city; not so much a silence, perhaps, as an unusual muffling of all the
ordinary sounds of traffic and activity. The swish of the sleet against
the window was almost continuous, but when it ceased for a moment there
was heard no rattle of the streets, no rumble of the horse-cars, no
clatter of trains on the elevated railroad. Instead of these familiar
sounds, a wide, deep, and ominous murmur filled the air. This was not a
loud and heavy sound, like the roar of the ocean, nor yet shrill, like
the rush and whistling of a gale, but had a peculiar low and muffled
quality that made a weird accompaniment to the dramatic situation of the
artist and sitter in the storm-and-serpent-beleaguered studio.
There was a horrible fascination in watching the movements of the snakes
as they restlessly glided from one part of the studio to another, the
scales on their thick repulsive bodies glistening in the strong light,
and flashing a variety of colors. The stove was now red-hot, and the
fire was roaring loudly. In spite of the intense cold outside, the heat
became oppressive at the height where they sat, and Miss Van Hoorn,
whose nerves were much shaken by her fright, and kept in a flutter by
the movements of the snakes below, began to feel faint. The
house-servants had standing orders never to interrupt the sittings on
any excuse until the artist rang for luncheon. It was now half-past
eleven, and Seymour, despairing of the return of the maid, at last
resolved to shout as loudly as possible, and to stop the servant from
opening the door by calling out to him as he came along the passageway.
He explained this plan to Miss Van Hoorn, and proceeded to shout and
halloo with the full strength of his lungs. He waited a few moments, but
no sound of footsteps was heard, and then he shouted again and again.
Still the roaring of the fire, the grumble of the storm, and the hideous
rustling of the snakes alone greeted their eager ears. At last he was
obliged to conclude that the noise of the storm prevented his cries from
reaching the house.
What to do next he did not know, but as he was fanning Miss Van Hoorn
with a letter out of his pocket--indeed, with one of her own notes to
him--he struck upon a plan of letting in air, and at the same time
attracting the attention of some one. When the brief faint turn had
passed off, he climbed down to the shelf, gathered up his tubes of
color, and returned to his perch. After a few vigorous throws with the
heaviest tubes, he succeeded in breaking one of the panes of the large
window, and a fierce gust of wind blew upon them. To their great
disappointment the opening in the glass disclosed only the blank wall of
the opposite extension; and as he had wasted all his heavy ammunition,
he could not break another pane higher up in the window. He tried
shouting again, but with no result.
The situation was now worse than before, for Miss Van Hoorn was in her
evening dress and exposed to the freezing draught of a blizzard.
Seymour persuaded her to put on his velveteen jacket, and, after a few
attempts, succeeded in tearing down a curtain that hung from the ceiling
alongside the opening in the roof in order to cast a shadow on the
background. This he wrapped around both of them, then sat and considered
what to do next. No new plan, however, suggested itself to either of
them. They did not talk much, for they were too seriously occupied with
the problem of escape to waste words. The single hand of the antique
clock moved with agonizing slowness, and the pair sat there a long time
in silence, shivering, despairing. Once or twice a sense of the
ludicrousness of their position came over them, and they laughed a
little; but their mirth was almost hysterical, and was succeeded by a
greater depression of spirits than before. Seymour had proposed several
times to make a dash for the door, but two or three of the reptiles were
always moving about between the easel and the entrance, and Miss Van
Hoorn entreated him tearfully not to attempt it. The cold seemed to
increase, and Seymour soon noticed that the fire was burning itself out.
This was a new source of anxiety, and neither of them cared to
anticipate their sufferings on the top of the easel with the temperature
below zero.
“Just look at the snakes!” suddenly cried Seymour, in great excitement.
Miss Van Hoorn was startled by the vehemence of his cry, and could only
gasp: “No, no! I can’t bear to look at them any more.”
“The cold is making them torpid again,” he fairly shrieked, in the joy
of his discovery. “How stupid not to have thought of this before!” he
added, in a tone of disgust.
He was right. One by one they ceased to crawl, and those nearest the
window soon lay motionless. Checking his impatience to descend on the
snakes until those by the stove ceased to show signs of active life, he
dropped from the perch, seized a yataghan from the wall, and speedily
despatched them all.
Miss Van Hoorn anxiously watched the slaughter from the safe elevation
of the easel, and, when it was over, fainted into the artist’s arms.
* * * * *
The most unique and remarkable engagement ring ever marked with a date
at Tiffany’s was a beautiful antique intaglio of Medusa’s head set in
Etruscan gold.
THE FOURTH WAITS
I.
The click of dominos is an accompaniment scarcely in harmony with a
discussion of psychology and religion. But no subject is too sacred, or
too profane, to be discussed in a café--that neutral ground where all
parties and all sects meet; and it was a serious debate during a game of
dominos that marked the beginning of a course of strange coincidences
and sad occurrences that crowd one chapter in an eventful Bohemian life.
There were four of us art-students in the Academy of Antwerp assembled,
as was our custom after the evening life-class, at a café in a quiet
_faubourg_ of the city. It was a gloomy November evening, cold and raw
in the wind, but not too chill to sit in the open air under the lee of
the wooden shed which enclosed two sides of the café garden. The heavy
atmosphere had not crushed every spark of cheerfulness out of the
buoyant natures of the materialistic Flemings, and the tables were
filled with noisy _bourgeois_ and their families, drinking the mild beer
of Louvain or generous cups of coffee. Their gayety seemed sacrilegious
in the solemn presence of approaching winter--that long, depressing,
ghostly season which in the Low Countries gives warning of its coming
with prophetic sobs and continued tears, and trails the shroud of summer
before the eyes of shrinking mortals for weeks before it buries its
victim. In a climate like that of Flanders, the winter, rarely marked by
severe cold, really begins with the rainy season in early autumn, and it
continues in an interminable succession of dismal days with shrouded
skies.
On the evening in question the clouds seemed lower than usual; the wind
was fitful and spasmodic, and came in long, mournful, insinuating sighs
that stole in mockingly between the peals of music and laughter, and
startled every one in his gayest mood. The gas-jets flickered and
wavered weirdly, and the dry leaves danced accompaniment to the
movements of the swift-footed waiters. The clatter of wooden shoes on
the pavement without, and the measureless but not unmusical songs of the
jolly workmen on their way home, filled the score of the medley of
sounds that broke the sepulchral quiet of the evening.
There were four of us, as I have said: old Reiner, Tyck, Henley, and
myself. Each represented a different nationality. Reiner was a Norwegian
of German descent, tall and ungainly, with a large head, a shock of
light-colored, coarse hair, a virgin beard, and a good-humored face
focused in a pair of searching gray eyes that pried their way into
everything that came under their owner’s observation. He was by no means
a handsome man, neither was he unattractive; and his sober habits, cool
judgment, and great stock of general information gained for him the
familiar name of old Reiner among the more thoughtless and more
superficial students who were his friends. He was by nature of a more
scientific than artistic turn of mind. He was conversant with nine
languages, including Sanskrit, had received a thorough university
education in Norway and Germany, took delight in investigating every
subject that came in his way--from the habits of an ant to the movements
of the gold market in America--and could talk intelligently and
instructively on every topic proposed to him. Indeed, his scientific and
literary attainments were a wonder to the rest of us, who had lived
quite as long and had accomplished much less. As an artist he had great
talents as well; but here also his love of investigation constantly
directed his efforts. In his academic course he had less success than
might have been anticipated, except in the direction of positive
rendering of certain effects. He was not a colorist; such natures rarely
are; and it is probable that he would never have made a brilliant artist
in any branch of the profession, for he was too much of a positivist,
and even his historical pictures would have been little more than
marvels of correctness of costume and accessories. In his association
with us, the flow of his abundant good-humor, which sometimes seemed
unlimited, was interrupted by occasional spells of complete reaction,
when he neither spoke to nor even saw any one else, but made a hermit of
himself until the mood had passed.
Tyck at first sight looked like a Spaniard. He was slight in stature,
one short leg causing a stoop which made him appear still smaller than
he was. His skin was of a clear brown, warmed by an abundance of rich
blood; a mass of strong, curling hair, and a black moustache and
imperial framed in a face of peculiar strong beauty. His eyes had
something in them too deep to be altogether pleasing, for they caused
one to look at him seriously, yet they were as full of laughter and
good-nature and cheerfulness as dark eyes can be. His face was one that,
notwithstanding its peculiarities, gave a good first impression; and a
long friendship had proved him to be chargeable with fewer blemishes of
character than are written down against the most of us. But his hands
were not in his favor. They were long, bony, and cold; the finger-joints
were large and lacked firmness, and the pressure of the hand was
listless or unsympathetic. The lines of life were faint and
discouraging, and there were few prominent marks in the palm. The secret
of his complexion lay in his parentage, for his mother was a native
woman of Java, and his father a Dutch merchant, who settled in that
far-off country, built up a fortune, and raised a small family of boys,
who deserted the paternal nest as soon as they were old enough to
flutter alone. Tyck was a colorist. He seemed to see the tones of nature
rich with the warm reflections of a tropical sun; and his studies from
life, while strong and luscious in tone, were full of fire and subtle
gradations--qualities combined rarely enough in the works of older
artists. He was to all appearance in the flush of health, and,
notwithstanding his deformity, was uncommonly active and fond of
exercise. We who knew him intimately, however, always looked upon him
as a marked man. With all his rugged, healthy look, his physique was not
vigorous enough to resist the attacks of the common foe, winter, and we
knew that he occasionally pined mentally and physically for the
luxurious warmth of his native land. He flourished in the raw climate of
Flanders only as a transplanted flower flourishes; still, he was not
declining in health or strength.
It is a long and delicate process to build up an intimate friendship
between men of mercurial temperament and such an impersonation of
coolness and deliberation and studied manners as was Henley, the third
member of our group. From his type of face and his peculiar bearing he
was easily recognizable as an Englishman, and even as a member of the
Church of England. His manner was plainly the result of a severe and
formal training; his whole life, as he told us himself, had been passed
under the careful surveillance of a strict father, who was for a long
time the rector of one of the first churches of London. But Henley,
serious, formal, and cool, was not uncompanionable; and I am not quite
sure whether it was not the bony thinness of his face, his straggling
black beard and abundant dead-colored hair, that predisposed one at
first sight to judge him as a sort of melancholy black sheep among his
lighter-hearted companions. So we all placed him at our first meeting.
When once the ice was broken, and we felt the sympathetic presence that
surrounded him in his intercourse with friends, he became a necessity to
complete the current of our little circle, and his English steadiness
often served a good purpose in many wordy tempests.
In religious opinions we four were as divided as we were distinct in
nationality. Henley, as I have said, was a member of the Church of
England. Tyck was a Jew and a Freemason. Reiner entirely disbelieved in
everything that was not plain to him intellectually. Our discussions on
religious subjects were long and warm, for the theories of the fourth
member of the circle piled new fuel upon the flames that sprang up under
the friction of the ideas of the other three, and on these topics alone
we were seriously at variance. Rarely were our disputes carried to that
point where either of us felt wounded after the discussion was ended,
but on more than one occasion they were violent enough to have ruptured
our little bond if it had not been strengthened by ties of more than
ordinary friendship.
This friendship was of the unselfish order, too. We were in the habit of
living on the share-and-share-alike principle. Henley was the only one
who had any allowance, and he always felt that his regular remittance
was rather a bar to his complete and unqualified admission to our little
ring. The joint capital among us was always kept in circulation. When
one had money and the others had none, and it suited our inclinations or
the purposes of our study to visit the Dutch cities, or even to cross
the Channel, we travelled on the common purse. Share-and-share-alike in
cases less pressing than sickness or actual want may not be a sound
mercantile principle; but where the freemasonry of mutual tastes, united
purposes, and common hardships binds friend to friend, the spirit of
communism is half the charm of existence. Especially is this true of
Bohemian life.
In introducing the characters a little time has been taken, partly in
order to give us a chance to move our table into a more sheltered
corner, and to allow us to get well started in another game of dominos.
As I remember that evening, Reiner, who had not entirely recovered from
an attack of one of his peculiar moods, had been discussing miracles and
mysteries with more than his accustomed warmth, and the rest of us had
been cornered and driven off the field in turn; even to Henley, who was
not, with all his study, quite as well up on the subject of the Jewish
priests and the Druids as old Reiner, whom no topic seemed to find
unprepared. When the discussion was at its height I observed in Reiner
certain uneasy movements, and I instinctively looked behind him to see
if any one was watching him, as his actions resembled those of a person
under the mesmerism of an unseen eye. I saw no one, and concluded that
my imagination had deceived me. But Reiner became suddenly grave and
even solemn, and the debate stopped entirely. At last, after a long
silence, Reiner proposed another game of dominos. When the pieces were
distributed he began the moves, saying at the same time, quite in
earnest and as if talking to himself, “This will decide it.”
His voice was so strange and his look so determined that we felt that
something was at stake, and instinctively and in chorus declared that it
was useless to play the game out, and proposed an adjournment to the
sketching-club. Reiner did not object, and we rose to go. As we left the
table I saw behind Reiner’s chair two small, luminous, green balls, set
in a black mass, turned towards us--evidently the eyes of a dog,
glistening in the reflection of the gas like emerald fires. Possibly the
others did not notice the animal, and I was too much startled at the
discovery of the unseen eye to speak of it at that moment. Before I had
recovered myself completely we were out of the gate, followed by the
dog. Under the street-lamp, he leaped about and seemed quite at home. He
was seen to be a perfectly black Spitz poodle, with cropped ears and
tail, very lively in his movements, and with a remarkably intelligent
expression. He was a dog of a character not commonly met, and once
observed was not easily mistaken for others of the same breed. Our walk
to the club was dreary enough. The gloomy manner of old Reiner was
contagious, and no one spoke a word. I was too busy reflecting on the
strange manner in which our game had been interrupted to occupy myself
with my companion, remembering the now frequent recurrence of Reiner’s
blue days, and dreading his absence from the class and the club, which I
knew from experience was sure to follow such symptoms as I had observed
in the café. To the sketching-club we brought an atmosphere so
forbidding that it seemed as if we were the heralds of some misfortune.
Scarcely a cheerful word was said after our entrance, and frequent
glasses of Louvain or _d’orge_, drunk on the production of new
caricatures, failed to raise the barometer of our spirits. The meeting
broke up early, and we four separated. The dog, which had been lying
under a settee near the door, followed Reiner as he turned down the
boulevard.
For a week we did not meet again. Reiner kept his room or was out of
town. He made no sign, and without him we frequented neither the café
nor the club. The weather grew cold and rainy; the last evening at the
café proved to have been the final gasp of dying autumn, and winter had
fairly begun. At last Reiner made his appearance at dinner one dark
afternoon, and took his accustomed seat at our table, near the window
which opened out upon the glass-covered court-yard of the small hotel
where we used to dine, a score of us, artists and students all. He
looked very weary and hollow-eyed; said he had been unwell, had taken an
overdose of laudanum for neuralgia, and had been confined to his room
for a few days. Expecting each day to be able to go out the next
morning, he had neglected to send us word, and so the week had passed.
As he was speaking I noticed a dog in the court-yard, the same black
poodle that attached himself to us in the café. Reiner, observing my
surprise, explained that the dog had been living with him at his room in
the Steenhouwersvest, and that they were inseparable companions now. We
could all see that old Reiner was not yet himself again. One of us
ventured to suggest that there might be something Mephistophelian about
the animal, and that Reiner was endeavoring, Faust-like, to get at the
kernel of the beast, so as to fathom whatever mystery of heaven or earth
was as yet to him inexplicable. No further remarks were made, as Reiner
arose to go away, leaving his dinner untouched. He shook hands with us
all almost solemnly, and with the poodle went out into the gloomy
street.
Another week passed, and we saw neither Reiner nor the poodle. December
began, and the days were short and dark, the sun scarcely appearing
above the cathedral roof in his course from east to west. The absence of
old Reiner was a constant theme of conversation, and there were
multitudes of conjectures as to whether he were in love, in debt, or
really ill. We had no message from him, not a word, not a written line.
One evening as we sat at dinner--it was Thursday, and a heavy rain was
falling--the black poodle dashed suddenly in, closely followed by
Reiner’s servant-girl, bonnetless and in slippers, and drenched to the
skin. Her message was guessed before she had time to gasp out, “Och,
Mynheeren, uwer vriend Reiner is dood!” Not waiting for explanations, we
followed her as she returned through the slippery streets, scarcely
walking or running. How I got there I never knew; it seemed at the time
as if I were carried along by some superior force. Filled with dread and
fear, mingled with hope that it was an awful mistake and that something
might yet be done, I reached the door of the house. Through the
grocery-shop, where was assembled a crowd of shivering, drenched people
who had gathered there on hearing of the event, conscious that all were
watching our entrance with solemn sympathy, not seeing distinctly any
one or anything, forgetting the narrow, dark, and winding wooden stair,
I was at the door of Reiner’s room in an instant. The tall figure of a
gendarme was silhouetted against the window; a few women stood by the
table whispering together, awe-stricken at the sight of something that
was before them, to the left, and still hidden from me as I took in the
scene on entering the door.
Another step brought me to the bedside. There in the dim light lay old
Reiner, not as if asleep, for the awful pallor of death was on his face,
but with an expression as calm and peaceful as if he were soon to awake
from pleasant dreams, as if his soul were still dreaming on. He lay on
his right side, with his head resting on his doubled arm. The bedclothes
were scarcely disturbed, and his left arm lay naturally on the sheet
which was turned over the coverlid. Great, dark stains splashed the wall
behind the bed and the pillow; dark streaks ran along over the linen and
made little pools upon the floor. His shirt-bosom was one broad,
irregular blotch of blood, and in his left hand I could see the carved
ivory handle of the little Scandinavian sheath-knife that he always
carried in his belt. Before I had fully comprehended the awful reality
of poor Reiner’s death, the doctor arrived, lights were brought, and the
examination began. Our dead comrade’s head being raised and his
shirt-bosom opened, there were exposed two great gashes across the left
jugular vein and one across the right, and nine deep wounds in the
breast. Few of the cuts would not have proved mortal, and the ferocity
with which the fatal knife had been plunged again and again into his
breast testified to the madness of the determination to destroy his
life. On the dressing-table by the bed we found two small laudanum
vials, both empty, and one over-turned, as if placed hastily beside its
fellow. In all probability poor Reiner took this large dose of laudanum
early in the morning, as it was found that he had been in bed during the
entire day, and was seen by the servant to be sleeping at three o’clock
in the afternoon. His iron constitution and great physical strength
overcoming the effects of the narcotic, he probably awoke to
consciousness late in the afternoon. Finding himself still alive, in the
agonies of despair and disappointment at the unsuccessful attempt to
dream over the chasm into the next world, he seized his knife and madly
stabbed himself, doubtless feeling little pain, and only happily
conscious that his long-planned step was successfully taken at last. The
room was unchanged, nothing was disturbed, and there was no evidence of
the premeditation of the suicide, except an open letter on the table,
addressed to us, his friends. It contained a simple statement of his
reasons for leaving the world, saying that he was discouraged with his
progress in art, that he could not establish himself as an artist
without great expense to his family and friends, and that he believed by
committing suicide he simply annihilated himself--nothing more or
less--and so ceased to trouble himself or those interested in him. He
gave no directions as to the disposal of his effects, but enclosed a
written confession of faith, which read:
“Frederik Reiner, athée, ne croyant à rien que ce que l’on peut
prouver par la raison et l’expérience. Croyant tout de même à
l’existence d’un esprit, mais d’un esprit qui dissoud et disparaît
avec le corps.