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RODEN'S CORNER
By Henry Seton Merriman
1913
“'Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days
Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays:
Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays”
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. IN ST. JACOB STRAAT
II. WORK OK PLAY?
III. BEGINNING AT HOME
IV. A NEW DISCIPLE
V. OUT OF EGYPT
VI. ON THE DUNES
VII. OFFICIAL
VIII. THE SEAMY SIDE
IX. A SHADOW FROM THE PAST
X. DEEPER WATER
XI. IN THE OUDE WEG
XII. SUBURBAN
XIII. THE MAKING OF A MAN
XIV. UNSOUND
XV. PLAIN SPEAKING
XVI. DANGER
XVII. PLAIN SPEAKING
XVIII. A COMPLICATION
XIX. DANGER
XX. FROM THE PAST
XXI. A COMBINED FORCE
XXII. GRATITUDE
XXIII. A REINFORCEMENT
XXIV. A BRIGHT AND SHINING LIGHT
XXV. CLEARING THE AIR
XXVI. THE ULTIMATUM
XXVII. COMMERCE
XXVIII. WITH CARE
XXIX. A LESSON
XXX. ON THE QUEEN'S CANAL
XXXI. AT THE CORNER
XXXII. ROUND THE CORNER
CHAPTER I.
IN ST. JACOB STRAAT.
“The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life.”
“It is the Professor von Holzen,” said a stout woman who still keeps
the egg and butter shop at the corner of St. Jacob Straat in The Hague;
she is a Jewess, as, indeed, are most of the denizens of St. Jacob
Straat and its neighbour, Bezem Straat, where the fruit-sellers
live--“it is the Professor von Holzen, who passes this way once or
twice a week. He is a good man.”
“His coat is of a good cloth,” answered her customer, a young man with
a melancholy dark eye and a racial appreciation of the material things
of this world.
Some say that it is not wise to pass through St. Jacob Straat or Bezem
Straat alone and after nightfall, for there are lurking forms within
the doorways, and shuffling feet may be heard in the many passages.
During the daytime the passer-by will, if he looks up quickly enough,
see furtive faces at the windows, of men, and more especially of women,
who never seem to come abroad, but pass their lives behind those
unwashed curtains, with carefully closed windows, and in an atmosphere
which may be faintly imagined by a glance at the wares in the shop
below. The pavement of St. Jacob Straat is also pressed into the
service of that commerce in old metal and damaged domestic utensils
which seems to enable thousands of the accursed people to live and
thrive according to their lights. It will be observed that the vendors,
with a knowledge of human nature doubtless bred of experience, only
expose upon the pavement articles such as bedsteads, stoves, and other
heavy ware which may not be snatched up by the fleet of foot. Within
the shops are crowded clothes and books and a thousand miscellaneous
effects of small value. A hush seems to hang over this street. Even the
children, white-faced and melancholy, with deep expressionless eyes and
drooping noses, seem to have realized too soon the gravity of life, and
rarely indulge in games.
He whom the butter-merchant described as Professor von Holzen passed
quickly along the middle of the street, with an air suggesting a desire
to attract as little attention as possible. He was a heavy-shouldered
man with a bad mouth--a greedy mouth, one would think--and mild eyes.
The month was September, and the professor wore a thin black overcoat
closely buttoned across his broad chest. He carried a pair of
slate-coloured gloves and an umbrella. His whole appearance bespoke
learning and middle-class respectability. It is, after all, no use
being learned without looking learned, and Professor von Holzen took
care to dress according to his station in life. His attitude towards
the world seemed to say, “Leave me alone and I will not trouble you,”
which is, after all, as satisfactory an attitude as may be desired. It
is, at all events, better than the common attitude of the many, that
says, “Let us exchange confidences,” leading to the barter of two
valueless commodities.
The professor stopped at the door of No. 15, St. Jacob Straat--one of
the oldest houses in this old street--and slowly lighted a cigar. There
is a shop on the ground-floor of No. 15, where ancient pieces of
stove-pipe and a few fire-irons are exposed for sale. Von Holzen,
having pushed open the door, stood waiting at the foot of a narrow and
grimy staircase. He knew that in such a shop in such a quarter of the
town there is always a human spider lurking in the background, who
steals out upon any human fly that may pause to look at the wares.
This spider presently appeared--a wizened woman with a face like that
of a witch. Von Holzen pointed upward to the room above them. She shook
her head regretfully.
“Still alive,” she said.
And the professor turned toward the stair, but paused at the bottom
step.
“Here,” he said, extending his fingers. “Some milk. How much has he
had?”
“Two jugs,” she replied, “and three jugs of water. One would say he has
a fire inside him.”
“So he has,” said the professor, with a grim smile, as he went
upstairs. He ascended slowly, puffing out the smoke of his cigar before
him with a certain skill, so that his progress was a form of
fumigation. The fear of infection is the only fear to which men will
own, and it is hard to understand why this form of cowardice should be
less despicable than others. Von Holzen was a German, and that nation
combines courage with so deep a caution that mistaken persons sometimes
think the former adjunct lacking. The mark of a wound across his cheek
told that in his student days this man had, after due deliberation,
considered it necessary to fight. Some, looking at Von Holzen's face,
might wonder what mark the other student bore as a memento of that
encounter.
Von Holzen pushed open a door that stood ajar at the head of the stair,
and went slowly into the room, preceded by a puff of smoke. The place
was not full of furniture, properly speaking, although it was littered
with many household effects which had no business in a bedroom. It was,
indeed, used as a storehouse for such wares as the proprietor of the
shop only offered to a chosen few. The atmosphere of the room must have
been a very Tower of Babel, where strange foreign bacilli from all
parts of the world rose up and wrangled in the air.
Upon a sham Empire table, _très antique_, near the window, stood three
water-jugs and a glass of imitation Venetian work. A yellow hand
stretching from a dark heap of bedclothes clutched the glass and held
it out, empty, when Von Holzen came into the room.
“I have sent for milk,” said the professor, smoking hard, and heedful
not to look too closely into the dark corner where the bed was
situated.
“You are kind,” said a voice, and it was impossible to guess whether
its tone was sarcastic or grateful.
Von Holzen looked at the empty water-jugs with a smile, and shrugged
his shoulders. His intention had perhaps been a kind one. A bad mouth
usually indicates a soft heart.
“It is because you have something to gain,” said the hollow voice from
the bed.
“I have something to gain, but I can do without it,” replied Von
Holzen, turning to the door and taking a jug of milk from the hand of a
child waiting there.
“And the change,” he said sharply.
The child laughed cunningly, and held out two small copper coins of the
value of half a cent.
Von Holzen filled the tumbler and handed it to the sick man, who a
moment later held it out empty.
“You may have as much as you like,” said Von Holzen, kindly.
“Will it keep me alive?”
“Nothing can do that, my friend,” answered Von Holzen. He looked down
at the yellow face peering at him from the darkness. It seemed to be
the face of a very aged man, with eyes wide open and blood-shot. A
thickness of speech was accounted for by the absence of teeth.
The man laughed gleefully. “All the same, I have lived longer than any
of them,” he said. How many of us pride ourselves upon possessing an
advantage which others never covet!
“Yes,” answered Von Holzen, gravely. “How old are you?”
“Nearly thirty-five,” was the answer.
Von Holzen nodded, and, turning on his heel, looked thoughtfully out of
the window. The light fell full on his face, which would have been a
fine one were the mouth hidden. The eyes were dark and steady. A high
forehead looked higher by reason of a growth of thick hair standing
nearly an inch upright from the scalp, like the fur of a beaver in
life, without curl or ripple. The chin was long and pointed. A face,
this, that any would turn to look at again. One would think that such
a man would get on in the world. But none may judge of another in this
respect. It is a strange fact that intimacy with any who has made for
himself a great name leads to the inevitable conclusion that he is
unworthy of it.
“Wonderful!” murmured Von Holzen--“wonderful! Nearly thirty-five!” And
it was hard to say what his thoughts really were. The only sound that
came from the bed was the sound of drinking.
“And I know more about the trade than any, for I was brought up to it
from boyhood,” said the dying man, with an uncanny bravado. “I did not
wait until I was driven to it, like most.”
“Yes, you were skilful, as I have been told.”
“Not all skill--not all skill,” piped the metallic voice, indistinctly.
“There was knowledge also.”
Von Holzen, standing with his hands in the pockets of his thin
overcoat, shrugged his shoulders. They had arrived by an
oft-trodden path to an ancient point of divergence. Presently Von
Holzen turned and went towards the bed. The yellow hand and arm lay
stretched out across the table, and Holzen's finger softly found the
pulse.
“You are weaker,” he said. “It is only right that I should tell you.”
The man did not answer, but lay back, breathing quickly. Something
seemed to catch in his throat. Von Holzen went to the door, and furtive
steps moved away down the dark staircase.
“Go,” he said authoritatively, “for the doctor, at once.” Then he came
back towards the bed. “Will you take my price?” he said to its
occupant. “I offer it to you for the last time.”
“A thousand gulden?”
“Yes.”
“It is too little money,” replied the dying man. “Make it twelve
hundred.”
Von Holzen turned away to the window again thoughtfully. A silence
seemed to have fallen over the busy streets, to fill the untidy room.
The angel of death, not for the first time, found himself in company
with the greed of men.
“I will do that,” said Von Holzen at length, “as you are dying.”
“Have you the money with you?”
“Yes.”
“Ah!” said the dying man, regretfully. It was only natural, perhaps,
that he was sorry that he had not asked more. “Sit down,” he said, “and
write.”
Von Holzen did as he was bidden. He had also a pocket-book and pencil
in readiness. Slowly, as if drawing from the depths of a long-stored
memory, the dying man dictated a prescription in a mixture of dog-Latin
and Dutch, which his hearer seemed to understand readily enough. The
money, in dull-coloured notes, lay on the table before the writer. The
prescription was a long one, covering many pages of the note-book, and
the particulars as to preparation and temperature of the various liquid
ingredients filled up another two pages.
“There,” said the dying man at length, “I have treated you fairly. I
have told you all I know. Give me the money.”
Von Holzen crossed the room and placed the notes within the yellow
fingers, which closed over them.
“Ah,” said the recipient, “I have had more than that in my hand. I was
rich once, and I spent it all in Amsterdam. Now read over your writing.
I will treat you fairly.”
Von Holzen stood by the window and read aloud from his book.
“Yes,” said the other. “One sees that you took your diploma at Leyden.
You have made no mistake.”
Von Holzen closed the book and replaced it in his pocket. His face bore
no sign of exultation. His somewhat phlegmatic calm successfully
concealed the fact that he had at last obtained information which he
had long sought. A cart rattled past over the cobble-stones, making
speech inaudible for the moment. The man moved uneasily on the bed. Von
Holzen went towards him and poured out more milk. Instead of reaching
out for it, the sick man's hand lay on the coverlet. The notes were
tightly held by three fingers; the free finger and the thumb picked at
the counterpane. Von Holzen bent over the bed and examined the face.
The sick man's eyes were closed. Suddenly he spoke in a mumbling
voice--“And now that you have what you want, you will go.”
“No,” answered Von Holzen, in a kind voice, “I will not do that. I will
stay with you if you do not want to be left alone. You are brave, at
all events. I shall be horribly afraid when it comes to my turn to
die.”
“You would not be afraid if you had lived a life such as mine. Death
cannot be worse, at all events.” And the man laughed contentedly
enough, as one who, having passed through evil days, sees the end of
them at last.
Von Holzen made no answer. He went to the window and opened it, letting
in the air laden with the clean scent of burning peat, which makes the
atmosphere of The Hague unlike that of any other town; for here is a
city with the smell of a village in its busy streets. The German
scientist stood looking out, and into the room came again that strange
silence. It was an odd room in which to die, for every article in it
was what is known as an antiquity; and although some of these relics of
the past had been carefully manufactured in a back shop in Bezem
Straat, others were really of ancient date. The very glass from which
the dying man drank his milk dated from the glorious days of Holland
when William the Silent pitted his Northern stubbornness and deep
diplomacy against the fire and fanaticism of Alva. Many objects in the
room had a story, had been in the daily use of hands long since
vanished, could tell the history of half a dozen human lives lived out
and now forgotten. The air itself smelt of age and mouldering memories.
Von Holzen came towards the bed without speaking, and stood looking
down. Never a talkative man, he was now further silenced by the shadow
that lay over the stricken face of his companion. The sick man was
breathing very slowly. He glanced at Von Holzen for a moment, and then
returned to the dull contemplation of the opposite wall. Quite suddenly
his breath caught. There were long pauses during which he seemed to
cease to breathe. Then at length followed a pause which merged itself
gently into eternity.
Von Holzen waited a few minutes, and then bent over the bed and softly
unclasped the dead man's hand, taking from it the crumpled notes.
Mechanically he counted them, twelve hundred gulden in all, and
restored them to the pocket from which he had taken them half an hour
earlier.
He walked to the window and waited. When at length the district doctor
arrived, Von Holzen turned to greet him with a stiff bow.
“I am afraid, Herr Doctor,” he said, in German, “You are too late.”