Read The Other Nineteenth Century Online
Authors: Avram Davidson
The Other Nineteenth Century (12 page)
McFall looked at him from red-rimmed eyes, then looked at the bottle, dried his hands, took the bottle, then sniffed it, then held the besmeared label close. “Ah, yes. ‘In it’? Basically, chloral and water.”
“Chloral? Chloral. Good God. Isn’t that the stuff that Coleridge and De Quincey both went stark mad from using?”
“No. No, no. That was laudanum. Tincture of opium. I did not say laudanum. Neither did I prescribe it for your friend. This is chloral, chloral hydrate, a synthetic; different sort of thing entirely … though sometimes the effects of overuse: fantasy, hallucination, addiction … what is this you are thrusting into my face now?”
This
, on a billhead elaborately engraved
Jessup,
et cetera, was a list of dates and of the quantities of chloral dispensed to Williams on those dates. Jessup was probably not required to have provided this list to a layman, but Jessup had perhaps his reasons for doing so; besides, Grant was a great bully. McFall scanned the list, slowly. It was then his turn to say,
“Good God!”
After a moment more he said, more quietly, “He should not have been allowed to have had that much. How is he?”
, on a billhead elaborately engraved
Jessup,
et cetera, was a list of dates and of the quantities of chloral dispensed to Williams on those dates. Jessup was probably not required to have provided this list to a layman, but Jessup had perhaps his reasons for doing so; besides, Grant was a great bully. McFall scanned the list, slowly. It was then his turn to say,
“Good God!”
After a moment more he said, more quietly, “He should not have been allowed to have had that much. How is he?”
Grant told him how Williams was. “And in addition to all that, he has developed a hatred, which I can only describe as maniacal, of every artist being exhibited and every poet being published, and has been writing letters on the sneak to the reviews and magazines and newspapers accusing them, these people, I mean, of every imaginable vice. Harrison suspected something when he saw ink stain on Williams’s fingers, oh, a good while ago. Admitted, that jealousy is a very natural human emotion, still—”
McFall gave a very deep sigh. “Yes. ‘Still.’ Go on.”
Grant did go on. He went on to say that Williams had first denied it all, then insisted that it was all true and that he acted out of public duty, then he had shrieked and babbled and wept and said
that all of it and much more had been revealed to him by what he called Buchanan’s head.
that all of it and much more had been revealed to him by what he called Buchanan’s head.
“He called it—
what?”
what?”
“Called it Buchanan’s head. Said that first there was a sort of crystal ball in a rose garden, then gradually this had changed into a human head, says it spoke to him … speaks to him … tells him all these things, tells him that
x
is a fornicator and
y
is an adulterer and z is a pornographer, and so on and so on. Says he doesn’t
know
how he knows it’s
Buchanan’s
head, just that he
knows
, nor does he know who ‘Buchanan’ is, and he must have the drug or he cannot sleep, which is horrible, and when he takes the drug, and he has taken more and more of it—What? ‘Miracle that he is still alive?’—We must, I suppose, have you to thank for this miracle, Doctor Douglass McFall; yes, I am also ‘sorry.’”
x
is a fornicator and
y
is an adulterer and z is a pornographer, and so on and so on. Says he doesn’t
know
how he knows it’s
Buchanan’s
head, just that he
knows
, nor does he know who ‘Buchanan’ is, and he must have the drug or he cannot sleep, which is horrible, and when he takes the drug, and he has taken more and more of it—What? ‘Miracle that he is still alive?’—We must, I suppose, have you to thank for this miracle, Doctor Douglass McFall; yes, I am also ‘sorry.’”
As for the appearance of the head, aside from there being no body attached to it, it was most remarkable for its expression of jealousy, malignancy, and hatred; also that it appeared to have been badly marred on one side; how, Williams could neither explain nor adequately describe. “What is to be done?” demanded Grant.
McFall began to walk away from the cart, Grant walking with him. “‘What is to be done,’ indeed. If you had just now for the first time come and given me a description of such symptoms I should have prescribed complete rest and a total absence of nervous excitement. I should also have felt obliged to prescribe a sleeping-draught, chloral being the most effective one I know. What is to be done
now …
either a private asylum, which is, if good, far from cheap, and, if cheap, far from good … . For, you see”—McFall stopped, faced Grant—“certainly he should have no more chloral. Certainly if it is cut off the results will be terrible. As for the public asylums … Perhaps he should have a keeper, one who is with him all the time. Several, in fact: round the clock. No money for that? No money, no money. Death or the straight-waistcoat; pleasant alternatives. Sometimes, you know, Mr. Grant, there are questions to which the only answer seems to be that there is no answer. A personality constitutionally strong … but when a personality is constitutionally
weak—Ah well. If you believe that I have been remiss in my duties, you are at liberty to complain of me. Meanwhile, you may accompany me as I continue to attend to my patients.
If you wish.”
He walked off again.
now …
either a private asylum, which is, if good, far from cheap, and, if cheap, far from good … . For, you see”—McFall stopped, faced Grant—“certainly he should have no more chloral. Certainly if it is cut off the results will be terrible. As for the public asylums … Perhaps he should have a keeper, one who is with him all the time. Several, in fact: round the clock. No money for that? No money, no money. Death or the straight-waistcoat; pleasant alternatives. Sometimes, you know, Mr. Grant, there are questions to which the only answer seems to be that there is no answer. A personality constitutionally strong … but when a personality is constitutionally
weak—Ah well. If you believe that I have been remiss in my duties, you are at liberty to complain of me. Meanwhile, you may accompany me as I continue to attend to my patients.
If you wish.”
He walked off again.
Grant, after looking round the ward and at its many patients, and now for the first time listening to them as well, did not wish.
Along Upper Welchman Street there shambled—and finally stopped at the steps of the house and fumbled a ring of keys from his pocket, now and then mumbling a word or two to himself—a stooped old man with a white beard; his silk hat was older, taller, than those worn by the three men at the top of the steps, and he wore a long silk coat: each clean enough, hat and coat, though showing, each, the signs of long, hard wear. Suddenly he looked up and noticed the group in the doorway, and, clearly, noticed something more about them than their presences alone.
“What! What!” he exclaimed, a look of more immediate distress replacing the one of general sadness on his face, hollowed cheeks and pouchy eyes. “Gentlemen … . Gentlemen … . What is wrong? What is wrong?”
Tumbleton took this as a signal for a heavy sigh. “I am afraid that you have lost your tenant, Mr. Solomon,” he said; “and we, our friend.”
Mr. Solomon lifted a thin hand as one who wards off a blow. “Blessed be the True Judge,” he murmured. “Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh—”
“Do you quite understand what Mr. Tumbleton has just told you, Solomon? Mr. Williams has
died
. Sometime last night.”
died
. Sometime last night.”
The much-brushed, much-worn old hat bobbed. “I understand, I understand. I understood at once. Poor young man, eh? Poor Mr. Williams. And I thought he was getting better. Better, I thought he was getting. His illness returned after all, then?” This question was asked in a tone not confident. There was a silence.
“Well, you are entitled to know the truth. And would find out in any event. I feat that while the balance of his mind was disturbed,
poor Williams took his own life. There is no doubt about it at all.”
poor Williams took his own life. There is no doubt about it at all.”
Harrison burst out, “Poor Eustace! It is ghastly!” His voice broke.
This time the old man lifted both hands. His face was horrified. “God help us! God have mercy on him.
Imbeshreer!”
He tottered a moment, took hold of the railing, steadied himself, moved hesitantly. “What should I do? Should I go inform the—Can I—” They beckoned him, and he went slowly up the steps. “Eh?”
Imbeshreer!”
He tottered a moment, took hold of the railing, steadied himself, moved hesitantly. “What should I do? Should I go inform the—Can I—” They beckoned him, and he went slowly up the steps. “Eh?”
Tumbleton: The fact is … The fact is … .
Solomon: Have you notified? He has family? What a shock for them. A, a priest? A minister? An undertaker, at least?
Grant (waves all this away): Harrison’s
“fact”
is that Williams did it in his own bed and everything is drenched with blood. He should never have been allowed to shave himself.
“fact”
is that Williams did it in his own bed and everything is drenched with blood. He should never have been allowed to shave himself.
The old man bared his teeth, drew in a hissing breath.
“There’s not a clean sheet to be found,” said Grant; “all the linens must have gone to the wash and not come back. The housekeeper has already gotten herself sodden with gin and is of no use at all. So we’ve covered him with a sort of tarpaulin we found out back, the coroner cannot come just yet, there’s a policeman in there now—and the rest must wait. Family? An aunt in Wales, somewhere.”
The old man said that a tarpaulin was not enough. “That’s not a proper covering for anyone, a tarpaulin. Something better I must have upstairs in the storeroom. Must be. Let me think. Let me look.”
Tumbleton said he was just about to suggest that. Grant growled, “You’ll never be able to use it again, whatever it is; what? ‘never mind that?’ Then by all means go up and look.” They turned and went into the hallway and toward the stairs to the upper floor. Harrison suddenly sat on the bench beneath the mirror, said he would wait.
Lighting the gas on each landing in the dark house, the old man laboriously climbed, talked on, talked on. “Poor Mr. Williams, these are terrible times we live in, gentlemen; murders, massacres, famines, plagues; poor man, I thought he was getting better:
why?
‘This new medicine helps me sleep,’ he said, but that was last quarter day, more
or less; terrible, terrible; the Shechinah is in exile and the Daughter of the Voice rings out, rings out, but we do not hear it,
‘Repent! Repent!’
but we hear it not, we don’t want to hear it, we don’t want to repent; where is the key, the key, this one? no not this one. Mr. Williams! Aye!” At length the storeroom door was opened, it opened onto darkness and, another gas jet being lit (one without a mantle: high and red it flared, then was turned lower), onto clutter beyond cataloguing; the old man stood in a narrow way between items covered and uncovered, and he talked on. “—a terrible thing to be an artist today, gentlemen, and yet a fascination it has which cannot be denied; six or seven of the best, the leading artists of today—” He fumbled here and there, seemed sure of nothing. “—live in mansions and they lunch with lords, Sir Laurence, Sir John, the incomparable Landseer, Mr. Holman-Hunt who did
The Scapegoat
, he visited the Holy Land, what a blessed privilege, and how many others? a few others only”—he peered here and there around the crowded room—“and the rest? Poverty, decay, and worse. Making likenesses, perhaps it’s not allowed, God says, what does God say? ‘Thou shalt not make—’ My cousin Simeon you may have heard of my cousin Simeon, let me remove a dust sheet here, sir—”
why?
‘This new medicine helps me sleep,’ he said, but that was last quarter day, more
or less; terrible, terrible; the Shechinah is in exile and the Daughter of the Voice rings out, rings out, but we do not hear it,
‘Repent! Repent!’
but we hear it not, we don’t want to hear it, we don’t want to repent; where is the key, the key, this one? no not this one. Mr. Williams! Aye!” At length the storeroom door was opened, it opened onto darkness and, another gas jet being lit (one without a mantle: high and red it flared, then was turned lower), onto clutter beyond cataloguing; the old man stood in a narrow way between items covered and uncovered, and he talked on. “—a terrible thing to be an artist today, gentlemen, and yet a fascination it has which cannot be denied; six or seven of the best, the leading artists of today—” He fumbled here and there, seemed sure of nothing. “—live in mansions and they lunch with lords, Sir Laurence, Sir John, the incomparable Landseer, Mr. Holman-Hunt who did
The Scapegoat
, he visited the Holy Land, what a blessed privilege, and how many others? a few others only”—he peered here and there around the crowded room—“and the rest? Poverty, decay, and worse. Making likenesses, perhaps it’s not allowed, God says, what does God say? ‘Thou shalt not make—’ My cousin Simeon you may have heard of my cousin Simeon, let me remove a dust sheet here, sir—”
Grant said, impatiently, that a dust sheet would do. “But not a
dusty
dust sheet, Mr. Grant, sir; look: ah … .” Underneath the dusty one was a clean one, and underneath that something showed purple and gold. “My cousin Simeon was an artist, and a good one, too, and now look at him, or better yet don’t; ‘Here comes Moses,’ he says when I visit him, which is perhaps not as often as—‘Moses, with another half-crown and another half-drawsha, who needs your damned drawshas, Moses, a fig for your sermons and your
Shema Beni
, why don’t you bring us a half-sovereign instead, Moses?’—because he would immediately convert it into drink, gentlemen, if not worse, gentlemen, a terrible disgrace for a family to have a drunkard … and worse: look.” The dust sheets came off, one after the other; the old man carefully lifted up some heavy broad piece of stuff—“
This
would be nice for Mr. Williams, poor young man, poor young man.
Aye!”
dusty
dust sheet, Mr. Grant, sir; look: ah … .” Underneath the dusty one was a clean one, and underneath that something showed purple and gold. “My cousin Simeon was an artist, and a good one, too, and now look at him, or better yet don’t; ‘Here comes Moses,’ he says when I visit him, which is perhaps not as often as—‘Moses, with another half-crown and another half-drawsha, who needs your damned drawshas, Moses, a fig for your sermons and your
Shema Beni
, why don’t you bring us a half-sovereign instead, Moses?’—because he would immediately convert it into drink, gentlemen, if not worse, gentlemen, a terrible disgrace for a family to have a drunkard … and worse: look.” The dust sheets came off, one after the other; the old man carefully lifted up some heavy broad piece of stuff—“
This
would be nice for Mr. Williams, poor young man, poor young man.
Aye!”
“Purple velvet!” exclaimed Tumbleton. “A gorgeous pall!”
Grant said he expected it was only velveteen.
“Beautiful gold bordering! Poor Williams would have admired—”
“Tosh, it can’t be real gold, can’t have real value, but it will do, hand it over, Solomon.”
The old man said that everything which had to do with art had value, though seldom, he feared, to the benefit of the artist. “Sundry odds and ends I sold to Mr. Dante Gabriel when—”
“Rossetti?”
exclaimed Tumbleton.
exclaimed Tumbleton.
“Mr. Dante Gabriel Rossetti, a great artist, and sundry items here I bought back, after he died, a great poet he was, too; shame on them who said he wrote shameful poems, who—”
Grant swore, tugged the heavy purple cloth away. “Tumbleton, stay here listening to this babble if you like. I’m going down to lay this over Williams, damned pitiful poor fool; stopped
trying.”
They could hear his footsteps clump heavily and rapidly upon the stairs, slow down as he entered the bedroom below.
trying.”
They could hear his footsteps clump heavily and rapidly upon the stairs, slow down as he entered the bedroom below.
The old man lingeringly pulled the dust sheets back. “I came for this picture frame,” he said, lifting it. “Only for this I came. And what did I find? May such a thing not happen to any of us, Mr. Williams, Mr. Williams! But let us not open Satan’s mouth, lest he accuse us.”
Tumbleton seemed by his glances here and there not eager to remain, but he seemed not eager to go below, either; certainly he did not wish to be alone. “So you knew Rossetti, eh?”
The old silk hat nodded, nodded. “Mr. William Rossetti, a kind gentleman. Miss Christina Rossetti, a very fine poet. Mr. Dante Gabriel Rossetti, I knew him best, a great artist, beautiful paintings he made, from my religion and from your religion; and poems as well. They say, some people say, he died of a sudden disease, other people say he died of a medicine of which he gradually took too great a quantity, so what was it? Opium? Not opium, what then, who remembers? Coral, why do I say ‘coral,’ coral is not a medicine, he could not sleep well, years and years he could not sleep, some
wretched fellow broke his heart, said he wrote a shameful poem, poems, about love; they were beautiful poems, like
Shir Ha-Shirim,
Solomon’s Song, is what they were like; look—”
wretched fellow broke his heart, said he wrote a shameful poem, poems, about love; they were beautiful poems, like
Shir Ha-Shirim,
Solomon’s Song, is what they were like; look—”
He bent, he arose, he held something in his hand. “A skull!” cried Tumbleton, recoiled; said, “Not a skull,” drew near again; the old man blew and blew, dust flew about, his thin beard fluttered, the gas flame trembled.
“A bust. I say, Mr. Solomon: a bust of
whom?”
whom?”
The old man nodded, nodded. “A plaster mold he was making; maybe, Mr. Dante Gabriel, almost the last thing he made, it may be. ‘For this, Moses,’ he said, ‘I need no model, the man’s malignant features haunt me forever.’ His very words. See. What hate, eh? Jealous, jealous, hateful and malignant jealous, some penny journalist who made a great scandal out of envy of the great Mr. Dante Gabriel; with one hand who gave it such a blow, at last, the plaster was still wet: look—” He turned the object so the side misshapen might be seen.
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