by Frank Norris
“Hey, there, Van, do your dog-act for us! Go on! Bark for us!”
By this time Vandover was very nearly out of his head, his drunkenness finishing what his nervousness had begun. The attack was fast approaching culmination; strange and unnatural fancies began to come and go in his brain.
“Go on, Van!” urged Ellis, his eyes heavy with alcohol. “Go on, do your dog-act!”
All at once it was as though an angry dog were snarling and barking over a bone there under the table about their feet. Ellis roared with laughter, but suddenly he himself was drunk. All the afternoon he had kept himself in hand; now his intoxication came upon him in a moment. The skin around his eyes was purple and swollen, the pupils themselves were contracted; they grew darker, taking on the colour of bitumen. Suddenly he swept glasses, plates, castor, knives, forks, and all from off the table with a single movement of his arm. Then the alcohol overcame him all in an instant like a poisonous gas. He swayed forward in his chair and fell across the stripped table, his head rolling inertly between his outstretched arms. He did not move again.
In a neighbouring room young Haight had been dining with some college fellows, fraternity men, all friends of his, upon whose coach he had ridden to and from the game. He had heard Vandover and Ellis in the room across the hall and had recognized their voices. Haight had never been a friend of Ellis, but no one, not even Turner, had grieved more over Vandover’s ruin than had his old-time college chum.
Young Haight heard the noise of the falling crockery as Ellis swept the table clear, and turned his head sharply, listening. There was a moment’s silence after this, and Haight, fearing some accident had happened, stepped out into the hall and stood there a moment listening again; his head inclined toward the closed door. He heard no groaning, no exclamations of pain, not even any noise of conversation; only through the closed door came a steady sound of barking.
Puzzled, he tried the door and, finding it locked, as he had expected, put one foot upon the knob and, catching hold of the top jamb, raised himself up and looked down through the open space that answered for a transom.
The room was very warm, the air thick with the smell of cooked food, the fumes of whisky, and the acrid odour of cigar smoke. Ellis had rolled from his chair and lay upon the floor sprawling on his face in the wreck of the table. Near to him, likewise upon the floor, but sitting up, his back against the wall, was the Dummy. He was muttering incessantly to himself, as if delighted at having found his tongue, his head swaying on his shoulders, and a strange murmur, soft, birdlike, meaningless, like sounds heard from a vast distance, coming from his wide-open mouth.
Vandover was sitting bolt upright in his chair, his hands gripping the table, his eyes staring straight before him. He was barking incessantly. It was evident that now he could not stop himself; it was like hysterical laughter, a thing beyond his control. Twice young Haight called him by name, kicking the door as his leg hung against it. At last Vandover heard him. Then as he caught sight of his face over the door he raised his upper lip above his teeth and snarled at him, long and viciously.
As Haight dropped down into the hall a waiter came running up; he, too, had heard the noise of the breaking dishes. As he thrust his key into the lock he paused a moment, listening and looking in a puzzled way at young Haight. “They have a dog in here, then? They had no dog when they came. That’s funny!”
“Open the door,” said young Haight quietly. Once inside Haight went directly to Vandover, crying out: “Come! come on, Van! come home with me.” Vandover started suddenly, looking about him bewildered, drawing his hand across his face.
“Home,” he repeated vaguely; “yes, that’s the idea. Let’s go home. I want to go to bed. Hello, Dolly! where did you come from? Say, Dolly, let me tell you — listen here — come down here close; you mustn’t mind me; you know I’m a wolf mostly!”
They went down toward the Lick House. Vandover grew steadier after a few minutes in the open air. Young Haight locked arms with him; they went on together in silence. By this time the streets were crowded again, the theatres were over, and the college men were once more at large. Now they were all gathered together into one immense procession, headed by a brass band in a brewer’s wagon, and they tramped aimlessly to and fro about Kearney and Market streets, making a hideous noise. At the head the band was playing a popular quick-step with a great banging of a bass drum. The college men in the front ranks were singing one song, those in the rear another, while the middle of the column was given over to an abominable medley of fish-horns, policemen’s rattles and great Chinese gongs. At stated intervals the throng would halt and give the college yell.
“Dolly, you and I used to do that,” said Vandover, looking after the procession. He had himself well in hand by this time. “What was the matter with me back there at the restaurant, Dolly?” he asked after a while.
“Oh, you’d been drinking a good deal, I guess,” answered young Haight. “You — you had some queer idea about yourself!”
“Yes, I know,” answered Vandover quickly. “Fancied I was some kind of a beast, didn’t I — some kind of wolf? I have that notion sometimes and I can’t get it out of my head. It’s curious just the same.”
They went up to Vandover’s room. Vandover lit the gas, but he could hardly keep back an exclamation as the glare suddenly struck young Haight’s face. What in heaven’s name was the matter with his old-time chum? He seemed to be blighted, shattered, struck down by some terrible, overwhelming calamity. A dreadful anguish looked through his eyes. The sense of a hopeless misery had drawn and twisted his face. There could be no doubt that something had made shipwreck of his life. Vandover was looking at a ruined man.
“My God, Dolly!” exclaimed Vandover, “what’s happened to you? You look like a death’s-head, man! What’s gone wrong? Aren’t you well?”
Haight caught his friend’s searching gaze, and for a moment they looked at each other without speaking. There was no mistaking the fearful grief that smouldered behind Haight’s dull, listless eyes. For a moment Vandover thought of Turner Ravis. But even if she had turned him off, that alone would not account for his friend’s fearful condition of mind and body.
“What is it, Dolly?” persisted Vandover. “We used to be pretty good chums, not so long ago.”
They sat down on the edge of the bed, and for a moment their positions seemed reversed: Haight the one to be protected and consoled, Vandover the shielding and self-reliant one.
Young Haight passed his hand over his face before he answered, and Vandover noticed that his fingers trembled like an old man’s.
“Do you remember that night, Van, when you and Charlie and I all went out to Turner’s house, and we had tamales and beer, and a glass broke in that peculiar way, and I cut my lip?”
Vandover nodded, forcing his attention against the alcoholic fumes, to follow his friend’s words.
“We went down to the Imperial afterward,” Haight continued, “and ran into Ellis, and we had something more to eat. Do you remember that as we sat there, Toby, the waiter, brought Flossie in, and she sat there with us a while?”
He paused, choosing his words. Vandover listened closely, trying to recall the incident.
“She kissed me,” said young Haight slowly, “and the court-plaster came off. You know I never had anything to do with women, Van. I always tried to keep away from them. But that’s where my life practically came to an end.”
“You mean—” began Vandover. “You mean — that you — that Flossie — ?”
Haight nodded.
“Good God! I can’t believe it. It’s not possible! I know Flossie!”
Haight shook his head, smiling grimly.
“I can’t help that, Van,” said he. “There’s no denying facts, there’s no other possible explanation! As soon as I knew, I went to the doctors here, and then I went to New York for treatment, but there’s no hope. I didn’t know, you see. I didn’t believe it possible. Turner Ravis and I were engaged. I waited too l
ong! There’s only one escape for me now.” His voice dropped, he stared for a moment at the floor. Then he straightened up, and said in a different tone, “But, damn it, Van, let’s not talk about it! I’m haunted with the thing day and night. I want to talk to you! I want to talk to you seriously. You know you are ruining yourself, old man!”
But Vandover interrupted him with a gesture, saying, “Don’t go on, Dolly; it isn’t the least use. There was a time for that, but that was long ago. I used to care, I used to be sorry and all that, but I’m not now. Ruining myself? Why, I have ruined myself long ago. We’re both ruined — only in your case it wasn’t your fault. It’s too late for me now, and I’m even not sorry that it is too late. Dolly, I don’t want to pull up. You can’t imagine a man fallen as low as that, can you? I couldn’t imagine it myself a few years ago. I’m going right straight to the devil now, and you might as well stand aside and give me a free course, for I’m bound to get there sooner or later. I suppose you would think that a man who could see this as plainly as I do would be afraid, would have remorse and all that sort of thing. Well, I did at first. I’ll never forget the night when I first saw it; came near shooting myself, but I got over it, and now I’m used to the idea. Dolly, I can get used to almost anything. Nothing makes much difference to me nowadays — only I like to play cards. Look here!” he went on, laying out the notice from the bank upon the table, “this came to-day. You see what it is! I sold the old house on California Street. Well, I’ve gambled away that money in less than a year. It seems that I’m a financial ruin now, but” — and he began to laugh— “I live through it somehow. The news didn’t prevent me from getting drunk to-night.”
After young Haight was gone, Vandover went to bed, turning out the gas and drawing down the window half-way from the top. The wine had made him sleepy; he was dropping away into a very grateful doze when a sudden shock, a violent leap of every nerve in his body, brought him up to a sitting posture, gasping for breath, his heart fluttering, his hands beating at the empty air. He settled down again, turning upon his pillow, closing his eyes, very weary, longing for a good night’s sleep. Dolly Haight’s terrible story, his unjustified fate, and the hopeless tragedy of it, came back to him. Vandover would gladly have changed places with him. Young Haight had the affection and respect of even those that knew. He, Vandover, had thrown away his friends’ love and their esteem with the rest of the things he had once valued. His thoughts, released from all control of his will, began to come and go through his head with incredible rapidity, confused ideas, half-remembered scenes, incidents of the past few days, bits and ends of conversation recalled for no especial reason, all galloping across his brain like a long herd of terrified horses; an excitement grew upon him, a strange thrill of exhilaration. He was broad awake now, but suddenly his left leg, his left arm and wrist, all his left side jerked with the suddenness of a sprung trap; so violent was the shock that the entire bed shook and creaked with it. Then the inevitable reaction followed, the slow crisping and torsion of his nerves, twisting upon each other like a vast swarm of tiny serpents; it seemed to begin with his ankles, spreading slowly to every part of his body; it was a veritable torture, so poignant that Vandover groaned under it, shutting his eyes. He could not keep quiet a second — to lie in bed was an impossibility; he threw the bed-clothes from him and sprang up. He did not light the gas, but threw on his bathrobe and began to walk the floor. Even as he walked, his eyelids drooped lower and lower. The need of sleep overcame him like a narcotic, but as soon as he was about to lose himself he would be suddenly and violently awakened by the same shock, the same jangling recoil of his nerves. Then his hands and head seemed to swell; next, it was as though the whole room was too small for him. He threw open the window and, leaning upon his elbows, looked out.
The clouds had begun to break, the rain was gradually ceasing, leaving in the air a damp, fresh smell, the smell of wet asphalt and the odour of dripping woodwork. It was warm; the atmosphere was dank, heavy, tepid. One or two stars were out, and a faint gray light showed him the vast reach of roofs below stretching away to meet the abrupt rise of Telegraph Hill. Not far off the slender, graceful smokestack puffed steadily, throwing off continually the little flock of white jets that rose into the air very brave and gay, but in the end dwindled irresolutely, discouraged, disheartened, fading sadly away, vanishing under the night, like illusions disappearing at the first touch of the outside world. As Vandover leaned from his window, looking out into the night with eyes that saw nothing, the college slogan rose again from the great crowd of students who still continued to hold the streets.
“Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah!”
He turned back into the room, groping among the bottles on his washstand for his bromide of potassium. As he poured out the required dose into the teaspoon his hand twitched again sharply, flirting the medicine over his bared neck and chest, exposed by the bathrobe which he had left open at the throat. It was cold, and he shivered a bit as he wiped it dry with the back of his hand.
He knew very well that his nervous attack was coming on again. As he set down the bottle upon the washstand he muttered to himself, “Now I’m going to have a night of it.” He began to walk the floor again with great strides, fighting with all his pitiful, shattered mind against the increasing hysteria, trying to keep out of his brain the strange hallucination that assailed it from time to time, the hallucination of a thing four-footed, a thing that sulked and snarled. The hotel grew quiet; a watchman went down the hall turning out each alternate gas jet. Just outside of the door was a burner in a red globe, fixed at a stair landing to show the exit in case of fire. This burned all night and it streamed through the transom of Vandover’s room, splotching the ceiling with a great square of red light. Vandover was in a torment, overcome now by that same fear with which he had at last become so familiar, the unreasoning terror of something unknown. He uttered an exclamation, a suppressed cry of despair, of misery, and then suddenly checked himself, astonished, seized with the fancy that his cry was not human, was not of himself, but of something four-footed, the snarl of some exasperated brute. He paused abruptly in his walk, listening, for what he did not know. The silence of the great city spread itself around him, like the still waters of some vast lagoon. Through the silence he heard the noise of the throng of college youths. They were returning, doubling upon their line of march. A long puff of tepid air breathing through the open window brought to his ears the distant joyous sound of their slogan:
“Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah!”
They passed by along the adjacent street, their sounds growing faint. Vandover took up his restless pacing again. Little by little the hallucination gained upon him; little by little his mind slipped from his grasp. The wolf — the beast — whatever the creature was, seemed in his diseased fancy to grow stronger in him from moment to moment. But with all his strength he fought against it, fought against this strange mania, that overcame him at these periodical intervals — fought with his hands so tightly clenched that the knuckles grew white, that the nails bit into the palm. It seemed to him that in some way his personality divided itself into three. There was himself, the real Vandover of every day, the same familiar Vandover that looked back at him from his mirror; then there was the wolf, the beast, whatever the creature was that lived in his flesh, and that struggled with him now, striving to gain the ascendency, to absorb the real Vandover into its own hideous identity; and last of all, there was a third self, formless, very vague, elusive, that stood aside and watched the strife of the other two. But as he fought against his madness, concentrating all his attention with a tremendous effort of the will, the queer numbness that came upon his mind whenever he exerted it enwrapped his brain like a fog, and this third self grew vaguer than ever, dwindled and disappeared. Somehow it seemed to be associated with consciousness, for after this the sense of the reality of things grew dim and blurred to him. He ceased to know exactly what he was doing. His intellectual parts dropped away one by one, leaving
only the instincts, the blind, unreasoning impulses of the animal.
Still he continued his restless, lurching walk back and forth in his room, his head hanging low and swinging from side to side with the movement of his gait. He had become so nervous that the restraint imposed upon his freedom of movement by his bathrobe and his loose night-clothes chafed and irritated him. At length he had stripped off everything.