The Macabre Megapack: 25 Lost Tales from the Golden Age

by John Galt

  “I repeat, sir, that for all the treasures in the world you cannot make me regard as unsound a member that is perfectly sound, and still less induce me to cut it with my instruments.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because such an act would cast a doubt upon my medical knowledge and compromise my reputation. Everybody would say that you were mad; that I was dishonest in taking advantage of your condition, or ignorant in not perceiving it.”

  “Very well. I will only ask a small service of you, then. I am myself capable of making the incision. I shall do it rather clumsily with my left hand; but that does not matter. Be good enough only to bind up the wound after the operation.”

  It was with astonishment that the doctor saw that this strange man was speaking seriously. He stripped off his coat, turned up the wristbands of his shirt, and took a bistory in his left hand.

  A second later, and the steel had made a deep incision in the skin.

  “Stay!” cried the doctor, who feared that his patient might, through his awkwardness, sever some important organ. “Since you have determined on the operation, let me perform it.”

  He took the bistory, and placing in his left hand the right hand of the patient, begged him to turn away his face, the sight of blood being insupportable to many persons.

  “Quite needless. On the contrary, it is I who must direct you where to cut.”

  In fact he watched the operation to the end with the greatest coolness, indicating the limits of the incisions. The open hand did not even quiver in that of the doctor, and when the circular piece was removed, he sighed profoundly, like a man experiencing an enormous relief.

  “Nothing burns you now?”

  “All has ceased,” said the stranger, smiling. “The pain has completely disappeared, as if it had been carried away with the part excised. The little discomfort which the flowing of blood causes me, compared with the other pain, is like a fresh breeze after a blast from the infernal regions. It does me a real good to see my blood pouring forth: let it flow, it does me extreme good.”

  The stranger watched with an expression of delight the blood pouring from the wound, and the doctor was obliged to insist on binding up the hand.

  During the bandaging the aspect of his face completely changed. It no longer bore a dolorous expression, but a look full of good humor was turned upon the doctor. No more contraction of the features, no more despair. A taste for life had returned; the brow was once again calmed; the color found its way back to the cheeks. The entire man exhibited a complete transformation.

  As soon as his hand was laid in the sling he warmly wrung the doctor’s hand with the one that remained free, and said cordially:

  “Accept my sincere thanks. You have positively cured me. The trifling remuneration I offer you is not at all proportioned to the service you have rendered me: for the rest of my life I shall search for the means of repaying my debt to you.”

  The doctor would not listen to anything of the kind, and refused to accept the thousand florins placed on the table. On his side the stranger refused to take them back, and, observing that the doctor was losing his temper, begged him to make a present of the money to some hospital, and took his departure.

  K— remained for several days at his townhouse until the wound in his patient’s hand should be cicatrised. During this time the doctor was able to satisfy himself that he had to do with a man of extensive knowledge, reflective, and having very positive opinions in regard to the affairs of life. Besides being rich, he occupied an important official position. Since the taking away of his invisible pain, no trace of moral or physical malady was discoverable in him.

  The cure completed, the man returned tranquilly to his residence in the country.

  About three weeks had passed away when, one morning, at an hour as unduly as before, the servant again announced the strange patient.

  The stranger, whom K— hastened to receive, entered the room with his right hand in a sling, his features convulsed and hardly recognisable from suffering. Without waiting to be invited to sit down, he sank into a chair, and, being unable to master the torture he was enduring, groaned, and without uttering a word, held out his hand to the doctor.

  “What has happened?” asked K—, stupefied.

  “We have not cut deep enough,” replied the stranger, sadly, and in a fainting voice. “It burns me more cruelly than before. I am worn out by it; my arm is stiffened by it. I did not wish to trouble you a second time, and have borne it, hoping that by degrees the invisible inflammation would either mount to my head or descend to my heart, and put an end to my miserable existence; but it has not done so. The pain never goes beyond the spot, but it is indescribable! Look at my face, and you will be able to imagine what it must be!”

  The color of the man’s skin was that of wax, and a cold perspiration beaded his forehead. The doctor unbound the bandaged hand. The point operated on was well healed; a new skin had formed, and nothing extraordinary was to be seen. The sufferer’s pulse beat quickly, without feverishness, while yet he trembled in every limb.

  “This really smacks on the marvelous!” exclaimed the doctor, more and more astonished. “I have never before seen such a case.”

  “It is a prodigy, a horrible prodigy, doctor. Do not try to find a cause for it, but deliver me from this torment. Take your knife and cut deeper and wider: only that can relieve me.”

  The doctor was obliged to give in to the prayers of his patient. He performed the operation once again, cutting into the flesh more deeply; and, once more, he saw in the sufferer’s face the expression of astonishing relief, the curiosity at seeing the blood flow from the wound, which he had observed on the first occasion.

  When the hand was dressed, the deadly pallor passed from the face, the color returned to the cheeks; but the patient no more smiled. This time he thanked the doctor sadly.

  “I thank you, doctor,” he said. “The pain has once more left me. In a few days the wound will heal. Do not be astonished, however, to see me return before a month has passed.”

  “Oh! my dear sir, drive this idea from your mind.”

  The doctor mentioned this strange case to several of his colleagues, who each held a different opinion in regard to it, without any of them being able to furnish a plausible explanation of its nature.

  As the end of the month approached, K— awaited with anxiety the reappearance of this enigmatic personage. But the month passed and he did not reappear.

  Several weeks more went by. At length the doctor received a letter from the sufferer’s residence. It was very closely written, and by the signature he saw that it had been penned by his patient’s own hand; from which he concluded that the pain had not returned, for otherwise it would have been very difficult for him to have held a pen.

  These are the contents of the letter:—

  “Dear doctor, I cannot leave either you or medical science in doubt in regard to the mystery of the strange malady which will shortly carry me to the grave.

  “I will here tell you the origin of this terrible malady. For the past week it has returned the third time, and I will no longer struggle with it. At this moment I am only able to write by placing upon the sensitive spot a piece of burning tinder in the form of a poultice. While the tinder is burning I do not feel the other pain; and what distress it causes me is a mere trifle by comparison.

  “Six months ago I was still a happy man. I lived on my income without a care. I was on good terms with everybody, and enjoyed all that is of interest to a man of five-and-thirty. I had married a year before—a young lady, handsome, with a cultivated mind and a heart as good as any heart could be, who has been a governess in the house of a countess, a neighbor of mine. She was fortuneless, and attached herself to me, not only from gratitude, but still more from real childish affection. Six months passed, during which every day appeared to be happier than the one which had gone before. If, at times, I was obliged to go to Pesth and quit my own land for a day, my wife had not a moment’s
rest. She would come two leagues on the way to meet me. If I was detained late, she passed a sleepless night waiting for me; and if by prayers I succeeded in inducing her to go and visit her former mistress, who had not ceased to be extremely fond of her, no power could keep her away from home for more than half a day; and by her regrets for my absence, she invariably spoiled the good-humor of others. Her tenderness for me went so far as to make her renounce dancing, so as not to be obliged to give her hand to strangers, and nothing more displeased her than gallantries addressed to her. In a word, I had for my wife an innocent girl, who thought of nothing but me, and who confessed to me her dreams as enormous crimes, if they were not of me.

  “I know not what demon one day whispered in my ear: Suppose that all this were dissimulation? Men are mad enough to seek torments in the midst of their greatest happiness.

  “My wife had a work-table, the drawer of which she carefully locked. I had noticed this several times. She never forgot the key, and never left the drawer open.

  “That question haunted my mind. What could she be hiding there? I had become mad. I no longer believed either in the innocence of her face or the purity of her looks, nor in her caresses, nor in her kisses. What if all that were mere hypocrisy?

  “One morning the countess came anew to invite her to her house, and, after much pressing, succeeded in inducing her to go and spend the day with her. Our estates were some leagues from each other, and I promised to join my wife in the course of a few hours.

  “As soon as the carriage had quitted the courtyard, I collected all the keys in the house and tried them on the lock of the little drawer. One of them opened it. I felt like a man committing his first crime. I was a thief about to surprise the secrets of my poor wife. My hands trembled as I carefully pulled out the drawer, and, one by one, turned over the objects within it, so that no derangement of them might betray the fact of a strange hand having disturbed them. My bosom was oppressed; I was almost stifled. Suddenly—under some lace—I put my hand upon a packet of letters. It was as if a flash of lightning had passed through me from my head to my heart. Oh! they were the sort of letters one recognises at a glance—love letters!

  “The packet was tied with a rose-colored ribbon, edged with silver.

  “As I touched that ribbon this thought came into my mind: Is it conceivable?—is this the work of an honest man? To steal the secrets of his wife!—secrets belonging to the time when she was a young girl. Have I any right to exact from her a reckoning for thoughts she may have had before she belonged to me? Have I any right to be jealous of a time when I was unknown to her? Who could suspect her of a fault? Who? I am guilty for having suspected her. The demon again whispered in my ears: ‘But what if these letters date from a time when you already had a right to know all her thoughts, when you might already be jealous of her dreams, when she was already yours?’ I unfastened the ribbon. Nobody saw me. There was not even a mirror to make me blush for myself. I opened one letter, then another, and I read them to the end.

  “Oh, it was a terrible hour for me!

  “What was in these letters? The vilest treason of which a man has ever been the victim. The writer of these letters was one of my intimate friends! And the tone in which they were written!—what passion, what love, certain of being returned! How he spoke of ‘keeping the secret!’ And all these letters dated at a time when I was married and so happy! How can I tell you what I felt? Imagine the intoxication caused by a mortal poison. I read all those letters—every one. Then I put them up again in a packet, re-tied them with the ribbon, and, replacing them under the lace, relocked the drawer.

  “I knew that if she did not see me by noon she would return in the evening from her visit to the countess—as she did. She descended from the caleche hurriedly, to rush towards me as I stood awaiting her on the steps. She kissed me with excessive tenderness, and appeared extremely happy to be once again with me. I allowed nothing of what was passing within me to appear in my face. We conversed, we supped together, and each retired to our bedrooms. I did not close an eye. Broad awake, I counted all the hours. When the clock struck the first quarter after midnight, I rose and entered her room. The beautiful fair head was there pressed into the white pillows—as angels are painted in the midst of snowy clouds. What a frightful lie of nature’s is vice under an aspect so innocent! I was resolved, with the headlong willfulness of a madman, haunted by a fixed idea. The poison had completely corroded my soul. I resolved to kill her as she lay.

  “I pass over the details of the crime. She died without offering the least resistance, as tranquilly as one goes to sleep. She was never irritated against me—even when I killed her. One single drop of blood fell on the back of my hand—you know where. I did not perceive until the next day, when it was dry.

  “We buried her without anybody suspecting the truth. I lived in solitude. Who could have controlled my actions? She had neither parent nor guardian who could have addressed to me any questions on the subject, and I designedly put off sending the customary invitations to the funeral, so that my friends could not arrive in time.

  “On returning from the vault I felt not the least weight upon my conscience. I had been cruel, but she had deserved it. I would not hate her—I would forget her. I scarcely thought of her. Never did a man commit an assassination with less remorse than I.

  “The countess, so often mentioned, was at the chateau when I returned there. My measures had been so well taken that she also had arrived too late for the internment. On seeing me she appeared greatly agitated. Terror, sympathy, sorrow, or, I know not what, had put so much into her words that I could not understand what she was saying to console me.

  “Was I even listening to her? Had I any need of consolation? I was not sad. At last she took me familiarly by the hand, and, dropping her voice, said that she was obliged to confide a secret to me, and that she relied on my honor as a gentleman not to abuse it. She had given my wife a packet of letters to mind, not having been able to keep them in her own house; and these letters she now requested me to return to her. While she was speaking, I several times felt a shudder run through my frame. With seeming coolness, however, I questioned her as to the content of the letters. At this interrogation the lady started, and replied angrily:—

  “‘Sir, your wife has been more generous than you! When she took charge of my letters, she did not demand to know what they contained. She even gave me her promise that she would never set eyes on them, and I am convinced that she never read a line of any one of them. She had a noble heart, and would have been ashamed to forfeit the pledge she had given.’

  “‘Very well,’ I replied. ‘How shall I recognise this packet?’

  “‘It was tied with a rose-colored ribbon edged with silver.’

  “‘I will go and search for it.’

  “I took my wife’s keys, knowing perfectly well where I should find the packet; but I pretended to find it with much difficulty.

  “‘Is this it?’ I asked the countess, handing it to her.

  “‘Yes, yes—that is it! See!—the knot I myself made has never been touched.’

  “I dared not raise my eyes to her; I feared lest she should read in them that I had untied the knot of that packet, and something more.

  “I took leave of her abruptly; she sprang into her carriage and drove off.

  “The drop of blood had disappeared, the pain was not manifested by any external symptom; and yet the spot marked by the drop burned me as if it had been bitten by a corrosive poison. This pain grows from hour to hour. I sleep sometimes, but I never cease to be conscious of my suffering. I do not complain to anybody: nobody, indeed, would believe my story. You have seen the violence of my torment, and you know how much the two operations have relieved me; but concurrently with the healing of the wound, the pain returns. It has now attacked me for the third time, and I have no longer strength to resist it. In an hour I shall be dead. One thought consoles me; it is that she has avenged herself here below. She will perhaps forgive
me above. I thank you for all you have done for me. May heaven reward you.”

  A few days later one might have read in the newspapers that S—, one of the richest landowners, had blown out his brains. Some attributed his suicide to sorrow caused by the death of his wife; others, better informed, to an incurable wound. Those who best knew him said that he had been attacked by monomania, that his incurable wound existed only in his imagination.

  NISSA, by Albert Delpit

  (1892)

  Gaston lighted a cigarette, saying,

  “It isn’t a long story, but it is dramatic. Confound it! Whenever I think of it, a chill through every vein. You remember that two years ago I was sent on a mission to Persia to study and describe the province of Irak-Adjemi. I began by settling in Ispahan, and completed my studies in three months. But, had I returned at once, my reputation for thorough scholarship would have been lost. I was almost bored to death, when the governor was changed. The Shah sent, in place of the former one, his cousin Malcom-Khan.”

  “The one who has been in France?”

  “Yes, and you knew one of the heroes of my story, Mehmed-Aga, who was on the staff of the prince. He has the rank of general or rather, as they call it in Persia, sertip.”

  “I remember. A man of about thirty, very elegant and clever, who sometimes supped with us?”

  “You can understand my pleasure in meeting him there. There is something particularly charming about these Orientals who have become semi-Parisians. Contact with our civilization seems to refine and soften their primitive barbarism. At the end of a week the sertip and I were inseparable.”

  “And the drama?”

  “You are in too great of a hurry. I haven’t finished the introduction. One morning I was riding on horseback through the city, lost in reverie, and for the hundredth time enjoying its fairy-like charm. Imagine broad avenues, lined on the right and left by arcades, the whole interspersed with huge plane-trees, watered by ever-flowing rills; farther beyond—”