I
"No, it will not hurt him to see you," the doctor said to me; "and I
have no doubt he will recognise you. He is the quietest patient I have
ever had under my care--gentle, kind, agreeable, perfect in conduct, and
yet quite mad. You know him well?"
"He was my dearest friend," I said. "Before I went out to America three
years ago we were inseparable. Doctor, I cannot believe that he is mad,
he--Hubert Blair--one of the cleverest young writers in London, so
brilliant, so acute! Wild, if you like, a libertine perhaps, a strange
mixture of the intellectual and the sensual--but mad! I can't believe
it!"
"Not when I tell you that he was brought to me suffering from acute
religious mania?"
"Religious! Hubert Blair!"
"Yes. He tried to destroy himself, declaring that he was unfit to live,
that he was a curse to some person unknown. He protested that each deed
of his affected this unknown person, that his sins were counted as the
sins of another, and that this other had haunted him--would haunt him
for ever."
The doctor's words troubled me.
"Take me to him," I said at last. "Leave us together."
It was a strange, sad moment when I entered the room in which Hubert was
sitting. I was painfully agitated. He knew me, and greeted me warmly. I
sat down opposite to him.
* * * * *
There was a long silence. Hubert looked away into the fire. He saw, I
think, traced in scarlet flames, the scenes he was going to describe to
me; and I, gazing at him, wondered of what nature the change in my
friend might be. That he had changed since we were together three years
ago was evident, yet he did not look mad. His dark, clean-shaven young
face was still passionate. The brown eyes were still lit with a certain
devouring eagerness. The mouth had not lost its mingled sweetness and
sensuality. But Hubert was curiously transformed. There was a dignity,
almost an elevation, in his manner. His former gaiety had vanished. I
knew, without words, that my friend was another man--very far away from
me now. Yet once we had lived together as chums, and had no secrets the
one from the other.
At last Hubert looked up and spoke.
"I see you are wondering about me," he said.
"Yes."
"I have altered, of course--completely altered."
"Yes," I said, awkwardly enough. "Why is that?"
I longed to probe this madness of his that I might convince myself of
it, otherwise Hubert's situation must for ever appal me.
He answered quietly, "I will tell you--nobody else knows--and even you
may--"