The Accursed

by Joyce Carol Oates

  He is mad. The professor is mad. And you? Why have you not slit your throat by now, coward?

  It was horrible, a “voice” of Josiah’s had followed him—even here.

  AS A CALLOW YOUTH of just-eighteen, Josiah Slade had enrolled in Pearce van Dyck’s large lecture course at the university, drawn by its curious title—“A Brief History of Metaphysics.” He had not ever heard the word metaphysics before, and knew but the rudiments of physics, from his preparatory schooling.

  Quickly, the freshman had become one of the professor’s rapt admirers, for, though small of frame, with a filmy halo of gray silken hair about his head, and a high, reedy voice, Dr. van Dyck lectured brilliantly on such subjects as Zeno’s paradox, Plato’s Allegory of the Cave, Kant’s categorical imperative, and Hume’s epistemological theories; he shone nearly as lustrously behind the podium as Woodrow Wilson himself. (In fact, the diminutive philosopher had inherited Dr. Wilson’s mantle in being elected, for three successive years, the university’s “most popular” professor. ) (For the record, as Dr. Wilson would certainly wish me to add, Woodrow Wilson enjoyed this singular honor for seven consecutive years as a professor of jurisprudence and political history, during the time of Dr. Patton’s administration.) And Pearce van Dyck’s distinction was the more meaningful since he had a reputation for expecting a great deal of his students, and grading them severely.

  The discipline of philosophy had excited Josiah at the time, for he thought it a singular pleasure to be forced to think, as one is not urged to think as a religious person; though it seemed that Dr. van Dyck was, at bottom, a Platonist, as well as a (non-dogmatic) Christian, he liked to engage quick-witted students in dialogues and debates on any subject: the nature of the Universe, for instance—whether it be in aeternum, or not; the nature of the Deity—whether all corners of the Universe are suffused with His grace, or merely some, or none; and the nature of Mankind—whether Original Sin was our basic truth, or rather Rousseau’s vision of noble savagery and innocence.

  One notable morning during a philosophy lecture, Josiah Slade had raised his hand to ask Professor van Dyck a question of the kind a bright, earnest freshman might ask: “How is it possible, sir, and why should it be possible, that God allows evil in His creation?” And Professor van Dyck retorted dryly: “Young man, if you could but express that question precisely, with no misuse of terms, you would discover that you had answered it for yourself.”

  It was at about this time that a controversy raged over doctrinal matters in the Presbyterian Church, that involved Reverend Winslow Slade. Josiah knew little of the details but understood that the Princeton Theological Seminary had succeeded in coercing the General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church of America into bringing to trial Dr. Charles Augustus Briggs of the Union Theological Seminary on charges of heresy; a decision that provoked a good deal of heated discussion, and much bitterness. Dr. Briggs, it was claimed, was held to be soft on Biblical Criticism; and highly amusing on the subject of the “scholastic theology” taught down at Princeton—an “intellectual backwater” as Briggs sneered. (Indeed, it was boasted by both the theological seminary at Princeton and by the university, that, in Dr. Patton’s words, no “new ideas” would be introduced into the curriculum or into the administration thereof, so long as he held office.)

  These matters, Josiah thought disagreeable; but then, he’d discovered that a traditional way of thinking, whether of theology, intercollegiate sports, or the eating clubs on Prospect Avenue, was disagreeable to him; and it was wisest for him to detach himself from such controversy, and focus upon his studies, which included courses in science, history, English literature, as well as math and philosophy; he would earn his B.A. degree as his parents wished, and continue to pursue his own knowledge, and think his own unruly thoughts. It had long been hoped within the family that Josiah would “follow in his grandfather’s footsteps”—that is, he would enter the Princeton Theological Seminary and prepare for a career in the ministry—but this fantasy soon evaporated, as the young man’s natural skepticism emerged, after a reading of Sir James Frazier’s controversial hodgepodge of pagan customs The Golden Bough.

  Now, in Professor van Dyck’s study, with a sound of continuous dripping from the eaves outside the leaded windows, Josiah was attentive to the elder man’s words, for he’d anticipated something valuable from his visit, and not a dismaying waste of time. But the elder man was speaking now wistfully, and not altogether coherently: “I will concede, Josiah, that I was utterly astonished, and disbelieving—for what has happened in my life cannot—‘scientifically’—have happened. Though it is no secret through Princeton, how very much Johanna and I had wanted a family; and now that we have been married for nearly twenty years, we had almost—well, we had, in fact—given up hope. In a way, I had grown complacent in my disappointment. I had resigned myself, you see, to be the last of my line.” For a brooding moment Dr. van Dyck stared into the fireplace, in which a small, smoldering fire emitted a grudging heat; it seemed almost to Josiah that he’d forgotten Josiah’s presence, but after a pause he continued, in a faint voice: “As to Johanna, she had resigned herself, too—of course. Johanna is so very—sensible. Then, when it happened—by ‘it’ I mean the miracle—that my wife was, as the quaint expression has it, with child—we did not know what to think, and whether to be overjoyed, as others were on our behalf, or—deeply disturbed. For—not to embarrass you, Josiah, and not to embarrass myself—it has been some time, several years at least, since my wife and I have shared the same bedchamber . . . Yet, the miracle did occur; the baby is born; Pearce van Dyck is the ‘father’—which is a happy thought, I believe.” Again, Dr. van Dyck lapsed into silence, finishing his glass of sherry.

  Josiah swallowed hard. What had his former professor revealed to him? That there was—there could be—some question of the paternity of the newborn van Dyck child; that something was mysteriously amiss, that must be designated “miracle”?

  Josiah did not want to think Both mothers gave birth last month. Both mothers—accursed?

  Josiah shuddered though the room was over-heated from the smoldering fire. The smell of woodsmoke made his nostrils pinch.

  “But now, Josiah. ‘Ratiocination—our salvation.’ That is my motto now, no longer Cogito, ergo sum.”

  On Dr. van Dyck’s desk was a piece of cardboard measuring about three by four feet, covered in an elaborate diagram, in inks of differing colors. And there was a folio-sized book between whose stiff pages he’d inserted a spray of desiccated flowers—lilies, of a particularly curdled hue and scent. (Josiah remembered these: had he given them to Pearce van Dyck, months before? Taken from the old Craven house? He’d forgotten, until now.) “Before I present my findings to you, Josiah, I should like to ask if you’re familiar with Sherlock Holmes, at all? For I think I’d mentioned Holmes’s significance to you, months ago.”

  “You did? I don’t think so, sir.”

  “Yes, Josiah. I did.” Dr. van Dyck spoke with unusual sharpness. “I have been insisting to all my colleagues in the philosophy department, and elsewhere, that Conan Doyle’s ‘detective’ has found the solution to our human folly: close observation of ‘clues,’ and shrewd ‘ratiocination.’ ”

  “But ‘Sherlock Holmes’ is a fictitious person, sir. He is not—an actual person—”

  Irritably Dr. van Dyck interrupted: “I’ve asked you, Josiah: have you read of the man’s remarkable adventures? And his ‘ratiocinations’?”

  As an undergraduate, Josiah had read a number of Sherlock Holmes mystery stories, as the books were passed among his suite mates in West College; he’d been entertained by them, and struck by the detective’s ingenious logic. He told Dr. van Dyck that he could see why many readers found Sherlock Holmes fascinating as a hero, and the tales themselves, rich with mystery and intrigue and colorful characterizations, were highly readable; above all, the tales presented riddles with solutions—this was most gratifying. “In actual life, mysteries are often unsolve
d. But in Sherlock Holmes, the reader is guaranteed a ‘solution.’ ”

  “Of course, the reader is ‘guaranteed,’ Josiah. For Sherlock Holmes follows an impeccable strategy of detection.”

  “The stories are fictions, sir, devised to be ‘detected.’ That is, they are puzzles with ready-made solutions; they are not true mysteries, of the kind we encounter in our lives.”

  “But I think that they are. They are distillations of the sprawling, messy, impenetrable mysteries that surround us—they are superior.”

  Dr. van Dyck was frowning in disapproval. Clearly, this was not the response he expected from a former, favorite student.

  “A close reading of any of the tales,” Josiah said, somewhat aggressively, “shows their flaws. In ‘The Man with the Twisted Lip,’ for instance, coincidence plays an unlikely role, and I didn’t think it was at all believable that a disguised man’s wife wouldn’t recognize him. In ‘The Adventure of the Speckled Band,’ it’s preposterous that the villain would devise such an intricate scheme to murder his step-daughter when, living alone with her, he could have murdered her in any number of easier ways—and how absurd a gimmick, to use an Indian swamp adder! In ‘A Study in Scarlet,’ the anti-Mormon passages are shrill and unconvincing, in context, and indeed, isn’t the reader unconscionably manipulated, revealing after the fact that Sherlock Holmes had simply sent a telegram to Chicago in order to learn certain facts that are hidden from the reader?” In the way of a bright, combative student Josiah was speaking, but the expression on his former professor’s face was not encouraging. “Well, sir,” Josiah said, lamely, “the stories certainly succeed in their primary intention of entertaining.”

  “ ‘Entertaining’!” Dr. van Dyck said contemptuously. “As if at this crisis in all our lives, I mean for you to be ‘entertained’—!”

  Dr. van Dyck proceeded to show Josiah his elaborate “Scheme of Clues,” as he called it. The chart was intricately covered in several colors of ink, with colored pins or beads affixed to the surface in clusters. “In bringing the Holmesian ‘ratiocination’ to bear upon our accursed Princeton mystery, I’ve isolated a number of threads of connection, or association, as well as ‘clues’—I know, Holmes himself would sneer at my methods, that are overly fussy, and very amateur. My only faith is that I will triumph eventually because I have right on my side and am willing to sacrifice everything to that end . . . See here, Josiah, don’t look so perplexed! This is no more complicated than Kantian metaphysics. In this column, I’ve represented all the significant events of the past ten months, or so, in coded symbols; and all the clues in beads. Events here, clues here. D’you see? Now, wherever it struck me as a viable hypothesis that the Fiend in his primary form was actually present—”

  Josiah started, at “Fiend.” He had not heard anyone outside his immediate family use this word to describe Axson Mayte—of whom, he assumed, Dr. van Dyck, was speaking.

  “—for there is, Josiah, as you must know, a ‘Fiend’ in our midst—either a representation of the Devil himself, or one of the Devil’s ‘satans.’ In the Hebrew Bible, there was not a single Satan, but rather numerous ‘satans.’ Each is a force for chaos and misery and each must be combated.” Dr. van Dyck drew the stiff sheet of cardboard closer to Josiah, so that both men might peruse it together. “So, wherever it seems likely that the Fiend was present, I’ve used a stickpin—here, the pearl; here, a diamond; here, an opal. I suppose you will object, Josiah,” the elder man said, with a smile, “that I can’t know if I’m in possession of all the clues, and that’s true. Nor can I know whether some of the witnesses have reported fraudulently, in confusion or ignorance, or out of a desire to ‘save face.’ For my methodology is far less precise than Holmes’s, because there are so many more clues in actual life, than in Holmes’s cases. Yet I proceed with optimism, and some of the enthusiasm of my days as a young instructor, when I was writing my first study of Plato. What makes me anxious is that I must solve the mystery before the Fiend discovers what I’m doing. Otherwise—my life may be at risk.”

  Wryly Josiah was thinking At least he has given it a name: Curse. Horror. At least, it is not a single family’s madness.

  There was something touching in the philosophy professor’s presentation, that made Josiah less inclined to be critical. Though he thought the “scheme of clues” a desperate measure, and could really make no sense of it, yet it was impressive in its intricacy and its air of precision, in the way of a miniature sailing ship created inside a bottle; for had he ever seen anything so ingenious, outside of equations in his chemistry and physics courses? A veritable galaxy it seemed of filose inkings in several colors, and tiny symbols like dingbats, and Latin and Greek words as well as the stickpins and beads, and much penciled notations. Dr. van Dyck seemed pleased that his young friend should study the graph so closely, and, with a silver letter opener as a kind of blackboard pointer, he lectured Josiah on the Science of Detection in general, and what he called the Crosswicks, or the Princeton Curse in particular.

  “As Holmes often says”—and here Dr. van Dyck spoke with such authority and fond familiarity, you would be led to think that Sherlock Holmes was a friend of his—“what is extraordinary and perverse can be a guide, rather than a hindrance, to the enlightened eye while the routine case, let’s say of simple, unimaginative murder, might prove impossible to solve. In analyzing a highly complex problem of the kind we are confronted with, the necessary thing is to be able to reason backward. Yet the deductive method, which reasons so capably forward, must be utilized as well. So, following this blue line, the ‘scheme of clues’ represents a backward-leaping method; along this yellow line, a forward-leaping. The situation is more complicated because the Curse, or the Horror, is all about us, and we don’t know where , or who, it will strike next. So, we must reason laterally as well.”

  Josiah shook his head, feeling lost.

  “The opal stickpin baffles you? No, the orange beads? Ah, the abbreviation Cr., which refers to ‘Craven’—the old Craven house; which, contiguous with the vertical March, signifies the first manifestation of the Curse, so far as I know. The Craven house, in March ’05—Mr. Cleveland’s collapse—the invasion of spectral figures into our community. Now, the cluster of colored beads here, as well as the pearl stickpin, represent ‘secondary valuations’—if the chart is read (as I am reading it now) vertically. As Holmes has said, All Life is a great chain, the nature of which is known whenever we examine a single link of it.”

  Josiah murmured apologetically that he “didn’t quite understand.”

  “Well, it is challenging, Josiah. Particularly when one is first confronted with the proposition that the ‘detective’ of human nature can determine, by the merest momentary expression on a man’s face, or a twitch of a muscle or a glance of an eye, his innermost thoughts. I’ve asked Micawber to order Holmes’s essay ‘The Book of Life’ as well as his monographs on fingerprints, the detection of long-faded perfumes, the influence of a man’s trade upon the shape of his hand, and the classic ‘Upon the Distinction Between the Ashes of Various Tobaccos.’ So I hope that, once I have these valuable materials in hand, I’ll be able to move along much more swiftly.”

  “I hope so too, sir.” Josiah spoke humbly, for he was feeling the encroachment of a malaise, like a din of “voices,” even as his former professor seemed to be in more ebullient spirits.

  “Certainly, Josiah, life is a ‘great chain,’ as the ancients perceived. Holmes has boldly stated that from a single drop of water a man of genius could infer the possibility of the Atlantic Ocean, or a Niagara, without having heard of either; so too the skilled detective can train himself to discern at a glance the history of a person who stands before him, and the profession to which he belongs, if not the very state of his soul. By a man’s fingernails, or boots, or beard, or coat sleeve, by his facial expression, by the calluses of his forefinger and thumb, one can learn so much! It is wonderful to think how we might triumph over the chaos of life. And it
is my fervent hope that I will be able to save our precious community—our loved ones—from the Curse, if it is not already too late. For, you see, we have already lost the fairest and most pure of heart, among us . . .”

  Frowning, as if he had not heard this well-intentioned but clumsily expressed remark, Josiah turned to the chart, to examine it closely, and pointing out to Dr. van Dyck one or two small errors: “I’m afraid, sir, the incident at the Craven house took place in April, not March as you’ve indicated.”

  “April? Not March? Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I would not likely forget.”

  “But I—I would not likely forget, either! For I was there, too.”

  “Yes. And I was there.”

  “But—March is crucial to my scheme—for M links up with ‘Mackay-Diggs’—”

  “Who is ‘Mackay-Diggs’?”

  “—a graduate student of mine who came to me the other day with a hair-raising story of having narrowly escaped from the assault of a sinister stranger in the shadows behind Alexander Hall; a ‘satan’ it must have been, from the description. Mackay-Diggs is a young Platonist of upstanding integrity who would never confabulate or lie; he testified to me that an ‘Indian-looking’ individual had approached him, and touched his shoulder with a ‘questioning look’—made as if to embrace him—and, as Mackay-Diggs pushed away, this person turned hostile, baring his teeth as if he meant to ‘tear out my throat.’ This, you see, links up with the death of the Spags child, which is indicated by a green pin; this purple line connects them; and here is indicated the ‘mysterious behavior’ of the Wilsons’ dog Hannibal, upon several successive nights . . .”

  “The Wilsons’ dog Hannibal?”

  “Recall, the ‘mysterious behavior’ of the Hound of the Baskervilles, that did not bark as it might have been expected to bark? In this case, the Wilsons’ portly greyhound Hannibal—(which the undergraduates call ‘Box-on-Legs’)—behaved in a more conventional canine fashion by howling inexplicably—and very loudly—in the night, upon several occasions just last week.”