“Oh, thanks,” Mr. Hands explained, “I am not a connoisseur in stinks!”
“Yet all these things I observed thirty-six years ago,” the Sanitätsrath said, “when I was a young doctor, and spent six months in this valley, searching for the lost Grand Duke, of whom no vestige was ever discovered.”
“Then he may be still alive—still here!” Annette von Droste exclaimed.
“Assuredly he may be still alive and still here,” the doctor said, “who knows? The peasants say they see him from time to time riding all glorious upon his schimmel.”
“But, I say,” Philip Hands interrupted again. “If these fellows have been here all this time, how is it that nobody has ever talked of them?”
“My friend,” the Sanitätsrath answered, “for centuries the peasants have talked of them. Twenty years ago you might have heard from any of these peasants of the feats of what they call the giants. You would hear now, when they desire to tell each other that it is time to light the stove to cook their bread, they thrown great rocks from one side of the mountain to the other, as you have witnessed. The learned Vonggobel interprets this action of theirs differently. He says these actions are the outcome of a rudimentary desire for play, as you would observe the larger apes take up curiously a fragment of straw, and then cast it from them. And you would have heard from the peasants twenty years ago of how, when my Large Ones scratch their sides, it gives off a sound like the screaming of a thousand fiends. In this, the learned Von Kellermann agrees, though he says the sounds more rightly resemble that made by the crushing of metals under the stamp of gold-refining machines—a sort of metallic scream. In short, you have heard it. Twenty years ago you might have heard these things from the lips of the peasants, but now, fearing ridicule, they keep silent, though they talk amongst themselves, as they do of the lost Grand Duke, of great fowls resembling cocks, whose footsteps, twenty yards long, are seen in winter mornings in the snow, and of the Witches’ Sabbaths called Walpürgis Nights, and of all the other things of which the peasants discourse in winter, when the snow is high over the roofs and the pine-knots burn merrily and the spinning-wheels turn in those lonely valleys.”
“Oh, we know all about folk-lore,” Mr. Philip Hands said.
“Then here you have the making of the folk-lore for yourself,” the Sanitätsrath said, “such folk-lore as you yourself will tell your grandchildren when the snow is thick above your roof and above the limbs of my Large Ones, who do not mind snow upon their mountain-tops. For folk-lore is the interpretation set by common minds to explain facts which they cannot otherwise explain. How you will explain them I do not know.”
“Then, why don’t you explain them?” the indomitable Mr. Hands exclaimed.
“I do not explain them,” the doctor said, “because in these matters I have an uninstructed mind. They have been explained as Woden and Thor, but they are not gods. They have been explained as immense devils, but they are not immense devils, since the existence of gods or devils presupposes a will, and my Large Ones have no wills, having reclined for thousands of years in the same valley. They have been explained as the secret warnings of the Grand Ducal House, since it is said that when one of them cries out, every twenty years or so, a Grand Duke dies. Yet assuredly their purpose cannot have been to warn Grand Dukes of their approaching deaths, since they existed thousands of years before there were any grand dukes. For me, they are the instruments of curing people who imagine themselves mad through the hearing of strange sounds and the seeing of incredible sights. I bring these people up here and I say, ‘Listen and behold!’ and they hear sounds, and they see sights, stranger than any that they can imagine. Thus by the Grace of God, in Whose hands we all are, 67.3 per cent of my patients find cures. So you have many explanations afforded to you. For the Early Pagans they were Woden and Thor, and some used their fame for their own purposes. For me they are strange things that exist, and I use them for my own purposes; for the peasant women they are the Giant Brothers, and the peasant women use the stories of them in lulling their children to sleep, which is, perhaps, the most sensible purpose of all.”
“But what does it all amount to?” Mr. Philip Hands asked.
“Oh, my excellent Anglo-Saxon friend!” the doctor ejaculated, with his first sign of exasperation. “What does it amount to? The well-known Professor of General Knowledge, von Imhoff zu Reutershausen, is contributing a general preface to the monumental work of the deceased Hofrath von Kellermann. In this the professor says—but I must warn you that he is regarded by his colleagues as romantic and unsound—the professor utters, if I can remember, these words:
“‘Here, therefore, amongst these stupendous and grave vastnesses, there lie these grey survivals of a time which went before the very foundations of our splendid Teutonic race, whose destinies have broadened down to the imperial heritage so well known to our own day. It is to be observed (see page 126 of text) that here are two adult males of an unknown and obviously prehistoric race. That there were giants before our days has been observed by many a classical writer. Thus we have the phrase, ‘Vixerunt fortes ante Agamemnon.’ And traces of the existence of such giants are to be observed in the mythology and legends of almost every race—’”
“But hang it all!” Philip Hands exclaimed. “These chaps appear to me immortal?”
“‘Immortal these survivors of a heavy antiquity may appear to our limited conceptions, but the flesh of which they are made up is not indestructible. In what cataclysm their fellows perished who shall tell? But traces of many cataclysms are to be observed upon our globe sufficient to have destroyed all that was destructible of these immortal beings. Here, then, these two survivors sit—these two adult males. And if, as Professor von Gagern observes, all life, all will, all emotion, all motion, all passion, all appetite, is brought about by the search of the eternal male for the eternal female, then their listless immobility is sufficiently explained. Here they sit, having exhausted the limits of the globe in the unavailing search for a female of their own species. But all such females are dead—are destroyed. They sit close together in an eternal ennui of immortality, casting into the air from time to time that which comes next to their hands, waiting through the eternal ages! And what shall be the end of them—’”
“But, I say,” Mr. Hands exclaimed, “if this blessed book about them is published, there will be an end of your practice?”
Dr. von Salzer looked for a long time at the young man.
“The essence of my practice is,” he said, “the principle, and the principle will remain. Still, in the world there will be a thousand inexplicable things. For you will never be able to explain to me or any other man how it is that the Fraulein Annette von Droste should desire to unite herself to yourself.”
“Oh, I say!” Philip exclaimed. “You don’t mean to say that that is a form of madness?”
“I say merely,” the Sanitätsrath answered dryly, “that it is inexplicable.”
He pulled out his watch and said, “My consultation hour will have arrived in three-quarters of an hour. We have just time to descend the hill.”
Annette von Droste rose briskly:
“So that the Grand Duke William,” she said, “may be still in these valleys?”
The Sanitätsrath pushed the rubbed-tyred bath-chair out of the opening of the grotto.
“The Grand Duke may well exist,” he said. “But you have done with Grand Dukes. Your business is to darn stockings.”
“At any rate,” Mrs. Hands piped suddenly, “I shall walk down the hill upon my own feet.”
“But I say, you haven’t explained . . . ?” Philip Hands was beginning.
“My friend,” von Salzer answered, “even for the Second Secretary of a Legation, there must arrive a time when he shall stand naked upon the shores of the world and discover that each of us is alone here and without one single companion. Then he must do all his explaining for himself or leave it to God. It is now a very good moment to cross the ridge and descend the hi
ll. The Large Ones arc now slumbering, who can say when they will wake or what perils we should miss when they did awaken? Let us go now towards the naked beaches of the end of the world.”
“Now, what the deuce does that mean?” Philip Hands grumbled in the ear of Annette von Droste.
“Oh, the darling Sanitätsrath is so sentimental,” she answered. “I wonder if he has ever seen the ghost of the Grand Duke riding splendidly upon his schimmel?”
THE PRAYER
VIOLET HUNT
I
“It is but giving over of a game.
That must be lost.”—PHILASTERanhour—
“Come, Mrs. Arne—come, my dear, you must not give way like this! You can’t stand it—you really can’t! Let Miss Kate take you away—now do!” urged the nurse, with her most motherly of intonations.
“Yes, Alice, Mrs. Joyce is right. Come away—do come away—you are only making yourself ill. It is all over; you can do nothing! Oh, oh, do come away!” implored Mrs. Arne’s sister, shivering with excitement and nervousness.
A few moments ago Dr. Graham had relinquished his hold on the pulse of Edward Arne with the hopeless movement of the eyebrows that meant—the end.
The nurse had made the little gesture of resignation that was possibly a matter of form with her. The young sister-in-law had hidden her face in her hands. The wife had screamed a scream that had turned them all hot and cold—and flung herself on the bed over her dead husband. There she lay; her cries were terrible, her sobs shook her whole body.
The three gazed at her pityingly, not knowing what to do next. The nurse, folding her hands, looked towards the doctor for directions, and the doctor drummed with his fingers on the bed-post. The young girl timidly stroked the shoulder that heaved and writhed under her touch.
“Go away! Go away!” her sister reiterated continually, in a voice hoarse with fatigue and passion.
“Leave her alone, Miss Kate,” whispered the nurse at last; “she will work it off best herself, perhaps.”
She turned down the lamp as if to draw a veil over the scene. Mrs. Arne raised herself on her elbow, showing a face stained with tears and purple with emotion.
“What! Not gone?” she said harshly. “Go away, Kate, go away! It is my house. I don’t want you, I want no one—I want to speak to my husband. Will you go away—all of you. Give me an hour, half-anhour—five minutes!”
She stretched out her arms imploringly to the doctor.
“Well . . .” said he, almost to himself.
He signed to the two women to withdraw, and followed them out into the passage. “Go and get something to eat,” he said peremptorily, “while you can. We shall have trouble with her presently. I’ll wait in the dressing-room.”
He glanced at the twisting figure on the bed, shrugged his shoulders, and passed into the adjoining room, without, however, closing the door of communication. Sitting down in an arm-chair drawn up to the fire, he stretched himself and closed his eyes. The professional aspects of the case of Edward Arne rose up before him in all its interesting forms of complication . . .
It was just this professional attitude that Mrs. Arne unconsciously resented both in the doctor and in the nurse. Through all their kindness she had realised and resented their scientific interest in her husband, for to them he had been no more than a curious and complicated case; and now that the blow had fallen, she regarded them both in the light of executioners. Her one desire, expressed with all the shameless sincerity of blind and thoughtless misery, was to be free of their hateful presence and alone—alone with her dead!
She was weary of the doctor’s subdued manly tones—of the nurse’s commonplace motherliness, too habitually adapted to the needs of all to be appreciated by the individual—of the childish consolation of the young sister, who had never loved, never been married, did not know what sorrow was! Their expressions of sympathy struck her like blows, the touch of their hands on her body, as they tried to raise her, stung her in every nerve.
With a sigh of relief she buried her head in the pillow, pressed her body more closely against that of her husband, and lay motionless.
Her sobs ceased.
The lamp went out with a gurgle. The fire leaped up, and died. She raised her head and stared about her helplessly, then sinking down again she put her lips to the ear of the dead man.
“Edward—dear Edward!” she whispered, “why have you left me? Darling, why have you left me? I can’t stay behind—you know I can’t. I am too young to be left. It is only a year since you married me. I never thought it was only for a year. ‘Till death us do part’ Yes, I know that’s in it, but nobody ever thinks of that! I never thought of living without you! I meant to die with you . . .
“No—no—I can’t die—I must not—till my baby is born. You will never see it. Don’t you want to see it? Don’t you? Oh, Edward, speak! Say something, darling, one word—one little word! Edward! Edward! are you there? Answer me for God’s sake, answer me!
“Darling, I am so tired of waiting. Oh, think, dearest. There is so little time. They only gave me half-an-hour. In half-an-hour they will come and take you away from me—take you where I can’t come to you—with all my love I can’t come to you! I know the place—I saw it once. A great lonely place full of graves, and little stunted trees dripping with dirty London rain . . . and gas-lamps flaring all round . . . but quite, quite dark where the grave is . . . a long grey stone just like the rest. How could you stay there?—all alone—all alone—without me?
“Do you remember, Edward, what we once said—that whichever of us died first should come back to watch over the other, in the spirit? I promised you, and you promised me. What children we were! Death is not what we thought. It comforted us to say that then.
“Now, it’s nothing—nothing—worse than nothing—don’t want your spirit—I can’t see it—or feel it—I want you, you, your eyes that looked at me, your mouth that kissed me—”
She raised his arms and clasped them round her neck, and lay there very still, murmuring, “Oh, hold me, hold me! Love me if you can. Am I hateful? This is me! These are your arms . . .”
The doctor in the next room moved in his chair. The noise awoke her from her dream of contentment, and she unwound the dead arm from her neck, and, holding it up by the wrist, considered it ruefully.
“Yes, I can put it round me, but I have to hold it there. It is quite cold—it doesn’t care. Ah, my dear, you don’t care! You are dead. I kiss you, but you don’t kiss me. Edward! Edward! Oh, for heaven’s sake kiss me once. Just once!
“No, no, that won’t do—that’s not enough! that’s nothing! worse than nothing! I want you back, you, all you . . . What shall I do? . . . I often pray . . . Oh, if there be a God in heaven, and if He ever answered a prayer, let Him answer mine—my only prayer. I’ll never ask another—and give you back to me! As you were—as I loved you—as I adored you! He must listen. He must! My God, my God, he’s mine—he’s my husband, he’s my lover—give him back to me!”
—“Left alone for half-an-hour or more with the corpse! It’s not right!”
The muttered expression of the nurse’s revolted sense of professional decency came from the head of the staircase, where she had been waiting for the last few minutes. The doctor joined her.
“Hush, Mrs. Joyce! I’ll go to her now.”
The door creaked on its hinges as he gently pushed it open and went in.
“What’s that? What’s that?” screamed Mrs. Arne. “Doctor! Doctor! Don’t touch me! Either I am dead or he is alive!”
“Do you want to kill yourself, Mrs. Arne?” said Dr. Graham, with calculated sternness, coming forward; “come away!”
“Not dead! Not dead!” she murmured.
“He is dead, I assure you. Dead and cold an hour ago! Feel!” He took hold of her, as she lay face downwards, and in so doing he touched the dead man’s cheek—it was not cold! Instinctively his finger sought a pulse.
“Stop! Wait!” he cried in his intense ex
citement. “My dear Mrs. Arne, control yourself!”
But Mrs. Arne had fainted, and fallen heavily off the bed on the other side. Her sister, hastily summoned, attended to her, while the man they had all given over for dead was, with faint gasps and sighs and reluctant moans, pulled, as it were, hustled and dragged back over the threshold of life.
II
“Why do you always wear black, Alice?” asked Esther Graham. “You are not in mourning that I know of.”
She was Dr. Graham’s only daughter and Mrs. Arne’s only friend. She sat with Mrs. Arne in the dreary drawing-room of the house in Chelsea. She had come to tea. She was the only person who ever did come to tea there.
She was brusque, kind, and blunt, and had a talent for making inappropriate remarks. Six years ago Mrs. Arne had been a widow for an hour! Her husband had succumbed to an apparently modal illness, and for the space of an hour had lain dead. When suddenly and inexplicably he had revived from his trance, the shock, combined with six weeks’ nursing, had nearly killed his wife. All this Esther had heard from her father. She herself had only come to know Mrs. Arne after her child was born, and all the tragic circumstances of her husband’s illness put aside, and it was hoped forgotten. And when her idle question received no answer from the pale absent woman who sat opposite, with listless lack-lustre eyes fixed on the green and blue flames dancing in the fire, she hoped it had passed unnoticed. She waited for five minutes for Mrs. Arne to resume the conversation, then her natural impatience got the better of her.
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