The King in Yellow
Page 11
III
The day following was a disastrous one for me. While moving a framedcanvas from one easel to another my foot slipped on the polished floor,and I fell heavily on both wrists. They were so badly sprained that itwas useless to attempt to hold a brush, and I was obliged to wander aboutthe studio, glaring at unfinished drawings and sketches, until despairseized me and I sat down to smoke and twiddle my thumbs with rage. Therain blew against the windows and rattled on the roof of the church,driving me into a nervous fit with its interminable patter. Tessie satsewing by the window, and every now and then raised her head and lookedat me with such innocent compassion that I began to feel ashamed of myirritation and looked about for something to occupy me. I had read allthe papers and all the books in the library, but for the sake ofsomething to do I went to the bookcases and shoved them open with myelbow. I knew every volume by its colour and examined them all, passingslowly around the library and whistling to keep up my spirits. I wasturning to go into the dining-room when my eye fell upon a book bound inserpent skin, standing in a corner of the top shelf of the last bookcase.I did not remember it, and from the floor could not decipher the palelettering on the back, so I went to the smoking-room and called Tessie.She came in from the studio and climbed up to reach the book.
"What is it?" I asked.
"_The King in Yellow._"
I was dumfounded. Who had placed it there? How came it in my rooms? I hadlong ago decided that I should never open that book, and nothing on earthcould have persuaded me to buy it. Fearful lest curiosity might tempt meto open it, I had never even looked at it in book-stores. If I ever hadhad any curiosity to read it, the awful tragedy of young Castaigne, whomI knew, prevented me from exploring its wicked pages. I had alwaysrefused to listen to any description of it, and indeed, nobody everventured to discuss the second part aloud, so I had absolutely noknowledge of what those leaves might reveal. I stared at the poisonousmottled binding as I would at a snake.
"Don't touch it, Tessie," I said; "come down."
Of course my admonition was enough to arouse her curiosity, and before Icould prevent it she took the book and, laughing, danced off into thestudio with it. I called to her, but she slipped away with a tormentingsmile at my helpless hands, and I followed her with some impatience.
"Tessie!" I cried, entering the library, "listen, I am serious. Put thatbook away. I do not wish you to open it!" The library was empty. I wentinto both drawing-rooms, then into the bedrooms, laundry, kitchen, andfinally returned to the library and began a systematic search. She hadhidden herself so well that it was half-an-hour later when I discoveredher crouching white and silent by the latticed window in the store-roomabove. At the first glance I saw she had been punished for herfoolishness. _The King in Yellow_ lay at her feet, but the book wasopen at the second part. I looked at Tessie and saw it was too late. Shehad opened _The King in Yellow_. Then I took her by the hand and ledher into the studio. She seemed dazed, and when I told her to lie down onthe sofa she obeyed me without a word. After a while she closed her eyesand her breathing became regular and deep, but I could not determinewhether or not she slept. For a long while I sat silently beside her, butshe neither stirred nor spoke, and at last I rose, and, entering theunused store-room, took the book in my least injured hand. It seemedheavy as lead, but I carried it into the studio again, and sitting downon the rug beside the sofa, opened it and read it through from beginningto end.
When, faint with excess of my emotions, I dropped the volume and leanedwearily back against the sofa, Tessie opened her eyes and looked atme....
We had been speaking for some time in a dull monotonous strain before Irealized that we were discussing _The King in Yellow_. Oh the sin ofwriting such words,--words which are clear as crystal, limpid and musicalas bubbling springs, words which sparkle and glow like the poisoneddiamonds of the Medicis! Oh the wickedness, the hopeless damnation of asoul who could fascinate and paralyze human creatures with suchwords,--words understood by the ignorant and wise alike, words which aremore precious than jewels, more soothing than music, more awful thandeath!
We talked on, unmindful of the gathering shadows, and she was begging meto throw away the clasp of black onyx quaintly inlaid with what we nowknew to be the Yellow Sign. I never shall know why I refused, though evenat this hour, here in my bedroom as I write this confession, I should beglad to know _what_ it was that prevented me from tearing the YellowSign from my breast and casting it into the fire. I am sure I wished todo so, and yet Tessie pleaded with me in vain. Night fell and the hoursdragged on, but still we murmured to each other of the King and thePallid Mask, and midnight sounded from the misty spires in thefog-wrapped city. We spoke of Hastur and of Cassilda, while outside thefog rolled against the blank window-panes as the cloud waves roll andbreak on the shores of Hali.
The house was very silent now, and not a sound came up from the mistystreets. Tessie lay among the cushions, her face a grey blot in thegloom, but her hands were clasped in mine, and I knew that she knew andread my thoughts as I read hers, for we had understood the mystery of theHyades and the Phantom of Truth was laid. Then as we answered each other,swiftly, silently, thought on thought, the shadows stirred in the gloomabout us, and far in the distant streets we heard a sound. Nearer andnearer it came, the dull crunching of wheels, nearer and yet nearer, andnow, outside before the door it ceased, and I dragged myself to thewindow and saw a black-plumed hearse. The gate below opened and shut, andI crept shaking to my door and bolted it, but I knew no bolts, no locks,could keep that creature out who was coming for the Yellow Sign. And nowI heard him moving very softly along the hall. Now he was at the door,and the bolts rotted at his touch. Now he had entered. With eyes startingfrom my head I peered into the darkness, but when he came into the room Idid not see him. It was only when I felt him envelope me in his cold softgrasp that I cried out and struggled with deadly fury, but my hands wereuseless and he tore the onyx clasp from my coat and struck me full in theface. Then, as I fell, I heard Tessie's soft cry and her spirit fled: andeven while falling I longed to follow her, for I knew that the King inYellow had opened his tattered mantle and there was only God to cry tonow.
I could tell more, but I cannot see what help it will be to the world. Asfor me, I am past human help or hope. As I lie here, writing, carelesseven whether or not I die before I finish, I can see the doctor gatheringup his powders and phials with a vague gesture to the good priest besideme, which I understand.
They will be very curious to know the tragedy--they of the outside worldwho write books and print millions of newspapers, but I shall write nomore, and the father confessor will seal my last words with the seal ofsanctity when his holy office is done. They of the outside world may sendtheir creatures into wrecked homes and death-smitten firesides, and theirnewspapers will batten on blood and tears, but with me their spies musthalt before the confessional. They know that Tessie is dead and that I amdying. They know how the people in the house, aroused by an infernalscream, rushed into my room and found one living and two dead, but theydo not know what I shall tell them now; they do not know that the doctorsaid as he pointed to a horrible decomposed heap on the floor--the lividcorpse of the watchman from the church: "I have no theory, no explanation.That man must have been dead for months!"
I think I am dying. I wish the priest would--