta per noi il secondo in comando,
anche quando un grand’uomo era primo in comando. Come Colborne a
Waterloo.” “Dovrebbe aggiungere un’intera provincia all’Impero,” osservò l’
altro. “Beh, suppongo che gli Zimmerne avrebbero insistito almeno fino al
canale,” osservò Fisher, pensieroso, “benché tutti sappiano
che aggiungere province non sempre rende granché al giorno d’oggi.” Il capitano Boyle aggrottò la fronte in modo lievemente perplesso. Essendo confusamente
consapevole di non aver mai sentito parlare degli Zimmerne in vita sua,
poté solo osservare, ottusamente: “Beh, non si può essere un Piccolo Inglese.” Horne Fisher sorrise, e aveva un sorriso gradevole. “Ogni uomo quaggiù è un Piccolo Inglese,” disse. “Vorrebbe
esser di ritorno nella Piccola Inghilterra.” “Temo di non capire di che parliate,” disse il
più giovane, piuttosto sospettoso. “Si direbbe che voi non
ammiriate davvero Hastings o—o—alcunché.” “L’ammiro senza fine,” replicò Fisher. “È di gran lunga l’uomo migliore
per questo posto; capisce i musulmani e sa fare qualunque cosa con
loro. Ecco perché sono del tutto contrario a spingere Travers contro di lui, solo
per via di quest’ultima faccenda.” “Non capisco davvero dove vogliate arrivare,” disse l’altro,
francamente. “Forse non vale la pena capirlo,” rispose Fisher, con leggerezza,
“e, comunque, non c’è bisogno di parlar di politica. Conoscete la leggenda araba
su quel pozzo?” “Temo di non saperne molto di leggende arabe,” disse Boyle,
piuttosto rigido. “È piuttosto un errore,” replicò Fisher, “specialmente dal vostro
point of view. Lord Hastings himself is an Arab legend. That is
perhaps the very greatest thing he really is. If his reputation went
it would weaken us all over Asia and Africa. Well, the story about
that hole in the ground, that goes down nobody knows where, has
always fascinated me, rather. It’s Mohammedan in form now, but I
shouldn’t wonder if the tale is a long way older than Mohammed. It’s
all about somebody they call the Sultan Aladdin, not our friend of
the lamp, of course, but rather like him in having to do with genii
or giants or something of that sort. They say he commanded the
giants to build him a sort of pagoda, rising higher and higher above
all the stars. The Utmost for the Highest, as the people said when
they built the Tower of Babel. But the builders of the Tower of
Babel were quite modest and domestic people, like mice, compared
with old Aladdin. They only wanted a tower that would reach heaven—
a mere trifle. He wanted a tower that would pass heaven and rise
above it, and go on rising for ever and ever. And Allah cast him
down to earth with a thunderbolt, which sank into the earth, boring
a hole deeper and deeper, till it made a well that was without a
bottom as the tower was to have been without a top. And down that
inverted tower of darkness the soul of the proud Sultan is falling
forever and ever.” “What a queer chap you are,” said Boyle. “You talk as if a fellow
could believe those fables.” “Perhaps I believe the moral and not the fable,” answered Fisher.
“But here comes Lady Hastings. You know her, I think.” The clubhouse on the golf links was used, of course, for many other
purposes besides that of golf. It was the only social center of the
garrison beside the strictly military headquarters; it had a
billiard room and a bar, and even an excellent reference library for
those officers who were so perverse as to take their profession
seriously. Among these was the great general himself, whose head of
silver and face of bronze, like that of a brazen eagle, were often
to be found bent over the charts and folios of the library. The
great Lord Hastings believed in science and study, as in other
severe ideals of life, and had given much paternal advice on the
point to young Boyle, whose appearances in that place of research
were rather more intermittent. It was from one of these snatches of
study that the young man had just come out through the glass doors
of the library on to the golf links. But, above all, the club was so
appointed as to serve the social conveniences of ladies at least as
much as gentlemen, and Lady Hastings was able to play the queen in
such a society almost as much as in her own ballroom. She was
eminently calculated and, as some said, eminently inclined to play
such a part. She was much younger than her husband, an attractive
and sometimes dangerously attractive lady; and Mr. Horne Fisher
looked after her a little sardonically as she swept away with the
young soldier. Then his rather dreary eye strayed to the green and
prickly growths round the well, growths of that curious cactus
formation in which one thick leaf grows directly out of the other
without stalk or twig. It gave his fanciful mind a sinister feeling
of a blind growth without shape or purpose. A flower or shrub in the
West grows to the blossom which is its crown, and is content. But
this was as if hands could grow out of hands or legs grow out of
legs in a nightmare. “Always adding a province to the Empire,” he
said, with a smile, and then added, more sadly, “but I doubt if I
was right, after all!” A strong but genial voice broke in on his meditations and he looked
up and smiled, seeing the face of an old friend. The voice was,
indeed, rather more genial than the face, which was at the first
glance decidedly grim. It was a typically legal face, with angular
jaws and heavy, grizzled eyebrows; and it belonged to an eminently
legal character, though he was now attached in a semimilitary
capacity to the police of that wild district. Cuthbert Grayne was
perhaps more of a criminologist than either a lawyer or a policeman,
but in his more barbarous surroundings he had proved successful in
turning himself into a practical combination of all three. The
discovery of a whole series of strange Oriental crimes stood to his
credit. But as few people were acquainted with, or attracted to,
such a hobby or branch of knowledge, his intellectual life was
somewhat solitary. Among the few exceptions was Horne Fisher, who
had a curious capacity for talking to almost anybody about almost
anything. “Studying botany, or is it archaeology?” inquired Grayne. “I shall
never come to the end of your interests, Fisher. I should say that
what you don’t know isn’t worth knowing.” “You are wrong,” replied Fisher, with a very unusual abruptness, and
even bitterness. “It’s what I do know that isn’t worth knowing. All
the seamy side of things, all the secret reasons and rotten motives
and bribery and blackmail they call politics. I needn’t be so proud
of having been down all these sewers that I should brag about it to
the little boys in the street.” “What do you mean? What’s the matter with you?” asked his friend.
“I never knew you taken like this before.” “I’m ashamed of myself,” replied Fisher. “I’ve just been throwing
cold water on the enthusiasms of a boy.” “Even that explanation is hardly exhaustive,” observed the criminal
expert. “Damned newspaper nonsense the enthusiasms were, of course,”
continued Fisher, “but I ought to know that at that age illusions
can be ideals. And they’re better than the reality, anyhow. But
there is one very ugly responsibility about jolting a young man out
of the rut of the most rotten ideal.” “And what may that be?” inquired his friend. “It’s very apt to set him off with the same energy in a much worse
punto di vista. Lord Hastings stesso è una leggenda araba. Questa è
forse la cosa più grande che egli davvero sia. Se la sua reputazione cadesse
ci indebolirebbe in tutta l’Asia e l’Africa. Ebbene, la storia su
quel buco nel terreno, che scende chissà dove, mi ha
sempre affascinato, piuttosto. Ora è maomettana nella forma, ma non
mi stupirei se il racconto fosse assai più antico di Maometto. Parla
tutto di qualcuno che chiamano il Sultano Aladino, non il nostro amico della
lampada, s’intende, ma piuttosto simile a lui nell’aver a che fare con geni
o giganti o qualcosa del genere. Dicono che comandasse ai
giganti di costruirgli una sorta di pagoda, che s’innalzasse sempre più in alto sopra
tutte le stelle. Il Massimo per l’Altissimo, come diceva la gente quando
costruì la Torre di Babele. Ma i costruttori della Torre di
Babele erano gente assai modesta e domestica, come topi, in confronto
al vecchio Aladino. Volevano solo una torre che raggiungesse il cielo—
una mera inezia. Egli voleva una torre che oltrepassasse il cielo e si levasse
al di sopra di esso, e continuasse a levarsi per sempre. E Allah lo scagliò
a terra con un fulmine, che sprofondò nel suolo, scavando
un buco sempre più profondo, finché non fece un pozzo che era senza
fondo come la torre doveva essere senza cima. E giù per quella
rovesciata torre di tenebra l’anima del superbo Sultano precipita
per sempre.” “Che tipo strano siete,” disse Boyle. “Parlate come se uno
potesse credere a quelle favole.” “Forse io credo alla morale e non alla favola,” rispose Fisher.
“Ma ecco che arriva Lady Hastings. La conoscete, credo.” Il circolo del campo da golf era usato, s’intende, per molti altri
scopi oltre a quello del golf. Era l’unico centro sociale della
guarnigione accanto al quartier generale strettamente militare; aveva una
sala da biliardo e un bar, e persino un’eccellente biblioteca di consultazione per
quegli ufficiali tanto perversi da prendere la loro professione
sul serio. Tra questi c’era il grande generale in persona, la cui testa d’
argento e volto di bronzo, come quello d’un’aquila di bronzo, si trovavano spesso
chinati sulle carte e i volumi in folio della biblioteca. Il
grande Lord Hastings credeva nella scienza e nello studio, come in altri
severi ideali di vita, e aveva dato molti paterni consigli in
proposito al giovane Boyle, le cui apparizioni in quel luogo di ricerca
erano piuttosto più intermittenti. Fu da uno di questi ritagli di
studio che il giovane era appena uscito dalle porte a vetri
della biblioteca sul campo da golf. Ma, soprattutto, il circolo era così
attrezzato da servire alle comodità sociali delle signore almeno quanto
quelle dei gentiluomini, e Lady Hastings poteva far la regina in
una simile società quasi quanto nel proprio salone da ballo. Era
eminentemente adatta e, come dicevano alcuni, eminentemente incline a recitare
una simile parte. Era molto più giovane del marito, una signora attraente
e talvolta pericolosamente attraente; e il signor Horne Fisher
la seguì con lo sguardo un po’ sardonicamente mentre s’allontanava col
giovane soldato. Poi il suo sguardo piuttosto tetro vagò verso i verdi e
spinosi vegetali intorno al pozzo, vegetali di quella curiosa formazione di cactus
in cui una spessa foglia cresce direttamente da un’altra
senza stelo né ramo. Dava alla sua mente fantasiosa una sinistra sensazione
d’una crescita cieca senza forma né scopo. Un fiore o un arbusto in
Occidente cresce fino al fiore che è la sua corona, e s’accontenta. Ma
questo era come se mani potessero crescere da mani o gambe crescere da
gambe in un incubo. “Sempre ad aggiungere una provincia all’Impero,” egli
disse, con un sorriso, e poi aggiunse, più mestamente, “ma dubito d’aver
avuto ragione, dopo tutto!” Una voce forte ma gioviale irruppe nelle sue meditazioni ed egli alzò
lo sguardo e sorrise, vedendo il volto d’un vecchio amico. La voce era,
invero, alquanto più gioviale del volto, che era a prima
vista decisamente arcigno. Era un volto tipicamente legale, con mascelle
squadrate e folte sopracciglia brizzolate; e apparteneva a un carattere eminentemente
legale, benché egli fosse ora aggregato in veste semimilitare
alla polizia di quel selvaggio distretto. Cuthbert Grayne era
forse più un criminologo che un avvocato o un poliziotto,
ma nel suo ambiente più barbaro era riuscito con successo a
trasformarsi in una pratica combinazione di tutti e tre. La
scoperta d’un’intera serie di strani delitti orientali gli faceva
onore. Ma poiché poche persone conoscevano, o erano attratte da,
un simile passatempo o ramo del sapere, la sua vita intellettuale era
alquanto solitaria. Tra le poche eccezioni c’era Horne Fisher, che
aveva una curiosa capacità di parlare con quasi chiunque di quasi
qualunque cosa. “Studiate botanica, o è archeologia?” domandò Grayne. “Non
arriverò mai alla fine dei vostri interessi, Fisher. Direi che
ciò che non sapete non val la pena di saperlo.” “Vi sbagliate,” replicò Fisher, con una bruschezza assai insolita, e
perfino con amarezza. “È ciò che so a non valere la pena di saperlo. Tutto
il lato oscuro delle cose, tutte le ragioni segrete e i marci moventi
e la corruzione e il ricatto che chiamano politica. Non ho da essere così fiero
d’esser sceso in tutte queste fogne da doverne vantarmi con
i ragazzini per strada.” “Che intendete? Che vi prende?” chiese l’amico.
“Non v’ho mai visto così prima d’ora.” “Mi vergogno di me stesso,” replicò Fisher. “Ho appena gettato
acqua fredda sugli entusiasmi d’un ragazzo.” “Persino questa spiegazione è poco esauriente,” osservò l’esperto
di crimini. “Dannate sciocchezze da giornale erano quegli entusiasmi, s’intende,”
continuò Fisher, “ma dovrei sapere che a quell’età le illusioni
possono essere ideali. E sono meglio della realtà, in ogni caso. Ma
c’è una responsabilità assai brutta nello scuotere un giovane fuori
dal solco dell’ideale più marcio.” “E quale sarebbe?” domandò l’amico. “È assai facile che lo lanci con la stessa energia in una direzione ben peggiore
direction,” answered Fisher; “a pretty endless sort of direction, a
bottomless pit as deep as the bottomless well.” Fisher did not see his friend until a fortnight later, when he found
himself in the garden at the back of the clubhouse on the opposite
side from the links, a garden heavily colored and scented with sweet
semitropical plants in the glow of a desert sunset. Two other men
were with him, the third being the now celebrated second in command,
familiar to everybody as Tom Travers, a lean, dark man, who looked
older than his years, with a furrow in his brow and something morose
about the very shape of his black mustache. They had just been
served with black coffee by the Arab now officiating as the
temporary servant of the club, though he was a figure already
familiar, and even famous, as the old servant of the general. He
went by the name of Said, and was notable among other Semites for
that unnatural length of his yellow face and height of his narrow
forehead which is sometimes seen among them, and gave an irrational
impression of something sinister, in spite of his agreeable smile. “I never feel as if I could quite trust that fellow,” said Grayne,
when the man had gone away. “It’s very unjust, I take it, for he was
certainly devoted to Hastings, and saved his life, they say. But
Arabs are often like that, loyal to one man. I can’t help feeling he
might cut anybody else’s throat, and even do it treacherously.” “Well,” said Travers, with a rather sour smile, “so long as he
leaves Hastings alone the world won’t mind much.” There was a rather embarrassing silence, full of memories of the
great battle, and then Horne Fisher said, quietly: “The newspapers aren’t the world, Tom. Don’t you worry about them.
Everybody in your world knows the truth well enough.” “I think we’d better not talk about the general just now,” remarked
Grayne, “for he’s just coming out of the club.” “He’s not coming here,” said Fisher. “He’s only seeing his wife to
the car.” As he spoke, indeed, the lady came out on the steps of the club,
followed by her husband, who then went swiftly in front of her to
open the garden gate. As he did so she turned back and spoke for a
moment to a solitary man still sitting in a cane chair in the shadow
of the doorway, the only man left in the deserted club save for the
three that lingered in the garden. Fisher peered for a moment into
the shadow, and saw that it was Captain Boyle. The next moment, rather to their surprise, the general reappeared
and, remounting the steps, spoke a word or two to Boyle in his turn.
Then he signaled to Said, who hurried up with two cups of coffee,
and the two men re-entered the club, each carrying his cup in his
hand. The next moment a gleam of white light in the growing darkness
showed that the electric lamps had been turned on in the library
beyond. “Coffee and scientific researches,” said Travers, grimly. “All the
luxuries of learning and theoretical research. Well, I must be
going, for I have my work to do as well.” And he got up rather
stiffly, saluted his companions, and strode away into the dusk. “I only hope Boyle is sticking to scientific researches,” said Horne
Fisher. “I’m not very comfortable about him myself. But let’s talk
about something else.” They talked about something else longer than they probably imagined,
until the tropical night had come and a splendid moon painted the
whole scene with silver; but before it was bright enough to see by
Fisher had already noted that the lights in the library had been
abruptly extinguished. He waited for the two men to come out by the
garden entrance, but nobody came. “They must have gone for a stroll on the links,” he said. “Very possibly,” replied Grayne. “It’s going to be a beautiful
night.” A moment or two after he had spoken they heard a voice hailing them
out of the shadow of the clubhouse, and were astonished to perceive
Travers hurrying toward them, calling out as he came: “I shall want your help, you fellows,” he cried. “There’s something
pretty bad out on the links.” They found themselves plunging through the club smoking room and the
library beyond, in complete darkness, mental as well as material.
But Horne Fisher, in spite of his affectation of indifference, was a
person of a curious and almost transcendental sensibility to
atmospheres, and he already felt the presence of something more than
an accident. He collided with a piece of furniture in the library,
and almost shuddered with the shock, for the thing moved as he could
never have fancied a piece of furniture moving. It seemed to move
like a living thing, yielding and yet striking back. The next moment
Grayne had turned on the lights, and he saw he had only stumbled
against one of the revolving bookstands that had swung round and
struck him; but his involuntary recoil had revealed to him his own
subconscious sense of something mysterious and monstrous. There were
several of these revolving bookcases standing here and there about
the library; on one of them stood the two cups of coffee, and on
another a large open book. It was Budge’s book on Egyptian
hieroglyphics, with colored plates of strange birds and gods, and
even as he rushed past, he was conscious of something odd about the
fact that this, and not any work of military science, should be open
in that place at that moment. He was even conscious of the gap in
the well-lined bookshelf from which it had been taken, and it seemed
almost to gape at him in an ugly fashion, like a gap in the teeth of
some sinister face. A run brought them in a few minutes to the other side of the ground
in front of the bottomless well, and a few yards from it, in a
direzione,” rispose Fisher; “una direzione piuttosto senza fine, un
abisso senza fondo profondo quanto il pozzo senza fondo.” Fisher non rivide l’amico fino a due settimane dopo, quando si ritrovò
nel giardino sul retro del circolo, dal lato opposto
a quello del campo, un giardino intensamente colorato e profumato di dolci
piante semitropicali nel bagliore d’un tramonto nel deserto. Altri due uomini
erano con lui, il terzo essendo l’ormai celebre secondo in comando,
noto a tutti come Tom Travers, un uomo magro e bruno, che pareva
più vecchio dei suoi anni, con un solco sulla fronte e qualcosa di tetro
nella forma stessa dei suoi baffi neri. Erano appena stati
serviti di caffè nero dall’arabo che ora officiava come
servitore temporaneo del circolo, benché fosse una figura già
nota, e persino famosa, come il vecchio servitore del generale.
Rispondeva al nome di Said, ed era notevole tra gli altri semiti per
quell’innaturale lunghezza del suo volto giallo e altezza della sua stretta
fronte che talvolta si vede tra loro, e dava un’irrazionale
impressione di qualcosa di sinistro, malgrado il suo sorriso gradevole. “Non mi sento mai come se potessi fidarmi del tutto di quel tale,” disse Grayne,
quando l’uomo se ne fu andato. “È molto ingiusto, lo ammetto, perché era
certo devoto a Hastings, e gli salvò la vita, dicono. Ma
gli arabi sono spesso così, fedeli a un solo uomo. Non posso fare a meno di sentire che
potrebbe tagliare la gola a chiunque altro, e persino farlo a tradimento.” “Beh,” disse Travers, con un sorriso piuttosto acido, “finché
lascia Hastings in pace, al mondo importerà poco.” Ci fu un silenzio piuttosto imbarazzante, pieno di ricordi della
grande battaglia, e poi Horne Fisher disse, con calma: “I giornali non sono il mondo, Tom. Non preoccupartene.
Tutti nel tuo mondo conoscono la verità abbastanza bene.” “Credo sia meglio non parlare del generale proprio ora,” osservò
Grayne, “perché sta proprio uscendo dal circolo.” “Non viene qui,” disse Fisher. “Sta solo accompagnando la moglie alla
macchina.” Mentre parlava, infatti, la signora comparve sui gradini del circolo,
seguita dal marito, che poi le passò rapidamente davanti per
aprire il cancello del giardino. Nel farlo lei si voltò e parlò per un
istante a un uomo solitario ancora seduto su una sedia di vimini nell’ombra
del vano della porta, l’unico uomo rimasto nel circolo deserto tranne i
tre che s’attardavano nel giardino. Fisher scrutò per un istante nell’
ombra, e vide che era il capitano Boyle. L’istante dopo, con loro sorpresa, il generale ricomparve
e, risalendo i gradini, rivolse a sua volta una parola o due a Boyle.
Poi fece un cenno a Said, che accorse con due tazze di caffè,
e i due uomini rientrarono nel circolo, ciascuno portando la propria tazza in
mano. L’istante dopo un barlume di luce bianca nell’oscurità crescente
mostrò che le lampade elettriche erano state accese nella biblioteca
al di là. “Caffè e ricerche scientifiche,” disse Travers, arcigno. “Tutti i
lussi del sapere e della ricerca teorica. Beh, devo
andare, perché ho il mio lavoro da fare, io pure.” E si alzò piuttosto
rigido, salutò i compagni, e s’allontanò a gran passi nel crepuscolo. “Spero solo che Boyle si tenga alle ricerche scientifiche,” disse Horne
Fisher. “Io stesso non sono molto tranquillo sul suo conto. Ma parliamo
d’altro.” Parlarono d’altro più a lungo di quanto probabilmente immaginassero,
finché non fu giunta la notte tropicale e una splendida luna dipinse
l’intera scena d’argento; ma prima che fosse abbastanza luminosa per vederci
Fisher aveva già notato che le luci nella biblioteca erano state
bruscamente spente. Attese che i due uomini uscissero dall’
ingresso del giardino, ma non venne nessuno. “Devono essere andati a fare due passi sul campo,” disse. “Molto probabile,” replicò Grayne. “Sarà una bella
notte.” Un istante o due dopo che ebbe parlato udirono una voce che li chiamava
dall’ombra del circolo, e furono stupiti di scorgere
Travers che s’affrettava verso di loro, gridando mentre veniva: “Avrò bisogno del vostro aiuto, ragazzi,” gridò. “C’è qualcosa
di piuttosto brutto là sul campo.” Si ritrovarono a precipitarsi attraverso il fumoir del circolo e la
biblioteca oltre, in completa oscurità, tanto mentale quanto materiale.
Ma Horne Fisher, malgrado la sua affettazione d’indifferenza, era una
persona d’una curiosa e quasi trascendentale sensibilità alle
atmosfere, e già sentiva la presenza di qualcosa di più d’
un incidente. Urtò contro un mobile nella biblioteca,
e quasi rabbrividì per lo scossone, perché la cosa si mosse come non
avrebbe mai immaginato che un mobile si muovesse. Sembrava muoversi
come una cosa viva, cedendo eppure ribattendo. L’istante dopo
Grayne aveva acceso le luci, ed egli vide d’aver solo inciampato
contro uno dei leggii girevoli che aveva ruotato e lo aveva
colpito; ma il suo involontario sussulto gli aveva rivelato il proprio
senso subconscio di qualcosa di misterioso e mostruoso. C’erano
parecchi di questi scaffali girevoli disposti qua e là per
la biblioteca; su uno di essi stavano le due tazze di caffè, e su
un altro un grande libro aperto. Era il libro di Budge sui geroglifici
egizi, con tavole colorate di strani uccelli e dèi, e
e proprio mentre passava di corsa, ebbe coscienza di qualcosa di strano nel
fatto che questo, e non un’opera di scienza militare, fosse aperto
in quel luogo in quel momento. Ebbe persino coscienza del vuoto nello
scaffale ben fornito da cui era stato tolto, e sembrava
quasi spalancarsi verso di lui in modo sgradevole, come un vuoto tra i denti d’
un volto sinistro. Una corsa li portò in pochi minuti dall’altro lato del terreno
davanti al pozzo senza fondo, e a pochi metri da esso, in una
moonlight almost as broad as daylight, they saw what they had come
to see. The great Lord Hastings lay prone on his face, in a posture in which
there was a touch of something strange and stiff, with one elbow
erect above his body, the arm being doubled, and his big, bony hand
clutching the rank and ragged grass. A few feet away was Boyle,
almost as motionless, but supported on his hands and knees, and
staring at the body. It might have been no more than shock and
accident; but there was something ungainly and unnatural about the
quadrupedal posture and the gaping face. It was as if his reason had
fled from him. Behind, there was nothing but the clear blue southern
sky, and the beginning of the desert, except for the two great
broken stones in front of the well. And it was in such a light and
atmosphere that men could fancy they traced in them enormous and
evil faces, looking down. Horne Fisher stooped and touched the strong hand that was still
clutching the grass, and it was as cold as a stone. He knelt by the
body and was busy for a moment applying other tests; then he rose
again, and said, with a sort of confident despair: “Lord Hastings is dead.” There was a stony silence, and then Travers remarked, gruffly: “This
is your department, Grayne; I will leave you to question Captain
Boyle. I can make no sense of what he says.” Boyle had pulled himself together and risen to his feet, but his
face still wore an awful expression, making it like a new mask or
the face of another man. “I was looking at the well,” he said, “and when I turned he had
fallen down.” Grayne’s face was very dark. “As you say, this is my affair,” he
said. “I must first ask you to help me carry him to the library and
let me examine things thoroughly.” When they had deposited the body in the library, Grayne turned to
Fisher and said, in a voice that had recovered its fullness and
confidence, “I am going to lock myself in and make a thorough
examination first. I look to you to keep in touch with the others
and make a preliminary examination of Boyle. I will talk to him
later. And just telephone to headquarters for a policeman, and let
him come here at once and stand by till I want him.” Without more words the great criminal investigator went into the
lighted library, shutting the door behind him, and Fisher, without
replying, turned and began to talk quietly to Travers. “It is
curious,” he said, “that the thing should happen just in front of
that place.” “It would certainly be very curious,” replied Travers, “if the place
played any part in it.” “I think,” replied Fisher, “that the part it didn’t play is more
curious still.” And with these apparently meaningless words he turned to the shaken
Boyle and, taking his arm, began to walk him up and down in the
moonlight, talking in low tones. Dawn had begun to break abrupt and white when Cuthbert Grayne turned
out the lights in the library and came out on to the links. Fisher
was lounging about alone, in his listless fashion; but the police
messenger for whom he had sent was standing at attention in the
background. “I sent Boyle off with Travers,” observed Fisher, carelessly; “he’ll
look after him, and he’d better have some sleep, anyhow.” “Did you get anything out of him?” asked Grayne. “Did he tell you
what he and Hastings were doing?” “Yes,” answered Fisher, “he gave me a pretty clear account, after
all. He said that after Lady Hastings went off in the car the
general asked him to take coffee with him in the library and look up
a point about local antiquities. He himself was beginning to look
for Budge’s book in one of the revolving bookstands when the general
found it in one of the bookshelves on the wall. After looking at
some of the plates they went out, it would seem, rather abruptly, on
to the links, and walked toward the old well; and while Boyle was
looking into it he heard a thud behind him, and turned round to find
the general lying as we found him. He himself dropped on his knees
to examine the body, and then was paralyzed with a sort of terror
and could not come nearer to it or touch it. But I think very little
of that; people caught in a real shock of surprise are sometimes
found in the queerest postures.” Grayne wore a grim smile of attention, and said, after a short
silence: “Well, he hasn’t told you many lies. It’s really a creditably clear
and consistent account of what happened, with everything of
importance left out.” “Have you discovered anything in there?” asked Fisher. “I have discovered everything,” answered Grayne. Fisher maintained a somewhat gloomy silence, as the other resumed
his explanation in quiet and assured tones. “You were quite right, Fisher, when you said that young fellow was
in danger of going down dark ways toward the pit. Whether or no, as
you fancied, the jolt you gave to his view of the general had
anything to do with it, he has not been treating the general well
for some time. It’s an unpleasant business, and I don’t want to
dwell on it; but it’s pretty plain that his wife was not treating
him well, either. I don’t know how far it went, but it went as far
as concealment, anyhow; for when Lady Hastings spoke to Boyle it was
to tell him she had hidden a note in the Budge book in the library.
The general overheard, or came somehow to know, and he went straight
to the book and found it. He confronted Boyle with it, and they had
a scene, of course. And Boyle was confronted with something else; he
was confronted with an awful alternative, in which the life of one
old man meant ruin and his death meant triumph and even happiness.” “Well,” observed Fisher, at last, “I don’t blame him for not telling
you the woman’s part of the story. But how do you know about the
chiaro di luna quasi ampio come la luce del giorno, videro ciò che erano venuti
a vedere. Il grande Lord Hastings giaceva prono sul volto, in una posa in cui
c’era un che di strano e di rigido, con un gomito
eretto sopra il corpo, il braccio piegato, e la grande mano ossuta
che stringeva l’erba folta e lacera. A pochi piedi di distanza c’era Boyle,
quasi altrettanto immobile, ma poggiato sulle mani e sulle ginocchia, e
con lo sguardo fisso sul corpo. Poteva non essere altro che shock e
incidente; ma c’era qualcosa di goffo e d’innaturale nella
posa quadrupede e nel volto sbigottito. Era come se la sua ragione
fosse fuggita da lui. Dietro, non c’era altro che il limpido azzurro cielo
meridionale, e l’inizio del deserto, tranne le due grandi
pietre spezzate davanti al pozzo. Ed era in una simile luce e
atmosfera che gli uomini potevano immaginare di tracciarvi enormi e
malvagi volti, che guardavano in basso. Horne Fisher si chinò e toccò la forte mano che ancora
stringeva l’erba, ed era fredda come una pietra. S’inginocchiò accanto al
corpo e per un istante s’affaccendò ad applicare altre prove; poi si rialzò
di nuovo, e disse, con una sorta di sicura disperazione: “Lord Hastings è morto.” Ci fu un silenzio di pietra, e poi Travers osservò, burbero: “Questo
è di vostra competenza, Grayne; vi lascio a interrogare il capitano
Boyle. Non riesco a cavare un senso da ciò che dice.” Boyle s’era ricomposto e alzato in piedi, ma il suo
volto portava ancora un’espressione tremenda, che lo rendeva come una nuova maschera o
il volto d’un altro uomo. “Stavo guardando il pozzo,” disse, “e quando mi voltai era
caduto.” Il volto di Grayne era assai fosco. “Come dite, questa è faccenda mia,”
disse. “Devo prima chiedervi d’aiutarmi a portarlo nella biblioteca e
a lasciarmi esaminare le cose a fondo.” Quando ebbero deposto il corpo nella biblioteca, Grayne si volse a
Fisher e disse, con voce che aveva ritrovato la sua pienezza e
sicurezza: “Mi chiuderò dentro e farò prima un accurato
esame. Conto su di voi per tenervi in contatto con gli altri
e fare un esame preliminare di Boyle. Gli parlerò io
più tardi. E telefonate solo al quartier generale per un poliziotto, e fate
che venga subito qui e resti in attesa finché non lo voglia.” Senza altre parole il grande investigatore criminale entrò nella
biblioteca illuminata, chiudendosi la porta alle spalle, e Fisher, senza
rispondere, si voltò e cominciò a parlare con calma a Travers. “È
curioso,” disse, “che la cosa sia accaduta proprio davanti a
quel luogo.” “Sarebbe certo assai curioso,” replicò Travers, “se il luogo
vi avesse avuto qualche parte.” “Io credo,” replicò Fisher, “che la parte che non ebbe sia più
curiosa ancora.” E con queste parole apparentemente insensate si volse allo scosso
Boyle e, prendendolo per il braccio, cominciò a farlo camminare avanti e indietro nel
chiaro di luna, parlando a bassa voce. L’alba aveva cominciato a spuntare brusca e bianca quando Cuthbert Grayne spense
le luci nella biblioteca e uscì sul campo. Fisher
oziava tutto solo, nella sua maniera svogliata; ma il messo
della polizia che aveva mandato a chiamare stava sull’attenti sullo
sfondo. “Ho mandato via Boyle con Travers,” osservò Fisher, con noncuranza; “si
prenderà cura di lui, e farebbe meglio a farsi un po’ di sonno, in ogni caso.” “Avete cavato qualcosa da lui?” chiese Grayne. “Vi ha detto
cosa lui e Hastings stessero facendo?” “Sì,” rispose Fisher, “mi ha dato un resoconto piuttosto chiaro, dopo
tutto. Ha detto che, dopo che Lady Hastings se ne fu andata in macchina, il
generale gli chiese di prendere il caffè con lui nella biblioteca e di verificare
un punto sulle antichità locali. Egli stesso stava cominciando a cercare
il libro di Budge in uno dei leggii girevoli quando il generale
lo trovò in uno degli scaffali a muro. Dopo aver guardato
alcune delle tavole uscirono, a quanto pare, piuttosto bruscamente, sul
campo, e s’incamminarono verso il vecchio pozzo; e mentre Boyle vi
guardava dentro udì un tonfo dietro di sé, e si voltò per trovare
il generale disteso come lo trovammo noi. Egli stesso cadde in ginocchio
per esaminare il corpo, e poi fu paralizzato da una sorta di terrore
e non poté avvicinarvisi di più né toccarlo. Ma faccio ben poco
caso di ciò; le persone colte da un vero shock di sorpresa talvolta si
trovano nelle pose più bizzarre.” Grayne portava un arcigno sorriso d’attenzione, e disse, dopo un breve
silenzio: “Beh, non v’ha detto molte bugie. È davvero un resoconto lodevolmente chiaro
e coerente di ciò che accadde, con tutto ciò che è d’
importante tralasciato.” “Avete scoperto qualcosa là dentro?” chiese Fisher. “Ho scoperto tutto,” rispose Grayne. Fisher mantenne un silenzio alquanto cupo, mentre l’altro riprendeva
la sua spiegazione in toni quieti e sicuri. “Avevate perfettamente ragione, Fisher, quando diceste che quel giovane era
in pericolo di scendere per vie oscure verso l’abisso. Che poi, come
immaginavate, lo scossone che deste alla sua idea del generale abbia
avuto a che fare o no, egli non ha trattato bene il generale
da qualche tempo. È una faccenda spiacevole, e non voglio
indugiarvi; ma è abbastanza chiaro che nemmeno sua moglie lo trattava
bene. Non so fin dove sia andata, ma andò fin
alla dissimulazione, comunque; perché quando Lady Hastings parlò a Boyle fu
per dirgli che aveva nascosto un biglietto nel libro di Budge nella biblioteca.
Il generale udì per caso, o venne in qualche modo a saperlo, e andò dritto
al libro e lo trovò. Ne fece rimprovero a Boyle, ed ebbero
una scenata, s’intende. E Boyle si trovò davanti a qualcos’altro;
si trovò davanti a una tremenda alternativa, in cui la vita d’un
vecchio significava rovina e la sua morte significava trionfo e persino felicità.” “Beh,” osservò Fisher, alla fine, “non lo biasimo per non avervi raccontato
la parte della donna nella storia. Ma come fate a sapere del
letter?” “I found it on the general’s body,” answered Grayne, “but I found
worse things than that. The body had stiffened in the way rather
peculiar to poisons of a certain Asiatic sort. Then I examined the
coffee cups, and I knew enough chemistry to find poison in the dregs
of one of them. Now, the General went straight to the bookcase,
leaving his cup of coffee on the bookstand in the middle of the
room. While his back was turned, and Boyle was pretending to examine
the bookstand, he was left alone with the coffee cup. The poison
takes about ten minutes to act, and ten minutes’ walk would bring
them to the bottomless well.” “Yes,” remarked Fisher, “and what about the bottomless well?” “What has the bottomless well got to do with it?” asked his friend. “It has nothing to do with it,” replied Fisher. “That is what I
find utterly confounding and incredible.” “And why should that particular hole in the ground have anything to
do with it?” “It is a particular hole in your case,” said Fisher. “But I won’t
insist on that just now. By the way, there is another thing I ought
to tell you. I said I sent Boyle away in charge of Travers. It would
be just as true to say I sent Travers in charge of Boyle.” “You don’t mean to say you suspect Tom Travers?” cried the other. “He was a deal bitterer against the general than Boyle ever was,”
observed Horne Fisher, with a curious indifference. “Man, you’re not saying what you mean,” cried Grayne. “I tell you I
found the poison in one of the coffee cups.” “There was always Said, of course,” added Fisher, “either for hatred
or hire. We agreed he was capable of almost anything.” “And we agreed he was incapable of hurting his master,” retorted
Grayne. “Well, well,” said Fisher, amiably, “I dare say you are right; but I
should just like to have a look at the library and the coffee cups.” He passed inside, while Grayne turned to the policeman in attendance
and handed him a scribbled note, to be telegraphed from
headquarters. The man saluted and hurried off; and Grayne, following
his friend into the library, found him beside the bookstand in the
middle of the room, on which were the empty cups. “This is where Boyle looked for Budge, or pretended to look for him,
according to your account,” he said. As Fisher spoke he bent down in a half-crouching attitude, to look
at the volumes in the low, revolving shelf, for the whole bookstand
was not much higher than an ordinary table. The next moment he
sprang up as if he had been stung. “Oh, my God!” he cried. Very few people, if any, had ever seen Mr. Horne Fisher behave as he
behaved just then. He flashed a glance at the door, saw that the
open window was nearer, went out of it with a flying leap, as if
over a hurdle, and went racing across the turf, in the track of the
disappearing policeman. Grayne, who stood staring after him, soon
saw his tall, loose figure, returning, restored to all its normal
limpness and air of leisure. He was fanning himself slowly with a
piece of paper, the telegram he had so violently intercepted. “Lucky I stopped that,” he observed. “We must keep this affair as
quiet as death. Hastings must die of apoplexy or heart disease.” “What on earth is the trouble?” demanded the other investigator. “The trouble is,” said Fisher, “that in a few days we should have
had a very agreeable alternative—of hanging an innocent man or
knocking the British Empire to hell.” “Do you mean to say,” asked Grayne, “that this infernal crime is not
to be punished?” Fisher looked at him steadily. “It is already punished,” he said. After a moment’s pause he went on. “You reconstructed the crime
with admirable skill, old chap, and nearly all you said was true.
Two men with two coffee cups did go into the library and did put
their cups on the bookstand and did go together to the well, and one
of them was a murderer and had put poison in the other’s cup. But it
was not done while Boyle was looking at the revolving bookcase. He
did look at it, though, searching for the Budge book with the note
in it, but I fancy that Hastings had already moved it to the shelves
on the wall. It was part of that grim game that he should find it
first. “Now, how does a man search a revolving bookcase? He does not
generally hop all round it in a squatting attitude, like a frog. He
simply gives it a touch and makes it revolve.” He was frowning at the floor as he spoke, and there was a light
under his heavy lids that was not often seen there. The mysticism
that was buried deep under all the cynicism of his experience was
awake and moving in the depths. His voice took unexpected turns and
inflections, almost as if two men were speaking. “That was what Boyle did; he barely touched the thing, and it went
round as easily as the world goes round. Yes, very much as the
world goes round, for the hand that turned it was not his. God, who
turns the wheel of all the stars, touched that wheel and brought it
full circle, that His dreadful justice might return.” “I am beginning,” said Grayne, slowly, “to have some hazy and
horrible idea of what you mean.” “It is very simple,” said Fisher, “when Boyle straightened himself
from his stooping posture, something had happened which he had not
noticed, which his enemy had not noticed, which nobody had noticed.
The two coffee cups had exactly changed places.” The rocky face of Grayne seemed to have sustained a shock in
silence; not a line of it altered, but his voice when it came was
unexpectedly weakened. “I see what you mean,” he said, “and, as you say, the less said
about it the better. It was not the lover who tried to get rid of
the husband, but—the other thing. And a tale like that about a man
like that would ruin us here. Had you any guess of this at the
lettera?” “L’ho trovata sul corpo del generale,” rispose Grayne, “ma ho trovato
cose peggiori. Il corpo s’era irrigidito nel modo piuttosto
peculiare ai veleni di un certo tipo asiatico. Poi esaminai le
tazze del caffè, e sapevo abbastanza chimica da trovare il veleno nei fondi
d’una di esse. Ora, il generale andò dritto allo scaffale,
lasciando la sua tazza di caffè sul leggio in mezzo alla
stanza. Mentre gli dava le spalle, e Boyle fingeva d’esaminare
il leggio, egli restò solo con la tazza del caffè. Il veleno
impiega circa dieci minuti ad agire, e dieci minuti di cammino li avrebbero portati
al pozzo senza fondo.” “Sì,” osservò Fisher, “e che dire del pozzo senza fondo?” “Che c’entra il pozzo senza fondo?” chiese l’amico. “Non c’entra nulla,” replicò Fisher. “È questo che
trovo del tutto sconcertante e incredibile.” “E perché quel particolare buco nel terreno dovrebbe avere qualcosa a
che farci?” “È un buco particolare nel vostro caso,” disse Fisher. “Ma non
insisterò su questo per ora. A proposito, c’è un’altra cosa che dovrei
dirvi. Ho detto d’aver mandato via Boyle in custodia a Travers. Sarebbe
altrettanto vero dire che ho mandato Travers in custodia a Boyle.” “Non vorrete dire che sospettate di Tom Travers?” gridò l’altro. “Era assai più astioso verso il generale di quanto Boyle sia mai stato,”
osservò Horne Fisher, con una curiosa indifferenza. “Amico, non dite ciò che pensate,” gridò Grayne. “Vi dico che
ho trovato il veleno in una delle tazze del caffè.” “C’era sempre Said, s’intende,” aggiunse Fisher, “vuoi per odio
vuoi per denaro. Convenimmo ch’era capace di quasi tutto.” “E convenimmo ch’era incapace di far del male al suo padrone,” ribatté
Grayne. “Beh, bene,” disse Fisher, amabilmente, “oserei dire che avete ragione; ma
mi piacerebbe solo dare un’occhiata alla biblioteca e alle tazze del caffè.” Passò dentro, mentre Grayne si volgeva al poliziotto in attesa
e gli porgeva un biglietto scarabocchiato, da telegrafare dal
quartier generale. L’uomo salutò e s’affrettò via; e Grayne, seguendo
l’amico nella biblioteca, lo trovò accanto al leggio in
mezzo alla stanza, su cui stavano le tazze vuote. “È qui che Boyle cercò Budge, o finse di cercarlo,
secondo il vostro resoconto,” disse. Mentre parlava Fisher si chinò in un atteggiamento semiaccovacciato, per guardare
i volumi nel basso scaffale girevole, perché l’intero leggio
non era molto più alto d’un tavolo comune. L’istante dopo
balzò in piedi come se fosse stato punto. “Oh, Dio mio!” gridò. Pochissimi, semmai qualcuno, avevano mai visto il signor Horne Fisher comportarsi come si
comportò in quell’istante. Lanciò un’occhiata alla porta, vide che la
finestra aperta era più vicina, ne uscì con un balzo volante, come
oltre un ostacolo, e si mise a correre attraverso il prato, sulle tracce del
poliziotto che spariva. Grayne, che rimase a fissarlo, presto
vide la sua figura alta e sciolta tornare, ristabilita in tutta la sua normale
flaccidezza e aria d’agio. Si faceva vento lentamente con un
pezzo di carta, il telegramma che aveva così violentemente intercettato. “Per fortuna l’ho fermato,” osservò. “Dobbiamo tenere questa faccenda tanto
quieta quanto la morte. Hastings deve morire d’apoplessia o di mal di cuore.” “Che diamine c’è che non va?” domandò l’altro investigatore. “C’è che non va,” disse Fisher, “che in pochi giorni avremmo
avuto un’alternativa assai gradevole—impiccare un uomo innocente o
mandare all’inferno l’Impero Britannico.” “Volete dire,” chiese Grayne, “che questo delitto infernale non
dev’essere punito?” Fisher lo guardò fermamente. “È già punito,” disse. Dopo un istante di pausa proseguì. “Avete ricostruito il delitto
con ammirevole abilità, vecchio mio, e quasi tutto ciò che diceste era vero.
Due uomini con due tazze di caffè entrarono davvero nella biblioteca e posarono davvero
le loro tazze sul leggio e andarono davvero insieme al pozzo, e uno
di loro era un assassino e aveva messo il veleno nella tazza dell’altro. Ma non
fu fatto mentre Boyle guardava lo scaffale girevole. Egli
lo guardò, però, cercando il libro di Budge col biglietto
dentro, ma immagino che Hastings l’avesse già spostato sugli scaffali
a muro. Era parte di quel truce gioco ch’egli lo trovasse
per primo. “Ora, come cerca un uomo in uno scaffale girevole? Non gli
gira generalmente tutt’intorno in un atteggiamento accovacciato, come una rana.
Gli dà semplicemente un tocco e lo fa ruotare.” Aggrottava la fronte fissando il pavimento mentre parlava, e c’era una luce
sotto le sue pesanti palpebre che non vi si vedeva spesso. Il misticismo
sepolto in fondo sotto tutto il cinismo della sua esperienza era
sveglio e si muoveva negli abissi. La sua voce prendeva svolte e
inflessioni inattese, quasi come se parlassero due uomini. “Ecco cosa fece Boyle; toccò appena la cosa, ed essa girò
con la stessa facilità con cui gira il mondo. Sì, proprio come il
mondo gira, perché la mano che la fece girare non era la sua. Dio, che
fa girare la ruota di tutte le stelle, toccò quella ruota e la portò a
compiere il giro, affinché la Sua tremenda giustizia potesse tornare.” “Comincio,” disse Grayne, lentamente, “ad avere una vaga e
orribile idea di ciò che intendete.” “È semplicissimo,” disse Fisher, “quando Boyle si raddrizzò
dalla sua posa curva, era accaduto qualcosa che egli non aveva
notato, che il suo nemico non aveva notato, che nessuno aveva notato.
Le due tazze di caffè s’erano esattamente scambiate di posto.” Il volto roccioso di Grayne parve aver subìto uno shock in
silenzio; non una sua linea s’alterò, ma la sua voce quando venne era
inaspettatamente indebolita. “Capisco ciò che intendete,” disse, “e, come dite, meno se ne parla
meglio è. Non fu l’amante a cercar di sbarazzarsi del
marito, ma—l’altra cosa. E un racconto simile su un uomo
come quello ci rovinerebbe qui. Ne avevate qualche sospetto al
start?” “The bottomless well, as I told you,” answered Fisher, quietly;
“that was what stumped me from the start. Not because it had
anything to do with it, because it had nothing to do with it.” He paused a moment, as if choosing an approach, and then went on:
“When a man knows his enemy will be dead in ten minutes, and takes
him to the edge of an unfathomable pit, he means to throw his body
into it. What else should he do? A born fool would have the sense to
do it, and Boyle is not a born fool. Well, why did not Boyle do it?
The more I thought of it the more I suspected there was some mistake
in the murder, so to speak. Somebody had taken somebody there to
throw him in, and yet he was not thrown in. I had already an ugly,
unformed idea of some substitution or reversal of parts; then I
stooped to turn the bookstand myself, by accident, and I instantly
knew everything, for I saw the two cups revolve once more, like
moons in the sky.” After a pause, Cuthbert Grayne said, “And what are we to say to the
newspapers?” “My friend, Harold March, is coming along from Cairo to-day,” said
Fisher. “He is a very brilliant and successful journalist. But for
all that he’s a thoroughly honorable man, so you must not tell him
the truth.” Half an hour later Fisher was again walking to and fro in front of
the clubhouse, with Captain Boyle, the latter by this time with a
very buffeted and bewildered air; perhaps a sadder and a wiser man. “What about me, then?” he was saying. “Am I cleared? Am I not going
to be cleared?” “I believe and hope,” answered Fisher, “that you are not going to be
suspected. But you are certainly not going to be cleared. There must
be no suspicion against him, and therefore no suspicion against you.
Any suspicion against him, let alone such a story against him, would
knock us endways from Malta to Mandalay. He was a hero as well as a
holy terror among the Moslems. Indeed, you might almost call him a
Moslem hero in the English service. Of course he got on with them
partly because of his own little dose of Eastern blood; he got it
from his mother, the dancer from Damascus; everybody knows that.” “Oh,” repeated Boyle, mechanically, staring at him with round eyes,
“everybody knows that.” “I dare say there was a touch of it in his jealousy and ferocious
vengeance,” went on Fisher. “But, for all that, the crime would ruin
us among the Arabs, all the more because it was something like a
crime against hospitality. It’s been hateful for you and it’s pretty
horrid for me. But there are some things that damned well can’t be
done, and while I’m alive that’s one of them.” “What do you mean?” asked Boyle, glancing at him curiously. “Why
should you, of all people, be so passionate about it?” Horne Fisher looked at the young man with a baffling expression. “I suppose,” he said, “it’s because I’m a Little Englander.” “I can never make out what you mean by that sort of thing,” answered
Boyle, doubtfully. “Do you think England is so little as all that?” said Fisher, with a
warmth in his cold voice, “that it can’t hold a man across a few
thousand miles. You lectured me with a lot of ideal patriotism, my
young friend; but it’s practical patriotism now for you and me, and
with no lies to help it. You talked as if everything always went
right with us all over the world, in a triumphant crescendo
culminating in Hastings. I tell you everything has gone wrong with
us here, except Hastings. He was the one name we had left to conjure
with, and that mustn’t go as well, no, by God! It’s bad enough that
a gang of infernal Jews should plant us here, where there’s no
earthly English interest to serve, and all hell beating up against
us, simply because Nosey Zimmern has lent money to half the Cabinet.
It’s bad enough that an old pawnbroker from Bagdad should make us
fight his battles; we can’t fight with our right hand cut off. Our
one score was Hastings and his victory, which was really somebody
else’s victory. Tom Travers has to suffer, and so have you.” Then, after a moment’s silence, he pointed toward the bottomless
well and said, in a quieter tone: “I told you that I didn’t believe in the philosophy of the Tower of
Aladdin. I don’t believe in the Empire growing until it reaches the
sky; I don’t believe in the Union Jack going up and up eternally
like the Tower. But if you think I am going to let the Union Jack go
down and down eternally, like the bottomless well, down into the
blackness of the bottomless pit, down in defeat and derision, amid
the jeers of the very Jews who have sucked us dry—no I won’t, and
that’s flat; not if the Chancellor were blackmailed by twenty
millionaires with their gutter rags, not if the Prime Minister
married twenty Yankee Jewesses, not if Woodville and Carstairs had
shares in twenty swindling mines. If the thing is really tottering,
God help it, it mustn’t be we who tip it over.” Boyle was regarding him with a bewilderment that was almost fear,
and had even a touch of distaste. “Somehow,” he said, “there seems to be something rather horrid about
the things you know.” “There is,” replied Horne Fisher. “I am not at all pleased with my
small stock of knowledge and reflection. But as it is partly
responsible for your not being hanged, I don’t know that you need
complain of it.” And, as if a little ashamed of his first boast, he turned and
strolled away toward the bottomless well.
l’inizio?» «Il pozzo senza fondo, come vi ho detto,» rispose Fisher, con calma;
«fu ciò che mi sconcertò fin dal principio. Non perché avesse
qualcosa a che farvi, ma perché non aveva nulla a che farvi.» S’interruppe un istante, come scegliendo un approccio, e poi proseguì:
«Quando un uomo sa che il suo nemico sarà morto entro dieci minuti, e lo conduce
sull’orlo di un abisso insondabile, intende gettarne il corpo
là dentro. Che altro dovrebbe fare? Persino uno sciocco nato avrebbe il buon senso di
farlo, e Boyle non è uno sciocco nato. Ebbene, perché Boyle non lo fece?
Più ci pensavo, più sospettavo che vi fosse un qualche errore
nell’omicidio, per così dire. Qualcuno aveva condotto qualcuno laggiù per
gettarvelo dentro, eppure non vi fu gettato. Avevo già un’idea brutta e
informe di una qualche sostituzione o inversione delle parti; poi
mi chinai per girare io stesso il leggìo, per caso, e all’istante
seppi ogni cosa, poiché vidi le due tazze ruotare un’altra volta, come
lune nel cielo.» Dopo una pausa, Cuthbert Grayne disse: «E che cosa diremo ai
giornali?» «Il mio amico, Harold March, arriva oggi dal Cairo,» disse
Fisher. «È un giornalista brillantissimo e di successo. Ma con
tutto ciò è un uomo del tutto onorevole, sicché non dovete dirgli
la verità.» Mezz’ora dopo Fisher passeggiava di nuovo avanti e indietro davanti
alla sede del circolo, col capitano Boyle, quest’ultimo ormai da qualche tempo con un’aria
molto malmenata e smarrita; forse un uomo più triste e più saggio. «E io, allora?» andava dicendo. «Sono scagionato? Non verrò
scagionato?» «Credo e spero,» rispose Fisher, «che non sarete
sospettato. Ma di certo non sarete scagionato. Non deve
esservi alcun sospetto contro di lui, e dunque alcun sospetto contro di voi.
Qualsiasi sospetto contro di lui, e tanto meno una storia simile a suo carico,
ci butterebbe a gambe all’aria da Malta a Mandalay. Era un eroe non meno che un
flagello sacro fra i musulmani. Anzi, lo si potrebbe quasi chiamare un
eroe musulmano al servizio dell’Inghilterra. Naturalmente andava d’accordo con loro
in parte per via della sua piccola dose di sangue orientale; lo aveva preso
da sua madre, la danzatrice di Damasco; lo sanno tutti.» «Oh,» ripeté Boyle, meccanicamente, fissandolo con occhi tondi,
«lo sanno tutti.» «Oserei dire che ve n’era una punta nella sua gelosia e nella feroce
vendetta,» proseguì Fisher. «Ma, ciò nondimeno, il delitto ci rovinerebbe
presso gli arabi, tanto più perché era qualcosa come un
delitto contro l’ospitalità. È stato odioso per voi ed è piuttosto
orribile per me. Ma vi sono cose che dannatamente non si possono
fare, e finché sono vivo quella è una di esse.» «Che intendete dire?» chiese Boyle, guardandolo incuriosito. «Perché
proprio voi dovreste appassionarvi tanto alla cosa?» Horne Fisher guardò il giovane con un’espressione sconcertante. «Suppongo,» disse, «che sia perché sono un Little Englander.» «Non riesco mai a capire che cosa intendiate con simili discorsi,» rispose
Boyle, dubbioso. «Credete che l’Inghilterra sia così piccola come tutto ciò?» disse Fisher, con
un calore nella voce fredda, «che non possa tenere un uomo attraverso qualche
migliaio di miglia? Mi avete tenuto una lezione di tanto patriottismo ideale, mio
giovane amico; ma ora per voi e per me è patriottismo pratico, e
senza menzogne che lo soccorrano. Parlavate come se tutto andasse sempre
bene per noi in tutto il mondo, in un trionfante crescendo
culminante in Hastings. Vi dico che tutto è andato storto per
noi qui, tranne Hastings. Era l’unico nome che ci restasse da evocare
come talismano, e quello non deve andarsene anche esso, no, per Dio! È già abbastanza grave che
una banda di ebrei infernali ci pianti qui, dove non v’è
alcun terreno interesse inglese da servire, e tutto l’inferno che si scaglia
contro di noi, semplicemente perché Nosey Zimmern ha prestato denaro a mezzo Gabinetto.
È già abbastanza grave che un vecchio usuraio di Bagdad ci costringa a
combattere le sue battaglie; non possiamo combattere con la mano destra mozzata. Il nostro
unico successo era Hastings e la sua vittoria, che in realtà era la vittoria di qualcun
altro. Tom Travers deve soffrirne, e così anche voi.» Poi, dopo un momento di silenzio, indicò in direzione di quel
pozzo senza fondo e disse, con tono più sommesso: «Vi ho detto che non credevo nella filosofia della Torre di
Aladino. Non credo che l’Impero cresca fino a toccare il
cielo; non credo che l’Union Jack salga sempre più in alto in eterno
come la Torre. Ma se credete che io lascerò l’Union Jack scendere
sempre più in basso in eterno, come il pozzo senza fondo, giù nella
nerezza dell’abisso senza fondo, giù nella sconfitta e nella derisione, fra
gli scherni proprio di quegli ebrei che ci hanno prosciugati—no, non lo farò, e
e non se ne parli più; nemmeno se il Cancelliere fosse ricattato da venti
milionari coi loro giornalacci da rigagnolo, nemmeno se il Primo Ministro
sposasse venti ebree yankee, nemmeno se Woodville e Carstairs avessero
azioni in venti miniere truffaldine. Se la cosa vacilla davvero,
che Dio l’aiuti, non dobbiamo essere noi a rovesciarla.» Boyle lo osservava con uno smarrimento che era quasi paura,
e aveva persino una punta di ripugnanza. «In qualche modo,» disse, «pare esservi qualcosa di piuttosto orribile
nelle cose che sapete.» «È vero,» replicò Horne Fisher. «Non sono affatto contento del mio
modesto bagaglio di sapere e di riflessione. Ma poiché in parte è
responsabile del fatto che non veniate impiccato, non so se abbiate motivo di
lagnarvene.» E, come un poco vergognoso della sua prima vanteria, si voltò e
s’allontanò a passo lento verso il pozzo senza fondo.
V - The Fad of the Fisherman * A thing can sometimes be too extraordinary to be remembered. If it
is clean out of the course of things, and has apparently no causes
and no consequences, subsequent events do not recall it, and it
remains only a subconscious thing, to be stirred by some accident
long after. It drifts apart like a forgotten dream; and it was in
the hour of many dreams, at daybreak and very soon after the end of
dark, that such a strange sight was given to a man sculling a boat
down a river in the West country. The man was awake; indeed, he
considered himself rather wide awake, being the political
journalist, Harold March, on his way to interview various political
celebrities in their country seats. But the thing he saw was so
inconsequent that it might have been imaginary. It simply slipped
past his mind and was lost in later and utterly different events;
nor did he even recover the memory till he had long afterward
discovered the meaning. Pale mists of morning lay on the fields and the rushes along one
margin of the river; along the other side ran a wall of tawny brick
almost overhanging the water. He had shipped his oars and was
drifting for a moment with the stream, when he turned his head and
saw that the monotony of the long brick wall was broken by a bridge;
rather an elegant eighteenth-century sort of bridge with little
columns of white stone turning gray. There had been floods and the
river still stood very high, with dwarfish trees waist deep in it,
and rather a narrow arc of white dawn gleamed under the curve of the
bridge. As his own boat went under the dark archway he saw another boat
coming toward him, rowed by a man as solitary as himself. His
posture prevented much being seen of him, but as he neared the
bridge he stood up in the boat and turned round. He was already so
close to the dark entry, however, that his whole figure was black
against the morning light, and March could see nothing of his face
except the end of two long whiskers or mustaches that gave something
sinister to the silhouette, like horns in the wrong place. Even
these details March would never have noticed but for what happened
in the same instant. As the man came under the low bridge he made a
leap at it and hung, with his legs dangling, letting the boat float
away from under him. March had a momentary vision of two black
kicking legs; then of one black kicking leg; and then of nothing
except the eddying stream and the long perspective of the wall. But
whenever he thought of it again, long afterward, when he understood
the story in which it figured, it was always fixed in that one
fantastic shape—as if those wild legs were a grotesque graven
ornament of the bridge itself, in the manner of a gargoyle. At the
moment he merely passed, staring, down the stream. He could see no
flying figure on the bridge, so it must have already fled; but he
was half conscious of some faint significance in the fact that among
the trees round the bridgehead opposite the wall he saw a lamp-post;
and, beside the lamp-post, the broad blue back of an unconscious
policeman. Even before reaching the shrine of his political pilgrimage he had
many other things to think of besides the odd incident of the
bridge; for the management of a boat by a solitary man was not
always easy even on such a solitary stream. And indeed it was only
by an unforeseen accident that he was solitary. The boat had been
purchased and the whole expedition planned in conjunction with a
friend, who had at the last moment been forced to alter all his
arrangements. Harold March was to have traveled with his friend
Horne Fisher on that inland voyage to Willowood Place, where the
Prime Minister was a guest at the moment. More and more people were
hearing of Harold March, for his striking political articles were
opening to him the doors of larger and larger salons; but he had
never met the Prime Minister yet. Scarcely anybody among the general
public had ever heard of Horne Fisher; but he had known the Prime
Minister all his life. For these reasons, had the two taken the
projected journey together, March might have been slightly disposed
to hasten it and Fisher vaguely content to lengthen it out. For
Fisher was one of those people who are born knowing the Prime
Minister. The knowledge seemed to have no very exhilarant effect,
and in his case bore some resemblance to being born tired. But he
was distinctly annoyed to receive, just as he was doing a little
light packing of fishing tackle and cigars for the journey, a
telegram from Willowood asking him to come down at once by train, as
the Prime Minister had to leave that night. Fisher knew that his
friend the journalist could not possibly start till the next day,
and he liked his friend the journalist, and had looked forward to a
few days on the river. He did not particularly like or dislike the
Prime Minister, but he intensely disliked the alternative of a few
hours in the train. Nevertheless, he accepted Prime Ministers as he
accepted railway trains—as part of a system which he, at least, was
not the revolutionist sent on earth to destroy. So he telephoned to
March, asking him, with many apologetic curses and faint damns, to
take the boat down the river as arranged, that they might meet at
Willowood by the time settled; then he went outside and hailed a
taxicab to take him to the railway station. There he paused at the
bookstall to add to his light luggage a number of cheap murder
stories, which he read with great pleasure, and without any
premonition that he was about to walk into as strange a story in
real life. A little before sunset he arrived, with his light suitcase in hand,
before the gate of the long riverside gardens of Willowood Place,
one of the smaller seats of Sir Isaac Hook, the master of much
V - La Fissazione del Pescatore * Una cosa può talvolta essere troppo straordinaria per esser ricordata. Se è
del tutto fuori dal corso delle cose, e apparentemente non ha cause
né conseguenze, gli eventi successivi non la richiamano, ed essa
resta soltanto una cosa subconscia, da ridestare per qualche caso
molto tempo dopo. Si disperde come un sogno dimenticato; e fu nell’
ora dei molti sogni, all’alba e ben poco dopo la fine del
buio, che una vista tanto strana fu concessa a un uomo che spingeva una barca a remi
giù per un fiume nel West country. L’uomo era sveglio; anzi, si
considerava piuttosto perfettamente sveglio, essendo il giornalista
politico, Harold March, in viaggio per intervistare varie celebrità
politiche nelle loro dimore di campagna. Ma la cosa che vide era così
inconseguente che avrebbe potuto essere immaginaria. Semplicemente scivolò
via dalla sua mente e si perse in eventi successivi e del tutto diversi;
né egli recuperò il ricordo finché non ebbe, molto tempo dopo,
scoperto il significato. Pallide brume del mattino giacevano sui campi e sui giunchi lungo una
sponda del fiume; lungo l’altro lato correva un muro di mattoni fulvi
quasi a strapiombo sull’acqua. Aveva ritirato i remi e stava
andando alla deriva per un istante con la corrente, quando voltò la testa e
vide che la monotonia del lungo muro di mattoni era rotta da un ponte;
un ponte d’un genere piuttosto elegante, settecentesco, con piccole
colonne di pietra bianca che ingrigiva. C’erano state piene e il
fiume era ancora assai alto, con alberi nani immersi fino alla cintola,
e un arco piuttosto stretto di bianca alba luccicava sotto la curva del
ponte. Mentre la sua barca passava sotto l’oscura arcata vide un’altra barca
venirgli incontro, remata da un uomo solitario quanto lui. La sua
postura impediva di vederne molto, ma mentre s’avvicinava al
ponte si alzò in piedi nella barca e si voltò. Era già così
vicino all’oscura entrata, tuttavia, che la sua intera figura era nera
contro la luce del mattino, e March non poteva vedere nulla del suo volto
tranne l’estremità di due lunghe basette o baffi che davano qualcosa di
sinistro alla sagoma, come corna nel posto sbagliato. Persino
questi dettagli March non li avrebbe mai notati se non fosse per ciò che accadde
nello stesso istante. Mentre l’uomo passava sotto il basso ponte fece un
balzo verso di esso e vi rimase appeso, con le gambe penzoloni, lasciando che la barca galleggiasse
via da sotto di lui. March ebbe una momentanea visione di due nere
gambe scalcianti; poi d’una sola nera gamba scalciante; e poi di nulla
tranne la corrente vorticosa e la lunga prospettiva del muro. Ma
ogni volta che vi ripensava, molto tempo dopo, quando comprese
la storia in cui figurava, era sempre fissata in quell’unica
fantastica forma—come se quelle gambe selvagge fossero un grottesco ornamento scolpito
del ponte stesso, alla maniera d’un gargoyle. Al
momento si limitò a passare, fissando, giù per la corrente. Non riusciva a vedere nessuna
figura in fuga sul ponte, sicché doveva esser già fuggita; ma
era vagamente cosciente di qualche fioco significato nel fatto che tra
gli alberi intorno alla testa del ponte di fronte al muro vide un lampione;
e, accanto al lampione, l’ampia schiena blu d’un inconsapevole
poliziotto. Ancor prima di raggiungere il santuario del suo pellegrinaggio politico aveva
molte altre cose a cui pensare oltre allo strano incidente del
ponte; giacché il governo d’una barca da parte d’un uomo solo non era
sempre facile nemmeno su una corrente così solitaria. E invero fu solo
per un caso imprevisto ch’egli era solo. La barca era stata
acquistata e l’intera spedizione progettata in concerto con un
amico, che all’ultimo momento era stato costretto a mutare tutte le sue
disposizioni. Harold March avrebbe dovuto viaggiare con l’amico
Horne Fisher in quel viaggio interno verso Willowood Place, dove il
Primo Ministro era ospite in quel momento. Sempre più gente
sentiva parlare di Harold March, perché i suoi notevoli articoli politici gli
aprivano le porte di saloni sempre più grandi; ma non aveva
ancora mai incontrato il Primo Ministro. Quasi nessuno tra il grande
pubblico aveva mai sentito parlare di Horne Fisher; ma egli aveva conosciuto il Primo
Ministro per tutta la vita. Per queste ragioni, se i due avessero compiuto il
progettato viaggio insieme, March sarebbe forse stato lievemente disposto
ad affrettarlo e Fisher vagamente contento di prolungarlo. Poiché
Fisher era una di quelle persone che nascono conoscendo il Primo
Ministro. Tale conoscenza pareva non avere alcun effetto molto esilarante,
e nel suo caso aveva una certa somiglianza con l’esser nati stanchi. Ma
fu decisamente seccato di ricevere, proprio mentre stava facendo un po’ di
leggeri bagagli d’attrezzatura da pesca e sigari per il viaggio, un
telegramma da Willowood che gli chiedeva di scendere subito in treno, poiché
il Primo Ministro doveva partire quella notte. Fisher sapeva che il suo
amico giornalista non poteva assolutamente partire prima del giorno seguente,
e gli era caro l’amico giornalista, e aveva pregustato
qualche giorno sul fiume. Non provava né simpatia né antipatia particolare per il
Primo Ministro, ma detestava intensamente l’alternativa di qualche
ora in treno. Nondimeno, accettava i Primi Ministri come
accettava i treni ferroviari—come parte d’un sistema che egli, almeno, non era
il rivoluzionario mandato sulla terra a distruggere. Così telefonò a
March, chiedendogli, con molte imprecazioni di scusa e fiacchi accidenti, di
portare la barca giù per il fiume come convenuto, affinché potessero incontrarsi a
Willowood entro l’ora stabilita; poi uscì e chiamò un
taxi che lo portasse alla stazione ferroviaria. Lì si fermò all’
edicola per aggiungere al suo leggero bagaglio un certo numero di romanzi gialli
da quattro soldi, che leggeva con gran piacere, e senza alcuna
premonizione d’esser sul punto d’imbattersi in una storia altrettanto strana nella
vita reale. Poco prima del tramonto giunse, con la sua leggera valigia in mano,
davanti al cancello dei lunghi giardini rivieraschi di Willowood Place,
una delle dimore minori di Sir Isaac Hook, il padrone di molta
shipping and many newspapers. He entered by the gate giving on the
road, at the opposite side to the river, but there was a mixed
quality in all that watery landscape which perpetually reminded a
traveler that the river was near. White gleams of water would shine
suddenly like swords or spears in the green thickets. And even in
the garden itself, divided into courts and curtained with hedges and
high garden trees, there hung everywhere in the air the music of
water. The first of the green courts which he entered appeared to be
a somewhat neglected croquet lawn, in which was a solitary young man
playing croquet against himself. Yet he was not an enthusiast for
the game, or even for the garden; and his sallow but well-featured
face looked rather sullen than otherwise. He was only one of those
young men who cannot support the burden of consciousness unless they
are doing something, and whose conceptions of doing something are
limited to a game of some kind. He was dark and well dressed in a
light holiday fashion, and Fisher recognized him at once as a young
man named James Bullen, called, for some unknown reason, Bunker. He
was the nephew of Sir Isaac; but, what was much more important at
the moment, he was also the private secretary of the Prime Minister. “Hullo, Bunker!” observed Horne Fisher. “You’re the sort of man I
wanted to see. Has your chief come down yet?” “He’s only staying for dinner,” replied Bullen, with his eye on the
yellow ball. “He’s got a great speech to-morrow at Birmingham and
he’s going straight through to-night. He’s motoring himself there;
driving the car, I mean. It’s the one thing he’s really proud of.” “You mean you’re staying here with your uncle, like a good boy?”
replied Fisher. “But what will the Chief do at Birmingham without
the epigrams whispered to him by his brilliant secretary?” “Don’t you start ragging me,” said the young man called Bunker.
“I’m only too glad not to go trailing after him. He doesn’t know a
thing about maps or money or hotels or anything, and I have to dance
about like a courier. As for my uncle, as I’m supposed to come into
the estate, it’s only decent to be here sometimes.” “Very proper,” replied the other. “Well, I shall see you later on,”
and, crossing the lawn, he passed out through a gap in the hedge. He was walking across the lawn toward the landing stage on the
river, and still felt all around him, under the dome of golden
evening, an Old World savor and reverberation in that riverhaunted
garden. The next square of turf which he crossed seemed at first
sight quite deserted, till he saw in the twilight of trees in one
corner of it a hammock and in the hammock a man, reading a newspaper
and swinging one leg over the edge of the net. Him also he hailed by name, and the man slipped to the ground and
strolled forward. It seemed fated that he should feel something of
the past in the accidents of that place, for the figure might well
have been an early-Victorian ghost revisiting the ghosts of the
croquet hoops and mallets. It was the figure of an elderly man with
long whiskers that looked almost fantastic, and a quaint and careful
cut of collar and cravat. Having been a fashionable dandy forty
years ago, he had managed to preserve the dandyism while ignoring
the fashions. A white top-hat lay beside the Morning Post in the
hammock behind him. This was the Duke of Westmoreland, the relic of
a family really some centuries old; and the antiquity was not
heraldry but history. Nobody knew better than Fisher how rare such
noblemen are in fact, and how numerous in fiction. But whether the
duke owed the general respect he enjoyed to the genuineness of his
pedigree or to the fact that he owned a vast amount of very valuable
property was a point about which Mr. Fisher’s opinion might have
been more interesting to discover. “You were looking so comfortable,” said Fisher, “that I thought you
must be one of the servants. I’m looking for somebody to take this
bag of mine; I haven’t brought a man down, as I came away in a
hurry.” “Nor have I, for that matter,” replied the duke, with some pride. “I
never do. If there’s one animal alive I loathe it’s a valet. I
learned to dress myself at an early age and was supposed to do it
decently. I may be in my second childhood, but I’ve not go so far as
being dressed like a child.” “The Prime Minister hasn’t brought a valet; he’s brought a secretary
instead,” observed Fisher. “Devilish inferior job. Didn’t I hear
that Harker was down here?” “He’s over there on the landing stage,” replied the duke,
indifferently, and resumed the study of the Morning Post. Fisher made his way beyond the last green wall of the garden on to a
sort of towing path looking on the river and a wooden island
opposite. There, indeed, he saw a lean, dark figure with a stoop
almost like that of a vulture, a posture well known in the law
courts as that of Sir John Harker, the Attorney-General. His face
was lined with headwork, for alone among the three idlers in the
garden he was a man who had made his own way; and round his bald
brow and hollow temples clung dull red hair, quite flat, like plates
of copper. “I haven’t seen my host yet,” said Horne Fisher, in a slightly more
serious tone than he had used to the others, “but I suppose I shall
meet him at dinner.” “You can see him now; but you can’t meet him,” answered Harker. He nodded his head toward one end of the island opposite, and,
looking steadily in the same direction, the other guest could see
the dome of a bald head and the top of a fishing rod, both equally
motionless, rising out of the tall undergrowth against the
background of the stream beyond. The fisherman seemed to be seated
spedizioni e molti giornali. Entrò dal cancello che dava sulla
strada, sul lato opposto al fiume, ma c’era una qualità mista
in tutto quel paesaggio acquoso che perpetuamente ricordava a un
viandante che il fiume era vicino. Bianchi bagliori d’acqua balenavano
d’improvviso come spade o lance nei verdi boschetti. E perfino nel
giardino stesso, diviso in corti e velato di siepi e d’alti
alberi da giardino, ovunque aleggiava nell’aria la musica dell’
acqua. La prima delle corti verdi in cui entrò sembrava essere
un prato da croquet alquanto trascurato, nel quale un solitario giovane
giocava a croquet contro sé stesso. Eppure non era un entusiasta del
gioco, né tanto meno del giardino; e il suo volto olivastro ma dai bei
lineamenti pareva più imbronciato che altro. Era soltanto uno di quei
giovani che non sopportano il peso della coscienza se non stanno
facendo qualcosa, e le cui idee del fare qualcosa si
limitano a un gioco di qualche sorta. Era bruno e ben vestito in
leggera foggia vacanziera, e Fisher lo riconobbe subito come un giovane
di nome James Bullen, chiamato, per qualche ignota ragione, Bunker. Era
il nipote di Sir Isaac; ma, cosa assai più importante in quel
momento, era anche il segretario privato del Primo Ministro. «Ehilà, Bunker!» osservò Horne Fisher. «Siete l’uomo che
volevo vedere. È già arrivato il vostro capo?» «Si ferma solo per cena,» rispose Bullen, con l’occhio sulla
palla gialla. «Domani ha un gran discorso a Birmingham e
ci va dritto questa notte stessa. Va in automobile da sé;
guidando la macchina, intendo. È l’unica cosa di cui va davvero fiero.» «Vuoi dire che tu resti qui con tuo zio, da bravo ragazzo?»
replicò Fisher. «Ma che farà il Capo a Birmingham senza
gli epigrammi sussurratigli dal suo brillante segretario?» «Non cominciare a prendermi in giro,» disse il giovane chiamato Bunker.
«Sono fin troppo contento di non trascinarmi dietro a lui. Non sa una
cosa di mappe o denaro o alberghi o alcunché, e mi tocca danzare
attorno come un corriere. Quanto a mio zio, poiché dovrei ereditare
la tenuta, è solo decoroso essere qui ogni tanto.» «Molto giusto,» replicò l’altro. «Ebbene, ci vedremo più tardi,»
e, attraversato il prato, uscì per un varco nella siepe. Camminava attraverso il prato verso l’imbarcadero sul
fiume, e sentiva ancora tutt’attorno a sé, sotto la cupola della dorata
sera, un sapore e un riverbero di Vecchio Mondo in quel
giardino battuto dal fiume. Il quadrato d’erba successivo che attraversò parve dapprima
a prima vista del tutto deserto, finché non vide nella penombra degli alberi in un
suo angolo un’amaca e nell’amaca un uomo, che leggeva un giornale
e dondolava una gamba oltre il bordo della rete. Anche lui salutò per nome, e l’uomo scivolò a terra e
avanzò a passeggio. Pareva destino che avvertisse qualcosa del
passato negli accidenti di quel luogo, poiché la figura avrebbe ben
potuto essere un fantasma primo-vittoriano che rivisitava gli spettri dei
cerchi e dei mazzuoli da croquet. Era la figura d’un uomo anziano con
lunghe fedine dall’aria quasi fantastica, e un curioso e accurato
taglio di colletto e cravatta. Essendo stato un dandy alla moda quarant’
anni or sono, era riuscito a conservare il dandismo pur ignorando
le mode. Un cilindro bianco giaceva accanto al Morning Post nell’
amaca dietro di lui. Era il Duca di Westmoreland, la reliquia d’
una famiglia davvero vecchia di secoli; e l’antichità non era
araldica ma storia. Nessuno sapeva meglio di Fisher quanto rari
siano tali nobili nella realtà, e quanto numerosi nella finzione. Ma se il
duca dovesse il generale rispetto di cui godeva alla genuinità del suo
lignaggio o al fatto di possedere una vasta quantità di beni assai
preziosi era un punto sul quale l’opinione del signor Fisher sarebbe
stata più interessante da scoprire. «Sembravate così comodo,» disse Fisher, «che vi ho creduto
uno dei domestici. Cerco qualcuno che mi porti questa
mia borsa; non ho portato un cameriere, essendo partito in
fretta.» «Neppure io, del resto,» replicò il duca, con un certo orgoglio. «Non
lo faccio mai. Se c’è un animale vivente che detesto è il cameriere. Ho
imparato a vestirmi da solo in giovane età e si diceva lo facessi
decorosamente. Sarò pure nella mia seconda infanzia, ma non al punto d’
esser vestito come un bambino.» «Il Primo Ministro non ha portato un cameriere; ha portato un segretario
invece,» osservò Fisher. «Un incarico diabolicamente inferiore. Non ho sentito
che Harker fosse qui?» «È laggiù sull’imbarcadero,» replicò il duca,
con indifferenza, e riprese lo studio del Morning Post. Fisher si spinse oltre l’ultima verde parete del giardino su una
sorta di alzaia che guardava sul fiume e su un’isola boscosa
di fronte. Là, infatti, vide una figura magra e scura, curva
quasi come un avvoltoio, una postura ben nota nelle aule
di giustizia come quella di Sir John Harker, il Procuratore Generale. Il suo volto
era segnato dal lavoro di testa, poiché solo fra i tre oziosi del
giardino era un uomo che s’era fatto da sé; e attorno alla sua calva
fronte e alle tempie incavate aderivano opachi capelli rossi, piatti, come lastre
di rame. «Non ho ancora visto il mio ospite,» disse Horne Fisher, in tono un poco più
serio di quello usato con gli altri, «ma suppongo che lo
incontrerò a cena.» «Potete vederlo ora; ma non potete incontrarlo,» rispose Harker. Accennò col capo verso un’estremità dell’isola di fronte, e,
guardando fisso nella stessa direzione, l’altro ospite poté scorgere
la cupola d’un capo calvo e la punta d’una canna da pesca, entrambe egualmente
immobili, che si levavano dall’alta sterpaglia contro lo
sfondo del ruscello al di là. Il pescatore pareva star seduto
against the stump of a tree and facing toward the other bank, so
that his face could not be seen, but the shape of his head was
unmistakable. “He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s fishing,” continued
Harker. “It’s a sort of fad of his to eat nothing but fish, and he’s
very proud of catching his own. Of course he’s all for simplicity,
like so many of these millionaires. He likes to come in saying he’s
worked for his daily bread like a laborer.” “Does he explain how he blows all the glass and stuffs all the
upholstery,” asked Fisher, “and makes all the silver forks, and
grows all the grapes and peaches, and designs all the patterns on
the carpets? I’ve always heard he was a busy man.” “I don’t think he mentioned it,” answered the lawyer. “What is the
meaning of this social satire?” “Well, I am a trifle tired,” said Fisher, “of the Simple Life and
the Strenuous Life as lived by our little set. We’re all really
dependent in nearly everything, and we all make a fuss about being
independent in something. The Prime Minister prides himself on doing
without a chauffeur, but he can’t do without a factotum and
Jack-of-all-trades; and poor old Bunker has to play the part of a
universal genius, which God knows he was never meant for. The duke
prides himself on doing without a valet, but, for all that, he must
give a lot of people an infernal lot of trouble to collect such
extraordinary old clothes as he wears. He must have them looked up
in the British Museum or excavated out of the tombs. That white hat
alone must require a sort of expedition fitted out to find it, like
the North Pole. And here we have old Hook pretending to produce his
own fish when he couldn’t produce his own fish knives or fish forks
to eat it with. He may be simple about simple things like food, but
you bet he’s luxurious about luxurious things, especially little
things. I don’t include you; you’ve worked too hard to enjoy playing
at work.” “I sometimes think,” said Harker, “that you conceal a horrid secret
of being useful sometimes. Haven’t you come down here to see Number
One before he goes on to Birmingham?” Horne Fisher answered, in a lower voice: “Yes; and I hope to be
lucky enough to catch him before dinner. He’s got to see Sir Isaac
about something just afterward.” “Hullo!” exclaimed Harker. “Sir Isaac’s finished his fishing. I
know he prides himself on getting up at sunrise and going in at
sunset.” The old man on the island had indeed risen to his feet, facing round
and showing a bush of gray beard with rather small, sunken features,
but fierce eyebrows and keen, choleric eyes. Carefully carrying his
fishing tackle, he was already making his way back to the mainland
across a bridge of flat stepping-stones a little way down the
shallow stream; then he veered round, coming toward his guests and
civilly saluting them. There were several fish in his basket and he
was in a good temper. “Yes,” he said, acknowledging Fisher’s polite expression of
surprise, “I get up before anybody else in the house, I think. The
early bird catches the worm.” “Unfortunately,” said Harker, “it is the early fish that catches the
worm.” “But the early man catches the fish,” replied the old man, gruffly. “But from what I hear, Sir Isaac, you are the late man, too,”
interposed Fisher. “You must do with very little sleep.” “I never had much time for sleeping,” answered Hook, “and I shall
have to be the late man to-night, anyhow. The Prime Minister wants
to have a talk, he tells me, and, all things considered, I think
we’d better be dressing for dinner.” Dinner passed off that evening without a word of politics and little
enough but ceremonial trifles. The Prime Minister, Lord Merivale,
who was a long, slim man with curly gray hair, was gravely
complimentary to his host about his success as a fisherman and the
skill and patience he displayed; the conversation flowed like the
shallow stream through the stepping-stones. “It wants patience to wait for them, no doubt,” said Sir Isaac, “and
skill to play them, but I’m generally pretty lucky at it.” “Does a big fish ever break the line and get away?” inquired the
politician, with respectful interest. “Not the sort of line I use,” answered Hook, with satisfaction. “I
rather specialize in tackle, as a matter of fact. If he were strong
enough to do that, he’d be strong enough to pull me into the river.” “A great loss to the community,” said the Prime Minister, bowing. Fisher had listened to all these futilities with inward impatience,
waiting for his own opportunity, and when the host rose he sprang to
his feet with an alertness he rarely showed. He managed to catch
Lord Merivale before Sir Isaac bore him off for the final interview.
He had only a few words to say, but he wanted to get them said. He said, in a low voice as he opened the door for the Premier, “I
have seen Montmirail; he says that unless we protest immediately on
behalf of Denmark, Sweden will certainly seize the ports.” Lord Merivale nodded. “I’m just going to hear what Hook has to say
about it,” he said. “I imagine,” said Fisher, with a faint smile, “that there is very
little doubt what he will say about it.” Merivale did not answer, but lounged gracefully toward the library,
whither his host had already preceded him. The rest drifted toward
the billiard room, Fisher merely remarking to the lawyer: “They
won’t be long. We know they’re practically in agreement.” “Hook entirely supports the Prime Minister,” assented Harker. “Or the Prime Minister entirely supports Hook,” said Horne Fisher,
and began idly to knock the balls about on the billiard table. Horne Fisher came down next morning in a late and leisurely fashion,
as was his reprehensible habit; he had evidently no appetite for
catching worms. But the other guests seemed to have felt a similar
indifference, and they helped themselves to breakfast from the
contro il ceppo d’un albero e rivolto verso l’altra sponda, così
che il suo volto non si poteva vedere, ma la forma del suo capo era
inconfondibile. «Non ama esser disturbato mentre pesca,» proseguì
Harker. «È una specie di fissazione, la sua, di non mangiare che pesce, ed è
molto fiero di pescarselo da sé. Naturalmente è tutto per la semplicità,
come tanti di questi milionari. Ama rincasare dicendo d’aver
lavorato per il pane quotidiano come un bracciante.» «Spiega forse come soffia tutto il vetro e imbottisce tutta la
tappezzeria,» chiese Fisher, «e fabbrica tutte le forchette d’argento, e
coltiva tutta l’uva e le pesche, e disegna tutti i motivi dei
tappeti? Ho sempre sentito che era un uomo indaffarato.» «Non credo l’abbia menzionato,» rispose l’avvocato. «Qual è il
senso di questa satira sociale?» «Ebbene, sono un tantino stanco,» disse Fisher, «della Vita Semplice e
della Vita Indefessa come le vive la nostra cerchietta. Siamo tutti davvero
dipendenti in quasi tutto, e tutti facciamo un gran chiasso per essere
indipendenti in qualcosa. Il Primo Ministro si vanta di fare
a meno d’un autista, ma non può fare a meno d’un factotum e
tuttofare; e il povero vecchio Bunker deve recitare la parte d’un
genio universale, per cui Dio sa che non era affatto tagliato. Il duca
si vanta di fare a meno d’un cameriere, ma, con tutto ciò, deve
dare a un mucchio di gente un mucchio infernale di grattacapi per raccogliere
gli abiti così straordinariamente antiquati che porta. Deve farli cercare
al British Museum o disseppellire dalle tombe. Quel cilindro bianco
da solo deve richiedere una sorta di spedizione allestita per trovarlo, come
il Polo Nord. Ed ecco il vecchio Hook che finge di produrre il proprio
pesce quando non saprebbe produrre i propri coltelli o le proprie forchette da pesce
per mangiarlo. Sarà pur semplice nelle cose semplici come il cibo, ma
scommetti che è lussuoso nelle cose lussuose, specie nelle piccole
cose. Non includo voi; avete lavorato troppo duramente per godervi il giocare
al lavoro.» «Talvolta penso,» disse Harker, «che voi celiate l’orrido segreto
d’essere talvolta utile. Non siete venuto qui per vedere il Numero
Uno prima che prosegua per Birmingham?» Horne Fisher rispose, a voce più bassa: «Sì; e spero d’essere
tanto fortunato da coglierlo prima di cena. Deve vedere Sir Isaac
per qualcosa subito dopo.» «Ehilà!» esclamò Harker. «Sir Isaac ha finito di pescare. So
che si vanta d’alzarsi all’alba e di rientrare al
tramonto.» Il vecchio sull’isola s’era infatti levato in piedi, voltandosi
e mostrando un cespuglio di barba grigia con lineamenti piuttosto piccoli e incavati,
ma sopracciglia feroci e occhi acuti e collerici. Portando con cura la sua
attrezzatura da pesca, stava già rientrando verso la terraferma
attraverso un ponte di pietre piatte da guado poco più a valle del
basso ruscello; poi virò, venendo verso i suoi ospiti e
salutandoli cortesemente. C’erano parecchi pesci nel suo paniere ed era
di buon umore. «Sì,» disse, accogliendo la garbata espressione di sorpresa
di Fisher, «mi alzo prima di chiunque altro nella casa, credo. Il
mattiniero acchiappa il verme.» «Sfortunatamente,» disse Harker, «è il pesce mattiniero che acchiappa il
verme.» «Ma l’uomo mattiniero acchiappa il pesce,» replicò il vecchio, burberamente. «Ma da quel che sento, Sir Isaac, siete anche l’uomo nottambulo,»
s’interpose Fisher. «Dovete accontentarvi di ben poco sonno.» «Non ho mai avuto molto tempo per dormire,» rispose Hook, «e comunque
dovrò essere l’uomo nottambulo questa notte. Il Primo Ministro vuole
fare due chiacchiere, mi dice, e, tutto sommato, penso
faremmo meglio a vestirci per la cena.» La cena passò quella sera senza una parola di politica e poco più
che futilità cerimoniali. Il Primo Ministro, Lord Merivale,
che era un uomo lungo e snello dai ricci capelli grigi, si mostrò gravemente
complimentoso col suo ospite per il suo successo come pescatore e per la
abilità e la pazienza che dimostrava; la conversazione scorreva come il
basso ruscello fra le pietre da guado. «Occorre pazienza per aspettarli, senza dubbio,» disse Sir Isaac, «e
abilità per stancarli, ma di solito sono piuttosto fortunato.» «Un grosso pesce spezza mai la lenza e fugge via?» s’informò il
politico, con rispettoso interesse. «Non con il tipo di lenza che uso io,» rispose Hook, con soddisfazione. «In
verità mi specializzo piuttosto nell’attrezzatura. Se fosse forte
abbastanza da farlo, sarebbe forte abbastanza da tirarmi nel fiume.» «Una gran perdita per la comunità,» disse il Primo Ministro, inchinandosi. Fisher aveva ascoltato tutte queste futilità con interiore impazienza,
attendendo la propria occasione, e quando l’ospite si alzò balzò in
piedi con una prontezza che di rado mostrava. Riuscì a intercettare
Lord Merivale prima che Sir Isaac lo portasse via per il colloquio finale.
Aveva solo poche parole da dire, ma voleva dirle. Disse, a voce bassa mentre apriva la porta al Premier: «Ho
visto Montmirail; dice che se non protestiamo immediatamente in
favore della Danimarca, la Svezia s’impadronirà certamente dei porti.» Lord Merivale annuì. «Sto giusto per sentire cosa Hook abbia da dire
in proposito,» disse. «Immagino,» disse Fisher, con un debole sorriso, «che vi sia ben
poco dubbio su cosa dirà in proposito.» Merivale non rispose, ma s’incamminò con grazia verso la biblioteca,
dove il suo ospite l’aveva già preceduto. Gli altri si spostarono verso
la sala da biliardo, e Fisher si limitò a osservare all’avvocato: «Non
ci metteranno molto. Sappiamo che sono praticamente d’accordo.» «Hook appoggia interamente il Primo Ministro,» convenne Harker. «Oppure il Primo Ministro appoggia interamente Hook,» disse Horne Fisher,
e cominciò pigramente a spingere le palle sul tavolo da biliardo. Horne Fisher scese il mattino seguente in maniera tarda e agiata,
come da sua riprovevole abitudine; evidentemente non aveva appetito di
acchiappar vermi. Ma anche gli altri ospiti parevano aver provato una simile
indifferenza, e si servivano la colazione dal
sideboard at intervals during the hours verging upon lunch. So that
it was not many hours later when the first sensation of that strange
day came upon them. It came in the form of a young man with light
hair and a candid expression, who came sculling down the river and
disembarked at the landing stage. It was, in fact, no other than Mr.
Harold March, whose journey had begun far away up the river in the
earliest hours of that day. He arrived late in the afternoon, having
stopped for tea in a large riverside town, and he had a pink evening
paper sticking out of his pocket. He fell on the riverside garden
like a quiet and well-behaved thunderbolt, but he was a thunderbolt
without knowing it. The first exchange of salutations and introductions was commonplace
enough, and consisted, indeed, of the inevitable repetition of
excuses for the eccentric seclusion of the host. He had gone fishing
again, of course, and must not be disturbed till the appointed hour,
though he sat within a stone’s throw of where they stood. “You see it’s his only hobby,” observed Harker, apologetically,
“and, after all, it’s his own house; and he’s very hospitable in
other ways.” “I’m rather afraid,” said Fisher, in a lower voice, “that it’s
becoming more of a mania than a hobby. I know how it is when a man
of that age begins to collect things, if it’s only collecting those
rotten little river fish. You remember Talbot’s uncle with his
toothpicks, and poor old Buzzy and the waste of cigar ashes. Hook
has done a lot of big things in his time—the great deal in the
Swedish timber trade and the Peace Conference at Chicago—but I
doubt whether he cares now for any of those big things as he cares
for those little fish.” “Oh, come, come,” protested the Attorney-General. “You’ll make Mr.
March think he has come to call on a lunatic. Believe me, Hook only
does it for fun, like any other sport, only he’s of the kind that
takes his fun sadly. But I bet if there were big news about timber
or shipping, he would drop his fun and his fish all right.” “Well, I wonder,” said Horne Fisher, looking sleepily at the island
in the river. “By the way, is there any news of anything?” asked Harker of Harold
March. “I see you’ve got an evening paper; one of those enterprising
evening papers that come out in the morning.” “The beginning of Lord Merivale’s Birmingham speech,” replied March,
handing him the paper. “It’s only a paragraph, but it seems to me
rather good.” Harker took the paper, flapped and refolded it, and looked at the
“Stop Press” news. It was, as March had said, only a paragraph. But
it was a paragraph that had a peculiar effect on Sir John Harker.
His lowering brows lifted with a flicker and his eyes blinked, and
for a moment his leathery jaw was loosened. He looked in some odd
fashion like a very old man. Then, hardening his voice and handing
the paper to Fisher without a tremor, he simply said: “Well, here’s a chance for the bet. You’ve got your big news to
disturb the old man’s fishing.” Horne Fisher was looking at the paper, and over his more languid and
less expressive features a change also seemed to pass. Even that
little paragraph had two or three large headlines, and his eye
encountered, “Sensational Warning to Sweden,” and, “We Shall
Protest.” “What the devil—” he said, and his words softened first to a
whisper and then a whistle. “We must tell old Hook at once, or he’ll never forgive us,” said
Harker. “He’ll probably want to see Number One instantly, though it
may be too late now. I’m going across to him at once. I bet I’ll
make him forget his fish, anyhow.” And, turning his back, he made
his way hurriedly along the riverside to the causeway of flat
stones. March was staring at Fisher, in amazement at the effect his pink
paper had produced. “What does it all mean?” he cried. “I always supposed we should
protest in defense of the Danish ports, for their sakes and our own.
What is all this botheration about Sir Isaac and the rest of you? Do
you think it bad news?” “Bad news!” repeated Fisher, with a sort of soft emphasis beyond
expression. “Is it as bad as all that?” asked his friend, at last. “As bad as all that?” repeated Fisher. “Why of course it’s as good
as it can be. It’s great news. It’s glorious news! That’s where the
devil of it comes in, to knock us all silly. It’s admirable. It’s
inestimable. It is also quite incredible.” He gazed again at the gray and green colors of the island and the
river, and his rather dreary eye traveled slowly round to the hedges
and the lawns. “I felt this garden was a sort of dream,” he said, “and I suppose I
must be dreaming. But there is grass growing and water moving; and
something impossible has happened.” Even as he spoke the dark figure with a stoop like a vulture
appeared in the gap of the hedge just above him. “You have won your bet,” said Harker, in a harsh and almost croaking
voice. “The old fool cares for nothing but fishing. He cursed me and
told me he would talk no politics.” “I thought it might be so,” said Fisher, modestly. “What are you
going to do next?” “I shall use the old idiot’s telephone, anyhow,” replied the lawyer.
“I must find out exactly what has happened. I’ve got to speak for
the Government myself to-morrow.” And he hurried away toward the
house. In the silence that followed, a very bewildering silence so far as
March was concerned, they saw the quaint figure of the Duke of
Westmoreland, with his white hat and whiskers, approaching them
across the garden. Fisher instantly stepped toward him with the pink
paper in his hand, and, with a few words, pointed out the
apocalyptic paragraph. The duke, who had been walking slowly, stood
quite still, and for some seconds he looked like a tailor’s dummy
credenza a intervalli durante le ore prossime al pranzo. Cosicché
non molte ore dopo giunse su di loro la prima sensazione di quello strano
giorno. Giunse nella forma d’un giovane dai chiari
capelli e dall’espressione candida, che scese remando lungo il fiume e
sbarcò all’imbarcadero. Non era, in effetti, altri che il signor
Harold March, il cui viaggio era cominciato assai lontano risalendo il fiume nelle
primissime ore di quel giorno. Arrivò nel tardo pomeriggio, essendosi
fermato per il tè in una grande cittadina rivierasca, e aveva un rosa giornale
della sera che gli spuntava dalla tasca. Piombò sul giardino rivierasco
come un fulmine quieto e ben educato, ma era un fulmine
senza saperlo. Il primo scambio di saluti e presentazioni fu abbastanza
banale, e consistette, invero, nell’inevitabile ripetizione delle
scuse per l’eccentrica reclusione dell’ospite. Era andato di nuovo a
pescare, naturalmente, e non doveva esser disturbato fino all’ora stabilita,
benché sedesse a un tiro di sasso da dove essi stavano. «Vedete, è il suo unico passatempo,» osservò Harker, in tono di scusa,
«e, dopo tutto, è casa sua; ed è molto ospitale in
altri modi.» «Temo piuttosto,» disse Fisher, a voce più bassa, «che stia
diventando più una mania che un passatempo. So com’è quando un uomo
di quell’età comincia a collezionare cose, foss’anche solo collezionare quei
meschini pesciolini di fiume. Ricordate lo zio di Talbot con i suoi
stuzzicadenti, e il povero vecchio Buzzy e lo spreco di cenere di sigaro. Hook
ha fatto molte grandi cose ai suoi tempi—il grande affare nel
commercio svedese del legname e la Conferenza di Pace a Chicago—ma
dubito che gl’importi ora d’alcuna di quelle grandi cose come gl’importa
di quei pesciolini.» «Oh, suvvia, suvvia,» protestò il Procuratore Generale. «Farete credere al signor
March d’esser venuto a far visita a un pazzo. Credetemi, Hook lo fa
solo per svago, come ogni altro sport, solo che è del tipo che
prende il proprio svago con tristezza. Ma scommetto che se ci fossero grandi notizie sul legname
o sulle spedizioni, lascerebbe eccome il suo svago e i suoi pesci.» «Ebbene, chi sa,» disse Horne Fisher, guardando assonnato l’isola
nel fiume. «A proposito, ci sono notizie di qualcosa?» chiese Harker a Harold
March. «Vedo che avete un giornale della sera; uno di quegli intraprendenti
giornali della sera che escono al mattino.» «L’inizio del discorso di Birmingham di Lord Merivale,» rispose March,
porgendogli il giornale. «È solo un paragrafo, ma mi pare
piuttosto buono.» Harker prese il giornale, lo sventolò e ripiegò, e guardò le
notizie dell’«ultim’ora». Era, come March aveva detto, solo un paragrafo. Ma
era un paragrafo che ebbe un effetto singolare su Sir John Harker.
Le sue accigliate sopracciglia si sollevarono con un guizzo e i suoi occhi sbatterono, e
per un istante la sua coriacea mascella si rilassò. Aveva in qualche strano
modo l’aria d’un uomo molto vecchio. Poi, indurendo la voce e porgendo
il giornale a Fisher senza un tremito, disse semplicemente: «Ebbene, ecco un’occasione per la scommessa. Avete la vostra grande notizia per
disturbare la pesca del vecchio.» Horne Fisher stava guardando il giornale, e sui suoi lineamenti più languidi e
meno espressivi parve del pari passare un mutamento. Perfino quel
piccolo paragrafo aveva due o tre grossi titoli, e il suo occhio
s’imbatté in: «Sensazionale Avvertimento alla Svezia,» e in: «Noi
Protesteremo.» «Che diavolo—» disse, e le sue parole si stemperarono dapprima in un
sussurro e poi in un fischio. «Dobbiamo dirlo subito al vecchio Hook, o non ci perdonerà mai,» disse
Harker. «Vorrà probabilmente vedere il Numero Uno all’istante, anche se
ora potrebbe esser troppo tardi. Vado subito da lui. Scommetto che gli
farò dimenticare i suoi pesci, in ogni caso.» E, voltando le spalle, si
avviò in fretta lungo la riva verso il selciato di pietre
piatte. March fissava Fisher, stupito dell’effetto che il suo rosa
giornale aveva prodotto. «Che significa tutto ciò?» esclamò. «Ho sempre supposto che avremmo
protestato in difesa dei porti danesi, per il loro bene e per il nostro.
Che cos’è tutto questo scompiglio riguardo a Sir Isaac e a voialtri? La
ritenete una cattiva notizia?» «Cattiva notizia!» ripeté Fisher, con una sorta di sommessa enfasi oltre
ogni espressione. «È poi così cattiva?» chiese infine l’amico. «Così cattiva?» ripeté Fisher. «Ma certo, è buona quanto
più non si può. È una gran notizia. È una notizia gloriosa! È qui che
sta il diavolo della faccenda, a farci tutti sbalorditi. È ammirevole. È
inestimabile. Ed è anche del tutto incredibile.» Fissò di nuovo i colori grigi e verdi dell’isola e del
fiume, e il suo occhio piuttosto tetro girò lentamente verso le siepi
e i prati. «Sentivo che questo giardino era una sorta di sogno,» disse, «e suppongo di
star sognando. Ma c’è erba che cresce e acqua che scorre; e
qualcosa d’impossibile è accaduto.» Proprio mentre parlava la scura figura curva come un avvoltoio
apparve nel varco della siepe appena sopra di lui. «Avete vinto la scommessa,» disse Harker, con voce aspra e quasi
gracchiante. «Quel vecchio sciocco non si cura che di pescare. M’ha maledetto e
m’ha detto che non avrebbe parlato di politica.» «Pensavo potesse esser così,» disse Fisher, modestamente. «Che cosa
farete adesso?» «Userò il telefono del vecchio idiota, comunque,» replicò l’avvocato.
«Devo scoprire esattamente cosa sia accaduto. Domani devo parlare a nome del
Governo io stesso.» E s’affrettò via verso la
casa. Nel silenzio che seguì, un silenzio assai sconcertante per quanto
riguardava March, videro la curiosa figura del Duca di
Westmoreland, col suo cappello bianco e le fedine, avvicinarsi a loro
attraverso il giardino. Fisher gli mosse incontro all’istante col rosa
giornale in mano, e, con poche parole, gli indicò l’
apocalittico paragrafo. Il duca, che camminava lentamente, rimase
del tutto immobile, e per alcuni secondi parve un manichino da sarto
standing and staring outside some antiquated shop. Then March heard
his voice, and it was high and almost hysterical: “But he must see it; he must be made to understand. It cannot have
been put to him properly.” Then, with a certain recovery of fullness
and even pomposity in the voice, “I shall go and tell him myself.” Among the queer incidents of that afternoon, March always remembered
something almost comical about the clear picture of the old
gentleman in his wonderful white hat carefully stepping from stone
to stone across the river, like a figure crossing the traffic in
Piccadilly. Then he disappeared behind the trees of the island, and
March and Fisher turned to meet the Attorney-General, who was coming
out of the house with a visage of grim assurance. “Everybody is saying,” he said, “that the Prime Minister has made
the greatest speech of his life. Peroration and loud and prolonged
cheers. Corrupt financiers and heroic peasants. We will not desert
Denmark again.” Fisher nodded and turned away toward the towing path, where he saw
the duke returning with a rather dazed expression. In answer to
questions he said, in a husky and confidential voice: “I really think our poor friend cannot be himself. He refused to
listen; he—ah—suggested that I might frighten the fish.” A keen ear might have detected a murmur from Mr. Fisher on the
subject of a white hat, but Sir John Harker struck it more
decisively: “Fisher was quite right. I didn’t believe it myself, but it’s quite
clear that the old fellow is fixed on this fishing notion by now. If
the house caught fire behind him he would hardly move till sunset.” Fisher had continued his stroll toward the higher embanked ground of
the towing path, and he now swept a long and searching gaze, not
toward the island, but toward the distant wooded heights that were
the walls of the valley. An evening sky as clear as that of the
previous day was settling down all over the dim landscape, but
toward the west it was now red rather than gold; there was scarcely
any sound but the monotonous music of the river. Then came the sound
of a half-stifled exclamation from Horne Fisher, and Harold March
looked up at him in wonder. “You spoke of bad news,” said Fisher. “Well, there is really bad
news now. I am afraid this is a bad business.” “What bad news do you mean?” asked his friend, conscious of
something strange and sinister in his voice. “The sun has set,” answered Fisher. He went on with the air of one conscious of having said something
fatal. “We must get somebody to go across whom he will really listen
to. He may be mad, but there’s method in his madness. There nearly
always is method in madness. It’s what drives men mad, being
methodical. And he never goes on sitting there after sunset, with
the whole place getting dark. Where’s his nephew? I believe he’s
really fond of his nephew.” “Look!” cried March, abruptly. “Why, he’s been across already.
There he is coming back.” And, looking up the river once more, they saw, dark against the
sunset reflections, the figure of James Bullen stepping hastily and
rather clumsily from stone to stone. Once he slipped on a stone with
a slight splash. When he rejoined the group on the bank his olive
face was unnaturally pale. The other four men had already gathered on the same spot and almost
simultaneously were calling out to him, “What does he say now?” “Nothing. He says—nothing.” Fisher looked at the young man steadily for a moment; then he
started from his immobility and, making a motion to March to follow
him, himself strode down to the river crossing. In a few moments
they were on the little beaten track that ran round the wooded
island, to the other side of it where the fisherman sat. Then they
stood and looked at him, without a word. Sir Isaac Hook was still sitting propped up against the stump of the
tree, and that for the best of reasons. A length of his own
infallible fishing line was twisted and tightened twice round his
throat and then twice round the wooden prop behind him. The leading
investigator ran forward and touched the fisherman’s hand, and it
was as cold as a fish. “The sun has set,” said Horne Fisher, in the same terrible tones,
“and he will never see it rise again.” Ten minutes afterward the five men, shaken by such a shock, were
again together in the garden, looking at one another with white but
watchful faces. The lawyer seemed the most alert of the group; he
was articulate if somewhat abrupt. “We must leave the body as it is and telephone for the police,” he
said. “I think my own authority will stretch to examining the
servants and the poor fellow’s papers, to see if there is anything
that concerns them. Of course, none of you gentlemen must leave this
place.” Perhaps there was something in his rapid and rigorous legality that
suggested the closing of a net or trap. Anyhow, young Bullen
suddenly broke down, or perhaps blew up, for his voice was like an
explosion in the silent garden. “I never touched him,” he cried. “I swear I had nothing to do with
it!” “Who said you had?” demanded Harker, with a hard eye. “Why do you
cry out before you’re hurt?” “Because you all look at me like that,” cried the young man,
angrily. “Do you think I don’t know you’re always talking about my
damned debts and expectations?” Rather to March’s surprise, Fisher had drawn away from this first
collision, leading the duke with him to another part of the garden.
When he was out of earshot of the others he said, with a curious
simplicity of manner: “Westmoreland, I am going straight to the point.” “Well?” said the other, staring at him stolidly. “You have a motive for killing him,” said Fisher. The duke continued to stare, but he seemed unable to speak. “I hope you had a motive for killing him,” continued Fisher, mildly.
ritto a fissare fuori da qualche bottega antiquata. Poi March udì
la sua voce, ed era acuta e quasi isterica: «Ma deve vederlo; bisogna farglielo capire. Non può
essergli stato esposto a dovere.» Poi, con un certo recupero di pienezza
e perfino di pomposità nella voce, «andrò a dirglielo io stesso.» Fra i bizzarri episodi di quel pomeriggio, March ricordò sempre
qualcosa di quasi comico nella nitida immagine del vecchio
gentiluomo col suo mirabile cappello bianco che passava con cura da pietra
a pietra attraverso il fiume, come una figura che attraversa il traffico di
Piccadilly. Poi scomparve dietro gli alberi dell’isola, e
March e Fisher si voltarono incontro al Procuratore Generale, che usciva
dalla casa con un volto di cupa sicurezza. «Tutti dicono,» disse, «che il Primo Ministro ha tenuto
il più grande discorso della sua vita. Perorazione e alti e prolungati
applausi. Finanzieri corrotti e contadini eroici. Non abbandoneremo
di nuovo la Danimarca.» Fisher annuì e si voltò verso l’alzaia, dove vide
il duca tornare con un’espressione piuttosto stordita. In risposta alle
domande disse, con voce roca e confidenziale: «Penso davvero che il nostro povero amico non sia in sé. Rifiutò d’
ascoltare; ha—ah—insinuato che potrei spaventare i pesci.» Un orecchio acuto avrebbe potuto cogliere un mormorio del signor Fisher sul
tema d’un cappello bianco, ma Sir John Harker intervenne più
decisamente: «Fisher aveva perfettamente ragione. Io stesso non ci credevo, ma è del tutto
chiaro che ormai il vecchio è fissato con questa idea della pesca. Se
la casa prendesse fuoco dietro di lui a stento si muoverebbe prima del tramonto.» Fisher aveva proseguito la sua passeggiata verso il terreno più elevato e arginato dell’
alzaia, e ora lanciò uno sguardo lungo e indagatore, non
verso l’isola, ma verso le lontane alture boscose che erano
le mura della valle. Un cielo serale limpido quanto quello del
giorno prima calava su tutto l’oscuro paesaggio, ma
verso ovest era ora rosso più che dorato; non v’era quasi
alcun suono se non la monotona musica del fiume. Poi giunse il suono
d’un’esclamazione mezzo soffocata di Horne Fisher, e Harold March
alzò lo sguardo su di lui con stupore. «Parlavate di cattive notizie,» disse Fisher. «Ebbene, ora ci sono davvero cattive
notizie. Temo che questa sia una brutta faccenda.» «Quali cattive notizie intendete?» chiese l’amico, conscio di
qualcosa di strano e sinistro nella sua voce. «Il sole è tramontato,» rispose Fisher. Proseguì con l’aria di chi è conscio d’aver detto qualcosa di
fatale. «Dobbiamo trovare qualcuno che vada di là e che egli davvero
ascolti. Sarà pur pazzo, ma c’è metodo nella sua follia. C’è quasi
sempre metodo nella follia. È ciò che fa impazzire gli uomini, l’esser
metodici. E non resta mai seduto là dopo il tramonto, con
tutto il luogo che si fa buio. Dov’è suo nipote? Credo che gli sia
davvero affezionato, al nipote.» «Guardate!» esclamò March, di scatto. «Ma è già stato di là.
Eccolo che torna.» E, guardando di nuovo su per il fiume, videro, scura contro i
riflessi del tramonto, la figura di James Bullen che passava in fretta e
piuttosto goffamente da pietra a pietra. Una volta scivolò su una pietra con
un lieve tonfo. Quando raggiunse il gruppo sulla riva il suo olivastro
volto era innaturalmente pallido. Gli altri quattro uomini s’erano già radunati nello stesso punto e quasi
simultaneamente gli gridavano: «Che dice adesso?» «Niente. Dice—niente.» Fisher guardò fisso il giovane per un istante; poi
si scosse dalla sua immobilità e, facendo cenno a March di seguirlo,
scese egli stesso a grandi passi verso il guado del fiume. In pochi istanti
erano sul piccolo sentiero battuto che girava attorno alla boscosa
isola, fino all’altro suo lato dove sedeva il pescatore. Poi
stettero a guardarlo, senza una parola. Sir Isaac Hook sedeva ancora puntellato contro il ceppo dell’
albero, e per l’ottima delle ragioni. Un tratto della sua stessa
infallibile lenza da pesca era attorcigliato e stretto due volte intorno alla sua
gola e poi due volte intorno al sostegno di legno dietro di lui. Il
principale investigatore corse avanti e toccò la mano del pescatore, ed era
fredda come un pesce. «Il sole è tramontato,» disse Horne Fisher, con gli stessi terribili accenti,
«e non lo vedrà mai più sorgere.» Dieci minuti dopo i cinque uomini, scossi da tale colpo, erano
di nuovo insieme nel giardino, guardandosi l’un l’altro con volti bianchi ma
vigili. L’avvocato pareva il più sveglio del gruppo;
s’esprimeva chiaramente se pur alquanto bruscamente. «Dobbiamo lasciare il corpo com’è e telefonare alla polizia,»
disse. «Penso che la mia autorità basti a esaminare i
domestici e le carte del pover’uomo, per vedere se v’è qualcosa
che li riguardi. Naturalmente, nessuno di voi signori deve lasciare questo
luogo.» Forse c’era qualcosa nella sua rapida e rigorosa legalità che
suggeriva il chiudersi d’una rete o d’una trappola. Comunque, il giovane Bullen
d’un tratto crollò, o forse esplose, poiché la sua voce fu come un’
esplosione nel silenzioso giardino. «Non l’ho mai toccato,» gridò. «Giuro che non c’entro nulla con
questo!» «Chi ha detto che c’entravi?» incalzò Harker, con occhio duro. «Perché
gridi prima d’esser colpito?» «Perché mi guardate tutti così,» gridò il giovane,
con ira. «Credete che non sappia che parlate sempre dei miei
maledetti debiti e delle mie aspettative?» Con una certa sorpresa di March, Fisher s’era ritratto da questo primo
scontro, conducendo il duca con sé in un’altra parte del giardino.
Quando fu fuori dalla portata d’orecchio degli altri disse, con una curiosa
semplicità di modi: «Westmoreland, vengo dritto al punto.» «Ebbene?» disse l’altro, fissandolo con aria impassibile. «Voi avete un movente per ucciderlo,» disse Fisher. Il duca continuò a fissare, ma pareva incapace di parlare. «Spero che aveste un movente per ucciderlo,» proseguì Fisher, con dolcezza.
“You see, it’s rather a curious situation. If you have a motive for
murdering, you probably didn’t murder. But if you hadn’t any motive,
why, then perhaps, you did.” “What on earth are you talking about?” demanded the duke, violently. “It’s quite simple,” said Fisher. “When you went across he was
either alive or dead. If he was alive, it might be you who killed
him, or why should you have held your tongue about his death? But if
he was dead, and you had a reason for killing him, you might have
held your tongue for fear of being accused.” Then after a silence he
added, abstractedly: “Cyprus is a beautiful place, I believe.
Romantic scenery and romantic people. Very intoxicating for a young
man.” The duke suddenly clenched his hands and said, thickly, “Well, I had
a motive.” “Then you’re all right,” said Fisher, holding out his hand with an
air of huge relief. “I was pretty sure you wouldn’t really do it;
you had a fright when you saw it done, as was only natural. Like a
bad dream come true, wasn’t it?” While this curious conversation was passing, Harker had gone into
the house, disregarding the demonstrations of the sulky nephew, and
came back presently with a new air of animation and a sheaf of
papers in his hand. “I’ve telephoned for the police,” he said, stopping to speak to
Fisher, “but I think I’ve done most of their work for them. I
believe I’ve found out the truth. There’s a paper here—” He
stopped, for Fisher was looking at him with a singular expression;
and it was Fisher who spoke next: “Are there any papers that are not there, I wonder? I mean that are
not there now?” After a pause he added: “Let us have the cards on
the table. When you went through his papers in such a hurry, Harker,
weren’t you looking for something to—to make sure it shouldn’t be
found?” Harker did not turn a red hair on his hard head, but he looked at
the other out of the corners of his eyes. “And I suppose,” went on Fisher, smoothly, “that is why you, too,
told us lies about having found Hook alive. You knew there was
something to show that you might have killed him, and you didn’t
dare tell us he was killed. But, believe me, it’s much better to be
honest now.” Harker’s haggard face suddenly lit up as if with infernal flames. “Honest,” he cried, “it’s not so damned fine of you fellows to be
honest. You’re all born with silver spoons in your mouths, and then
you swagger about with everlasting virtue because you haven’t got
other people’s spoons in your pockets. But I was born in a Pimlico
lodging house and I had to make my spoon, and there’d be plenty to
say I only spoiled a horn or an honest man. And if a struggling man
staggers a bit over the line in his youth, in the lower parts of the
law which are pretty dingy, anyhow, there’s always some old vampire
to hang on to him all his life for it.” “Guatemalan Golcondas, wasn’t it?” said Fisher, sympathetically. Harker suddenly shuddered. Then he said, “I believe you must know
everything, like God Almighty.” “I know too much,” said Horne Fisher, “and all the wrong things.” The other three men were drawing nearer to them, but before they
came too near, Harker said, in a voice that had recovered all its
firmness: “Yes, I did destroy a paper, but I really did find a paper, too; and
I believe that it clears us all.” “Very well,” said Fisher, in a louder and more cheerful tone; “let
us all have the benefit of it.” “On the very top of Sir Isaac’s papers,” explained Harker, “there
was a threatening letter from a man named Hugo. It threatens to kill
our unfortunate friend very much in the way that he was actually
killed. It is a wild letter, full of taunts; you can see it for
yourselves; but it makes a particular point of poor Hook’s habit of
fishing from the island. Above all, the man professes to be writing
from a boat. And, since we alone went across to him,” and he smiled
in a rather ugly fashion, “the crime must have been committed by a
man passing in a boat.” “Why, dear me!” cried the duke, with something almost amounting to
animation. “Why, I remember the man called Hugo quite well! He was a
sort of body servant and bodyguard of Sir Isaac. You see, Sir Isaac
was in some fear of assault. He was—he was not very popular with
several people. Hugo was discharged after some row or other; but I
remember him well. He was a great big Hungarian fellow with great
mustaches that stood out on each side of his face.” A door opened in the darkness of Harold March’s memory, or, rather,
oblivion, and showed a shining landscape, like that of a lost dream.
It was rather a waterscape than a landscape, a thing of flooded
meadows and low trees and the dark archway of a bridge. And for one
instant he saw again the man with mustaches like dark horns leap up
on to the bridge and disappear. “Good heavens!” he cried. “Why, I met the murderer this morning!” * Horne Fisher and Harold March had their day on the river, after all,
for the little group broke up when the police arrived. They declared
that the coincidence of March’s evidence had cleared the whole
company, and clinched the case against the flying Hugo. Whether that
Hungarian fugitive would ever be caught appeared to Horne Fisher to
be highly doubtful; nor can it be pretended that he displayed any
very demoniac detective energy in the matter as he leaned back in
the boat cushions, smoking, and watching the swaying reeds slide
past. “It was a very good notion to hop up on to the bridge,” he said. “An
empty boat means very little; he hasn’t been seen to land on either
bank, and he’s walked off the bridge without walking on to it, so to
speak. He’s got twenty-four hours’ start; his mustaches will
disappear, and then he will disappear. I think there is every hope
of his escape.” “Hope?” repeated March, and stopped sculling for an instant. “Yes, hope,” repeated the other. “To begin with, I’m not going to
«Vedete, è una situazione piuttosto curiosa. Se avete un movente per
assassinare, probabilmente non avete assassinato. Ma se non aveste alcun movente,
ebbene, allora forse l’avete fatto.» «Ma di che diamine parlate?» esclamò il duca, con violenza. «È semplicissimo,» disse Fisher. «Quando andaste di là, egli era
o vivo o morto. Se era vivo, potreste essere stato voi a
ucciderlo, altrimenti perché avreste taciuto sulla sua morte? Ma se
era morto, e avevate una ragione per ucciderlo, potreste aver
taciuto per paura d’essere accusato.» Poi dopo un silenzio
aggiunse, distrattamente: «Cipro è un bel luogo, credo.
Paesaggi romantici e gente romantica. Assai inebriante per un giovane
uomo.» Il duca serrò d’improvviso le mani e disse, con voce impastata: «Ebbene, avevo
un movente.» «Allora siete a posto,» disse Fisher, tendendo la mano con un’
aria d’immenso sollievo. «Ero abbastanza certo che non l’avreste fatto davvero;
aveste uno spavento quando lo vedeste compiuto, com’era naturale. Come un
brutto sogno avverato, non è vero?» Mentre questa curiosa conversazione si svolgeva, Harker era entrato nella
casa, noncurante delle rimostranze del cupo nipote, e
tornò poco dopo con una nuova aria d’animazione e un fascio di
carte in mano. «Ho telefonato alla polizia,» disse, fermandosi a parlare con
Fisher, «ma credo d’aver fatto io la maggior parte del loro lavoro. Credo
d’aver scoperto la verità. C’è qui una carta—» Si
fermò, poiché Fisher lo guardava con un’espressione singolare;
e fu Fisher a parlare per primo: «Ci sono forse carte che non ci sono, mi domando? Voglio dire che non ci
sono ora?» Dopo una pausa aggiunse: «Mettiamo le carte in
tavola. Quando avete frugato le sue carte in tutta fretta, Harker,
non cercavate qualcosa per—per assicurarvi che non fosse
trovato?» Harker non mosse un rosso capello sulla sua dura testa, ma guardò
l’altro con la coda dell’occhio. «E suppongo,» proseguì Fisher, pacatamente, «che sia per questo che anche voi
ci avete mentito d’aver trovato Hook vivo. Sapevate che c’era
qualcosa a dimostrare che potevate averlo ucciso, e non
osaste dirci che era stato ucciso. Ma, credetemi, è molto meglio essere
onesti adesso.» Il volto smunto di Harker s’illuminò d’un tratto come di fiamme infernali. «Onesti,» gridò, «non è poi così maledettamente ammirevole da parte vostra essere
onesti. Siete tutti nati con la camicia, con cucchiai d’argento in bocca, e poi
vi pavoneggiate d’eterna virtù perché non avete
in tasca i cucchiai altrui. Ma io sono nato in una
casa d’affitto di Pimlico e ho dovuto farmelo, il mio cucchiaio, e non mancherebbe chi
direbbe che ho solo rovinato un corno o un uomo onesto. E se un uomo in lotta
vacilla un poco oltre la linea in gioventù, nelle regioni più basse della
legge che sono comunque piuttosto squallide, c’è sempre qualche vecchio vampiro
pronto ad attaccarglisi addosso per tutta la vita per questo.» «Le Golconde guatemalteche, non è così?» disse Fisher, con simpatia. Harker rabbrividì di colpo. Poi disse: «Credo che voi dobbiate sapere
tutto, come Dio Onnipotente.» «So troppo,» disse Horne Fisher, «e tutte le cose sbagliate.» Gli altri tre uomini s’avvicinavano a loro, ma prima che
giungessero troppo vicini, Harker disse, con voce che aveva riacquistato tutta la sua
fermezza: «Sì, una carta l’ho distrutta, ma una carta l’ho davvero trovata, pure; e
credo che essa scagioni tutti noi.» «Molto bene,» disse Fisher, in tono più alto e più allegro; «che tutti
ne abbiamo il beneficio.» «Proprio in cima alle carte di Sir Isaac,» spiegò Harker, «c’era
una lettera minatoria d’un uomo di nome Hugo. Minaccia d’uccidere
il nostro sventurato amico proprio nel modo in cui è stato effettivamente
ucciso. È una lettera furibonda, piena di scherni; potete vederla voi
stessi; ma insiste in particolare sull’abitudine del povero Hook di
pescare dall’isola. Soprattutto, l’uomo dichiara di scrivere
da una barca. E, poiché solo noi andammo da lui,» e sorrise
in maniera piuttosto sgradevole, «il delitto deve essere stato commesso da un
uomo che passava in barca.» «Ma, santo cielo!» esclamò il duca, con qualcosa che quasi equivaleva ad
animazione. «Ma io ricordo assai bene l’uomo chiamato Hugo! Era una
sorta di servitore personale e guardia del corpo di Sir Isaac. Vedete, Sir Isaac
aveva un certo timore d’aggressione. Era—non era molto benvoluto da
parecchie persone. Hugo fu licenziato dopo una lite o l’altra; ma io
lo ricordo bene. Era un enorme e grosso ungherese con grandi
baffi che sporgevano ai due lati del volto.» Una porta s’aprì nel buio della memoria di Harold March, o, piuttosto,
dell’oblio, e mostrò un paesaggio splendente, come quello d’un sogno perduto.
Era piuttosto un paesaggio d’acque che di terra, una cosa di prati
allagati e bassi alberi e la scura arcata d’un ponte. E per un
istante rivide l’uomo dai baffi come scure corna balzare su
sul ponte e scomparire. «Santo cielo!» esclamò. «Ma io ho incontrato l’assassino stamattina!» * Horne Fisher e Harold March ebbero la loro giornata sul fiume, dopo tutto,
poiché il piccolo gruppo si sciolse quando arrivò la polizia. Dichiararono
che la coincidenza della testimonianza di March aveva scagionato l’intera
compagnia, e inchiodava il caso contro il fuggitivo Hugo. Se quel
fuggiasco ungherese sarebbe mai stato catturato pareva a Horne Fisher
assai dubbio; né si può pretendere ch’egli mostrasse alcuna
energia investigativa particolarmente demoniaca nella faccenda, mentre si riadagiava fra
i cuscini della barca, fumando, e guardando le ondeggianti canne scivolare
via. «Fu un’ottima trovata saltare su sul ponte,» disse. «Una
barca vuota significa ben poco; non lo si è visto approdare su nessuna delle due
rive, e se n’è andato dal ponte senza esservi salito, per così
dire. Ha ventiquattr’ore di vantaggio; i suoi baffi
scompariranno, e poi scomparirà lui. Penso che ci sia ogni speranza
che fugga.» «Speranza?» ripeté March, e smise di remare per un istante. «Sì, speranza,» ripeté l’altro. «Tanto per cominciare, non ho intenzione di
be exactly consumed with Corsican revenge because somebody has
killed Hook. Perhaps you may guess by this time what Hook was. A
damned blood-sucking blackmailer was that simple, strenuous,
self-made captain of industry. He had secrets against nearly
everybody; one against poor old Westmoreland about an early marriage
in Cyprus that might have put the duchess in a queer position; and
one against Harker about some flutter with his client’s money when
he was a young solicitor. That’s why they went to pieces when they
found him murdered, of course. They felt as if they’d done it in a
dream. But I admit I have another reason for not wanting our
Hungarian friend actually hanged for the murder.” “And what is that?” asked his friend. “Only that he didn’t commit the murder,” answered Fisher. Harold March laid down the oars and let the boat drift for a moment. “Do you know, I was half expecting something like that,” he said.
“It was quite irrational, but it was hanging about in the
atmosphere, like thunder in the air.” “On the contrary, it’s finding Hugo guilty that’s irrational,”
replied Fisher. “Don’t you see that they’re condemning him for the
very reason for which they acquit everybody else? Harker and
Westmoreland were silent because they found him murdered, and knew
there were papers that made them look like the murderers. Well, so
did Hugo find him murdered, and so did Hugo know there was a paper
that would make him look like the murderer. He had written it
himself the day before.” “But in that case,” said March, frowning, “at what sort of unearthly
hour in the morning was the murder really committed? It was barely
daylight when I met him at the bridge, and that’s some way above the
island.” “The answer is very simple,” replied Fisher. “The crime was not
committed in the morning. The crime was not committed on the
island.” March stared at the shining water without replying, but Fisher
resumed like one who had been asked a question: “Every intelligent murder involves taking advantage of some one
uncommon feature in a common situation. The feature here was the
fancy of old Hook for being the first man up every morning, his
fixed routine as an angler, and his annoyance at being disturbed.
The murderer strangled him in his own house after dinner on the
night before, carried his corpse, with all his fishing tackle,
across the stream in the dead of night, tied him to the tree, and
left him there under the stars. It was a dead man who sat fishing
there all day. Then the murderer went back to the house, or, rather,
to the garage, and went off in his motor car. The murderer drove his
own motor car.” Fisher glanced at his friend’s face and went on. “You look
horrified, and the thing is horrible. But other things are horrible,
too. If some obscure man had been hag-ridden by a blackmailer and
had his family life ruined, you wouldn’t think the murder of his
persecutor the most inexcusable of murders. Is it any worse when a
whole great nation is set free as well as a family? By this warning
to Sweden we shall probably prevent war and not precipitate it, and
save many thousand lives rather more valuable than the life of that
viper. Oh, I’m not talking sophistry or seriously justifying the
thing, but the slavery that held him and his country was a thousand
times less justifiable. If I’d really been sharp I should have
guessed it from his smooth, deadly smiling at dinner that night. Do
you remember that silly talk about how old Isaac could always play
his fish? In a pretty hellish sense he was a fisher of men.” Harold March took the oars and began to row again. “I remember,” he said, “and about how a big fish might break the
line and get away.”
essere consumato per intero da vendetta còrsa perché qualcuno ha
ucciso Hook. Forse a quest’ora potete indovinare che cosa fosse Hook. Un
maledetto ricattatore succhia-sangue era quel semplice, indefesso,
capitano d’industria fattosi da sé. Aveva segreti contro quasi
tutti; uno contro il povero vecchio Westmoreland su un precoce matrimonio
a Cipro che avrebbe potuto mettere la duchessa in una posizione ambigua; e
uno contro Harker su certa speculazione col denaro d’un suo cliente quando
era un giovane procuratore. Ecco perché andarono in pezzi quando lo
trovarono assassinato, si capisce. Si sentivano come se l’avessero fatto in
sogno. Ma ammetto d’avere un’altra ragione per non volere che il nostro
amico ungherese sia davvero impiccato per l’omicidio.” “E quale sarebbe?” chiese l’amico. “Soltanto che non ha commesso lui l’omicidio,” rispose Fisher. Harold March posò i remi e lasciò che la barca andasse alla deriva un istante. “Sapete, un po’ me l’aspettavo, qualcosa del genere,” disse.
“Era del tutto irrazionale, ma aleggiava nell’
atmosfera, come tuono nell’aria.” “Al contrario, è ritenere Hugo colpevole che è irrazionale,”
replicò Fisher. “Non vedete che lo condannano per la
stessa ragione per cui assolvono tutti gli altri? Harker e
Westmoreland tacquero perché lo trovarono assassinato, e sapevano
che c’erano carte che li facevano sembrare gli assassini. Ebbene, così
anche Hugo lo trovò assassinato, e anche Hugo sapeva che c’era una carta
che l’avrebbe fatto sembrare l’assassino. L’aveva scritta
lui stesso il giorno prima.” “Ma in tal caso,” disse March, aggrottando la fronte, “a quale ora
impossibile del mattino fu davvero commesso l’omicidio? Era appena
giorno quando lo incontrai al ponte, e quello è ben più a monte dell’
isola.” “La risposta è semplicissima,” replicò Fisher. “Il delitto non fu
commesso al mattino. Il delitto non fu commesso sull’
isola.” March fissò l’acqua lucente senza rispondere, ma Fisher
riprese come chi si sia sentito porre una domanda: “Ogni omicidio intelligente comporta lo sfruttare qualche
tratto insolito in una situazione comune. Il tratto, qui, era la
fissazione del vecchio Hook d’esser il primo in piedi ogni mattino, la sua
routine fissa di pescatore, e il suo fastidio nell’esser disturbato.
L’assassino lo strangolò nella sua stessa casa dopo cena la
notte prima, ne portò il cadavere, con tutta l’attrezzatura da pesca,
attraverso il torrente nel cuore della notte, lo legò all’albero, e
ve lo lasciò sotto le stelle. Era un morto quello che sedette a pescare
lì tutto il giorno. Poi l’assassino tornò alla casa, o, piuttosto,
al garage, e se ne andò in automobile. L’assassino guidò la
propria automobile.” Fisher gettò un’occhiata al volto dell’amico e proseguì. “Avete l’aria
inorridita, e la cosa è orribile. Ma altre cose sono orribili,
anch’esse. Se qualche uomo oscuro fosse stato tormentato da un ricattatore e
gli fosse stata rovinata la vita familiare, non giudichereste l’omicidio del suo
persecutore il più imperdonabile degli omicidi. È forse peggio quando un’
intera grande nazione è liberata al pari d’una famiglia? Con questo avvertimento
alla Svezia probabilmente eviteremo la guerra invece d’affrettarla, e
salveremo molte migliaia di vite ben più preziose della vita di quella
vipera. Oh, non sto facendo sofismi né giustificando sul serio la
cosa, ma la schiavitù che teneva lui e il suo paese era mille
volte meno giustificabile. Se fossi stato davvero acuto avrei
dovuto indovinarlo dal suo sorriso liscio e letale a cena quella notte. Vi
ricordate quel discorso sciocco su come il vecchio Isaac sapeva sempre giocare
il suo pesce? In un senso alquanto infernale egli era un pescatore d’uomini.” Harold March prese i remi e ricominciò a remare. “Ricordo,” disse, “e su come un grosso pesce potesse spezzare la
lenza e scappare.”
VI - The Hole in the Wall * Two men, the one an architect and the other an archaeologist, met on
the steps of the great house at Prior’s Park; and their host, Lord
Bulmer, in his breezy way, thought it natural to introduce them. It
must be confessed that he was hazy as well as breezy, and had no
very clear connection in his mind, beyond the sense that an
architect and an archaeologist begin with the same series of
letters. The world must remain in a reverent doubt as to whether he
would, on the same principles, have presented a diplomatist to a
dipsomaniac or a ratiocinator to a rat catcher. He was a big, fair,
bull-necked young man, abounding in outward gestures, unconsciously
flapping his gloves and flourishing his stick. “You two ought to have something to talk about,” he said,
cheerfully. “Old buildings and all that sort of thing; this is
rather an old building, by the way, though I say it who shouldn’t. I
must ask you to excuse me a moment; I’ve got to go and see about the
cards for this Christmas romp my sister’s arranging. We hope to see
you all there, of course. Juliet wants it to be a fancy-dress
affair—abbots and crusaders and all that. My ancestors, I suppose,
after all.” “I trust the abbot was not an ancestor,” said the archaeological
gentleman, with a smile. “Only a sort of great-uncle, I imagine,” answered the other,
laughing; then his rather rambling eye rolled round the ordered
landscape in front of the house; an artificial sheet of water
ornamented with an antiquated nymph in the center and surrounded by
a park of tall trees now gray and black and frosty, for it was in
the depth of a severe winter. “It’s getting jolly cold,” his lordship continued. “My sister hopes
we shall have some skating as well as dancing.” “If the crusaders come in full armor,” said the other, “you must be
careful not to drown your ancestors.” “Oh, there’s no fear of that,” answered Bulmer; “this precious lake
of ours is not two feet deep anywhere.” And with one of his
flourishing gestures he stuck his stick into the water to
demonstrate its shallowness. They could see the short end bent in
the water, so that he seemed for a moment to lean his large weight
on a breaking staff. “The worst you can expect is to see an abbot sit down rather
suddenly,” he added, turning away. “Well, au revoir; I’ll let you
know about it later.” The archaeologist and the architect were left on the great stone
steps smiling at each other; but whatever their common interests,
they presented a considerable personal contrast, and the fanciful
might even have found some contradiction in each considered
individually. The former, a Mr. James Haddow, came from a drowsy den
in the Inns of Court, full of leather and parchment, for the law was
his profession and history only his hobby; he was indeed, among
other things, the solicitor and agent of the Prior’s Park estate.
But he himself was far from drowsy and seemed remarkably wide awake,
with shrewd and prominent blue eyes, and red hair brushed as neatly
as his very neat costume. The latter, whose name was Leonard Crane,
came straight from a crude and almost cockney office of builders and
house agents in the neighboring suburb, sunning itself at the end of
a new row of jerry-built houses with plans in very bright colors and
notices in very large letters. But a serious observer, at a second
glance, might have seen in his eyes something of that shining sleep
that is called vision; and his yellow hair, while not affectedly
long, was unaffectedly untidy. It was a manifest if melancholy truth
that the architect was an artist. But the artistic temperament was
far from explaining him; there was something else about him that was
not definable, but which some even felt to be dangerous. Despite his
dreaminess, he would sometimes surprise his friends with arts and
even sports apart from his ordinary life, like memories of some
previous existence. On this occasion, nevertheless, he hastened to
disclaim any authority on the other man’s hobby. “I mustn’t appear on false pretences,” he said, with a smile. “I
hardly even know what an archaeologist is, except that a rather
rusty remnant of Greek suggests that he is a man who studies old
things.” “Yes,” replied Haddow, grimly. “An archaeologist is a man who
studies old things and finds they are new.” Crane looked at him steadily for a moment and then smiled again. “Dare one suggest,” he said, “that some of the things we have been
talking about are among the old things that turn out not to be old?” His companion also was silent for a moment, and the smile on his
rugged face was fainter as he replied, quietly: “The wall round the park is really old. The one gate in it is
Gothic, and I cannot find any trace of destruction or restoration.
But the house and the estate generally—well the romantic ideas read
into these things are often rather recent romances, things almost
like fashionable novels. For instance, the very name of this place,
Prior’s Park, makes everybody think of it as a moonlit mediaeval
abbey; I dare say the spiritualists by this time have discovered the
ghost of a monk there. But, according to the only authoritative
study of the matter I can find, the place was simply called Prior’s
as any rural place is called Podger’s. It was the house of a Mr.
Prior, a farmhouse, probably, that stood here at some time or other
and was a local landmark. Oh, there are a great many examples of the
same thing, here and everywhere else. This suburb of ours used to be
a village, and because some of the people slurred the name and
pronounced it Holliwell, many a minor poet indulged in fancies about
a Holy Well, with spells and fairies and all the rest of it, filling
the suburban drawing-rooms with the Celtic twilight. Whereas anyone
VI - Il Buco nel Muro * Due uomini, l’uno architetto e l’altro archeologo, s’incontrarono sui
gradini della grande dimora di Prior’s Park; e il loro ospite, Lord
Bulmer, alla sua maniera spigliata, ritenne naturale presentarli. Va
confessato ch’era vago non meno che spigliato, e non aveva in mente
alcun nesso molto chiaro, oltre alla sensazione che un
architetto e un archeologo cominciano con la stessa serie di
lettere. Il mondo dovrà restare in un reverente dubbio sul se egli
avrebbe, sui medesimi principii, presentato un diplomatico a un
dipsomane o un raziocinatore a un acchiapparatti. Era un giovane grande, biondo,
dal collo taurino, prodigo di gesti esteriori, che inconsciamente
sventolava i guanti e brandiva il bastone. «Voi due dovreste avere qualcosa di cui parlare,» disse,
allegramente. «Vecchi edifici e cose del genere; questo è
un edificio piuttosto vecchio, del resto, benché lo dica chi non dovrebbe. Devo
chiedervi di scusarmi un momento; devo andare a occuparmi dei
biglietti per questa baldoria natalizia che mia sorella sta organizzando. Speriamo di vedervi
tutti là, naturalmente. Giulietta vuole che sia una festa in
maschera—abati e crociati e via dicendo. I miei antenati, suppongo,
dopo tutto.» «Confido che l’abate non fosse un antenato,» disse il gentiluomo
archeologo, con un sorriso. «Solo una specie di prozio, immagino,» rispose l’altro,
ridendo; poi il suo occhio piuttosto errabondo girò intorno all’ordinato
paesaggio davanti alla casa; un artificiale specchio d’acqua
ornato d’una ninfa antiquata al centro e circondato da
un parco d’alti alberi ora grigi e neri e gelidi, poiché si era nel
cuore d’un rigido inverno. «Fa un bel freddo,» continuò sua signoria. «Mia sorella spera
che potremo pattinare non meno che ballare.» «Se i crociati verranno in piena armatura,» disse l’altro, «dovrete
badare a non annegare i vostri antenati.» «Oh, non c’è timore di questo,» rispose Bulmer; «questo nostro prezioso lago
non è profondo due piedi in nessun punto.» E con uno dei suoi
gesti ampollosi conficcò il bastone nell’acqua per
dimostrarne la scarsa profondità. Si poteva vedere l’estremità corta piegata nell’
acqua, sicché per un istante parve appoggiare il suo gran peso
su un bastone che si spezzava. «Il peggio che potete aspettarvi è di vedere un abate sedersi piuttosto
di colpo,» aggiunse, voltandosi. «Ebbene, au revoir; ve ne
informerò più tardi.» L’archeologo e l’architetto rimasero sui grandi gradini di
pietra a sorridersi l’un l’altro; ma quali che fossero i loro comuni interessi,
presentavano un notevole contrasto personale, e chi ha fantasia
avrebbe potuto trovare qualche contraddizione perfino in ciascuno considerato
singolarmente. Il primo, un signor James Haddow, veniva da un sonnolento antro
negli Inns of Corte, pieno di cuoio e pergamena, poiché la legge era
la sua professione e la storia solo il suo passatempo; era invero, fra
l’altro, il procuratore e agente della tenuta di Prior’s Park.
Ma egli stesso era tutt’altro che sonnolento e pareva notevolmente sveglio,
con occhi azzurri accorti e sporgenti, e capelli rossi spazzolati con la stessa cura
del suo abbigliamento assai lindo. Il secondo, che si chiamava Leonard Crane,
veniva dritto da un rozzo e quasi cockney ufficio di costruttori e
agenti di case nel sobborgo vicino, che si crogiolava al sole in fondo a
una nuova fila di case tirate su alla peggio con progetti dai colori vivacissimi e
avvisi in caratteri grandissimi. Ma un osservatore serio, a una seconda
occhiata, avrebbe potuto scorgere nei suoi occhi qualcosa di quel fulgido sonno
che si chiama visione; e i suoi capelli gialli, se pur non affettatamente
lunghi, erano senz’affettazione scomposti. Era una manifesta se pur malinconica verità
che l’architetto fosse un artista. Ma il temperamento artistico era
ben lungi dallo spiegarlo; c’era in lui qualcos’altro che
non era definibile, ma che taluni sentivano perfino pericoloso. Malgrado la sua
aria sognante, talvolta sorprendeva gli amici con arti e
persino sport estranei alla sua vita ordinaria, come ricordi d’una
precedente esistenza. In questa occasione, tuttavia, s’affrettò a
declinare ogni autorità sul passatempo dell’altro. «Non devo presentarmi sotto falsi pretesti,» disse, con un sorriso. «A
malapena so cosa sia un archeologo, se non che un piuttosto
arrugginito residuo di greco suggerisce che sia un uomo che studia cose
vecchie.» «Sì,» replicò Haddow, cupamente. «Un archeologo è un uomo che
studia cose vecchie e scopre che sono nuove.» Crane lo guardò fisso per un istante e poi sorrise di nuovo. «Si può osar suggerire,» disse, «che alcune delle cose di cui abbiamo
parlato siano fra le cose vecchie che si rivelano non vecchie?» Anche il suo compagno tacque un istante, e il sorriso sul suo
volto rude si fece più debole mentre replicava, sommessamente: «Il muro intorno al parco è davvero vecchio. L’unico cancello che vi si apre è
gotico, e non riesco a trovarvi alcuna traccia di distruzione o restauro.
Ma la casa e la tenuta in generale—ebbene, le idee romantiche che si leggono
in queste cose sono spesso fantasticherie piuttosto recenti, cose quasi
come romanzi alla moda. Per esempio, lo stesso nome di questo luogo,
Prior’s Park, fa pensare a tutti a un’abbazia medievale al chiaro
di luna; oserei dire che gli spiritisti a quest’ora hanno scoperto lo
spettro d’un monaco laggiù. Ma, secondo il solo autorevole
studio in materia che riesco a reperire, il luogo era semplicemente chiamato Prior’s
come un luogo qualsiasi di campagna si chiama Podger’s. Era la casa d’un signor
Prior, una fattoria, probabilmente, che sorgeva qui in qualche epoca o l’altra
ed era un punto di riferimento locale. Oh, ci sono moltissimi esempi della
stessa cosa, qui e altrove. Questo nostro sobborgo era un tempo
un villaggio, e poiché alcuni biascicavano il nome e lo
pronunciavano Holliwell, più d’un poeta minore s’abbandonò a fantasie su
un Sacro Pozzo, con incantesimi e fate e tutto il resto, riempiendo
i salotti suburbani del crepuscolo celtico. Mentre chiunque
acquainted with the facts knows that ‘Hollinwall’ simply means ‘the
hole in the wall,’ and probably referred to some quite trivial
accident. That’s what I mean when I say that we don’t so much find
old things as we find new ones.” Crane seemed to have grown somewhat inattentive to the little
lecture on antiquities and novelties, and the cause of his
restlessness was soon apparent, and indeed approaching. Lord
Bulmer’s sister, Juliet Bray, was coming slowly across the lawn,
accompanied by one gentleman and followed by two others. The young
architect was in the illogical condition of mind in which he
preferred three to one. The man walking with the lady was no other than the eminent Prince
Borodino, who was at least as famous as a distinguished diplomatist
ought to be, in the interests of what is called secret diplomacy. He
had been paying a round of visits at various English country houses,
and exactly what he was doing for diplomacy at Prior’s Park was as
much a secret as any diplomatist could desire. The obvious thing to
say of his appearance was that he would have been extremely handsome
if he had not been entirely bald. But, indeed, that would itself be
a rather bald way of putting it. Fantastic as it sounds, it would
fit the case better to say that people would have been surprised to
see hair growing on him; as surprised as if they had found hair
growing on the bust of a Roman emperor. His tall figure was buttoned
up in a tight-waisted fashion that rather accentuated his potential
bulk, and he wore a red flower in his buttonhole. Of the two men
walking behind one was also bald, but in a more partial and also a
more premature fashion, for his drooping mustache was still yellow,
and if his eyes were somewhat heavy it was with languor and not with
age. It was Horne Fisher, and he was talking as easily and idly
about everything as he always did. His companion was a more
striking, and even more sinister, figure, and he had the added
importance of being Lord Bulmer’s oldest and most intimate friend. He
was generally known with a severe simplicity as Mr. Brain; but it was
understood that he had been a judge and police official in India, and
that he had enemies, who had represented his measures against crime as
themselves almost criminal. He was a brown skeleton of a man with dark,
deep, sunken eyes and a black mustache that hid the meaning of his
mouth. Though he had the look of one wasted by some tropical disease,
his movements were much more alert than those of his lounging companion. “It’s all settled,” announced the lady, with great animation, when
they came within hailing distance. “You’ve all got to put on
masquerade things and very likely skates as well, though the prince
says they don’t go with it; but we don’t care about that. It’s
freezing already, and we don’t often get such a chance in England.” “Even in India we don’t exactly skate all the year round,” observed
Mr. Brain. “And even Italy is not primarily associated with ice,” said the
Italian. “Italy is primarily associated with ices,” remarked Mr. Horne
Fisher. “I mean with ice cream men. Most people in this country
imagine that Italy is entirely populated with ice cream men and
organ grinders. There certainly are a lot of them; perhaps they’re
an invading army in disguise.” “How do you know they are not the secret emissaries of our
diplomacy?” asked the prince, with a slightly scornful smile. “An
army of organ grinders might pick up hints, and their monkeys might
pick up all sort of things.” “The organs are organized in fact,” said the flippant Mr. Fisher.
“Well, I’ve known it pretty cold before now in Italy and even in
India, up on the Himalayan slopes. The ice on our own little round
pond will be quite cozy by comparison.” Juliet Bray was an attractive lady with dark hair and eyebrows and
dancing eyes, and there was a geniality and even generosity in her
rather imperious ways. In most matters she could command her
brother, though that nobleman, like many other men of vague ideas,
was not without a touch of the bully when he was at bay. She could
certainly command her guests, even to the extent of decking out the
most respectable and reluctant of them with her mediaeval
masquerade. And it really seemed as if she could command the
elements also, like a witch. For the weather steadily hardened and
sharpened; that night the ice of the lake, glimmering in the
moonlight, was like a marble floor, and they had begun to dance and
skate on it before it was dark. Prior’s Park, or, more properly, the surrounding district of
Holinwall, was a country seat that had become a suburb; having once
had only a dependent village at its doors, it now found outside all
its doors the signals of the expansion of London. Mr. Haddow, who
was engaged in historical researches both in the library and the
locality, could find little assistance in the latter. He had already
realized, from the documents, that Prior’s Park had originally been
something like Prior’s Farm, named after some local figure, but the
new social conditions were all against his tracing the story by its
traditions. Had any of the real rustics remained, he would probably
have found some lingering legend of Mr. Prior, however remote he
might be. But the new nomadic population of clerks and artisans,
constantly shifting their homes from one suburb to another, or their
children from one school to another, could have no corporate
continuity. They had all that forgetfulness of history that goes
everywhere with the extension of education. Nevertheless, when he came out of the library next morning and saw
the wintry trees standing round the frozen pond like a black forest,
he felt he might well have been far in the depths of the country.
The old wall running round the park kept that inclosure itself still
pratico dei fatti sa che ‘Hollinwall’ significa semplicemente ‘il
buco nel muro,’ e probabilmente si riferiva a qualche del tutto banale
incidente. È questo che intendo quando dico che non tanto troviamo
cose vecchie quanto ne troviamo di nuove.» Crane pareva farsi alquanto disattento alla piccola
conferenza su antichità e novità, e la causa della sua
irrequietezza fu presto palese, e invero s’avvicinava. La sorella di Lord
Bulmer, Giulietta Bray, veniva lentamente attraverso il prato,
accompagnata da un gentiluomo e seguita da altri due. Il giovane
architetto era in quella illogica disposizione d’animo in cui
preferiva tre a uno. L’uomo che camminava con la dama non era altri che l’eminente Principe
Borodino, che era famoso almeno quanto un illustre diplomatico
dovrebbe esserlo, nell’interesse di ciò che si chiama diplomazia segreta. Aveva
compiuto un giro di visite in varie residenze di campagna inglesi,
ed esattamente ciò che stava facendo per la diplomazia a Prior’s Park era un
segreto tanto quanto ogni diplomatico potesse desiderare. La cosa ovvia da
dire del suo aspetto era che sarebbe stato straordinariamente bello
se non fosse stato interamente calvo. Ma, invero, sarebbe questo stesso un
modo piuttosto calvo di dirlo. Per quanto suoni fantastico, si
adatterebbe meglio al caso dire che la gente sarebbe stata sorpresa di
vedergli crescere capelli; sorpresa come se avesse trovato capelli
che crescevano sul busto d’un imperatore romano. La sua alta figura era abbottonata
in una foggia stretta in vita che piuttosto accentuava la sua potenziale
mole, e portava un fiore rosso all’occhiello. Dei due uomini
che camminavano dietro uno era pure calvo, ma in maniera più parziale e anche
più prematura, poiché i suoi baffi cadenti erano ancora gialli,
e se i suoi occhi erano un po’ pesanti era di languore e non d’
età. Era Horne Fisher, e parlava con la stessa disinvoltura e pigrizia
di tutto come sempre faceva. Il suo compagno era una figura più
notevole, e anche più sinistra, e aveva l’ulteriore
importanza d’essere il più vecchio e più intimo amico di Lord Bulmer. Era
generalmente noto con severa semplicità come il signor Brain; ma si
intendeva ch’era stato giudice e funzionario di polizia in India, e
ch’egli aveva nemici, i quali avevano descritto le sue misure contro il crimine come
esse stesse quasi criminali. Era uno scheletro bruno d’uomo con occhi scuri,
profondi, incavati e baffi neri che celavano il significato della sua
bocca. Benché avesse l’aspetto d’uno consunto da qualche malattia tropicale,
i suoi movimenti erano assai più svelti di quelli del suo indolente compagno. «È tutto deciso,» annunciò la dama, con grande animazione, quando
giunsero a portata di voce. «Dovete tutti indossare
abiti in maschera e assai probabilmente i pattini pure, benché il principe
dica che non ci stanno bene; ma di questo non c’importa. Sta già
gelando, e non spesso ci capita una simile occasione in Inghilterra.» «Anche in India non è che pattiniamo tutto l’anno,» osservò
il signor Brain. «E anche l’Italia non è associata anzitutto al ghiaccio,» disse l’
italiano. «L’Italia è associata anzitutto ai gelati,» osservò il signor Horne
Fisher. «Voglio dire ai gelatai. La maggior parte della gente in questo paese
immagina che l’Italia sia interamente popolata di gelatai e
suonatori d’organetto. Ce ne sono certamente molti; forse sono
un esercito invasore travestito.» «Come sapete che non sono i segreti emissari della nostra
diplomazia?» chiese il principe, con un sorriso un po’ sprezzante. «Un
esercito di suonatori d’organetto potrebbe raccogliere indizi, e le loro scimmie potrebbero
raccogliere ogni sorta di cose.» «Gli organetti sono in effetti organizzati,» disse il frivolo signor Fisher.
«Ebbene, ho conosciuto un bel freddo altre volte in Italia e perfino in
India, su per i pendii himalaiani. Il ghiaccio del nostro piccolo tondo
stagno sarà proprio accogliente al confronto.» Giulietta Bray era una dama attraente dai capelli e dalle sopracciglia scuri e dagli
occhi danzanti, e c’era una cordialità e perfino una generosità nei suoi
modi piuttosto imperiosi. Nella maggior parte delle cose sapeva comandare suo
fratello, benché quel nobiluomo, come molti altri uomini dalle idee vaghe,
non fosse privo d’un tocco da prepotente quando era messo alle strette. Poteva
certamente comandare i suoi ospiti, fino al punto d’agghindare i
più rispettabili e riluttanti fra loro con la sua medievale
mascherata. E pareva davvero che sapesse comandare anche gli
elementi, come una strega. Poiché il tempo si fece via via più rigido e
tagliente; quella notte il ghiaccio del lago, luccicando al
chiaro di luna, era come un pavimento di marmo, e avevano preso a danzare e
pattinarvi prima che facesse buio. Prior’s Park, o, più propriamente, il distretto circostante di
Holinwall, era una residenza di campagna divenuta un sobborgo; avendo un tempo
avuto alle porte solo un villaggio dipendente, ora trovava fuori da tutte
le sue porte i segnali dell’espansione di Londra. Il signor Haddow, che
era impegnato in ricerche storiche sia nella biblioteca sia nella
località, poteva trovare in quest’ultima ben poco aiuto. Aveva già
compreso, dai documenti, che Prior’s Park era stato in origine
qualcosa come Prior’s Farm, chiamato da qualche figura locale, ma le
nuove condizioni sociali erano tutte contro il suo rintracciare la storia dalle sue
tradizioni. Se fosse rimasto qualcuno dei veri campagnoli, avrebbe probabilmente
trovato qualche leggenda persistente sul signor Prior, per quanto remoto egli
potesse essere. Ma la nuova popolazione nomade d’impiegati e artigiani,
che di continuo spostava le proprie case da un sobborgo all’altro, o i propri
figli da una scuola all’altra, non poteva avere alcuna corporativa
continuità. Avevano tutta quella dimenticanza della storia che va
ovunque insieme all’estensione dell’istruzione. Ciononostante, quando uscì dalla biblioteca il mattino seguente e vide
gli alberi invernali ritti attorno allo stagno gelato come una nera foresta,
sentì che avrebbe ben potuto trovarsi assai lontano nel profondo della campagna.
Il vecchio muro che correva attorno al parco manteneva quella cinta stessa ancora
entirely rural and romantic, and one could easily imagine that the
depths of that dark forest faded away indefinitely into distant
vales and hills. The gray and black and silver of the wintry wood
were all the more severe or somber as a contrast to the colored
carnival groups that already stood on and around the frozen pool.
For the house party had already flung themselves impatiently into
fancy dress, and the lawyer, with his neat black suit and red hair,
was the only modern figure among them. “Aren’t you going to dress up?” asked Juliet, indignantly shaking at
him a horned and towering blue headdress of the fourteenth century
which framed her face very becomingly, fantastic as it was.
“Everybody here has to be in the Middle Ages. Even Mr. Brain has put
on a sort of brown dressing gown and says he’s a monk; and Mr.
Fisher got hold of some old potato sacks in the kitchen and sewed
them together; he’s supposed to be a monk, too. As to the prince,
he’s perfectly glorious, in great crimson robes as a cardinal. He
looks as if he could poison everybody. You simply must be
something.” “I will be something later in the day,” he replied. “At present I am
nothing but an antiquary and an attorney. I have to see your brother
presently, about some legal business and also some local
investigations he asked me to make. I must look a little like a
steward when I give an account of my stewardship.” “Oh, but my brother has dressed up!” cried the girl. “Very much so.
No end, if I may say so. Why he’s bearing down on you now in all his
glory.” The noble lord was indeed marching toward them in a magnificent
sixteenth-century costume of purple and gold, with a gold-hilted
sword and a plumed cap, and manners to match. Indeed, there was
something more than his usual expansiveness of bodily action in his
appearance at that moment. It almost seemed, so to speak, that the
plumes on his hat had gone to his head. He flapped his great,
gold-lined cloak like the wings of a fairy king in a pantomime; he
even drew his sword with a flourish and waved it about as he did his
walking stick. In the light of after events there seemed to be
something monstrous and ominous about that exuberance, something of
the spirit that is called fey. At the time it merely crossed a few
people’s minds that he might possibly be drunk. As he strode toward his sister the first figure he passed was that
of Leonard Crane, clad in Lincoln green, with the horn and baldrick
and sword appropriate to Robin Hood; for he was standing nearest to
the lady, where, indeed, he might have been found during a
disproportionate part of the time. He had displayed one of his
buried talents in the matter of skating, and now that the skating
was over seemed disposed to prolong the partnership. The boisterous
Bulmer playfully made a pass at him with his drawn sword, going
forward with the lunge in the proper fencing fashion, and making a
somewhat too familiar Shakespearean quotation about a rodent and a
Venetian coin. Probably in Crane also there was a subdued excitement just then;
anyhow, in one flash he had drawn his own sword and parried; and
then suddenly, to the surprise of everyone, Bulmer’s weapon seemed
to spring out of his hand into the air and rolled away on the
ringing ice. “Well, I never!” said the lady, as if with justifiable indignation.
“You never told me you could fence, too.” Bulmer put up his sword with an air rather bewildered than annoyed,
which increased the impression of something irresponsible in his
mood at the moment; then he turned rather abruptly to his lawyer,
saying: “We can settle up about the estate after dinner; I’ve missed nearly
all the skating as it is, and I doubt if the ice will hold till
to-morrow night. I think I shall get up early and have a spin by
myself.” “You won’t be disturbed with my company,” said Horne Fisher, in his
weary fashion. “If I have to begin the day with ice, in the American
fashion, I prefer it in smaller quantities. But no early hours for
me in December. The early bird catches the cold.” “Oh, I shan’t die of catching a cold,” answered Bulmer, and
laughed. * A considerable group of the skating party had consisted of the
guests staying at the house, and the rest had tailed off in twos and
threes some time before most of the guests began to retire for the
night. Neighbors, always invited to Prior’s Park on such occasions,
went back to their own houses in motors or on foot; the legal and
archeological gentleman had returned to the Inns of Court by a late
train, to get a paper called for during his consultation with his
client; and most of the other guests were drifting and lingering at
various stages on their way up to bed. Horne Fisher, as if to
deprive himself of any excuse for his refusal of early rising, had
been the first to retire to his room; but, sleepy as he looked, he
could not sleep. He had picked up from a table the book of
antiquarian topography, in which Haddow had found his first hints
about the origin of the local name, and, being a man with a quiet
and quaint capacity for being interested in anything, he began to
read it steadily, making notes now and then of details on which his
previous reading left him with a certain doubt about his present
conclusions. His room was the one nearest to the lake in the center
of the woods, and was therefore the quietest, and none of the last
echoes of the evening’s festivity could reach him. He had followed
carefully the argument which established the derivation from Mr.
Prior’s farm and the hole in the wall, and disposed of any
fashionable fancy about monks and magic wells, when he began to be
conscious of a noise audible in the frozen silence of the night. It
interamente rurale e romantico, e si poteva facilmente immaginare che le
profondità di quella oscura foresta svanissero indefinitamente in lontane
valli e colline. Il grigio, il nero e l’argento del bosco invernale
erano tanto più severi e cupi in contrasto con i colorati
gruppi carnevaleschi che già stavano sopra e attorno allo stagno gelato.
Perché la comitiva della casa si era già gettata con impazienza nei
costumi di fantasia, e l’avvocato, col suo lindo abito nero e i capelli rossi,
era l’unica figura moderna tra loro. «Non hai intenzione di travestirti?» chiese Juliet, scuotendogli con indignazione
un cornuto e svettante copricapo azzurro del Trecento
che le incorniciava il volto assai graziosamente, per quanto fantastico fosse.
«Qui tutti devono stare nel Medioevo. Perfino il signor Brain si è messo
una specie di vestaglia marrone e dice d’essere un monaco; e il signor
Fisher ha rimediato dei vecchi sacchi di patate in cucina e li ha cuciti
insieme; anche lui dovrebbe essere un monaco. Quanto al principe,
è perfettamente glorioso, in gran vesti cremisi da cardinale. Ha
l’aria di poter avvelenare chiunque. Devi assolutamente essere
qualcosa.» «Sarò qualcosa più tardi nella giornata,» rispose. «Al momento non sono
che un antiquario e un procuratore. Devo vedere tuo fratello
tra poco, per certi affari legali e anche per certe indagini
locali che mi ha chiesto di svolgere. Devo somigliare un po’ a un
amministratore quando rendo conto della mia amministrazione.» «Oh, ma mio fratello si è travestito!» esclamò la ragazza. «Eccome.
Oltre ogni dire, se posso permettermi. Ecco che ora ti piomba addosso in tutta la sua
gloria.» Il nobile lord marciava invero verso di loro in un magnifico
costume cinquecentesco di porpora e oro, con una
spada dall’elsa dorata e un berretto piumato, e modi all’altezza. In verità, c’era
qualcosa di più della sua consueta espansività di gesti corporei nel suo
aspetto in quel momento. Sembrava quasi, per così dire, che le
piume del cappello gli fossero salite alla testa. Sventolava il suo grande
mantello foderato d’oro come le ali d’un re fatato in una pantomima; egli
sguainò persino la spada con un gesto teatrale e la agitò come faceva col suo
bastone da passeggio. Alla luce degli eventi successivi pareva esserci
qualcosa di mostruoso e sinistro in quell’esuberanza, qualcosa dello
spirito che si dice fey. Al momento passò soltanto per la mente di poche
persone che potesse forse essere ubriaco. Mentre avanzava a gran passi verso la sorella, la prima figura che oltrepassò fu quella
di Leonard Crane, vestito di verde Lincoln, col corno e la bandoliera
e la spada appropriati a Robin Hood; poiché egli stava più vicino alla
dama, dove, in verità, lo si sarebbe potuto trovare durante una
parte sproporzionata del tempo. Aveva sfoggiato uno dei suoi
talenti nascosti nella faccenda del pattinaggio, e ora che il pattinaggio
era finito pareva disposto a prolungare la compagnia. Il chiassoso
Bulmer gli fece per gioco un affondo con la spada sguainata, andando
avanti con la stoccata secondo la giusta maniera schermistica, e facendo una
citazione shakespeariana un po’ troppo familiare su un roditore e una
moneta veneziana. Probabilmente anche in Crane c’era in quel momento un’eccitazione repressa;
comunque, in un lampo aveva sguainato la propria spada e parato; e
poi improvvisamente, con sorpresa di tutti, l’arma di Bulmer parve
schizzargli via dalla mano nell’aria e rotolò lontano sul
ghiaccio risonante. «Ma guarda!» disse la dama, come con giustificata indignazione.
«Non mi avevi mai detto che sapevi tirar di scherma anche tu.» Bulmer ripose la spada con un’aria più sconcertata che infastidita,
il che accrebbe l’impressione di qualcosa d’irresponsabile nel suo
umore in quel momento; poi si volse piuttosto bruscamente al suo avvocato,
dicendo: «Possiamo sistemare la faccenda della tenuta dopo cena; ho già perso quasi
tutto il pattinaggio così com’è, e dubito che il ghiaccio regga fino a
domani notte. Penso che mi alzerò presto e farò un giro da
solo.» «Non sarai disturbato dalla mia compagnia,» disse Horne Fisher, nel suo
modo stanco. «Se devo cominciare la giornata col ghiaccio, alla maniera
americana, lo preferisco in quantità minori. Ma niente ore mattutine per
me in dicembre. L’uccello mattiniero piglia il raffreddore.» «Oh, non morirò di certo per un raffreddore,» rispose Bulmer, e
rise. * Un gruppo considerevole della comitiva di pattinatori era composto dagli
ospiti che alloggiavano nella casa, e il resto si era diradato a due a due e a
tre a tre qualche tempo prima che la maggior parte degli ospiti cominciasse a ritirarsi per la
notte. I vicini, sempre invitati a Prior’s Park in tali occasioni,
tornarono alle proprie case in automobile o a piedi; il gentiluomo legale e
archeologico era tornato agli Inns of Court con un treno
tardo, per procurarsi un documento richiesto durante la consultazione col suo
cliente; e la maggior parte degli altri ospiti indugiava e si attardava a
vari stadi del cammino verso il letto. Horne Fisher, come per
privarsi di ogni scusa al suo rifiuto d’alzarsi presto, era
stato il primo a ritirarsi in camera; ma, per quanto assonnato apparisse, non
riusciva a dormire. Aveva preso da un tavolo il libro di
topografia antiquaria, nel quale Haddow aveva trovato i suoi primi indizi
sull’origine del nome locale, ed, essendo un uomo con una tranquilla
e bizzarra capacità d’interessarsi a qualsiasi cosa, cominciò a
leggerlo con costanza, prendendo di tanto in tanto nota di dettagli sui quali la sua
lettura precedente lo lasciava con un certo dubbio sulle sue attuali
conclusioni. La sua camera era quella più vicina al lago al centro
dei boschi, ed era perciò la più tranquilla, e nessuna delle ultime
eco della festa serale poteva raggiungerlo. Aveva seguito
attentamente l’argomentazione che stabiliva la derivazione dalla fattoria del signor
Prior e dal buco nel muro, e aveva liquidato ogni
fantasia alla moda su monaci e pozzi magici, quando cominciò a
essere cosciente d’un rumore udibile nel gelato silenzio della notte. Era
was not a particularly loud noise, but it seemed to consist of a
series of thuds or heavy blows, such as might be struck on a wooden
door by a man seeking to enter. They were followed by something like
a faint creak or crack, as if the obstacle had either been opened or
had given way. He opened his own bedroom door and listened, but as
he heard talk and laughter all over the lower floors, he had no
reason to fear that a summons would be neglected or the house left
without protection. He went to his open window, looking out over the
frozen pond and the moonlit statue in the middle of their circle of
darkling woods, and listened again. But silence had returned to that
silent place, and, after straining his ears for a considerable time,
he could hear nothing but the solitary hoot of a distant departing
train. Then he reminded himself how many nameless noises can be
heard by the wakeful during the most ordinary night, and shrugging
his shoulders, went wearily to bed. He awoke suddenly and sat up in bed with his ears filled, as with
thunder, with the throbbing echoes of a rending cry. He remained
rigid for a moment, and then sprang out of bed, throwing on the
loose gown of sacking he had worn all day. He went first to the
window, which was open, but covered with a thick curtain, so that
his room was still completely dark; but when he tossed the curtain
aside and put his head out, he saw that a gray and silver daybreak
had already appeared behind the black woods that surrounded the
little lake, and that was all that he did see. Though the sound had
certainly come in through the open window from this direction, the
whole scene was still and empty under the morning light as under the
moonlight. Then the long, rather lackadaisical hand he had laid on a
window sill gripped it tighter, as if to master a tremor, and his
peering blue eyes grew bleak with fear. It may seem that his emotion
was exaggerated and needless, considering the effort of common sense
by which he had conquered his nervousness about the noise on the
previous night. But that had been a very different sort of noise. It
might have been made by half a hundred things, from the chopping of
wood to the breaking of bottles. There was only one thing in nature
from which could come the sound that echoed through the dark house
at daybreak. It was the awful articulate voice of man; and it was
something worse, for he knew what man. He knew also that it had been a shout for help. It seemed to him
that he had heard the very word; but the word, short as it was, had
been swallowed up, as if the man had been stifled or snatched away
even as he spoke. Only the mocking reverberations of it remained
even in his memory, but he had no doubt of the original voice. He
had no doubt that the great bull’s voice of Francis Bray, Baron
Bulmer, had been heard for the last time between the darkness and
the lifting dawn. How long he stood there he never knew, but he was startled into life
by the first living thing that he saw stirring in that half-frozen
landscape. Along the path beside the lake, and immediately under his
window, a figure was walking slowly and softly, but with great
composure—a stately figure in robes of a splendid scarlet; it was
the Italian prince, still in his cardinal’s costume. Most of the
company had indeed lived in their costumes for the last day or two,
and Fisher himself had assumed his frock of sacking as a convenient
dressing gown; but there seemed, nevertheless, something unusually
finished and formal, in the way of an early bird, about this
magnificent red cockatoo. It was as if the early bird had been up
all night. “What is the matter?” he called, sharply, leaning out of the window,
and the Italian turned up his great yellow face like a mask of
brass. “We had better discuss it downstairs,” said Prince Borodino. Fisher ran downstairs, and encountered the great, red-robed figure
entering the doorway and blocking the entrance with his bulk. “Did you hear that cry?” demanded Fisher. “I heard a noise and I came out,” answered the diplomatist, and his
face was too dark in the shadow for its expression to be read. “It was Bulmer’s voice,” insisted Fisher. “I’ll swear it was
Bulmer’s voice.” “Did you know him well?” asked the other. The question seemed irrelevant, though it was not illogical, and
Fisher could only answer in a random fashion that he knew Lord
Bulmer only slightly. “Nobody seems to have known him well,” continued the Italian, in
level tones. “Nobody except that man Brain. Brain is rather older
than Bulmer, but I fancy they shared a good many secrets.” Fisher moved abruptly, as if waking from a momentary trance, and
said, in a new and more vigorous voice, “But look here, hadn’t we
better get outside and see if anything has happened.” “The ice seems to be thawing,” said the other, almost with
indifference. When they emerged from the house, dark stains and stars in the gray
field of ice did indeed indicate that the frost was breaking up, as
their host had prophesied the day before, and the very memory of
yesterday brought back the mystery of to-day. “He knew there would be a thaw,” observed the prince. “He went out
skating quite early on purpose. Did he call out because he landed in
the water, do you think?” Fisher looked puzzled. “Bulmer was the last man to bellow like that
because he got his boots wet. And that’s all he could do here; the
water would hardly come up to the calf of a man of his size. You can
see the flat weeds on the floor of the lake, as if it were through a
thin pane of glass. No, if Bulmer had only broken the ice he
wouldn’t have said much at the moment, though possibly a good deal
un rumore non particolarmente forte, ma pareva consistere in una
serie di tonfi o di pesanti percosse, quali potrebbero battersi su una
porta di legno da un uomo che cerca d’entrare. Erano seguiti da qualcosa come
un debole scricchiolio o schianto, come se l’ostacolo fosse stato o aperto o
avesse ceduto. Aprì la porta della propria camera da letto e ascoltò, ma poiché
udiva chiacchiere e risate per tutti i piani inferiori, non aveva
motivo di temere che una chiamata venisse trascurata o la casa lasciata
senza protezione. Andò alla sua finestra aperta, guardando fuori sopra lo
stagno gelato e la statua illuminata dalla luna in mezzo al loro cerchio di
boschi che imbrunivano, e ascoltò di nuovo. Ma il silenzio era tornato in quel
luogo silenzioso e, dopo aver teso l’orecchio per un considerevole tempo,
non riusciva a udire nulla se non il solitario fischio d’un lontano treno in partenza.
Poi si ricordò quanti innumerevoli rumori senza nome possano essere
uditi da chi veglia durante la più ordinaria notte e, scrollando
le spalle, andò stancamente a letto. Si svegliò di soprassalto e si mise a sedere sul letto con le orecchie colme, come di
tuono, delle eco palpitanti d’un grido lacerante. Rimase
rigido per un istante, e poi balzò fuori dal letto, gettandosi addosso la
sciolta veste di tela di sacco che aveva indossato tutto il giorno. Andò dapprima alla
finestra, che era aperta, ma coperta da una spessa tenda, cosicché
la sua camera era ancora del tutto buia; ma quando scostò la tenda
e sporse il capo, vide che un’alba grigia e argentea
era già apparsa dietro i neri boschi che circondavano il
laghetto, e questo era tutto ciò che vide. Sebbene il suono fosse
certamente entrato dalla finestra aperta da quella direzione, l’intera
scena era immobile e vuota sotto la luce del mattino come sotto la
luce della luna. Poi la lunga mano, piuttosto svogliata, che aveva posato su un
davanzale della finestra la strinse più forte, come per dominare un tremito, e i suoi
occhi azzurri scrutatori si fecero desolati per la paura. Può sembrare che la sua emozione
fosse esagerata e superflua, considerando lo sforzo di buon senso
con cui aveva vinto il proprio nervosismo per il rumore della
notte precedente. Ma quello era stato un tipo di rumore assai diverso. Poteva
essere stato prodotto da un centinaio di cose, dallo spaccare la
legna al rompere delle bottiglie. C’era una sola cosa in natura
dalla quale poteva provenire il suono che echeggiò per la buia casa
all’alba. Era la terribile voce articolata dell’uomo; ed era
qualcosa di peggio, poiché egli sapeva quale uomo. Sapeva anche che era stato un grido d’aiuto. Gli parve
d’aver udito la parola stessa; ma la parola, per quanto breve, era
stata inghiottita, come se l’uomo fosse stato soffocato o strappato via
proprio mentre parlava. Solo le beffarde riverberazioni ne rimanevano
persino nella sua memoria, ma non aveva alcun dubbio sulla voce originale. Non
aveva alcun dubbio che la gran voce da toro di Francis Bray, Barone
Bulmer, fosse stata udita per l’ultima volta tra le tenebre e
l’alba nascente. Quanto a lungo rimase lì non lo seppe mai, ma fu scosso alla vita
dalla prima cosa vivente che vide muoversi in quel paesaggio
mezzo gelato. Lungo il sentiero accanto al lago, e immediatamente sotto la sua
finestra, una figura camminava lenta e silenziosa, ma con gran
compostezza—una figura maestosa in vesti d’uno splendido scarlatto; era
il principe italiano, ancora nel suo costume da cardinale. La maggior parte della
compagnia era invero vissuta nei propri costumi negli ultimi giorni,
e lo stesso Fisher aveva assunto la sua tonaca di tela di sacco come comoda
vestaglia; ma pareva nondimeno esserci qualcosa d’insolitamente
compìto e formale, alla maniera d’un uccello mattiniero, in questo
magnifico cacatua rosso. Era come se l’uccello mattiniero fosse stato in piedi
tutta la notte. «Che cosa succede?» chiamò, bruscamente, sporgendosi dalla finestra,
e l’italiano volse in su il suo gran volto giallo come una maschera di
ottone. «Faremmo meglio a discuterne di sotto,» disse il principe Borodino. Fisher corse di sotto, e s’imbatté nella grande figura in veste rossa
che entrava nell’ingresso e ne bloccava l’accesso con la sua mole. «Avete udito quel grido?» domandò Fisher. «Ho udito un rumore e sono uscito,» rispose il diplomatico, e il suo
volto era troppo scuro nell’ombra perché se ne potesse leggere l’espressione. «Era la voce di Bulmer,» insisté Fisher. «Giurerei che era
la voce di Bulmer.» «Lo conoscevate bene?» chiese l’altro. La domanda parve irrilevante, benché non fosse illogica, e
Fisher poté solo rispondere a caso che conosceva Lord
Bulmer solo di sfuggita. «Nessuno pare averlo conosciuto bene,» continuò l’italiano, con
toni piani. «Nessuno tranne quell’uomo, Brain. Brain è piuttosto più anziano
di Bulmer, ma immagino che condividessero parecchi segreti.» Fisher si mosse bruscamente, come destandosi da una momentanea trance, e
disse, con voce nuova e più vigorosa: «Ma senta, non faremmo
meglio a uscire fuori e vedere se è successo qualcosa.» «Il ghiaccio pare stia disgelando,» disse l’altro, quasi con
indifferenza. Quando emersero dalla casa, macchie scure e stelle nel grigio
campo di ghiaccio indicavano invero che il gelo si stava rompendo, come
il loro ospite aveva profetizzato il giorno prima, e la stessa memoria di
ieri riportava il mistero d’oggi. «Sapeva che ci sarebbe stato un disgelo,» osservò il principe. «È uscito
a pattinare piuttosto presto di proposito. Ha gridato perché è finito
nell’acqua, credete?» Fisher parve perplesso. «Bulmer era l’ultimo uomo a mugghiare così
perché s’era bagnato gli stivali. Ed è tutto ciò che potrebbe fare qui; l’
acqua arriverebbe a malapena al polpaccio d’un uomo della sua statura. Si possono
vedere le erbacce piatte sul fondo del lago, come attraverso una
sottile lastra di vetro. No, se Bulmer avesse solo rotto il ghiaccio non
avrebbe detto granché sul momento, benché forse parecchio
afterward. We should have found him stamping and damning up and down
this path, and calling for clean boots.” “Let us hope we shall find him as happily employed,” remarked the
diplomatist. “In that case the voice must have come out of the
wood.” “I’ll swear it didn’t come out of the house,” said Fisher; and the
two disappeared together into the twilight of wintry trees. The plantation stood dark against the fiery colors of sunrise, a
black fringe having that feathery appearance which makes trees when
they are bare the very reverse of rugged. Hours and hours afterward,
when the same dense, but delicate, margin was dark against the
greenish colors opposite the sunset, the search thus begun at
sunrise had not come to an end. By successive stages, and to slowly
gathering groups of the company, it became apparent that the most
extraordinary of all gaps had appeared in the party; the guests
could find no trace of their host anywhere. The servants reported
that his bed had been slept in and his skates and his fancy costume
were gone, as if he had risen early for the purpose he had himself
avowed. But from the top of the house to the bottom, from the walls
round the park to the pond in the center, there was no trace of Lord
Bulmer, dead or alive. Horne Fisher realized that a chilling
premonition had already prevented him from expecting to find the man
alive. But his bald brow was wrinkled over an entirely new and
unnatural problem, in not finding the man at all. He considered the possibility of Bulmer having gone off of his own
accord, for some reason; but after fully weighing it he finally
dismissed it. It was inconsistent with the unmistakable voice heard
at daybreak, and with many other practical obstacles. There was only
one gateway in the ancient and lofty wall round the small park; the
lodge keeper kept it locked till late in the morning, and the lodge
keeper had seen no one pass. Fisher was fairly sure that he had
before him a mathematical problem in an inclosed space. His instinct
had been from the first so attuned to the tragedy that it would have
been almost a relief to him to find the corpse. He would have been
grieved, but not horrified, to come on the nobleman’s body dangling
from one of his own trees as from a gibbet, or floating in his own
pool like a pallid weed. What horrified him was to find nothing. He soon become conscious that he was not alone even in his most
individual and isolated experiments. He often found a figure
following him like his shadow, in silent and almost secret clearings
in the plantation or outlying nooks and corners of the old wall. The
dark-mustached mouth was as mute as the deep eyes were mobile,
darting incessantly hither and thither, but it was clear that Brain
of the Indian police had taken up the trail like an old hunter after
a tiger. Seeing that he was the only personal friend of the vanished
man, this seemed natural enough, and Fisher resolved to deal frankly
with him. “This silence is rather a social strain,” he said. “May I break the
ice by talking about the weather?—which, by the way, has already
broken the ice. I know that breaking the ice might be a rather
melancholy metaphor in this case.” “I don’t think so,” replied Brain, shortly. “I don’t fancy the ice
had much to do with it. I don’t see how it could.” “What would you propose doing?” asked Fisher. “Well, we’ve sent for the authorities, of course, but I hope to find
something out before they come,” replied the Anglo-Indian. “I can’t
say I have much hope from police methods in this country. Too much
red tape, habeas corpus and that sort of thing. What we want is to
see that nobody bolts; the nearest we could get to it would be to
collect the company and count them, so to speak. Nobody’s left
lately, except that lawyer who was poking about for antiquities.” “Oh, he’s out of it; he left last night,” answered the other. “Eight
hours after Bulmer’s chauffeur saw his lawyer off by the train I
heard Bulmer’s own voice as plain as I hear yours now.” “I suppose you don’t believe in spirits?” said the man from India.
After a pause he added: “There’s somebody else I should like to
find, before we go after a fellow with an alibi in the Inner Temple.
What’s become of that fellow in green—the architect dressed up as
a forester? I haven’t seem him about.” Mr. Brain managed to secure his assembly of all the distracted
company before the arrival of the police. But when he first began
to comment once more on the young architect’s delay in putting in
an appearance, he found himself in the presence of a minor mystery,
and a psychological development of an entirely unexpected kind. Juliet Bray had confronted the catastrophe of her brother’s
disappearance with a somber stoicism in which there was, perhaps,
more paralysis than pain; but when the other question came to the
surface she was both agitated and angry. “We don’t want to jump to any conclusions about anybody,” Brain was
saying in his staccato style. “But we should like to know a little
more about Mr. Crane. Nobody seems to know much about him, or where
he comes from. And it seems a sort of coincidence that yesterday he
actually crossed swords with poor Bulmer, and could have stuck him,
too, since he showed himself the better swordsman. Of course, that
may be an accident and couldn’t possibly be called a case against
anybody; but then we haven’t the means to make a real case against
anybody. Till the police come we are only a pack of very amateur
sleuthhounds.” “And I think you’re a pack of snobs,” said Juliet. “Because Mr.
Crane is a genius who’s made his own way, you try to suggest he’s a
murderer without daring to say so. Because he wore a toy sword and
happened to know how to use it, you want us to believe he used it
like a bloodthirsty maniac for no reason in the world. And because
he could have hit my brother and didn’t, you deduce that he did.
That’s the sort of way you argue. And as for his having disappeared,
you’re wrong in that as you are in everything else, for here he
comes.” And, indeed, the green figure of the fictitious Robin Hood slowly
detached itself from the gray background of the trees, and came
toward them as she spoke. He approached the group slowly, but with composure; but he was
decidedly pale, and the eyes of Brain and Fisher had already taken
in one detail of the green-clad figure more clearly than all the
rest. The horn still swung from his baldrick, but the sword was
gone. Rather to the surprise of the company, Brain did not follow up the
question thus suggested; but, while retaining an air of leading the
inquiry, had also an appearance of changing the subject. “Now we’re all assembled,” he observed, quietly, “there is a
question I want to ask to begin with. Did anybody here actually see
Lord Bulmer this morning?” Leonard Crane turned his pale face round the circle of faces till he
came to Juliet’s; then he compressed his lips a little and said: “Yes, I saw him.” “Was he alive and well?” asked Brain, quickly. “How was he
dressed?” “He appeared exceedingly well,” replied Crane, with a curious
intonation. “He was dressed as he was yesterday, in that purple
costume copied from the portrait of his ancestor in the sixteenth
century. He had his skates in his hand.” “And his sword at his side, I suppose,” added the questioner. “Where
is your own sword, Mr. Crane?” “I threw it away.” In the singular silence that ensued, the train of thought in many
minds became involuntarily a series of colored pictures. They had grown used to their fanciful garments looking more gay and
gorgeous against the dark gray and streaky silver of the forest, so
that the moving figures glowed like stained-glass saints walking.
The effect had been more fitting because so many of them had idly
parodied pontifical or monastic dress. But the most arresting
attitude that remained in their memories had been anything but
merely monastic; that of the moment when the figure in bright green
and the other in vivid violet had for a moment made a silver cross
of their crossing swords. Even when it was a jest it had been
something of a drama; and it was a strange and sinister thought that
in the gray daybreak the same figures in the same posture might have
been repeated as a tragedy. “Did you quarrel with him?” asked Brain, suddenly. “Yes,” replied the immovable man in green. “Or he quarreled with
me.” “Why did he quarrel with you?” asked the investigator; and Leonard
Crane made no reply. Horne Fisher, curiously enough, had only given half his attention to
this crucial cross-examination. His heavy-lidded eyes had languidly
followed the figure of Prince Borodino, who at this stage had
strolled away toward the fringe of the wood; and, after a pause, as
of meditation, had disappeared into the darkness of the trees. He was recalled from his irrelevance by the voice of Juliet Bray,
which rang out with an altogether new note of decision: “If that is the difficulty, it had best be cleared up. I am engaged
to Mr. Crane, and when we told my brother he did not approve of it;
that is all.” Neither Brain nor Fisher exhibited any surprise, but the former
added, quietly: “Except, I suppose, that he and your brother went off into the wood
to discuss it, where Mr. Crane mislaid his sword, not to mention his
companion.” “And may I ask,” inquired Crane, with a certain flicker of mockery
passing over his pallid features, “what I am supposed to have done
with either of them? Let us adopt the cheerful thesis that I am a
murderer; it has yet to be shown that I am a magician. If I ran your
unfortunate friend through the body, what did I do with the body?
Did I have it carried away by seven flying dragons, or was it merely
a trifling matter of turning it into a milk-white hind?” “It is no occasion for sneering,” said the Anglo-Indian judge, with
abrupt authority. “It doesn’t make it look better for you that you
can joke about the loss.” Fisher’s dreamy, and even dreary, eye was still on the edge of the
wood behind, and he became conscious of masses of dark red, like a
stormy sunset cloud, glowing through the gray network of the thin
trees, and the prince in his cardinal’s robes reemerged on to the
pathway. Brain had had half a notion that the prince might have gone
to look for the lost rapier. But when he reappeared he was carrying
in his hand, not a sword, but an ax. The incongruity between the masquerade and the mystery had created a
curious psychological atmosphere. At first they had all felt
horribly ashamed at being caught in the foolish disguises of a
festival, by an event that had only too much the character of a
funeral. Many of them would have already gone back and dressed in
clothes that were more funereal or at least more formal. But somehow
at the moment this seemed like a second masquerade, more artificial
and frivolous than the first. And as they reconciled themselves to
their ridiculous trappings, a curious sensation had come over some
of them, notably over the more sensitive, like Crane and Fisher and
Juliet, but in some degree over everybody except the practical Mr.
Brain. It was almost as if they were the ghosts of their own
ancestors haunting that dark wood and dismal lake, and playing some
old part that they only half remembered. The movements of those
colored figures seemed to mean something that had been settled long
before, like a silent heraldry. Acts, attitudes, external objects,
were accepted as an allegory even without the key; and they knew
when a crisis had come, when they did not know what it was. And
somehow they knew subconsciously that the whole tale had taken a new
avrebbe potuto colpire mio fratello e non l’ha fatto, ne deducete che l’abbia fatto.
È così che ragionate. E quanto al suo essere scomparso,
avete torto in questo come avete torto in tutto il resto, perché eccolo che
arriva.» E, in effetti, la figura verde del fittizio Robin Hood lentamente
si staccò dal grigio sfondo degli alberi, e venne
verso di loro mentre ella parlava. Egli si avvicinò al gruppo lentamente, ma con compostezza; ma era
decisamente pallido, e gli occhi di Brain e Fisher avevano già colto
un dettaglio della figura vestita di verde più chiaramente di tutto il
resto. Il corno pendeva ancora dalla sua bandoliera, ma la spada era
sparita. Piuttosto con sorpresa della compagnia, Brain non diede seguito alla
domanda così suggerita; ma, pur mantenendo un’aria di guidare l’
inchiesta, aveva anche l’apparenza di cambiare argomento. «Ora che siamo tutti riuniti,» osservò, tranquillamente, «c’è una
domanda che voglio porre per cominciare. Qualcuno qui ha effettivamente visto
Lord Bulmer stamattina?» Leonard Crane volse il suo pallido volto lungo il cerchio dei volti finché
giunse a quello di Juliet; poi strinse un poco le labbra e disse: «Sì, l’ho visto.» «Era vivo e vegeto?» chiese Brain, rapidamente. «Com’era
vestito?» «Appariva straordinariamente bene,» rispose Crane, con una curiosa
intonazione. «Era vestito come ieri, in quel purpureo
costume copiato dal ritratto del suo antenato del
Cinquecento. Aveva i pattini in mano.» «E la spada al fianco, suppongo,» aggiunse chi interrogava. «Dov’
è la vostra spada, signor Crane?» «L’ho gettata via.» Nel singolare silenzio che seguì, il corso del pensiero in molte
menti divenne involontariamente una serie di quadri colorati. Si erano abituati alle loro fantasiose vesti che apparivano più gaie e
sontuose contro il grigio scuro e l’argento striato della foresta, cosicché
le figure in movimento risplendevano come santi di vetrata che camminavano.
L’effetto era stato più appropriato perché tanti di loro avevano oziosamente
parodiato l’abito pontificale o monastico. Ma l’atteggiamento più
arrestante rimasto nei loro ricordi era stato tutt’altro che
meramente monastico; quello del momento in cui la figura in verde vivo
e l’altra in violetto acceso avevano per un istante formato una croce d’argento
con le loro spade incrociate. Anche quando era uno scherzo era stato
qualcosa di simile a un dramma; ed era uno strano e sinistro pensiero che
nella grigia alba le stesse figure nella stessa posa potessero essere
state ripetute come una tragedia. «Avete litigato con lui?» chiese Brain, all’improvviso. «Sì,» rispose l’immobile uomo in verde. «O lui ha litigato con
me.» «Perché ha litigato con voi?» chiese l’investigatore; e Leonard
Crane non diede risposta. Horne Fisher, per quanto curioso, aveva dato solo metà della sua attenzione a
questo cruciale controinterrogatorio. I suoi occhi dalle palpebre pesanti avevano languidamente
seguito la figura del principe Borodino, che a questo punto era
andato a passeggio verso il margine del bosco; e, dopo una pausa, come
di meditazione, era scomparso nell’oscurità degli alberi. Fu richiamato dalla sua distrazione dalla voce di Juliet Bray,
che risuonò con una nota di decisione del tutto nuova: «Se questa è la difficoltà, è meglio chiarirla. Io sono fidanzata
col signor Crane, e quando lo dicemmo a mio fratello egli non l’approvò;
ecco tutto.» Né Brain né Fisher mostrarono alcuna sorpresa, ma il primo
aggiunse, tranquillamente: «Tranne, suppongo, che egli e vostro fratello andarono nel bosco
a discuterne, dove il signor Crane smarrì la sua spada, per non parlare del suo
compagno.» «E posso chiedere,» s’informò Crane, con un certo guizzo di scherno
che passava sui suoi lividi lineamenti, «che cosa dovrei aver fatto
di entrambi? Adottiamo pure la lieta tesi che io sia un
assassino; resta ancora da dimostrare che io sia un mago. Se ho trapassato il
corpo del vostro sventurato amico, che ne ho fatto del corpo?
L’ho fatto portar via da sette draghi volanti, o è stato semplicemente
una banale faccenda di tramutarlo in una cerva bianca latte?» «Non è occasione da ghignare,» disse il giudice anglo-indiano, con
brusca autorità. «Non depone a vostro favore che possiate
scherzare sulla perdita.» L’occhio sognante, e persino tetro, di Fisher era ancora sul margine del
bosco dietro di lui, ed egli divenne cosciente di masse di rosso scuro, come una
tempestosa nube di tramonto, che risplendevano attraverso la grigia rete dei sottili
alberi, e il principe nelle sue vesti da cardinale riemerse sul
sentiero. Brain aveva avuto una mezza idea che il principe potesse essere andato
a cercare lo stocco perduto. Ma quando riapparve portava
in mano, non una spada, ma un’ascia. L’incongruità tra la mascherata e il mistero aveva creato una
curiosa atmosfera psicologica. Dapprima si erano tutti sentiti
orribilmente vergognosi d’essere colti nei folli travestimenti d’una
festa, da un evento che aveva fin troppo il carattere d’un
funerale. Molti di loro sarebbero già tornati indietro a vestirsi con
abiti più funerei o almeno più formali. Ma in qualche modo
in quel momento questo pareva una seconda mascherata, più artificiale
e frivola della prima. E man mano che si riconciliavano coi
loro ridicoli paludamenti, una curiosa sensazione era discesa su alcuni
di loro, in particolare sui più sensibili, come Crane e Fisher e
Juliet, ma in qualche misura su tutti tranne il pratico signor
Brain. Era quasi come se fossero i fantasmi dei propri
antenati che infestavano quel buio bosco e quel lugubre lago, e recitavano qualche
antica parte che ricordavano solo a metà. I movimenti di quelle
figure colorate parevano significare qualcosa che era stato stabilito assai
tempo prima, come una silenziosa araldica. Atti, atteggiamenti, oggetti esterni,
erano accettati come un’allegoria anche senza la chiave; e sapevano
quando una crisi era giunta, pur non sapendo che cosa fosse. E
in qualche modo sapevano inconsciamente che l’intera vicenda aveva preso una nuova
and terrible turn, when they saw the prince stand in the gap of the
gaunt trees, in his robes of angry crimson and with his lowering
face of bronze, bearing in his hand a new shape of death. They could
not have named a reason, but the two swords seemed indeed to have
become toy swords and the whole tale of them broken and tossed away
like a toy. Borodino looked like the Old World headsman, clad in
terrible red, and carrying the ax for the execution of the criminal.
And the criminal was not Crane. Mr. Brain of the Indian police was glaring at the new object, and it
was a moment or two before he spoke, harshly and almost hoarsely. “What are you doing with that?” he asked. “Seems to be a woodman’s
chopper.” “A natural association of ideas,” observed Horne Fisher. “If you
meet a cat in a wood you think it’s a wildcat, though it may have
just strolled from the drawing-room sofa. As a matter of fact, I
happen to know that is not the woodman’s chopper. It’s the kitchen
chopper, or meat ax, or something like that, that somebody has
thrown away in the wood. I saw it in the kitchen myself when I was
getting the potato sacks with which I reconstructed a mediaeval
hermit.” “All the same, it is not without interest,” remarked the prince,
holding out the instrument to Fisher, who took it and examined it
carefully. “A butcher’s cleaver that has done butcher’s work.” “It was certainly the instrument of the crime,” assented Fisher, in
a low voice. Brain was staring at the dull blue gleam of the ax head with fierce
and fascinated eyes. “I don’t understand you,” he said. “There is
no—there are no marks on it.” “It has shed no blood,” answered Fisher, “but for all that it has
committed a crime. This is as near as the criminal came to the crime
when he committed it.” “What do you mean?” “He was not there when he did it,” explained Fisher. “It’s a poor
sort of murderer who can’t murder people when he isn’t there.” “You seem to be talking merely for the sake of mystification,” said
Brain. “If you have any practical advice to give you might as well
make it intelligible.” “The only practical advice I can suggest,” said Fisher,
thoughtfully, “is a little research into local topography and
nomenclature. They say there used to be a Mr. Prior, who had a farm
in this neighborhood. I think some details about the domestic life
of the late Mr. Prior would throw a light on this terrible
business.” “And you have nothing more immediate than your topography to offer,”
said Brain, with a sneer, “to help me avenge my friend?” “Well,” said Fisher, “I should find out the truth about the Hole in
the Wall.” * That night, at the close of a stormy twilight and under a strong
west wind that followed the breaking of the frost, Leonard Crane was
wending his way in a wild rotatory walk round and round the high,
continuous wall that inclosed the little wood. He was driven by a
desperate idea of solving for himself the riddle that had clouded
his reputation and already even threatened his liberty. The police
authorities, now in charge of the inquiry, had not arrested him, but
he knew well enough that if he tried to move far afield he would be
instantly arrested. Horne Fisher’s fragmentary hints, though he had
refused to expand them as yet, had stirred the artistic temperament
of the architect to a sort of wild analysis, and he was resolved to
read the hieroglyph upside down and every way until it made sense.
If it was something connected with a hole in the wall he would find
the hole in the wall; but, as a matter of fact, he was unable to
find the faintest crack in the wall. His professional knowledge told
him that the masonry was all of one workmanship and one date, and,
except for the regular entrance, which threw no light on the
mystery, he found nothing suggesting any sort of hiding place or
means of escape. Walking a narrow path between the winding wall and
the wild eastward bend and sweep of the gray and feathery trees,
seeing shifting gleams of a lost sunset winking almost like
lightning as the clouds of tempest scudded across the sky and
mingling with the first faint blue light from a slowly strengthened
moon behind him, he began to feel his head going round as his heels
were going round and round the blind recurrent barrier. He had
thoughts on the border of thought; fancies about a fourth dimension
which was itself a hole to hide anything, of seeing everything from
a new angle out of a new window in the senses; or of some mystical
light and transparency, like the new rays of chemistry, in which he
could see Bulmer’s body, horrible and glaring, floating in a lurid
halo over the woods and the wall. He was haunted also with the hint,
which somehow seemed to be equally horrifying, that it all had
something to do with Mr. Prior. There seemed even to be something
creepy in the fact that he was always respectfully referred to as
Mr. Prior, and that it was in the domestic life of the dead farmer
that he had been bidden to seek the seed of these dreadful things.
As a matter of fact, he had found that no local inquiries had
revealed anything at all about the Prior family. The moonlight had broadened and brightened, the wind had driven off
the clouds and itself died fitfully away, when he came round again
to the artificial lake in front of the house. For some reason it
looked a very artificial lake; indeed, the whole scene was like a
classical landscape with a touch of Watteau; the Palladian facade of
the house pale in the moon, and the same silver touching the very
pagan and naked marble nymph in the middle of the pond. Rather to
his surprise, he found another figure there beside the statue,
sitting almost equally motionless; and the same silver pencil traced
the wrinkled brow and patient face of Horne Fisher, still dressed as
e terribile piega, quando videro il principe ergersi nel varco degli
scarni alberi, nelle sue vesti di cremisi irato e col suo torvo
volto di bronzo, recando in mano una nuova forma di Morte. Non avrebbero
saputo dire una ragione, ma le due spade parevano invero essere
divenute spade giocattolo e l’intera loro storia spezzata e gettata via
come un giocattolo. Borodino somigliava al boia del Vecchio Mondo, vestito di
rosso terribile, e recante l’ascia per l’esecuzione del criminale.
E il criminale non era Crane. Il signor Brain della polizia indiana fissava il nuovo oggetto, e passò
un istante o due prima che parlasse, aspramente e quasi rocamente. «Che ci fate con quella?» chiese. «Sembra la mannaia d’un
boscaiolo.» «Una naturale associazione d’idee,» osservò Horne Fisher. «Se
incontrate un gatto in un bosco lo credete un gatto selvatico, benché possa
essersi appena allontanato dal divano del salotto. In verità, mi
capita di sapere che quella non è la mannaia del boscaiolo. È la mannaia
da cucina, o ascia da carne, o qualcosa del genere, che qualcuno ha
gettato via nel bosco. L’ho vista io stesso in cucina quando
prendevo i sacchi di patate coi quali ho ricostruito un medievale
eremita.» «Nondimeno, non è priva d’interesse,» osservò il principe,
porgendo lo strumento a Fisher, che lo prese e lo esaminò
attentamente. «Una mannaia da macellaio che ha fatto lavoro da macellaio.» «Era certamente lo strumento del delitto,» convenne Fisher, a
bassa voce. Brain fissava l’opaco bagliore azzurro della lama dell’ascia con occhi feroci
e affascinati. «Non vi capisco,» disse. «Non c’è
nessun—non ci sono segni su di essa.» «Non ha versato sangue,» rispose Fisher, «ma ciò nonostante ha
commesso un delitto. Questo è quanto più il criminale si è avvicinato al delitto
quando lo commise.» «Che cosa intendete?» «Non era là quando lo fece,» spiegò Fisher. «È un povero
tipo d’assassino chi non sa assassinare la gente quando non è là.» «Pare che parliate solo per amor di mistificazione,» disse
Brain. «Se avete qualche consiglio pratico da dare, tanto varrebbe
renderlo intelligibile.» «L’unico consiglio pratico che posso suggerire,» disse Fisher,
pensosamente, «è un po’ di ricerca sulla topografia e
nomenclatura locale. Dicono che ci fosse un tempo un signor Prior, che aveva una fattoria
in questi paraggi. Penso che certi dettagli sulla vita domestica
del defunto signor Prior getterebbero luce su questa terribile
faccenda.» «E non avete nulla di più immediato della vostra topografia da offrire,»
disse Brain, con un ghigno, «per aiutarmi a vendicare il mio amico?» «Be’,» disse Fisher, «scoprirei la verità sul Buco nel
Muro.» * Quella notte, al chiudersi d’un tempestoso crepuscolo e sotto un forte
vento di ponente che seguì il rompersi del gelo, Leonard Crane
andava per la sua via in una folle camminata rotatoria attorno e attorno all’alto,
continuo muro che racchiudeva il piccolo bosco. Era spinto da una
disperata idea di risolvere da sé l’enigma che aveva offuscato
la sua reputazione e già persino minacciato la sua libertà. Le autorità
di polizia, ora incaricate dell’inchiesta, non l’avevano arrestato, ma
egli sapeva bene a sufficienza che se avesse tentato di allontanarsi troppo sarebbe stato
istantaneamente arrestato. I frammentari accenni di Horne Fisher, benché egli avesse
rifiutato d’ampliarli per ora, avevano incitato il temperamento artistico
dell’architetto a una sorta di folle analisi, ed egli era risoluto a
leggere il geroglifico a rovescio e in ogni modo finché non avesse un senso.
Se era qualcosa di connesso con un buco nel muro, avrebbe trovato
il buco nel muro; ma, in verità, era incapace di
trovare la più tenue crepa nel muro. La sua conoscenza professionale gli diceva
che la muratura era tutta d’una stessa fattura e d’una stessa data, e,
tranne l’ingresso regolare, che non gettava luce sul
mistero, non trovò nulla che suggerisse alcun tipo di nascondiglio o
mezzo di fuga. Camminando per uno stretto sentiero tra il muro serpeggiante e
la selvaggia curva e distesa verso oriente dei grigi e piumati alberi,
vedendo mutevoli bagliori d’un tramonto perduto ammiccare quasi come
lampi mentre le nubi di tempesta scorrevano rapide per il cielo e
si mescolavano con la prima debole luce azzurra d’una lentamente rafforzata
luna alle sue spalle, cominciò a sentirsi girare la testa mentre i suoi calcagni
giravano e giravano attorno alla cieca barriera ricorrente. Aveva
pensieri ai confini del pensiero; fantasie su una quarta dimensione
che era essa stessa un buco per nascondere qualsiasi cosa, di veder tutto da
un nuovo angolo attraverso una nuova finestra nei sensi; o d’una mistica
luce e trasparenza, come i nuovi raggi della chimica, in cui egli
poteva vedere il corpo di Bulmer, orribile e sfolgorante, galleggiante in un livido
alone sopra i boschi e il muro. Era anche perseguitato dall’indizio,
che in qualche modo pareva egualmente raccapricciante, che tutto avesse
qualcosa a che fare col signor Prior. Pareva persino esserci qualcosa
d’inquietante nel fatto che vi si riferissero sempre rispettosamente come al
signor Prior, e che fosse nella vita domestica del defunto fattore
che gli era stato ingiunto di cercare il seme di queste terribili cose.
In verità, aveva scoperto che nessuna indagine locale aveva
rivelato alcunché sulla famiglia Prior. La luce lunare si era ampliata e ravvivata, il vento aveva scacciato
le nubi e s’era esso stesso spento a tratti, quando egli tornò di nuovo
al lago artificiale davanti alla casa. Per qualche ragione
pareva un lago assai artificiale; anzi, l’intera scena era come un
paesaggio classico con un tocco di Watteau; la palladiana facciata della
casa pallida nella luna, e lo stesso argento che sfiorava la
assai pagana e nuda ninfa di marmo in mezzo allo stagno. Piuttosto
con sua sorpresa, vi trovò un’altra figura accanto alla statua,
seduta quasi egualmente immobile; e la stessa matita d’argento tracciava
la fronte rugosa e il paziente volto di Horne Fisher, ancora vestito da
a hermit and apparently practicing something of the solitude of a
hermit. Nevertheless, he looked up at Leonard Crane and smiled,
almost as if he had expected him. “Look here,” said Crane, planting himself in front of him, “can you
tell me anything about this business?” “I shall soon have to tell everybody everything about it,” replied
Fisher, “but I’ve no objection to telling you something first. But,
to begin with, will you tell me something? What really happened when
you met Bulmer this morning? You did throw away your sword, but you
didn’t kill him.” “I didn’t kill him because I threw away my sword,” said the other.
“I did it on purpose—or I’m not sure what might have happened.” After a pause he went on, quietly: “The late Lord Bulmer was a very
breezy gentleman, extremely breezy. He was very genial with his
inferiors, and would have his lawyer and his architect staying in
his house for all sorts of holidays and amusements. But there was
another side to him, which they found out when they tried to be his
equals. When I told him that his sister and I were engaged,
something happened which I simply can’t and won’t describe. It
seemed to me like some monstrous upheaval of madness. But I suppose
the truth is painfully simple. There is such a thing as the
coarseness of a gentleman. And it is the most horrible thing in
humanity.” “I know,” said Fisher. “The Renaissance nobles of the Tudor time
were like that.” “It is odd that you should say that,” Crane went on. “For while we
were talking there came on me a curious feeling that we were
repeating some scene of the past, and that I was really some outlaw,
found in the woods like Robin Hood, and that he had really stepped
in all his plumes and purple out of the picture frame of the
ancestral portrait. Anyhow, he was the man in possession, and he
neither feared God nor regarded man. I defied him, of course, and
walked away. I might really have killed him if I had not walked
away.” “Yes,” said Fisher, nodding, “his ancestor was in possession and he
was in possession, and this is the end of the story. It all fits
in.” “Fits in with what?” cried his companion, with sudden impatience. “I
can’t make head or tail of it. You tell me to look for the secret in
the hole in the wall, but I can’t find any hole in the wall.” “There isn’t any,” said Fisher. “That’s the secret.” After
reflecting a moment, he added: “Unless you call it a hole in the
wall of the world. Look here; I’ll tell you if you like, but I’m
afraid it involves an introduction. You’ve got to understand one of
the tricks of the modern mind, a tendency that most people obey
without noticing it. In the village or suburb outside there’s an inn
with the sign of St. George and the Dragon. Now suppose I went about
telling everybody that this was only a corruption of King George and
the Dragoon. Scores of people would believe it, without any inquiry,
from a vague feeling that it’s probable because it’s prosaic. It
turns something romantic and legendary into something recent and
ordinary. And that somehow makes it sound rational, though it is
unsupported by reason. Of course some people would have the sense to
remember having seen St. George in old Italian pictures and French
romances, but a good many wouldn’t think about it at all. They would
just swallow the skepticism because it was skepticism. Modern
intelligence won’t accept anything on authority. But it will accept
anything without authority. That’s exactly what has happened here. “When some critic or other chose to say that Prior’s Park was not a
priory, but was named after some quite modern man named Prior,
nobody really tested the theory at all. It never occurred to anybody
repeating the story to ask if there was any Mr. Prior, if anybody
had ever seen him or heard of him. As a matter of fact, it was a
priory, and shared the fate of most priories—that is, the Tudor
gentleman with the plumes simply stole it by brute force and turned
it into his own private house; he did worse things, as you shall
hear. But the point here is that this is how the trick works, and
the trick works in the same way in the other part of the tale. The
name of this district is printed Holinwall in all the best maps
produced by the scholars; and they allude lightly, not without a
smile, to the fact that it was pronounced Holiwell by the most
ignorant and old-fashioned of the poor. But it is spelled wrong and
pronounced right.” “Do you mean to say,” asked Crane, quickly, “that there really was a
well?” “There is a well,” said Fisher, “and the truth lies at the bottom of
it.” As he spoke he stretched out his hand and pointed toward the sheet
of water in front of him. “The well is under that water somewhere,” he said, “and this is not
the first tragedy connected with it. The founder of this house did
something which his fellow ruffians very seldom did; something that
had to be hushed up even in the anarchy of the pillage of the
monasteries. The well was connected with the miracles of some saint,
and the last prior that guarded it was something like a saint
himself; certainly he was something very like a martyr. He defied
the new owner and dared him to pollute the place, till the noble, in
a fury, stabbed him and flung his body into the well, whither, after
four hundred years, it has been followed by an heir of the usurper,
clad in the same purple and walking the world with the same pride.” “But how did it happen,” demanded Crane, “that for the first time
Bulmer fell in at that particular spot?” “Because the ice was only loosened at that particular spot, by the
only man who knew it,” answered Horne Fisher. “It was cracked
deliberately, with the kitchen chopper, at that special place; and I
un eremita e apparentemente praticando qualcosa della solitudine d’un
eremita. Nondimeno, alzò lo sguardo su Leonard Crane e sorrise,
quasi come se l’avesse aspettato. «Sentite,» disse Crane, piantandosi davanti a lui, «potete
dirmi qualcosa su questa faccenda?» «Presto dovrò dire a tutti ogni cosa in proposito,» rispose
Fisher, «ma non ho nulla in contrario a dire prima qualcosa a voi. Ma,
tanto per cominciare, volete dirmi una cosa? Che cosa accadde davvero quando
incontraste Bulmer stamattina? Gettaste via la vostra spada, ma non
lo uccideste.» «Non lo uccisi perché gettai via la mia spada,» disse l’altro.
«Lo feci di proposito—o non sono sicuro di ciò che sarebbe potuto accadere.» Dopo una pausa proseguì, tranquillamente: «Il defunto Lord Bulmer era un gentiluomo assai
gioviale, estremamente gioviale. Era assai cordiale coi suoi
inferiori, e teneva il suo avvocato e il suo architetto a stare
in casa sua per ogni sorta di vacanze e divertimenti. Ma c’era
un altro lato in lui, che scoprivano quando tentavano d’essere suoi
pari. Quando gli dissi che sua sorella e io eravamo fidanzati,
accadde qualcosa che semplicemente non posso e non voglio descrivere. Mi
parve come un mostruoso sconvolgimento di Follia. Ma suppongo
che la verità sia dolorosamente semplice. Esiste una cosa quale la
grossolanità d’un gentiluomo. Ed è la cosa più orribile
nell’umanità.» «Lo so,» disse Fisher. «I nobili del Rinascimento dell’epoca Tudor
erano così.» «È strano che diciate questo,» proseguì Crane. «Perché mentre
parlavamo mi venne una curiosa sensazione che stessimo
ripetendo qualche scena del passato, e che io fossi davvero un fuorilegge,
trovato nei boschi come Robin Hood, e che egli fosse davvero uscito
in tutte le sue piume e nella sua porpora dalla cornice del
ritratto ancestrale. Comunque, egli era l’uomo in possesso, ed
egli non temeva Dio né aveva riguardo per l’uomo. Lo sfidai, naturalmente, e
me ne andai. Avrei potuto davvero ucciderlo se non me ne fossi
andato.» «Sì,» disse Fisher, annuendo, «il suo antenato era in possesso ed egli
era in possesso, e questa è la fine della storia. Tutto si
incastra.» «Si incastra con che cosa?» esclamò il suo compagno, con improvvisa impazienza. «Non
riesco a raccapezzarmici. Mi dite di cercare il segreto nel
buco nel muro, ma non riesco a trovare alcun buco nel muro.» «Non ce n’è alcuno,» disse Fisher. «È questo il segreto.» Dopo
aver riflettuto un istante, aggiunse: «A meno che non lo chiamiate un buco nel
muro del mondo. Sentite; ve lo dirò se volete, ma
temo che comporti un’introduzione. Dovete comprendere uno dei
trucchi della mente moderna, una tendenza a cui la maggior parte della gente obbedisce
senza accorgersene. Nel villaggio o sobborgo qui fuori c’è una locanda
con l’insegna di San Giorgio e il Drago. Ora supponete che io andassi in giro
a dire a tutti che questa era solo una corruzione di Re Giorgio e
il Dragone. Decine di persone ci crederebbero, senza alcuna indagine,
da una vaga sensazione che sia probabile perché è prosaico. Ciò
trasforma qualcosa di romantico e leggendario in qualcosa di recente e
ordinario. E questo in qualche modo lo fa suonare razionale, benché sia
privo di sostegno razionale. Certo alcune persone avrebbero il buon senso di
ricordare d’aver visto San Giorgio in vecchi dipinti italiani e romanzi
francesi, ma parecchie non ci penserebbero affatto. Si limiterebbero a
inghiottire lo scetticismo perché era scetticismo. L’intelligenza
moderna non accetta nulla per autorità. Ma accetterà
qualsiasi cosa senza autorità. È esattamente ciò che è accaduto qui. «Quando un critico o l’altro scelse di dire che Prior’s Park non era un
priorato, ma prendeva nome da un uomo piuttosto moderno chiamato Prior,
nessuno mise davvero alla prova la teoria. Non venne mai in mente ad alcuno
che ripeteva la storia di chiedersi se ci fosse un signor Prior, se qualcuno
l’avesse mai visto o ne avesse sentito parlare. In verità, era un
priorato, e condivise la sorte della maggior parte dei priorati—cioè, il
gentiluomo Tudor con le piume lo rubò semplicemente con la forza bruta e lo trasformò
nella sua casa privata; fece cose peggiori, come
udrete. Ma il punto qui è che è così che funziona il trucco, e
il trucco funziona allo stesso modo nell’altra parte del racconto. Il
nome di questo distretto è stampato Holinwall in tutte le migliori carte
prodotte dagli studiosi; ed essi alludono con leggerezza, non senza un
sorriso, al fatto che era pronunciato Holiwell dai più
ignoranti e antiquati tra i poveri. Ma è scritto male e
pronunciato bene.» «Volete dire,» chiese Crane, rapidamente, «che c’era davvero un
pozzo?» «C’è un pozzo,» disse Fisher, «e la verità giace in fondo a
esso.» Mentre parlava tese la mano e indicò verso la distesa
d’acqua davanti a lui. «Il pozzo è da qualche parte sotto quell’acqua,» disse, «e questa non è
la prima tragedia connessa con esso. Il fondatore di questa casa fece
qualcosa che i suoi compagni ribaldi ben di rado facevano; qualcosa che
dovette essere messo a tacere persino nell’anarchia del saccheggio dei
monasteri. Il pozzo era connesso coi miracoli di qualche santo,
e l’ultimo priore che lo custodì era qualcosa di simile a un santo
egli stesso; certamente era qualcosa di assai simile a un martire. Sfidò
il nuovo proprietario e lo sfidò a profanare il luogo, finché il nobile, in
una furia, lo pugnalò e ne gettò il corpo nel pozzo, dove, dopo
quattrocento anni, è stato seguito da un erede dell’usurpatore,
vestito della stessa porpora e camminante per il mondo con lo stesso orgoglio.» «Ma come accadde,» domandò Crane, «che per la prima volta
Bulmer cadde proprio in quel particolare punto?» «Perché il ghiaccio fu allentato solo in quel particolare punto, dall’
unico uomo che lo sapeva,» rispose Horne Fisher. «Fu incrinato
deliberatamente, con la mannaia da cucina, in quel punto speciale; e io
myself heard the hammering and did not understand it. The place had
been covered with an artificial lake, if only because the whole
truth had to be covered with an artificial legend. But don’t you see
that it is exactly what those pagan nobles would have done, to
desecrate it with a sort of heathen goddess, as the Roman Emperor
built a temple to Venus on the Holy Sepulchre. But the truth could
still be traced out, by any scholarly man determined to trace it.
And this man was determined to trace it.” “What man?” asked the other, with a shadow of the answer in his
mind. “The only man who has an alibi,” replied Fisher. “James Haddow, the
antiquarian lawyer, left the night before the fatality, but he left
that black star of death on the ice. He left abruptly, having
previously proposed to stay; probably, I think, after an ugly scene
with Bulmer, at their legal interview. As you know yourself, Bulmer
could make a man feel pretty murderous, and I rather fancy the
lawyer had himself irregularities to confess, and was in danger of
exposure by his client. But it’s my reading of human nature that a
man will cheat in his trade, but not in his hobby. Haddow may have
been a dishonest lawyer, but he couldn’t help being an honest
antiquary. When he got on the track of the truth about the Holy Well
he had to follow it up; he was not to be bamboozled with newspaper
anecdotes about Mr. Prior and a hole in the wall; he found out
everything, even to the exact location of the well, and he was
rewarded, if being a successful assassin can be regarded as a
reward.” “And how did you get on the track of all this hidden history?” asked
the young architect. A cloud came across the brow of Horne Fisher. “I knew only too much
about it already,” he said, “and, after all, it’s shameful for me to
be speaking lightly of poor Bulmer, who has paid his penalty; but
the rest of us haven’t. I dare say every cigar I smoke and every
liqueur I drink comes directly or indirectly from the harrying of
the holy places and the persecution of the poor. After all, it needs
very little poking about in the past to find that hole in the wall,
that great breach in the defenses of English history. It lies just
under the surface of a thin sheet of sham information and
instruction, just as the black and blood-stained well lies just
under that floor of shallow water and flat weeds. Oh, the ice is
thin, but it bears; it is strong enough to support us when we dress
up as monks and dance on it, in mockery of the dear, quaint old
Middle Ages. They told me I must put on fancy dress; so I did put on
fancy dress, according to my own taste and fancy. I put on the only
costume I think fit for a man who has inherited the position of a
gentleman, and yet has not entirely lost the feelings of one.” In answer to a look of inquiry, he rose with a sweeping and downward
gesture. “Sackcloth,” he said; “and I would wear the ashes as well if they
would stay on my bald head.”
udii io stesso il martellare e non lo compresi. Il luogo era
stato coperto da un lago artificiale, non foss’altro perché l’intera
verità doveva essere coperta da una leggenda artificiale. Ma non vedi
che è esattamente ciò che avrebbero fatto quei nobili pagani, per
profanarlo con una sorta di dea idolatra, come l’Imperatore romano
eresse un tempio a Venere sul Santo Sepolcro. Ma la verità poteva
ancora essere rintracciata da qualunque uomo dotto deciso a rintracciarla.
E quest’uomo era deciso a rintracciarla.” “Quale uomo?” chiese l’altro, con un’ombra della risposta nella
mente. “L’unico uomo che ha un alibi,” rispose Fisher. “James Haddow, il
avvocato antiquario, partì la notte prima della disgrazia, ma lasciò
quella nera stella di morte sul ghiaccio. Se ne andò bruscamente, avendo
in precedenza proposto di restare; probabilmente, credo, dopo una brutta scena
con Bulmer, al loro colloquio legale. Come tu stesso sai, Bulmer
poteva far venire a un uomo una gran voglia d’assassinio, e ho idea che
l’avvocato avesse egli stesso irregolarità da confessare, ed era in pericolo di
essere smascherato dal suo cliente. Ma la mia lettura della natura umana è che un
uomo bara nel suo mestiere, ma non nel suo passatempo. Haddow poteva essere
stato un avvocato disonesto, ma non poteva fare a meno d’essere un onesto
antiquario. Quando si mise sulle tracce della verità sul Santo Pozzo
dovette seguirla fino in fondo; non si lasciava abbindolare con aneddoti da giornale
sul signor Prior e un buco nel muro; scoprì
ogni cosa, perfino l’esatta ubicazione del pozzo, e fu
ricompensato, se essere un assassino riuscito può considerarsi una
ricompensa.” “E come ti sei messo sulle tracce di tutta questa storia nascosta?” chiese
il giovane architetto. Una nube passò sulla fronte di Horne Fisher. “Ne sapevo fin troppo
già,” disse, “e, in fondo, è vergognoso per me
parlare con leggerezza del povero Bulmer, che ha pagato la sua pena; ma
noialtri no. Oserei dire che ogni sigaro che fumo e ogni
liquore che bevo viene direttamente o indirettamente dal saccheggio dei
luoghi santi e dalla persecuzione dei poveri. Dopotutto, basta
frugare ben poco nel passato per trovare quel buco nel muro,
quella gran breccia nelle difese della storia inglese. Giace appena
sotto la superficie d’un sottile strato di finta informazione e
istruzione, proprio come il nero pozzo macchiato di sangue giace appena
sotto quel pavimento d’acqua bassa e d’erbacce piatte. Oh, il ghiaccio è
sottile, ma regge; è abbastanza forte da sostenerci quando ci travestiamo
da monaci e vi danziamo sopra, a scherno dei cari, bizzarri, vecchi
Secoli Bui. Mi dissero che dovevo mettere un costume; e così misi
un costume, secondo il mio gusto e capriccio. Indossai l’unico
costume che ritengo adatto a un uomo che ha ereditato la posizione di un
gentiluomo, e tuttavia non ne ha perduto del tutto i sentimenti.” In risposta a uno sguardo interrogativo, egli si alzò con un ampio gesto verso il
basso. “Cilicio,” disse; “e porterei anche la cenere, se
restasse sul mio cranio calvo.”
VII - The Temple of Silence * Harold March and the few who cultivated the friendship of Horne
Fisher, especially if they saw something of him in his own social
setting, were conscious of a certain solitude in his very
sociability. They seemed to be always meeting his relations and
never meeting his family. Perhaps it would be truer to say that they
saw much of his family and nothing of his home. His cousins and
connections ramified like a labyrinth all over the governing class
of Great Britain, and he seemed to be on good, or at least on
good-humored, terms with most of them. For Horne Fisher was
remarkable for a curious impersonal information and interest
touching all sorts of topics, so that one could sometimes fancy that
his culture, like his colorless, fair mustache and pale, drooping
features, had the neutral nature of a chameleon. Anyhow, he could
always get on with viceroys and Cabinet Ministers and all the great
men responsible for great departments, and talk to each of them on
his own subject, on the branch of study with which he was most
seriously concerned. Thus he could converse with the Minister for
War about silkworms, with the Minister of Education about detective
stories, with the Minister of Labor about Limoges enamel, and with
the Minister of Missions and Moral Progress (if that be his correct
title) about the pantomime boys of the last four decades. And as the
first was his first cousin, the second his second cousin, the third
his brother-in-law, and the fourth his uncle by marriage, this
conversational versatility certainly served in one sense to create a
happy family. But March never seemed to get a glimpse of that
domestic interior to which men of the middle classes are accustomed
in their friendships, and which is indeed the foundation of
friendship and love and everything else in any sane and stable
society. He wondered whether Horne Fisher was both an orphan and an
only child. It was, therefore, with something like a start that he found that
Fisher had a brother, much more prosperous and powerful than
himself, though hardly, March thought, so entertaining. Sir Henry
Harland Fisher, with half the alphabet after his name, was something
at the Foreign Office far more tremendous than the Foreign
Secretary. Apparently, it ran in the family, after all; for it
seemed there was another brother, Ashton Fisher, in India, rather
more tremendous than the Viceroy. Sir Henry Fisher was a heavier,
but handsomer edition of his brother, with a brow equally bald, but
much more smooth. He was very courteous, but a shade patronizing,
not only to March, but even, as March fancied, to Horne Fisher as
well. The latter gentleman, who had many intuitions about the
half-formed thoughts of others, glanced at the topic himself as they
came away from the great house in Berkeley Square. “Why, don’t you know,” he observed quietly, “that I am the fool of
the family?” “It must be a clever family,” said Harold March, with a smile. “Very gracefully expressed,” replied Fisher; “that is the best of
having a literary training. Well, perhaps it is an exaggeration to
say I am the fool of the family. It’s enough to say I am the failure
of the family.” “It seems queer to me that you should fail especially,” remarked the
journalist. “As they say in the examinations, what did you fail in?” “Politics,” replied his friend. “I stood for Parliament when I was
quite a young man and got in by an enormous majority, with loud
cheers and chairing round the town. Since then, of course, I’ve been
rather under a cloud.” “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand the ‘of course,’” answered
March, laughing. “That part of it isn’t worth understanding,” said Fisher. “But as a
matter of fact, old chap, the other part of it was rather odd and
interesting. Quite a detective story in its way, as well as the
first lesson I had in what modern politics are made of. If you like,
I’ll tell you all about it.” And the following, recast in a less
allusive and conversational manner, is the story that he told. Nobody privileged of late years to meet Sir Henry Harland Fisher
would believe that he had ever been called Harry. But, indeed, he
had been boyish enough when a boy, and that serenity which shone on
him through life, and which now took the form of gravity, had once
taken the form of gayety. His friends would have said that he was
all the more ripe in his maturity for having been young in his
youth. His enemies would have said that he was still light minded,
but no longer light hearted. But in any case, the whole of the story
Horne Fisher had to tell arose out of the accident which had made
young Harry Fisher private secretary to Lord Saltoun. Hence his
later connection with the Foreign Office, which had, indeed, come to
him as a sort of legacy from his lordship when that great man was
the power behind the throne. This is not the place to say much about
Saltoun, little as was known of him and much as there was worth
knowing. England has had at least three or four such secret
statesmen. An aristocratic polity produces every now and then an
aristocrat who is also an accident, a man of intellectual
independence and insight, a Napoleon born in the purple. His vast
work was mostly invisible, and very little could be got out of him
in private life except a crusty and rather cynical sense of humor.
But it was certainly the accident of his presence at a family dinner
of the Fishers, and the unexpected opinion he expressed, which
turned what might have been a dinner-table joke into a sort of small
sensational novel. Save for Lord Saltoun, it was a family party of Fishers, for the
only other distinguished stranger had just departed after dinner,
leaving the rest to their coffee and cigars. This had been a figure
VII - Il Tempio del Silenzio * Harold March e i pochi che coltivavano l’amicizia di Horne
Fisher, specialmente se lo vedevano un poco nel suo proprio contesto
sociale, erano consapevoli d’una certa solitudine nella sua stessa
socievolezza. Parevano incontrare sempre i suoi parenti e
non incontrare mai la sua famiglia. Forse sarebbe più esatto dire che
vedevano molto della sua famiglia e nulla del suo focolare. I suoi cugini e
conoscenze si ramificavano come un labirinto per tutta la classe dirigente
della Gran Bretagna, ed egli pareva essere in buoni, o almeno in
cordiali, rapporti con la maggior parte di loro. Poiché Horne Fisher era
notevole per una curiosa informazione e interesse impersonali
che toccavano ogni sorta d’argomenti, cosicché talvolta si poteva immaginare che
la sua cultura, come i suoi incolori, biondi baffi e i suoi pallidi, cadenti
lineamenti, avesse la neutra natura d’un camaleonte. Comunque, egli poteva
sempre andar d’accordo con viceré e Ministri del Gabinetto e tutti i grandi
uomini responsabili di grandi dicasteri, e parlare con ciascuno di loro
del suo proprio soggetto, del ramo di studio di cui era più
seriamente occupato. Così poteva conversare col Ministro della
Guerra dei bachi da seta, col Ministro dell’Istruzione di storie poliziesche
, col Ministro del Lavoro degli smalti di Limoges, e col
Ministro delle Missioni e del Progresso Morale (se questo è il suo corretto
titolo) dei ragazzi da pantomima degli ultimi quattro decenni. E poiché il
primo era suo cugino di primo grado, il secondo suo cugino di secondo grado, il terzo
suo cognato, e il quarto suo zio per matrimonio, questa
versatilità conversazionale serviva certamente in un senso a creare una
famiglia felice. Ma March non pareva mai cogliere uno scorcio di quel
interno domestico a cui gli uomini delle classi medie sono avvezzi
nelle loro amicizie, e che è invero il fondamento dell’
amicizia e dell’amore e di tutto il resto in qualsiasi sana e stabile
società. Egli si chiedeva se Horne Fisher fosse insieme un orfano e un
figlio unico. Fu, perciò, con qualcosa di simile a un sobbalzo che scoprì che
Fisher aveva un fratello, assai più prospero e potente di
lui, benché, pensò March, difficilmente altrettanto divertente. Sir Henry
Harland Fisher, con metà dell’alfabeto dopo il suo nome, era qualcosa
al Foreign Office assai più formidabile del Ministro
degli Esteri. A quanto pare, era di famiglia, dopotutto; poiché
pareva ci fosse un altro fratello, Ashton Fisher, in India, piuttosto
più formidabile del Viceré. Sir Henry Fisher era un’edizione più pesante,
ma più avvenente del fratello, con una fronte egualmente calva, ma
assai più liscia. Era assai cortese, ma un’ombra condiscendente,
non solo verso March, ma persino, come March immaginava, verso Horne Fisher
anche. Quest’ultimo gentiluomo, che aveva molte intuizioni sui
pensieri semiformati altrui, sfiorò egli stesso l’argomento mentre
si allontanavano dalla grande casa in Berkeley Square. «Ma come, non sapete,» osservò tranquillamente, «che io sono lo scemo della
famiglia?» «Dev’essere una famiglia intelligente,» disse Harold March, con un sorriso. «Espresso con molta grazia,» rispose Fisher; «questo è il meglio dell’
avere un’educazione letteraria. Be’, forse è un’esagerazione
dire che sono lo scemo della famiglia. Basta dire che sono il fallito
della famiglia.» «Mi pare strano che proprio voi dobbiate fallire,» osservò il
giornalista. «Come dicono agli esami, in che cosa siete stato bocciato?» «In politica,» rispose il suo amico. «Mi candidai al Parlamento quand’ero
un uomo piuttosto giovane e vi entrai con una maggioranza enorme, tra sonori
applausi e portato in trionfo per la città. Da allora, naturalmente, sono stato
piuttosto sotto una nube.» «Temo di non capire del tutto quel “naturalmente”,» rispose
March, ridendo. «Quella parte non vale la pena di capirla,» disse Fisher. «Ma in
verità, vecchio mio, l’altra parte fu piuttosto strana e
interessante. Una vera storia poliziesca a suo modo, nonché la
prima lezione che ebbi su ciò di cui è fatta la politica moderna. Se volete,
vi racconterò tutto.» E quel che segue, riformulato in una maniera meno
allusiva e conversevole, è la storia che egli raccontò. Nessuno che negli ultimi anni abbia avuto il privilegio d’incontrare Sir Henry Harland Fisher
crederebbe che fosse mai stato chiamato Harry. Ma, in verità, egli
era stato abbastanza fanciullesco quand’era fanciullo, e quella serenità che risplendette su
di lui per tutta la vita, e che ora prendeva la forma della gravità, aveva un tempo
preso la forma dell’allegria. I suoi amici avrebbero detto che era
tanto più maturo nella sua maturità per essere stato giovane nella sua
gioventù. I suoi nemici avrebbero detto che era ancora di mente leggera,
ma non più di cuore leggero. Ma in ogni caso, l’intera storia
che Horne Fisher aveva da raccontare nasceva dal caso che aveva reso
il giovane Harry Fisher segretario privato di Lord Saltoun. Di qui il suo
successivo legame col Foreign Office, che invero gli era giunto
come una sorta d’eredità da sua signoria quando quel grand’uomo era
il potere dietro il trono. Non è questo il luogo per dir molto di
Saltoun, per quanto poco si sapesse di lui e per quanto ci fosse da
sapere. L’Inghilterra ha avuto almeno tre o quattro di tali segreti
statisti. Un ordinamento aristocratico produce di tanto in tanto un
aristocratico che è anche un caso, un uomo d’indipendenza e acume
intellettuali, un Napoleone nato nella porpora. La sua vasta
opera era per lo più invisibile, e assai poco si poteva cavare da lui
nella vita privata tranne un burbero e piuttosto cinico senso dell’umorismo.
Ma fu certamente il caso della sua presenza a una cena di famiglia
dei Fisher, e l’inaspettata opinione che espresse, a
trasformare quello che sarebbe potuto essere uno scherzo da tavola in una sorta di piccolo
romanzo sensazionale. Salvo Lord Saltoun, era una riunione di famiglia dei Fisher, poiché
l’unico altro forestiero di riguardo era appena partito dopo cena,
lasciando gli altri al loro caffè e ai loro sigari. Questa era stata una figura
of some interest—a young Cambridge man named Eric Hughes who was
the rising hope of the party of Reform, to which the Fisher family,
along with their friend Saltoun, had long been at least formally
attached. The personality of Hughes was substantially summed up in
the fact that he talked eloquently and earnestly through the whole
dinner, but left immediately after to be in time for an appointment.
All his actions had something at once ambitious and conscientious;
he drank no wine, but was slightly intoxicated with words. And his
face and phrases were on the front page of all the newspapers just
then, because he was contesting the safe seat of Sir Francis Verner
in the great by-election in the west. Everybody was talking about
the powerful speech against squirarchy which he had just delivered;
even in the Fisher circle everybody talked about it except Horne
Fisher himself who sat in a corner, lowering over the fire. “We jolly well have to thank him for putting some new life into the
old party,” Ashton Fisher was saying. “This campaign against the old
squires just hits the degree of democracy there is in this county.
This act for extending county council control is practically his
bill; so you may say he’s in the government even before he’s in the
House.” “One’s easier than the other,” said Harry, carelessly. “I bet the
squire’s a bigger pot than the county council in that county. Verner
is pretty well rooted; all these rural places are what you call
reactionary. Damning aristocrats won’t alter it.” “He damns them rather well,” observed Ashton. “We never had a
better meeting than the one in Barkington, which generally goes
Constitutional. And when he said, ‘Sir Francis may boast of blue
blood; let us show we have red blood,’ and went on to talk about
manhood and liberty, the room simply rose at him.” “Speaks very well,” said Lord Saltoun, gruffly, making his only
contribution to the conversation so far. Then the almost equally silent Horne Fisher suddenly spoke, without
taking his brooding eyes off the fire. “What I can’t understand,” he said, “is why nobody is ever slanged
for the real reason.” “Hullo!” remarked Harry, humorously, “you beginning to take notice?” “Well, take Verner,” continued Horne Fisher. “If we want to attack
Verner, why not attack him? Why compliment him on being a romantic
reactionary aristocrat? Who is Verner? Where does he come from? His
name sounds old, but I never heard of it before, as the man said of
the Crucifixion. Why talk about his blue blood? His blood may be
gamboge yellow with green spots, for all anybody knows. All we know
is that the old squire, Hawker, somehow ran through his money (and
his second wife’s, I suppose, for she was rich enough), and sold the
estate to a man named Verner. What did he make his money in? Oil?
Army contracts?” “I don’t know,” said Saltoun, looking at him thoughtfully. “First thing I ever knew you didn’t know,” cried the exuberant
Harry. “And there’s more, besides,” went on Horne Fisher, who seemed to
have suddenly found his tongue. “If we want country people to vote
for us, why don’t we get somebody with some notion about the
country? We don’t talk to people in Threadneedle Street about
nothing but turnips and pigsties. Why do we talk to people in
Somerset about nothing but slums and socialism? Why don’t we give
the squire’s land to the squire’s tenants, instead of dragging in
the county council?” “Three acres and a cow,” cried Harry, emitting what the
Parliamentary reports call an ironical cheer. “Yes,” replied his brother, stubbornly. “Don’t you think
agricultural laborers would rather have three acres and a cow than
three acres of printed forms and a committee? Why doesn’t somebody
start a yeoman party in politics, appealing to the old traditions of
the small landowner? And why don’t they attack men like Verner for
what they are, which is something about as old and traditional as an
American oil trust?” “You’d better lead the yeoman party yourself,” laughed Harry.
“Don’t you think it would be a joke, Lord Saltoun, to see my brother
and his merry men, with their bows and bills, marching down to
Somerset all in Lincoln green instead of Lincoln and Bennet hats?” “No,” answered Old Saltoun, “I don’t think it would be a joke. I
think it would be an exceedingly serious and sensible idea.” “Well, I’m jiggered!” cried Harry Fisher, staring at him. “I said
just now it was the first fact you didn’t know, and I should say
this is the first joke you didn’t see.” “I’ve seen a good many things in my time,” said the old man, in his
rather sour fashion. “I’ve told a good many lies in my time, too,
and perhaps I’ve got rather sick of them. But there are lies and
lies, for all that. Gentlemen used to lie just as schoolboys lie,
because they hung together and partly to help one another out. But
I’m damned if I can see why we should lie for these cosmopolitan
cads who only help themselves. They’re not backing us up any more;
they’re simply crowding us out. If a man like your brother likes to
go into Parliament as a yeoman or a gentleman or a Jacobite or an
Ancient Briton, I should say it would be a jolly good thing.” In the rather startled silence that followed Horne Fisher sprang to
his feet and all his dreary manner dropped off him. “I’m ready to do it to-morrow,” he cried. “I suppose none of you
fellows would back me up.” Then Harry Fisher showed the finer side of his impetuosity. He made
a sudden movement as if to shake hands. “You’re a sport,” he said, “and I’ll back you up, if nobody else
will. But we can all back you up, can’t we? I see what Lord Saltoun
means, and, of course, he’s right. He’s always right.” “So I will go down to Somerset,” said Horne Fisher. “Yes, it is on the way to Westminster,” said Lord Saltoun, with a
di un certo interesse—un giovane di Cambridge di nome Eric Hughes che era
la nascente speranza del partito della Riforma, al quale la famiglia Fisher,
insieme al loro amico Saltoun, era da tempo almeno formalmente
legata. La personalità di Hughes si riassumeva in sostanza nel
fatto che parlò con eloquenza e fervore per tutta la
cena, ma se ne andò subito dopo per essere in tempo a un appuntamento.
Tutte le sue azioni avevano insieme qualcosa di ambizioso e di scrupoloso;
non beveva vino, ma era lievemente inebriato dalle parole. E il suo
volto e le sue frasi erano in prima pagina su tutti i giornali proprio
allora, perché contendeva il seggio sicuro di Sir Francis Verner
nella grande elezione suppletiva dell’ovest. Tutti parlavano
del vigoroso discorso contro il potere degli squire che aveva appena pronunciato;
perfino nella cerchia dei Fisher tutti ne parlavano tranne Horne
Fisher stesso, che sedeva in un angolo, chino sul fuoco. «Dobbiamo proprio bene ringraziarlo per aver dato nuova vita al
vecchio partito», diceva Ashton Fisher. «Questa campagna contro i vecchi
squire coglie esattamente il grado di democrazia che c’è in questa contea.
Questa legge per estendere il controllo del consiglio di contea è praticamente il suo
disegno di legge; sicché si può dire che è al governo ancora prima di essere alla
Camera». «L’una è più facile dell’altra», disse Harry, con noncuranza. «Scommetto che lo
squire conta più del consiglio di contea in quella contea. Verner
è piuttosto ben radicato; tutti questi luoghi rurali sono ciò che si dice
reazionari. Maledire gli aristocratici non lo cambierà». «Li maledice piuttosto bene», osservò Ashton. «Non abbiamo mai avuto
adunata migliore di quella di Barkington, che di solito vota
costituzionale. E quando disse: ‘Sir Francis può vantare
sangue blu; mostriamo noi di avere sangue rosso’, e proseguì parlando di
virilità e libertà, la sala letteralmente si levò verso di lui». «Parla molto bene», disse Lord Saltoun, burbero, dando il suo unico
contributo alla conversazione fino a quel momento. Poi il quasi altrettanto silenzioso Horne Fisher parlò all’improvviso, senza
staccare gli occhi cupi dal fuoco. «Ciò che non riesco a capire», disse, «è perché nessuno venga mai insultato
per la vera ragione». «Ehilà!» osservò Harry, con spirito, «cominci a farci caso?» «Ebbene, prendi Verner», proseguì Horne Fisher. «Se vogliamo attaccare
Verner, perché non attaccarlo? Perché complimentarci con lui per essere un romantico
aristocratico reazionario? Chi è Verner? Da dove viene? Il suo
nome suona antico, ma non ne avevo mai sentito parlare prima, come disse quel tale a proposito della
Crocifissione. Perché parlare del suo sangue blu? Il suo sangue potrebbe essere
giallo gommagutta con macchie verdi, per quanto ne sappia chiunque. Tutto ciò che sappiamo
è che il vecchio squire, Hawker, in qualche modo dilapidò il suo denaro (e
quello della sua seconda moglie, suppongo, perché era abbastanza ricca), e vendette la
tenuta a un uomo di nome Verner. In che cosa fece i suoi soldi? Petrolio?
Forniture all’esercito?» «Non lo so», disse Saltoun, guardandolo pensieroso. «È la prima cosa, a mia conoscenza, che tu non sappia», esclamò l’esuberante
Harry. «E c’è dell’altro, per giunta», proseguì Horne Fisher, che sembrava
aver finalmente sciolto la lingua. «Se vogliamo che la gente di campagna voti
per noi, perché non troviamo qualcuno che abbia qualche nozione sulla
campagna? Non parliamo alla gente di Threadneedle Street soltanto
di rape e porcili. Perché parliamo alla gente del
Somerset soltanto di tuguri e socialismo? Perché non diamo
la terra dello squire ai fittavoli dello squire, invece di tirare in ballo
il consiglio di contea?» «Tre acri e una mucca», esclamò Harry, emettendo ciò che i
resoconti parlamentari chiamano un applauso ironico. «Sì», rispose il fratello, ostinato. «Non pensi che
i braccianti agricoli preferirebbero tre acri e una mucca a
tre acri di moduli stampati e un comitato? Perché nessuno
fonda un partito di piccoli proprietari in politica, appellandosi alle antiche tradizioni del
piccolo possidente? E perché non attaccano uomini come Verner per
ciò che sono, ossia qualcosa di antico e tradizionale press’a poco quanto un
trust petrolifero americano?» «Faresti meglio a guidare tu stesso il partito dei piccoli proprietari», rise Harry.
«Non pensa che sarebbe uno spasso, Lord Saltoun, vedere mio fratello
e i suoi allegri compagni, con archi e roncole, marciare giù verso il
Somerset tutti in verde Lincoln invece che con cappelli Lincoln and Bennet?» «No», rispose il vecchio Saltoun, «non penso che sarebbe uno spasso. Penso
che sarebbe un’idea straordinariamente seria e assennata». «Ebbene, che io sia dannato!» esclamò Harry Fisher, fissandolo. «Ho detto
proprio ora che era il primo fatto che non sapevi, e direi
che questo è il primo scherzo che non hai colto». «Ne ho viste di cose, ai miei tempi», disse il vecchio, alla sua
maniera piuttosto acida. «Ho anche raccontato parecchie menzogne ai miei tempi,
e forse me ne sono un po’ stancato. Ma ci sono menzogne e
menzogne, nonostante tutto. I gentiluomini mentivano proprio come mentono gli scolari,
perché stavano uniti e in parte per aiutarsi a vicenda. Ma
che io sia dannato se riesco a capire perché dovremmo mentire per questi cosmopoliti
mascalzoni che aiutano soltanto se stessi. Non ci sostengono più;
ci stanno semplicemente soppiantando. Se un uomo come tuo fratello ha voglia di
entrare in Parlamento come piccolo proprietario o gentiluomo o giacobita o
antico britanno, direi che sarebbe un’ottima cosa». Nel silenzio piuttosto attonito che seguì Horne Fisher balzò in
piedi e tutta la sua tetra svogliatezza cadde da lui. «Sono pronto a farlo domani», esclamò. «Suppongo che nessuno di voi
mi sosterrebbe». Allora Harry Fisher mostrò il lato migliore della sua impetuosità. Fece
un gesto improvviso come per stringere la mano. «Sei un tipo in gamba», disse, «e ti sosterrò io, se nessun altro
lo farà. Ma possiamo sostenerti tutti, no? Capisco cosa intende Lord Saltoun,
e, naturalmente, ha ragione. Ha sempre ragione». «E così andrò giù nel Somerset», disse Horne Fisher. «Sì, è sulla strada per Westminster», disse Lord Saltoun, con un
smile. And so it happened that Horne Fisher arrived some days later at the
little station of a rather remote market town in the west,
accompanied by a light suitcase and a lively brother. It must not be
supposed, however, that the brother’s cheerful tone consisted
entirely of chaff. He supported the new candidate with hope as well
as hilarity; and at the back of his boisterous partnership there was
an increasing sympathy and encouragement. Harry Fisher had always
had an affection for his more quiet and eccentric brother, and was
now coming more and more to have a respect for him. As the campaign
proceeded the respect increased to ardent admiration. For Harry was
still young, and could feel the sort of enthusiasm for his captain
in electioneering that a schoolboy can feel for his captain in
cricket. Nor was the admiration undeserved. As the new three-cornered
contest developed it became apparent to others besides his devoted
kinsman that there was more in Horne Fisher than had ever met the
eye. It was clear that his outbreak by the family fireside had been
but the culmination of a long course of brooding and studying on the
question. The talent he retained through life for studying his
subject, and even somebody else’s subject, had long been
concentrated on this idea of championing a new peasantry against a
new plutocracy. He spoke to a crowd with eloquence and replied to an
individual with humor, two political arts that seemed to come to him
naturally. He certainly knew much more about rural problems than
either Hughes, the Reform candidate, or Verner, the Constitutional
candidate. And he probed those problems with a human curiosity, and
went below the surface in a way that neither of them dreamed of
doing. He soon became the voice of popular feelings that are never
found in the popular press. New angles of criticism, arguments that
had never before been uttered by an educated voice, tests and
comparisons that had been made only in dialect by men drinking in
the little local public houses, crafts half forgotten that had come
down by sign of hand and tongue from remote ages when their fathers
were free—all this created a curious and double excitement. It
startled the well informed by being a new and fantastic idea they
had never encountered. It startled the ignorant by being an old and
familiar idea they never thought to have seen revived. Men saw
things in a new light, and knew not even whether it was the sunset
or the dawn. Practical grievances were there to make the movement formidable. As
Fisher went to and fro among the cottages and country inns, it was
borne in on him without difficulty that Sir Francis Verner was a
very bad landlord. Nor was the story of his acquisition of the land
any more ancient and dignified than he had supposed; the story was
well known in the county and in most respects was obvious enough.
Hawker, the old squire, had been a loose, unsatisfactory sort of
person, had been on bad terms with his first wife (who died, as some
said, of neglect), and had then married a flashy South American
Jewess with a fortune. But he must have worked his way through this
fortune also with marvelous rapidity, for he had been compelled to
sell the estate to Verner and had gone to live in South America,
possibly on his wife’s estates. But Fisher noticed that the laxity
of the old squire was far less hated than the efficiency of the new
squire. Verner’s history seemed to be full of smart bargains and
financial flutters that left other people short of money and temper.
But though he heard a great deal about Verner, there was one thing
that continually eluded him; something that nobody knew, that even
Saltoun had not known. He could not find out how Verner had
originally made his money. “He must have kept it specially dark,” said Horne Fisher to himself.
“It must be something he’s really ashamed of. Hang it all! what is
a man ashamed of nowadays?” And as he pondered on the possibilities they grew darker and more
distorted in his mind; he thought vaguely of things remote and
repulsive, strange forms of slavery or sorcery, and then of ugly
things yet more unnatural but nearer home. The figure of Verner
seemed to be blackened and transfigured in his imagination, and to
stand against varied backgrounds and strange skies. As he strode up a village street, brooding thus, his eyes
encountered a complete contrast in the face of his other rival, the
Reform candidate. Eric Hughes, with his blown blond hair and eager
undergraduate face, was just getting into his motor car and saying a
few final words to his agent, a sturdy, grizzled man named Gryce.
Eric Hughes waved his hand in a friendly fashion; but Gryce eyed him
with some hostility. Eric Hughes was a young man with genuine
political enthusiasms, but he knew that political opponents are
people with whom one may have to dine any day. But Mr. Gryce was a
grim little local Radical, a champion of the chapel, and one of
those happy people whose work is also their hobby. He turned his
back as the motor car drove away, and walked briskly up the sunlit
high street of the little town, whistling, with political papers
sticking out of his pocket. Fisher looked pensively after the resolute figure for a moment, and
then, as if by an impulse, began to follow it. Through the busy
market place, amid the baskets and barrows of market day, under the
painted wooden sign of the Green Dragon, up a dark side entry, under
an arch, and through a tangle of crooked cobbled streets the two
threaded their way, the square, strutting figure in front and the
lean, lounging figure behind him, like his shadow in the sunshine.
At length they came to a brown brick house with a brass plate, on
which was Mr. Gryce’s name, and that individual turned and beheld
his pursuer with a stare. “Could I have a word with you, sir?” asked Horne Fisher, politely.
sorriso. E così avvenne che Horne Fisher giunse alcuni giorni dopo alla
piccola stazione di una cittadina di mercato piuttosto remota dell’ovest,
accompagnato da una valigia leggera e da un fratello vivace. Non si deve
però supporre che il tono allegro del fratello consistesse
interamente di canzonatura. Egli sosteneva il nuovo candidato con speranza non meno
che con ilarità; e dietro la sua chiassosa complicità v’era
una crescente simpatia e un crescente incoraggiamento. Harry Fisher aveva sempre
avuto affetto per il fratello più quieto ed eccentrico, e ora
veniva sempre più a nutrire rispetto per lui. Man mano che la campagna
procedeva, il rispetto crebbe fino a un’ardente ammirazione. Poiché Harry era
ancora giovane, e poteva provare per il suo capitano nella lotta elettorale
quella sorta di entusiasmo che uno scolaro può provare per il suo capitano nel
cricket. Né l’ammirazione era immeritata. Man mano che la nuova contesa a tre
si sviluppava, divenne palese ad altri oltre al suo devoto
parente che in Horne Fisher c’era più di quanto
l’occhio avesse mai colto. Era chiaro che il suo scoppio accanto al focolare di famiglia era stato
soltanto il culmine di un lungo corso di riflessioni e di studi sulla
questione. Il talento che conservò per tutta la vita nello studiare il proprio
argomento, e persino l’argomento altrui, si era da lungo tempo
concentrato su quest’idea di difendere una nuova contadinanza contro una
nuova plutocrazia. Parlava a una folla con eloquenza e replicava a un
individuo con umorismo, due arti politiche che parevano venirgli
naturali. Di certo sapeva molto più di problemi rurali di
quanto ne sapessero Hughes, il candidato della Riforma, o Verner, il candidato
Costituzionale. E sondava quei problemi con una curiosità umana, e
andava sotto la superficie in un modo che nessuno dei due sognava di
fare. Divenne presto la voce di sentimenti popolari che non si
trovano mai nella stampa popolare. Nuove angolazioni critiche, argomenti che
non erano mai stati pronunciati da una voce istruita, prove e
paragoni fatti solo in dialetto da uomini che bevevano nelle
piccole osterie locali, mestieri mezzo dimenticati che erano giunti
giù di mano in mano e di bocca in bocca da epoche remote in cui i loro padri
erano liberi—tutto ciò creò una curiosa e doppia eccitazione. Essa
sorprendeva i bene informati per essere un’idea nuova e fantastica che
non avevano mai incontrato. Sorprendeva gli ignoranti per essere un’idea antica e
familiare che non pensavano di vedere mai risorgere. Gli uomini vedevano le
cose sotto una nuova luce, e non sapevano nemmeno se fosse il tramonto
o l’alba. C’erano lagnanze concrete a rendere formidabile il movimento. Man mano che
Fisher andava avanti e indietro fra le casupole e le locande di campagna, gli fu
reso evidente senza difficoltà che Sir Francis Verner era un
pessimo proprietario terriero. Né la storia di come acquisì la terra era
più antica e dignitosa di quanto avesse supposto; la storia era
ben nota nella contea e sotto molti aspetti era abbastanza ovvia.
Hawker, il vecchio squire, era stato un individuo dissoluto e poco raccomandabile,
era stato in cattivi rapporti con la prima moglie (che morì, come alcuni
dicevano, di incuria), e poi aveva sposato una vistosa ebrea sudamericana
con un patrimonio. Ma dovette dilapidare anche questo
patrimonio con meravigliosa rapidità, poiché fu costretto a
vendere la tenuta a Verner e se n’era andato a vivere in SudAmerica,
forse nelle tenute della moglie. Ma Fisher notò che la sregolatezza
del vecchio squire era assai meno odiata dell’efficienza del nuovo
squire. La storia di Verner pareva piena di affari astuti e
di speculazioni finanziarie che lasciavano gli altri a corto di denaro e di pazienza.
Ma per quanto sentisse dir molto di Verner, c’era una cosa
che continuamente gli sfuggiva; qualcosa che nessuno sapeva, che persino
Saltoun non aveva saputo. Non riusciva a scoprire come Verner avesse
in origine fatto i suoi soldi. «Dev’essersi tenuto la cosa particolarmente nascosta,» disse Horne Fisher fra sé.
«Dev’essere qualcosa di cui si vergogna davvero. Al diavolo! di che cosa
si vergogna un uomo al giorno d’oggi?» E mentre rifletteva sulle possibilità, esse si facevano più cupe e più
distorte nella sua mente; pensava vagamente a cose remote e
ripugnanti, strane forme di schiavitù o di stregoneria, e poi a brutte
cose ancor più innaturali ma più vicine a casa. La figura di Verner
pareva annerirsi e trasfigurarsi nella sua immaginazione, e
stagliarsi contro sfondi svariati e cieli strani. Mentre risaliva a grandi passi la via del villaggio, rimuginando così, i suoi occhi
incontrarono un netto contrasto nel volto dell’altro suo rivale, il
candidato della Riforma. Eric Hughes, coi capelli biondi scompigliati e il viso ansioso
da studente, stava proprio salendo sulla sua automobile e dicendo
alcune ultime parole al suo agente, un uomo robusto e brizzolato di nome Gryce.
Eric Hughes agitò la mano in modo amichevole; ma Gryce lo squadrò
con una certa ostilità. Eric Hughes era un giovane con genuini
entusiasmi politici, ma sapeva che gli avversari politici sono
persone con cui può capitare di dover cenare da un giorno all’altro. Ma il signor Gryce era un
arcigno piccolo radicale locale, un campione della cappella, e uno di
quei felici individui il cui lavoro è anche il loro passatempo. Voltò le
spalle mentre l’automobile si allontanava, e risalì con passo svelto la soleggiata
via principale della cittadina, fischiettando, con giornali politici
che spuntavano dalla tasca. Fisher guardò pensoso la figura risoluta per un momento, e
poi, come per un impulso, prese a seguirla. Attraverso l’affollata
piazza del mercato, fra i cesti e le carriole del giorno di mercato, sotto l’
insegna di legno dipinta del Drago Verde, su per un buio androne laterale, sotto
un arco, e attraverso un groviglio di storte strade acciottolate i due
s’infilarono, la figura tozza e impettita davanti e la
figura magra e indolente dietro, come la sua ombra nel sole.
Alla fine giunsero a una casa di mattoni bruni con una targa d’ottone, su
cui c’era il nome del signor Gryce, e quell’individuo si voltò e scorse
il suo inseguitore con uno sguardo fisso. «Potrei scambiare una parola con lei, signore?» chiese Horne Fisher, cortesemente.
The agent stared still more, but assented civilly, and led the other
into an office littered with leaflets and hung all round with highly
colored posters which linked the name of Hughes with all the higher
interests of humanity. “Mr. Horne Fisher, I believe,” said Mr. Gryce. “Much honored by the
call, of course. Can’t pretend to congratulate you on entering the
contest, I’m afraid; you won’t expect that. Here we’ve been keeping
the old flag flying for freedom and reform, and you come in and
break the battle line.” For Mr. Elijah Gryce abounded in military metaphors and in
denunciations of militarism. He was a square-jawed, blunt-featured
man with a pugnacious cock of the eyebrow. He had been pickled in
the politics of that countryside from boyhood, he knew everybody’s
secrets, and electioneering was the romance of his life. “I suppose you think I’m devoured with ambition,” said Horne Fisher,
in his rather listless voice, “aiming at a dictatorship and all
that. Well, I think I can clear myself of the charge of mere selfish
ambition. I only want certain things done. I don’t want to do them.
I very seldom want to do anything. And I’ve come here to say that
I’m quite willing to retire from the contest if you can convince me
that we really want to do the same thing.” The agent of the Reform party looked at him with an odd and slightly
puzzled expression, and before he could reply, Fisher went on in the
same level tones: “You’d hardly believe it, but I keep a conscience concealed about
me; and I am in doubt about several things. For instance, we both
want to turn Verner out of Parliament, but what weapon are we to
use? I’ve heard a lot of gossip against him, but is it right to act
on mere gossip? Just as I want to be fair to you, so I want to be
fair to him. If some of the things I’ve heard are true he ought to
be turned out of Parliament and every other club in London. But I
don’t want to turn him out of Parliament if they aren’t true.” At this point the light of battle sprang into Mr. Gryce’s eyes and
he became voluble, not to say violent. He, at any rate, had no doubt
that the stories were true; he could testify, to his own knowledge,
that they were true. Verner was not only a hard landlord, but a mean
landlord, a robber as well as a rackrenter; any gentleman would be
justified in hounding him out. He had cheated old Wilkins out of his
freehold by a trick fit for a pickpocket; he had driven old Mother
Biddle to the workhouse; he had stretched the law against Long Adam,
the poacher, till all the magistrates were ashamed of him. “So if you’ll serve under the old banner,” concluded Mr. Gryce, more
genially, “and turn out a swindling tyrant like that, I’m sure
you’ll never regret it.” “And if that is the truth,” said Horne Fisher, “are you going to
tell it?” “What do you mean? Tell the truth?” demanded Gryce. “I mean you are going to tell the truth as you have just told it,”
replied Fisher. “You are going to placard this town with the
wickedness done to old Wilkins. You are going to fill the newspapers
with the infamous story of Mrs. Biddle. You are going to denounce
Verner from a public platform, naming him for what he did and naming
the poacher he did it to. And you’re going to find out by what trade
this man made the money with which he bought the estate; and when
you know the truth, as I said before, of course you are going to
tell it. Upon those terms I come under the old flag, as you call it,
and haul down my little pennon.” The agent was eying him with a curious expression, surly but not
entirely unsympathetic. “Well,” he said, slowly, “you have to do
these things in a regular way, you know, or people don’t understand.
I’ve had a lot of experience, and I’m afraid what you say wouldn’t
do. People understand slanging squires in a general way, but those
personalities aren’t considered fair play. Looks like hitting below
the belt.” “Old Wilkins hasn’t got a belt, I suppose,” replied Horne Fisher.
“Verner can hit him anyhow, and nobody must say a word. It’s
evidently very important to have a belt. But apparently you have to
be rather high up in society to have one. Possibly,” he added,
thoughtfully—“possibly the explanation of the phrase ‘a belted
earl,’ the meaning of which has always escaped me.” “I mean those personalities won’t do,” returned Gryce, frowning at
the table. “And Mother Biddle and Long Adam, the poacher, are not
personalities,” said Fisher, “and suppose we mustn’t ask how Verner
made all the money that enabled him to become—a personality.” Gryce was still looking at him under lowering brows, but the
singular light in his eyes had brightened. At last he said, in
another and much quieter voice: “Look here, sir. I like you, if you don’t mind my saying so. I
think you are really on the side of the people and I’m sure you’re a
brave man. A lot braver than you know, perhaps. We daren’t touch
what you propose with a barge pole; and so far from wanting you in
the old party, we’d rather you ran your own risk by yourself. But
because I like you and respect your pluck, I’ll do you a good turn
before we part. I don’t want you to waste time barking up the wrong
tree. You talk about how the new squire got the money to buy, and
the ruin of the old squire, and all the rest of it. Well, I’ll give
you a hint about that, a hint about something precious few people
know.” “I am very grateful,” said Fisher, gravely. “What is it?” “It’s in two words,” said the other. “The new squire was quite poor
when he bought. The old squire was quite rich when he sold.” Horne Fisher looked at him thoughtfully as he turned away abruptly
and busied himself with the papers on his desk. Then Fisher uttered
a short phrase of thanks and farewell, and went out into the street,
L’agente lo fissò ancora di più, ma acconsentì con cortesia, e condusse l’altro
in un ufficio ingombro di volantini e tappezzato tutt’intorno di manifesti dai
colori vivaci che legavano il nome di Hughes a tutti gli interessi più alti
dell’umanità. «Il signor Horne Fisher, credo», disse il signor Gryce. «Molto onorato della
visita, naturalmente. Non posso fingere di congratularmi con lei per essere sceso in
campo, temo; non se lo aspetterà. Qui abbiamo tenuto alta
la vecchia bandiera della libertà e della riforma, e lei arriva e
spezza la linea di battaglia». Poiché il signor Elijah Gryce abbondava in metafore militari e in
denunce del militarismo. Era un uomo dalla mascella squadrata, dai lineamenti duri,
con un sopracciglio inarcato in modo bellicoso. Era stato macerato nella
politica di quella campagna fin da ragazzo, conosceva i segreti di
tutti, e la propaganda elettorale era il romanzo della sua vita. «Suppone che io sia divorato dall’ambizione», disse Horne Fisher,
con la sua voce piuttosto svogliata, «che punti a una dittatura e a tutto
il resto. Ebbene, credo di potermi scagionare dall’accusa di mera egoistica
ambizione. Voglio soltanto che certe cose siano fatte. Non voglio farle io.
Molto di rado ho voglia di fare qualcosa. E sono venuto qui a dire che
sono ben disposto a ritirarmi dalla contesa se lei riesce a convincermi
che vogliamo davvero fare la stessa cosa». L’agente del partito della Riforma lo guardò con un’espressione strana e un po’
perplessa, e prima che potesse rispondere, Fisher proseguì con gli
stessi toni pacati: «Stenterà a crederlo, ma tengo nascosta addosso una coscienza;
e sono in dubbio su parecchie cose. Per esempio, entrambi
vogliamo far cadere Verner dal Parlamento, ma quale arma dobbiamo
usare? Ho sentito un mucchio di pettegolezzi contro di lui, ma è giusto agire
su semplici pettegolezzi? Come voglio essere leale con lei, così voglio essere
leale con lui. Se alcune delle cose che ho sentito sono vere, dovrebbe
essere cacciato dal Parlamento e da ogni altro club di Londra. Ma io
non voglio cacciarlo dal Parlamento se non sono vere». A questo punto la luce della battaglia balenò negli occhi del signor Gryce ed
egli divenne loquace, per non dire violento. Lui, a ogni modo, non aveva alcun dubbio
che le storie fossero vere; poteva testimoniare, per propria conoscenza,
che erano vere. Verner non era soltanto un padrone duro, ma un padrone
meschino, un ladro non meno che uno strozzino di affitti; qualsiasi gentiluomo sarebbe stato
giustificato a dargli la caccia. Aveva frodato il vecchio Wilkins del suo
podere con un trucco degno di un borseggiatore; aveva spinto la vecchia Madre
Biddle all’ospizio dei poveri; aveva tirato la legge contro Long Adam,
il bracconiere, finché tutti i magistrati si vergognavano di lui. «Quindi se servirà sotto il vecchio vessillo», concluse il signor Gryce, più
benevolo, «e caccerà via un tiranno truffaldino come quello, sono certo
che non se ne pentirà mai». «E se questa è la verità», disse Horne Fisher, «ha intenzione di
raccontarla?» «Che cosa intende? Raccontare la verità?» chiese Gryce. «Intendo che ha intenzione di raccontare la verità come me l’ha appena raccontata»,
replicò Fisher. «Ha intenzione di tappezzare questa città con la
malvagità commessa contro il vecchio Wilkins. Ha intenzione di riempire i giornali
con l’infame storia della signora Biddle. Ha intenzione di denunciare
Verner da un palco pubblico, nominandolo per ciò che ha fatto e nominando
il bracconiere a cui l’ha fatto. E ha intenzione di scoprire con quale commercio
quest’uomo abbia fatto il denaro con cui ha comprato la tenuta; e quando
conoscerà la verità, come ho detto prima, naturalmente ha intenzione di
raccontarla. A queste condizioni mi metto sotto la vecchia bandiera, come la chiama lei,
e ammaino il mio piccolo gagliardetto». L’agente lo osservava con un’espressione curiosa, arcigna ma non
del tutto priva di simpatia. «Ebbene», disse lentamente, «queste cose bisogna farle
in modo regolare, sa, altrimenti la gente non capisce.
Ho molta esperienza, e temo che ciò che lei dice non
andrebbe. La gente capisce che si insultino gli squire in modo generico, ma quelle
allusioni personali non sono considerate gioco leale. Sembra colpire sotto
la cintura». «Il vecchio Wilkins non ha una cintura, suppongo», replicò Horne Fisher.
«Verner può colpirlo comunque, e nessuno deve dire una parola. È
evidentemente molto importante avere una cintura. Ma a quanto pare bisogna
essere piuttosto in alto nella società per averne una. Forse», aggiunse,
pensieroso—«forse la spiegazione dell’espressione ‘un conte cinto’,
il cui significato mi è sempre sfuggito». «Intendo che quelle allusioni personali non andranno bene», ribatté Gryce, aggrottando le sopracciglia verso
il tavolo. «E Madre Biddle e Long Adam, il bracconiere, non sono
allusioni personali», disse Fisher, «e suppongo non si debba chiedere come Verner
abbia fatto tutto il denaro che gli ha permesso di diventare—un personaggio». Gryce continuava a guardarlo di sotto le sopracciglia aggrottate, ma la
singolare luce nei suoi occhi si era ravvivata. Alla fine disse, con
un’altra voce, molto più tranquilla: «Senta, signore. Lei mi piace, se non le dispiace che glielo dica.
Credo che lei stia davvero dalla parte del popolo e sono certo che è un
uomo coraggioso. Molto più coraggioso di quanto lei sappia, forse. Non oseremmo toccare
ciò che lei propone nemmeno con un palo da chiatta; e ben lungi dal volerla
nel vecchio partito, preferiremmo che corresse il rischio da solo. Ma
poiché lei mi piace e ne rispetto il fegato, le farò un favore
prima di separarci. Non voglio che lei perda tempo abbaiando all’albero
sbagliato. Lei parla di come il nuovo squire abbia trovato il denaro per comprare, e
della rovina del vecchio squire, e di tutto il resto. Ebbene, le darò
un indizio in proposito, un indizio su una cosa che pochissimi
conoscono». «Le sono molto grato», disse Fisher, gravemente. «Di che si tratta?» «È in due parole», disse l’altro. «Il nuovo squire era assai povero
quando comprò. Il vecchio squire era assai ricco quando vendette». Horne Fisher lo guardò pensieroso mentre quello si voltava bruscamente
e si affaccendava con le carte sulla scrivania. Poi Fisher pronunciò
una breve frase di ringraziamento e di commiato, e uscì in strada,
still very thoughtful. His reflection seemed to end in resolution, and, falling into a more
rapid stride, he passed out of the little town along a road leading
toward the gate of the great park, the country seat of Sir Francis
Verner. A glitter of sunlight made the early winter more like a late
autumn, and the dark woods were touched here and there with red and
golden leaves, like the last rays of a lost sunset. From a higher
part of the road he had seen the long, classical facade of the great
house with its many windows, almost immediately beneath him, but
when the road ran down under the wall of the estate, topped with
towering trees behind, he realized that it was half a mile round to
the lodge gates. After walking for a few minutes along the lane,
however, he came to a place where the wall had cracked and was in
process of repair. As it was, there was a great gap in the gray
masonry that looked at first as black as a cavern and only showed at
a second glance the twilight of the twinkling trees. There was
something fascinating about that unexpected gate, like the opening
of a fairy tale. Horne Fisher had in him something of the aristocrat, which is very
near to the anarchist. It was characteristic of him that he turned
into this dark and irregular entry as casually as into his own front
door, merely thinking that it would be a short cut to the house. He
made his way through the dim wood for some distance and with some
difficulty, until there began to shine through the trees a level
light, in lines of silver, which he did not at first understand. The
next moment he had come out into the daylight at the top of a steep
bank, at the bottom of which a path ran round the rim of a large
ornamental lake. The sheet of water which he had seen shimmering
through the trees was of considerable extent, but was walled in on
every side with woods which were not only dark, but decidedly
dismal. At one end of the path was a classical statue of some
nameless nymph, and at the other end it was flanked by two classical
urns; but the marble was weather-stained and streaked with green and
gray. A hundred other signs, smaller but more significant, told him
that he had come on some outlying corner of the grounds neglected
and seldom visited. In the middle of the lake was what appeared to
be an island, and on the island what appeared to be meant for a
classical temple, not open like a temple of the winds, but with a
blank wall between its Doric pillars. We may say it only seemed like
an island, because a second glance revealed a low causeway of flat
stones running up to it from the shore and turning it into a
peninsula. And certainly it only seemed like a temple, for nobody
knew better than Horne Fisher that no god had ever dwelt in that
shrine. “That’s what makes all this classical landscape gardening so
desolate,” he said to himself. “More desolate than Stonehenge or the
Pyramids. We don’t believe in Egyptian mythology, but the Egyptians
did; and I suppose even the Druids believed in Druidism. But the
eighteenth-century gentleman who built these temples didn’t believe
in Venus or Mercury any more than we do; that’s why the reflection
of those pale pillars in the lake is truly only the shadow of a
shade. They were men of the age of Reason; they, who filled their
gardens with these stone nymphs, had less hope than any men in all
history of really meeting a nymph in the forest.” His monologue stopped abruptly with a sharp noise like a thundercrack
that rolled in dreary echoes round the dismal mere. He knew at once
what it was—somebody had fired off a gun. But as to the meaning of
it he was momentarily staggered, and strange thoughts thronged into
his mind. The next moment he laughed; for he saw lying a little way
along the path below him the dead bird that the shot had brought
down. At the same moment, however, he saw something else, which interested
him more. A ring of dense trees ran round the back of the island
temple, framing the facade of it in dark foliage, and he could have
sworn he saw a stir as of something moving among the leaves. The
next moment his suspicion was confirmed, for a rather ragged figure
came from under the shadow of the temple and began to move along the
causeway that led to the bank. Even at that distance the figure was
conspicuous by its great height and Fisher could see that the man
carried a gun under his arm. There came back into his memory at once
the name Long Adam, the poacher. With a rapid sense of strategy he sometimes showed, Fisher sprang
from the bank and raced round the lake to the head of the little
pier of stones. If once a man reached the mainland he could easily
vanish into the woods. But when Fisher began to advance along the
stones toward the island, the man was cornered in a blind alley and
could only back toward the temple. Putting his broad shoulders
against it, he stood as if at bay; he was a comparatively young man,
with fine lines in his lean face and figure and a mop of ragged red
hair. The look in his eyes might well have been disquieting to
anyone left alone with him on an island in the middle of a lake. “Good morning,” said Horne Fisher, pleasantly. “I thought at first
you were a murderer. But it seems unlikely, somehow, that the
partridge rushed between us and died for love of me, like the
heroines in the romances; so I suppose you are a poacher.” “I suppose you would call me a poacher,” answered the man; and his
voice was something of a surprise coming from such a scarecrow; it
had that hard fastidiousness to be found in those who have made a
fight for their own refinement among rough surroundings. “I consider
I have a perfect right to shoot game in this place. But I am well
aware that people of your sort take me for a thief, and I suppose
ancora molto pensieroso. La sua riflessione parve concludersi in una decisione e, prendendo un passo più
rapido, uscì dalla cittadina lungo una strada che conduceva
verso il cancello del grande parco, la residenza di campagna di Sir Francis
Verner. Un luccichio di sole rendeva l’inizio dell’inverno più simile a un tardo
autunno, e i boschi scuri erano toccati qua e là di rosse e
dorate foglie, come gli ultimi raggi di un tramonto perduto. Da un tratto più alto
della strada aveva visto la lunga, classica facciata della grande
casa dalle molte finestre, quasi immediatamente sotto di lui, ma
quando la strada scendeva sotto il muro della tenuta, sormontato da
alberi svettanti alle spalle, si rese conto che c’era mezzo miglio a girarci intorno fino ai
cancelli della portineria. Dopo aver camminato per qualche minuto lungo il viottolo,
tuttavia, giunse a un punto in cui il muro si era crepato ed era in
corso di riparazione. Così com’era, c’era un ampio varco nella grigia
muratura che a prima vista appariva nero come una caverna e solo a
un secondo sguardo rivelava la penombra degli alberi luccicanti. C’era
qualcosa di affascinante in quel cancello inatteso, come l’inizio
di una fiaba. Horne Fisher aveva in sé qualcosa dell’aristocratico, che è molto
vicino all’anarchico. Era caratteristico di lui che imboccasse
quell’ingresso oscuro e irregolare con la stessa disinvoltura con cui sarebbe entrato dalla propria
porta di casa, pensando semplicemente che sarebbe stata una scorciatoia per la casa. Si
fece strada attraverso il bosco fosco per un certo tratto e con una certa
difficoltà, finché non cominciò a brillare tra gli alberi una luce
orizzontale, in linee d’argento, che sulle prime non comprese. Un
attimo dopo era sbucato alla luce del giorno in cima a una ripida
riva, al fondo della quale un sentiero correva intorno all’orlo di un grande
lago ornamentale. La distesa d’acqua che aveva visto scintillare
tra gli alberi era di considerevole estensione, ma era rinchiusa da ogni
lato da boschi che non erano soltanto scuri, ma decisamente
lugubri. A un capo del sentiero c’era una statua classica di una
ninfa senza nome, e all’altro capo era fiancheggiato da due classiche
urne; ma il marmo era corroso dalle intemperie e striato di verde e
di grigio. Cento altri segni, più piccoli ma più significativi, gli dissero
che era capitato in qualche angolo remoto del parco, trascurato
e raramente visitato. In mezzo al lago c’era quella che sembrava
un’isola, e sull’isola quello che sembrava destinato a essere un
tempio classico, non aperto come un tempio dei venti, ma con una
parete cieca tra le sue colonne doriche. Possiamo dire che sembrava soltanto
un’isola, perché un secondo sguardo rivelava una bassa passerella di pietre
piatte che vi saliva dalla riva trasformandola in una
penisola. E certamente sembrava soltanto un tempio, perché nessuno
sapeva meglio di Horne Fisher che nessun dio aveva mai dimorato in quel
sacrario. «È questo che rende così desolata tutta questa arte classica del giardino paesaggistico»,
disse tra sé. «Più desolata di Stonehenge o delle
Piramidi. Noi non crediamo nella mitologia egizia, ma gli Egizi ci
credevano; e suppongo che perfino i Druidi credessero nel druidismo. Ma il
gentiluomo del diciottesimo secolo che costruì questi templi non credeva
in Venere o in Mercurio più di quanto vi crediamo noi; ecco perché il riflesso
di quelle pallide colonne nel lago è davvero soltanto l’ombra di un’
ombra. Erano uomini dell’età della Ragione; loro, che riempivano i loro
giardini di queste ninfe di pietra, avevano meno speranza di ogni altro uomo in tutta la
storia di incontrare davvero una ninfa nella foresta». Il suo monologo si arrestò di colpo con un rumore secco simile a un tuono
che rotolò in cupi echi intorno al lugubre stagno. Capì subito
che cos’era—qualcuno aveva sparato un colpo di fucile. Ma quanto al significato
ne rimase per un istante sconcertato, e strani pensieri gli affollarono
la mente. Un attimo dopo rise; perché vide giacere poco
più in là, sul sentiero sotto di lui, l’uccello morto che lo sparo aveva abbattuto
a terra. Nello stesso momento, tuttavia, vide qualcos’altro, che lo interessò
di più. Un anello di alberi fitti correva dietro il tempio dell’isola,
incorniciandone la facciata in un fogliame scuro, e avrebbe potuto
giurare di aver visto un fremito come di qualcosa che si muoveva tra le foglie. Un
attimo dopo il suo sospetto fu confermato, perché una figura piuttosto lacera
venne fuori dall’ombra del tempio e cominciò a muoversi lungo la
passerella che portava alla riva. Anche a quella distanza la figura era
cospicua per la sua grande statura e Fisher poté vedere che l’uomo
portava un fucile sotto il braccio. Gli tornò subito alla memoria
il nome di Long Adam, il bracconiere. Con quel rapido senso della strategia che talvolta mostrava, Fisher balzò
dalla riva e corse intorno al lago fino all’imbocco del piccolo
molo di pietre. Se una volta un uomo raggiungeva la terraferma poteva facilmente
svanire nei boschi. Ma quando Fisher cominciò ad avanzare lungo le
pietre verso l’isola, l’uomo si trovò incastrato in un vicolo cieco e
poté solo indietreggiare verso il tempio. Puntando le larghe spalle
contro di esso, restò come tenuto in scacco; era un uomo relativamente giovane,
con linee fini nel volto e nella figura magra e una zazzera di ispidi capelli
rossi. Lo sguardo nei suoi occhi avrebbe ben potuto essere inquietante per
chiunque fosse lasciato solo con lui su un’isola in mezzo a un lago. «Buongiorno», disse Horne Fisher, affabilmente. «Sulle prime ho pensato
che lei fosse un assassino. Ma sembra improbabile, in qualche modo, che la
pernice si sia precipitata fra noi e sia morta per amore di me, come le
eroine dei romanzi; sicché suppongo che lei sia un bracconiere». «Suppongo che lei mi chiamerebbe bracconiere», rispose l’uomo; e la sua
voce fu una specie di sorpresa, venendo da un simile spauracchio; aveva
quella dura ricercatezza che si trova in coloro che hanno combattuto
per la propria raffinatezza tra rozzi dintorni. «Ritengo
di avere perfetto diritto di cacciare selvaggina in questo luogo. Ma so bene
che la gente della sua specie mi prende per un ladro, e suppongo
you will try to land me in jail.” “There are preliminary difficulties,” replied Fisher. “To begin
with, the mistake is flattering, but I am not a gamekeeper. Still
less am I three gamekeepers, who would be, I imagine, about your
fighting weight. But I confess I have another reason for not wanting
to jail you.” “And what is that?” asked the other. “Only that I quite agree with you,” answered Fisher. “I don’t
exactly say you have a right to poach, but I never could see that it
was as wrong as being a thief. It seems to me against the whole
normal notion of property that a man should own something because it
flies across his garden. He might as well own the wind, or think he
could write his name on a morning cloud. Besides, if we want poor
people to respect property we must give them some property to
respect. You ought to have land of your own; and I’m going to give
you some if I can.” “Going to give me some land!” repeated Long Adam. “I apologize for addressing you as if you were a public meeting,”
said Fisher, “but I am an entirely new kind of public man who says
the same thing in public and in private. I’ve said this to a hundred
huge meetings throughout the country, and I say it to you on this
queer little island in this dismal pond. I would cut up a big estate
like this into small estates for everybody, even for poachers. I
would do in England as they did in Ireland—buy the big men out, if
possible; get them out, anyhow. A man like you ought to have a
little place of his own. I don’t say you could keep pheasants, but
you might keep chickens.” The man stiffened suddenly and he seemed at once to blanch and flame
at the promise as if it were a threat. “Chickens!” he repeated, with a passion of contempt. “Why do you object?” asked the placid candidate. “Because keeping
hens is rather a mild amusement for a poacher? What about poaching
eggs?” “Because I am not a poacher,” cried Adam, in a rending voice that
rang round the hollow shrines and urns like the echoes of his gun.
“Because the partridge lying dead over there is my partridge.
Because the land you are standing on is my land. Because my own land
was only taken from me by a crime, and a worse crime than poaching.
This has been a single estate for hundreds and hundreds of years,
and if you or any meddlesome mountebank comes here and talks of
cutting it up like a cake, if I ever hear a word more of you and
your leveling lies—” “You seem to be a rather turbulent public,” observed Horne Fisher,
“but do go on. What will happen if I try to divide this estate
decently among decent people?” The poacher had recovered a grim composure as he replied. “There
will be no partridge to rush in between.” With that he turned his back, evidently resolved to say no more, and
walked past the temple to the extreme end of the islet, where he
stood staring into the water. Fisher followed him, but, when his
repeated questions evoked no answer, turned back toward the shore.
In doing so he took a second and closer look at the artificial
temple, and noted some curious things about it. Most of these
theatrical things were as thin as theatrical scenery, and he
expected the classic shrine to be a shallow thing, a mere shell or
mask. But there was some substantial bulk of it behind, buried in
the trees, which had a gray, labyrinthian look, like serpents of
stone, and lifted a load of leafy towers to the sky. But what
arrested Fisher’s eye was that in this bulk of gray-white stone
behind there was a single door with great, rusty bolts outside; the
bolts, however, were not shot across so as to secure it. Then he
walked round the small building, and found no other opening except
one small grating like a ventilator, high up in the wall. He
retraced his steps thoughtfully along the causeway to the banks of
the lake, and sat down on the stone steps between the two sculptured
funeral urns. Then he lit a cigarette and smoked it in ruminant
manner; eventually he took out a notebook and wrote down various
phrases, numbering and renumbering them till they stood in the
following order: “(1) Squire Hawker disliked his first wife. (2) He
married his second wife for her money. (3) Long Adam says the estate
is really his. (4) Long Adam hangs round the island temple, which
looks like a prison. (5) Squire Hawker was not poor when he gave up
the estate. (6) Verner was poor when he got the estate.” He gazed at these notes with a gravity which gradually turned to a
hard smile, threw away his cigarette, and resumed his search for a
short cut to the great house. He soon picked up the path which,
winding among clipped hedges and flower beds, brought him in front
of its long Palladian facade. It had the usual appearance of being,
not a private house, but a sort of public building sent into exile
in the provinces. He first found himself in the presence of the butler, who really
looked much older than the building, for the architecture was dated
as Georgian; but the man’s face, under a highly unnatural brown wig,
was wrinkled with what might have been centuries. Only his prominent
eyes were alive and alert, as if with protest. Fisher glanced at
him, and then stopped and said: “Excuse me. Weren’t you with the late squire, Mr. Hawker?” “Yes, sir,” said the man, gravely. “Usher is my name. What can I do
for you?” “Only take me into Sir Francis Verner,” replied the visitor. Sir Francis Verner was sitting in an easy chair beside a small table
in a large room hung with tapestries. On the table were a small
flask and glass, with the green glimmer of a liqueur and a cup of
black coffee. He was clad in a quiet gray suit with a moderately
harmonious purple tie; but Fisher saw something about the turn of
his fair mustache and the lie of his flat hair—it suddenly revealed
that his name was Franz Werner. “You are Mr. Horne Fisher,” he said. “Won’t you sit down?” “No, thank you,” replied Fisher. “I fear this is not a friendly
che cercherà di farmi finire in prigione». «Ci sono difficoltà preliminari», replicò Fisher. «Tanto per
cominciare, l’errore è lusinghiero, ma io non sono un guardiacaccia. Ancor
meno sono tre guardiacaccia, che sarebbero, immagino, all’incirca del suo
peso da combattimento. Ma confesso di avere un’altra ragione per non voler
mandarla in prigione». «E quale sarebbe?» chiese l’altro. «Soltanto che sono pienamente d’accordo con lei», rispose Fisher. «Non
dico esattamente che lei abbia il diritto di bracconare, ma non ho mai potuto ritenere che ciò
fosse tanto sbagliato quanto essere un ladro. Mi sembra contrario a tutta la
normale nozione di proprietà che un uomo possieda qualcosa perché essa
vola attraverso il suo giardino. Potrebbe altrettanto bene possedere il vento, o pensare di
poter scrivere il proprio nome su una nube mattutina. Del resto, se vogliamo che i
poveri rispettino la proprietà dobbiamo dar loro un po’ di proprietà da
rispettare. Lei dovrebbe avere una terra tutta sua; e ho intenzione di dargliene
un po’, se posso». «Ha intenzione di darmi della terra!» ripeté Long Adam. «Mi scuso per averle parlato come se fosse un pubblico comizio»,
disse Fisher, «ma io sono un genere del tutto nuovo di uomo pubblico che dice
la stessa cosa in pubblico e in privato. L’ho detto a cento
enormi adunate in tutto il paese, e lo dico a lei su questa
strana isoletta in questo lugubre stagno. Farei a pezzi una grande tenuta
come questa in piccole tenute per tutti, perfino per i bracconieri.
Farei in Inghilterra come fecero in Irlanda—liquidare i pezzi grossi, se
possibile; toglierli di mezzo, comunque. Un uomo come lei dovrebbe avere un
posticino tutto suo. Non dico che potrebbe allevare fagiani, ma
potrebbe allevare polli». L’uomo si irrigidì di colpo e parve al tempo stesso impallidire e avvampare
alla promessa come se fosse una minaccia. «Polli!» ripeté, con una passione di disprezzo. «Perché obietta?» chiese il placido candidato. «Perché allevare
galline è un passatempo piuttosto blando per un bracconiere? E che dire delle uova
in camicia?» «Perché non sono un bracconiere», gridò Adam, con una voce lacerante che
risuonò intorno ai sacrari e alle urne vuote come gli echi del suo fucile.
«Perché la pernice che giace morta laggiù è la mia pernice.
Perché la terra su cui lei sta è la mia terra. Perché la mia terra
mi fu tolta soltanto con un delitto, e un delitto peggiore del bracconaggio.
Questa è stata un’unica tenuta per centinaia e centinaia di anni,
e se lei o qualsiasi ficcanaso ciarlatano viene qui e parla di
farla a pezzi come una torta, se sento ancora una sola parola di lei e
delle sue livellatrici menzogne—» «Lei sembra un pubblico piuttosto turbolento», osservò Horne Fisher,
«ma continui pure. Che cosa accadrà se cercherò di dividere questa tenuta
decentemente tra gente decente?» Il bracconiere aveva ritrovato una tetra compostezza mentre rispondeva. «Non
ci sarà nessuna pernice a precipitarsi in mezzo». Con ciò voltò le spalle, evidentemente risoluto a non dire altro, e
passò oltre il tempio fino all’estremità dell’isolotto, dove
restò a fissare l’acqua. Fisher lo seguì, ma, quando le sue
reiterate domande non evocarono risposta, tornò indietro verso la riva.
Nel farlo diede una seconda e più ravvicinata occhiata all’artificiale
tempio, e ne notò alcune cose curiose. La maggior parte di queste
cose teatrali erano sottili come scenografie da palcoscenico, ed egli
si aspettava che il classico sacrario fosse una cosa poco profonda, un mero guscio o
una maschera. Ma vi era dietro una qualche mole consistente, sepolta tra
gli alberi, che aveva un aspetto grigio, labirintico, come serpenti di
pietra, e sollevava al cielo un carico di torri frondose. Ma ciò che
colpì l’occhio di Fisher fu che in questa mole di pietra grigio-bianca
dietro c’era una sola porta con grandi chiavistelli arrugginiti all’esterno; i
chiavistelli, tuttavia, non erano tirati in modo da assicurarla. Poi
girò intorno al piccolo edificio, e non trovò altra apertura tranne
una piccola grata come un ventilatore, in alto nella parete. Ritornò
pensieroso sui propri passi lungo la passerella fino alle rive del
lago, e si sedette sui gradini di pietra tra le due scolpite
urne funerarie. Poi accese una sigaretta e la fumò in modo
ruminante; alla fine tirò fuori un taccuino e annotò varie
frasi, numerandole e rinumerandole finché non stettero nel
seguente ordine: «(1) Lo squire Hawker detestava la prima moglie. (2)
Sposò la seconda moglie per il suo denaro. (3) Long Adam dice che la tenuta
è in realtà sua. (4) Long Adam bazzica intorno al tempio dell’isola, che
sembra una prigione. (5) Lo squire Hawker non era povero quando cedette
la tenuta. (6) Verner era povero quando ottenne la tenuta». Fissò questi appunti con una gravità che gradualmente si mutò in un
duro sorriso, gettò via la sigaretta, e riprese la sua ricerca di una
scorciatoia per la grande casa. Ben presto imboccò il sentiero che,
snodandosi tra siepi potate e aiuole, lo portò davanti
alla sua lunga facciata palladiana. Aveva il consueto aspetto di essere,
non una casa privata, ma una sorta di edificio pubblico mandato in esilio
nelle province. Si trovò dapprima al cospetto del maggiordomo, che davvero
appariva molto più vecchio dell’edificio, perché l’architettura era databile
come georgiana; ma il volto dell’uomo, sotto una parrucca castana quanto mai innaturale,
era rugoso di quelli che avrebbero potuto essere secoli. Solo i suoi sporgenti
occhi erano vivi e vigili, come per protesta. Fisher lo guardò,
e poi si fermò e disse: «Mi scusi. Non era lei con il defunto squire, il signor Hawker?» «Sì, signore», disse l’uomo, gravemente. «Usher è il mio nome. Che cosa posso
fare per lei?» «Soltanto condurmi da Sir Francis Verner», replicò il visitatore. Sir Francis Verner sedeva in una comoda poltrona accanto a un tavolino
in una grande sala parata di arazzi. Sul tavolo c’erano una piccola
fiaschetta e un bicchiere, con il verde barlume di un liquore e una tazza di
caffè nero. Era vestito con un sobrio abito grigio e una cravatta viola
moderatamente armoniosa; ma Fisher vide qualcosa nella piega dei
suoi baffi biondi e nella disposizione dei suoi capelli lisci—che d’un tratto rivelò
che il suo nome era Franz Werner. «Lei è il signor Horne Fisher», disse. «Non vuole sedersi?» «No, grazie», replicò Fisher. «Temo che questa non sia un’amichevole
occasion, and I shall remain standing. Possibly you know that I am
already standing—standing for Parliament, in fact—” “I am aware we are political opponents,” replied Verner, raising his
eyebrows. “But I think it would be better if we fought in a sporting
spirit; in a spirit of English fair play.” “Much better,” assented Fisher. “It would be much better if you
were English and very much better if you had ever played fair. But
what I’ve come to say can be said very shortly. I don’t quite know
how we stand with the law about that old Hawker story, but my chief
object is to prevent England being entirely ruled by people like
you. So whatever the law would say, I will say no more if you will
retire from the election at once.” “You are evidently a lunatic,” said Verner. “My psychology may be a little abnormal,” replied Horne Fisher, in a
rather hazy manner. “I am subject to dreams, especially day-dreams.
Sometimes what is happening to me grows vivid in a curious double
way, as if it had happened before. Have you ever had that mystical
feeling that things have happened before?” “I hope you are a harmless lunatic,” said Verner. But Fisher was still staring in an absent fashion at the golden
gigantic figures and traceries of brown and red in the tapestries on
the walls; then he looked again at Verner and resumed: “I have a
feeling that this interview has happened before, here in this
tapestried room, and we are two ghosts revisiting a haunted chamber.
But it was Squire Hawker who sat where you sit and it was you who
stood where I stand.” He paused a moment and then added, with
simplicity, “I suppose I am a blackmailer, too.” “If you are,” said Sir Francis, “I promise you you shall go to
jail.” But his face had a shade on it that looked like the
reflection of the green wine gleaming on the table. Horne Fisher
regarded him steadily and answered, quietly enough: “Blackmailers do not always go to jail. Sometimes they go to
Parliament. But, though Parliament is rotten enough already, you
shall not go there if I can help it. I am not so criminal as you
were in bargaining with crime. You made a squire give up his country
seat. I only ask you to give up your Parliamentary seat.” Sir Francis Verner sprang to his feet and looked about for one of
the bell ropes of the old-fashioned, curtained room. “Where is Usher?” he cried, with a livid face. “And who is Usher?” said Fisher, softly. “I wonder how much Usher
knows of the truth.” Verner’s hand fell from the bell rope and, after standing for a
moment with rolling eyes, he strode abruptly from the room. Fisher
went but by the other door, by which he had entered, and, seeing no
sign of Usher, let himself out and betook himself again toward the
town. That night he put an electric torch in his pocket and set out alone
in the darkness to add the last links to his argument. There was
much that he did not know yet; but he thought he knew where he could
find the knowledge. The night closed dark and stormy and the black
gap in the wall looked blacker than ever; the wood seemed to have
grown thicker and darker in a day. If the deserted lake with its
black woods and gray urns and images looked desolate even by
daylight, under the night and the growing storm it seemed still more
like the pool of Acheron in the land of lost souls. As he stepped
carefully along the jetty stones he seemed to be traveling farther
and farther into the abyss of night, and to have left behind him the
last points from which it would be possible to signal to the land of
the living. The lake seemed to have grown larger than a sea, but a
sea of black and slimy waters that slept with abominable serenity,
as if they had washed out the world. There was so much of this
nightmare sense of extension and expansion that he was strangely
surprised to come to his desert island so soon. But he knew it for a
place of inhuman silence and solitude; and he felt as if he had been
walking for years. Nerving himself to a more normal mood, he paused under one of the
dark dragon trees that branched out above him, and, taking out his
torch, turned in the direction of the door at the back of the
temple. It was unbolted as before, and the thought stirred faintly
in him that it was slightly open, though only by a crack. The more
he thought of it, however, the more certain he grew that this was
but one of the common illusions of light coming from a different
angle. He studied in a more scientific spirit the details of the
door, with its rusty bolts and hinges, when he became conscious of
something very near him—indeed, nearly above his head. Something
was dangling from the tree that was not a broken branch. For some
seconds he stood as still as a stone, and as cold. What he saw above
him were the legs of a man hanging, presumably a dead man hanged.
But the next moment he knew better. The man was literally alive and
kicking; and an instant after he had dropped to the ground and
turned on the intruder. Simultaneously three or four other trees
seemed to come to life in the same fashion. Five or six other
figures had fallen on their feet from these unnatural nests. It was
as if the place were an island of monkeys. But a moment after they
had made a stampede toward him, and when they laid their hands on
him he knew that they were men. With the electric torch in his hand he struck the foremost of them
so furiously in the face that the man stumbled and rolled over on
the slimy grass; but the torch was broken and extinguished, leaving
everything in a denser obscurity. He flung another man flat against
the temple wall, so that he slid to the ground; but a third and
fourth carried Fisher off his feet and began to bear him,
struggling, toward the doorway. Even in the bewilderment of the
occasione, e resterò in piedi. Forse lei sa che io sono già
in piedi—candidato al Parlamento, in effetti—» «So bene che siamo avversari politici», replicò Verner, inarcando le
sopracciglia. «Ma penso che sarebbe meglio se combattessimo in uno spirito
sportivo; in uno spirito di lealtà all’inglese». «Molto meglio», assentì Fisher. «Sarebbe molto meglio se lei
fosse inglese e molto meglio ancora se avesse mai giocato lealmente. Ma
ciò che sono venuto a dire si può dire molto brevemente. Non so bene
come stiamo con la legge riguardo a quella vecchia storia di Hawker, ma il mio principale
obiettivo è impedire che l’Inghilterra sia interamente governata da gente come
lei. Perciò qualunque cosa dica la legge, non dirò altro se lei
si ritirerà subito dall’elezione». «Lei è evidentemente un pazzo», disse Verner. «La mia psicologia può essere un po’ anormale», replicò Horne Fisher, in una
maniera piuttosto vaga. «Sono soggetto ai sogni, specialmente ai sogni ad occhi aperti.
A volte ciò che mi accade diventa vivido in un curioso modo doppio,
come se fosse già accaduto. Ha mai provato quella mistica
sensazione che le cose siano già accadute?» «Spero che lei sia un pazzo innocuo», disse Verner. Ma Fisher fissava ancora in modo assente le dorate
gigantesche figure e i tralci di bruno e di rosso negli arazzi sulle
pareti; poi guardò di nuovo Verner e riprese: «Ho la
sensazione che questo colloquio sia già avvenuto, qui in questa
sala parata di arazzi, e che noi siamo due fantasmi che rivisitano una camera stregata.
Ma era lo squire Hawker a sedere dove siede lei ed era lei a
stare dove sto io». Fece una pausa un istante e poi aggiunse, con
semplicità: «Suppongo di essere anch’io un ricattatore». «Se lo è», disse Sir Francis, «le prometto che finirà in
prigione». Ma il suo volto aveva un’ombra che sembrava il
riflesso del vino verde che luccicava sul tavolo. Horne Fisher
lo osservò fermamente e rispose, con sufficiente calma: «I ricattatori non sempre finiscono in prigione. A volte vanno in
Parlamento. Ma, per quanto il Parlamento sia già abbastanza marcio, lei
non vi andrà se posso impedirlo. Non sono così criminale come lo fu
lei nel mercanteggiare con il delitto. Lei costrinse uno squire a cedere il suo seggio
di campagna. Io le chiedo soltanto di cedere il suo seggio parlamentare». Sir Francis Verner balzò in piedi e cercò con lo sguardo uno dei
cordoni dei campanelli della sala all’antica, drappeggiata di tende. «Dov’è Usher?» gridò, con il volto livido. «E chi è Usher?» disse Fisher, sommessamente. «Mi domando quanto Usher
sappia della verità». La mano di Verner cadde dal cordone del campanello e, dopo essere rimasto per un
istante con gli occhi roteanti, uscì bruscamente dalla sala. Fisher
uscì invece dall’altra porta, quella da cui era entrato, e, non vedendo
traccia di Usher, si fece uscire e si avviò di nuovo verso la
città. Quella notte si mise in tasca una torcia elettrica e uscì solo
nell’oscurità per aggiungere gli ultimi anelli al suo ragionamento. C’era
molto che ancora non sapeva; ma pensava di sapere dove poter
trovare la conoscenza. La notte calò oscura e tempestosa e il nero
varco nel muro appariva più nero che mai; il bosco sembrava
cresciuto più fitto e più scuro in un giorno. Se il lago deserto con i suoi
boschi neri e le grigie urne e immagini appariva desolato perfino alla
luce del giorno, sotto la notte e la crescente tempesta sembrava ancora più
simile allo stagno dell’Acheronte nella terra delle anime perdute. Mentre camminava
con cautela lungo le pietre del molo pareva viaggiare sempre più
lontano nell’abisso della notte, e aver lasciato dietro di sé gli
ultimi punti da cui sarebbe stato possibile segnalare alla terra dei
vivi. Il lago sembrava divenuto più grande di un mare, ma un
mare di acque nere e viscide che dormivano con abominevole serenità,
come se avessero cancellato il mondo. C’era tanto di questo
senso da incubo di estensione e dilatazione che egli fu stranamente
sorpreso di giungere così presto alla sua isola deserta. Ma la conosceva come un
luogo di disumano silenzio e solitudine; e si sentiva come se avesse
camminato per anni. Facendosi coraggio per riportarsi a un umore più normale, si fermò sotto uno dei
scuri alberi-drago che si ramificavano sopra di lui e, tirando fuori la sua
torcia, la volse in direzione della porta sul retro del
tempio. Era senza chiavistello come prima, e il pensiero si agitò debolmente
in lui che fosse leggermente aperta, sebbene solo di una fessura. Più
ci pensava, tuttavia, più si convinceva che questa fosse
soltanto una delle comuni illusioni della luce che veniva da una diversa
angolazione. Studiava con spirito più scientifico i dettagli della
porta, con i suoi chiavistelli e cardini arrugginiti, quando divenne conscio di
qualcosa molto vicino a lui—anzi, quasi sopra la sua testa. Qualcosa
pendeva dall’albero e non era un ramo spezzato. Per alcuni
secondi restò immobile come una pietra, e altrettanto freddo. Ciò che vide sopra
di lui erano le gambe di un uomo appeso, presumibilmente un uomo morto impiccato.
Ma l’attimo dopo capì meglio. L’uomo era letteralmente vivo e
scalciante; e un istante dopo era caduto a terra e
si era rivoltato contro l’intruso. Simultaneamente tre o quattro altri alberi
parvero prendere vita allo stesso modo. Cinque o sei altre
figure erano cadute in piedi da quei nidi innaturali. Era
come se il luogo fosse un’isola di scimmie. Ma un momento dopo si erano
lanciati in massa verso di lui, e quando gli posarono le mani addosso
egli capì che erano uomini. Con la torcia elettrica in mano colpì il primo di loro
così furiosamente in volto che l’uomo barcollò e ruzzolò
sull’erba viscida; ma la torcia si ruppe e si spense, lasciando
ogni cosa in un’oscurità più densa. Scagliò un altro uomo di piatto contro
la parete del tempio, sicché scivolò a terra; ma un terzo e un
quarto sollevarono Fisher da terra e cominciarono a trascinarlo,
dibattendosi, verso la soglia. Perfino nello smarrimento della
battle he was conscious that the door was standing open. Somebody
was summoning the roughs from inside. The moment they were within they hurled him upon a sort of bench or
bed with violence, but no damage; for the settee, or whatever it
was, seemed to be comfortably cushioned for his reception. Their
violence had in it a great element of haste, and before he could
rise they had all rushed for the door to escape. Whatever bandits
they were that infested this desert island, they were obviously
uneasy about their job and very anxious to be quit of it. He had the
flying fancy that regular criminals would hardly be in such a panic.
The next moment the great door crashed to and he could hear the
bolts shriek as they shot into their place, and the feet of the
retreating men scampering and stumbling along the causeway. But
rapidly as it happened, it did not happen before Fisher had done
something that he wanted to do. Unable to rise from his sprawling
attitude in that flash of time, he had shot out one of his long legs
and hooked it round the ankle of the last man disappearing through
the door. The man swayed and toppled over inside the prison chamber,
and the door closed between him and his fleeing companions. Clearly
they were in too much haste to realize that they had left one of
their company behind. The man sprang to his feet again and hammered and kicked furiously
at the door. Fisher’s sense of humor began to recover from the
struggle and he sat up on his sofa with something of his native
nonchalance. But as he listened to the captive captor beating on the
door of the prison, a new and curious reflection came to him. The natural course for a man thus wishing to attract his friends’
attention would be to call out, to shout as well as kick. This man
was making as much noise as he could with his feet and hands, but
not a sound came from his throat. Why couldn’t he speak? At first he
thought the man might be gagged, which was manifestly absurd. Then
his fancy fell back on the ugly idea that the man was dumb. He
hardly knew why it was so ugly an idea, but it affected his
imagination in a dark and disproportionate fashion. There seemed to
be something creepy about the idea of being left in a dark room with
a deaf mute. It was almost as if such a defect were a deformity. It
was almost as if it went with other and worse deformities. It was as
if the shape he could not trace in the darkness were some shape that
should not see the sun. Then he had a flash of sanity and also of insight. The explanation
was very simple, but rather interesting. Obviously the man did not
use his voice because he did not wish his voice to be recognized. He
hoped to escape from that dark place before Fisher found out who he
was. And who was he? One thing at least was clear. He was one or
other of the four or five men with whom Fisher had already talked in
these parts, and in the development of that strange story. “Now I wonder who you are,” he said, aloud, with all his old lazy
urbanity. “I suppose it’s no use trying to throttle you in order to
find out; it would be displeasing to pass the night with a corpse.
Besides I might be the corpse. I’ve got no matches and I’ve smashed
my torch, so I can only speculate. Who could you be, now? Let us
think.” The man thus genially addressed had desisted from drumming on the
door and retreated sullenly into a corner as Fisher continued to
address him in a flowing monologue. “Probably you are the poacher who says he isn’t a poacher. He says
he’s a landed proprietor; but he will permit me to inform him that,
whatever he is, he’s a fool. What hope can there ever be of a free
peasantry in England if the peasants themselves are such snobs as to
want to be gentlemen? How can we make a democracy with no democrats?
As it is, you want to be a landlord and so you consent to be a
criminal. And in that, you know, you are rather like somebody else.
And, now I think of it, perhaps you are somebody else.” There was a silence broken by breathing from the corner and the
murmur of the rising storm, that came in through the small grating
above the man’s head. Horne Fisher continued: “Are you only a servant, perhaps, that rather sinister old servant
who was butler to Hawker and Verner? If so, you are certainly the
only link between the two periods. But if so, why do you degrade
yourself to serve this dirty foreigner, when you at least saw the
last of a genuine national gentry? People like you are generally at
least patriotic. Doesn’t England mean anything to you, Mr. Usher?
All of which eloquence is possibly wasted, as perhaps you are not
Mr. Usher. “More likely you are Verner himself; and it’s no good wasting
eloquence to make you ashamed of yourself. Nor is it any good to
curse you for corrupting England; nor are you the right person to
curse. It is the English who deserve to be cursed, and are cursed,
because they allowed such vermin to crawl into the high places of
their heroes and their kings. I won’t dwell on the idea that you’re
Verner, or the throttling might begin, after all. Is there anyone
else you could be? Surely you’re not some servant of the other rival
organization. I can’t believe you’re Gryce, the agent; and yet Gryce
had a spark of the fanatic in his eye, too; and men will do
extraordinary things in these paltry feuds of politics. Or if not
the servant, is it the … No, I can’t believe it … not the
red blood of manhood and liberty … not the democratic ideal …” He sprang up in excitement, and at the same moment a growl of
thunder came through the grating beyond. The storm had broken, and
with it a new light broke on his mind. There was something else that
might happen in a moment. “Do you know what that means?” he cried. “It means that God himself
battaglia era consapevole che la porta era spalancata. Qualcuno
chiamava a raccolta i manigoldi dall’interno. Nel momento in cui furono dentro lo scaraventarono su una specie di panca o
letto con violenza, ma senza danno; perché il divano, o qualunque cosa
fosse, sembrava comodamente imbottito per accoglierlo. La loro
violenza aveva in sé un grande elemento di fretta, e prima che potesse
rialzarsi si erano tutti precipitati verso la porta per fuggire. Quali che fossero i banditi
che infestavano questa isola deserta, erano evidentemente
a disagio per il loro compito e assai ansiosi di sbrigarsene. Ebbe la
fugace impressione che criminali di mestiere ben difficilmente si sarebbero fatti prendere da un simile panico.
L’attimo dopo la grande porta si richiuse con fracasso ed egli poté udire i
chiavistelli stridere mentre scattavano al loro posto, e i piedi degli
uomini in ritirata che sgambettavano e inciampavano lungo la passerella. Ma
per quanto rapidamente accadesse, non accadde prima che Fisher avesse fatto
qualcosa che desiderava fare. Incapace di rialzarsi dalla sua posizione
scomposta in quel lampo di tempo, aveva scagliato in fuori una delle sue lunghe gambe
e l’aveva agganciata intorno alla caviglia dell’ultimo uomo che scompariva oltre
la porta. L’uomo vacillò e rovinò a terra dentro la camera della prigione,
e la porta si chiuse tra lui e i suoi compagni in fuga. Chiaramente
avevano troppa fretta per rendersi conto di aver lasciato indietro uno dei
loro compagni. L’uomo balzò di nuovo in piedi e martellò e prese a calci furiosamente
la porta. Il senso dell’umorismo di Fisher cominciò a riprendersi dalla
colluttazione ed egli si mise a sedere sul suo sofà con qualcosa della sua innata
noncuranza. Ma mentre ascoltava il carceriere prigioniero che batteva sulla
porta della prigione, gli venne una nuova e curiosa riflessione. La condotta naturale per un uomo che desiderasse così attirare l’attenzione degli
amici sarebbe stata gridare, urlare non meno che scalciare. Quest’uomo
faceva quanto più rumore poteva con i piedi e le mani, ma
nessun suono usciva dalla sua gola. Perché non poteva parlare? Sulle prime
pensò che l’uomo potesse essere imbavagliato, il che era manifestamente assurdo. Poi
la sua fantasia ripiegò sulla brutta idea che l’uomo fosse muto. A
stento sapeva perché fosse un’idea tanto brutta, ma essa colpì la sua
immaginazione in modo oscuro e sproporzionato. Sembrava esserci
qualcosa di raccapricciante nell’idea di essere lasciato in una stanza buia con
un sordomuto. Era quasi come se un simile difetto fosse una deformità. Era
quasi come se andasse di pari passo con altre e peggiori deformità. Era come
se la sagoma che non riusciva a distinguere nel buio fosse una sagoma che
non dovrebbe vedere il sole. Poi ebbe un lampo di lucidità e anche di intuizione. La spiegazione
era molto semplice, ma piuttosto interessante. Ovviamente l’uomo non
usava la voce perché non voleva che la sua voce fosse riconosciuta.
Sperava di fuggire da quel luogo buio prima che Fisher scoprisse chi
fosse. E chi era? Una cosa almeno era chiara. Era uno
o l’altro dei quattro o cinque uomini con cui Fisher aveva già parlato in
quei paraggi, e nello sviluppo di quella strana storia. «Ora mi domando chi lei sia», disse, ad alta voce, con tutta la sua vecchia pigra
urbanità. «Suppongo sia inutile tentare di strangolarla per
scoprirlo; sarebbe sgradevole passare la notte con un cadavere.
Del resto potrei essere io il cadavere. Non ho fiammiferi e ho fracassato
la mia torcia, sicché posso soltanto fare congetture. Chi potrebbe essere, dunque? Riflettiamo
un po’». L’uomo così bonariamente apostrofato aveva smesso di tamburellare sulla
porta e si era ritirato imbronciato in un angolo mentre Fisher continuava a
rivolgersi a lui in un fluido monologo. «Probabilmente lei è il bracconiere che dice di non essere un bracconiere. Dice
di essere un possidente terriero; ma mi permetterà di informarlo che,
qualunque cosa sia, è uno sciocco. Quale speranza potrà mai esserci di un libero
contadiname in Inghilterra se i contadini stessi sono tali snob da
voler essere gentiluomini? Come possiamo fare una democrazia senza democratici?
Così com’è, lei vuole essere un proprietario terriero e perciò acconsente a essere un
criminale. E in questo, sa, lei somiglia parecchio a qualcun altro.
E, ora che ci penso, forse lei è qualcun altro». Vi fu un silenzio rotto dal respiro proveniente dall’angolo e dal
mormorio della tempesta che si levava, che entrava attraverso la piccola grata
sopra la testa dell’uomo. Horne Fisher continuò: «È lei soltanto un servitore, forse, quel vecchio servitore piuttosto sinistro
che era maggiordomo di Hawker e di Verner? Se è così, lei è certamente l’
unico anello tra i due periodi. Ma se è così, perché si degrada
a servire questo sordido straniero, quando lei almeno vide la
fine di una genuina nobiltà nazionale? Le persone come lei di solito sono almeno
patriottiche. L’Inghilterra non significa nulla per lei, signor Usher?
Tutta questa eloquenza è forse sprecata, poiché forse lei non è
il signor Usher. «Più probabilmente lei è Verner in persona; e non serve a nulla sprecare
eloquenza per farla vergognare di sé. Né serve a nulla
maledirla per aver corrotto l’Inghilterra; né lei è la persona giusta da
maledire. Sono gli inglesi a meritare di essere maledetti, e sono maledetti,
perché permisero a simile vermina di insinuarsi negli alti seggi dei
loro eroi e dei loro re. Non mi soffermerò sull’idea che lei sia
Verner, o lo strangolamento potrebbe cominciare, dopotutto. C’è qualcun
altro che lei potrebbe essere? Di sicuro lei non è un servitore dell’altra rivale
organizzazione. Non posso credere che lei sia Gryce, l’agente; eppure Gryce
aveva anche lui una scintilla di fanatico nell’occhio; e gli uomini fanno
cose straordinarie in queste meschine faide della politica. O se non
il servitore, è forse il … No, non posso crederlo … non il
rosso sangue della virilità e della libertà … non l’ideale democratico …» Balzò in piedi in preda all’eccitazione, e nello stesso momento un brontolio di
tuono giunse attraverso la grata più in là. La tempesta era scoppiata, e
con essa una nuova luce si fece nella sua mente. C’era qualcos’altro che
poteva accadere da un momento all’altro. «Sa cosa significa?» esclamò. «Significa che Dio stesso
may hold a candle to show me your infernal face.” Then next moment came a crash of thunder; but before the thunder a
white light had filled the whole room for a single split second. Fisher had seen two things in front of him. One was the
black-and-white pattern of the iron grating against the sky; the
other was the face in the corner. It was the face of his brother. Nothing came from Horne Fisher’s lips except a Christian name, which
was followed by a silence more dreadful than the dark. At last the
other figure stirred and sprang up, and the voice of Harry Fisher
was heard for the first time in that horrible room. “You’ve seen me, I suppose,” he said, “and we may as well have a
light now. You could have turned it on at any time, if you’d found
the switch.” He pressed a button in the wall and all the details of that room
sprang into something stronger than daylight. Indeed, the details
were so unexpected that for a moment they turned the captive’s
rocking mind from the last personal revelation. The room, so far
from being a dungeon cell, was more like a drawing-room, even a
lady’s drawing-room, except for some boxes of cigars and bottles of
wine that were stacked with books and magazines on a side table. A
second glance showed him that the more masculine fittings were quite
recent, and that the more feminine background was quite old. His eye
caught a strip of faded tapestry, which startled him into speech, to
the momentary oblivion of bigger matters. “This place was furnished from the great house,” he said. “Yes,” replied the other, “and I think you know why.” “I think I do,” said Horne Fisher, “and before I go on to more
extraordinary things I will, say what I think. Squire Hawker played
both the bigamist and the bandit. His first wife was not dead when
he married the Jewess; she was imprisoned on this island. She bore
him a child here, who now haunts his birthplace under the name of
Long Adam. A bankruptcy company promoter named Werner discovered the
secret and blackmailed the squire into surrendering the estate.
That’s all quite clear and very easy. And now let me go on to
something more difficult. And that is for you to explain what the
devil you are doing kidnaping your born brother.” After a pause Henry Fisher answered: “I suppose you didn’t expect to see me,” he said. “But, after all,
what could you expect?”’ “I’m afraid I don’t follow,” said Horne Fisher. “I mean what else could you expect, after making such a muck of it?”
said his brother, sulkily. “We all thought you were so clever. How
could we know you were going to be—well, really, such a rotten
failure?” “This is rather curious,” said the candidate, frowning. “Without
vanity, I was not under the impression that my candidature was a
failure. All the big meetings were successful and crowds of people
have promised me votes.” “I should jolly well think they had,” said Henry, grimly. “You’ve
made a landslide with your confounded acres and a cow, and Verner
can hardly get a vote anywhere. Oh, it’s too rotten for anything!” “What on earth do you mean?” “I see,” said Fisher, “and you, I think, are a pillar and ornament
of the Reform party. As you say, I am not clever.” The appeal to party loyalty fell on deaf ears; for the pillar of
Reform was brooding on other things. At last he said, in a more
troubled voice: “I didn’t want you to catch me; I knew it would be a shock. But I
tell you what, you never would have caught me if I hadn’t come here
myself, to see they didn’t ill treat you and to make sure everything
was as comfortable as it could be.” There was even a sort of break
in his voice as he added, “I got those cigars because I knew you
liked them.” Emotions are queer things, and the idiocy of this concession
suddenly softened Horne Fisher like an unfathomable pathos. “Never mind, old chap,” he said; “we’ll say no more about it. I’ll
admit that you’re really as kind-hearted and affectionate a
scoundrel and hypocrite as ever sold himself to ruin his country.
There, I can’t say handsomer than that. Thank you for the cigars,
old man. I’ll have one if you don’t mind.” By the time that Horne Fisher had ended his telling of this story to
Harold March they had come out into one of the public parks and
taken a seat on a rise of ground overlooking wide green spaces under
a blue and empty sky; and there was something incongruous in the
words with which the narration ended. “I have been in that room ever since,” said Horne Fisher. “I am in
it now. I won the election, but I never went to the House. My life
has been a life in that little room on that lonely island. Plenty of
books and cigars and luxuries, plenty of knowledge and interest and
information, but never a voice out of that tomb to reach the world
outside. I shall probably die there.” And he smiled as he looked
across the vast green park to the gray horizon.
possa reggere una candela per mostrarmi la tua faccia infernale.» Poi, l’attimo dopo, giunse uno scoppio di tuono; ma prima del tuono una
luce bianca aveva riempito l’intera stanza per una singola frazione di secondo. Fisher aveva visto due cose davanti a sé. Una era il
disegno in bianco e nero dell’inferriata contro il cielo; l’
altra era il volto nell’angolo. Era il volto di suo fratello. Nulla uscì dalle labbra di Horne Fisher se non un nome di battesimo, cui
seguì un silenzio più tremendo delle tenebre. Alla fine l’
altra figura si mosse e balzò in piedi, e la voce di Harry Fisher
si udì per la prima volta in quella stanza orribile. «Mi hai visto, suppongo,» disse, «e tanto vale avere ora una
luce, adesso. Avresti potuto accenderla in qualsiasi momento, se avessi trovato
l’interruttore.» Premette un pulsante nella parete e tutti i particolari di quella stanza
balzarono in una luce più intensa di quella del giorno. Anzi, i particolari
erano così inattesi che per un momento distolsero la vacillante mente del
prigioniero dall’ultima rivelazione personale. La stanza, lungi
dall’essere una cella di segreta, somigliava piuttosto a un salotto, anzi a un
salotto da signora, tranne che per alcune scatole di sigari e bottiglie di
vino ammucchiate insieme a libri e riviste su un tavolino laterale. Un
secondo sguardo gli mostrò che gli arredi più maschili erano piuttosto
recenti, e che lo sfondo più femminile era piuttosto antico. Il suo occhio
colse una striscia di arazzo sbiadito, che lo scosse fino a farlo parlare, con
la momentanea dimenticanza di questioni più gravi. «Questo luogo è stato arredato con roba della casa padronale,» disse. «Sì,» replicò l’altro, «e credo che tu ne sappia il perché.» «Credo di saperlo,» disse Horne Fisher, «e prima di passare a cose più
straordinarie dirò ciò che penso. Lo squire Hawker recitò
insieme la parte del bigamo e del bandito. La sua prima moglie non era morta quando
sposò l’ebrea; era imprigionata su quest’isola. Gli diede
qui un figlio, che ora infesta il luogo natìo sotto il nome di
Long Adam. Un promotore di società in bancarotta di nome Werner scoprì il
segreto e ricattò lo squire fino a fargli cedere la tenuta.
Tutto ciò è chiarissimo e assai facile. E ora lascia che passi a
qualcosa di più difficile. Ed è che tu spieghi che
diavolo tu faccia rapendo il tuo fratello di sangue.» Dopo una pausa Henry Fisher rispose: «Suppongo che non ti aspettassi di vedermi,» disse. «Ma, in fin dei conti,
che altro potevi aspettarti?» «Temo di non seguirti,» disse Horne Fisher. «Voglio dire, che altro potevi aspettarti, dopo aver combinato un tale pasticcio?»
disse suo fratello, imbronciato. «Ti credevamo tutti così astuto. Come
potevamo sapere che saresti stato—beh, davvero, un tale marcio
fallimento?» «Questo è piuttosto curioso,» disse il candidato, aggrottando la fronte. «Senza
vanità, non avevo l’impressione che la mia candidatura fosse un
fallimento. Tutti i grandi comizi ebbero successo e folle di persone
mi hanno promesso i voti.» «Lo credo bene,» disse Henry, cupo. «Hai
fatto una valanga di voti coi tuoi maledetti acri e una vacca, e Verner
non riesce a raccattare un voto da nessuna parte. Oh, è troppo marcio, davvero!» «Che diamine vuoi dire?» «Capisco,» disse Fisher, «e tu, credo, sei un pilastro e un ornamento
del partito della Riforma. Come dici, non sono astuto.» L’appello alla lealtà di partito cadde nel vuoto; poiché il pilastro della
Riforma rimuginava su altre cose. Alla fine disse, con voce più
turbata: «Non volevo che mi scoprissi; sapevo che sarebbe stato un colpo. Ma
ti dico una cosa: non mi avresti mai preso se non fossi venuto qui
di persona, per badare che non ti maltrattassero e per assicurarmi che tutto
fosse comodo il più possibile.» Vi fu persino una sorta d’incrinatura
nella sua voce quando aggiunse: «Ho preso quei sigari perché sapevo che ti
piacevano.» Le emozioni sono cose strane, e l’idiozia di questa concessione
d’improvviso intenerì Horne Fisher come un pathos insondabile. «Non importa, vecchio mio,» disse; «non ne parliamo più. Ammetterò
che sei davvero un mascalzone e un ipocrita di cuore tanto buono e affettuoso
quanto mai se ne vendette per rovinare il proprio paese.
Ecco, non posso dirlo più galantemente di così. Grazie per i sigari,
vecchio mio. Ne prenderò uno, se non ti dispiace.» Nel momento in cui Horne Fisher ebbe finito di narrare questa storia a
Harold March, erano usciti in uno dei parchi pubblici e
s’erano seduti su un rialzo del terreno che dominava ampi spazi verdi sotto
un cielo azzurro e vuoto; e c’era qualcosa d’incongruo nelle
parole con cui la narrazione si chiuse. «Sono rimasto in quella stanza da allora,» disse Horne Fisher. «Vi sono
tuttora. Vinsi le elezioni, ma non andai mai alla Camera. La mia vita
è stata una vita in quella stanzetta su quell’isola solitaria. In abbondanza
libri e sigari e lussi, in abbondanza sapere e interesse e
informazioni, ma mai una voce da quella tomba capace di raggiungere il mondo
di fuori. Probabilmente morirò là.» E sorrise mentre guardava
attraverso il vasto parco verde verso il grigio orizzonte.
VIII - The Vengeance of the Statue * It was on the sunny veranda of a seaside hotel, overlooking a
pattern of flower beds and a strip of blue sea, that Horne Fisher
and Harold March had their final explanation, which might be called
an explosion. Harold March had come to the little table and sat down at it with a
subdued excitement smoldering in his somewhat cloudy and dreamy blue
eyes. In the newspapers which he tossed from him on to the table
there was enough to explain some if not all of his emotion. Public
affairs in every department had reached a crisis. The government
which had stood so long that men were used to it, as they are used
to a hereditary despotism, had begun to be accused of blunders and
even of financial abuses. Some said that the experiment of
attempting to establish a peasantry in the west of England, on the
lines of an early fancy of Horne Fisher’s, had resulted in nothing
but dangerous quarrels with more industrial neighbors. There had
been particular complaints of the ill treatment of harmless
foreigners, chiefly Asiatics, who happened to be employed in the new
scientific works constructed on the coast. Indeed, the new Power
which had arisen in Siberia, backed by Japan and other powerful
allies, was inclined to take the matter up in the interests of its
exiled subjects; and there had been wild talk about ambassadors and
ultimatums. But something much more serious, in its personal
interest for March himself, seemed to fill his meeting with his
friend with a mixture of embarrassment and indignation. Perhaps it increased his annoyance that there was a certain unusual
liveliness about the usually languid figure of Fisher. The ordinary
image of him in March’s mind was that of a pallid and bald-browed
gentleman, who seemed to be prematurely old as well as prematurely
bald. He was remembered as a man who expressed the opinions of a
pessimist in the language of a lounger. Even now March could not be
certain whether the change was merely a sort of masquerade of
sunshine, or that effect of clear colors and clean-cut outlines that
is always visible on the parade of a marine resort, relieved against
the blue dado of the sea. But Fisher had a flower in his buttonhole,
and his friend could have sworn he carried his cane with something
almost like the swagger of a fighter. With such clouds gathering
over England, the pessimist seemed to be the only man who carried
his own sunshine. “Look here,” said Harold March, abruptly, “you’ve been no end of a
friend to me, and I never was so proud of a friendship before; but
there’s something I must get off my chest. The more I found out, the
less I understood how you could stand it. And I tell you I’m going
to stand it no longer.” Horne Fisher gazed across at him gravely and attentively, but rather
as if he were a long way off. “You know I always liked you,” said Fisher, quietly, “but I also
respect you, which is not always the same thing. You may possibly
guess that I like a good many people I don’t respect. Perhaps it is
my tragedy, perhaps it is my fault. But you are very different, and
I promise you this: that I will never try to keep you as somebody to
be liked, at the price of your not being respected.” “I know you are magnanimous,” said March after a silence, “and yet
you tolerate and perpetuate everything that is mean.” Then after
another silence he added: “Do you remember when we first met, when
you were fishing in that brook in the affair of the target? And do
you remember you said that, after all, it might do no harm if I
could blow the whole tangle of this society to hell with dynamite.” “Yes, and what of that?” asked Fisher. “Only that I’m going to blow it to hell with dynamite,” said Harold
March, “and I think it right to give you fair warning. For a long
time I didn’t believe things were as bad as you said they were. But
I never felt as if I could have bottled up what you knew, supposing
you really knew it. Well, the long and the short of it is that I’ve
got a conscience; and now, at last, I’ve also got a chance. I’ve
been put in charge of a big independent paper, with a free hand, and
we’re going to open a cannonade on corruption.” “That will be—Attwood, I suppose,” said Fisher, reflectively.
“Timber merchant. Knows a lot about China.” “He knows a lot about England,” said March, doggedly, “and now I
know it, too, we’re not going to hush it up any longer. The people
of this country have a right to know how they’re ruled—or, rather,
ruined. The Chancellor is in the pocket of the money lenders and has
to do as he is told; otherwise he’s bankrupt, and a bad sort of
bankruptcy, too, with nothing but cards and actresses behind it. The
Prime Minister was in the petrol-contract business; and deep in it,
too. The Foreign Minister is a wreck of drink and drugs. When you
say that plainly about a man who may send thousands of Englishmen to
die for nothing, you’re called personal. If a poor engine driver
gets drunk and sends thirty or forty people to death, nobody
complains of the exposure being personal. The engine driver is not a
person.” “I quite agree with you,” said Fisher, calmly. “You are perfectly
right.” “If you agree with us, why the devil don’t you act with us?”
demanded his friend. “If you think it’s right, why don’t you do
what’s right? It’s awful to think of a man of your abilities simply
blocking the road to reform.” “We have often talked about that,” replied Fisher, with the same
composure. “The Prime Minister is my father’s friend. The Foreign
Minister married my sister. The Chancellor of the Exchequer is my
first cousin. I mention the genealogy in some detail just now for a
particular reason. The truth is I have a curious kind of
cheerfulness at the moment. It isn’t altogether the sun and the sea,
sir. I am enjoying an emotion that is entirely new to me; a happy
VIII - La vendetta della statua * Fu sulla soleggiata veranda di un albergo sul mare, che dava su un
disegno di aiuole e su una striscia di mare azzurro, che Horne Fisher
e Harold March ebbero la loro spiegazione finale, che si potrebbe definire
un’esplosione. Harold March si era avvicinato al tavolino e vi si era seduto con una
repressa eccitazione che covava nei suoi occhi azzurri alquanto velati e
sognanti. Nei giornali che gettò via da sé sul tavolo
c’era abbastanza da spiegare parte, se non tutta, della sua emozione. Gli affari
pubblici in ogni settore avevano raggiunto una crisi. Il governo
che era rimasto in piedi tanto a lungo che gli uomini vi si erano abituati, come ci si abitua
a un dispotismo ereditario, aveva cominciato a essere accusato di errori e
perfino di abusi finanziari. Alcuni dicevano che l’esperimento di
tentare di stabilire un contadiname nell’ovest dell’Inghilterra, sulla
scia di un’antica fantasia di Horne Fisher, non aveva prodotto nulla
se non pericolosi litigi con i vicini più industriali. Vi erano
state particolari lamentele per il maltrattamento di inoffensivi
stranieri, per lo più asiatici, che si trovavano a essere impiegati nei nuovi
stabilimenti scientifici costruiti sulla costa. Anzi, la nuova Potenza
sorta in Siberia, sostenuta dal Giappone e da altri potenti
alleati, era propensa a occuparsi della questione negli interessi dei suoi
sudditi esiliati; e si erano fatti discorsi sconsiderati su ambasciatori e
ultimatum. Ma qualcosa di assai più serio, per il suo personale
interesse per lo stesso March, sembrava riempire il suo incontro con l’
amico di un misto di imbarazzo e indignazione. Forse accresceva il suo fastidio il fatto che ci fosse una certa insolita
vivacità nella figura di solito languida di Fisher. L’immagine ordinaria
che March ne aveva in mente era quella di un gentiluomo pallido e dalla fronte
calva, che sembrava prematuramente vecchio non meno che prematuramente
calvo. Lo si ricordava come un uomo che esprimeva le opinioni di un
pessimista nel linguaggio di un ozioso. Perfino ora March non poteva essere
certo se il cambiamento fosse soltanto una sorta di mascherata di
sole, o quell’effetto di colori chiari e di contorni netti che
è sempre visibile sulla passeggiata di una località marina, stagliato contro
lo zoccolo azzurro del mare. Ma Fisher aveva un fiore all’occhiello,
e il suo amico avrebbe giurato che portava il bastone con qualcosa
di quasi simile alla spavalderia di un combattente. Con simili nubi che si addensavano
sull’Inghilterra, il pessimista sembrava l’unico uomo che portasse
con sé il proprio sole. «Senta un po’», disse Harold March, di colpo, «lei è stato per me un amico
impareggiabile, e non fui mai così fiero di un’amicizia prima d’ora; ma
c’è una cosa che devo togliermi dal petto. Più scoprivo, e
meno capivo come lei potesse sopportarlo. E le dico che non ho intenzione
di sopportarlo più a lungo». Horne Fisher lo guardò gravemente e attentamente, ma piuttosto
come se fosse molto lontano. «Lei sa che mi è sempre stato simpatico», disse Fisher, con calma, «ma io la
rispetto anche, il che non è sempre la stessa cosa. Lei forse
intuisce che mi sono simpatiche parecchie persone che non rispetto. Forse è
la mia tragedia, forse è colpa mia. Ma lei è molto diverso, e
le prometto questo: che non cercherò mai di tenerla come qualcuno da
trovare simpatico, al prezzo di non essere rispettato». «So che lei è magnanimo», disse March dopo un silenzio, «eppure
lei tollera e perpetua tutto ciò che è meschino». Poi dopo
un altro silenzio aggiunse: «Ricorda quando ci incontrammo la prima volta, quando
lei pescava in quel ruscello nella faccenda del bersaglio? E ricorda
che disse che, dopotutto, non avrebbe forse fatto male se io
avessi potuto far saltare all’inferno con la dinamite tutto l’intrico di questa società». «Sì, e con ciò?» chiese Fisher. «Solo che ho intenzione di farla saltare all’inferno con la dinamite», disse Harold
March, «e ritengo giusto avvertirla lealmente. Per molto
tempo non ho creduto che le cose fossero brutte come lei diceva. Ma
non mi è mai sembrato di poter tenere imbottigliato ciò che lei sapeva, ammesso
che lo sapesse davvero. Ebbene, il lungo e il corto della faccenda è che ho
una coscienza; e ora, finalmente, ho anche un’occasione. Sono
stato messo a capo di un grande giornale indipendente, con mano libera, e
abbiamo intenzione di aprire una cannonata contro la corruzione». «Sarà—Attwood, suppongo», disse Fisher, riflettendo.
«Mercante di legname. Sa un mucchio di cose sulla Cina». «Sa un mucchio di cose sull’Inghilterra», disse March, ostinato, «e ora che
lo so anch’io, non abbiamo intenzione di metterci più a tacere. La gente
di questo paese ha il diritto di sapere come viene governata—o, piuttosto,
rovinata. Il Cancelliere è nelle tasche degli strozzini e deve
fare come gli si dice; altrimenti è in bancarotta, e per giunta una brutta specie di
bancarotta, con dietro nient’altro che carte da gioco e attrici. Il
Primo Ministro era nel giro dei contratti sulla benzina; e ci era dentro fino al collo,
per giunta. Il Ministro degli Esteri è un relitto di alcol e droghe. Quando si
dice ciò apertamente di un uomo che può mandare migliaia di inglesi a
morire per niente, si viene tacciati di personalismo. Se un povero macchinista
si ubriaca e manda trenta o quaranta persone alla morte, nessuno
si lamenta che la denuncia sia personale. Il macchinista non è una
persona». «Sono pienamente d’accordo con lei», disse Fisher, con calma. «Lei ha perfettamente
ragione». «Se è d’accordo con noi, perché diavolo non agisce con noi?»
chiese l’amico. «Se pensa che sia giusto, perché non fa
ciò che è giusto? È terribile pensare a un uomo delle sue capacità che semplicemente
blocca la strada verso la riforma». «Ne abbiamo parlato spesso», replicò Fisher, con la stessa
compostezza. «Il Primo Ministro è amico di mio padre. Il Ministro degli
Esteri ha sposato mia sorella. Il Cancelliere dello Scacchiere è mio
cugino di primo grado. Menziono la genealogia con un certo dettaglio proprio ora per una
ragione particolare. La verità è che provo una curiosa specie di
allegria in questo momento. Non è del tutto il sole e il mare,
signore. Sto assaporando un’emozione del tutto nuova per me; una felice
sensation I never remember having had before.” “What the devil do you mean?” “I am feeling proud of my family,” said Horne Fisher. Harold March stared at him with round blue eyes, and seemed too much
mystified even to ask a question. Fisher leaned back in his chair in
his lazy fashion, and smiled as he continued. “Look here, my dear fellow. Let me ask a question in turn. You
imply that I have always known these things about my unfortunate
kinsmen. So I have. Do you suppose that Attwood hasn’t always known
them? Do you suppose he hasn’t always known you as an honest man who
would say these things when he got a chance? Why does Attwood
unmuzzle you like a dog at this moment, after all these years? I
know why he does; I know a good many things, far too many things.
And therefore, as I have the honor to remark, I am proud of my
family at last.” “But why?” repeated March, rather feebly. “I am proud of the Chancellor because he gambled and the Foreign
Minister because he drank and the Prime Minister because he took a
commission on a contract,” said Fisher, firmly. “I am proud of them
because they did these things, and can be denounced for them, and
know they can be denounced for them, and are standing firm for all
that. I take off my hat to them because they are defying blackmail,
and refusing to smash their country to save themselves. I salute
them as if they were going to die on the battlefield.” After a pause he continued: “And it will be a battlefield, too, and
not a metaphorical one. We have yielded to foreign financiers so
long that now it is war or ruin, Even the people, even the country
people, are beginning to suspect that they are being ruined. That is
the meaning of the regrettable incidents in the newspapers.” “The meaning of the outrages on Orientals?” asked March. “The meaning of the outrages on Orientals,” replied Fisher, “is that
the financiers have introduced Chinese labor into this country with
the deliberate intention of reducing workmen and peasants to
starvation. Our unhappy politicians have made concession after
concession; and now they are asking concessions which amount to our
ordering a massacre of our own poor. If we do not fight now we shall
never fight again. They will have put England in an economic
position of starving in a week. But we are going to fight now; I
shouldn’t wonder if there were an ultimatum in a week and an
invasion in a fortnight. All the past corruption and cowardice is
hampering us, of course; the West country is pretty stormy and
doubtful even in a military sense; and the Irish regiments there,
that are supposed to support us by the new treaty, are pretty well
in mutiny; for, of course, this infernal coolie capitalism is being
pushed in Ireland, too. But it’s to stop now; and if the government
message of reassurance gets through to them in time, they may turn
up after all by the time the enemy lands. For my poor old gang is
going to stand to its guns at last. Of course it’s only natural that
when they have been whitewashed for half a century as paragons,
their sins should come back on them at the very moment when they are
behaving like men for the first time in their lives. Well, I tell
you, March, I know them inside out; and I know they are behaving
like heroes. Every man of them ought to have a statue, and on the
pedestal words like those of the noblest ruffian of the Revolution:
‘Que mon nom soit fletri; que la France soit libre.’” “Good God!” cried March, “shall we never get to the bottom of your
mines and countermines?” After a silence Fisher answered in a lower voice, looking his friend
in the eyes. “Did you think there was nothing but evil at the bottom of them?” he
asked, gently. “Did you think I had found nothing but filth in the
deep seas into which fate has thrown me? Believe me, you never know
the best about men till you know the worst about them. It does not
dispose of their strange human souls to know that they were
exhibited to the world as impossibly impeccable wax works, who never
looked after a woman or knew the meaning of a bribe. Even in a
palace, life can be lived well; and even in a Parliament, life can
be lived with occasional efforts to live it well. I tell you it is
as true of these rich fools and rascals as it is true of every poor
footpad and pickpocket; that only God knows how good they have tried
to be. God alone knows what the conscience can survive, or how a man
who has lost his honor will still try to save his soul.” There was another silence, and March sat staring at the table and
Fisher at the sea. Then Fisher suddenly sprang to his feet and
caught up his hat and stick with all his new alertness and even
pugnacity. “Look here, old fellow,” he cried, “let us make a bargain. Before
you open your campaign for Attwood come down and stay with us for
one week, to hear what we’re really doing. I mean with the Faithful
Few, formerly known as the Old Gang, occasionally to be described as
the Low Lot. There are really only five of us that are quite fixed,
and organizing the national defense; and we’re living like a
garrison in a sort of broken-down hotel in Kent. Come and see what
we’re really doing and what there is to be done, and do us justice.
And after that, with unalterable love and affection for you, publish
and be damned.” Thus it came about that in the last week before war, when events
moved most rapidly, Harold March found himself one of a sort of
small house party of the people he was proposing to denounce. They
were living simply enough, for people with their tastes, in an old
brown-brick inn faced with ivy and surrounded by rather dismal
gardens. At the back of the building the garden ran up very steeply
to a road along the ridge above; and a zigzag path scaled the slope
sensazione che non ricordo di aver mai provato prima.» «Che diavolo intendete?» «Provo orgoglio per la mia famiglia», disse Horne Fisher. Harold March lo fissò con i tondi occhi azzurri, e parve troppo
sconcertato persino per formulare una domanda. Fisher si adagiò all’indietro sulla sedia
nel suo modo indolente, e sorrise mentre proseguiva. «Sentite, mio caro amico. Lasciate che a mia volta vi ponga una domanda. Voi
insinuate che io abbia sempre saputo queste cose sui miei sventurati
parenti. E infatti è così. Supponete forse che Attwood non le abbia sempre
sapute? Supponete che non vi abbia sempre conosciuto come un uomo onesto che
avrebbe detto queste cose non appena ne avesse avuto occasione? Perché Attwood
vi toglie la museruola come a un cane proprio in questo momento, dopo tutti questi anni? Io
so perché lo fa; so parecchie cose, fin troppe cose.
E dunque, come ho l’onore di far notare, sono finalmente orgoglioso della mia
famiglia.» «Ma perché?» ripeté March, piuttosto fiaccamente. «Sono orgoglioso del Cancelliere perché ha giocato d’azzardo e del Ministro degli
Esteri perché beveva e del Primo Ministro perché intascò una
provvigione su un appalto», disse Fisher, con fermezza. «Sono orgoglioso di loro
perché hanno fatto queste cose, e possono esserne denunciati, e
sanno di poterne essere denunciati, e nondimeno restano saldi per tutto
questo. Mi tolgo il cappello dinanzi a loro perché sfidano il ricatto,
e rifiutano di mandare in rovina il loro paese per salvare sé stessi. Li
saluto come se stessero per morire sul campo di battaglia.» Dopo una pausa proseguì: «E sarà davvero un campo di battaglia, e
non metaforico. Abbiamo ceduto ai finanzieri stranieri così a
lungo che ormai è guerra o rovina. Persino il popolo, persino la gente di
campagna, comincia a sospettare di essere mandata in rovina. Ecco
il significato dei deplorevoli episodi sui giornali.» «Il significato delle violenze contro gli orientali?» chiese March. «Il significato delle violenze contro gli orientali», rispose Fisher, «è che
i finanzieri hanno introdotto manodopera cinese in questo paese con
la deliberata intenzione di ridurre operai e contadini alla
fame. I nostri infelici politici hanno fatto concessione dopo
concessione; e ora chiedono concessioni che equivalgono a
ordinare un massacro dei nostri stessi poveri. Se non combattiamo ora non
combatteremo mai più. Avranno messo l’Inghilterra in una posizione economica
tale da morire di fame in una settimana. Ma combatteremo ora; non
mi stupirei se ci fosse un ultimatum entro una settimana e un’
invasione entro quindici giorni. Tutta la passata corruzione e viltà ci
ostacola, naturalmente; il West è piuttosto tempestoso e
incerto anche in senso militare; e i reggimenti irlandesi laggiù,
che dovrebbero sostenerci in virtù del nuovo trattato, sono in buona parte ben
in stato di ammutinamento; poiché, naturalmente, questo infernale capitalismo dei coolie viene
spinto anche in Irlanda. Ma deve cessare ora; e se il messaggio di rassicurazione del governo
giunge loro in tempo, potrebbero dopotutto
comparire nel momento in cui il nemico sbarcherà. Poiché la mia povera vecchia banda
resterà finalmente salda ai propri cannoni. Naturalmente è del tutto naturale che
quando per mezzo secolo sono stati imbiancati come modelli di virtù,
i loro peccati ricadano su di loro proprio nel momento in cui si
comportano da uomini per la prima volta nella loro vita. Ebbene, ti dico,
March, li conosco a fondo; e so che si stanno comportando
da eroi. Ciascuno di loro dovrebbe avere una statua, e sul
piedistallo parole come quelle del più nobile canaglia della Rivoluzione:
‘Que mon nom soit fletri; que la France soit libre.’» «Buon Dio!» esclamò March, «non arriveremo mai in fondo alle tue
mine e contromine?» Dopo un silenzio Fisher rispose a voce più bassa, guardando l’amico
negli occhi. «Credevi che non vi fosse altro che male in fondo a loro?» egli
chiese, con dolcezza. «Credevi che io avessi trovato solo lordura nei
mari profondi in cui il destino mi ha gettato? Credimi, non conosci mai
il meglio degli uomini finché non ne conosci il peggio. Non liquida
le loro strane anime umane sapere che furono
esibiti al mondo come cere impossibilmente impeccabili, che mai
guardarono una donna né seppero cosa fosse una tangente. Persino in un
palazzo si può vivere bene; e persino in un Parlamento si può
vivere con occasionali sforzi di viverci bene. Ti dico che è
tanto vero di questi ricchi sciocchi e furfanti quanto è vero di ogni misero
grassatore e borsaiolo; che solo Dio sa quanto buoni essi abbiano cercato
di essere. Dio solo sa cosa la coscienza possa sopravvivere, o come un uomo
che ha perduto l’onore cerchi ancora di salvare la propria anima.» Vi fu un altro silenzio, e March sedeva fissando il tavolo e
Fisher il mare. Poi Fisher balzò all’improvviso in piedi e
afferrò cappello e bastone con tutta la sua nuova prontezza e persino
combattività. «Senti, vecchio mio», esclamò, «facciamo un patto. Prima
di aprire la tua campagna in favore di Attwood, vieni giù e resta con noi per
una settimana, per sentire cosa stiamo davvero facendo. Intendo con i Pochi
Fedeli, un tempo noti come la Vecchia Banda, all’occasione descritti come
la Bassa Combriccola. In verità siamo solo cinque quelli davvero saldi,
e organizziamo la difesa nazionale; e viviamo come una
guarnigione in una specie di albergo sgangherato nel Kent. Vieni a vedere cosa
stiamo davvero facendo e cosa c’è da fare, e rendici giustizia.
E dopo di ciò, con inalterabile affetto e amicizia per te, pubblica
e sia dannato chi vuole.» Fu così che nell’ultima settimana prima della guerra, quando gli eventi
si mossero con la massima rapidità, Harold March si trovò a far parte di una specie di
piccola comitiva in casa delle persone che si proponeva di denunciare. Vivevano
abbastanza semplicemente, per gente dei loro gusti, in una vecchia
locanda di mattoni bruni rivestita d’edera e circondata da giardini piuttosto
tetri. Sul retro dell’edificio il giardino saliva assai ripido
fino a una strada lungo il crinale in alto; e un sentiero a zigzag scalava il pendio
in sharp angles, turning to and fro amid evergreens so somber that
they might rather be called everblack. Here and there up the slope
were statues having all the cold monstrosity of such minor ornaments
of the eighteenth century; and a whole row of them ran as on a
terrace along the last bank at the bottom, opposite the back door.
This detail fixed itself first in March’s mind merely because it
figured in the first conversation he had with one of the cabinet
ministers. The cabinet ministers were rather older than he had expected to find
them. The Prime Minister no longer looked like a boy, though he
still looked a little like a baby. But it was one of those old and
venerable babies, and the baby had soft gray hair. Everything about
him was soft, to his speech and his way of walking; but over and
above that his chief function seemed to be sleep. People left alone
with him got so used to his eyes being closed that they were almost
startled when they realized in the stillness that the eyes were wide
open, and even watching. One thing at least would always make the
old gentleman open his eyes. The one thing he really cared for in
this world was his hobby of armored weapons, especially Eastern
weapons, and he would talk for hours about Damascus blades and Arab
swordmanship. Lord James Herries, the Chancellor of the Exchequer,
was a short, dark, sturdy man with a very sallow face and a very
sullen manner, which contrasted with the gorgeous flower in his
buttonhole and his festive trick of being always slightly
overdressed. It was something of a euphemism to call him a
well-known man about town. There was perhaps more mystery in the
question of how a man who lived for pleasure seemed to get so little
pleasure out of it. Sir David Archer, the Foreign Secretary, was the
only one of them who was a self-made man, and the only one of them
who looked like an aristocrat. He was tall and thin and very
handsome, with a grizzled beard; his gray hair was very curly, and
even rose in front in two rebellious ringlets that seemed to the
fanciful to tremble like the antennae of some giant insect, or to
stir sympathetically with the restless tufted eyebrows over his
rather haggard eyes. For the Foreign Secretary made no secret of his
somewhat nervous condition, whatever might be the cause of it. “Do you know that mood when one could scream because a mat is
crooked?” he said to March, as they walked up and down in the back
garden below the line of dingy statues. “Women get into it when
they’ve worked too hard; and I’ve been working pretty hard lately,
of course. It drives me mad when Herries will wear his hat a little
crooked—habit of looking like a gay dog. Sometime I swear I’ll
knock it off. That statue of Britannia over there isn’t quite
straight; it sticks forward a bit as if the lady were going to
topple over. The damned thing is that it doesn’t topple over and be
done with it. See, it’s clamped with an iron prop. Don’t be
surprised if I get up in the middle of the night to hike it down.” They paced the path for a few moments in silence and then he
continued. “It’s odd those little things seem specially big when
there are bigger things to worry about. We’d better go in and do
some work.” Horne Fisher evidently allowed for all the neurotic possibilities of
Archer and the dissipated habits of Herries; and whatever his faith
in their present firmness, did not unduly tax their time and
attention, even in the case of the Prime Minister. He had got the
consent of the latter finally to the committing of the important
documents, with the orders to the Western armies, to the care of a
less conspicuous and more solid person—an uncle of his named Horne
Hewitt, a rather colorless country squire who had been a good
soldier, and was the military adviser of the committee. He was
charged with expediting the government pledge, along with the
concerted military plans, to the half-mutinous command in the west;
and the still more urgent task of seeing that it did not fall into
the hands of the enemy, who might appear at any moment from the
east. Over and above this military official, the only other person
present was a police official, a certain Doctor Prince, originally a
police surgeon and now a distinguished detective, sent to be a
bodyguard to the group. He was a square-faced man with big
spectacles and a grimace that expressed the intention of keeping his
mouth shut. Nobody else shared their captivity except the hotel
proprietor, a crusty Kentish man with a crab-apple face, one or two
of his servants, and another servant privately attached to Lord
James Herries. He was a young Scotchman named Campbell, who looked
much more distinguished than his bilious-looking master, having
chestnut hair and a long saturnine face with large but fine
features. He was probably the one really efficient person in the
house. After about four days of the informal council, March had come to
feel a sort of grotesque sublimity about these dubious figures,
defiant in the twilight of danger, as if they were hunchbacks and
cripples left alone to defend a town. All were working hard; and he
himself looked up from writing a page of memoranda in a private room
to see Horne Fisher standing in the doorway, accoutered as if for
travel. He fancied that Fisher looked a little pale; and after a
moment that gentleman shut the door behind him and said, quietly: “Well, the worst has happened. Or nearly the worst.” “The enemy has landed,” cried March, and sprang erect out of his
chair. “Oh, I knew the enemy would land,” said Fisher, with composure.
“Yes, he’s landed; but that’s not the worst that could happen. The
worst is that there’s a leak of some sort, even from this fortress
of ours. It’s been a bit of a shock to me, I can tell you; though I
ad angoli acuti, svoltando avanti e indietro tra sempreverdi così cupi che
si sarebbero piuttosto potuti dire sempre-neri. Qua e là su per il pendio
c’erano statue con tutta la fredda mostruosità di quei minori ornamenti
del diciottesimo secolo; e un’intera fila di esse correva come su una
terrazza lungo l’ultima scarpata in basso, di fronte alla porta sul retro.
Questo particolare si fissò dapprima nella mente di March semplicemente perché
figurava nella prima conversazione che ebbe con uno dei ministri del
gabinetto. I ministri del gabinetto erano piuttosto più anziani di quanto si fosse aspettato di trovarli.
Il Primo Ministro non sembrava più un ragazzo, benché
sembrasse ancora un po’ un bambino. Ma era uno di quei vecchi e
venerabili bambini, e il bambino aveva morbidi capelli grigi. Tutto in
lui era morbido, fino alla parola e al modo di camminare; ma oltre e
al di sopra di ciò la sua funzione principale pareva essere il sonno. Le persone lasciate sole
con lui si abituavano tanto ai suoi occhi chiusi da essere quasi
sorprese quando si accorgevano, nell’immobilità, che gli occhi erano spalancati
e persino vigili. Una cosa almeno faceva sempre
aprire gli occhi al vecchio gentiluomo. L’unica cosa a cui teneva davvero al
mondo era il suo hobby delle armi corazzate, specialmente le armi
orientali, e parlava per ore di lame di Damasco e di
scherma araba. Lord James Herries, il Cancelliere dello Scacchiere,
era un uomo basso, bruno, robusto, dal volto assai giallastro e dai modi assai
imbronciati, che contrastavano col fiore sgargiante all’
occhiello e con la sua festosa abitudine di essere sempre lievemente
troppo elegante. Era quasi un eufemismo chiamarlo un
noto uomo di mondo. C’era forse più mistero nella
questione di come un uomo che viveva per il piacere paresse trarne così poco
piacere. Sir David Archer, il Ministro degli Esteri, era il
solo tra loro a essere un uomo che si era fatto da sé, e il solo tra loro
che sembrasse un aristocratico. Era alto, magro e assai
bello, con la barba brizzolata; i capelli grigi erano assai ricci, e
si sollevavano persino sulla fronte in due ribelli boccoli che parevano ai
fantasiosi tremare come le antenne di qualche insetto gigante, o
agitarsi in simpatia con le irrequiete sopracciglia folte sopra i suoi
occhi piuttosto smunti. Poiché il Ministro degli Esteri non faceva mistero della sua
condizione alquanto nervosa, qualunque ne fosse la causa. «Conoscete quello stato d’animo in cui si potrebbe gridare perché un tappetino è
storto?» disse a March, mentre passeggiavano su e giù nel
giardino sul retro sotto la fila di statue sudicie. «Le donne vi cadono quando
hanno lavorato troppo; e io ho lavorato piuttosto duramente ultimamente,
naturalmente. Mi fa impazzire quando Herries insiste a portare il cappello un po’
storto—vezzo di darsi l’aria di un allegro sciupafemmine. Una volta o l’altra giuro che glielo
farò saltare via. Quella statua di Britannia laggiù non è del tutto
dritta; sporge un po’ in avanti come se la signora stesse per
rovesciarsi. La maledetta faccenda è che non si rovescia una buona volta e
la fa finita. Vedete, è fermata con un puntello di ferro. Non vi
stupite se mi alzo nel bel mezzo della notte per buttarla giù.» Percorsero il sentiero per qualche momento in silenzio e poi egli
proseguì. «È strano come quelle piccole cose sembrino specialmente grandi quando
ci sono cose più grandi di cui preoccuparsi. Faremmo meglio a rientrare e a fare
un po’ di lavoro.» Horne Fisher evidentemente teneva conto di tutte le possibilità nevrotiche di
Archer e delle abitudini dissipate di Herries; e quale che fosse la sua fede
nella loro presente fermezza, non gravava indebitamente sul loro tempo e sulla loro
attenzione, nemmeno nel caso del Primo Ministro. Aveva ottenuto il
consenso di quest’ultimo, infine, ad affidare gli importanti
documenti, con gli ordini agli eserciti occidentali, alle cure di una
persona meno cospicua e più solida—uno zio di nome Horne
Hewitt, uno scialbo signorotto di campagna che era stato un buon
soldato, ed era il consigliere militare del comitato. Era
incaricato di far pervenire con sollecitudine l’impegno del governo, insieme ai
piani militari concertati, al comando semi-ammutinato nell’ovest;
e del compito ancor più urgente di badare che non cadesse nelle
mani del nemico, che poteva comparire in qualunque momento da
est. Oltre a questo ufficiale militare, l’unica altra persona
presente era un funzionario di polizia, un certo Dottor Prince, originariamente
medico legale e ora distinto investigatore, mandato a fare da
guardia del corpo al gruppo. Era un uomo dal viso squadrato con grandi
occhiali e una smorfia che esprimeva l’intenzione di tenere la
bocca chiusa. Nessun altro condivideva la loro prigionia salvo il
proprietario dell’albergo, un burbero uomo del Kent dal viso da mela selvatica, uno o due
dei suoi domestici, e un altro domestico al servizio privato di Lord
James Herries. Era un giovane scozzese di nome Campbell, che appariva
assai più distinto del suo padrone dall’aria biliosa, avendo
capelli castani e un lungo volto saturnino dai lineamenti grandi ma fini
. Era probabilmente l’unica persona davvero efficiente della
casa. Dopo circa quattro giorni di quel consiglio informale, March era giunto a
provare una sorta di grottesca sublimità riguardo a queste dubbie figure,
sfidanti nel crepuscolo del pericolo, come se fossero gobbi e
storpi lasciati soli a difendere una città. Tutti lavoravano duramente; ed egli
stesso alzò lo sguardo dallo scrivere una pagina di appunti in una stanza privata
per vedere Horne Fisher fermo sulla soglia, bardato come per un
viaggio. Gli parve che Fisher fosse un po’ pallido; e dopo un
momento quel gentiluomo chiuse la porta dietro di sé e disse, sommessamente: «Ebbene, è accaduto il peggio. O quasi il peggio.» «Il nemico è sbarcato», esclamò March, e balzò eretto dalla sua
sedia. «Oh, sapevo che il nemico sarebbe sbarcato», disse Fisher, con compostezza.
«Sì, è sbarcato; ma non è il peggio che potesse accadere. Il
peggio è che c’è una falla di qualche sorta, persino da questa fortezza
nostra. È stato un po’ uno shock per me, ve lo posso dire; benché io
suppose it’s illogical. After all, I was full of admiration at
finding three honest men in politics. I ought not to be full of
astonishment if I find only two.” He ruminated a moment and then said, in such a fashion that March
could hardly tell if he were changing the subject or no: “It’s hard at first to believe that a fellow like Herries, who had
pickled himself in vice like vinegar, can have any scruple left. But
about that I’ve noticed a curious thing. Patriotism is not the first
virtue. Patriotism rots into Prussianism when you pretend it is the
first virtue. But patriotism is sometimes the last virtue. A man
will swindle or seduce who will not sell his country. But who
knows?” “But what is to be done?” cried March, indignantly. “My uncle has the papers safe enough,” replied Fisher, “and is
sending them west to-night; but somebody is trying to get at them
from outside, I fear with the assistance of somebody inside. All
I can do at present is to try to head off the man outside; and I
must get away now and do it. I shall be back in about twenty-four
hours. While I’m away I want you to keep an eye on these people and
find out what you can. Au revoir.” He vanished down the stairs; and
from the window March could see him mount a motor cycle and trail
away toward the neighboring town. On the following morning, March was sitting in the window seat of
the old inn parlor, which was oak-paneled and ordinarily rather
dark; but on that occasion it was full of the white light of a
curiously clear morning—the moon had shone brilliantly for the
last two or three nights. He was himself somewhat in shadow in the
corner of the window seat; and Lord James Herries, coming in hastily
from the garden behind, did not see him. Lord James clutched the
back of a chair, as if to steady himself, and, sitting down abruptly
at the table, littered with the last meal, poured himself out a
tumbler of brandy and drank it. He sat with his back to March, but
his yellow face appeared in a round mirror beyond and the tinge of it
was like that of some horrible malady. As March moved he started
violently and faced round. “My God!” he cried, “have you seen what’s outside?” “Outside?” repeated the other, glancing over his shoulder at the
garden. “Oh, go and look for yourself,” cried Herries in a sort of fury.
“Hewitt’s murdered and his papers stolen, that’s all.” He turned his back again and sat down with a thud; his square
shoulders were shaking. Harold March darted out of the doorway into
the back garden with its steep slope of statues. The first thing he saw was Doctor Prince, the detective, peering
through his spectacles at something on the ground; the second was
the thing he was peering at. Even after the sensational news he had
heard inside, the sight was something of a sensation. The monstrous stone image of Britannia was lying prone and face
downward on the garden path; and there stuck out at random from
underneath it, like the legs of a smashed fly, an arm clad in a
white shirt sleeve and a leg clad in a khaki trouser, and hair of
the unmistakable sandy gray that belonged to Horne Fisher’s
unfortunate uncle. There were pools of blood and the limbs were
quite stiff in death. “Couldn’t this have been an accident?” said March, finding words at
last. “Look for yourself, I say,” repeated the harsh voice of Herries, who
had followed him with restless movements out of the door. “The
papers are gone, I tell you. The fellow tore the coat off the corpse
and cut the papers out of the inner pocket. There’s the coat over
there on the bank, with the great slash in it.” “But wait a minute,” said the detective, Prince, quietly. “In that
case there seems to be something of a mystery. A murderer might
somehow have managed to throw the statue down on him, as he seems to
have done. But I bet he couldn’t easily have lifted it up again.
I’ve tried; and I’m sure it would want three men at least. Yet we
must suppose, on that theory, that the murderer first knocked him
down as he walked past, using the statue as a stone club, then
lifted it up again, took him out and deprived him of his coat, then
put him back again in the posture of death and neatly replaced the
statue. I tell you it’s physically impossible. And how else could he
have unclothed a man covered with that stone monument? It’s worse
than the conjurer’s trick, when a man shuffles a coat off with his
wrists tied.” “Could he have thrown down the statue after he’d stripped the
corpse?” asked March. “And why?” asked Prince, sharply. “If he’d killed his man and got
his papers, he’d be away like the wind. He wouldn’t potter about in
a garden excavating the pedestals of statues. Besides—Hullo, who’s
that up there?” High on the ridge above them, drawn in dark thin lines against the
sky, was a figure looking so long and lean as to be almost spidery.
The dark silhouette of the head showed two small tufts like horns;
and they could almost have sworn that the horns moved. “Archer!” shouted Herries, with sudden passion, and called to him
with curses to come down. The figure drew back at the first cry,
with an agitated movement so abrupt as almost to be called an antic.
The next moment the man seemed to reconsider and collect himself,
and began to come down the zigzag garden path, but with obvious
reluctance, his feet falling in slower and slower rhythm. Through
March’s mind were throbbing the phrases that this man himself had
used, about going mad in the middle of the night and wrecking the
stone figure. Just so, he could fancy, the maniac who had done such
a thing might climb the crest of the hill, in that feverish dancing
fashion, and look down on the wreck he had made. But the wreck he
suppongo sia illogico. Dopotutto, ero pieno d’ammirazione nel
trovare tre uomini onesti nella politica. Non dovrei essere pieno di
stupore se ne trovo solo due.» Ruminò un momento e poi disse, in tal modo che March
a stento poteva dire se stesse cambiando argomento o no: «È difficile in un primo momento credere che un tale come Herries, che si era
messo sotto aceto nel vizio come una conserva, possa avere ancora qualche scrupolo. Ma
a tal proposito ho notato una cosa curiosa. Il patriottismo non è la prima
virtù. Il patriottismo marcisce in prussianesimo quando si finge che sia la
prima virtù. Ma il patriottismo è talvolta l’ultima virtù. Un uomo
truffa o seduce ma non vende il proprio paese. Ma chi
lo sa?» «Ma cosa si deve fare?» esclamò March, indignato. «Mio zio ha i documenti abbastanza al sicuro», rispose Fisher, «e li sta
mandando a ovest questa notte; ma qualcuno cerca di arrivare ad essi
dall’esterno, temo con l’aiuto di qualcuno all’interno. Tutto
ciò che posso fare al momento è cercare di intercettare l’uomo all’esterno; e
devo andarmene ora a farlo. Sarò di ritorno tra circa ventiquattro
ore. Mentre sono via voglio che tu tenga d’occhio queste persone e
scopra ciò che puoi. Au revoir.» Sparì giù per le scale; e
dalla finestra March poté vederlo montare su una motocicletta e allontanarsi
verso la città vicina. Il mattino seguente March sedeva nel vano della finestra del
salotto della vecchia locanda, che era rivestito di quercia e ordinariamente piuttosto
buio; ma in quell’occasione era pieno della bianca luce di un
mattino curiosamente limpido—la luna aveva brillato splendidamente per le
ultime due o tre notti. Egli stesso era alquanto in ombra nell’
angolo del vano della finestra; e Lord James Herries, entrando in fretta
dal giardino sul retro, non lo vide. Lord James si aggrappò allo
schienale di una sedia, come per reggersi, e, sedendosi bruscamente
al tavolo, ingombro dell’ultimo pasto, si versò un
bicchiere di brandy e lo bevve. Sedeva con la schiena rivolta a March, ma
il suo volto giallo appariva in un tondo specchio più in là e la sua tinta
era come quella di qualche orribile malattia. Al muoversi di March egli sussultò
violentemente e si voltò. «Mio Dio!» esclamò, «avete visto cosa c’è là fuori?» «Là fuori?» ripeté l’altro, gettando un’occhiata alle sue spalle verso il
giardino. «Oh, andate a vedere voi stesso», gridò Herries in una sorta di furia.
«Hewitt è stato assassinato e i suoi documenti rubati, ecco tutto.» Voltò di nuovo le spalle e si lasciò cadere di schianto; le sue quadrate
spalle tremavano. Harold March si precipitò fuori dalla soglia nel
giardino sul retro col suo ripido pendio di statue. La prima cosa che vide fu il Dottor Prince, l’investigatore, che scrutava
attraverso i suoi occhiali qualcosa a terra; la seconda fu
la cosa che egli scrutava. Persino dopo la sensazionale notizia che aveva
udito dentro, la vista fu una sorta di sensazione. La mostruosa immagine di pietra di Britannia giaceva prona, a faccia
in giù sul sentiero del giardino; e ne sporgevano a casaccio da
sotto, come le zampe di una mosca schiacciata, un braccio rivestito da una
bianca manica di camicia e una gamba rivestita da un pantalone cachi, e capelli del
l’inconfondibile grigio sabbia che apparteneva allo sventurato zio di Horne
Fisher. C’erano pozze di sangue e le membra erano
del tutto rigide nella morte. «Non potrebbe essere stato un incidente?» disse March, ritrovando le parole
alla fine. «Guardate voi stesso, vi dico», ripeté l’aspra voce di Herries, che
lo aveva seguito con movimenti irrequieti fuori dalla porta. «I
documenti sono spariti, vi dico. Il tale ha strappato la giacca dal cadavere
e ha tagliato via i documenti dalla tasca interna. Ecco la giacca là
sulla scarpata, con il gran taglio.» «Ma aspettate un momento», disse l’investigatore, Prince, con calma. «In tal
caso pare esserci un certo mistero. Un assassino potrebbe
in qualche modo esser riuscito a rovesciargli addosso la statua, come pare
abbia fatto. Ma scommetto che non avrebbe potuto facilmente risollevarla.
Ho provato; e sono certo che occorrerebbero almeno tre uomini. Eppure
dobbiamo supporre, secondo quella teoria, che l’assassino dapprima lo abbatté
mentre passava, usando la statua come una clava di pietra, poi
la risollevò, lo estrasse e lo privò della giacca, poi
lo rimise nella positura della morte e ricollocò ordinatamente la
statua. Vi dico che è fisicamente impossibile. E in quale altro modo avrebbe potuto
svestire un uomo coperto da quel monumento di pietra? È peggio
del trucco del prestigiatore, quando un uomo si sfila una giacca con i
polsi legati.» «Non potrebbe aver rovesciato la statua dopo aver spogliato il
cadavere?» chiese March. «E perché?» chiese Prince, con asprezza. «Se avesse ucciso il suo uomo e preso
i suoi documenti, sarebbe già lontano come il vento. Non gironzolerebbe in
un giardino a scavare i piedistalli delle statue. E poi—Ehilà, chi c’è
lassù?» In alto sul crinale sopra di loro, tracciata in sottili linee scure contro il
cielo, c’era una figura dall’aspetto così lungo e magro da parere quasi ragnesco.
La scura sagoma del capo mostrava due piccoli ciuffi simili a corna;
e avrebbero quasi potuto giurare che le corna si muovessero. «Archer!» gridò Herries, con improvvisa foga, e lo chiamò
con imprecazioni perché scendesse. La figura si ritrasse al primo grido,
con un movimento agitato così brusco da potersi quasi dire una buffonata.
L’istante dopo l’uomo parve ripensarci e ricomporsi,
e cominciò a scendere il sentiero a zigzag del giardino, ma con evidente
riluttanza, i piedi cadenti in ritmo sempre più lento. Per
la mente di March pulsavano le frasi che quest’uomo stesso aveva
usato, sull’impazzire nel bel mezzo della notte e distruggere la
figura di pietra. Proprio così, poteva immaginare, il maniaco che avesse fatto una
cosa simile poteva scalare la cresta della collina, in quella febbrile danzante
maniera, e guardare in basso il rovinoso scempio che aveva fatto. Ma lo scempio che
had made here was not only a wreck of stone. When the man emerged at last on to the garden path, with the full
light on his face and figure, he was walking slowly indeed, but
easily, and with no appearance of fear. “This is a terrible thing,” he said. “I saw it from above; I was
taking a stroll along the ridge.” “Do you mean that you saw the murder?” demanded March, “or the
accident? I mean did you see the statue fall?” “No,” said Archer, “I mean I saw the statue fallen.” Prince seemed to be paying but little attention; his eye was riveted
on an object lying on the path a yard or two from the corpse. It
seemed to be a rusty iron bar bent crooked at one end. “One thing I don’t understand,” he said, “is all this blood. The
poor fellow’s skull isn’t smashed; most likely his neck is broken;
but blood seems to have spouted as if all his arteries were severed.
I was wondering if some other instrument … that iron thing, for
instance; but I don’t see that even that is sharp enough. I suppose
nobody knows what it is.” “I know what it is,” said Archer in his deep but somewhat shaky
voice. “I’ve seen it in my nightmares. It was the iron clamp or prop
on the pedestal, stuck on to keep the wretched image upright when it
began to wobble, I suppose. Anyhow, it was always stuck in the
stonework there; and I suppose it came out when the thing
collapsed.” Doctor Prince nodded, but he continued to look down at the pools of
blood and the bar of iron. “I’m certain there’s something more underneath all this,” he said at
last. “Perhaps something more underneath the statue. I have a huge
sort of hunch that there is. We are four men now and between us we
can lift that great tombstone there.” They all bent their strength to the business; there was a silence
save for heavy breathing; and then, after an instant of the
tottering and staggering of eight legs, the great carven column of
rock was rolled away, and the body lying in its shirt and trousers
was fully revealed. The spectacles of Doctor Prince seemed almost to
enlarge with a restrained radiance like great eyes; for other things
were revealed also. One was that the unfortunate Hewitt had a deep
gash across the jugular, which the triumphant doctor instantly
identified as having been made with a sharp steel edge like a razor.
The other was that immediately under the bank lay littered three
shining scraps of steel, each nearly a foot long, one pointed and
another fitted into a gorgeously jeweled hilt or handle. It was
evidently a sort of long Oriental knife, long enough to be called a
sword, but with a curious wavy edge; and there was a touch or two of
blood on the point. “I should have expected more blood, hardly on the point,” observed
Doctor Prince, thoughtfully, “but this is certainly the instrument.
The slash was certainly made with a weapon shaped like this, and
probably the slashing of the pocket as well. I suppose the brute
threw in the statue, by way of giving him a public funeral.” March did not answer; he was mesmerized by the strange stones that
glittered on the strange sword hilt; and their possible significance
was broadening upon him like a dreadful dawn. It was a curious
Asiatic weapon. He knew what name was connected in his memory with
curious Asiatic weapons. Lord James spoke his secret thought for
him, and yet it startled him like an irrelevance. “Where is the Prime Minister?” Herries had cried, suddenly, and
somehow like the bark of a dog at some discovery. Doctor Prince turned on him his goggles and his grim face; and it
was grimmer than ever. “I cannot find him anywhere,” he said. “I looked for him at once,
as soon as I found the papers were gone. That servant of yours,
Campbell, made a most efficient search, but there are no traces.” There was a long silence, at the end of which Herries uttered
another cry, but upon an entirely new note. “Well, you needn’t look for him any longer,” he said, “for here he
comes, along with your friend Fisher. They look as if they’d been
for a little walking tour.” The two figures approaching up the path were indeed those of Fisher,
splashed with the mire of travel and carrying a scratch like that of
a bramble across one side of his bald forehead, and of the great and
gray-haired statesman who looked like a baby and was interested in
Eastern swords and swordmanship. But beyond this bodily recognition,
March could make neither head nor tail of their presence or
demeanor, which seemed to give a final touch of nonsense to the
whole nightmare. The more closely he watched them, as they stood
listening to the revelations of the detective, the more puzzled he
was by their attitude—Fisher seemed grieved by the death of his
uncle, but hardly shocked at it; the older man seemed almost openly
thinking about something else, and neither had anything to suggest
about a further pursuit of the fugitive spy and murderer, in spite
of the prodigious importance of the documents he had stolen. When
the detective had gone off to busy himself with that department of
the business, to telephone and write his report, when Herries had
gone back, probably to the brandy bottle, and the Prime Minister had
blandly sauntered away toward a comfortable armchair in another part
of the garden, Horne Fisher spoke directly to Harold March. “My friend,” he said, “I want you to come with me at once; there is
no one else I can trust so much as that. The journey will take us
most of the day, and the chief business cannot be done till
nightfall. So we can talk things over thoroughly on the way. But I
want you to be with me; for I rather think it is my hour.” March and Fisher both had motor bicycles; and the first half of
their day’s journey consisted in coasting eastward amid the
che aveva fatto qui non era soltanto uno scempio di pietra. Quando l’uomo emerse infine sul sentiero del giardino, con la piena
luce sul volto e sulla figura, camminava sì lentamente, ma
con disinvoltura, e senza alcuna apparenza di paura. «Questa è una cosa terribile», disse. «L’ho vista dall’alto; stavo
facendo una passeggiata lungo il crinale.» «Volete dire che avete visto l’assassinio?» incalzò March, «oppure
l’incidente? Voglio dire, avete visto cadere la statua?» «No», disse Archer, «voglio dire che ho visto la statua caduta.» Prince pareva prestare ben poca attenzione; il suo occhio era inchiodato
su un oggetto che giaceva sul sentiero a un metro o due dal cadavere. Pareva
essere una barra di ferro arrugginita piegata storta a un’estremità. «Una cosa che non capisco», disse, «è tutto questo sangue. Il
cranio del poveretto non è fracassato; molto probabilmente ha il collo spezzato;
ma il sangue pare essere sgorgato come se tutte le sue arterie fossero recise.
Mi chiedevo se qualche altro strumento … quella cosa di ferro, per
esempio; ma non vedo che neppure quella sia abbastanza affilata. Suppongo
che nessuno sappia cosa sia.» «Io so cos’è», disse Archer nella sua voce profonda ma alquanto tremula
. «L’ho vista nei miei incubi. Era la morsa o il puntello di ferro
sul piedistallo, conficcato per tenere dritta la miserabile immagine quando
cominciò a vacillare, suppongo. In ogni caso, era sempre infisso nella
muratura di pietra là; e suppongo che sia uscito quando la cosa
crollò.» Il Dottor Prince annuì, ma continuò a guardare in basso le pozze di
sangue e la barra di ferro. «Sono certo che c’è qualcosa di più sotto tutto questo», disse
infine. «Forse qualcosa di più sotto la statua. Ho una enorme
specie di presentimento che ci sia. Ora siamo quattro uomini e tra noi
possiamo sollevare quella gran pietra tombale.» Tutti piegarono le forze all’impresa; ci fu un silenzio
salvo per il respiro affannoso; e poi, dopo un istante di
barcollare e vacillare di otto gambe, la grande colonna scolpita di
roccia fu rotolata via, e il corpo disteso in camicia e calzoni
fu pienamente rivelato. Gli occhiali del Dottor Prince parvero quasi
ingrandirsi con un trattenuto splendore come grandi occhi; poiché anche altre cose
furono rivelate. Una era che lo sventurato Hewitt aveva un profondo
squarcio attraverso la giugulare, che il trionfante dottore all’istante
identificò come inferto con un affilato taglio d’acciaio simile a un rasoio.
L’altra era che immediatamente sotto la scarpata giacevano sparsi tre
lucenti frammenti d’acciaio, ciascuno lungo quasi un piede, uno appuntito e
un altro incastrato in un’impugnatura o manico riccamente ingioiellato. Era
evidentemente una sorta di lungo coltello orientale, abbastanza lungo da potersi dire una
spada, ma con una curiosa lama ondulata; e c’era un tocco o due di
sangue sulla punta. «Mi sarei aspettato più sangue, e non certo sulla punta», osservò
il Dottor Prince, pensieroso, «ma questo è di certo lo strumento.
Lo squarcio fu di certo inferto con un’arma di questa foggia, e
probabilmente anche il taglio della tasca allo stesso modo. Suppongo che il bruto
abbia gettato dentro la statua, a mo’ di dargli un funerale pubblico.» March non rispose; era ipnotizzato dalle strane pietre che
scintillavano sulla strana impugnatura della spada; e il loro possibile significato
si allargava su di lui come una spaventosa alba. Era una curiosa
arma asiatica. Sapeva quale nome fosse connesso nella sua memoria con
le curiose armi asiatiche. Lord James espresse il suo segreto pensiero per
lui, eppure lo fece trasalire come una cosa fuori luogo. «Dov’è il Primo Ministro?» aveva gridato Herries, all’improvviso, e
in qualche modo come il latrato di un cane a qualche scoperta. Il Dottor Prince gli rivolse i suoi occhialoni e il suo torvo volto; ed era
più torvo che mai. «Non riesco a trovarlo da nessuna parte», disse. «L’ho cercato subito,
non appena scoprii che i documenti erano spariti. Quel vostro domestico,
Campbell, ha compiuto una ricerca oltremodo efficiente, ma non ci sono tracce.» Vi fu un lungo silenzio, al termine del quale Herries emise
un altro grido, ma su una nota interamente nuova. «Ebbene, non occorre che lo cerchiate oltre», disse, «poiché eccolo che
arriva, insieme al vostro amico Fisher. Hanno l’aria di essere stati
a fare una piccola gita a piedi.» Le due figure che si avvicinavano su per il sentiero erano davvero quelle di Fisher,
spruzzato del fango del viaggio e recante un graffio come quello di un
rovo attraverso un lato della sua fronte calva, e del grande e
canuto uomo di stato che sembrava un bambino ed era interessato alle
spade orientali e alla scherma. Ma al di là di questo riconoscimento fisico,
March non riusciva a raccapezzarsi né sulla loro presenza né sul loro
contegno, che pareva dare un tocco finale di assurdità all’
intero incubo. Più da vicino li osservava, mentre stavano
ascoltando le rivelazioni dell’investigatore, più egli era
sconcertato dal loro atteggiamento—Fisher pareva addolorato per la morte di suo
zio, ma a stento sconvolto da essa; il più anziano pareva quasi apertamente
pensare a qualcos’altro, e nessuno dei due aveva nulla da suggerire
circa un ulteriore inseguimento della spia e assassino fuggitivo, malgrado
la prodigiosa importanza dei documenti che aveva rubato. Quando
l’investigatore fu andato via a occuparsi di quel reparto della
faccenda, per telefonare e scrivere il suo rapporto, quando Herries fu
tornato, probabilmente alla bottiglia di brandy, e il Primo Ministro
si fu blandamente allontanato verso una comoda poltrona in un’altra parte
del giardino, Horne Fisher parlò direttamente a Harold March. «Amico mio», disse, «voglio che tu venga con me subito; non c’è
nessun altro di cui mi fidi tanto quanto di te. Il viaggio ci prenderà
la maggior parte della giornata, e la faccenda principale non può esser compiuta prima del
calar della notte. Così potremo discutere le cose a fondo per via. Ma
voglio che tu sia con me; poiché credo piuttosto che sia la mia ora.» March e Fisher avevano entrambi motociclette; e la prima metà della
loro giornata di viaggio consistette nel procedere verso est in mezzo al
unconversational noise of those uncomfortable engines. But when they
came out beyond Canterbury into the flats of eastern Kent, Fisher
stopped at a pleasant little public house beside a sleepy stream;
and they sat down to eat and to drink and to speak almost for the
first time. It was a brilliant afternoon, birds were singing in the
wood behind, and the sun shone full on their ale bench and table;
but the face of Fisher in the strong sunlight had a gravity never
seen on it before. “Before we go any farther,” he said, “there is something you ought
to know. You and I have seen some mysterious things and got to the
bottom of them before now; and it’s only right that you should get
to the bottom of this one. But in dealing with the death of my uncle
I must begin at the other end from where our old detective yarns
began. I will give you the steps of deduction presently, if you want
to listen to them; but I did not reach the truth of this by steps of
deduction. I will first of all tell you the truth itself, because I
knew the truth from the first. The other cases I approached from the
outside, but in this case I was inside. I myself was the very core
and center of everything.” Something in the speaker’s pendent eyelids and grave gray eyes
suddenly shook March to his foundations; and he cried, distractedly,
“I don’t understand!” as men do when they fear that they do
understand. There was no sound for a space but the happy chatter of
the birds, and then Horne Fisher said, calmly: “It was I who killed my uncle. If you particularly want more, it
was I who stole the state papers from him.” “Fisher!” cried his friend in a strangled voice. “Let me tell you the whole thing before we part,” continued the
other, “and let me put it, for the sake of clearness, as we used to
put our old problems. Now there are two things that are puzzling
people about that problem, aren’t there? The first is how the
murderer managed to slip off the dead man’s coat, when he was
already pinned to the ground with that stone incubus. The other,
which is much smaller and less puzzling, is the fact of the sword
that cut his throat being slightly stained at the point, instead of
a good deal more stained at the edge. Well, I can dispose of the
first question easily. Horne Hewitt took off his own coat before he
was killed. I might say he took off his coat to be killed.” “Do you call that an explanation?” exclaimed March. “The words seem
more meaningless, than the facts.” “Well, let us go on to the other facts,” continued Fisher, equably.
“The reason that particular sword is not stained at the edge with
Hewitt’s blood is that it was not used to kill Hewitt.” “But the doctor,” protested March, “declared distinctly that the
wound was made by that particular sword.” “I beg your pardon,” replied Fisher. “He did not declare that it
was made by that particular sword. He declared it was made by a
sword of that particular pattern.” “But it was quite a queer and exceptional pattern,” argued March;
“surely it is far too fantastic a coincidence to imagine—” “It was a fantastic coincidence,” reflected Horne Fisher. “It’s
extraordinary what coincidences do sometimes occur. By the oddest
chance in the world, by one chance in a million, it so happened that
another sword of exactly the same shape was in the same garden at
the same time. It may be partly explained, by the fact that I
brought them both into the garden myself … come, my dear fellow;
surely you can see now what it means. Put those two things together;
there were two duplicate swords and he took off his coat for
himself. It may assist your speculations to recall the fact that I
am not exactly an assassin.” “A duel!” exclaimed March, recovering himself. “Of course I ought
to have thought of that. But who was the spy who stole the papers?” “My uncle was the spy who stole the papers,” replied Fisher, “or who
tried to steal the papers when I stopped him—in the only way I
could. The papers, that should have gone west to reassure our
friends and give them the plans for repelling the invasion, would in
a few hours have been in the hands of the invader. What could I do?
To have denounced one of our friends at this moment would have been
to play into the hands of your friend Attwood, and all the party of
panic and slavery. Besides, it may be that a man over forty has a
subconscious desire to die as he has lived, and that I wanted, in a
sense, to carry my secrets to the grave. Perhaps a hobby hardens
with age; and my hobby has been silence. Perhaps I feel that I have
killed my mother’s brother, but I have saved my mother’s name.
Anyhow, I chose a time when I knew you were all asleep, and he was
walking alone in the garden. I saw all the stone statues standing in
the moonlight; and I myself was like one of those stone statues
walking. In a voice that was not my own, I told him of his treason
and demanded the papers; and when he refused, I forced him to take
one of the two swords. The swords were among some specimens sent
down here for the Prime Minister’s inspection; he is a collector,
you know; they were the only equal weapons I could find. To cut an
ugly tale short, we fought there on the path in front of the
Britannia statue; he was a man of great strength, but I had somewhat
the advantage in skill. His sword grazed my forehead almost at the
moment when mine sank into the joint in his neck. He fell against
the statue, like Caesar against Pompey’s, hanging on to the iron
rail; his sword was already broken. When I saw the blood from that
deadly wound, everything else went from me; I dropped my sword and
l’incomunicabile frastuono di quei scomodi motori. Ma quando
sbucarono oltre Canterbury nelle pianure del Kent orientale, Fisher
si fermò presso una piacevole piccola osteria accanto a un pigro ruscello;
e si sedettero a mangiare e a bere e a parlare quasi per la
prima volta. Era un pomeriggio splendente, gli uccelli cantavano nel
bosco alle loro spalle, e il sole splendeva pieno sulla loro panca e sul tavolo da birra;
ma il volto di Fisher nella forte luce del sole aveva una gravità mai
vista prima su di esso. «Prima di andare oltre», disse, «c’è una cosa che dovresti
sapere. Tu e io abbiamo visto alcune cose misteriose e siamo arrivati in
fondo a esse in passato; ed è giusto che tu arrivi
in fondo a questa. Ma nel trattare la morte di mio zio
devo cominciare dall’estremità opposta rispetto a dove cominciavano le nostre vecchie storie da investigatore
. Ti darò tra poco i passaggi della deduzione, se vuoi
ascoltarli; ma non giunsi alla verità di questa per passaggi di
deduzione. Ti dirò innanzitutto la verità stessa, perché
conobbi la verità fin dal principio. Gli altri casi li affrontai dall’
esterno, ma in questo caso ero all’interno. Io stesso ero il nucleo e il centro
stesso di ogni cosa.» Qualcosa nelle palpebre cadenti e nei gravi occhi grigi di chi parlava
scosse d’improvviso March fin nelle fondamenta; ed egli esclamò, smarrito,
«Non capisco!» come fanno gli uomini quando temono di
capire. Per un tratto non vi fu altro suono che il lieto cinguettio degli
uccelli, e poi Horne Fisher disse, con calma: «Fui io a uccidere mio zio. Se proprio vuoi di più,
fui io a rubargli i documenti di stato.» «Fisher!» esclamò l’amico con voce strozzata. «Lascia che ti racconti tutta la faccenda prima di separarci», proseguì l’
altro, «e lascia che la esponga, per amor di chiarezza, come eravamo soliti
esporre i nostri vecchi problemi. Ora ci sono due cose che sconcertano
la gente riguardo a quel problema, non è vero? La prima è come
l’assassino sia riuscito a sfilare la giacca dell’uomo morto, quando egli era
già inchiodato a terra da quell’incubo di pietra. L’altra,
che è assai più piccola e meno sconcertante, è il fatto che la spada
che gli tagliò la gola fosse lievemente macchiata sulla punta, invece che
assai più macchiata sul filo. Ebbene, posso liquidare la
prima questione facilmente. Horne Hewitt si tolse la giacca prima di essere
ucciso. Potrei dire che si tolse la giacca per essere ucciso.» «Chiami questa una spiegazione?» esclamò March. «Le parole paiono
più prive di senso dei fatti.» «Ebbene, passiamo agli altri fatti», proseguì Fisher, pacatamente.
«La ragione per cui quella particolare spada non è macchiata sul filo del
sangue di Hewitt è che non fu usata per uccidere Hewitt.» «Ma il dottore», protestò March, «dichiarò distintamente che la
ferita fu inferta da quella particolare spada.» «Chiedo scusa», replicò Fisher. «Non dichiarò che essa
fu inferta da quella particolare spada. Dichiarò che fu inferta da una
spada di quel particolare modello.» «Ma era un modello assai bizzarro ed eccezionale», obiettò March;
«di certo è una coincidenza troppo fantastica per immaginare—» «Fu una coincidenza fantastica», rifletté Horne Fisher. «È
straordinario quali coincidenze talvolta accadano. Per il più bizzarro
caso del mondo, per una probabilità su un milione, avvenne che
un’altra spada esattamente della stessa forma si trovasse nello stesso giardino nello
stesso momento. Ciò si può in parte spiegare col fatto che io
le portai entrambe nel giardino io stesso … via, mio caro amico;
di certo ora vedi cosa significa. Metti insieme quelle due cose;
c’erano due spade identiche ed egli si tolse la giacca da
sé. Può giovare alle tue congetture ricordare il fatto che io
non sono esattamente un assassino.» «Un duello!» esclamò March, riavendosi. «Certo che avrei
dovuto pensarci. Ma chi era la spia che rubò i documenti?» «Mio zio era la spia che rubò i documenti», replicò Fisher, «o che
tentò di rubarli quando lo fermai—nell’unico modo in cui
potevo. I documenti, che avrebbero dovuto andare a ovest a rassicurare i nostri
amici e a dar loro i piani per respingere l’invasione, sarebbero in
poche ore stati nelle mani dell’invasore. Cosa potevo fare?
Denunciare uno dei nostri amici in questo momento sarebbe stato
fare il gioco del tuo amico Attwood, e di tutto il partito del
panico e della schiavitù. E poi, può darsi che un uomo oltre i quaranta abbia un
desiderio inconscio di morire come è vissuto, e che io volessi, in un certo
senso, portare i miei segreti nella tomba. Forse un hobby si indurisce
con l’età; e il mio hobby è stato il silenzio. Forse sento di aver
ucciso il fratello di mia madre, ma di aver salvato il nome di mia madre.
Comunque, scelsi un momento in cui sapevo che dormivate tutti, ed egli
passeggiava solo nel giardino. Vidi tutte le statue di pietra erette nella
luce della luna; e io stesso ero come una di quelle statue di pietra
che cammina. Con una voce che non era la mia, gli parlai del suo tradimento
e pretesi i documenti; e quando rifiutò, lo costrinsi a impugnare
una delle due spade. Le spade erano tra alcuni esemplari mandati
quaggiù per l’ispezione del Primo Ministro; è un collezionista,
sai; erano le uniche armi pari che potei trovare. Per farla
breve, la brutta storia, ci battemmo là sul sentiero davanti alla
statua di Britannia; era un uomo di grande forza, ma io avevo un certo
vantaggio nell’abilità. La sua spada mi sfiorò la fronte quasi nel
momento in cui la mia affondò nella giuntura del suo collo. Cadde contro
la statua, come Cesare contro quella di Pompeo, aggrappandosi alla
sbarra di ferro; la sua spada era già spezzata. Quando vidi il sangue di quella
ferita mortale, tutto il resto mi abbandonò; lasciai cadere la mia spada e
ran as if to lift him up. As I bent toward him something happened
too quick for me to follow. I do not know whether the iron bar was
rotted with rust and came away in his hand, or whether he rent it
out of the rock with his apelike strength; but the thing was in his
hand, and with his dying energies he swung it over my head, as I
knelt there unarmed beside him. I looked up wildly to avoid the
blow, and saw above us the great bulk of Britannia leaning outward
like the figurehead of a ship. The next instant I saw it was leaning
an inch or two more than usual, and all the skies with their
outstanding stars seemed to be leaning with it. For the third second
it was as if the skies fell; and in the fourth I was standing in the
quiet garden, looking down on that flat ruin of stone and bone at
which you were looking to-day. He had plucked out the last prop that
held up the British goddess, and she had fallen and crushed the
traitor in her fall. I turned and darted for the coat which I knew
to contain the package, ripped it up with my sword, and raced away
up the garden path to where my motor bike was waiting on the road
above. I had every reason for haste; but I fled without looking back
at the statue and the body; and I think the thing I fled from was
the sight of that appalling allegory. “Then I did the rest of what I had to do. All through the night and
into the daybreak and the daylight I went humming through the
villages and markets of South England like a traveling bullet, till
I came to the headquarters in the West where the trouble was. I was
just in time. I was able to placard the place, so to speak, with the
news that the government had not betrayed them, and that they would
find supports if they would push eastward against the enemy. There’s
no time to tell you all that happened; but I tell you it was the day
of my life. A triumph like a torchlight procession, with torchlights
that might have been firebrands. The mutinies simmered down; the men
of Somerset and the western counties came pouring into the market
places; the men who died with Arthur and stood firm with Alfred. The
Irish regiments rallied to them, after a scene like a riot, and
marched eastward out of the town singing Fenian songs. There was all
that is not understood, about the dark laughter of that people, in
the delight with which, even when marching with the English to the
defense of England, they shouted at the top of their voices, ‘High
upon the gallows tree stood the noble-hearted three … With
England’s cruel cord about them cast.’ However, the chorus was ‘God
save Ireland,’ and we could all have sung that just then, in one
sense or another. “But there was another side to my mission. I carried the plans of
the defense; and to a great extent, luckily, the plans of the
invasion also. I won’t worry you with strategics; but we knew where
the enemy had pushed forward the great battery that covered all his
movements; and though our friends from the West could hardly arrive
in time to intercept the main movement, they might get within long
artillery range of the battery and shell it, if they only knew
exactly where it was. They could hardly tell that unless somebody
round about here sent up some sort of signal. But, somehow, I rather
fancy that somebody will.” With that he got up from the table, and they remounted their
machines and went eastward into the advancing twilight of evening.
The levels of the landscape were repeated in flat strips of floating
cloud and the last colors of day clung to the circle of the horizon.
Receding farther and farther behind them was the semicircle of the
last hills; and it was quite suddenly that they saw afar off the dim
line of the sea. It was not a strip of bright blue as they had seen
it from the sunny veranda, but of a sinister and smoky violet, a
tint that seemed ominous and dark. Here Horne Fisher dismounted once
more. “We must walk the rest of the way,” he said, “and the last bit of
all I must walk alone.” He bent down and began to unstrap something from his bicycle. It was
something that had puzzled his companion all the way in spite of
what held him to more interesting riddles; it appeared to be several
lengths of pole strapped together and wrapped up in paper. Fisher
took it under his arm and began to pick his way across the turf. The
ground was growing more tumbled and irregular and he was walking
toward a mass of thickets and small woods; night grew darker every
moment. “We must not talk any more,” said Fisher. “I shall whisper
to you when you are to halt. Don’t try to follow me then, for it
will only spoil the show; one man can barely crawl safely to the
spot, and two would certainly be caught.” “I would follow you anywhere,” replied March, “but I would halt,
too, if that is better.” “I know you would,” said his friend in a low voice. “Perhaps you’re
the only man I ever quite trusted in this world.” A few paces farther on they came to the end of a great ridge or
mound looking monstrous against the dim sky; and Fisher stopped with
a gesture. He caught his companion’s hand and wrung it with a
violent tenderness, and then darted forward into the darkness. March
could faintly see his figure crawling along under the shadow of the
ridge, then he lost sight of it, and then he saw it again standing
on another mound two hundred yards away. Beside him stood a singular
erection made apparently of two rods. He bent over it and there was
the flare of a light; all March’s schoolboy memories woke in him,
and he knew what it was. It was the stand of a rocket. The confused,
incongruous memories still possessed him up to the very moment of a
fierce but familiar sound; and an instant after the rocket left its
perch and went up into endless space like a starry arrow aimed at
the stars. March thought suddenly of the signs of the last days and
knew he was looking at the apocalyptic meteor of something like a
Day of judgment. Far up in the infinite heavens the rocket drooped and sprang into
scarlet stars. For a moment the whole landscape out to the sea and
back to the crescent of the wooded hills was like a lake of ruby
light, of a red strangely rich and glorious, as if the world were
steeped in wine rather than blood, or the earth were an earthly
paradise, over which paused forever the sanguine moment of morning. “God save England!” cried Fisher, with a tongue like the peal of a
trumpet. “And now it is for God to save.” As darkness sank again over land and sea, there came another sound;
far away in the passes of the hills behind them the guns spoke like
the baying of great hounds. Something that was not a rocket, that
came not hissing but screaming, went over Harold March’s head and
expanded beyond the mound into light and deafening din, staggering
the brain with unbearable brutalities of noise. Another came, and
then another, and the world was full of uproar and volcanic vapor
and chaotic light. The artillery of the West country and the Irish
had located the great enemy battery, and were pounding it to pieces. In the mad excitement of that moment March peered through the storm,
looking again for the long lean figure that stood beside the stand
of the rocket. Then another flash lit up the whole ridge. The figure
was not there. Before the fires of the rocket had faded from the sky, long before
the first gun had sounded from the distant hills, a splutter of
rifle fire had flashed and flickered all around from the hidden
trenches of the enemy. Something lay in the shadow at the foot of
the ridge, as stiff as the stick of the fallen rocket; and the man
who knew too much knew what is worth knowing.
corsi come per sollevarlo. Mentre mi chinavo verso di lui accadde qualcosa
troppo rapida perché la seguissi. Non so se la barra di ferro fosse
corrosa dalla ruggine e gli venisse via nella mano, o se la strappasse
dalla roccia con la sua forza scimmiesca; ma la cosa era nella sua
mano, e con le sue energie morenti la vibrò sopra il mio capo, mentre io
inginocchiato là inerme accanto a lui. Alzai lo sguardo forsennatamente per schivare il
colpo, e vidi sopra di noi la gran mole di Britannia sporgersi in fuori
come la polena di una nave. L’istante dopo vidi che si inclinava
di un pollice o due più del solito, e tutti i cieli con le loro
salienti stelle parevano inclinarsi con essa. Al terzo secondo
fu come se i cieli cadessero; e al quarto ero in piedi nel
quieto giardino, guardando in basso quella piatta rovina di pietra e ossa che
tu oggi guardavi. Aveva strappato via l’ultimo puntello che
reggeva la dea britannica, ed essa era caduta e aveva schiacciato il
traditore nella sua caduta. Mi voltai e mi slanciai verso la giacca che sapevo
contenere il plico, la squarciai con la mia spada, e corsi via
su per il sentiero del giardino fino a dove la mia motocicletta attendeva sulla strada
in alto. Avevo ogni ragione per la fretta; ma fuggii senza voltarmi a guardare
la statua e il corpo; e credo che la cosa da cui fuggii fosse
la vista di quella spaventosa allegoria. «Poi feci il resto di ciò che dovevo fare. Per tutta la notte e
fin dentro l’alba e la luce del giorno andai sfrecciando ronzante attraverso i
villaggi e i mercati dell’Inghilterra meridionale come un proiettile in viaggio, finché
giunsi al quartier generale nell’Ovest dove c’erano i guai. Ero
giusto in tempo. Potei tappezzare il luogo, per così dire, con la
notizia che il governo non li aveva traditi, e che avrebbero
trovato appoggi se avessero spinto verso est contro il nemico. Non c’è
tempo di raccontarti tutto ciò che accadde; ma ti dico che fu il giorno
della mia vita. Un trionfo come una fiaccolata, con fiaccole
che avrebbero potuto essere tizzoni. Gli ammutinamenti si placarono; gli uomini
del Somerset e delle contee occidentali si riversarono nelle
piazze del mercato; gli uomini che morirono con Artù e tennero saldi con Alfredo. I
reggimenti irlandesi si unirono a loro, dopo una scena simile a un tumulto, e
marciarono verso est fuori dalla città cantando canti feniani. C’era tutto
ciò che non si comprende, riguardo alla oscura risata di quel popolo, nel
piacere con cui, persino marciando con gli inglesi alla
difesa dell’Inghilterra, gridavano a squarciagola: ‘In alto
sulla forca stavano i tre dal nobile cuore … Con
la crudele corda d’Inghilterra gettata attorno a loro.’ Comunque, il ritornello era ‘Dio
salvi l’Irlanda,’ e tutti noi avremmo potuto cantarlo proprio allora, in un
senso o nell’altro. «Ma c’era un altro lato della mia missione. Portavo i piani della
difesa; e in gran parte, per fortuna, anche i piani dell’
invasione. Non ti tormenterò con la strategia; ma sapevamo dove
il nemico aveva spinto in avanti la grande batteria che copriva tutti i suoi
movimenti; e sebbene i nostri amici dall’Ovest difficilmente potessero arrivare
in tempo per intercettare il movimento principale, potevano portarsi entro la lunga
gittata d’artiglieria della batteria e bombardarla, se solo avessero saputo
esattamente dov’era. Difficilmente potevano dirlo a meno che qualcuno
qui intorno non innalzasse una sorta di segnale. Ma, in qualche modo, piuttosto
immagino che qualcuno lo farà.» Con ciò si alzò dal tavolo, e rimontarono sulle loro
macchine e andarono verso est nell’avanzante crepuscolo della sera.
I piani del paesaggio si ripetevano in piatte strisce di fluttuanti
nuvole e gli ultimi colori del giorno si aggrappavano al cerchio dell’orizzonte.
Ritirandosi sempre più lontano dietro di loro c’era il semicerchio delle
ultime colline; e fu del tutto d’improvviso che videro lontano la fioca
linea del mare. Non era una striscia di azzurro vivido come l’avevano vista
dalla soleggiata veranda, ma di un sinistro e fumoso violetto, una
tinta che pareva minacciosa e cupa. Qui Horne Fisher smontò ancora una
volta. «Dobbiamo fare il resto della strada a piedi», disse, «e l’ultimo tratto di
tutti devo percorrerlo solo.» Si chinò e cominciò a slacciare qualcosa dalla sua bicicletta. Era
qualcosa che aveva lasciato perplesso il suo compagno per tutta la via, malgrado
ciò che lo tratteneva su enigmi più interessanti; pareva essere diverse
aste legate insieme e avvolte nella carta. Fisher
se le prese sotto il braccio e cominciò a farsi strada attraverso l’erba. Il
terreno si faceva più accidentato e irregolare ed egli camminava
verso una massa di boschetti e piccole selve; la notte si faceva più buia a ogni
istante. «Non dobbiamo più parlare», disse Fisher. «Ti sussurrerò
quando dovrai fermarti. Non tentare allora di seguirmi, poiché
non farebbe che rovinare lo spettacolo; un solo uomo può a stento strisciare al sicuro fino al
punto, e due sarebbero certamente scoperti.» «Ti seguirei ovunque», replicò March, «ma mi fermerò anch’io,
se è meglio così.» «So che lo faresti», disse il suo amico a voce bassa. «Forse sei
l’unico uomo di cui io mi sia mai del tutto fidato a questo mondo.» Pochi passi più avanti giunsero all’estremità di un gran crinale o
poggio che pareva mostruoso contro il cielo fioco; e Fisher si fermò con
un gesto. Afferrò la mano del compagno e la strinse con una
violenta tenerezza, e poi si slanciò in avanti nell’oscurità. March
poteva scorgere debolmente la sua figura strisciare sotto l’ombra del
crinale, poi la perse di vista, e poi la vide di nuovo ritta
su un altro poggio a duecento metri di distanza. Accanto a lui stava una singolare
costruzione fatta in apparenza di due aste. Vi si chinò sopra e vi fu
il bagliore di una luce; tutti i ricordi da scolaro di March si ridestarono in lui,
ed egli seppe cos’era. Era il sostegno di un razzo. I confusi,
incongrui ricordi ancora lo possedevano fino al preciso istante di un
suono fiero ma familiare; e un istante dopo il razzo lasciò il suo
trespolo e salì nello spazio infinito come una freccia stellata puntata verso
le stelle. March pensò d’improvviso ai segni degli ultimi giorni e
seppe che stava guardando la meteora apocalittica di qualcosa come un
Giorno del giudizio. In alto negli infiniti cieli il razzo si piegò e scoppiò in
scarlatte stelle. Per un momento l’intero paesaggio fino al mare e
di ritorno fino alla mezzaluna delle colline boscose fu come un lago di luce
di rubino, di un rosso stranamente ricco e glorioso, come se il mondo fosse
intriso di vino piuttosto che di sangue, o la terra fosse un terreno
paradiso, sul quale indugiava per sempre il sanguigno istante del mattino. «Dio salvi l’Inghilterra!» gridò Fisher, con una lingua come lo squillo di una
tromba. «E ora tocca a Dio salvare.» Mentre l’oscurità calava di nuovo su terra e mare, giunse un altro suono;
lontano nei valichi delle colline dietro di loro i cannoni parlarono come
il latrato di grandi mastini. Qualcosa che non era un razzo, che
giunse non sibilando ma stridendo, passò sopra il capo di Harold March e
si espanse oltre il poggio in luce e frastuono assordante, sconvolgendo
il cervello con insopportabili brutalità di rumore. Ne giunse un altro, e
poi un altro, e il mondo fu pieno di fragore e di vapore vulcanico
e di luce caotica. L’artiglieria del West e degli irlandesi
aveva localizzato la grande batteria nemica, e la stava riducendo in pezzi. Nella folle eccitazione di quel momento March scrutò attraverso la tempesta,
cercando di nuovo la lunga magra figura che stava accanto al sostegno
del razzo. Poi un altro lampo illuminò l’intero crinale. La figura
non c’era. Prima che i fuochi del razzo fossero svaniti dal cielo, molto prima
che il primo cannone risuonasse dalle colline lontane, un crepitio di
fuoco di fucileria era balenato e guizzato tutt’intorno dalle nascoste
trincee del nemico. Qualcosa giaceva nell’ombra ai piedi del
crinale, rigido come il bastone del razzo caduto; e l’uomo
che sapeva troppo sapeva ciò che vale la pena sapere.