A SECOND INTERVIEW WITH THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR.
It is not pleasant to have one's mental responsibility brought in
question, and the result of my interview with Professor Chickering was,
to put it mildly, unsatisfactory. Not that he had exactly questioned my
sanity, but it was all too evident that he was disposed to accept my
statement of a plain matter-of-fact occurrence with a too liberal
modicum of salt. I say "matter-of-fact occurrence" in full knowledge of
the truth that I myself had at first regarded the whole transaction as a
fantasia or flight of mind, the result of extreme nervous tension; but
in the interval succeeding I had abundant opportunity to correlate my
thoughts, and to bring some sort of order out of the mental and physical
chaos of that strange, eventful night. True, the preliminary events
leading up to it were extraordinary; the dismal weather, the depression
of body and spirit under which I labored, the wild whirl of thought
keeping pace with the elements--in short, a general concatenation of
events that seemed to be ordered especially for the introduction of some
abnormal visitor--the night would indeed have been incomplete without a
ghost! But was it a ghost? There was nothing ghostly about my visitor,
except the manner of his entrance and exit. In other respects, he seemed
substantial enough. He was, in his manners, courteous and polished as a
Chesterfield; learned as a savant in his conversation; human in his
thoughtful regard of my fears and misgivings; but that tremendous
forehead, with its crown of silver hair, the long, translucent beard of
pearly whiteness, and above all the astounding facility with which he
read my hidden thoughts--these were not natural.
The Professor had been patient with me--I had a right to expect that; he
was entertaining to the extent of reading such excerpts as he had with
him on the subject of hallucinations and their supposed causes, but had
he not spoiled all by assigning me at last to a place with the
questionable, unbalanced characters he had cited? I thought so, and the
reflection provoked me; and this thought grew upon me until I came to
regard his stories and attendant theories as so much literary trash.
My own reflections had been sober and deliberate, and had led me to seek
a rational explanation of the unusual phenomena. I had gone to Professor
Chickering for a certain measure of sympathy, and what was more to the
point, to secure his suggestions and assistance in the further
unraveling of a profound mystery that might contain a secret of untold
use to humanity. Repulsed by the mode in which my confidence had been
received, I decided to do what I should have done from the outset--to
keep my own counsel, and to follow alone the investigation to the end,
no matter what the result might be. I could not forget or ignore the
silver hair I had so religiously preserved. That was genuine; it was as
tangible, as real, as convincing a witness as would have been the entire
head of my singular visitant, whatever might be his nature.
I began to feel at ease the moment my course was decided, and the
feeling was at once renewed within me that the gray head would come
again, and by degrees that expectation ripened into a desire, only
intensified as the days sped by. The weeks passed into months; summer
came and went; autumn was fast fading, but the mysterious unknown did
not appear. A curious fancy led me now to regard him as my friend, for
the mixed and indefinite feelings I felt at first towards him had almost
unaccountably been changed to those of sincere regard. He was not always
in my thoughts, for I had abundant occupation at all times to keep both
brain and hands busy, but there were few evenings in which I did not,
just before retiring, give myself up for a brief period to quiet
communion with my own thoughts, and I must confess at such times the
unknown occupied the larger share of attention. The constant
contemplation of any theme begets a feeling of familiarity or
acquaintance with the same, and if that subject be an individual, as in
the present instance, such contemplation lessens the liability to
surprise from any unexpected development. In fact, I not only
anticipated a visit, but courted it. The old Latin maxim that I had
played with, "Never less alone than when alone" had domiciled itself
within my brain as a permanent lodger--a conviction, a feeling rather
than a thought defined, and I had but little difficulty in associating
an easy-chair which I had come to place in a certain position for my
expected visitor, with his presence.
Indian summer had passed, and the fall was nearly gone when for some
inexplicable reason the number seven began to haunt me. What had I to do
with seven, or seven with me? When I sat down at night this persistent
number mixed itself in my thoughts, to my intense annoyance. Bother take
the mystic numeral! What was I to do with seven? I found myself asking
this question audibly one evening, when it suddenly occurred to me that
I would refer to the date of my friend's visit. I kept no journal, but
reference to a record of some business transactions that I had
associated with that event showed that it took place on November
seventh. That settled the importunate seven! I should look for whomever
he was on the first anniversary of his visit, which was the seventh, now
close at hand. The instant I had reached this conclusion the number left
me, and troubled me no more.
November third had passed, the fourth, and the fifth had come, when a
stubborn, protesting notion entered my mind that I was yielding to a
superstitious idea, and that it was time to control my vacillating will.
Accordingly on this day I sent word to a friend that, if agreeable to
him, I would call on him on the evening of the seventh for a short
social chat, but as I expected to be engaged until later than usual,
would he excuse me if I did not reach his apartments until ten? The
request was singular, but as I was now accounted somewhat odd, it
excited no comment, and the answer was returned, requesting me to come.
The seventh of November came at last. I was nervous during the day,
which seemed to drag tediously, and several times it was remarked of me
that I seemed abstracted and ill at ease, but I held my peace. Night
came cold and clear, and the stars shone brighter than usual, I thought.
It was a sharp contrast to the night of a year ago. I took an early
supper, for which I had no appetite, after which I strolled aimlessly
about the streets, revolving how I should put in the time till ten
o'clock, when I was to call upon my friend. I decided to go to the
theater, and to the theater I went. The play was spectacular, "Aladdin;
or, The Wonderful Lamp." The entertainment, to me, was a flat failure,
for I was busy with my thoughts, and it was not long until my thoughts
were busy with me, and I found myself attempting to answer a series of
questions that finally became embarrassing. "Why did you make an
appointment for ten o'clock instead of eight, if you wished to keep away
from your apartments?" I hadn't thought of that before; it was stupid to
a degree, if not ill-mannered, and I frankly admitted as much. "Why did
you make an appointment at all, in the face of the fact that you not
only expected a visitor, but were anxious to meet him?" This was easily
answered: because I did not wish to yield to what struck me as
superstition. "But do you expect to extend your call until morning?"
Well, no, I hadn't thought or arranged to do so. "Well, then, what is to
prevent your expected guest from awaiting your return? Or, what
assurance have you that he will not encounter you in the street, under
circumstances that will provoke or, at the least, embarrass you?" None
whatever. "Then what have you gained by your stupid perversity?"
Nothing, beyond the assertion of my own individuality. "Why not go home
and receive your guest in becoming style?" No; I would not do that. I
had started on this course, and I would persevere in it. I would be
consistent. And so I persisted, at least until nine o'clock, when I quit
the theater in sullen dejection, and went home to make some slight
preparation for my evening call.
With my latch-key I let myself into the front door of the apartment
house wherein I lodged, walked through the hall, up the stair-case, and
paused on the threshold of my room, wondering what I would find inside.
Opening the door I entered, leaving it open behind me so that the light
from the hall-way would shine into the room, which was dark, and there
was no transom above the door. The grate fire had caked into a solid
mass of charred bituminous coal, which shed no illumination beyond a
faint red glow at the bottom, showing that it was barely alive, and no
more. I struck a match on the underside of the mantel shelf, and as I
lit the gas I heard the click of the door latch. I turned instantly; the
door had been gently closed by some unknown force if not by unseen
hands, for there was no breath of air stirring. This preternatural
interference was not pleasant, for I had hoped in the event of another
visit from my friend, if friend he was, that he would bring no uncanny
or ghostly manifestation to disturb me. I looked at the clock; the index
pointed to half past nine. I glanced about the room; it was orderly,
everything in proper position, even to the arm-chair that I had been
wont to place for my nondescript visitor. It was time to be going, so I
turned to the dressing case, brushed my hair, put on a clean scarf, and
moved towards the wash-stand, which stood in a little alcove on the
opposite side of the room. My self-command well-nigh deserted me as I
did so, for there, in the arm-chair that a moment before was empty, sat
my guest of a year ago, facing me with placid features! The room began
to revolve, a faint, sick feeling came over me, and I reeled into the
first convenient chair, and covered my face with my hands. This
depression lasted but an instant, however, and as I recovered
self-possession, I felt or fancied I felt a pair of penetrating eyes
fixed upon me with the same mild, searching gaze I remembered so well. I
ventured to look up; sure enough, there they were, the beaming eyes, and
there was he! Rising from his chair, he towered up to his full height,
smiled pleasantly, and with a slight inclination of the head, murmured:
"Permit me to wish you good evening; I am profoundly glad to meet you
again."
It was full a minute before I could muster courage to answer: "I wish I
could say as much for myself."
"And why shouldn't you?" he said, gently and courteously; "you have
realized, for the past six months, that I would return; more than
that--you have known for some time the very day and almost the exact
hour of my coming, have even wished for it, and, in the face of all
this, I find you preparing to evade the requirements of common
hospitality;--are you doing either me or yourself justice?"
I was nettled at the knowledge he displayed of my movements, and of my
very thoughts; my old stubbornness asserted itself, and I was rude
enough to say: "Perhaps it is as you say; at all events, I am obligated
to keep an engagement, and with your permission will now retire."
It was curious to mark the effect of this speech upon the intruder. He
immediately became grave, reached quietly into an inner pocket of his
coat, drew thence the same glittering, horrible, mysterious knife that
had so terrified and bewildered me a year before, and looking me
steadily in the eye, said coldly, yet with a certain tone of sadness:
"Well, I will not grant permission. It is unpleasant to resort to this
style of argument, but I do it to save time and controversy."
I stepped back in terror, and reached for the old-fashioned bell-cord,
with the heavy tassel at the end, that depended from the ceiling, and
was on the point of grasping and giving it a vigorous pull.
"Not so fast, if you please," he said, sternly, as he stepped forward,
and gave the knife a rapid swish through the air above my head, causing
the cord to fall in a tangle about my hand, cut cleanly, high above my
reach!
I gazed in dumb stupor at the rope about my hand, and raised my eyes to
the remnant above. That was motionless; there was not the slightest
perceptible vibration, such as would naturally be expected. I turned to
look at my guest; he had resumed his seat, and had also regained his
pleasant expression, but he still held the knife in his hand with his
arm extended, at rest, upon the table, which stood upon his right.
[Illustration: "THE SAME GLITTERING, MYSTERIOUS KNIFE."]
"Let us have an end to this folly," he said; "think a moment, and you
will see that you are in fault. Your error we will rectify easily, and
then to business. I will first show you the futility of trying to escape
this interview, and then we will proceed to work, for time presses, and
there is much to do." Having delivered this remark, he detached a single
silvery hair from his head, blew it from his fingers, and let it float
gently upon the upturned edge of the knife, which was still resting on
the table. The hair was divided as readily as had been the bell-cord. I
was transfixed with astonishment, for he had evidently aimed to exhibit
the quality of the blade, though he made no allusion to the feat, but
smilingly went on with his discourse: "It is just a year ago to-night
since we first met. Upon that occasion you made an agreement with me
which you are in honor bound to keep, and--" here he paused as if to note
the effect of his words upon me, then added significantly--"will keep. I
have been at some pains to impress upon your mind the fact that I
would be here to-night. You responded, and knew that I was coming, and
yet in obedience to a silly whim, deliberately made a meaningless
engagement with no other purpose than to violate a solemn obligation. I
now insist that you keep your prior engagement with me, but I do not
wish that you should be rude to your friend, so you had better write him
a polite note excusing yourself, and dispatch it at once."
I saw that he was right, and that there was no shadow of justification
for my conduct, or at least I was subdued by his presence, so I wrote
the note without delay, and was casting about for some way to send it,
when he said: "Fold it, seal it, and address it; you seem to forget what
is proper." I did as he directed, mechanically, and, without thinking
what I was doing, handed it to him. He took it naturally, glanced at the
superscription, went to the door which he opened slightly, and handed
the billet as if to some messenger who seemed to be in waiting
outside,--then closed and locked the door. Turning toward me with the
apparent object of seeing if I was looking, he deftly drew his knife
twice across the front of the door-knob, making a deep cross, and then
deposited the knife in his pocket, and resumed his seat.[2]
[2] I noted afterward that the door-knob, which was of solid
metal, was cut deeply, as though made of putty.
As soon as he was comfortably seated, he again began the conversation:
"Now that we have settled the preliminaries, I will ask if you remember
what I required of you a year ago?" I thought that I did. "Please repeat
it; I wish to make sure that you do, then we will start fair."
"In the first place, you were to present me with a manuscript--"
"Hardly correct," he interrupted; "I was to acquaint you with a
narrative which is already in manuscript, acquaint you with it, read it
to you, if you preferred not to read it to me--"
"I beg your pardon," I answered; "that is correct. You were to read the
manuscript to me, and during the reading I was to interpose such
comments, remarks, or objections, as seemed proper; to embody as
interludes, in the manuscript, as my own interpolations, however, and
not as part of the original."
"Very good," he replied, "you have the idea exactly; proceed."
"I agreed that when the reading had been completed, I would seal the
complete manuscript securely, deposit it in some safe place, there to
remain for thirty years, when it must be published."
[Illustration: "DREW HIS KNIFE TWICE ACROSS THE FRONT OF THE
DOOR-KNOB."]
"Just so," he answered; "we understand each other as we should. Before
we proceed further, however, can you think of any point on which you
need enlightenment? If so, ask such questions as you choose, and I will
answer them."
I thought for a moment, but no query occurred to me; after a pause he
said: "Well, if you think of nothing now, perhaps hereafter questions
will occur to you which you can ask; but as it is late, and you are
tired, we will not commence now. I will see you just one week from
to-night, when we will begin. From that time on, we will follow the
subject as rapidly as you choose, but see to it that you make no
engagements that will interfere with our work, for I shall be more
exacting in the future." I promised, and he rose to go. A sudden impulse
seized me, and I said: "May I ask one question?"
"Certainly."
"What shall I call you?"
"Why call me aught? It is not necessary in addressing each other that
any name be used."
"But what are you?" I persisted.
A pained expression for an instant rested upon his face, and he said,
sadly, pausing between the words: "I--Am--The--Man Who--Did--It."
"Did what?"
"Ask not; the manuscript will tell you. Be content, Llewellyn, and
remember this, that I--Am--The--Man."
So saying he bade me good night, opened the door, and disappeared down
the broad stair-case.
One week thereafter he appeared promptly, seated himself, and producing
a roll of manuscript, handed it to me, saying, "I am listening; you may
begin to read."
On examination I found each page to be somewhat larger than a sheet of
letter paper, with the written matter occupying a much smaller space, so
as to leave a wide white border. One hundred pages were in the package.
The last sentence ending abruptly indicated that my guest did not expect
to complete his task in one evening, and, I may anticipate by saying
that with each successive interview he drew about the same amount of
writing from his bosom. Upon attempting to read the manuscript I at
first found myself puzzled by a style of chirography very peculiar and
characteristic, but execrably bad. Vainly did I attempt to read it; even
the opening sentence was not deciphered without long inspection and
great difficulty.
The old man, whom I had promised that I would fulfill the task,
observing my discomfiture, relieved me of the charge, and without a word
of introduction, read fluently as follows:
THE MANUSCRIPT OF I--AM--THE--MAN.