inséparables des atoms ou des molecules dont se compose le corps.
L’un comme l’autre a existé depuis l’éternité. Moi-même, mon âme
comme mon corps, un complexité accidentel, une réunion passagère.
“J’insisterai toujours dans les éléments qui me composent mais
dissoudent en d’autres complexités. Ainsi, _moi, ma personnalité_,
n’existera plus après ma mort.”
Beside this letter on the table lay Henri Murger’s “Scènes de la Vie de
Bohème,” open, face downward. The pages contained the description of the
death of one of the artists, and the following brief and touching
sentence was underlined: _“Il fut enterré quelquepart.”_ A litter was
brought from the hospital, and four men carried away the body; the dog,
which we had come to look upon almost with horror, closely following
the melancholy procession as it gradually disappeared in the drizzling
gloom of the narrow streets. We three went to our rooms in a strange
bewilderment, and huddled together in speechless grief and horror around
the little fireplace. When bedtime came we separated and tried to sleep,
but I doubt if an eye was closed or the awful vision of poor Reiner, as
we last saw him, left either of us for a moment.
The days that followed were, to me at least, most agonizing. The
terrible death of old Reiner grew less and less repulsive and more
horribly absorbing. I had often read of the influence of such examples
on peculiarly constituted minds, but had never before felt the dread and
ghastly fascination which seemed to grow upon me as the days following
the tragedy drew no veil across the awful spectacle, ever present in my
mind’s eye, but rather added vividness and distinctness to the smallest
details of the scene. My bed, with its white curtains, the conventional
pattern of heavy Flemish furniture found in every room, came to be
almost a tomb, in the morbid state of my imagination. I could never look
at its long, spotless drapery without fancying my own head on the
pillow, my own blood on the wall and staining with splashes of deep red
the curtain and sheets. The number and shape of the spots on old
Reiner’s bed seemed photographed on the retina of my eye, and danced
upon the slender, graceful folds of the curtains as often as I dared
look at them. A little nickel-plated derringer, always lying on my table
as a paper-weight, often found its way into my hands, and I would
surprise myself wondering whether death by such a means were not, after
all, preferable to destruction by the knife. A few cartridges in the
corner of my closet, which I had hidden away to keep them from the
meddling hands of the servant, seemed to draw me towards them with a
constant magnetism. I could not forget that shelf and that particular
spot behind a bundle of paint-rags. If there was need of anything on
that particular shelf for months after Reiner’s death, I always took it
quickly and resolutely, shutting the closet door as if I were shutting
in all the evil spirits that could possess me. The tempter was
exorcised, but with difficulty, and to this day, for all I know, the
cartridges may still lie hidden there. Then, too, a quaint Normandy
hunting-knife was quite as fiendish in its influence as the derringer.
Its ugly, crooked blade, and strong, sharp point were very suggestive,
and for a time I was almost afraid to touch the handle, lest the demon
of suicide should overcome me. Still, in the climax of this fever, which
might well have resulted in the suicide of another of the four, for it
was evident that Henley and Tyck were also under the same influences
that surrounded me day and night, the thought of burdening our friends
with our dead bodies was the strongest inducement that stayed our hands.
It is certain that if we had been situated where the disposal of our
bodies would have been a matter of little or no difficulty--as, for
example, on board ship--one or perhaps all three of us would have
succumbed to the influence of the mania that possessed us.
It was on the Sunday forenoon--a grim, gray morning threatening a
storm--following the fatal Thursday, that we met in the court-yard of
the city hospital to bury poor Reiner.
The hideous barrenness of a Flemish burial-ground, even in bright,
cheerful weather, is enough to crush the most buoyant spirits; it is
indescribably oppressive and soul-sickening. The awful desolation of the
place in the dreariness of that day will ever remain a horrid souvenir
in my mind. Nature did not seem to weep, but to frown; and in the heavy
air one felt a deep and solemn reproach. The soaked and dull atmosphere
was stifling in its density, like the overloaded breath from some newly
opened tomb. There was an army of felt but unseen spirits lurking in the
ghostly quiet of the place, which the presence of a hundred mortals did
not disturb. There was no breath of wind, and the settling of the snow
and a faint, faint moan of the distant rushing tide made the silence
more oppressive. The drip of the water from the drenched mosses on the
brick walls; the faintest rustle of the wreaths of immortelles hung on
every hideous black cross; the fall of one withered flower from the
forgotten offerings of some friend of the buried dead--every sound at
other times and in other places quite inaudible, broke upon that
unearthly quiet with startling distinctness. The sound of our footsteps,
as we followed the winding path to the fresh heap of earth in a remote
corner, fell heavily on the thick air, and the high brick walls, mouldy
and rotting in the sunless angles, gave a deep and unwilling echo. It
was like treading the dark and skull-walled passages of the Catacombs
without the grateful veil of a partial darkness. All that was mortal and
subject to decay, all that was to our poor human understanding immortal
and indestructible, seemed buried alike in this rigid, barren enclosure.
Beyond? There was no beyond; the straight, barren walls on all sides,
and the impenetrable murkiness of the gray vault that covered us, barred
out the material and the spiritual world. Here was the end, here all was
certain and defined--a narrow ditch, a few shovelfuls of earth, and
nothing more that needed or invited explanation. There was no future, no
waking from that sleep: all exit from that narrow and pitiless graveyard
seemed forever closed. Such thoughts as these were, until then,
strangers to us. Could it be the unextinguishable influence of that
nerveless body that filled the place with the dread and uncongenial
presence that urged us to accept for the time, then and there, the
theories and convictions of the mind which once animated that cold and
motionless mass?
The fresh, moist earth was piled on one side of the grave, and the
workmen with their shovels stood near the heap as we filed up, and at a
sign lowered the coffin into the grave. A Norwegian minister approached
to conduct the services. He took his place apart from all, at the head
of the grave, and began with the customary prayer in the Norwegian
language. He was dressed in harmony with the day and scene. A long,
black gown fell to the feet and was joined by a single row of thickly
sewn buttons; a white band hung from his neck low down in front, and
white wristbands half covered his gloved hands; a silk hat completed the
costume. His face was of the peculiar, emotionless Northern type,
perfectly regular in feature, with well-trimmed reddish-brown beard and
hair, and small, unsympathetic gray eyes, and it bore an expression of
congealed conviction in the severity of divine judgment. His prayer was
long and earnest, and the discourse which followed was full of honest
regret for the loss of our friend, but mainly charged with severe
reproach against the wickedness of the suicide, the burden of the sermon
being, “The wages of sin is death.” We stood there, shivering with the
penetrating chill of the damp atmosphere, filled with the horrors of
this acre of the dead, and listened patiently to the long discourse. In
the very middle of the argument there was a sudden rustle near the head
of the grave, a momentary confusion among those standing near the
minister, and, to the great amazement and horror of Tyck, Henley, and
myself, that black poodle, draggled but dignified, walked quietly to the
edge of the pit as if he had been bidden to the funeral, and sat down
there, midway between the minister and the little knot of mourners,
eying first the living and then the dead with calm and portentous
gravity. He seemed to pay the closest attention to the words of the
discourse, and with an expression of intelligent triumph, rather than
grief, cocked his wise little head to one side and eyed the minister as
he dilated on the sin of suicide, and then looked solemnly down into the
grave. His actions were so human and his expression so fiendishly
exultant that to the three of us, who had previously made his
acquaintance, his presence was an additional horror; among the rest it
merely excited comment on the sagacity of the beast. There he sat
through the whole of the services, and nothing could move him from his
post.
At the close of the sermon, and after a short eulogy in Flemish
delivered by one of us, the minister gave out the Norwegian hymn with
this refrain:
“Min Gud! gjör dog for Christi Blod
Min sidste Afskedstime god!”
The first part of the air is weird and Northern, and the last strain is
familiar to us by the name of “Hebron.” The Norwegian words were
significant and well-chosen for this occasion, very like the simple
stanzas of our “Hebron.” The hymn is sad enough at all times; when tuned
to the mournful drag of our untrained voices it seemed like the sighing
of unshrived spirits.
As the sad measures wailed forth, the day seemed to grow colder and
darker; a dreary wind rustled the dry branches of the stunted trees, and
rattled the yellow wreaths of immortelles and the dry garlands and
bouquets. The dog grew uneasy between the verses, and howled long and
piteously, startling us all in our grief, and causing a dismal echo from
the cold, bare walls that hemmed us in. At last the painfully long hymn
was ended, immortelles were placed upon the coffin-lid, each one threw
in a handful of earth, and we turned our faces towards the gate, away
from death and desolation to dismal and melancholy life and our now
distasteful occupation. With one last look into the enclosure, we passed
out of the gate, closing it behind us. The dog was still at his post.
A rapid drive brought us in fifteen minutes to the Place de Meir, where
we alighted and found to welcome us the same black poodle that we left
at the grave. The cemetery of Kiel is at least two miles from the Place
de Meir; yet the dog left it after we did, and, panting and covered with
mud, was awaiting us at the latter place. He could have made his escape
from the cemetery only by the aid of some one to open the heavy gate for
him, and, considering this necessary delay, his appearance in the city
before us was, to say the least, startling. He welcomed us cheerfully,
but we gave him no encouragement. The inexplicable ubiquity of the beast
horrified us too much to allow any desire for such a companion. As we
separated and took three different roads, to my great relief he followed
neither of us, but stood undecided which way to turn.
The circumstances attending the burial of poor Reiner and the events
which followed tended to increase our disposition to imitate the
questionable action of our friend; but the annual _concours_ of the
academy, which demanded the closest attention and the most severe work
for nearly three months, counteracted all such evil tendencies, and by
spring-time we laughed at the morbid fancies of the previous winter.
The evening after the funeral, on my way to the life class, I met the
poodle again, and, in reply to his recognition, drove him away with my
cane. Both Tyck and Henley related at the class a similar experience
with the dog, which we had now come to look upon as a fiend in disguise.
After this the meetings with the poodle were daily and almost hourly. He
would quietly march into the hotel court-yard as we were at dinner; we
would stumble over him on the stairs; at a café the _garçon_ would hunt
him from the room; at the academy he would startle us, amuse the rest of
the students, and enrage the professor by breaking the guard of the old
surveillant, and rushing into the life class. He seemed to belong to no
one and to have no home, and yet he was an attractive animal with his
long, glossy coat, saucy ears and tail, and bright, intelligent eyes. We
often endeavored to rid ourselves of him. Many times I tried my best to
kill him, arming myself expressly with my heavy stick; but he avoided
all my attacks, and always met me cheerfully at our next interview. At
times he was morose and meditative. It used to be a theory of mine that
at these seasons he was making up his mind which one of us he had better
adopt as his master, declaring--only half in earnest, however--that the
one whom the animal especially favored would be sure to meet poor
Reiner’s fate. The months of January and February passed, and the poodle
still haunted us. In the course of these dark months we repeatedly
attempted to make friends with the dog, finding that we could not make
an enemy of him, and hoped thus to disprove the imagined fatality of the
beast or else to break the spell by our own wills. All efforts at
conciliation failed; he would never enter even to take food the room
where we three were alone, and would show signs of general recognition
only, and those but sparingly, when we were together. He seemed content
with simply watching us, and not desirous of further acquaintance. Yet,
in the face of this mysterious behavior, I doubt very much if any one of
us really believed that anything would come of our forebodings; for we
began to speak of the dog at first quite in jest, and grew more serious
only as we were impressed after the death of Reiner by the consistent
impartiality of his fondness for our society, and by the unequalled
persistency with which he haunted us wherever we went abroad.
We made inquiries about the dog at the house where old Reiner used to
live, and diligently searched various localities, but we could not find
out where he passed his nights, and we discovered only that he was known
all about the town simply as Reiner’s dog, the story of his presence at
the funeral having been repeated by some of those who noticed his
actions at the grave. March came and went, and the dog had not yet taken
his choice of us, and we began to be confident that he never would. But
in one of the first warm days of spring we noticed his absence, and for
a day or two saw nothing of him. One Sunday, after a fête-day when we
three had not met as usual at the academy, a pure spring day, I received
a short note from Henley, asking me to come to his room on the Place
Verte, as he was unwell. I went immediately to his lodgings, and found
him sitting up, but quite pale and with a changed expression on his
face. I knew he had been suffering from a severe cold for some time, but
we all had colds in the damp, unhealthful old academy. His noticeably
increasing paleness was due, I had supposed, to the anxious labor and
prolonged strain of the _concours_. In one instance when we had been for
thirty-six hours shut up in a room with sealed doors and windows,
threescore of us, together with as many large kerosene lamps and nearly
the same number of foul pipes, with three large, red-hot cylinder
stoves, and no exit allowed on any excuse, we were all more or less
affected by the poisoned air and the long struggle with the required
production. The idea, then, that there was anything serious the matter
with Henley never entered my head as I saw him sitting there in his
room; but his first words brought me to a realization of the case, and
all the horror of that long winter and its one mournful event came back
to me in a flash. His remark was significant. He simply said, “That dog
is here.”
To be sure, the poodle was quietly sleeping near Henley’s easel, in the
sun. After a few general remarks, my friend said to me, quite abruptly,
as if he had made up his mind to come to the point at once:
“I thought I would send for you, old boy, to give you a souvenir or two.
I am more seriously ill than you imagine. My brother will be here
to-morrow; I shall return with him to England, and you and I shall
probably meet no more.”
There was resignation in every word he uttered, and he was evidently
convinced of the hopelessness of attempting to struggle with the
disease, his languid efforts to throw it off not having in the least
retarded its advance. I tried to prove to him the folly of the
superstition about the dog, but it was useless. He quietly said that the
doctor had assured him of the necessity of an immediate return to a
warmer climate and to the care of his friends. Tyck, who had been sent
for at the same time, came in shortly after, and was completely shaken
by the strange fulfilment of our mysterious forebodings. We passed a sad
hour in that little room, and took our leave only when we saw that
Henley was fatigued with too much talking, for he began to cough
frightfully, and could hardly speak above a whisper. He gave to each of
us, with touching tenderness, a palette-knife--the best souvenirs we
could have, he said, because they would be in our hands constantly--and
we took our leave, promising to meet him on the boat the following day.
We learned from the servant that the poodle had inhabited the cellar for
several days, and that they had not been able to drive him away.
Tyck seemed perfectly dazed by the severity of Henley’s malady and the
suddenness of his departure. Both of us avoided speaking of the dog,
each fearing that his own experience with the unlucky acquaintance might
follow that of our two companions. Tyck, I knew, was more subject to
colds than the rest of us, for he had never been completely acclimated
in Flanders, and he doubtless feared that one of the frequent slight
attacks that troubled him might prove at last as serious as the illness
that now threatened poor Henley. With Henley’s departure Antwerp would
lose half its attraction for us, for since the death of old Reiner we
three had been even more closely attached than before. Henley had lost
some of his insular coldness and formality of manner, was daily assuming
more and more the appearance and acquiring the free and easy habits of
an art-student, and his unchanging good-nature, his stability of
character, and his entertaining conversation made him the leader of our
trio. During the exhausting months of the _concours_, and in face of
the discouraging results of weeks of most energetic and nervous toil, he
never lost his patience, but encouraged us by his superior strength of
purpose and scorn of minor disappointments.
The next day we three met on board the Baron Osy just before the cables
were cast off the quay. Henley was one of the last passengers to get
aboard, and fortunately our parting was by necessity short. He was very
weak, and evidently failed from hour to hour, for he could walk only
with the support of his brother’s arm. He said good-by hopelessly but
calmly, and we parted with scarcely another word. We felt that regrets
were useless and words of encouragement vain, and that the only thing
that remained to do was to accept his fate calmly, and as calmly await
our own. There was not a shadow of hope that we would ever meet again,
and I can never forget the far-off look in Henley’s face as he turned
his eyes for an instant towards the swift, yellow current of the
Scheldt, with the rich-hued sails, the fleecy spring clouds, and the
gorgeously colored roofs of Saint Anneke reflected in its eddying
surface. The cables were cast off and we hurried ashore. In the bustle
and confusion a black poodle was driven off the plank by one of the
stewards, but the crowd was so great and the noise and the tumult of the
wharf-men so distracting, that it was impossible to see whether the dog
remained on the boat or was put ashore. However, we saw him no more, and
did not doubt that he went with Henley to London. In less than two weeks
a letter from Henley’s brother announced the death of our friend from
quick consumption. Nothing was said of the dog.
From that time Tyck was preoccupied; he was much alone, ceased to
frequent the academy, and neither worked nor diverted himself: it was
plain that he needed change. Antwerp, at the best a cheerless town, gay
on the surface, perhaps, because its people are as thoughtless and
improvident as children, but full of misery and well-concealed
wretchedness, grew hateful to us both.
Suddenly Tyck announced his purpose of going to Italy, and I resolved to
break my camp as well, make an artistic tour of the East, and meet my
friend in Rome in the autumn. We divided our canvases and easels among
the rest of the fellows, rolled up our studies, and with the color-box,
knapsack, and travelling-rug were prepared in a day to leave the scene
of our sad experiences. It was with feelings of great relief and
satisfaction that we saw the red roofs of Antwerp disappear behind the
fortifications as the train carried us southward.
II.
Eight months after Tyck and I parted at Brussels, I arrived in Rome.
Sharing, as I did, the general ignorance in regard to the severity of
the Italian winters, I was surprised to find the weather bitterly cold.
It was the day before Christmas, and a breeze that would chill the bones
swept the deserted streets. After three months’ idling in the East,
paddling in the Golden Horn, dreamily watching from the hills of Smyrna
the far-off islands of the Grecian Archipelago, and sleeping in the sun
on the rocks at Piræus, Italy seemed as cold and barren as the shores of
Scandinavia. It is a popular mistake to winter in Italy. The West of
England, the South of France, and many sections of our own country are
far preferable. It is not to be denied that Italy can be thoroughly
enjoyed only in the warm months. Even in the hottest season, Americans
find Naples, Rome, and Florence less uncomfortable than Boston, New
York, and Philadelphia. Immediately on my arrival Tyck came to meet me
at the hotel, and we spent a happy Christmas Eve, discussing the
thousand topics that arise when two intimate friends meet after a
separation like our own. Tyck was in better health and spirits than I
had ever known him to be in before, and to all appearances Italian air
agreed with him. In the course of the evening he gave me an invitation
to make one of a breakfast-party that was to celebrate Christmas in his
studio the next day, and the invitation was accompanied with the request
to bring eatables and liquids enough to satisfy my own appetite on that
occasion--a Bohemian fashion of giving dinner-parties to which we were
no strangers. Accordingly, the next morning at eleven o’clock we were to
meet again in Tyck’s quarters.