after I had been some days in the house, and then grew steadily in
strength. The other strange thing has come to me only twice in all
these weeks. _It appals me._ It is the consciousness of the propinquity
of some deadly and loathsome disease. It comes over me like a wave of
fever heat, and then passes off, leaving me cold and trembling. The air
seems for a few seconds to become tainted. So penetrating and convincing
is the thought of this sickness, that on both occasions my brain has
turned momentarily dizzy, and through my mind, like flames of white
heat, have flashed the ominous names of all the dangerous illnesses I
know. I can no more explain these visitations than I can fly, yet I know
there is no dreaming about the clammy skin and palpitating heart which
they always leave as witnesses of their brief visit.
Most strongly of all was I aware of this nearness of a mortal sickness
when, on the night of the 28th, I went upstairs in pursuit of the
listening figure. When we were shut in together in that little square
room under the roof, I felt that I was face to face with the actual
essence of this invisible and malignant disease. Such a feeling never
entered my heart before, and I pray to God it never may again.
There! Now I have confessed. I have given some expression at least to
the feelings that so far I have been afraid to see in my own writing.
For--since I can no longer deceive myself--the experiences of that night
(28th) were no more a dream than my daily breakfast is a dream; and the
trivial entry in this diary by which I sought to explain away an
occurrence that caused me unutterable horror was due solely to my
desire not to acknowledge in words what I really felt and believed to be
true. The increase that would have accrued to my horror by so doing
might have been more than I could stand.
* * * * *
Dec. 3.--I wish Chapter would come. My facts are all ready marshalled,
and I can see his cool, gray eyes fixed incredulously on my face as I
relate them: the knocking at my door, the well-dressed caller, the light
in the upper window and the shadow upon the blind, the man who preceded
me in the snow, the scattering of my clothes at night, Emily's arrested
confession, the landlady's suspicious reticence, the midnight listener
on the stairs, and those awful subsequent words in my sleep; and above
all, and hardest to tell, the presence of the abominable sickness, and
the stream of thoughts and ideas that are not my own.
I can see Chapter's face, and I can almost hear his deliberate words,
"You've been at the tea again, and underfeeding, I expect, as usual.
Better see my nerve doctor, and then come with me to the south of
France." For this fellow, who knows nothing of disordered liver or
high-strung nerves, goes regularly to a great nerve specialist with the
periodical belief that his nervous system is beginning to decay.
* * * * *
Dec. 5.--Ever since the incident of the Listener, I have kept a
night-light burning in my bedroom, and my sleep has been undisturbed.
Last night, however, I was subjected to a far worse annoyance. I woke
suddenly, and saw a man in front of the dressing-table regarding himself
in the mirror. The door was locked, as usual. I knew at once it was the
Listener, and the blood turned to ice in my veins. Such a wave of horror
and dread swept over me that it seemed to turn me rigid in the bed, and
I could neither move nor speak. I noted, however, that the odour I so
abhorred was strong in the room.
The man seemed to be tall and broad. He was stooping forward over the
mirror. His back was turned to me, but in the glass I saw the reflection
of a huge head and face illumined fitfully by the flicker of the
night-light. The spectral gray of very early morning stealing in round
the edges of the curtains lent an additional horror to the picture, for
it fell upon the hair that was tawny and mane-like, hanging about a face
whose swollen, rugose features bore the once seen never forgotten
leonine expression of--I dare not write down that awful word. But, by
way of corroborative proof, I saw in the faint mingling of the two
lights that there were several bronze-coloured blotches on the cheeks
which the man was evidently examining with great care in the glass. The
lips were pale and very thick and large. One hand I could not see, but
the other rested on the ivory back of my hair-brush. Its muscles were
strangely contracted, the fingers thin to emaciation, the back of the
hand closely puckered up. It was like a big gray spider crouching to
spring, or the claw of a great bird.
The full realization that I was alone in the room with this nameless
creature, almost within arm's reach of him, overcame me to such a degree
that, when he suddenly turned and regarded me with small beady eyes,
wholly out of proportion to the grandeur of their massive setting, I sat
bolt upright in bed, uttered a loud cry, and then fell back in a dead
swoon of terror upon the bed.
* * * * *
Dec. 6.-- ... When I came to this morning, the first thing I noticed was
that my clothes were strewn all over the floor.... I find it difficult
to put my thoughts together, and have sudden accesses of violent
trembling. I determined that I would go at once to Chapter's hotel and
find out when he is expected. I cannot refer to what happened in the
night; it is too awful, and I have to keep my thoughts rigorously away
from it. I feel lightheaded and queer, couldn't eat any breakfast, and
have twice vomited with blood. While dressing to go out, a hansom
rattled up noisily over the cobbles, and a minute later the door opened,
and to my great joy in walked the very subject of my thoughts.
The sight of his strong face and quiet eyes had an immediate effect upon
me, and I grew calmer again. His very handshake was a sort of tonic.
But, as I listened eagerly to the deep tones of his reassuring voice,
and the visions of the night time paled a little, I began to realize
how very hard it was going to be to tell him my wild, intangible tale.
Some men radiate an animal vigour that destroys the delicate woof of a
vision and effectually prevents its reconstruction. Chapter was one of
these men.
We talked of incidents that had filled the interval since we last met,
and he told me something of his travels. He talked and I listened. But,
so full was I of the horrid thing I had to tell that I made a poor
listener. I was forever watching my opportunity to leap in and explode
it all under his nose.
Before very long, however, it was borne in upon me that he too was
merely talking for time. He too held something of importance in the
background of his mind, something too weighty to let fall till the right
moment presented itself. So that during the whole of the first half-hour
we were both waiting for the psychological moment in which properly to
release our respective bombs; and the intensity of our minds' action set
up opposing forces that merely sufficed to hold one another in
check--and nothing more. As soon as I realized this, therefore, I
resolved to yield. I renounced for the time my purpose of telling my
story, and had the satisfaction of seeing that his mind, released from
the restraint of my own, at once began to make preparations for the
discharge of its momentous burden. The talk grew less and less magnetic;
the interest waned; the descriptions of his travels became less alive.
There were pauses between his sentences. Presently he repeated himself.
His words clothed no living thoughts. The pauses grew longer. Then the
interest dwindled altogether and went out like a candle in the wind. His
voice ceased, and he looked up squarely into my face with serious and
anxious eyes.
The psychological moment had come at last!
"I say--" he began, and then stopped short.
I made an unconscious gesture of encouragement, but said no word. I
dreaded the impending disclosure exceedingly. A dark shadow seemed to
precede it.
"I say," he blurted out at last, "what in the world made you ever come
to this place--to these rooms, I mean?"
"They're cheap, for one thing," I began, "and central and--"
"They're too cheap," he interrupted. "Didn't you ask what made 'em so
cheap?"
"It never occurred to me at the time."
There was a pause in which he avoided my eyes.
"For God's sake, go on, man, and tell it!" I cried, for the suspense was
getting more than I could stand in my nervous condition.
"This was where Blount lived so long," he said quietly, "and where
he--died. You know, in the old days I often used to come here and see
him and do what I could to alleviate his--" He stuck fast again.
"Well!" I said with a great effort. "_Please_ go on--faster."
"But," Chapter went on, turning his face to the window with a
perceptible shiver, "he finally got so terrible I simply couldn't stand
it, though I always thought I could stand anything. It got on my nerves
and made me dream, and haunted me day and night."
I stared at him, and said nothing. I had never heard of Blount in my
life, and didn't know what he was talking about. But all the same, I was
trembling, and my mouth had become strangely dry.
"This is the first time I've been back here since," he said almost in a
whisper, "and, 'pon my word, it gives me the creeps. I swear it isn't
fit for a man to live in. I never saw you look so bad, old man."
"I've got it for a year," I jerked out, with a forced laugh; "signed the
lease and all. I thought it was rather a bargain."
Chapter shuddered, and buttoned his overcoat up to his neck. Then he
spoke in a low voice, looking occasionally behind him as though he
thought someone was listening. I too could have sworn someone else was
in the room with us.
"He did it himself, you know, and no one blamed him a bit; his
sufferings were awful. For the last two years he used to wear a veil
when he went out, and even then it was always in a closed carriage. Even
the attendant who had nursed him for so long was at length obliged to
leave. The extremities of both the lower limbs were gone, dropped off,
and he moved about the ground on all fours with a sort of crawling
motion. The odour, too, was--"
I was obliged to interrupt him here. I could hear no more details of
that sort. My skin was moist, I felt hot and cold by turns, for at last
I was beginning to understand.
"Poor devil," Chapter went on; "I used to keep my eyes closed as much as
possible. He always begged to be allowed to take his veil off, and asked
if I minded very much. I used to stand by the open window. He never
touched me, though. He rented the whole house. Nothing would induce him
to leave it."
"Did he occupy--these very rooms?"
"No. He had the little room on the top floor, the square one just under
the roof. He preferred it because it was dark. These rooms were too near
the ground, and he was afraid people might see him through the windows.
A crowd had been known to follow him up to the very door, and then stand
below the windows in the hope of catching a glimpse of his face."
"But there were hospitals."
"He wouldn't go near one, and they didn't like to force him. You know,
they say it's _not_ contagious, so there was nothing to prevent his
staying here if he wanted to. He spent all his time reading medical
books, about drugs and so on. His head and face were something
appalling, just like a lion's."
I held up my hand to arrest further description.
"He was a burden to the world, and he knew it. One night I suppose he
realized it too keenly to wish to live. He had the free use of
drugs--and in the morning he was found dead on the floor. Two years ago,
that was, and they said then he had still several years to live."
"Then, in Heaven's name!" I cried, unable to bear the suspense any
longer, "tell me what it was he had, and be quick about it."
"I thought you knew!" he exclaimed, with genuine surprise. "I thought
you knew!"
He leaned forward and our eyes met. In a scarcely audible whisper I
caught the words his lip seemed almost afraid to utter:
"He was a leper!"
[A] Courtesy of Laurence J. Gomme.
II
NUMBER 13
MONTAGUE RHODES JAMES
Among the towns of Jutland, Viborg justly holds a high place. It is the
seat of a bishopric; it has a handsome but almost entirely new
cathedral, a charming garden, a lake of great beauty, and many storks.
Near it is Hald, accounted one of the prettiest things in Denmark, and
hard by is Finderup, where Marsk Stig murdered King Erik Glipping on St.
Cecilia's Day, in the year 1286. Fifty-six blows of square-headed iron
maces were traced on Erik's skull when his tomb was opened in the
seventeenth century. But I am not writing a guide-book.
There are good hotels in Viborg--Preisler's and the Phoenix are all that
can be desired. But my cousin whose experiences I have to tell you now,
went to the Golden Lion the first time that he visited Viborg. He has
not been there since, and the following pages will perhaps explain the
reason of his abstention.
The Golden Lion is one of the very few houses in the town that were not
destroyed in the great fire of 1726, which practically demolished the
cathedral, the Sognekirke, the Raadhuus, and so much else that was old
and interesting. It is a great red-brick house--that is, the front is of
brick, with corbie steps on the gables and a text over the door, but the
courtyard into which the omnibus drives is of black and white wood and
plaster.
The sun was declining in the heavens when my cousin walked up to the
door, and the light smote full upon the imposing facade of the house. He
was delighted with the old-fashioned aspect of the place, and promised
himself a thoroughly satisfactory and amusing stay in an inn so typical
of old Jutland.
It was not business in the ordinary sense of the word that had brought
Mr. Anderson to Viborg. He was engaged upon some researches into the
Church history of Denmark, and it had come to his knowledge that in the
Rigsarkiv of Viborg there were papers, saved from the fire, relating to
the last days of Roman Catholicism in the country. He proposed,
therefore, to spend a considerable time--perhaps as much as a fortnight
or three weeks--in examining and copying these, and he hoped that the
Golden Lion would be able to give him a room of sufficient size to serve
alike as a bedroom and a study. His wishes were explained to the
landlord, and, after a certain amount of thought, the latter suggested
that perhaps it might be the best way for the gentleman to look at one
or two of the larger rooms and pick one for himself. It seemed a good
idea.
The top floor was soon rejected as entailing too much getting upstairs
after the day's work; the second floor contained no room of exactly the
dimensions required; but on the first floor there was a choice of two or
three rooms which would, so far as size went, suit admirably.
The landlord was strongly in favour of Number 17, but Mr. Anderson
pointed out that its windows commanded only the blank wall of the next
house, and that it would be very dark in the afternoon. Either Number 12
or Number 14 would be better, for both of them looked on the street, and
the bright evening light and the pretty view would more than compensate
him for the additional amount of noise.
Eventually Number 12 was selected. Like its neighbours, it had three
windows, all on one side of the room; it was fairly high and unusually
long. There was, of course, no fireplace, but the stove was handsome and
rather old--a cast-iron erection, on the side of which was a
representation of Abraham sacrificing Isaac, and the inscription, "1 Bog
Mose, Cap. 22," above. Nothing else in the room was remarkable; the only
interesting picture was an old coloured print of the town, date about
1820.
Supper-time was approaching, but when Anderson, refreshed by the
ordinary ablutions, descended the staircase, there were still a few
minutes before the bell rang. He devoted them to examining the list of
his fellow-lodgers. As is usual in Denmark, their names were displayed
on a large blackboard, divided into columns and lines, the numbers of
the rooms being painted in at the beginning of each line. The list was
not exciting. There was an advocate, or Sagfoerer, a German, and some
bagmen from Copenhagen. The one and only point which suggested any food
for thought was the absence of any Number 13 from the tale of the rooms,
and even this was a thing which Anderson had already noticed half a
dozen times in his experience of Danish hotels. He could not help
wondering whether the objection to that particular number, common as it
is, was so widespread and so strong as to make it difficult to let a
room so ticketed, and he resolved to ask the landlord if he and his
colleagues in the profession had actually met with many clients who
refused to be accommodated in the thirteenth room.
He had nothing to tell me (I am giving the story as I heard it from him)
about what passed at supper, and the evening, which was spent in
unpacking and arranging his clothes, books, and papers, was not more
eventful. Toward eleven o'clock he resolved to go to bed, but with him,
as with a good many other people nowadays, an almost necessary
preliminary to bed, if he meant to sleep, was the reading of a few pages
of print, and he now remembered that the particular book which he had
been reading in the train, and which alone would satisfy him at that
present moment, was in the pocket of his greatcoat, then hanging on a
peg outside the dining-room.
To run down and secure it was the work of a moment, and, as the
passages were by no means dark, it was not difficult for him to find his
way back to his own door. So, at least, he thought; but when he arrived
there, and turned the handle, the door entirely refused to open, and he
caught the sound of a hasty movement toward it from within. He had tried
the wrong door, of course. Was his own room to the right or to the left?
He glanced at the number: it was 13. His room would be on the left; and
so it was. And not before he had been in bed for some minutes, had read
his wonted three or four pages of his book, blown out his light, and
turned over to go to sleep, did it occur to him that, whereas on the
blackboard of the hotel there had been no Number 13, there was
undoubtedly a room numbered 13 in the hotel. He felt rather sorry he had
not chosen it for his own. Perhaps he might have done the landlord a
little service by occupying it, and given him the chance of saying that
a well-worn English gentleman had lived in it for three weeks and liked
it very much. But probably it was used as a servant's room or something
of the kind. After all, it was most likely not so large or good a room
as his own. And he looked drowsily about the room, which was fairly
perceptible in the half-light from the street-lamp. It was a curious
effect, he thought. Rooms usually look larger in a dim light than a full
one, but this seemed to have contracted in length and grown
proportionately higher. Well, well! sleep was more important than these
vague ruminations--and to sleep he went.
On the day after his arrival Anderson attacked the Rigsarkiv of Viborg.
He was, as one might expect in Denmark, kindly received, and access to
all that he wished to see was made as easy for him as possible. The
documents laid before him were far more numerous and interesting than he
had at all anticipated. Besides official papers, there was a large
bundle of correspondence relating to Bishop Joergen Friis, the last Roman
Catholic who held the see, and in these there cropped up many amusing
and what are called "intimate" details of private life and individual
character. There was much talk of a house owned by the Bishop, but not
inhabited by him in the town. Its tenant was apparently somewhat of a
scandal and a stumbling-block to the reforming party. He was a disgrace,
they wrote, to the city; he practised secret and wicked arts, and had
sold his soul to the enemy. It was of a piece with the gross corruption
and superstition of the Babylonish Church that such a viper and
blood-sucking _Troldmand_ should be patronized and harboured by the
Bishop. The Bishop met these reproaches boldly; he protested his own
abhorrence of all such things as secret arts, and required his
antagonists to bring the matter before the proper court--of course, the
spiritual court--and sift it to the bottom. No one could be more ready
and willing than himself to condemn Mag. Nicolas Francken if the
evidence showed him to have been guilty of any of the crimes informally
alleged against him.
Anderson had not time to do more than glance at the next letter of the
Protestant leader, Rasmus Nielsen, before the record office was closed
for the day, but he gathered its general tenor, which was to the effect
that Christian men were now no longer bound by the decisions of Bishops
of Rome, and that the Bishop's Court was not, and could not be, a fit or
competent tribunal to judge so grave and weighty a cause.
On leaving the office, Mr. Anderson was accompanied by the old gentleman
who presided over it, and, as they walked, the conversation very
naturally turned to the papers of which I have just been speaking.
Herr Scavenius, the Archivist of Viborg, though very well informed as to
the general run of the documents under his charge, was not a specialist
in those of the Reformation period. He was much interested in what
Anderson had to tell him about them. He looked forward with great
pleasure, he said, to seeing the publication in which Mr. Anderson spoke
of embodying their contents. "This house of the Bishop Friis," he added,
"it is a great puzzle to me where it can have stood. I have studied
carefully the topography of old Viborg, but it is most unlucky--of the
old terrier of the Bishop's property which was made in 1560, and of
which we have the greater part in the Arkiv, just the piece which had
the list of the town property is missing. Never mind. Perhaps I shall
some day succeed to find him."
After taking some exercise--I forget exactly how or where--Anderson went
back to the Golden Lion, his supper, his game of patience, and his bed.
On the way to his room it occurred to him that he had forgotten to talk
to the landlord about the omission of Number 13 from the hotel board,
and also that he might as well make sure that Number 13 did actually
exist before he made any reference to the matter.
The decision was not difficult to arrive at. There was the door with its
number as plain as could be, and work of some kind was evidently going
on inside it, for as he neared the door he could hear footsteps and
voices, or a voice, within. During the few seconds in which he halted to
make sure of the number, the footsteps ceased, seemingly very near the
door, and he was a little startled at hearing a quick hissing breathing
as of a person in strong excitement. He went on to his own room, and
again he was surprised to find how much smaller it seemed now than it
had when he selected it. It was a slight disappointment, but only
slight. If he found it really not large enough, he could very easily
shift to another. In the meantime he wanted something--as far as I
remember it was a pocket-handkerchief--out of his portmanteau, which
had been placed by the porter on a very inadequate trestle or stool
against the wall at the furthest end of the room from his bed. Here was
a very curious thing: the portmanteau was not to be seen. It had been
moved by officious servants; doubtless the contents had been put in the
wardrobe. No, none of them were there. This was vexatious. The idea of a
theft he dismissed at once. Such things rarely happen in Denmark, but
some piece of stupidity had certainly been performed (which is not so
uncommon), and the _stuepige_ must be severely spoken to. Whatever it
was that he wanted, it was not so necessary to his comfort that he could
not wait till the morning for it, and he therefore settled not to ring
the bell and disturb the servants. He went to the window--the right-hand
window it was--and looked out on the quiet street. There was a tall
building opposite, with large spaces of dead wall; no passers by; a dark
night; and very little to be seen of any kind.
The light was behind him, and he could see his own shadow clearly cast
on the wall opposite. Also the shadow of the bearded man in Number 11 on
the left, who passed to and fro in shirt sleeves once or twice, and was
seen first brushing his hair, and later on in a nightgown. Also the
shadow of the occupant of Number 13 on the right. This might be more
interesting. Number 13 was, like himself, leaning on his elbows on the
window-sill looking out into the street. He seemed to be a tall thin
man--or was it by any chance a woman?--at least, it was someone who
covered his or her head with some kind of drapery before going to bed,
and, he thought, must be possessed of a red lamp-shade--and the lamp
must be flickering very much. There was a distinct playing up and down
of a dull red light on the opposite wall. He craned out a little to see
if he could make any more of the figure, but beyond a fold of some
light, perhaps white, material on the window-sill he could see nothing.