A STRANGE DESIGN
“Perhaps,” said Turl, addressing particularly Florence, “you know already
what was Murray Davenport's state of mind during the months immediately
before his disappearance. Bad luck was said to attend him, and to fall on
enterprises he became associated with. Whatever were the reasons, either
inseparable from him, or special in each case, it's certain that his
affairs did not thrive, with the exception of those in which he played
the merely mechanical part of a drudge under the orders, and for the
profit, of Mr. Bagley. As for bad luck, the name was, in effect,
equivalent to the thing itself, for it cut him out of many opportunities
in the theatrical market, with people not above the superstitions of
their guild; also it produced in him a discouragement, a
self-depreciation, which kept the quality of his work down to the level
of hopeless hackery. For yielding to this influence; for stooping, in his
necessity, to the service of Bagley, who had wronged him; for failing to
find a way out of the slough of mediocre production, poor pay, and
company inferior to him in mind, he began to detest himself.
“He had never been a conceited man, but he could not have helped
measuring his taste and intellect with those of average people, and he
had valued himself accordingly. Another circumstance had forced him to
think well of himself. On his trip to Europe he had met--I needn't say
more; but to have won the regard of a woman herself so admirable was
bound to elevate him in his own esteem. This event in his life had roused
his ambition and filled him with hope. It had made him almost forget, or
rather had braced him to battle confidently with, his demon of reputed
bad luck. You can imagine the effect when the stimulus, the cause of
hope, the reason for striving, was--as he believed--withdrawn from him.
He assumed that this calamity was due to your having learned about the
supposed shadow of bad luck, or at least about his habitual failure. And
while he did this injustice to you, Miss Kenby, he at the same time found
cause in himself for your apparent desertion. He felt he must be
worthless and undeserving. As the pain of losing you, and the hope that
went with you, was the keenest pain, the most staggering humiliation, he
had ever apparently owed to his unsuccess, his evil spirit of fancied
ill-luck, and his personality itself, he now saw these in darker colors
than ever before; he contemplated them more exclusively, he brooded on
them. And so he got into the state I just now described.
“He was dejected, embittered, wearied; sick of his way of livelihood,
sick of the atmosphere he moved in, sick of his reflections, sick of
himself. Life had got to be stale, flat, and unprofitable. His
self-loathing, which steadily grew, would have become a maddening torture
if he hadn't found refuge in a stony apathy. Sometimes he relieved this
by an outburst of bitter or satirical self-exposure, when the mood found
anybody at hand for his confidences. But for the most part he lived in a
lethargic indifference, mechanically going through the form of earning
his living.
“You may wonder why he took the trouble even to go through that form. It
may have been partly because he lacked the instinct--or perhaps the
initiative--for active suicide, and was too proud to starve at the
expense or encumbrance of other people. But there was another cause,
which of itself sufficed to keep him going. I may have said--or given the
impression--that he utterly despaired of ever getting anything worth
having out of life. And so he would have, I dare say, but for the
not-entirely-quenchable spark of hope which youth keeps in reserve
somewhere, and which in his case had one peculiar thing to sustain it.
“That peculiar thing, on which his spark of hope kept alive, though its
existence was hardly noticed by the man himself, was a certain idea which
he had conceived,--he no longer knew when, nor in what mental
circumstances. It was an idea at first vague; relegated to the cave of
things for the time forgotten, to be occasionally brought forth by
association. Sought or unsought, it came forth with a sudden new
attractiveness some time after Murray Davenport's life and self had grown
to look most dismal in his eyes. He began to turn it about, and develop
it. He was doing this, all the while fascinated by the idea, at the time
of Larcher's acquaintance with him, but doing it in so deep-down a region
of his mind that no one would have suspected what was beneath his
languid, uncaring manner. He was perfecting his idea, which he had
adopted as a design of action for himself to realize,--perfecting it to
the smallest incidental detail.
“This is what he had conceived: Man, as everybody knows, is more or less
capable of voluntary self-illusion. By pretending to himself to believe
that a thing is true--except where the physical condition is concerned,
or where the case is complicated by other people's conduct--he can give
himself something of the pleasurable effect that would arise from its
really being true. We see a play, and for the time make ourselves believe
that the painted canvas is the Forest of Arden, that the painted man is
Orlando, and the painted woman Rosalind. When we read Homer, we make
ourselves believe in the Greek heroes and gods. We _know_ these
make-believes are not realities, but we _feel_ that they are; we have the
sensations that would be effected by their reality. Now this
self-deception can be carried to great lengths. We know how children
content themselves with imaginary playmates and possessions. As a gift,
or a defect, we see remarkable cases of willing self-imposition. A man
will tell a false tale of some exploit or experience of his youth until,
after years, he can't for his life swear whether it really occurred or
not. Many people invent whole chapters to add to their past histories,
and come finally to believe them. Even where the _knowing_ part of the
mind doesn't grant belief, the imagining part--and through it the feeling
part--does; and, as conduct and mood are governed by feeling, the effect
of a self-imposed make-believe on one's behavior and disposition--on
one's life, in short--may be much the same as that of actuality. All
depends on the completeness and constancy with which the make-believe is
supported.
“Well, Davenport's idea was to invent for himself a new past history; not
only that, but a new identity: to imagine himself another man; and, as
that man, to begin life anew. As he should imagine, so he would feel and
act, and, by continuing this course indefinitely, he would in time
sufficiently believe himself that other man. To all intents and purposes,
he would in time become that man. Even though at the bottom of his mind
he should always be formally aware of the facts, yet the force of his
imagination and feeling would in time be so potent that the man he coldly
_knew_ himself to be--the actual Murray Davenport--would be the stranger,
while the man he _felt_ himself to be would be his more intimate self.
Needless to say, this new self would be a very different man from the old
Murray Davenport. His purpose was to get far away from the old self, the
old recollections, the old environment, and all the old adverse
circumstances. And this is what his mind was full of at the time when
you, Larcher, were working with him.
“He imagined a man such as would be produced by the happiest conditions;
one of those fortunate fellows who seem destined for easy, pleasant paths
all their lives. A habitually lucky man, in short, with all the
cheerfulness and urbanity that such a man ought to possess. Davenport
believed that as such a man he would at least not be handicapped by the
name or suspicion of ill-luck.
“I needn't enumerate the details with which he rounded out this new
personality he meant to adopt. And I'll not take time now to recite the
history he invented to endow this new self with. You may be sure he made
it as happy a history as such a man would wish to look back on. One
circumstance was necessary to observe in its construction. In throwing
over his old self, he must throw over all its acquaintances, and all the
surroundings with which it had been closely intimate,--not cities and
public resorts, of course, which both selves might be familiar with, but
rooms he had lived in, and places too much associated with the old
identity of Murray Davenport. Now the new man would naturally have made
many acquaintances in the course of his life. He would know people in the
places where he had lived. Would he not keep up friendships with some of
these people? Well, Davenport made it that the man had led a shifting
life, had not remained long enough in one spot to give it a permanent
claim upon him. The scenes of his life were laid in places which
Davenport had visited but briefly; which he had agreeable recollections
of, but would never visit again. All this was to avoid the necessity of a
too definite localizing of the man's past, and the difficulty about old
friends never being reencountered. Henceforth, or on the man's beginning
to have a real existence in the body of Davenport, more lasting
associations and friendships could be formed, and these could be
cherished as if they had merely supplanted former ones, until in time a
good number could be accumulated for the memory to dwell on.
“But quite as necessary as providing a history and associations for the
new self, it was to banish those of the old self. If the new man should
find himself greeted as Murray Davenport by somebody who knew the latter,
a rude shock would be administered to the self-delusion so carefully
cultivated. And this might happen at any time. It would be easy enough to
avoid the old Murray Davenport's haunts, but he might go very far and
still be in hourly risk of running against one of the old Murray
Davenport's acquaintances. But even this was a small matter to the
constant certainty of his being recognized as the old Murray Davenport by
himself. Every time he looked into a mirror, or passed a plate-glass
window, there would be the old face and form to mock his attempt at
mental transformation with the reminder of his physical identity.
Even if he could avoid being confronted many times a day by the
reflected face of Murray Davenport, he must yet be continually brought
back to his inseparability from that person by the familiar effect of the
face on the glances of other people,--for you know that different faces
evoke different looks from observers, and the look that one man is
accustomed to meet in the eyes of people who notice him is not precisely
the same as that another man is accustomed to meet there. To come to the
point, Murray Davenport saw that to make his change of identity really
successful, to avoid a thousand interruptions to his self-delusion, to
make himself another man in the world's eyes and his own, and all the
more so in his own through finding himself so in the world's, he must
transform himself physically--in face and figure--beyond the recognition
of his closest friend--beyond the recognition even of himself. How was it
to be done?
“Do you think he was mad in setting himself at once to solve the problem
as if its solution were a matter of course? Wait and see.
“In the old fairy tales, such transformations were easily accomplished by
the touch of a wand or the incantation of a wizard. In a newer sort of
fairy tale, we have seen them produced by marvellous drugs. In real life
there have been supposed changes of identity, or rather cases of dual
identity, the subject alternating from one to another as he shifts from
one to another set of memories. These shifts are not voluntary, nor is
such a duality of memory and habit to be possessed at will. As Davenport
wasn't a 'subject' of this sort by caprice of nature, and as, even if he
had been, he couldn't have chosen his new identity to suit himself, or
ensured its permanency, he had to resort to the deliberate exercise of
imagination and wilful self-deception I have described. Now even in those
cases of dual personality, though there is doubtless some change in
facial expression, there is not an actual physical transformation such as
Davenport's purpose required. As he had to use deliberate means to work
the mental change, so he must do to accomplish the physical one. He must
resort to that which in real life takes the place of fairy wands, the
magic of witches, and the drugs of romance,--he must employ Science and
the physical means it afforded.
“Earlier in life he had studied medicine and surgery. Though he had never
arrived at the practice of these, he had retained a scientific interest
in them, and had kept fairly well informed of new experiments. His
general reading, too, had been wide, and he had rambled upon many curious
odds and ends of information. He thus knew something of methods employed
by criminals to alter their facial appearance so as to avoid recognition:
not merely such obvious and unreliable devices as raising or removing
beards, changing the arrangement and color of hair, and fattening or
thinning the face by dietary means,--devices that won't fool a close
acquaintance for half a minute,--not merely these, but the practice of
tampering with the facial muscles by means of the knife, so as to alter
the very hang of the face itself. There is in particular a certain
muscle, the cutting of which, and allowing the skin to heal over the
wound, makes a very great alteration of outward effect. The result of
this operation, however, is not an improvement in looks, and as
Davenport's object was to fabricate a pleasant, attractive countenance,
he could not resort to it without modifications, and, besides that, he
meant to achieve a far more thorough transformation than it would
produce. But the knowledge of this operation was something to start with.
It was partly to combat such devices of criminals, that Bertillon
invented his celebrated system of identification by measurements. A
slight study of that system gave Davenport valuable hints. He was
reminded by Bertillon's own words, of what he already knew, that the skin
of the face--the entire skin of three layers, that is, not merely the
outside covering--may be compared to a curtain, and the underlying
muscles to the cords by which it is drawn aside. The constant drawing of
these cords, you know, produces in time the facial wrinkles, always
perpendicular to the muscles causing them. If you sever a number of these
cords, you alter the entire drape of the curtain. It was for Davenport to
learn what severances would produce, not the disagreeable effect of the
operation known to criminals, but a result altogether pleasing. He was to
discover and perform a whole complex set of operations instead of the
single operation of the criminals; and each operation must be of a
delicacy that would ensure the desired general effect of all. And this
would be but a small part of his task.
“He was aware of what is being done for the improvement of badly-formed
noses, crooked mouths, and such defects, by what its practitioners call
'plastic surgery,' or 'facial' or 'feature surgery.' From the 'beauty
shops,' then, as the newspapers call them, he got the idea of changing
his nose by cutting and folding back the skin, surgically eliminating
the hump, and rearranging the skin over the altered bridge so as to
produce perfect straightness when healed. From the same source came the
hint of cutting permanent dimples in his cheeks,--a detail that fell
in admirably with his design of an agreeable countenance. The dimples
would be, in fact, but skilfully made scars, cut so as to last. What
are commonly known as scars, if artistically wrought, could be made to
serve the purpose, too, of slight furrows in parts of the face where
such furrows would aid his plan,--at the ends of his lips, for
instance, where a quizzical upturning of the corners of the mouth could
be imitated by means of them; and at other places where lines of mirth
form in good-humored faces. Fortunately, his own face was free from
wrinkles, perhaps because of the indifference his melancholy had taken
refuge in. It was, indeed, a good face to build on, as actors say in
regard to make-up.
“But changing the general shape of the face--the general drape of the
curtain--and the form of the prominent features, would not begin to
suffice for the complete alteration that Davenport intended. The hair
arrangement, the arch of the eyebrows, the color of the eyes, the
complexion, each must play its part in the business. He had worn his hair
rather carelessly over his forehead, and plentiful at the back of the
head and about the ears. Its line of implantation at the forehead was
usually concealed by the hair itself. By brushing it well back, and
having it cut in a new fashion, he could materially change the
appearance of his forehead; and by keeping it closely trimmed behind, he
could do as much for the apparent shape of his head at the rear. If the
forehead needed still more change, the line of implantation could be
altered by removing hairs with tweezers; and the same painful but
possible means must be used to affect the curvature of the eyebrows. By
removing hairs from the tops of the ends, and from the bottom of the
middle, he would be able to raise the arch of each eyebrow noticeably.
This removal, along with the clearing of hair from the forehead, and
thinning the eyelashes by plucking out, would contribute to another
desirable effect. Davenport's eyes were what are commonly called gray. In
the course of his study of Bertillon, he came upon the reminder that--to
use the Frenchman's own words--'the gray eye of the average person is
generally only a blue one with a more or less yellowish tinge, which
appears gray solely on account of the shadow cast by the eyebrows, etc.'
Now, the thinning of the eyebrows and lashes, and the clearing of the
forehead of its hanging locks, must considerably decrease that shadow.
The resultant change in the apparent hue of the eyes would be helped by
something else, which I shall come to later. The use of the tweezers on
the eyebrows was doubly important, for, as Bertillon says, 'no part of
the face contributes a more important share to the general expression of
the physiognomy, seen from in front, than the eyebrow.' The complexion
would be easy to deal with. His way of life--midnight hours,
abstemiousness, languid habits--had produced bloodless cheeks. A summary
dosing with tonic drugs, particularly with iron, and a reformation of
diet, would soon bestow a healthy tinge, which exercise, air, proper
food, and rational living would not only preserve but intensify.
“But merely changing the face, and the apparent shape of the head, would
not do. As long as his bodily form, walk, attitude, carriage of the head,
remained the same, so would his general appearance at a distance or when
seen from behind. In that case he would not be secure against the
disillusioning shock of self-recognition on seeing his body reflected in
some distant glass; or of being greeted as Murray Davenport by some
former acquaintance coming up behind him. His secret itself might be
endangered, if some particularly curious and discerning person should go
in for solving the problem of this bodily resemblance to Murray Davenport
in a man facially dissimilar. The change in bodily appearance, gait, and
so forth, would be as simple to effect as it was necessary. Hitherto he
had leaned forward a little, and walked rather loosely. A pair of the
strongest shoulder-braces would draw back his shoulders, give him
tightness and straightness, increase the apparent width of his frame,
alter the swing of his arms, and entail--without effort on his part--a
change in his attitude when standing, his gait in walking, his way of
placing his feet and holding his head at all times. The consequent
throwing back of the head would be a factor in the facial alteration,
too: it would further decrease the shadow on the eyes, and consequently
further affect their color. And not only that, for you must have noticed
the great difference in appearance in a face as it is inclined forward or
thrown back,--as one looks down along it, or up along it. This accounts
for the failure of so many photographs to look like the people they're
taken of,--a stupid photographer makes people hold up their faces, to get
a stronger light, who are accustomed ordinarily to carry their faces
slightly averted.
“You understand, of course, that only his entire _appearance_ would have
to be changed; not any of his measurements. His friends must be unable to
recognize him, even vaguely as resembling some one they couldn't 'place.'
But there was, of course, no anthropometric record of him in existence,
such as is taken of criminals to ensure their identification by the
Bertillon system; so his measurements could remain unaffected without
the least harm to his plan. Neither would he have to do anything to his
hands; it is remarkable how small an impression the members of the body
make on the memory. This is shown over and over again in attempts to
identify bodies injured so that recognition by the face is impossible.
Apart from the face, it's only the effect of the whole body, and that
rather in attitude and gait than in shape, which suggests the identity to
the observer's eye; and of course the suggestion stops there if not borne
out by the face. But if Davenport's hands might go unchanged, he decided
that his handwriting should not. It was a slovenly, scratchy degeneration
of the once popular Italian script, and out of keeping with the new
character he was to possess. The round, erect English calligraphy taught
in most primary schools is easily picked up at any age, with a little
care and practice; so he chose that, and found that by writing small he
could soon acquire an even, elegant hand. He would need only to go
carefully until habituated to the new style, with which he might defy
even the handwriting experts, for it's a maxim of theirs that a man who
would disguise his handwriting always tries to make it look like that of
an uneducated person.
“There would still remain the voice to be made over,--quite as important
a matter as the face. In fact, the voice will often contradict an
identification which the eyes would swear to, in cases of remarkable
resemblance; or it will reveal an identity which some eyes would fail to
notice, where time has changed appearances. Thanks to some out-of-the-way
knowledge Davenport had picked up in the theoretic study of music and
elocution, he felt confident to deal with the voice difficulty. I'll come
to that later, when I arrive at the performance of all these operations
which he was studying out; for of course he didn't make the slightest
beginning on the actual transformation until his plan was complete and
every facility offered. That was not till the last night you saw him,
Larcher,--the night before his disappearance.
“For operations so delicate, meant to be so lasting in their effect, so
important to the welfare of his new self, Davenport saw the necessity of
a perfect design before the first actual touch. He could not erase
errors, or paint them over, as an artist does. He couldn't rub out
misplaced lines and try again, as an actor can in 'making up.' He had
learned a good deal about theatrical make-up, by the way, in his contact
with the stage. His plan was to use first the materials employed by
actors, until he should succeed in producing a countenance to his
liking; and then, by surgical means, to make real and permanent the sham
and transient effects of paint-stick and pencil. He would violently
compel nature to register the disguise and maintain it.
“He was favored in one essential matter--that of a place in which to
perform his operations with secrecy, and to let the wounds heal at
leisure. To be observed during the progress of the transformation would
spoil his purpose and be highly inconvenient besides. He couldn't lock
himself up in his room, or in any new lodging to which he might move, and
remain unseen for weeks, without attracting an attention that would
probably discover his secret. In a remote country place he would be more
under curiosity and suspicion than in New York. He must live in comfort,
in quarters which he could provision; must have the use of mirrors, heat,
water, and such things; in short, he could not resort to uninhabited
solitudes, yet must have a place where his presence might be unknown to a
living soul--a place he could enter and leave with absolute secrecy. He
couldn't rent a place without precluding that secrecy, as investigations
would be made on his disappearance, and his plans possibly ruined by the
intrusion of the police. It was a lucky circumstance which he owed to
you, Larcher,--one of the few lucky circumstances that ever came to the
old Murray Davenport, and so to be regarded as a happy augury for his
design,--that led him into the room and esteem of Mr. Bud down on the
water-front.
“He learned that Mr. Bud was long absent from the room; obtained his
permission to use the room for making sketches of the river during his
absence; got a duplicate key; and waited until Mr. Bud should be kept
away in the country for a long enough period. Nobody but Mr. Bud--and
you, Larcher--knew that Davenport had access to the room. Neither of you
two could ever be sure when, or if at all, he availed himself of that
access. If he left no traces in the room, you couldn't know he had been
there. You could surmise, and might investigate, but, if you did that, it
wouldn't be with the knowledge of the police; and at the worst, Davenport
could take you into his confidence. As for the rest of the world, nothing
whatever existed, or should exist, to connect him with that room. He need
only wait for his opportunity. He contrived always to be informed of Mr.
Bud's intentions for the immediate future; and at last he learned that
the shipment of turkeys for Thanksgiving and Christmas would keep the old
man busy in the country for six or seven weeks without a break. He was
now all ready to put his design into execution.”