O begin with, let me say that I am not a story-teller, neither can I make fine phrases nor coin strange words which shall delight the ear. I am only a country doctor, getting well along in years, and I write this tale only because I promised Richard Crew so to do, as I held his feverish1 hand while he lay and tossed in pain, and prayed for a death that would not come.
So without further excuse or apology, let me begin. Richard Crew was the only son of Sir Davies Crew, distinguished2 as artist, soldier, and scholar. His mother, Anne Sargent, was the fairest Englishwoman it has ever been my privilege to know. Of money there was a plenty on both sides; so when the young lad Richard reached his eighteenth year, and under his father’s careful teaching showed a decided3 taste for painting, he was sent forthwith to Paris and[164] placed under the best master that gold could procure4.
As family physician of the Crews, I was somewhat of a privileged character at Redfern, as the old estate was called, and many an evening have I spent with old Sir Davies playing chess, or listening to his tales of a life full of strange experiences. It was I who helped young Richard to first blink his large blue eyes on this world, and who attended him through his trials of teething, measles5, and all the other evils to which childhood is heir. It was my hand also which reverently6 closed the eyes of Lady Anne after a short illness, the very year that Richard went to Paris.
Sir Davies never recovered from the shock of his wife’s death, and what with brooding over her loss, shutting himself up in his room, and neglecting the exercise that a man of his physique always requires, I was deeply grieved but not surprised when Bingham, the head butler, came down to the house one evening to inform me that Sir Davies had died in an apoplectic7 fit during dinner.
It is a bad thing for most boys who are about to come of age to fall heir to a lot of money, but when that boy is a student in the Latin Quarter of Paris, is fair to look upon, popular with his set, and generous to a fault, the result can be imagined.
For the next three years I saw very little of Richard. He came to Redfern only occasionally[165] in the summer, and then he was always accompanied by a gay crowd of his Paris associates; artists like himself, scribblers for some Paris sheet, and the hangers-on invariably to be found in the train of the rich young man. These visits to his old home became rarer and rarer, for which the country people around were very glad, for they had developed into little better than riotous8 orgies; when nights, for weeks at a time, were spent in carousals, and the days in resting up only for another night.
Exercising what I considered my right as an old friend of the family, I called one morning at Redfern to remonstrate9 with the boy, but I came away sorry that I had made the attempt. It was hard to imagine that the dissipated young wreck10, with trembling hands and swollen11, bloodshot eyes, was the same lad whom I saw the morning of his journey to Paris, as he whirled by on the coach and waved his cap to me in farewell.
It was the same sad, old story; wine, women, and song, and then more wine and more women, and for seven long years the son of my dear old friend lived the life that is worse than death, and then came back to Redfern with the seal of sin upon his brow.
Only once did I see him that summer after my morning call. Then I was called up at two in the morning by a young man in Austrian uniform, who, half drunk himself, begged me in[166] a maudlin12 way to come up to the house, for young Crew was down with the “jumps,” as he called it. I went with him of course, and found Richard in the old banquet room with a motley crowd of men and women bending over him, as he lay stretched out on the couch.
I have seen many men in my life who have drunk too much, and are tasting that bitter after draught13 by which an abused system avenges15 itself, and I looked to find a far different sight from that which met my eyes as they made room for me about the couch. In the white drawn16 face before me there was nothing but fear, not ordinary healthy fear such as every man at times experiences, but a kind of speechless horror; and his eyes, as they turned toward me, had in them the fathomless17 misery18 of a lost soul.
His lips moved, and I heard him pleading faintly with somebody or something to go away and leave him for a little while; but as entreaties19 did no good he tried to bribe20 the thing, and offered a thousand, ten thousand pounds to be left in peace. Then, as nothing seemed to avail, his voice rose to a frenzied21 scream, and he cursed the thing that haunted him, the God that made him, yes, and the mother who bore him.
At last, worn out and exhausted22, he sank back to the floor, and I succeeded in getting him into a fitful sleep, while that crowd of tawdry, painted women and drunken men crept[167] past him out of the room, with all the laughter gone from their faces.
“The next day I was surprised by a visit from the young man.” (See page 167.)
The next day I was surprised by a visit from the young man, who, as might be expected of one in his position, was thoroughly23 frightened. I explained to him, as a man of medicine, just what his condition the night before meant, and he promised solemnly, and of his own accord, not to touch anything more for a year. Then he told me what he had seen the night before; for, strange to say, he remembered perfectly24 all he had been through. As he lay there, he said, he could see across the room, slowly forming itself out of nothing, and yet having a frightful25 form, some hideous26 thing which, neither man nor beast, and yet resembling both, approached slowly, grinning at him. He could not describe it more definitely, for he had not learned to know it as he afterwards did. All that I could find out was that it was a great flabby creature that waddled27 as it walked; and though it had a face, it was not like anything he had ever seen.
As regards this pledge to me, I think he kept it, for I heard indirectly28 from him several times during the year, and the report was always good. He was back again in Paris, but had given up all his old companions, and was working faithfully. That year one of his pictures received a prize in the salon29, and he was prophesied30 a great future.
I was away during the next year and a half,[168] looking up interests of mine in America, and heard little that was going on among my own people. On the evening of my return to our village, therefore, I was surprised to see the big house at Redfern gaily31 illuminated32, and was told by the servants that there had been bad doings up on the hill for many a day. The temptation of the old life had been too strong; he had gathered his all too willing crowd of former associates around him, and was “celebrating” with all the pent up passion of a roué who has walked in the narrow path for nearly a year.
He was sick with his old trouble twice that month, and both times for old friendship’s sake I did what I could for him; but I saw there must come an end before many months. But such an end!
I was surprised one day to hear the servants talking in the next room, for they said that all the crowd at Redfern had left for the city that morning, with the exception of Master Richard, who was shut up in his room working all day like mad on some picture, and drinking furiously at night.
The end of it all came one night two weeks later, about ten o’clock in the evening, when one of the maids came down to my house, white and trembling, to tell me that “Master Richard was down with the horrors again, worse than ever, and would I please come up as quick as possible.” I hurried on a hat and coat, and followed[169] her up the hill. As we turned in at the little gate in the garden I was startled by a shriek33 so terrible that I turned to the trembling maid questioningly.
“That’s the way he’s been at it for an hour, sir,” she whispered, and her teeth chattered34 as she spoke35, though the night was not cold.
She left me at the door of his room and I went in alone. At first I could see nothing, for the light was turned down; but from the bed there came a low, moaning noise. Then, suddenly, the clothes were thrown aside, and, God help me, I saw a face the like of which I pray I may never see again. I have doctored many men in my time, and I have seen some sights that are not nice to think about; but never have I seen such nameless horror, such uncontrollable fear, as looked at me from the eyes of that man.
He stood there for a minute gibbering and making strange noises like a beast; and then jumping from the bed, he ran to a piece of canvas standing36 against the wall and covered by a thick drapery. He pulled the cover aside a little way and peeped fearfully behind. Then, in a very paroxysm of terror, he ran shrieking37 and screaming to the bed. He buried himself under the clothes, and I could hear him sobbing38 and moaning again as when I first came in. There is to me something inexpressibly pitiful in the sight of a man in tears, and yet I had to stay[170] there for three mortal hours and watch that man. Always the same program,—the look behind the drapery, and then that horrible fright, which in a few minutes was followed by another look.
Toward two in the morning he quieted down suddenly, and I went and sat by the bedside trying to soothe39 him to sleep; but he wanted to talk.
“I am almost done for, doctor,” he whispered; “but I have finished it, and it has finished me. I have lived a bad life, a very bad life, but on the canvas behind that drapery is the thing God sent me to avenge14 my wasted life; and when I am gone and you see what it is that I have lived with for the last two years, you will believe me when I say that I do not fear the terrors of any hell hereafter.”
He broke off suddenly and glanced fearfully about the room, but as if reassured40 by the pressure of my hand, he continued,—
“I lived straight, for over a year, after the pledge I made you, the night of my first trouble. I left all the old companions, and worked hard. You saw the notice of my picture?” he asked eagerly, and I nodded.
“During that year I met a woman who was the very type of all that is pure and innocent, and I even dared to think that sometime, after I had lived down my frightful past, I might make her my wife. But one day as I was[171] straining my eyes to catch the last light of the fading afternoon, I chanced to glance over the canvas, and, my God, there creeping out of the darkness, was that hideous thing. I was unconscious for several hours, but when I came to myself I consulted the best physician in Paris, and was under his care for over a month, but it was of no use. Since that day it has followed me everywhere, day and night. I tried to drown it in drink, and it only came the oftener. Then I sent the crowd home, and resolved to paint a likeness41 of the thing, to have always with me, so as to accustom42 myself to it, but it was too awful.” His voice trailed off into a shuddering43 whisper.
I tried to turn his thoughts to pleasant things, and at last he began to talk of his childhood, and how he used to ride about the country in the little pony44 chaise with his mother, and the children of the village called him “young Master Dick.” Then, even as I watched him, I saw creeping into his face again that nameless horror. The pupils of his eyes grew larger and larger till you could scarcely see the blue. The sweat of fear started from his forehead in huge drops; and in less time than it takes to tell it he was again a madman.
He jumped to his feet and stood there for a minute, his knees knocking drunkenly together, and his teeth rattling45 like a pair of castanets, while his eyes stared straight ahead of him at[172] the bare wall, and then he started for the picture again. But he never reached it. God in his mercy spared him the agony of that last look, and he fell forward, one hand clutching the drapery, which went down with him to the floor and left me staring at the thing it had covered.
I looked, and something dragged me nearer, for painted on the canvas I saw an evil, formless thing which made my blood run cold. It might have been a man, for it stood upon two feet, and had arms and a head, and yet, thank God, it was no man. Or it might have been a devil, for if ever an imp46 of hell looked down from canvas it must have had a face like that. Yet there were no definite outlines to it. When you tried to place a certain contour it faded off into the somber47 background, and all that remained was the head, a great flabby thing without any nose which looked down at you and grinned horribly.
If that was the demon48 which had haunted Richard Crew’s fevered and disordered brain for two long years, I thanked my God that I was not a drinking man. I looked again and could not turn my eyes away. Then, as I looked, I felt that indescribable, sickening fear coming over me that I had read in the dead man’s eyes.
The grinning thing seemed to be moving slowly. I could see the rocking motion of the body as it waddled toward me.
[173]By a mighty49 effort of the will I tore myself from the spot, and seizing a French dueling50 sword that hung on the wall, I hacked51 and cut that leering face till only an empty frame remained, with a few clinging shreds52 of tattered53 canvas.
The End
The End
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1
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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measles
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| n.麻疹，风疹，包虫病，痧子 | |
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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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apoplectic
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| adj.中风的；愤怒的；n.中风患者 | |
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riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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avenges
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的第三人称单数 )；为…报复 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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fathomless
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| a.深不可测的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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waddled
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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accustom
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| vt.使适应，使习惯 | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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imp
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| n.顽童 | |
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somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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dueling
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| n. 决斗, 抗争(=duelling) 动词duel的现在分词形式 | |
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hacked
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| 生气 | |
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52
shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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