Early one June morning in 1872 I murdered my father--an act which made a
deep impression on me at the time. This was before my marriage, while I
was living with my parents in Wisconsin. My father and I were in the
library of our home, dividing the proceeds of a burglary which we had
committed that night. These consisted of household goods mostly, and the
task of equitable division was difficult. We got on very well with the
napkins, towels and such things, and the silverware was parted pretty
nearly equally, but you can see for yourself that when you try to divide
a single music-box by two without a remainder you will have trouble. It
was that music-box which brought disaster and disgrace upon our family.
If we had left it my poor father might now be alive.
It was a most exquisite and beautiful piece of workmanship--inlaid with
costly woods and carven very curiously. It would not only play a great
variety of tunes, but would whistle like a quail, bark like a dog, crow
every morning at daylight whether it was wound up or not, and break the
Ten Commandments. It was this last mentioned accomplishment that won my
father's heart and caused him to commit the only dishonorable act of his
life, though possibly he would have committed more if he had been
spared: he tried to conceal that music-box from me, and declared upon
his honor that he had not taken it, though I knew very well that, so far
as he was concerned, the burglary had been undertaken chiefly for the
purpose of obtaining it.
My father had the music-box hidden under his cloak; we had worn cloaks
by way of disguise. He had solemnly assured me that he did not take it.
I knew that he did, and knew something of which he was evidently
ignorant; namely, that the box would crow at daylight and betray him if
I could prolong the division of profits till that time. All occurred as
I wished: as the gaslight began to pale in the library and the shape of
the windows was seen dimly behind the curtains, a long cock-a-doodle-doo
came from beneath the old gentleman's cloak, followed by a few bars of
an aria from _Tannhauser_, ending with a loud click. A small hand-axe,
which we had used to break into the unlucky house, lay between us on the
table; I picked it up. The old man seeing that further concealment was
useless took the box from under his cloak and set it on the table. "Cut
it in two if you prefer that plan," said he; "I tried to save it from
destruction."
He was a passionate lover of music and could himself play the concertina
with expression and feeling.
I said: "I do not question the purity of your motive: it would be
presumptuous in me to sit in judgment on my father. But business is
business, and with this axe I am going to effect a dissolution of our
partnership unless you will consent in all future burglaries to wear a
bell-punch."
"No," he said, after some reflection, "no, I could not do that; it would
look like a confession of dishonesty. People would say that you
distrusted me."
I could not help admiring his spirit and sensitiveness; for a moment I
was proud of him and disposed to overlook his fault, but a glance at the
richly jeweled music-box decided me, and, as I said, I removed the old
man from this vale of tears. Having done so, I was a trifle uneasy. Not
only was he my father--the author of my being--but the body would be
certainly discovered. It was now broad daylight and my mother was likely
to enter the library at any moment. Under the circumstances, I thought
it expedient to remove her also, which I did. Then I paid off all the
servants and discharged them.
That afternoon I went to the chief of police, told him what I had done
and asked his advice. It would be very painful to me if the facts became
publicly known. My conduct would be generally condemned; the newspapers
would bring it up against me if ever I should run for office. The chief
saw the force of these considerations; he was himself an assassin of
wide experience. After consulting with the presiding judge of the Court
of Variable Jurisdiction he advised me to conceal the bodies in one of
the bookcases, get a heavy insurance on the house and burn it down. This
I proceeded to do.
In the library was a book-case which my father had recently purchased of
some cranky inventor and had not filled. It was in shape and size
something like the old-fashioned "wardrobes" which one sees in bed-rooms
without closets, but opened all the way down, like a woman's
night-dress. It had glass doors. I had recently laid out my parents and
they were now rigid enough to stand erect; so I stood them in this
book-case, from which I had removed the shelves. I locked them in and
tacked some curtains over the glass doors. The inspector from the
insurance office passed a half-dozen times before the case without
suspicion.
That night, after getting my policy, I set fire to the house and started
through the woods to town, two miles away, where I managed to be found
about the time the excitement was at its height. With cries of
apprehension for the fate of my parents, I joined the rush and arrived
at the fire some two hours after I had kindled it. The whole town was
there as I dashed up. The house was entirely consumed, but in one end of
the level bed of glowing embers, bolt upright and uninjured, was that
book-case! The curtains had burned away, exposing the glass-doors,
through which the fierce, red light illuminated the interior. There
stood my dear father "in his habit as he lived," and at his side the
partner of his joys and sorrows. Not a hair of them was singed, their
clothing was intact. On their heads and throats the injuries which in
the accomplishment of my designs I had been compelled to inflict were
conspicuous. As in the presence of a miracle, the people were silent;
awe and terror had stilled every tongue. I was myself greatly affected.
Some three years later, when the events herein related had nearly faded
from my memory, I went to New York to assist in passing some counterfeit
United States bonds. Carelessly looking into a furniture store one day,
I saw the exact counterpart of that bookcase. "I bought it for a trifle
from a reformed inventor," the dealer explained. "He said it was
fireproof, the pores of the wood being filled with alum under hydraulic
pressure and the glass made of asbestos. I don't suppose it is really
fireproof--you can have it at the price of an ordinary book-case."
"No," I said, "if you cannot warrant it fireproof I won't take it"--and
I bade him good morning.
I would not have had it at any price: it revived memories that were
exceedingly disagreeable.