feet stick out. Nen dissa highrob say hisse'f: 'Vay nice feet; lich
man. I go fonnow him. Maybe can stea' from him.' So fonnow 'long Missa
Jan by day, by night, severow day--doan' lose sight ole dissa tem.
Bye-bye Missa Jan was trivvle ole night, and leach hotel early morning.
He tole hotel-kipper: 'You giva me loom. I slip ole day.' Nen tek his
backage go' an' sivver, an' tek to bed wif him. Chan Tow come 'long;
say: 'Giva me loom nex' my de-ah frien' jussa come in horse-carry-chair.'
Hotelkipper look him, an' say, 'Whatta your nem is?' Chan Tow say, 'My
nem Chow Ying Hoo.' Dissa nem, transnate Ingernish, mean Brev Tiger."
"And what does Chan Tow mean?"
"Oh, Chan Tow mean ole semma bad faminy.
"We', dissa highrob slip nex' loom Missa Jan; but no can fine how to
rob him ole dissa tem. Getta vay much disgussion; but nex' day he
fonnow long inhine dissa lich man jussa semma befaw. Somma tem eat at
semma tabuh wif Jan; but Jan getta begin to suspicious, an' ole tem
getta his go' an' sivver unnerneaf him when he shet down to tabuh. Chan
Tow say hisse'f: 'You fink I doan' know how to shucshess to stea' yo'
money. Maybe I big foo' you.'
"We', bye-bye was mont' go by. Dissa merchan' reach his netive sheety.
Firs' he go immedinity to respec' his fadder-mudder-in-'aw, becose his
fadder-mudder dead. Dey vay gnad to shee him--vay denight. Dey assa him
vay many quishuns; but he tole dem: 'I mus' go to my de-ah wife. I not
sheen her so long tem.' Nen he smi' hisse'f, an' tole horse-carry-chair-man
run wif him quick to fine his de-ah wife. When he allive ne' his house,
say to man: 'Goo'-by! I go ressa way on footstep.' Nen go vay quier on
his tiptoe, and lock vay soft at his daw."
Here pauses the Chinese, and looks at me. Shortly he says:
"We'?"
"Well?" I echo.
"We', dissa last tem dissa merchan' Jan Han Sun was sheen annibe!"
"Does the highrob follow him and kill him?"
"No one shee any highrob. No one shee any horse-carry-chair-man. No one
shee any Jan. No maw!
"Nex' morning come fadder-mudder-in-'aw to congratchnate dissa
daughter. Said, 'We vay denight, vay gnad, yo' husban' come home. Where
he is dissa morning? Daughter look vay supp'ise.' Said, 'When you shee
my husban' come home?' Parents said: 'Why, my de-ah daughter, yo'
husban' pass by my daw las' night. We hev vay short convisition
beggedder, an' he say bling home glate many go' an' sivver--mek you
habby. Nen left us come shee you.'
"Nen, vay suddenity, dissa daughter say: 'I fink you ki' my husban', so
you can rob! I hev you arres'.'
"An' she go to magistrate an' mek petition. Say her fadder-mudder to
ki' her husban'. Her fadder-mudder bofe vay indignant; but was putta in
jai'.
"Magistrate examine case, assa many quishuns, search bofe dissa
house--but can't fine who mudder dissa merchan'. Fadder-mudder-in'-aw
say, 'We innocent.' Daughter say, 'You liars!' Her parents med
declaration, 'I doan' hed mudder to any person.' Two mont's go by.
Can't fine who mudder. Nen daughter petition to supere court; say dissa
magistrate doan' know how fine who mudder. Supere court send word, 'You
doan' fine who mudder in six mont's--deglade yo' lank.' Dissa China way
to mek law.
"We', dissa magistrate, whatta he do? Doan' like getta deglade; dissa
spoi' his whole life. Say hisse'f: 'I vay detest to get deglade. Mus'
go mek detectif--fine who mudder.' Nex' day left his court, and go mek
long trivvle--ole dress up like a fortune-tayer."
"Like a fortune-teller?"
"Yeh; fortune-tayer. Vay low common in China. Go roun' wif ole kine bad
peoples.
"Magistrate look jussa somma poh fortune-taye. Nen go on load an'
trivvle--trivvle vay far. Eve'y tem shee a man look lika somma bad man,
try mek frien's wif him. But no can fine who mudder. Long tem
trivvle--'way intehuh China; but no can fine anyone knows about dissa
case. Say hisse'f: 'Pitty soon I getta discoulagement. Two mont's maw
getta deglade, getta disglace! I doan' know I ki' hisse'f!'
"One day was stag' 'long load; getta 'mos' exhaus'. Bofe sides load was
high heels, no house. Kep' on, on; semma heels; semma no house; mus'
lie down in load wifout any subber, wifout any dlink. Dissa magistrate
begin getta desplate. Nen he finks, 'I play to Gaw an' my ancestors.'
So begin play lika diss: 'O Gaw, O my ancestors, givva me res'; givva
me foo'; givva me wadder! Nen I kip on fawever fine who ki' Jan Han
Sun.' Nen magistrate stag' 'long few steps, an' dlop down on big lock.
No _can_ any fudder.
"Pitty soon look roun'; shee litty light shine from winnidow. Dissa was
littyoshantyhouse--vay poh look----"
"Littyoshantyhouse?"
"Litty--ole--shanty--house!
"We', magistrate to lock at daw. Come to daw littyoneddy----"
"Little old what?"
"Litty--ole--neddy!
"Dissa oneddy she was vay ole, vay feeble. He tole her: 'Please,
oneddy, you givva me kunderness let me go slip in yo' house to-night! I
'mos' died. No subber, no wadder--'mos' exhaus'!' Oneddy tole him:
'Walks in; walks in! But you mus' kip vay quier, my de-ah sir; as quier
as can be! My son is dreffel differcut man. His profussion was highrob.
He getta home minnernight; an' you doan' kip quier, I fred he to strike
you!' But magistrate say: 'I too tire' to getta scare'. You nedda me
stay wif you.'
"So oneddy giva him to eat, an' show him to go slip unner tabuh in
katchen. Nen he lie down, an' play once more his ancestors an' Gaw:
'You he'p me oleleddy; I kip plomise. Nou he'p me somma maw--I fine who
mudder.' Nen go slip.
"Bye-bye was dleam 'bout gleen moudens, gleen wadder. Hear' spi'its
say, 'I wi' assist you.' Ole dissa vay good sign. Suddinity was wek up
from his slip, and shaw oneddy stand befaw him--ole in dark. She say:
'My son come home in vay good humours. Say lak mek yo' acquaintenance.'
Dissa tem was minnernight. Magistrate craw' out from unner tabuh, an'
fonnow oneddy in nex' loom. Heah was Chan Tow, dissa highrob. Was fee'
in vay good tempiniment to-night--hedda jus' rob litty gir' her
earlings."
"It made him very happy to have stolen earrings from a little girl?"
"Oh, yeh. Earlings med jay-stone.
"We', Chan Tow he vay denight to shee dissa fortune-tayer. Mek put
hisse'f down to tabuh, eat subbah wif him, an' mek oneddy hop 'long
getta ole bes' was in oshantyhouse. Chan Tow say: 'My de-ah sir, I am
exceediny denight to shee you. We bofe about sem profussions: you
fortune-tayer; I was highrob.' Nen bofe eat, dlink long tem, an' Chan
Tow tay ole about his shucshess in binniziz."
"You mean business?"
"Yeh; binniziz.
"Tay ole about his binniziz. Tay how stea' watch from 'Me'ican
missiolary man. Tay how----"
"How did he steal the watch from the American missionary?"
"We', somma lika dis: Chan Tow was vay stlong man, but vay litty meat
on his boles. One day shee missiolary man come 'long load. Hedda
watch-chain hang out. Chan Tow lie down in load, an' begin kick an'
scleam ole semma sick white woman. Missiolary man was vay sympafy, an'
tole him, 'Whatta is?' Chan Tow say: 'Much vay sick! Much vay sick! You
no he'p me home I getta died! You tekka me home I mek good Chrisinjin
boy!' Missiolary man vay good man; say hisse'f: 'Gaw sen' me dissa man
mek convict to Chrisinjanity. I he'p him!' So tek up Chan Tow in his
arm to tek home. Chan Tow kep' gloan, gloan,--an' ole dissa tem was put
his han' in missiolary his pocket an' stea' dissa watch! Nen Chan Tow
kep' hang on missiolary his neck an' say hisse'f: 'I lika dissa to ride
better I lika to walk. I letta dissa missiolary man ca'y me jusso far
he can.' So missiolary man stag' long tem 'long load, an' kep' sweat,
sweat--semma lika glass ice-wadder; an' Chan Tow kep' gloan semma like
ole barn daw."
"Chan Tow kept groaning like an old barn door, and the missionary man
kept perspiring like a glass of ice-water?"
"Oh, no! Missiolary man sweat. Bye-bye, hedda ca'y dissa highrob two
miles--'way down vanney, 'way up heel. Nen missiolary man lose ole his
breffs, an' begin to gaps. He say, 'Mus' res'; mus' putta you down!'
Chan Tow kep' gloan, an' say: 'You putta me down I doan' know I die.
Mus' getta home!' Missiolary man say: 'Can't he'p--I 'mos' exhaus'.'
Nen dissa highrob jump down vay well, an' say: 'We', I mus' getta home.
I walk ressa way--leave you to res'. Goo'-by!' Nen run fas' he can down
dissa heel.
"Missiolary man stay look him run, an' kep' fink ole tem. Nen say
hisse'f: 'I fink dissa man inshinsherity. I lose ole dissa tem wif him!
Whatta tem it is?' Nen he search his watch. 'Oh, my! No watch; no
convict! Dissa vay bad day!"
The Chinese grins with the greatest pleasure.
"We', magistrate an' highrob kep' tay ole 'bout expelunces in
binniziz."
"_Business!_"
"Yeh; _binniziz_.
"Kep' tay ole about binniziz. Bye-bye pea-oil light go out. Oneddy
craw' up on bed an' go slip. Nen two men stay an' smoke pipe--ole dark.
Magistrate closs his legs an' say, ole lika he doan' care: 'Missa
Highrob, dissa light go out mek me remin' whatta habben Tsan Ran Foo.
You heard about dissa case? Man nem Jan Han Sun go home his wife--no
can fine who mudder.' Chan Tow smi' vay plou',[1] an' say: 'Oh, my
de-ah brudder, I know ole 'bout dissa case. I was to shee dissa man
getta ki' in his own houses.'
[1] Proud.
"Magistrate dlaw glate big breff frough his pipe. Swallow smoke clea'
down his stomach! Mek big cough--nearny cough his top head off!--an'
wek oneddy! Nen he say: 'We', we'! You good dea' maw wise dissa
magistrate Tsan Ran Foo. I hea' he was deglade his rank. Cannot fine
who mudder!'
"Chan Tow say: 'Dissa magistrate mus' come fine me. No one ess can tay
him. I tay you ole about dissa mudder. You lika hea'?' Magistrate say:
'We', I vay tire'. But lika hea' you talk better I lika go slip, my
de-ah sir!' Dissa mek highrob vay plou', an' he begin lika dis:
"'One day shaw horse-carry-chair trivvle 'long load. Shaw feet stick
out--vay nice feet; mus' be lich man. So fonnow him. He hev big backage
go' an' sivver, but eve'y tem go subbah mus' oleways shet hisse'f on
top dissa backage. Fonnow him long tem--severow weeks. But cannot stea'
from him. Bye-bye he reach his home Tsan Ran Foo, an' go to respec' his
mudder-fadder-in-'aw; nen go fine his wife. Dissa tem was
minnernight--vay dark. Fink was good tem to stea' from him, an' getta
his go' an' sivver. So kep' fonnow 'long load. When he getta his house
he lock long tem at his daw, but was no answer. Nen say, vay loud:
"De-ah wife, letta me in! I am yo' de-ah husban' come home." So bye-bye
was daw open, an' his wife come say: "O my de-ah husban'! so denight to
shee you!" Nen ole dark.
"'Nen I go roun' back his house. Getta long bamboo po', an' putta dissa
po' up 'gainst house to shin up dissa loof. Nen cut with knife a litty
roun' ho' frough loof, an' look down into dissa house. Can look down
into loom, an' shee ole whatta was habben.
"'Vay soon Jan examine tabuh; say: "O my de-ah wife, whatta faw you
setta dissa tabuh for two peoples? You have compaly?" Wife say: "O my
de-ah husban', eve'y tem since you go 'way I setta dissa tabuh faw two
peoples--you and me--jussa semma you heah!" Jan smi' vay plou,' an'
say, "You are shinsherny[2] my de-ah wife!"--was mak fee' vay good.
[2] Sincerely.
"'Nen his wife tole him: "Now we hev jubinee; eat, dlink--mek me'y
tem!" So I lie on top dissa loof, vay dly, vay hunger; an' ole tem shee
her husban' eat subbah an' kip dlink, dlink, an' kiss his wife, an'
dlink, an' getta maw an' maw intoshcate. Bye-bye was so intoshcate mus'
go slip. Nen his wife he'p him go bed, an' he begin snow.'"
"How's that?"
"Begin snow--snowul--snole! Begin snole!"
"It began to snow?"
"On, no; I tay you. Dissa merchan' begin mekka lika dis." Fuey makes a
sound that is unmistakable.
"'We', nen look shee whatta dissa woman go do. She go to hooks on wa',
an' tek down lot her dresses. Nen I shee man step out. Dissa woman
whisper to him: "Shee my husban' slip. He bling back glate many go' and
sivver! You love me, you tekka dissa sharp knife and ki' him. Nen we
getta marry begedder to-morrow, an' mek habby tem."
"'Her beau say: "Oh, no. I fred ki' him. Fred I get behead." An' nen
dissa woman getta vay mad wif him, an' say: "You doan' ki' him, I tekka
dissa knife an' chot op yo' head op, instamentty!" Nen he begin tek off
his mine----'"
"Took off his mind?"
"Yeh," says Fuey; "I do' know dissa word--semma you tek off yo' clo's."
"Changed his mind?"
"Yeh."
"'Begin to tek off--chenge his mine--an' say: "How I ki' him?" Woman
say: "You tekka dissa sharp knife."
"'Nen he clep up to dissa bed, his eye ole stick from his head. When he
getta where dissa mer-out chan' slip, an' snow, snow, ole semma hev
good dleam, dissa beau mek like was to chenge his mine 'gain; but dissa
woman whisper: "Quick! Quick!"--an' nen ole sudden dissa beau stlike.
Nen Jan Han Sun was died--instamentty!
"'Dissa woman begin rip up flaw. Her beau he'p her ole he can, an' work
vay hard, fas'--fred somebody come. Kep' look roun'. An' eve'y tem
pea-oil light flicker, look roun' to shee who was. Ole tem stop to hol'
his ear on flaw--shee who come. Flaw rip up; nen go getta shover an'
dig long ho' in earf, unnerneaf dissa bed. Nen vay quick shover back
ole dissa earf, fix flaw, an' blow out light.
"'Ole tem I stay up dissa loof. Vay hunger--no wadder; an' cannot rob
dissa merchan' becose he dead! Getta vay disgussion. Light go out, I
hang foot over' side dissa loof, an' begin fink. Maw I fink, maw getta
disgussion. Bye-bye getta _vay, vay_ disgussion. Nen tek dissa bamboo
po' to shove frough dissa ho' in loof--vay quier. When he shove frough,
nen I ole suddenity begin push, jab, shove--quick--ole semma churn
budder. Down below woman an' her beau begin squea', squea', ole semma
rat! 'Most scare' to def! Nen I shin down loof--run 'way.'"
Fuey draws a long breath, and smiles at me his calm, celestial smile.
"We', Chan Tow finis' his sto'y. Magistrate was ole tem smoke big
clou's smoke, an' mek loom look lika was on fire. Mek oneddy wek up an'
open daw. When Chan Tow finis', magistrate say: 'My de-ah brudder de
highrob, yo' sto'y vay intinesse, vay intinesse! I fink I go slip.' So
ole thlee was lie down to go slip, an' Chan Tow was tek his op' pipe
an' begin smoke opi'. Whatta you say--hurt de pipe?"
"Hit the pipe."
"Oh, yeh; hit pipe. I doan' spe'k Ingernish vay we'.
"Magistrate wet long tem. Bye-bye oneddy begin to snow, an' nen bye-bye
Chan Tow getta doan' know."
"Chan Tow got _don't know_?"
"Getta ole semma was died. Doan' know."
"Unconscious?"
"Yeh; uh-uh-coshious!" sneezes Fuey.
"Nen magistrate begin craw' 'long on his stoamch--inchy--inchy--cross
flaw--out daw. Nen run fas' he can towards Tsan Ran Foo.
"One mont' go by, an' magistrate sit up in his high chair in his court.
Befron him dissa woman an' her beau,--ole cover wif mark dissa bamboo
po',--an' dissa fadder-mudder-in-'aw, an' dissa highrob. Magistrate
say, vay slow--ole semma idol talk: '_Dissa--woman--her lover--are
convert--to behead--by hev dey heads cut off--till dey dead!_ What you
fink, woman?' Woman say: 'Yo' Excennency, I vay gnad to be behead wif
my de-ah lover. I vay satisfaction we behead begedder. Our spi'its
begedder habby fo'ever.' Nen she turn kiss her beau; but he too scare
to spe'k. An' bofe was tek out to behead--dissa woman ole tem to mek to
kiss her beau.
"Magistrate say to highrob: 'You know me? Who eata subbah wif you
sucha-sucha night?' Chan Tow say, 'O yo' Excennency, I doan' know who
was!' Magistrate say: 'I was dissa man. I glate t'anks faw you. Awso
dissa fadder-mudder-in-'aw dissa dead man. Gaw sen' me to yo' house to
mek you instlument to convert dissa mudderers. I give you good
position; awso money."
"And that was how these criminals were _converted_?" I say, remembering
the promise of the story.
"Yeh; convert to behead. Dissa case," concluded Fuey, "show how Gaw can
convert cliliman when he wish; show how Gaw is glate. I tay you China
peoples not heeffen. China 'ligion teach to try to affection one
anudder; respec' yo' parents; an' charity an' pure moral. If people do
right I fink he shall be saved."
VIII
THE INMOST LIGHT
Arthur Machen
I
One evening in autumn, when the deformities of London were veiled in
faint, blue mist and its vistas and far-reaching streets seemed
splendid, Mr. Charles Salisbury was slowly pacing down Rupert Street,
drawing nearer to his favourite restaurant by slow degrees. His eyes
were downcast in study of the pavement, and thus it was that as he
passed in at the narrow door a man who had come up from the lower end
of the street jostled against him.
"I beg your pardon--wasn't looking where I was going. Why, it's Dyson!"
"Yes, quite so. How are you, Salisbury?"
"Quite well. But where have you been, Dyson? I don't think I can have
seen you for the last five years."
"No; I dare say not. You remember I was getting rather hard up when you
came to my place at Charlotte Street?"
"Perfectly. I think I remember your telling me that you owed five
weeks' rent, and that you had parted with your watch for a
comparatively small sum."
"My dear Salisbury, your memory is admirable. Yes, I was hard up. But
the curious thing is that soon after you saw me I became harder up. My
financial state was described by a friend as 'stone broke.' I don't
approve of slang, mind you, but such was my condition. But suppose we
go in; there might be other people who would like to dine--it's a human
weakness, Salisbury."
"Certainly; come along. I was wondering as I walked down whether the
corner table were taken. It has a velvet back, you know."
"I know the spot; it's vacant. Yes, as I was saying, I became even
harder up."
"What did you do then?" asked Salisbury, disposing of his hat, and
settling down in the corner of the seat, with a glance of fond
anticipation at the _menu_.
"What did I do? Why, I sat down and reflected. I had a good classical
education, and a positive distaste for business of any kind; that was
the capital with which I faced the world. Do you know, I have heard
people describe olives as nasty! What lamentable philistinism! I have
often thought, Salisbury, that I could write genuine poetry under the
influence of olives and red wine. Let us have Chianti; it may not be
very good, but the flasks are simply charming."
"It is pretty good here. We may as well have a big flask."
"Very good. I reflected, then, on my want of prospects, and I
determined to embark in literature."
"Really, that was strange. You seem in pretty comfortable
circumstances, though."
"Though! What a satire upon a noble profession. I am afraid, Salisbury,
you haven't a proper idea of the dignity of an artist. You see me
sitting at my desk,--or at least you can see me if you care to
call,--with pen and ink, and simple nothingness before me, and if you
come again in a few hours you will (in all probability) find a
creation!"
"Yes, quite so. I had an idea that literature was not remunerative."
"You are mistaken; its rewards are great. I may mention, by the way,
that shortly after you saw me I succeeded to a small income. An uncle
died, and proved unexpectedly generous."
"Ah, I see. That must have been convenient."
"It was pleasant,--undeniably pleasant. I have always considered it in
the light of an endowment of my researches. I told you I was a man of
letters; it would, perhaps, be more correct to describe myself as a man
of science."
"Dear me, Dyson, you have really changed very much in the last few
years. I had a notion, don't you know, that you were a sort of idler
about town, the kind of man one might meet on the north side of
Piccadilly every day from May to July."
"Exactly. I was even then forming myself, though all unconsciously. You
know my poor father could not afford to send me to the university. I
used to grumble in my ignorance at not having completed my education.
That was the folly of youth, Salisbury; my university was Piccadilly.
There I began to study the great science which still occupies me."
"What science do you mean?"
"The science of the great city; the physiology of London; literally and
metaphysically the greatest subject that the mind of man can conceive.
What an admirable _salmi_ this is; undoubtedly the final end of the
pheasant. Yes, I feel sometimes positively overwhelmed with the thought
of the vastness and complexity of London. Paris a man may get to
understand thoroughly with a reasonable amount of study; but London is
always a mystery. In Paris you may say, 'Here live the actresses, here
the Bohemians, and the _Rates_;' but it is different in London. You may
point out a street, correctly enough, as the abode of washerwomen; but,
in that second floor, a man may be studying Chaldee roots, and in the
garret over the way a forgotten artist is dying by inches."
"I see you are Dyson, unchanged and unchangeable," said Salisbury,
slowly sipping his Chianti. "I think you are misled by a too fervid
imagination; the mystery of London exists only in your fancy. It seems
to me a dull place enough. We seldom hear of a really artistic crime in
London, whereas I believe Paris abounds in that sort of thing."
"Give me some more wine. Thanks. You are mistaken, my dear fellow, you
are really mistaken. London has nothing to be ashamed of in the way of
crime. Where we fail is for want of Homers, not Agamemnons. _Carent
quia vale sacro_, you know."
"I recall the quotation. But I don't think I quite follow you."
"Well, in plain language, we have no good writers in London who make a
specialty of that kind of thing. Our common reporter is a dull dog;
every story that he has to tell is spoilt in the telling. His idea of
horror and of what excites horror is so lamentably deficient. Nothing
will content the fellow but blood, vulgar red blood, and when he can
get it he lays it on thick, and considers that he has produced a
telling story. It's a poor notion. And, by some curious fatality, it is
the most commonplace and brutal murders which always attract the most
attention and get written up the most. For instance, I dare say that
you never heard of the Harlesden case?"
"No, no; I don't remember anything about it."
"Of course not. And yet the story is a curious one. I will tell it you
over our coffee. Harlesden, you know, or I expect you don't know, is
quite on the out-quarters of London; something curiously different from
your fine old crusted suburb like Norwood or Hampstead, different as
each of these is from the other. Hampstead, I mean, is where you look
for the head of your great China house with his three acres of land and
pine houses, though of late there is the artistic substratum; while
Norwood is the home of the prosperous middle-class family who took the
house 'because it was near the Palace,' and sickened of the Palace six
months afterwards; but Harlesden is a place of no character. It's too
new to have any character as yet. There are the rows of red houses and
the rows of white houses and the bright green venetians, and the
blistering doorways, and the little back-yards they call gardens, and a
few feeble shops, and then, just as you think you're going to grasp the
physiognomy of the settlement it all melts away."
"How the dickens is that? The houses don't tumble down before one's
eyes I suppose."