I FOUND all the idle boys in the neighborhood collected around the
pony-chaise, expressing, in the occult language of slang, their high
enjoyment and appreciation at the appearance of “Ariel” in her man’s
jacket and hat. The pony was fidgety--_he_ felt the influence of the
popular uproar. His driver sat, whip in hand, magnificently
impenetrable to the gibes and jests that were flying around her. I said
“Good-morning” on getting into the chaise. Ariel only said “Gee up!” and
started the pony.
I made up my mind to perform the journey to the distant northern suburb
in silence. It was evidently useless for me to attempt to speak, and
experience informed me that I need not expect to hear a word fall from
the lips of my companion. Experience, however, is not always infallible.
After driving for half an hour in stolid silence, Ariel astounded me by
suddenly bursting into speech.
“Do you know what we are coming to?” she asked, keeping her eyes
straight between the pony’s ears.
“No,” I answered. “I don’t know the road. What are we coming to?”
“We are coming to a canal.”
“Well?”
“Well, I have half a mind to upset you in the canal.”
This formidable announcement appeared to require some explanation. I
took the liberty of asking for it.
“Why should you upset me?” I inquired.
“Because I hate you,” was the cool and candid reply.
“What have I done to offend you?” I asked next.
“What do you want with the Master?” Ariel asked, in her turn.
“Do you mean Mr. Dexter?”
“Yes.”
“I want to have some talk with Mr. Dexter.”
“You don’t! You want to take my place. You want to brush his hair and
oil his beard, instead of me. You wretch!”
I now began to understand. The idea which Miserrimus Dexter had
jestingly put into her head, in exhibiting her to us on the previous
night, had been ripening slowly in that dull brain, and had found
its way outward into words, about fifteen hours afterward, under the
irritating influence of my presence!
“I don’t want to touch his hair or his beard,” I said. “I leave that
entirely to you.”
She looked around at me, her fat face flushing, her dull eyes dilating,
with the unaccustomed effort to express herself in speech, and to
understand what was said to her in return.
“Say that again,” she burst out. “And say it slower this time.”
I said it again, and I said it slower.
“Swear it!” she cried, getting more and more excited.
I preserved my gravity (the canal was just visible in the distance), and
swore it.
“Are you satisfied now?” I asked.
There was no answer. Her last resources of speech were exhausted. The
strange creature looked back again straight between the pony’s ears,
emitted hoarsely a grunt of relief, and never more looked at me, never
more spoke to me, for the rest of the journey. We drove past the banks
of the canal, and I escaped immersion. We rattled, in our jingling
little vehicle, through the streets and across the waste patches of
ground, which I dimly remembered in the darkness, and which looked more
squalid and more hideous than ever in the broad daylight. The chaise
turned down a lane, too narrow for the passage of any larger vehicle, and
stopped at a wall and a gate that were new objects to me. Opening the
gate with her key, and leading the pony, Ariel introduced me to the back
garden and yard of Miserrimus Dexter’s rotten and rambling old house.
The pony walked off independently to his stable, with the chaise behind
him. My silent companion led me through a bleak and barren kitchen, and
along a stone passage. Opening a door at the end, she admitted me to the
back of the hall, into which Mrs. Macallan and I had penetrated by the
front entrance to the house. Here Ariel lifted a whistle which hung
around her neck, and blew the shrill trilling notes with the sound
of which I was already familiar as the means of communication between
Miserrimus Dexter and his slave. The whistling over, the slave’s
unwilling lips struggled into speech for the last time.
“Wait till you hear the Master’s whistle,” she said; “then go upstairs.”
So! I was to be whistled for like a dog! And, worse still, there was
no help for it but to submit like a dog. Had Ariel any excuses to make?
Nothing of the sort.
She turned her shapeless back on me and vanished into the kitchen region
of the house.
After waiting for a minute or two, and hearing no signal from the floor
above, I advanced into the broader and brighter part of the hall, to
look by daylight at the pictures which I had only imperfectly discovered
in the darkness of the night. A painted inscription in many colors,
just under the cornice of the ceiling, informed me that the works on the
walls were the production of the all-accomplished Dexter himself. Not
satisfied with being poet and composer, he was painter as well. On one
wall the subjects were described as “Illustrations of the Passions;”
on the other, as “Episodes in the Life of the Wandering Jew.”
Chance speculators like myself were gravely warned, by means of the
inscription, to view the pictures as efforts of pure imagination.
“Persons who look for mere Nature in works of Art” (the inscription
announced) “are persons to whom Mr. Dexter does not address himself with
the brush. He relies entirely on his imagination. Nature puts him out.”
Taking due care to dismiss all ideas of Nature from my mind, to begin
with, I looked at the pictures which represented the Passions first.
Little as I knew critically of Art, I could see that Miserrimus Dexter
knew still less of the rules of drawing, color, and composition. His
pictures were, in the strictest meaning of that expressive word, Daubs.
The diseased and riotous delight of the painter in representing
Horrors was (with certain exceptions to be hereafter mentioned) the one
remarkable quality that I could discover in the series of his works.
The first of the Passion pictures illustrated Revenge. A corpse, in
fancy costume, lay on the bank of a foaming river, under the shade of a
giant tree. An infuriated man, also in fancy costume, stood astride over
the dead body, with his sword lifted to the lowering sky, and watched,
with a horrid expression of delight, the blood of the man whom he had
just killed dripping slowly in a procession of big red drops down the
broad blade of his weapon. The next picture illustrated Cruelty, in many
compartments. In one I saw a disemboweled horse savagely spurred on
by his rider at a bull-fight. In another, an aged philosopher was
dissecting a living cat, and gloating over his work. In a third, two
pagans politely congratulated each other on the torture of two saints:
one saint was roasting on a grid-iron; the other, hung up to a tree by
his heels, had been just skinned, and was not quite dead yet. Feeling
no great desire, after these specimens, to look at any more of the
illustrated Passions, I turned to the opposite wall to be instructed in
the career of the Wandering Jew. Here a second inscription informed me
that the painter considered the Flying Dutchman to be no other than
the Wandering Jew, pursuing his interminable Journey by sea. The marine
adventures of this mysterious personage were the adventures chosen for
representation by Dexter’s brush. The first picture showed me a harbor
on a rocky coast. A vessel was at anchor, with the helmsman singing on
the deck. The sea in the offing was black and rolling; thunder-clouds
lay low on the horizon, split by broad flashes of lightning. In the
glare of the lightning, heaving and pitching, appeared the misty form
of the Phantom Ship approaching the shore. In this work, badly as it was
painted, there were really signs of a powerful imagination, and even
of a poetical feeling for the supernatural. The next picture showed the
Phantom Ship, moored (to the horror and astonishment of the helmsman)
behind the earthly vessel in the harbor. The Jew had stepped on shore.
His boat was on the beach. His crew--little men with stony, white faces,
dressed in funeral black--sat in silent rows on the seats of the boat,
with their oars in their lean, long hands. The Jew, also a black, stood
with his eyes and hands raised imploringly to the thunderous heaven.
The wild creatures of land and sea--the tiger, the rhinoceros, the
crocodile, the sea-serpent, the shark, and the devil-fish--surrounded
the accursed Wanderer in a mystic circle, daunted and fascinated at the
sight of him. The lightning was gone. The sky and sea had darkened to
a great black blank. A faint and lurid light lighted the scene, falling
downward from a torch, brandished by an avenging Spirit that hovered
over the Jew on outspread vulture wings. Wild as the picture might be
in its conception, there was a suggestive power in it which I confess
strongly impressed me. The mysterious silence in the house, and my
strange position at the moment, no doubt had their effect on my mind.
While I was still looking at the ghastly composition before me, the
shrill trilling sound of the whistle upstairs burst on the stillness.
For the moment my nerves were so completely upset that I started with a
cry of alarm. I felt a momentary impulse to open the door and run out.
The idea of trusting myself alone with the man who had painted those
frightful pictures actually terrified me; I was obliged to sit down on
one of the hall chairs. Some minutes passed before my mind recovered
its balance, and I began to feel like my own ordinary self again. The
whistle sounded impatiently for the second time. I rose and ascended the
broad flight of stairs which led to the first story. To draw back at the
point which I had now reached would have utterly degraded me in my own
estimation. Still, my heart did certainly beat faster than usual as I
approached the door of the circular anteroom; and I honestly acknowledge
that I saw my own imprudence, just then, in a singularly vivid light.
There was a glass over the mantel-piece in the anteroom. I lingered for
a moment (nervous as I was) to see how I looked in the glass.
The hanging tapestry over the inner door had been left partially drawn
aside. Softly as I moved, the dog’s ears of Miserrimus Dexter caught the
sound of my dress on the floor. The fine tenor voice, which I had last
heard singing, called to me softly.
“Is that Mrs. Valeria? Please don’t wait there. Come in!”
I entered the inner room.
The wheeled chair advanced to meet me, so slowly and so softly that I
hardly knew it again. Miserrimus Dexter languidly held out his hand. His
head inclined pensively to one side; his large blue eyes looked at
me piteously. Not a vestige seemed to be left of the raging, shouting
creature of my first visit, who was Napoleon at one moment, and
Shakespeare at another. Mr. Dexter of the morning was a mild,
thoughtful, melancholy man, who only recalled Mr. Dexter of the night by
the inveterate oddity of his dress. His jacket, on this occasion, was
of pink quilted silk. The coverlet which hid his deformity matched the
jacket in pale sea-green satin; and, to complete these strange vagaries
of costume, his wrists were actually adorned with massive bracelets of
gold, formed on the severely simple models which have descended to us
from ancient times.
“How good of you to cheer and charm me by coming here!” he said, in his
most mournful and most musical tones. “I have dressed, expressly to
receive you, in the prettiest clothes I have. Don’t be surprised. Except
in this ignoble and material nineteenth century, men have always worn
precious stuffs and beautiful colors as well as women. A hundred years
ago a gentleman in pink silk was a gentleman properly dressed. Fifteen
hundred years ago the patricians of the classic times wore bracelets
exactly like mine. I despise the brutish contempt for beauty and the
mean dread of expense which degrade a gentleman’s costume to black
cloth, and limit a gentleman’s ornaments to a finger-ring, in the age I
live in. I like to be bright and I beautiful, especially when brightness
and beauty come to see me. You don’t know how precious your society
is to me. This is one of my melancholy days. Tears rise unbidden to my
eyes. I sigh and sorrow over myself; I languish for pity. Just think of
what I am! A poor solitary creature, cursed with a frightful deformity.
How pitiable! how dreadful! My affectionate heart--wasted. My
extraordinary talents--useless or misapplied. Sad! sad! sad! Please pity
me.”
His eyes were positively filled with tears--tears of compassion for
himself! He looked at me and spoke to me with the wailing, querulous
entreaty of a sick child wanting to be nursed. I was utterly at a
loss what to do. It was perfectly ridiculous--but I was never more
embarrassed in my life.
“Please pity me!” he repeated. “Don’t be cruel. I only ask a little
thing. Pretty Mrs. Valeria, say you pity me!”
I said I pitied him--and I felt that I blushed as I did it.
“Thank you,” said Miserrimus Dexter, humbly. “It does me good. Go a
little further. Pat my hand.”
I tried to restrain myself; but the sense of the absurdity of this last
petition (quite gravely addressed to me, remember!) was too strong to be
controlled. I burst out laughing.
Miserrimus Dexter looked at me with a blank astonishment which only
increased my merriment. Had I offended him? Apparently not. Recovering
from his astonishment, he laid his head luxuriously on the back of his
chair, with the expression of a man who was listening critically to a
performance of some sort. When I had quite exhausted myself, he raised
his head and clapped his shapely white hands, and honored me with an
“encore.”
“Do it again,” he said, still in the same childish way. “Merry Mrs.
Valeria, _you_ have a musical laugh--_I_ have a musical ear. Do it
again.”
I was serious enough by this time. “I am ashamed of myself, Mr. Dexter,”
I said. “Pray forgive me.”
He made no answer to this; I doubt if he heard me. His variable temper
appeared to be in course of undergoing some new change. He sat looking
at my dress (as I supposed) with a steady and anxious attention, gravely
forming his own conclusions, steadfastly pursuing his own train of
thought.
“Mrs. Valeria,” he burst out suddenly, “you are not comfortable in that
chair.”
“Pardon me,” I replied; “I am quite comfortable.”
“Pardon _me,_” he rejoined. “There is a chair of Indian basket-work at
that end of the room which is much better suited to you. Will you accept
my apologies if I am rude enough to allow you to fetch it for yourself?
I have a reason.”
He had a reason! What new piece of eccentricity was he about to exhibit?
I rose and fetched the chair. It was light enough to be quite easily
carried. As I returned to him, I noticed that his eyes were strangely
employed in what seemed to be the closest scrutiny of my dress. And,
stranger still, the result of this appeared to be partly to interest and
partly to distress him.
I placed the chair near him, and was about to take my seat in it, when
he sent me back again, on another errand, to the end of the room.
“Oblige me indescribably,” he said. “There is a hand-screen hanging on
the wall, which matches the chair. We are rather near the fire here. You
may find the screen useful. Once more forgive me for letting you fetch
it for yourself. Once more let me assure you that I have a reason.”
Here was his “reason,” reiterated, emphatically reiterated, for the
second time! Curiosity made me as completely the obedient servant of his
caprices as Ariel herself. I fetched the hand-screen. Returning with it,
I met his eyes still fixed with the same incomprehensible attention on
my perfectly plain and unpretending dress, and still expressing the same
curious mixture of interest and regret.
“Thank you a thousand times,” he said. “You have (quite innocently)
wrung my heart. But you have not the less done me an inestimable
kindness. Will you promise not to be offended with me if I confess the
truth?”
He was approaching his explanation I never gave a promise more readily
in my life.
“I have rudely allowed you to fetch your chair and your screen for
yourself,” he went on. “My motive will seem a very strange one, I
am afraid. Did you observe that I noticed you very attentively--too
attentively, perhaps?”
“Yes,” I said. “I thought you were noticing my dress.”
He shook his head, and sighed bitterly.
“Not your dress,” he said; “and not your face. Your dress is dark. Your
face is still strange to me. Dear Mrs. Valeria, I wanted to see you
walk.”
To see me walk! What did he mean? Where was that erratic mind of his
wandering to now?
“You have a rare accomplishment for an Englishwoman,” he resumed--“you
walk well. _She_ walked well. I couldn’t resist the temptation of seeing
her again, in seeing you. It was _her_ movement, _her_ sweet, simple,
unsought grace (not yours), when you walked to the end of the room and
returned to me. You raised her from the dead when you fetched the chair
and the screen. Pardon me for making use of you: the idea was innocent,
the motive was sacred. You have distressed--and delighted me. My heart
bleeds--and thanks you.”
He paused for a moment; he let his head droop on his breast, then
suddenly raised it again.
“Surely we were talking about her last night?” he said. “What did I say?
what did you say? My memory is confused; I half remember, half forget.
Please remind me. You’re not offended with me--are you?”
I might have been offended with another man. Not with him. I was far too
anxious to find my way into his confidence--now that he had touched of
his own accord on the subject of Eustace’s first wife--to be offended
with Miserrimus Dexter.
“We were speaking,” I answered, “of Mrs. Eustace Macallan’s death, and
we were saying to one another--”
He interrupted me, leaning forward eagerly in his chair.
“Yes! yes!” he exclaimed. “And I was wondering what interest _you_ could
have in penetrating the mystery of her death. Tell me! Confide in me! I
am dying to know!”
“Not even you have a stronger interest in that subject than the interest
that I feel,” I said. “The happiness of my whole life to come depends on
my clearing up the mystery.”
“Good God--why?” he cried. “Stop! I am exciting myself. I mustn’t do
that. I must have all my wits about me; I mustn’t wander. The thing is
too serious. Wait a minute!”
An elegant little basket was hooked on to one of the arms of his chair.
He opened it, and drew out a strip of embroidery partially finished,
with the necessary materials for working, a complete. We looked at each
other across the embroidery. He noticed my surprise.
“Women,” he said, “wisely compose their minds, and help themselves to
think quietly, by doing needle-work. Why are men such fools as to
deny themselves the same admirable resource--the simple and soothing
occupation which keeps the nerves steady and leaves the mind calm and
free? As a man, I follow the woman’s wise example. Mrs. Valeria, permit
me to compose myself.”
Gravely arranging his embroidery, this extraordinary being began to work
with the patient and nimble dexterity of an accomplished needle-woman.
“Now,” said Miserrimus Dexter, “if you are ready, I am. You talk--I
work. Please begin.”
I obeyed him, and began.