Besant’s collaborations with WALTER HERRIES POLLOCK (1850-1926) include a book of drawing-room comedies as well as “Sir Jocelyn’s Cap” (1884-5); the latter arose out of a playful conversation in the Savile Club with Charles Brookfield (who actually proposed the idea on which the story turns). The novelette is an important early example of a particular kind of comedy in which magical premises are developed in a sceptical and down-to-earth fashion which mocks and undermines their promise; the formula was brought to full flower by the novels of “F. Anstey”, whose success with it called forth scores of cruder imitations by the likes of “R. Andom” and Richard Marsh.
Pollock collaborated with Andrew Lang on a series of parodies of the novels of H. Rider Haggard including King Solomon’s Treasures, It and Bess (all 1887). He also wrote a handful of stories - including the comic fantasy “Edged Tools” (1886) - in collaboration with the American writer and critic J. Brander Matthews. (Matthews was also an inveterate writer of stories in collaboration, and once wrote a comedy called “The Three Wishes” with Anstey, which is so down-to-earth as to have no authentic supernatural intrusions.) Most of Pollock’s solo fantasies are collected in Nine Men’s Morrice (1889), which includes three items reprinted from an earlier collection, The Picture’s Secret (1883). The title story of the earlier collection, called “Lilith” in the later one, is a novella about a femme fatale and a family curse; in the other items, run together as “An Adventure in the Life of Mr. Latimer” in the earlier collection, but separated as “Mr. Morton’s Butler” and “Lady Volant” in the later, the Devil’s attempts to trick an oblivious young man into signing his soul away are continually thwarted by happy accidents. Other fantasies by Pollock are in his collection King Zub (1897), including “Sir Jocelyn’s Cap”, which can also be found in Besant’s collection Uncle Jack, etc (1885).
SIR JOCELYN’S CAP
By Walter Besant & Walter Herries Pollock
1
“This,” said Jocelyn, throwing himself into a chair, “is the most wonderful thing I ever came across.”
Do you know how, sometimes in the dead of night, or even in broad daylight, while you are thinking, you distinctly hear a voice which argues with you, puts the case another way, contradicts you, or even accuses you, and calls names?
This happened to Jocelyn. A voice somewhere in the room, and not far from his ear, said clearly and distinctly, “There is something here much more wonderful.” It was a low voice, yet metallic, and with a cluck in it as if the owner had begun life as a Hottentot.
Jocelyn started and looked around. He was quite alone. He was in chambers in Piccadilly: a suite of four rooms; outside there was the roll of carriages and cabs, with the trampling of many feet; at five o’clock on an afternoon in May, and in Piccadilly, one hardly expects anything supernatural. When something of the kind happens at this time, it is much more creepy than the same thing at midnight. The voice was perfectly distinct and audible. Jocelyn felt cold and trembled involuntarily, and then was angry with himself for trembling.
“Much more wonderful,” repeated this strange voice with the cluck. Jocelyn pretended not to hear it. He was quite as brave as most of his brother-clerks in the Foreign Office, but in the matter of strange voices he was inexperienced, and thought to get rid of this one as one gets rid of an importunate beggar, by passing him without notice.
“I’ve looked everywhere,” he said.
“Not everywhere,” clucked the voice in correction.
“Everywhere,” he repeated, firmly. “And there’s nothing. The old man has left no money, no bank-books, no sign of investment, stocks, or shares. What did he live upon?”
“Me,” said the voice.
Jocelyn started again. His nerves, he said to himself, must be getting shaky.
“He seems to have had no ‘affairs’ of any kind; no solicitors, no engagements; nothing but the letting of the Grange. How on earth did he -” Here he stopped, for fear of being answered by that extraordinary echo in his ear. He heard a cluck-cluck as if the reply was ready, but was checked at the moment of utterance.
“All his bills paid regularly, nothing owing, not even a tailor’s bill running, and the money in his desk exactly the amount, and no more, required for his funeral. Fancy leaving just enough for your funeral! Seems like a practical joke on your lawful heir. Nothing in the world except that old barn.” He sat down again and meditated.
The deceased was his uncle, the chief of the old house, the owner and possessor of the Grange. He left, it is true, a formal will behind him, in which he devised everything of which he was possessed to his nephew Jocelyn, who inherited the Grange and the park besides the title. Unfortunately, he did not specify his possessions, so that when the young man came to look into his inheritance, he knew not how great or how small it was. Now, when one knows nothing, one expects a great deal, which accounts for the buoyancy of human youth and the high spirits of the infant pig.
He began with an unsystematic yet anxious examination of the old man’s desks and papers. They were left in very good order; the letters, none of which were of the least importance, were all folded, endorsed, and dated; the receipts - all for bills which would never be disputed - were pasted in books; the diaries, which contained the record of daily expenditure and the chronicle of small-beer, stood before him in a long uniform row of black cloth volumes. Even the dinner-cards were preserved, and the play-bills: a most methodical old gentleman. But this made it the more surprising that there could not be found among all these papers any which referred to his private affairs and his personal property.
“He must have placed,” said Jocelyn, “all the documents concerning his invested moneys in the hands of some solicitor. I have only got to find his address.”
He then proceeded to examine slowly and methodically the drawers, shelves, cupboards, recesses, cabinets, boxes, cases, receptacles, trunks, and portmanteaus in the chambers, turning them inside out and upside down, shaking them, banging them, peering and prying, carefully feeling all the linings, lifting lids, sounding pockets, and trying locks, until he was quite satisfied that he had left no place untried. Yet he found nothing. This was surprising as well as disappointing. For although of late years old Sir Jocelyn’s habits had been retired and even penurious, it was well known that in early manhood, that is to say, somewhere in the twenties and thirties, he was about town in a very large and generous sense indeed. He must, at that time, have had a great deal of money. Had he lost it? Yet something must have remained. Else, how could he live? And at least there must be some record of the remnant. Yet, strange to say, not even a bank-book. Jocelyn thought over this day by day. He had taken up his abode in the chambers, which were comfortable, though the furniture was old and shabby. The rent, which was high, was paid by the Grange, now let to a family of Americans of the same surname as his own, who wanted to say they had lived in an old English country-house, and would go home and declare that it was the real original cradle of their race. Cradles of race, like family trees, can be ordered or hired of the cabinet-maker, either in Wardour Street or the College of Heralds. The old man must have had something besides the family house. If it was only an annuity, there would be the papers to show it. Where were those papers?
This search among the drawers and shelves and desks took him several days. It was upon the second day that he heard the voice. On the fifth day, which was Saturday, he began with the books on the shelves - there were not many. First he looked behind them: nothing there; he remembered to have heard that sometimes wills, deeds, and other proofs of property have been hidden in the leaves of the Family Bible: there was no Family Bible, but there was a great quantity of novels, and Jocelyn spent a long afternoon turning over the leaves of these volumes in search of some paper which would give him a clue to his inheritance. He might just as well have spent it squaring the circle, or extracting the square root of minus one, or pursuing a metaphysical research, for all the good it did him. It is only fair to the young man to say that h
e would have greatly preferred spending the time in lawn-tennis, and especially in playing that game at a place which was adorned with the gracious presence of a certain young lady. “A Foreign Office clerk,” said Jocelyn bitterly; “a mere Foreign Office clerk is good enough to dance with. She has danced with me for a year and a half. The other fellows can’t dance. But when that clerk becomes the owner of a tumble-down Grange, though there are not twenty acres of ground belonging to it, and, besides, gets all the property of old Sir Jocelyn, whom all the world knows, and inherits his title, that Foreign Office clerk becomes, if you please, a person of consideration as the other fellows shall see. But where the devil is the property?”
“Property!” It was the same curious echo, in his ear, of that metallic clucking voice. Remember that it was Saturday afternoon, when the streets are full; this made such a phenomenon as a voice proceeding from empty space all the more striking and terrible. Much more terrible was the thing which next occurred. You know how in thought-reading the medium takes your hand, and without your guidance moves slowly, but certainly, in the direction of the spot where you have hidden the ring. The phenomenon has been witnessed by hundreds; it is a fact which cannot be disputed. What happened to Jocelyn was exactly of the same kind, and therefore not more surprising. An invisible force - call it not a hand - an invisible, impalpable, strange electrical force seized his hand with a kind of grasp. It was not a strong grasp; quite the contrary. The pressure was varying, flickering, inconstant, uncertain. At the very first manifestation and perception of it, Sir Jocelyn’s knees knocked themselves together, his hair stood on end, his moustache went out of curl, and, to use a favourite and very feeling expression of the last century, his jaws stuck. By this feeble pressure or hand-grasp, the young man was pulled, or rather guided gently across the room to a table on which stood, with its doors open, a large Japanese cabinet. It was one of those things with two doors, behind which are two rows of drawers, and below the doors one long drawer. He had already examined every one of the drawers on the first day of the search, when he had opened and looked into all the desks, drawers, boxes, and cupboards in the chambers. He knew what was in the drawers - a collection of letters, chiefly from ladies, written to his uncle and preserved by him. Was it possible that he had overlooked something? He opened all the drawers, turned out their contents, and proceeded to examine every letter. This took him two or three hours, during the whole of which time he had an uncomfortable feeling as if his forefinger were being gently but steadily pulled. At last he threw down the last letter and let himself go, just as a man who is blindfolded and yet finds a hidden object, allows himself to be led by the unconscious guide straight to the place where it has been deposited. Guided by this unknown force, he found himself grasping the lowest drawer - the large one - which he had already pulled out. What did it mean? He turned it round: there was nothing remarkable about the drawer: an empty drawer cannot contain a secret. Surprising: his fingers seemed pulled about in all directions - what was it? By this time, the first natural terror was gone, but his pulse beat fast; he was excited; he was clearly on the eve of making some strange discovery.
He examined the drawer again, and more carefully. He could see nothing strange about. Then he heard again that curious voice which seemed in his own head, and it said “Measure.”
What was he to measure? If Jocelyn had been a conjuror he would have understood at once: he would even have guessed: the professor of legerdemain is a master in all kinds of craft and subtlety - I knew one of them who, though passionately fond of whist, would never play the game on account of the temptation in dealing to give himself all the thirteen trumps - but above all he understood the value of drawers, compartments, divisions, and recesses which are shorter than they seem. The drawer was in fact only three-fourths the depth of the cabinet. When Jocelyn at length realized this fact, he perceived that there must be a secret compartment at the back, where no doubt something was hidden which it greatly concerned him to find out. Of course by this time he accepted without further doubt the fact that unusual forces - call them forces - were abroad. “A psychic influence,” said Jocelyn, though his teeth chattered, “of a rare and most curious description.” The communication of it to the Society established as a Refuge for the stories which nobody outside it will believe, would be very interesting: but perhaps it was his uncle who thus - here another impatient jerk of his finger startled him. He turned the cabinet round; the back presented a plain surface of wood without any possible scope for the operation of secret springs; the side was carved with little round knobs in relief. He measured the drawer with the side of the cabinet: there was a difference of three and a half inches, and the drawer was three inches high: as the cabinet was two feet broad, this gave a space of 3 x 24 x 31/2, which represents 252 cubic inches. A good deal may be hidden away in 252 cubic inches. How was he to get at the contents? Anyone can take a hammer and chisel and brutally burst open a cabinet, whether of Japanese or any other work. It did strike Jocelyn that perhaps with the poker he might prise the thing open. But then, so beautiful a cabinet, and his late uncle’s favourite depository for the love letters of a life spent wholly in making love - ’twould be barbarous. While he considered, the forefinger of his right hand was travelling slowly over the knobs. Presently it stopped, and Jocelyn felt upon the knuckle a distinct tap. He pressed the knob; to his astonishment a kind of door flew open. Jocelyn looked in - there was something! At this moment he paused. He did not doubt that the treasure, whatever it was, would prove of the greatest, the very greatest importance to him, perhaps title-deeds, perhaps debentures, perhaps notes of investments, perhaps the address of the solicitors in whose hands Sir Jocelyn, his uncle, had placed his affairs, perhaps - but here he tilted up the cabinet, not daring, through some terror of the supernatural, as if a spirit who could bite might be lurking in the recess, to put in his hand, and the contents fell out without any apparent supernatural assistance, by the natural law of gravity. We may take it as a general rule in all occurrences of the supernatural kind, that the ordinary machinery provided by nature and already explained by Sir Isaac Newton and others, is employed wherever it is possible. In cases where direct interference of another kind is required, no doubt it is always forthcoming. No ghost or spirit would hesitate, of course, to go through closed doors, pass parcels through walls, and so forth; but if the doors are open the plain way is clearly and obviously the safest and best. So that, if a thing will fall from a receptacle of its own accord when that receptacle is inverted, there is really no necessity at all for the assistance of psychic force. This explains why the parcel fell out.
It was wrapped in an old discoloured linen covering. Jocelyn unfolded it with trembling fingers. It contained a cap. Odd; only a cap. It was made of cloth, thick, such as is used for a fez, and formerly no doubt red, but the colour was almost gone out of it, and it was moth-eaten. In shape it was not unlike a Phrygian cap. Round the lower part there ran an edging, an inch broad, of gold embroidery, but this too was ragged and, in places, falling off. There was also a lining of silk, but it was so ragged and worn that it looked as if at a single touch it would fall out.
“A worn-out, old, decrepit cap” said Jocelyn, “All this fuss about a worthless cap!” Just then his little finger received a tap; and Jocelyn, his attention thus directed to the spot, saw a folded paper beneath the cap.
“Ah!” he cried, “this is what I have been looking for. But a cap! I never heard my uncle talk about a cap.”
He took up the paper, and yet he could not choose but look at the cap itself. As he gazed upon it, he felt himself turning giddy. Cabinet, cap, and paper swam before his eyes. “It is nothing,” he murmured, “the heat of the room - the - the -”
“Effendi!” said the voice he knew, metallic and yet quavering. “Excellency! it is - me - your servant.”
The cap was transformed - it was now of a brilliant hue, while its gold embroideries were fresh and glittering - it no longer lay upon a table, decrepit and fal
ling to pieces, but it now covered the head of a little old man, apparently about eighty or more, so wrinkled and lined was his visage. He seemed feeble, and his knees and shoulders were bent, but his eyes were bright. He was dressed in some Oriental garb, the like of which Jocelyn had never seen.
He bowed, in Oriental style with gesture of the fingers. “I am,” he said, “the Slave of the Cap. I am a Jinn, and I am at his Excellency’s service, night and day, to perform his wishes so long as he possesses the Cap.”
“And at what price?” asked Jocelyn.
“At none. The Effendi’s ancestor paid the charges: fees are not allowed to be taken by assistants. Sorcerers and great Effendis like his Excellency are particularly requested to observe this rule.”
“Certainly,” said Jocelyn. “If there is to be no signing of bonds and terms of years -”
“Nothing, your Excellency, nothing of the kind.”
“In that case -” here the faintness came over him again and his eyes swam. When he recovered he looked about him for the Oriental servant. There was no one there, only the furniture in the room and the cabinet, and beside the cabinet the worn and faded cap.
“I think I must be going off my head,” said Jocelyn. “I wish I had a glass of water.” As he spoke he saw that a glass of water actually stood on the table at his elbow. He took it and was going to drink it. “Faugh!” he cried, setting it down hastily, “it has had flowers in it.”
Then he remembered the roll of paper - which he opened. It was a letter on two sheets, addressed to himself by his uncle; but the second sheet had been twisted, and apparently used as a light, for it was partly burned, and had been rolled out again and placed with the unburned sheet as if the writer had been hurried.
The Dedalus Book of British Fantasy Page 31
