It was Saturday afternoon, and my preparations for my little tea-party
were complete. Gregorios Balsamides had arrived from Pera, and we were
waiting for the Carvels, seated on the long bench before the house,
where the view overlooks the Bosphorus. The sun had almost set, and the
hills of Asia were already tinged with golden light, which caught the
walls of the white mosque on the Giant's Mountain,--the Yusha-Dagh,
where the Mussulmans believe that Joshua's body lies buried; Anadoli
Kavak was bathed in a soft radiance, in which every line of the old
fortress stood out clear and distinct, so that I could see the very spot
where Paul had fallen a few days before; the far mouth of the Black Sea
looked cold and gray in the shadows below the hills, but down below, the
big steamers, the little yachts, the outlandish Turkish schooners, and
the tiny caiques moved quickly about in the evening sunshine. My garden
was become a wilderness of roses in the soft spring weather, too, and
each flower took a warmer hue as the sun sank in the west, and slowly
neared the point where it would drop behind the European foreland.
The kiosk was a wooden building, narrow and tall, so that the rooms
within were high, and the second story was twenty feet above the ground.
I had caused hundreds of lamps to be hung within and without, to be
lighted so soon as the darkness set in, and my man, who has an especial
talent for all sorts of illuminations, and in general for everything
which in Southern Italy comes under the head of 'festa,' had borrowed
long strings of little signal-flags and streamers, which he had hung
fantastically from the house to the surrounding trees. When once the
lamps should be lighted the effect would be very pretty, and to the eyes
of English people utterly new.
Gregorios sat beside me on the garden seat, and we talked of Madame
Patoff and her latest doings. My mind was not at rest about her, and I
inwardly wished that some accident might prevent her from coming that
day. I had more than once almost determined to speak to my old friend
John Carvel, and to tell him what had occurred at Anadoli Kavak. Nothing
but my respect for Professor Cutter's opinion as a specialist had
prevented me from doing so; but now, at the last moment, I wished I had
not been overruled, for I had an unpleasant conviction that his prudence
had been forgotten in his desire to study the case. For men of his
profession there seems to be an absorbing interest in deciding the
question of where crime ends and madness begins, and to put Madame
Patoff under restraint would have been to cut short one of the most
valuable experiences of Cutter's life. He probably knew that in the
present stage of her malady such a proceeding would very likely have
driven her into hopeless and evident insanity. I could have forgiven him
if I had thought that he regarded the question from a moralist's point
of view, and balanced the danger of leaving the unfortunate woman at
large against the possible advantage she herself might gain from
enjoying unrestricted liberty. But I was sure that the scientist was not
thinking of that. He had expressed interest rather than horror at her
attempt to push Paul over the edge of the wall. He had answered my
anxious questions concerning the treatment of Madame Patoff by a short
dissertation on insanity in general, and had left me to continue his
studies, regardless of any danger to his patient's relations. The moral
point of view shrank into insignificance as he became more and more
absorbed in the result of the case, and I believe that he would have let
us all perish, if necessary, rather than consent to relinquish his
study. He might have regretted his indifference afterwards, especially
if he had arrived at no satisfactory conclusion in regard to the unhappy
woman; but in the fervor of scientific speculation, minor considerations
of safety were forgotten. Cutter is not a bad man, though he is
ruthless. He would be incapable of doing any one an injury from a
personal motive, but in comparison with the importance of one of his
theories the life of a man is no more to him than the life of a dog. I
said something of that kind to Balsamides.
"My dear fellow," he answered, "do you expect common sense from people
who waste their lives in such a senseless fashion? Can anything be more
absurd than to attempt to explain the vagaries of a diseased mind? They
call that science in the professor's country. They may as well give it
up. They will never ultimately discover any better treatment for
dangerous lunatics than solid bolts and barred windows."
"I believe you are right," I said. "If we could put medicine into the
head as we can into the stomach, something might be accomplished. It is
very unpleasant to think that I am to entertain a lady at my tea-party
who only the other day tried to murder her son in my sight."
"Very," assented Gregorios. "Here they come."
We heard the sound of voices in the garden, and rose to meet the party
as they came up towards the house. None of them had been to see me
before, except Paul, and they at once launched into extravagant praises
of the view and of the kiosk. Chrysophrasia raved about the sunset
effects, and Hermione was delighted with the way the flags were
arranged. Macaulay consulted his pocket barometer to see how many feet
above the sea the house was built, and declared that the air must be far
more healthy in such a place than on the quay. Madame Patoff looked
silently out at the view, leaning on Alexander's arm, while John Carvel
and his wife stood close together, smiling and appreciative, the ideal
of a well-assorted and perfectly happy middle-aged couple. Cutter
talked to Balsamides, and Paul followed Hermione as she slowly moved
from point to point. I stood alone for a few moments, and looked at
them, going over in my mind all that had happened during the last seven
months, and wondering how it would all end.
These ten people had lived much together, and had found themselves
lately united in some very strange occurrences. With the exception of
Balsamides and the professor, they were all nearly related, and yet they
were as unlike each other as people of one family could be. The gentle,
saintly Mary Carvel had little in common with her aesthetic sister
Chrysophrasia Dabstreak, and neither of them was very like Madame
Patoff. Sturdy John Carvel was not like his sleek son Macaulay, except
in honesty and good-nature. Alexander Patoff was indeed like his mother,
but Paul's stern, cold nature was that of his father, long dead and
forgotten. As for Hermione, she presented a combination of character
derived from the best points in her father and mother, marred only, I
thought, by a little of that vacillation which was the chief
characteristic of her aunt Chrysophrasia. Cutter and Balsamides were men
of widely different nationalities and temperaments: the one a ruthless
scientist, the other an equally ruthless fatalist; the one ready to
sacrifice the lives of others to a fanatic worship of his profession,
the other willing to sacrifice himself to the inevitable with heroic
courage, but holding other men's lives as of no more value than his own.
A strange company, I thought, and yet in many respects a most
interesting company, too.
"Shall we go in-doors and have tea?" I said after a few moments,
collecting my guests together. "The view is even better from the windows
above."
I led them into the stone-paved vestibule of the wooden house, and up
the wooden stairs to the upper story. Presently they were all installed
in the large room where the preparations for the small festivity had
been made, and I began to do the honors of my bachelor establishment.
In a Turkish family, the room where we sat, and the three others upon
the same floor, would have been set apart for the harem, for one door
separated them from the staircase and from all the rest of the house,--a
large strong door, painted white, and provided with an excellent lock
and key. I had selected one room for my bedroom, and the rest were
furnished with Oriental simplicity, not to say economy. But Balsamides
had sent down a bale of beautiful carpets, which he lent me for the
occasion, and which I had hung upon the walls and spread upon the floors
and divans. Tea, coffee, sherbet, a beautiful view, and a little
illumination of the gardens, constituted the whole entertainment, but
the enthusiasm of my guests knew no bounds, probably because they had
never seen anything of the kind before.
"Griggs is growing to be a true Oriental," said Balsamides, approvingly;
"he understands how the Turks live."
"Yes," I answered, "I present you the thing in all its bareness. You may
take this as a specimen of an Eastern house. People are apt to fancy
that those long, latticed houses on the Bosphorus conceal unheard-of
luxuries, and that the people live like Sybarites. It is quite untrue.
They either try to imitate the French style, and do it horribly, or else
they live in great bare rooms like these."
"What do the women do all day long?" asked Chrysophrasia. "I am sure
they do not pass their time upon a straw matting, staring at each
other,--so very dreary!"
"Nevertheless they do," said Gregorios. "They smoke and eat sweetmeats
from morning till night, and occasionally an old woman comes and tells
them stories. Some of them can read French. They learn it in order to
read novels, but cannot speak a word of the language."
"Dreary, dreary!" sighed Chrysophrasia. "And then, the division of the
affections, you know,--so sad."
"Many of them die of consumption," said Gregorios.
"It would be curious to watch the phases of their intelligence," said
the professor, slowly sipping his coffee, and staring out of the window
through his great gold-rimmed spectacles.
The sun had gone down, and the darkness gathered quickly over the
beautiful scene. At one of the windows Hermione sat silently enjoying
the evening breeze; Alexander was seated beside her, while Paul stood
looking out over her head. Neither of the two men spoke, but from time
to time they exchanged glances which were anything but friendly.
Outside, my man and the gardener were lighting the little lamps, and
gradually, as each glass cup received its tiny light, the festoons of
white and red grew, and seemed to creep stealthily from tree to tree.
The conversation languished, and the deepening twilight brought with it
that pleasant silence which is the very embodiment of rest descending at
evening on the tired earth.
"It is like an evening hymn," said Mrs. Carvel, whose gentle features
were barely visible in the gloom.
No one spoke, but I fancied I saw John Carvel lay his hand
affectionately on his wife's arm, as they sat together. There was a
light above the eastern hills, brightening quickly as we looked, and
presently the full moon rose and shed her rays through the low open
windows, making our faces look white and deathly in the dark room. It
shone on Madame Patoff's marble features, and cast strange shadows
around her mouth.
"Shall we have lights?" I asked. There was a general refusal; everybody
preferred the moonlight, which now flooded the apartment.
"It seems to me," said Chrysophrasia, half sadly,--"it seems to me--ah,
no! I must be mistaken,--and yet--it seems to me that I smell something
burning."
"I think it is the lamps outside," I answered. No one else took any
notice of the speech, which jarred upon the pleasant stillness. I myself
thought she was mistaken.
"What a wonderful contrast!" said Hermione. "I mean the lamps and the
moonlight." Then she added, suddenly, "Do you know, Mr. Griggs, there
is really something burning. I can smell it quite well."
A fire in a Turkish house is a serious matter. The old beams and boarded
walls are like so much tinder, and burn up immediately, as though soaked
with some inflammable liquid. I rose, and went out to see if there were
anything wrong. As I opened the door which shut off the whole apartment
from the stairs, I heard a strange crackling sound, and outside the
window of the staircase, which was in the back of the house, I saw a red
glare, which brightened in the moment while I watched it. I did not go
further, for I knew the danger was imminent.
"Will you be good enough to come down-stairs?" I said, quietly, as I
re-entered the room where my guests were assembled. "I am afraid
something is wrong, but there is plenty of time."
A considerable confusion ensued, and everybody rushed to the door.
Protestations were vain, for all the women were frightened, and all the
men were anxious to help them. The sight of the flames outside the
window redoubled their fears, and they rushed out, stumbling on the
dusky landing. In the confusion of the moment I did not realize how it
all happened. Chrysophrasia, who was mad with fright, caught her foot
against something, and fell close beside me. The other ladies were
already down-stairs, I thought. I picked her up and carried her down as
fast as I could, and out into the garden.
"Come away from the house!" I cried. "Away from the trees!"
Chrysophrasia was senseless with fear, and I bore her hastily on till I
reached the fountain, some twenty yards down the hill. There I put her
down upon a bench. There were two buckets and a couple of watering-pots
there, and I shouted to the other men to come to me, as I filled two of
the vessels and ran round to the back of the house. I passed Madame
Patoff, standing alone under a festoon of little lamps, by a tree, and I
remember the strange expression of gladness which was on her face. But
I had no time to speak to her, and rushed on with my water-cans.
Meanwhile the flames rose higher and higher, crackling and licking the
brown face of the old timber. There was small chance of saving the
building now. My men had been busy lighting the lamps in the garden, but
I found them already on the spot, dipping water out of a small cistern
with buckets, and dashing it into the fire with all their might, their
dark faces grim and set in the light of the flames. I worked as hard as
I could, supposing that all the party were safe. I had no idea of what
was going on upon the opposite side of the house. In truth, it was
horrible enough.
Paul and Cutter were very self-possessed, and their first care was to
see that all the four ladies were safe. They had Hermione and her mother
with them, and, taking the direction of the fountain, they found
Chrysophrasia upon the bench where I had left her, in a violent fit of
hysterics. Madame Patoff was not there.
"I was going back for aunt Annie," said Macaulay Carvel, "for I counted
them as they came out, and missed her. She ran right into my arms as I
stood in the door. She is somewhere in the garden; I am quite sure of
it."
Cutter hurried off, and began to search among the trees. Already the
bright flames could be seen in the lower story, and in a moment more the
glass of one of the windows cracked loudly, and the fire leapt through.
Then from the high windows above a voice was heard calling, loud and
clear, to those below.
"The door is locked! Can any one help me?" The voice belonged to
Gregorios, and the party looked into each other's faces in sudden
horror, and then glanced at the burning house.
"Save him! Save him!" cried Hermione. But Paul had already left her
side, and had reached the open door of the porch. Alexander stood still,
staring at the flames.
"He saved you," said Hermione, grasping his arm fiercely. "Will you do
nothing to help him?"
"Paul is gone already," answered Alexander, impatiently. "There is
nothing the matter. Paul will let him out."
But the other men were less apathetic, and had followed the brave man to
the door. He had disappeared already, and as they came up a tremendous
puff of smoke and ashes was blown into their faces, stifling and burning
them, so that they drew back.
"Jump for your life!" shouted John Carvel, looking up at the window from
which the voice had proceeded.
"Yes, jump!" cried Alexander, who had reluctantly followed. "We will
catch you in our arms!"
But no one answered them. Nothing was heard but the crackling of the
burning timber and the roaring of the flames, during the awful moments
which followed. Stupefied with horror, the three men stood staring
stupidly at the hideous sight. Then suddenly another huge puff of smoke
and fiery sparks burst from the door, and with it a dark mass flew
forward, as though shot from a cannon's mouth, and fell in a heap upon
the ground outside. All three ran forward, but some one else was there
before them, dragging away a thick carpet, of which the wool was all
singed and burning.
There lay Gregorios Balsamides as he had fallen, stumbling on the
doorstep, with the heavy body of Paul Patoff in his arms. Hermione fell
on her knees and shrieked aloud. It was plain enough. Paul, without the
least protection from the flames, had struggled up the burning
staircase, and had unlocked the door, losing consciousness as he opened
it. Gregorios, who was not to be outdone in bravery, and whom no danger
could frighten from his senses, had wrapped a carpet round the injured
man, and, throwing another over his own head, had borne him back through
the fire, the steps of the wooden staircase, already in flames, almost
breaking under his tread. But he had done the deed, and had lived
through it.
He looked up faintly at Hermione as she bent over them both.
"I think he is alive," he gasped, and fainted upon the ground.
They bore the two senseless bodies to the fountain, and laid them down,
and sprinkled water on their faces. Behind them they could hear the
crash of the first timbers falling in, as the fire reached the upper
story of the kiosk; at their feet they saw only the still, pale faces of
the men who had been ready to give their lives for each other.
But Cutter had gone in search of Madame Patoff, during the five minutes
which had sufficed for the enacting of this scene. He had found her
where I had passed her, looking up with a strange smile at the doomed
house.
"Paul is looking for you," said the professor, taking her arm under his.
She started, and trembled violently.
"Paul!" she cried in surprise. Then, with a wild laugh, she stared into
Cutter's eyes. He had heard that laugh many a time in his experience,
and he silently tightened his grip upon her arm.
"Paul!" she repeated wildly. "There is no more Paul," she added,
suddenly lowering her voice, and speaking confidentially. "Hermione can
marry my dear Alexander now. There is no more Paul. You do not know? It
was so quickly done. He stayed behind in the room, and I locked the
door, so tight, so fast. He can never get out. Ah!" she screamed all at
once, "I am so glad! Let me go--let me go"----
At that moment I came upon them. Relinquishing all hopes of saving the
house, and wondering vaguely, in my confusion of mind, why nobody had
come to help me, I called my two men off, and was going to see what had
become of the party. I found Madame Patoff a raving maniac, struggling
in the gigantic hands of the sturdy scientist. I will not dwell upon the
hideous scene which followed. It was the last time I ever saw her, and I
pray that I may never again see man or woman in such a condition.
Meanwhile, the two men who lay by the fountain in the moonlight showed
signs of life. Gregorios first came to himself, for he had only fainted.
He was in great pain, but was as eager as the rest to restore Paul to
consciousness. Patoff was almost asphyxiated by the smoke, his hair and
eyebrows and mustache were almost burnt off, and his right hand was
injured. But he was alive, and at last he opened his eyes. In a quarter
of an hour he could be helped upon his feet. Balsamides was already
standing, and Paul caught at his hand.
"Not that arm," said Gregorios calmly, holding out the other. In his
fall he had broken his wrist.
In answer to my cries, the two Carvels left the injured men and came to
our assistance, while we struggled with the mad woman, who seemed
possessed of the strength of a dozen athletes. Hermione was left by the
fountain.
"I was quite sure it would be all right," said Alexander to her,
presently. It was more than the young girl could bear. She turned upon
him fiercely, and her beautiful face was very white.
"I despise you!" she exclaimed. That was all she said, but in the next
moment she turned and threw her arms about Paul's neck, and kissed his
burnt and wounded face before them all.
* * * * *
There is little more to be said, for my story is told to the end. When I
found them all together, Gregorios took me aside and drew a crumpled
mass of papers from his pocket with his uninjured hand.
"I stayed behind to save your papers and your money," he said quietly.
"I have seen houses burn before, and there is generally no time to be
lost."
I wonder what there is at the bottom of that man's strange nature. Cold,
indifferent, and fatalistic, apparently one of the most selfish of men,
he nevertheless seems to possess somewhere a kind of devoted heroism, an
untainted quality of friendship only too rare in our day.
Hermione Carvel is to be married to Paul in the autumn, but there is
reason to believe that Alexander, who has rejoined his regiment in St.
Petersburg, will not find it convenient to be at the wedding. When
Balsamides was crying for help from the upper window, and when Alexander
stood quietly by Hermione's side while his brother faced the danger, the
die was cast, and she saw what a wide gulf separated the two men, and
she knew that she loved the one and hated the other with a fierce
hatred.
Poor Madame Patoff is dead, but before he left Constantinople Professor
Cutter spent half an hour in trying to demonstrate to me that she might
have been cured if Hermione had married Alexander. I am glad he is gone,
for I always detested his theories.
So the story is ended, my dear friend; and if it is told badly, it is my
fault, for I assure you that I never in my life spent so exciting a
year. It has been a long tale, too, but you have told me that from time
to time you were interested in it; and, after all, a tale is but a tale,
and is a very different affair from an artistically constructed drama,
in which facts have to be softened, so as not to look too startling in
print. I have given you facts, and if you ever meet Gregorios Balsamides
he will tell you that I have exaggerated nothing. Moreover, if you will
take the trouble to visit Santa Sophia during the last nights of
Ramazan, you will understand how Alexander Patoff disappeared; and if
you will go over the house of Laleli Khanum Effendi, which is now to be
sold, you will see how impossible it was for him to escape from such a
place. In the garden above Mesar Burnu you will see the heap of ashes,
which is all that remains of the kiosk where I gave my unlucky
tea-party; and if you will turn up the bridle-path at the left of the
Belgrade road, a hundred yards before you reach the aqueduct, you will
come upon the spot where Gregorios threatened to kill Selim, the wicked
Lala, on that bitter March night. I dare say, also, that if you visit
any of these places by chance you will remember the strange scenes they
have witnessed, and I hope that you will also remember Paul Griggs, your
friend, who spun you this yarn because you asked him for a story, when
he was riding with you on that rainy afternoon last month. I only wish
you knew the Carvels, for I am sure you would like them, and you would
find Chrysophrasia very amusing.
* * * * *