stretched out for another from the pile by my side. I turned the piece
of paper round and round, and it was some time before I grasped what the
subject was intended for. It appeared to be a piece of round tubing from
which smoke was protruding. The next half-dozen studies were of a
similar character. In one the smoke was very small, just a thin streak;
in another it was a full volume, as though to represent the after effect
of the discharge of a bullet from a revolver. I looked again. The chalk
drawing of the tubing was evidently intended for the barrel of a pistol!
Huntingdon always put the date on every study he made, and I found my
hand trembling as I turned the paper over. Great heavens--10th October,
1872--the day before his death! Another paper bore the same date, and
the others had the date of the previous day--the 9th. Was his death,
then, the result of an accident and not a suicide after all? Here was
the simple explanation of it so far--here was the reason for the several
shots which the old housekeeper had heard fired. He had discharged the
revolver at these times in order to watch the effect and immediately
place his impressions on the pieces of paper I now held in my hand. My
knowledge of Godfrey Huntingdon--both medically and fraternally--told me
that, at the time of his death, there was positively nothing on his mind
to cause such an act, and I now began reasoning the whole within myself
once again, as I had done many times since the occurrence.
"It's a mystery--a terrible mystery!" I exclaimed, jumping up and
commencing to pace the room. I walked that room for over an hour, and
was only aroused from my reverie by the announcement of a servant that
supper was served. I ate my meal in silence, and the deliberate
mouthfuls I took, and my more than ordinarily methodical manner of
eating, must have told my wife that to disturb my present inward
argument would have been disastrous to the immediate prospects of
domestic harmony. I had come to a conclusion. There is nothing like
science and its accompanying occupations for balancing a man's brain. A
game of chess is recreative concentration. So the study of science was
with me, whilst physic was my profession. Scientific research and the
weighing of Nature's problems had steadied my thoughts and cooled my
actions. It was a settled thing with me that poor Huntingdon had been
murdered. By whom? Scientific investigation had transformed me into a
calculating individual. Every action, to me, could be proved as a
proposition in Euclid or an algebraical problem. I therefore said
nothing about my startling discovery, and decided to wait the
possibility of a further suggestion coming in my way, and "proving it."
I suppose it was the deep interest I took in all matters concerning art
which brought so many artist-patients to my consulting room. Six months
had passed since the fatal 11th October, and the public were loudly
expressing their approval of a marvellously impressive bit of painting
by Wilfred Colensoe, which was the feature--and very justly so--of one
of the early spring exhibitions. It was the picture of a duel--a very
realistic canvas indeed. The young man--lying bleeding on the
ground--almost told the story of the attempted avenge of an action
towards someone dear to him on the part of an elderly _roué_, whose
still-smoking revolver was in his hand. Colensoe came to see me one
morning. He was a remarkably handsome man, classically featured, with
hair picturesquely scattered with streaks of silver.
"Done up, eh?" I said to him.
"Done up is the word," he answered.
"You've been doing too much," I said, looking into his grey eyes as I
held his hand a moment. "You must cease work for a time. Get away from
your easel, go abroad, and forget to take your brushes with you. Go
anywhere, a hundred miles from a retail colourman's."
[Illustration: "'YOU'VE BEEN DOING TOO MUCH,' I SAID."]
"My dear doctor," he answered, "your prescription is too strong. You
forget I am an artist. It is like taking a man with a dying thirst to a
fountain of water and telling him he mustn't drink. I can't leave my
work."
"When I tell you that it is either a case of your leaving your work or
your work leaving you, my remark may not be very original, but it is
undeniably true. Do you sleep well?"
"I can't say," was his reply. "When I fall asleep at night I never wake
until my hour for rising. But I am more tired in the morning than when I
turned in over-night."
"Quite so. Do you dream at all?"
"Yes, I dream."
"Feel sleepy now--eh?"
"Doctor, I could go to bed for a week," he replied.
"Again, I tell you--overwork," I said, with strong deliberation. "Now
I'll make you a proposal, which I can couple most heartily with the name
of Mrs. Gratton. Come away with us. We are going to Herne Bay for a few
weeks. I have taken a house there. Most invigorating place. You want no
medicine, you won't leave your work alone, I won't be hard in my
treatment of your case. Bring your tools with you. I will prescribe so
much colour for you during the day--your paints and brushes may become
converted into agreeable physic, but--they must be taken at periodical
times. What do you say?"
Colensoe consented--gratefully accepted my offer, stayed to lunch, and
my wife took care to let him feel that the invitation was one of
combined cordiality from both of us. I was a great admirer of Colensoe's
work, and therefore took a deep interest in the worker. In a week's time
we were at Herne Bay. A room--with a good light--was apportioned off as
a small studio for Colensoe. A week passed by. Colensoe obeyed my
instructions to the letter. I limited his working hours, and he began
himself to be thankful when the periodical times for laying aside his
brush came round. I noticed this, and lessened the hours of painting
more, thinking that by degrees he would soon put his palette away
completely and take the undisturbed rest he needed for a time to restore
him thoroughly.
About a fortnight after our arrival I was sitting alone in the
dining-room. My wife and visitor had retired an hour ago. It was a
glorious night. I turned out the gas, walked to the window, and drew up
the blinds. The sea was sparkling with gems thrown out by the
moon-beams. The beauty of the night seemed to heighten the stillness of
the surroundings. Although it wanted but a few minutes to midnight I
determined to walk out to the cliffs--a couple of hundred yards from the
house--and view the moonlit scenery to greater advantage. I turned from
the window, opened the door, and, just as I was turning into the
passage, I heard a footstep. It was a steady, deliberate step; there was
nothing uncertain or hesitating about it. I waited a moment; it came
nearer. I drew back into the shadow. Now it was on the top stair. A form
appeared in sight. It was Wilfred Colensoe.
"Colensoe," I cried, softly; "why, what's the matter?"
[Illustration: "HE STOOD BEFORE HIS EASEL."]
He made no answer. With monotonous step he descended the stairs and was
now at the bottom. His blank, staring eyes at once told me that he was
in a state of somnambulism. He was fully dressed. His face was deadly
pale, his features stolidly set, and his lips were gently moving as
though impressively muttering. When he reached the bottom stair, he
turned and walked in the direction of the room we had converted into a
studio for him. I followed on quietly. With all the method and
mysterious discretionary power of the sleep-walker he turned the handle
of the door and entered. The room was flooded with light, for the roof
was a glass one. I watched him take his palette in hand and play with
the brushes on the colours. He stood before his easel, on which rested a
half-finished canvas. And he painted--painted as true and as sure as if
awake, blending the colours, picking out his work, working with all his
old artistic touch and finish. All this time his lips were moving,
muttering incoherent words I could not hear. At last he laid aside his
tools with a sigh that almost raised compassion in my heart. Then
walking towards the window at the far end of the room, he appeared to
look out upon the sea. He was now talking louder. I crept up to him and
tried to catch a word. It was a terrible brain-ringing word I heard--and
uttered in a way I shall never forget.
"Murder!"
That was the word. "Murder, murder, murder!" he muttered, with agonized
face. Yet another word came to his lips.
"Huntingdon!"
"Murder--Huntingdon!" I said within myself as I linked the two words
together.
The sleeping man passed his hand across his forehead. It was evident
that he was in the midst of an agonizing dream--a vision of conviction.
Here stood the guilty man before me now, pale and motionless, the rays
from the moon lighting up his face and revealing the word "guilt"
written on every feature. I watched him and waited for something else to
come from his lips. I stood by his side for nearly an hour, but he did
nothing more than repeat these same two words. With measured tread he
turned to go. I followed him to his bedroom and heard him turn the key.
I sat up the whole night--thinking. None knew of the remarkable
discovery which I had made amongst poor Huntingdon's sketches; none
should know of what I had learnt to-night. By the morning I had fully
determined upon my course of action. The ramblings of a sleep-walking
man would not prove a conviction to those who would judge his deed. He
should convict himself. He should witness against himself. He was a
sleep-worker. I had met with many similar cases before, all of which
tended to prove that sleep by no means deadens the faculties of labour.
It is indisputable that the hands will follow the inclinations of the
brains of somnambulists. They will act as they think--perform what they
dream. If Colensoe would only work out his terrible night dreams!
My conduct towards him at the breakfast table and throughout the day was
just the same as ever. It was far from a comfortable feeling, however,
to pass the wine to one who had taken another's life, and to offer an
after-dinner cigar to a murderer. The day passed. I slept during the
afternoon, for I was tired with my over-night watching, and could I but
put my inward plans into execution, it was more than probable that I
should be awake for many nights to come. I told my wife that Colensoe
was a somnambulist, and that he worked at the canvas equally as well
whilst sleeping as waking. I impressed upon her the absolute necessity
of silence on the subject, as I firmly believed that I was on the brink
of a great discovery. Seeing that I was a medical man, her curiosity was
in no way aroused. Indeed, she thought me foolish to give up my night's
rest.
That night, after Colensoe had gone to bed, I went into his studio. My
hand trembled somewhat as I placed on his easel a square piece of new
canvas. This done, I waited patiently. A step on the stairs rewarded me.
It was Colensoe walking again. His speech was louder this time, and more
impressively distinct; his dream was evidently more agonizing than the
night before. If he would only follow out the promptings of that
dream--if he would but work to-night--to-night! I watched him
breathlessly. He wandered about the room for some time, then suddenly,
as though impelled by some mysterious force within, crossed to the
cupboard where he kept his tools, took out his materials and walked to
the canvas.
"Huntingdon--Huntingdon!" he cried, and the first lines of his
everlasting vision were written on the hitherto untouched canvas. It was
the outline of a man's face! For two hours he worked, and then,
replacing his brushes and palette, went to bed. I took the canvas away.
Night after night for ten days I placed the canvas in position. Night
after night the artist got nearer to accomplishing his own condemnation.
And as the picture grew more like the man he had murdered, so his dream
became more intense. His features showed that. The rapidity of his brush
revealed the rush of thoughts within, of an anxiety to complete his
task. Never was such a true portrait painted, and when on the last night
he put the finishing touches to it, the face of Huntingdon seemed to
live on the canvas. It was the face which existed in the brain of the
painter. The last night's work was done. The sleeping man turned from
his easel and went to his bedroom once more.
The morrow would tell me if Colensoe was guilty. I had little doubt of
it in my own mind--but he should say so himself when waking as he had
condemned himself whilst sleeping. I would take him to the studio and
confront him with his own testimony. He should see the face of the man
whose life he had taken, painted with his own hands. He was later than
usual in coming down that morning. I left the breakfast-room with the
intention of calling him, when, just as I got into the passage, I saw
him at the top of the stairs. His hat was on. His face was ghastly pale,
every feature was working. His eyes betokened some mad intention--their
gaze appeared to kill. He almost flew down the stairs.
"Don't stop me," he cried. "I must go into the open. I want God's air.
Let me go now--let me go, only for a little while!"
"Colensoe," I said, catching him by the arm, "what mad act do you
contemplate?"
"Nothing--nothing. Believe me, nothing. I only want the refreshing
breeze, that's all. I'm tired--worn out."
"Yes, you are truly tired," I said.
"What do you mean?" he cried.
"Your work."
"Work--what work?--who works?"
"Come with me," I said.
[Illustration: "HE SHRIEKED THE MURDERED MAN'S NAME."]
Like a child he followed me to his studio. I opened the door. The
portrait of Huntingdon rested on the easel. He saw it. The eyes he had
painted pierced him to the heart, and the lips almost moved in
accusation. He shrieked the murdered man's name and fell to the ground.
He was dead!
* * * * *
The following letter was found on Wilfred Colensoe's dressing-table:--
"What good is life to me?--what good am I for life? Then why live? A
guilty conscience only means a living death. You have been very good to
me--both you and your wife. But I am going to end it all. Let me
confess. It will bring me some small comfort even now in the dying hour
I have given to myself. You remember poor Huntingdon? I shot that
man--murdered him. Listen and then 'Good-bye.' Huntingdon and I were
friendly rivals. You remember my picture of 'The Duel'? Yes. One day I
visited Huntingdon. That same morning I had been making some studies of
a revolver in the act of being discharged. I had it in my pocket when I
went to see Huntingdon, and one chamber remained loaded. I walked
straight into his studio. As I entered Huntingdon had a pistol in his
hand pointed immediately towards me and--fired. In an instant my
revolver was in my grasp and a bullet had entered his heart. That is the
simple history of the crime. I fled from the place and none knew. Thank
God this is written. A life for a life. I am passing through death all
the day, and at night I do not cease to die. You do not know what that
means. The guilty do. Angels of darkness play with you all day long and
at night watch over you--watch over you that you do not escape, that
they may gambol with you on the morrow. They are making merry now. They
have got what they want--_Me_. Yes, a life for a life. I will deliver my
own up. Good-bye."
_The Queer Side of Things._
[Illustration: A USE FOR GENIUS]
Young Bansted Downs had finally arrived home from school; the cabman had
placed his box in the front hall, and young D. was in the act of hanging
up his hat on the stand, when the elder Bansted Downs, his father, put
his head out of the library, and said:--
"And now, young Bansted Downs, what sphere in life do you propose to
fill?"
"I have been thinking, old Bansted Downs," replied the youth,
respectfully, "since I left school seventy-five minutes ago, that I
should prefer to be something prosperous."
The father nodded his head approvingly at this evidence of foresight in
his child, and said:--
"I think you have come to a very wise decision, young Bansted Downs. No
doubt you have, while at school, selected such studies as were best
fitted to prepare you for the struggle of life?"
"I think so, old Bansted Downs," replied the son. "The head-master took
in regularly for our use all the best prize-competition periodicals; in
fact, he was of opinion that a complete selection of these rendered all
other educational books superfluous. I myself have attained to such
dexterity in guessing the right word, deciding on the best eight
pictures and the two best stories, divining the correct number of pairs
of boots made in London on a given day, and so forth, that Dr.
Practiccle pronounced my education singularly complete."
"Good--very good! young Bansted Downs," said the father, thoughtfully;
"and now as to a more specific choice of profession?"
"Well, old Bansted Downs," said the son, "I have been thinking that I
should like to be apprenticed to a Genius, with a view to adopting his
calling."
"Very well thought out," said the parent. "I must consider whether the
necessary premium----"
"Pray do not trouble about that," said the son, "as my success at the
word competitions has more than provided for the contingency." And young
Bansted Downs drew from his pocket a large bag filled with a mixture of
sovereigns, marbles, and peppermint-drops.
"Very good! Then the matter's settled; and perhaps you would like
something to eat."
All the friends by whose opinion old Bansted Downs set any store
heartily approved of young Bansted Downs's choice of a calling; and the
matter was fully discussed that evening. The advertisement columns of
the newspapers were consulted as to the most suitable genius to
undertake the charge of the youth; and the following seemed promising:--
"_To Parents and Guardians._--_Young men of promise wishing to adopt the
profession of genius will do well to apply to Brayne Power and Sons, of
3019A, George Street, Hanover Square, who have a vacancy for one
apprentice. Telephone No. 7142863._"
The very next day young Bansted Downs called at the address given, and
was shown into the presence of Power senior, a man of venerable
appearance, whose high broad forehead, far-away gaze, long hair, and
abstraction sufficiently revealed his calling.
"It will be fifty pounds--twenty-five down, and the rest in monthly
instalments of one pound after you have got your H.A.W.," said the
Master Genius.
"If you please, what is my H.A.W.?" asked young Bansted Downs.
"Your final degree--your Head Above Water."
"That will not be just yet?" asked the youth.
"Oh, dear, no! Not for a very long while, if ever. There are two
preliminary degrees to get before that. There are the F.I. and the
E.P.--your Foot In and your Ear of the Public; and before you can obtain
either of these you will have to Make your Mark."
"I can sign my name--will not that do as well?" asked the youth.
[Illustration: "THE MASTER GENIUS."]
"That entirely depends upon the sort of name. If it's just a surname
with a coronet over it, it entitles you to your F.I. and your E.P.
without any examination. You have the same advantage if you can append
to your signature either of the following affixes: P.P. (Pertinacious
Pusher) or C.I. (Chum of the Influential).
"But if you can't sign these kinds of names, you will have to Make your
Mark. It's a difficult mark, and requires a lot of learning.
"As the first instalment of twenty-five pounds down is all I am ever
likely to get, I will take it now--no, that one won't do; it's a
peppermint-drop, not a sovereign. _That's_ not the way to get on, young
man!"
"Isn't it?" asked young Bansted Downs thoughtfully. "I'm glad you told
me. I thought perhaps it might be; but, of course, I've got to learn."
That very week young Bansted Downs commenced his studies under the
Master Genius. He found he had a very great deal to learn.
"The difference between talent and genius is that talent does what it
can and genius does what it must--you will find that in the poets," said
the Master Genius. "Consequently, to be a genius, you need not feel that
you have the _ability_ to do a thing, but only that it is _necessary_ to
do it. A house-painter is a specimen of genius: he has not the ability
to do his work; but he is compelled to do it in order to obtain the
means for his Saturday drinks. But, of course, that's only one kind of
genius. What we have to teach you first is to feel that you _must_ do
something transcendent--and then all you've got to do is to do it--see?"
So, acting on his instructions, young Bansted Downs went to the office
and sat quite still day after day for a month or two, with his eyes
fixed on space; and one afternoon at the end of that time he got up and
rushed at Power junior (who took charge of him in these preliminary
studies), and announced that he felt the irresistible impulse to do
something great and wonderful.
"What sort of thing?" asked the Junior Genius.
"I don't know--anything--something stupendous and transcendent--a
master-piece!" said young Bansted Downs.
"Knock it off, then. Don't make a labour of it, mind; that would spoil
all the genius of it. Just knock it off--shed it--see?"
The apprentice went back to his stool in the corner and knocked off that
scintillation of genius.
"Very good for a beginner," said the Junior Genius; "you show much
promise. I shall soon be able to hand you over to my father for the
Higher Grades."
And some time after that young Bansted Downs moved into the room of the
Master Genius to learn the higher attributes of genius--eccentricity and
obscureness. These were the most important parts of the qualifications,
and he worked hard at acquiring them. The eccentricity had infinite
ramifications extending into language, manner, dress, habits,
appearance, and opinions. The teacher communicated a thousand little
touches of eccentricity invaluable to a genius--such as the bringing out
of a book of poems with the title printed upside down and the capitals
at the end of the lines instead of the beginning; the wearing of the
back hair tied in a bow under the tip of the nose, and so forth. The
pupil learned to hop backwards on to a public platform, wearing his
dress-coat upside down, to paint his figures with their bones outside
their skin, to sob audibly when performing on the piano; and many other
things necessary to the obtaining of his degrees.
[Illustration: "A HOUSE-PAINTER IS A SPECIMEN OF GENIUS."]
Having completed these studies, he was ready for the uphill work of
trying to Make his Mark; and he found it a complicated bit of drawing
too, far worse than the signature of a Chinese emperor--everything lay
in the flourish.
The Master Genius said that no one could Make his Mark without a great
flourish; and the best way to make the flourish was to blow it on his
own trumpet; so there was the expense of a trumpet.
But he didn't seem able to get on; and after he had worn out a gross of
pens in the attempt to Make his Mark he felt that he would never obtain
his degrees, and took a back cistern-cupboard under the roof in a poor
street, and fell into a low state.
One day, as he was eating his weekly sausage at the Three Melancholy
Geniuses, off Fleet Street, there entered a party whom he knew slightly
and who had Made his Mark and passed all his degrees some time before.
[Illustration: "TO SOB AUDIBLY WHEN PERFORMING ON THE PIANO."]
"Haven't Made your Mark yet?" said this party. "Tell you what--why don't
you get Boomed?"
"Does it hurt?" asked young Bansted Downs.
"Hurts your self-respect just a little and your respect for your
fellow-creatures a little more--but it's nothing," replied the party.
"Where do you go?"
"To the Press Booming Department, of course. Just put your name down for
Booming, and fill up a form, stating what you require said about you.
You began all wrong: I never studied--I only went and put my name down
the moment it occurred to me that I would be a genius. I called at the
office every day, and shouted my name, and created disturbances, and got
turned out; until at last they couldn't stand it any longer, and my turn
came.
[Illustration: "I CALLED AT THE OFFICE EVERY DAY AND SHOUTED MY NAME."]
"They put a long article about me in every newspaper, all the same
day--mostly interviews--and quoted me as a classic. Some of 'em
described me as a painter, and others as a novelist: I never was either;
but it answered all right."
So young Bansted Downs went to the Booming office, and put his name
down, and shouted; and the end of it was he got his Boom, and several
editors wrote to him; and he began to be a little successful.
He hired halls, and went before the public in person; and painted on the
platform; and sang and played his own compositions to them; and recited
his own poems, and acted his own plays; and told them about his own
scientific researches, and his military, exploratory, judicial,
political, and athletic achievements.
But the thing dulled off, for one day a deputation of the public called
at the Booming office to ask something about him; and the office had
forgotten his name, and said that he wasn't being Boomed now, as Smith
was up; and so the public got on an omnibus and went to Smith's hall,
and Bansted Downs faded out.