mermaid, brushed over, pressed down by objects of a deadlier white—tentacles—! I can write no more.
Evening Primrose
49
MARCH 28
Well, I am rapidly becoming used to my new and half-lit
worid, to my strange company. I am learning the intricate
laws of silence and camouflage which dominate the apparently casual strollings and gatherings of the midnight clan.
How they detest the night-watchman, whose existence imposes these laws on their idle festivals!
“ Odious, vulgar creature! He reeks of the coarse sun!’’
Actually, he is quite a personable young man, very young
for a night-watchman, so young that I think he must have
been wounded in the war. But they would like to tear him to
pieces.
They are very pleasant to me, though. They are pleased
that a poet should have come among them. Yet I cannot like
them entirely. My blood is a little chilled by the uncanny
ease with which even the old ladies can clamber spider-like
from balcony to balcony. Or is it because they are unkind to
Ella?
Yesterday we had a bridge party. Tonight, Mrs. Bilbee’s
little play, Love in Shadowland, is going to be presented.
Would you believe it?—another colony, from Wanamaker’s,
is coming over en masse to attend. Apparently people live in
all the great stores. This visit is considered a great honour,
for there is an intense snobbery in these creatures. They speak
with horror of a social outcast who left a high-class Madison
Avenue establishment, and now leads a wallowing, beach-
comberish life in a delicatessen. And they relate with tragic
emotion the story of the man in Altman’s, who conceived
such a passion for a model plaid dressing jacket that he
emerged and wrested it from the hands of a purchaser. It
seems that all the Altman colony, dreading an investigation,
were forced to remove beyond the social pale, into a five-
and-dime. Well, I must get ready to attend the play.
SO
John Collier
APRIL 1 4
I have found an opportunity to speak to Ella. I dared not
before; here one has a sense always of pale eyes secretly
watching. But last night, at the play, I developed a lit of
hiccups. I was somewhat sternly told to go and secrete myself
in the basement, among the garbage cans, where the watchman never comes.
There, in the rat-haunted darkness, I heard a stifled sob.
“ What’s that? Is it you? Is it Ella? What ails you, child? Why
do you cry?”
“ They wouldn’t even let me see the play.”
“ Is that all? Let me console you.”
“ I am so unhappy.”
She told me her tragic little story. What do you think?
When she was a child, a little tiny child of only six, she
strayed away and fell asleep behind a counter, while her
mother tried on a new hat. When she woke, the store was in
darkness.
‘ ‘And I cried, and they all came around, and took hold of
me. ‘She will tell, if we let her go,’ they said. Some said,
‘Call in the Dark Men.’ ‘Let her stay here,’ said Mrs. Van-
derpant. ‘She will make me a nice little maid.’ ”
“ Who are these Dark Men, Ella? They spoke of them when
I came here.”
“ Don’t you know? Oh, it’s horrible! It’s horrible!”
“ Tell me, Ella. Let us share it.”
She trembled. “ You know the morticians, ‘Journey’s End,’
who go to houses when people die?”
“ Yes, Ella.”
“ Well, in that shop, just like here, and at Gimbel’s, and
at Bloomingdale’s, there are people living, people like these.”
“ How disgusting! But what can they live upon, Ella, in a
funeral home?”
“ Don’t ask me! Dead people are sent there, to be embalmed. Oh, they are terrible creatures! Even the people here
Evening Primrose
51
are terrified of them. But if anyone dies, or if some poor
burglar breaks in, and sees these people, and might tell—”
‘‘Yes? Go on.”
“ Then they send for the others, the Dark Men.”
“ Good heavens!”
“ Yes, and they put the body in Surgical Supplies—or the
burglar, all tied up, if it’s a burglar—and they send for these
others, and then they all hide, and in they come, the others—
Oh! they’re like pieces of blackness. I saw them once. It was
terrible.”
“ And then?”
“ They go in, to where the dead person is, or the poor
burglar. And they have wax there—and all sorts of things.
And when they’re gone there’s just one of these wax models
left, on the table. And then our people put a dress on it, or
a bathing suit, and they mix it up with all the others, and
nobody ever knows.”
“ But aren’t they heavier than the others, these wax models? You would think they’d be heavier.”
“ No. They’re not heavier. I think there’s a lot of them—
gone.”
“ Oh, dear! So they were going to do that to you, when
you were a little child?”
“ Yes, only Mrs. Vanderpant said I was to be her maid.”
“ I don’t like these people, Ella.”
“ Nor do I. I wish I could see a bird.”
“ Why don’t you go into the pet-shop?”
“ It wouldn’t be the same. I want to see it on a twig, with
leaves.”
“ Ella, let us meet often. Let us creep away down here and
meet. I will tell you about birds, and twigs and leaves.”
MAY 1
For the last few nights the store has been feverish with the
shivering whisper of a huge crush at Bloomingdale’s. Tonight
was the night.
52
John Collier
“ Not changed yet? We leave on the stroke of two. ” Roscoe
has appointed himself, or been appointed, my guide or my
guard.
“ Roscoe, I am still a greenhorn. I dread the streets.”
“ Nonsense! There’s nothing to it. We slip out by two’s and
three’s, stand on the sidewalk, pick up a taxi. Were you never
out late in the old days? If so, you must have seen us, many
a time.”
“ Good heavens, I believe I have! And often wondered
where you came from. And it was from here! But, Roscoe,
my brow is burning. I find it hard to breathe. I fear a cold.”
“ In that case you must certainly remain behind. Our whole
party would be disgraced in die unfortunate event of a
sneeze.”
I had relied on their rigid etiquette, so largely based on
fear of discovery, and I was right. Soon they were gone,
drifting out like leaves aslant on the wind. At once I dressed
in flannel slacks, canvas shoes, and a tasteful sport shirt, all
new in stock today. I found a quiet spot, safely off the track
beaten by the night-watchman. There, in a model’s lifted
hand, I set a wide fern frond culled from the florist’s shop,
and at once had a young, spring tree. The carpet was sandy,
sandy as a lake-side beach. A snowy napkin; two cakes, each
with
a cherry on it; I had only to imagine the lake and to
find Ella.
“ Why, Charles, what’s this?”
“ I ’m a poet, Ella, and when a poet meets a girl like you
he thinks of a day in the country. Do you see this tree? Let’s
call it our tree. There’s the lake—the prettiest lake imaginable. Here is grass, and there are flowers. There are birds, too, Ella. You told me you like birds.”
“ Oh, Charles, you’re so sweet. I feel I hear them sing-
•
_ ti
mg.
“ And here’s our lunch. But before we eat, go behind the
rock there, and see what you find.”
I heard her cry out in delight when she saw the summer
dress I had put there for her. When she came back the spring
Everting Primrose
53
day smiled to see her, and the lake shone brighter than before. “ Ella, let us have lunch. Let us have fun. Let us have a swim. I can just imagine you in one of those new bathing
suits.”
“ Let’s just sit there, Charles, and talk.”
So we sat and talked, and the time was gone like a dream.
We might have stayed there, forgetful of everything, had it
not been for the spider.
“ Charles, what are you doing?”
“ Nothing, my dear. Just a naughty little spider, crawling
over your knee. Purely imaginary, of course, but that sort are
sometimes the worst. I had to try to catch him.”
“ Don’t, Charles! It’s late. It’s terribly late. They’ll be back
any minute. I ’d better go home.”
I took her home to the kitchenware on the sub-ground floor,
and kissed her good-day. She offered me her cheek. This
troubles me.
MAY 10
“ Ella, I love you.”
I said it to her just like that. We have met many times. I
have dreamt of her by day. I have not even kept up my journal. Verse has been out of the question.
“ Ella, I love you. Let us move into the trousseau department. Don’t look so dismayed, darling. If you like, we will go right away from here. We will live in that little restaurant
in Central Park. There are thousands of birds there.”
“ Please—please don’t talk like that!”
“ But I love you with all my heart.”
“ You mustn’t. ”
“ But I find I must. I can’t help it. Ella, you don’t love
another?”
She wept a litde. “ Oh, Charles, I do.”
“ Love another, Ella? One of these? I thought you dreaded
them all. It must be Roscoe. He is the only one that’s any
54
John Collier
way human. We talk of art, life, and such things. And he has
stolen your heart!”
“ No, Charles, no. He’s just like the rest, really. I hate
them all. They make me shudder.”
“ Who is it, then?”
“ It’s him .”
“ Who?”
“ The night-watchman.”
“ Impossible!”
“ No. He smells of the sun.”
“ Oh, Ella, you have broken my heart.”
“ Be my friend, though.”
“ I will. I ’ll be your brother. How did you fall in love with
him?”
“ Oh, Charles, it was so wonderful. I was thinking of birds,
and I was careless. Don’t tell on me, Charles. They’ll punish
m e.”
“ No. No. Go on.”
“ I was careless, and there he was, coming round the corner. And there was no place for me; I had this blue dress on.
There were only some wax models in their underthings.”
“ Please go on.”
“ I couldn’t help it. I slipped off my dress and stood still.”
“ I see.”
“ And he stopped just by me, Charles. And he looked at
me. And he touched my cheek.”
“ Did he notice nothing?”
“ No. It was cold. But Charles, he said—he said—‘Say,
honey, I wish they made ’em like you on Eighth Avenue.’
Charles, wasn’t that a lovely thing to say?”
“ Personally, I should have said Park Avenue.”
“ Oh, Charles, don’t get like these people here. Sometimes
I think you’re getting like them. It doesn’t matter what street,
Charles; it was a lovely thing to say.”
“ Yes, but my heart’s broken. And what can you do about
him? Ella, he belongs to another world.”
Evening Primrose
55
“ Yes, Charles, Eighth Avenue. I want to go there. Charles,
are you truly my friend?”
“ I ’m your brother, only my heart’s broken.”
“ I ’ll tell you. I will. I ’m going to stand there again. So
he’ll see m e.”
“ And then?”
“ Perhaps he’ll speak to me again.”
‘ ‘My dearest Ella, you are torturing yourself. You are making it worse.”
“ No, Charles. Because I shall answer him. He will take
me away.”
“ Ella, I can’t bear it.”
“ Ssh! There is someone coming. I shall see birds—real
birds, Charles—and flowers growing. They’re coming. You
must go.”
MAY 1 3
The last three days have been torture. This evening I broke.
Roscoe had joined me. He sat eying me for a long time. He
put his hand on my shoulder.
He said, “ You’re looking seedy, old fellow. Why don’t you
go over to Wanamaker’s for some skiing?”
His kindness compelled a frank response. “ It’s deeper than
that, Roscoe. I ’m done for. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep. I can’t
write, man, I can’t even write.”
“ What is it? Day starvation?”
“ Roscoe—it’s love.”
“ Not one of the staff, Charles, or the customers? That’s
absolutely forbidden.”
“ No, it’s not that, Roscoe. But just as hopeless.”
“ My dear old fellow, I can’t bear to see you like this. Let
me help you. Let me share your trouble.”
Then it came out. It burst out. I trusted him. I think I
trusted him. I really think I had no intention of betraying
Ella, of spoiling her escape, of keeping her here till her heart
turned towards me. If I had, it was subconscious, I swear it.
56
John Collier
But I told him all. All! He was sympathetic, but I detected
a sly reserve in his sympathy. “ You will respect my confidence. Roscoe? This is to be a secret between us.”
“ As secret as the grave, old chap.”
And he must have gone straight to Mrs. Vanderpant. This
evening the atmosphere has changed. People flicker to and
fro, smiling nervously, horribly, with a sort of frightened
sadistic exaltation. When I speak to them they answer evasively, fidget, and disappear. An informal dance has been called off. I cannot find Ella. I will creep out. I will look for
her again.
LATER
Heaven! It has happened. I went in desperation to the manager’s office, whose glass front overlooks the whole shop. I watched till midnight. Then I saw a little group of them, like
ants bearing a victim. They were carrying Ella. They took
her to the surgical department. They took other things.
And, coming back here, I was passed by a flittering, whispering horde of them, glancing over their shoul
ders in a thrilled ecstasy of panic, making for their hiding places. I,
too, hid myself. How can I describe the dark inhuman creatures that passed me, silent as shadows? They went there—
where Ella is.
What can I do? There is only one thing. I will find the
watchman. I will tell him. He and I will save her. And if we
are overpowered—Well, I will leave this on a counter. Tomorrow, if we live, I can recover it.
If not, look in the windows. Look for the three new figures: two men, one rather sensitive-looking, and a girl. She has blue eyes, like periwinkle flowers, and her upper lip is
lifted a little.
Look for us.
Smoke them out! Obliterate them! Avenge us!
M. R. Jam es
The Ash-Tree
M. R. James was the master of the ghost story in which
an evil from the distant past persists into the present and
is visited upon us as a legacy. His antiquarian ghost stories are a body of work that codified a main tradition of horror for the twentieth century. The weight of the past
haunts us in Jamesian fiction, a bleak, stern moral landscape rich in detail. “The Ash-Tree" is thematically interesting in contrast to Hawthorne and Wellman as a witchcraft story. James looks back to J. S. Le Fanu as
his paradigm (he is responsible for the modern revival
of interest in Le Fanu, through his famous edition of Le
Fanu stories, Madame Crowl's Ghost, 1923), but the onstage horror at the climax of “The Ash-Tree” is James'
own contribution, striking and monstrous, to the genre.
Everyone who has travelled over Eastern England knows
the smaller country-houses with which it is studded—the
rather dark little buildings, usually in the Italian style, surrounded with parks of some eighty to a hundred acres. For me they have always had a very strong attraction, with the
grey paling of split oak, the noble trees, the meres with their
reed-beds, and the line of distant woods. Then, I like the
pillared portico—perhaps stuck on to a red-brick Queen Anne
house which has been faced with stucco to bring it into line
57
58
M. R. James
with the “ Grecian” taste of the end of the eighteenth century; the hall inside, going up to the roof, which hall ought always to be provided with a gallery and a small organ. I like
the library, too, where you may find anything from a Psalter
of the thirteenth century to a Shakespeare quarto. I like the
pictures, of course; and perhaps most of all I like fancying
The Color of Evil - The Dark Descent V1 (1991) Page 7
