"The game is up."
The tall, lean man made no immediate reply, he merely gazed steadily
into the face of his friend. He had always suspected that it would come
to this some day. He really wondered that Morrison had not done it long
ago. If any man had a right to dispose of his life it was surely
Morrison. He had endured more than most human beings. His case was
absolutely hopeless.
"Is there no way out of it?"
Morrison shook his head. He wanted to say something, but his voice
failed him. He stepped to the dresser near the window, looked into the
mirror and arranged his faded, threadbare tie. It was pitiful to see how
shabbily he was dressed. He no longer set the fashion as in his days of
success, years ago in Boston.
"Would money help you?" and the tall, lean visitor fumbled in his
pockets. Although fairly well dressed, he was hard up most of the time
and only ventured to broach the subject as he just happened to have a
few dollars to spare that day.
"No, what good would the little do that you could give me?" and he
continued to adjust matters and tuck things away in his trunk.
"There, you are right again, not much. But I won forty dollars on the
track; I sometimes go out there," he added as a sort of excuse, "as it
is impossible to live on literature alone. I could spare ten."
"Can you really spare them? I won't be able to return them, you know. I
would like to have them. I suppose you will refuse to let me buy a
revolver with them. I have all sorts of poisons," he pointed to some
little bottles, "but I would prefer not to use them, it wouldn't be
esthetical, and then I want to go away to some place where nobody knows
me. I don't want to be identified."
The literary man slowly pulled a small roll out of his pocket. He
thought of his wife and children who needed the money. It was really
foolish to have made that offer. Well, it was probably the last service
he could render his friend. Morrison was serious about his departure,
there was no doubt about that. "Here!"
"Thanks," Morrison answered, though he did not take the money right
away. He looked about absentmindedly, as in a dream. This was friendship
indeed. He had not believed that anybody could so completely enter
another man's state of mind. Not a word of opposition. This was
glorious! They had known each other for more than seventeen years. They
had often drifted apart and, somehow, had always met again. They had
never been very intimate, they had merely respected each other for the
work they had accomplished, each in his profession; although they
differed largely in ideas. Morrison was a sculptor, and almost an
ancient Greek in his feelings for the beauty of lines. The tall, lean
man, on the other hand, was a strange mixture of a visionary and brutal
realist. They both were cynics, however, that found life rather futile.
With the literary man this was merely a theoretical view point, while
Morrison was really embittered with life. The incidents of this
afternoon had surprised him. He was deeply moved and felt as if he
should give utterance to his emotions. He remembered that his attitude
towards his friend had been rather arrogant at times. He now felt sorry
for it, but somehow could not form his sentiments and thoughts into
coherent sentences.
"Thanks," he simply repeated, "Has anybody seen you enter the house?"
"No, the door was open and I walked right up. Why do you ask?"
"I don't want anybody to be mixed up in this affair, as it only concerns
me."
The literary man smiled: "Could any man influence you one way or
another? As far as I can make out you are beyond mortal influence."
A pause ensued. Morrison threw the last thing into his trunk. "Well, I
am ready. Everything is settled."
"How about your statues?"
"Pshaw!" Morrison shrugged his shoulders. "Nobody was interested in them
while I lived. Why should I bother to think what might become of them
after my death?"
The author nodded and scowled at the same time. He was not satisfied
with the answer. But there were still other things on his mind. He was
used to analyze everything to shreds and tatters. "Are you not afraid
that you might make a botch out of the whole job?"
Morrison weighed the question in his mind, then shook his head and
answered: "No, there is hardly a chance for it now. I have been tuned up
to it, trained myself to it, so to speak. The fruit is ripe. It has to
fall. It would be awful, though--" he added, with an after-thought. "Do
you remember my emerald ring? I had to pawn it, but I kept the poison
which was hidden under the stone. I will take that if anything goes
wrong."
"Would you object to my company?" asked the tall, lean man, "I mean
until all is over. I, myself, am not quite ready yet for any such
heroical performances."
"Oh, don't think of it," the sculptor ejaculated; notwithstanding, the
tone of his voice indicated that he would not object, that he would even
prefer a traveling companion for the last few hours of his life.
"Well, I'll go with you. Where are you going?"
"To New Haven. It's a nice trip." Morrison carefully brushed his hair
and clothes, there came a flush to his face as he realized how shabby
his clothes really were. The tall, lean man was delicate enough to look
away as if he had not noticed anything.
A few moments later they left the room. Morrison locked the door and
they went out into the street. They did not talk much, merely
commonplace phrases that did not bear upon the subject. Both were
occupied with their own thoughts, and strange thoughts they must have
been. They leisurely strolled to a store of sporting outfits, bought a
revolver and cartridges, had their shoes shined at the next corner, and
slowly wended their way toward the depot. Their actions were almost
mechanical. Suicide is an attack of insanity, a sort of mental plague.
If one has caught the fever, one is doomed. There is no escape from it.
At the same time it is contagious. The literary man was somewhat
infected by it. All his interests in life seemed to be dulled,
obliterated as it were. He could only think the one thought, "Morrison
is going to kill himself. But who knows, he may, after all, turn up next
week with the excuse that he had changed his mind. No, not he!--it was
really too bad!" Morrison, on the other hand, grew quite cheerful. With
him the idea that he would do it, had become so matter-of-fact, that he
ceased to think of it. Nothing could influence him any more. Even if
some vague current of soul activity should revolt at the very last
moment, he was certain that his hand would mechanically perform the
task.
"Only one return ticket," he whispered as he approached the ticket
office. "Oh, I almost forgot," replied his friend.
During the trip they silently sat opposite each other, smoking. Now and
then Morrison pointed out the beautiful sights. He seemed to be familiar
with the scenery. At their arrival in New Haven, at dusk, they at once
adjourned to a hotel and sat down at a table in the bar-room. They began
to talk about art, they discussed commercialism, the lack of
appreciation and the vanity of all serious work, at least as far as art
is concerned. They began to relate reminiscences of their student
years, and reviewed the hopes and ambitions of their youth. If they had
been realized, what wonders they would have accomplished!
"I gave the other side a chance. They never responded. I waited for ten
long years, and now, it's all up. Let us have another drink, waiter, the
last." They clinked glasses. "And now for a decent departure as in the
good old times, when Hegesias, the Cyrenaic, preached suicide in
Alexandria--"
They arose. It had grown dark. They sauntered forth into the night.
Morrison seemed to know where he was going. "I once spent very pleasant
days out here," he explained, "years, I hardly remember how many years
ago." After that they did not converse any more. They finally arrived at
a beautiful avenue of old elms that extended far into the country. Its
deep, dark vista was lit up only by the shimmer of a distant lake.
Morrison stopped, seized his friend's hand, shook it, and said in a firm
voice: "Good-bye."
"Good-bye."
And Morrison walked away. It was so dark that in a few moments his form
became invisible. Only his footsteps could still be heard. They grew
fainter and fainter. The tall, lean man stared after his friend into the
blackness of the night. His eyes grew dim.
A few rain drops fell on his face and hands. "I hope it won't rain," he
murmured, "it might make dying more difficult, but no--the sky is
clear." Then he slightly bent forward and listened eagerly. Everything
was calm, motionless, as in suspense. Nobody passed through the avenue.
Only in the adjoining side streets pedestrians flitted by like ghosts.
So this was the end! After having struggled bravely for years, after
living up to high ideals as well as one could, to go down a long, dark
avenue--a falling star flashed across the tree tops.
The tall, lean man pressed his hand to his heart, although he was not
certain of having heard a report, he felt, that his friend had arrived
at the goal of his life's journey. The game was up!
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End of Project Gutenberg's Mother Earth, Vol. 1 No. 4, June 1906, by Various