The King in Yellow

by Robert W. Chambers

  THE YELLOW SIGN

  "Let the red dawn surmise What we shall do, When this blue starlight dies And all is through."

  I

  There are so many things which are impossible to explain! Why shouldcertain chords in music make me think of the brown and golden tints ofautumn foliage? Why should the Mass of Sainte Cecile bend my thoughtswandering among caverns whose walls blaze with ragged masses of virginsilver? What was it in the roar and turmoil of Broadway at six o'clockthat flashed before my eyes the picture of a still Breton forest wheresunlight filtered through spring foliage and Sylvia bent, half curiously,half tenderly, over a small green lizard, murmuring: "To think that thisalso is a little ward of God!"

  When I first saw the watchman his back was toward me. I looked at himindifferently until he went into the church. I paid no more attention tohim than I had to any other man who lounged through Washington Squarethat morning, and when I shut my window and turned back into my studio Ihad forgotten him. Late in the afternoon, the day being warm, I raisedthe window again and leaned out to get a sniff of air. A man was standingin the courtyard of the church, and I noticed him again with as littleinterest as I had that morning. I looked across the square to where thefountain was playing and then, with my mind filled with vague impressionsof trees, asphalt drives, and the moving groups of nursemaids andholiday-makers, I started to walk back to my easel. As I turned, mylistless glance included the man below in the churchyard. His face wastoward me now, and with a perfectly involuntary movement I bent to seeit. At the same moment he raised his head and looked at me. Instantly Ithought of a coffin-worm. Whatever it was about the man that repelled meI did not know, but the impression of a plump white grave-worm was sointense and nauseating that I must have shown it in my expression, for heturned his puffy face away with a movement which made me think of adisturbed grub in a chestnut.

  I went back to my easel and motioned the model to resume her pose. Afterworking a while I was satisfied that I was spoiling what I had done asrapidly as possible, and I took up a palette knife and scraped the colourout again. The flesh tones were sallow and unhealthy, and I did notunderstand how I could have painted such sickly colour into a study whichbefore that had glowed with healthy tones.

  I looked at Tessie. She had not changed, and the clear flush of healthdyed her neck and cheeks as I frowned.

  "Is it something I've done?" she said.

  "No,--I've made a mess of this arm, and for the life of me I can't seehow I came to paint such mud as that into the canvas," I replied.

  "Don't I pose well?" she insisted.

  "Of course, perfectly."

  "Then it's not my fault?"

  "No. It's my own."

  "I am very sorry," she said.

  I told her she could rest while I applied rag and turpentine to theplague spot on my canvas, and she went off to smoke a cigarette and lookover the illustrations in the _Courrier Francais_.

  I did not know whether it was something in the turpentine or a defect inthe canvas, but the more I scrubbed the more that gangrene seemed tospread. I worked like a beaver to get it out, and yet the diseaseappeared to creep from limb to limb of the study before me. Alarmed, Istrove to arrest it, but now the colour on the breast changed and thewhole figure seemed to absorb the infection as a sponge soaks up water.Vigorously I plied palette-knife, turpentine, and scraper, thinking allthe time what a _seance_ I should hold with Duval who had sold methe canvas; but soon I noticed that it was not the canvas which wasdefective nor yet the colours of Edward. "It must be the turpentine," Ithought angrily, "or else my eyes have become so blurred and confused bythe afternoon light that I can't see straight." I called Tessie, themodel. She came and leaned over my chair blowing rings of smoke into theair.

  "What _have_ you been doing to it?" she exclaimed

  "Nothing," I growled, "it must be this turpentine!"

  "What a horrible colour it is now," she continued. "Do you think my fleshresembles green cheese?"

  "No, I don't," I said angrily; "did you ever know me to paint like thatbefore?"

  "No, indeed!"

  "Well, then!"

  "It must be the turpentine, or something," she admitted.

  She slipped on a Japanese robe and walked to the window. I scraped andrubbed until I was tired, and finally picked up my brushes and hurledthem through the canvas with a forcible expression, the tone alone ofwhich reached Tessie's ears.

  Nevertheless she promptly began: "That's it! Swear and act silly and ruinyour brushes! You have been three weeks on that study, and now look!What's the good of ripping the canvas? What creatures artists are!"

  I felt about as much ashamed as I usually did after such an outbreak, andI turned the ruined canvas to the wall. Tessie helped me clean mybrushes, and then danced away to dress. From the screen she regaled mewith bits of advice concerning whole or partial loss of temper, until,thinking, perhaps, I had been tormented sufficiently, she came out toimplore me to button her waist where she could not reach it on theshoulder.

  "Everything went wrong from the time you came back from the window andtalked about that horrid-looking man you saw in the churchyard," sheannounced.

  "Yes, he probably bewitched the picture," I said, yawning. I looked at mywatch.

  "It's after six, I know," said Tessie, adjusting her hat before themirror.

  "Yes," I replied, "I didn't mean to keep you so long." I leaned out ofthe window but recoiled with disgust, for the young man with the pastyface stood below in the churchyard. Tessie saw my gesture of disapprovaland leaned from the window.

  "Is that the man you don't like?" she whispered.

  I nodded.

  "I can't see his face, but he does look fat and soft. Someway or other,"she continued, turning to look at me, "he reminds me of a dream,--anawful dream I once had. Or," she mused, looking down at her shapelyshoes, "was it a dream after all?"

  "How should I know?" I smiled.

  Tessie smiled in reply.

  "You were in it," she said, "so perhaps you might know something aboutit."

  "Tessie! Tessie!" I protested, "don't you dare flatter by saying that youdream about me!"

  "But I did," she insisted; "shall I tell you about it?"

  "Go ahead," I replied, lighting a cigarette.

  Tessie leaned back on the open window-sill and began very seriously.

  "One night last winter I was lying in bed thinking about nothing at allin particular. I had been posing for you and I was tired out, yet itseemed impossible for me to sleep. I heard the bells in the city ringten, eleven, and midnight. I must have fallen asleep about midnightbecause I don't remember hearing the bells after that. It seemed to methat I had scarcely closed my eyes when I dreamed that something impelledme to go to the window. I rose, and raising the sash leaned out.Twenty-fifth Street was deserted as far as I could see. I began to beafraid; everything outside seemed so--so black and uncomfortable. Thenthe sound of wheels in the distance came to my ears, and it seemed to meas though that was what I must wait for. Very slowly the wheelsapproached, and, finally, I could make out a vehicle moving along thestreet. It came nearer and nearer, and when it passed beneath my window Isaw it was a hearse. Then, as I trembled with fear, the driver turned andlooked straight at me. When I awoke I was standing by the open windowshivering with cold, but the black-plumed hearse and the driver weregone. I dreamed this dream again in March last, and again awoke besidethe open window. Last night the dream came again. You remember how it wasraining; when I awoke, standing at the open window, my night-dress wassoaked."

  "But where did I come into the dream?" I asked.

  "You--you were in the coffin; but you were not dead."

  "In the coffin?"

  "Yes."

  "How did you know? Could you see me?"

  "No; I only knew you were there."

  "Had you been eating Welsh rarebits, or lobster salad?" I began,laughing, but the girl interrupted me with a frightened cry.

  "Hello! What's up?" I said,
as she shrank into the embrasure by thewindow.

  "The--the man below in the churchyard;--he drove the hearse."

  "Nonsense," I said, but Tessie's eyes were wide with terror. I went tothe window and looked out. The man was gone. "Come, Tessie," I urged,"don't be foolish. You have posed too long; you are nervous."

  "Do you think I could forget that face?" she murmured. "Three times I sawthe hearse pass below my window, and every time the driver turned andlooked up at me. Oh, his face was so white and--and soft? It lookeddead--it looked as if it had been dead a long time."

  I induced the girl to sit down and swallow a glass of Marsala. Then I satdown beside her, and tried to give her some advice.

  "Look here, Tessie," I said, "you go to the country for a week or two,and you'll have no more dreams about hearses. You pose all day, and whennight comes your nerves are upset. You can't keep this up. Then again,instead of going to bed when your day's work is done, you run off topicnics at Sulzer's Park, or go to the Eldorado or Coney Island, and whenyou come down here next morning you are fagged out. There was no realhearse. There was a soft-shell crab dream."

  She smiled faintly.

  "What about the man in the churchyard?"

  "Oh, he's only an ordinary unhealthy, everyday creature."

  "As true as my name is Tessie Reardon, I swear to you, Mr. Scott, thatthe face of the man below in the churchyard is the face of the man whodrove the hearse!"

  "What of it?" I said. "It's an honest trade."

  "Then you think I _did_ see the hearse?"

  "Oh," I said diplomatically, "if you really did, it might not be unlikelythat the man below drove it. There is nothing in that."

  Tessie rose, unrolled her scented handkerchief, and taking a bit of gumfrom a knot in the hem, placed it in her mouth. Then drawing on hergloves she offered me her hand, with a frank, "Good-night, Mr. Scott,"and walked out.