Masterpieces of Terror and the Supernatural

by Marvin Kaye (ed. )

  I must have frowned while reading, for the words of Mr. S. were not so much gracious, I thought, as egregious, and as vulgar as his absurd seal. Still, I held these feelings in check, for I knew that my emotions towards this man were not a little coloured by jealousy. He, after all, had wooed and won Maude Randall, a young lady of discernment and fine sensibilities: could she have been capable of wedding an obsequious boor? I thought it not likely. And a castle! Such romantic grandeur! “. . . Invite you here to the castle . . .” she had written, but where was “here”? The letter’s cover, since it had not come by the post, offered no clue; therefore I read on:

  “It was indeed, only yesterday, in the course of conversation, that I was recalling my old life in London, and mentioned your name. Mr. S., I thought, was, of a sudden, interested. ‘Robert Cargrave?’ he said. ‘There is a well-known physician of that name, but I do not imagine it is the same gentleman.’ I laughed and told him it was the same gentleman, and that I had known you before you had become so illustrious. ‘Did you know him well?’ Mr. S. then asked me, and you will think me but I must tell you that for a moment I assumed him to be jealous! Such was not the case, however, as fuither conversation proved. I told him you had been a friend of my family’s and a frequent guest at our house. ‘This is a most happy coincidence,’ he said. ‘I have long desired to meet Sir Robert Cargrave, and your past friendship with him furnishes you with an excellent opportunity to invite him here for a holiday.’

  “And so, Sir Robert, I am complying with his request—and at the same time obeying the dictates of my own inclination—by most cordially inviting you to visit us for as long as you choose. I entreat you to come, for we see so few people here and it would be a great pleasure to talk with someone from the old days and to hear the latest London gossip. Suffer me, then, to receive a letter from you at once. Mr. S. does not trust the post, hence I have sent this by a servant of ours who was to be in London on special business; please relay your answer by way of him—”

  I rang for my man. “Is the Messenger who delivered this letter waiting for a reply?” I asked.

  “He is sitting in the vestibule, Sir Robert,” he said.

  “You should have told me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “At any rate, send him in now. I wish to see him.”

  My man left, and it took me but a minute to dash off a quick note of acceptance. It was ready for the messenger when he was ushered into the room. I addressed him: “You are in the employ of Madam—” I realized for the first time that I did not know her husband’s name.

  The servant—a taciturn fellow with Slavic features spoke in a thick accent: “I am in the employ of Mr. Sardonicus, sir.”

  Sardonicus! A name as flamboyant as the seal, I thought to myself. “Then deliver this note, if you please, to Madam Sardonicus, immediately you return.”

  He bowed slightly and took the note from my hand. “I shall deliver it to my master straightway, sir,” he said.

  His manner nettled me. I corrected him. “To your mistress,” I said coldly.

  “Madam Sardonicus will receive your message, sir,” he said.

  I dismissed him, and only then did it strike me that I had not the faintest idea where the castle of Mr. Sardonicus was located. I referred once again to Maude’s letter:

  “. . . Please relay your answer by way of him and pray make it affirmative, for I do hope to make your stay in____________a pleasant one.”

  I consulted an atlas. The locality she mentioned, I discovered, was a district in a remote and mountainous region of Bohemia.

  Filled with anticipation, I finished my breakfast with renewed appetite, and that very afternoon began to make arrangements for my journey.

  II

  The Sight of a Giant Skull

  I am not—as my friend Harry Stanton is—fond of travel for its own sake. Harry has often chided me on this account, calling me a dry-as-dust academician and “an incorrigible Londoner”—which I suppose I am. For, in point of fact, few things are more tiresome to me than ships and trains and carriages; and although I have found deep enjoyment and spiritual profit in foreign cities, having arrived, the tedium of travel itself has often made me think twice before starting out on a long voyage.

  Still, in less in a month after I had answered Maude’s invitation, I found myself in her adopted homeland. Sojourning from London to Paris, thence to Berlin, finally to Bohemia, I was met at__________by a coachman who spoke imperfect English but who managed, in his solemn fashion, to make known to me that he was a member of the staff at Castle Sardonicus. He placed at my disposal a coach drawn by two horses, and after taking my bags, proceeded to drive me on the last leg of my journey.

  Alone in the coach, I shivered, for the air was brisk and I was very tired. The road was full of ruts and stones, and the trip was far from smooth. Neither did I derive much pleasure by bending my glance to the view afforded by the windows, for the night was dark, and the country was, at any rate, wild and raw, not made for serene contemplation. The only sounds were the clatter of hooves and wheels, the creak of the coach, and the harsh, unmusical cries of unseen birds.

  “We receive but rarely,” Maude had written, and now I told myself—Little wonder! in this ragged and, one might say, uninhabitable place, far from the graces of civilized society, who indeed is there to be received, or, for the matter of that, to receive one? I sighed, for the desolate landscape and the thought of what might prove a holiday devoid of refreshing incident had combined to cloak my already wearied spirit in a melancholic humour.

  It was when I was in this condition that Castle Sardonicus met my eye—a dense, hunched outline at first, then, with an instantaneous flicker of moonlight, a great gaping death’s head, the sight of which made me inhale sharply. With the exhalation, I chuckled at myself. “Come, come, Sir Robert,” I inwardly chided, “it is, after all, but a castle, and you are not a green girl who starts at shadows and quails at midnight stories!”

  The castle is situated at the terminus of a long and upward-winding mountain road. It presents a somewhat forbidding aspect to the world, for there is little about it to suggest gaiety or warmth or any of those qualities that might assure the wayfarer of welcome. Rather, this vast edifice of stone exudes an austerity, cold and repellent, a hint of ancient mysteries long buried, an effluvium of medieval dankness and decay. At night, and most particularly on nights when the moon is slim or cloud-enshrouded, it is a heavy blot upon the horizon, a shadow only, without feature save for its many-turreted outline; and should the moon be temporarily released from her cloudy confinement, her fugitive rays lend scant comfort, for they but serve to throw the castle into sudden, startling chiaroscuro, its windows fleetingly assuming the appearance of sightless though all-seeing orbs, its portcullis becoming for an instant a gaping mouth, its entire form striking the physical and the mental eye as would the sight of a giant skull.

  But, though the castle had revealed itself to my sight, it was a full quarter of an hour before the coach had creaked its way up the steep and tortuous road to the great gate that barred the castle grounds from intruders. Of iron the gate was wrought—black it seemed in the scant illumination—and composed of intricate twists that led, every one of them, to a central, huge device, of many curves, which in the infrequent glints of moonglow appeared to smile metallically down, but which, upon gathering my reason about me, I made out to be no more than an enlarged edition of that presumptuous seal: a massive single S. Behind it, at the end of the rutted road, stood the castle itself—dark, save for lights in two of its many windows.

  Some words in a foreign tongue passed between my coachman and a person behind the gate. The gate was unlocked from within and swung open slowly, with a long rising shriek of rusted hinges; and the coach passed through.

  As we drew near, the door of the castle was flung open and cheery light spilled out upon the road. The portcullis, which I had previously marked, was evidently a remnant from older days and now inactive. The coac
h drew to a halt, and I was greeted with great gravity by a butler whom I saw to be he who had carried Maude’s invitation to London. I proffered him a nod of recognition. He acknowledged this and said, “Sir Robert, Madam Sardonicus awaits you, and if you will be good enough to follow me, I will take you to her presence.” The coachman took charge of my bags, and I followed the butler into the castle.

  It dated, I thought, to the Twelfth or Thirteenth Century. Suits of armour—priceless relics, I ascertained them to be—stood about the vast halls; tapestries were in evidence throughout; strong, heavy, richly carved furniture was everywhere. The walls were of time-defying stone, great grey blocks of it. I was led into a kind of salon, with comfortable chairs, a tea table, and a spinet. Maude rose to greet me.

  “Sir Robert,” she said softly, without smiling. “How good to see you at last.”

  I took her hand. “Dear lady,” said I, “we meet again.”

  “You are looking well and prosperous,” she said.

  “I am in good health, but just now rather tired from the journey.”

  She gave me leave to sit, and did so herself, venturing the opinion that a meal and some wine would soon restore me. “Mr. Sardonicus will join us soon,” she added.

  I spoke of her appearance, saying that she looked not a day older than when I last saw her in London. This was true, in regard to her physical self, for her face bore not a line, her skin was of the same freshness, and her glorious chestnut hair was still rich in colour and gleaming with health. But what I did not speak of was the change in her spirit. She who had been so gay and vivacious, the delight of soirees, was now distant and aloof, of serious mien, unsmiling. I was sorry to see this, but attributed it to the seven years that had passed since her carefree girlhood, to the loss of her loved parents, and even to the secluded life she now spent in this place.

  “I am eager to meet your husband,” I said.

  “And he, Sir Robert, is quite eager to meet you,” Maude assured me. “He will be down presently. Meanwhile, do tell me how you have fared in the world.”

  I spoke, with some modesty, I hope, of my successes in my chosen field, of the knighthood I had received from the Crown; I described my London apartment, laboratory, and office; I made mention of certain mutual friends, and generally gave her news of London life, speaking particularly of the theatre (for I knew Maude had loved it) and describing Mr. Macready’s farewell appearance as Macbeth at the Haymarket. When Maude had last been in London, there had been rumours of making an opera house out of Covent Garden theatre, and I told her that those plans had been carried through. I spoke of the London premiere of Mr. Verdi’s latest piece of Her Majesty’s. At my mention of these theatres and performance, her eyes lit up, but she was not moved to comment until I spoke of the opera.

  “The opera!” she sighed. “Oh, Sir Robert, if you could but know how I miss it. The excitement of a premiere, the ladies and gentlemen in their finery, the thrilling sounds of the overture, and then the curtain rising—” She broke off, as if ashamed of her momentary transport. “But I receive all the latest scores, and derive great satisfaction from playing and singing them to myself. I must order the new Verdi from Rome. It is called Ernani, you say?”

  I nodded, adding, “With your permission, I will attempt to play some of the more distinctive airs.”

  “Oh, pray do, Sir Robert!” she said.

  “You will find them, perhaps, excessively modern and dissonant.” I sat down at the spinet and played—just passably, I fear, and with some improvisation when I could not remember the exact notes—a potpourri of melodies from the opera.

  She applauded my playing. I urged her to play also, for she was an accomplished keyboard artist and possessed an agreeable voice, as well. She complied by playing the minuet from Don Giovanni and then singing the “Voi che sapete” from Le Nozze di Figaro. As I stood over her, watching her delicate hands move over the keys, hearing the pure, clear tones of her voice, all my old feelings washed over me in a rush, and my eyes smarted at the unalloyed sweetness and goodness of this lady. When she asked me to join her in the duet, “Là ci darem la mano,” I agreed to do it, although my voice is less than ordinary. On the second singing of the word “mano”—“hand”—I was seized by a vagrant impulse and took her left hand in my own. Her playing was hampered, of course, and the music limped for a few measures; and then, my face burning, I released her hand and we finished out the duet. Wisely, she neither rebuked me for my action nor gave me encouragement; rather, she acted as if the rash gesture had never been committed.

  To mask my embarrassment, I now embarked upon some light chatter, designed to ease whatever tension existed between us; I spoke of many things, foolish things, for the most part, and even asked if Mr. Sardonicus had later demonstrated any of the jealousy she had said, in her letter, that she had erroneously thought him to have exhibited. She laughed at this—and it brightened the room, for it was the first time her face had abandoned its grave expression; indeed, I was taken by the thought that this was the first display of human merriment I had marked since stepping into the coach—and she said, “Oh, no! To the contrary, Mr. Sardonicus said that the closer we had been in the old days, the more he would be pleased.”

  This seemed an odd and even coarse thing for a man to say to his wife, and I jovially replied: “I hope Mr. Sardonicus was smiling when he said that.”

  At once, Maude’s own smile vanished from her face. She looked away from me and began to talk of other things. I was dumbfounded. Had my innocent remark given offense? It seemed not possible. A moment later, however, I knew the reason for her strange action, for a tall gentleman entered the room with a gliding step, and one look at him explained many things.

  III

  To Smile Forever

  “Sir Robert Cargrave?” he asked, but he spoke with difficulty, certain sounds—such as the b in Robert and the v in Cargrave—being almost impossible for him to utter. To shape these sounds, the lips must be used, and the gentleman before me was the victim of some terrible affliction that had caused his lips to be pulled perpetually apart from each other, baring his teeth in a continuous ghastly smile. It was the same humourless grin I had seen once before: on the face of a person in the last throes of lockjaw. We physicians have a name for that chilling grimace, a Latin name, and as it entered my mind, it seemed to dispel yet another mystery, for the term we use to describe the lockjaw smile is: risus sardonicus. A pallor approaching phosphorescence completed his astonishing appearance.

  “Yes,” I replied, covering my shock at the sight of his face. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Sardonicus?”

  We shook hands. After an exchange of courtesies, he said, “I have ordered dinner to be served in the large dining hall one hour hence. In the meantime, my valet will show you to your rooms, for I am sure you will wish to refresh yourself after your journey.”

  “You are most kind.” The valet appeared—a man of grave countenance, like the butler and the coachman—and I followed him up a long flight of stone stairs. As I walked behind him, I reflected on the unsmiling faces in this castle, and no longer were they things of wonder. For who would be disposed to smile under the same roof with him who must smile forever? The most spontaneous of smiles would seem a mockery in the presence of that afflicted face. I was filled with pity for Maude’s husband: of all God’s creatures, man alone is blest with the ability to smile; but for the master of Castle Sardonicus, God’s great blessing had become a terrible curse. As a physician, my pity was tempered with professional curiosity. His smile resembled the risus of lockjaw, but lockjaw is a mortal disease, and Mr. Sardonicus, his skullish grin notwithstanding, was very much alive. I felt shame for some of my earlier uncharitable thoughts towards this gentleman, for surely such an unfortunate could be forgiven much. What bitterness must fester in his breast; what sharp despair gnaw at his inwards!

  My rooms were spacious and certainly as comfortable as this dank stone housing could afford. A hot tub was prepared
, for which my tired and dusty frame was most grateful. As I lay in it, I began to experience the pleasant pangs of appetite. I looked forward to dinner. After my bath, I put on fresh linen and a suit of evening clothes. Then, taking from my bag two small gifts for my host and hostess—a bottle of scent for Maude, a box of cigars for her husband—I left my rooms.

  I was not so foolish as to expect to find my way, unaided, to the main dining hall; but since I was early, I intended to wander a bit and let the ancient magnificence of the castle impress itself upon me.

  Tapestries bearing my host’s S were frequently displayed. They were remarkably new, their colours fresh, unlike the faded grandeur of their fellow tapestries. From this—and from Mr. Sardonicus’ lack of title—I deduced that the castle had not been inherited through a family line, but merely purchased by him, probably from an impoverished nobleman. Though not titled, Mr. Sardonicus evidently possessed enormous wealth. I pondered its source. My ponderings were interrupted by the sound of Maude’s voice.

  I looked up. The acoustical effects in old castles are often strange—I had marked them in our own English castles—and though I stood near neither room nor door of any kind, I could hear Maude speaking in a distressed tone. I was standing at an open window which overlooked a kind of courtyard. Across this court, a window was likewise open. I took this to be the window of Maude’s room; her voice was in some way being amplified and transported by the circumstantial shape of the courtyard and the positions of the two windows. By listening very attentively, I could make out most of her words.

  She was saying, “I shan’t. You must not ask me. It is unseemly.” And then the voice of her husband replied: “You shall and will, madam. In my castle, it is I who decide what is seemly or unseemly. Not you.” I was embarrassed at overhearing this private discussion on what was obviously a painful subject, so I made to draw away from the window that I might hear no more, but was restrained by the sound of my own name on Maude’s lips. “I have treated Sir Robert with courtesy,” she said. “You must treat him with more than courtesy,” Mr. Sardonicus responded. “You must treat him with warmth. You must rekindle in his breast those affections he felt for you in other days . . .”