“What’ll we do? Don’t want anyone bothering Mr. Martin. I like him,” Chris decided.
Quickly the girl took thought. “I know!”
Within the hour the bell rang again. This man was much younger, and obviously of higher social status. Bright eyes, dark curly hair. “Excuse me, Miss? Are you the woman of the house?”
“Who wants her?”
“I’m George Harris, of Harris and Sons, moving and shipment.” A large, clean hand with well-trimmed nails offered a business card. Carrie read the address: Orange Master’s Yard, Soho.
“Oh. I suppose you’re one of the sons.”
“That’s right, Miss. I’m looking about this neighborhood for a box that seems to have got misplaced. There’s evidence it was brought to this house, some days ago. One of a large shipment, fifty in all, there’s been a lot of hauling of ’em to and fro around London, one place and another. Ours not to reason why, as the poet says. But our firm feels a certain responsibility.”
“What sort of box?”
George Harris had a good description, down to the rope handles. “Seen anything like that, Miss?” Meanwhile his eyes were probing the empty house behind her.
And Carrie was looking out past him, as a cab came galloping to a stop outside. Two well-dressed young gentlemen leaped out and climbed the steps. George Harris, who seemed to know them as respected clients, made introductions. Lord Godalming, no less, but called “Art” by his companion, Mr. Quincey Morris, who was carrying a carpetbag, and whose accent, though not at all the same as Mr. Martin’s, also seemed uncommon even for Soho.
The new arrivals made nervous, garbled attempts at explaining their urgent search. There had been, it seemed, twenty-one boxes taken from some place called Carfax, and so forty-nine of fifty were somehow now accounted for. But this time, Lord Godalming or not, Carrie held her place firmly in the doorway, allowing no one in.
“If there is a large box on the premises, I must examine it.” A commanding tone, as only one of his lordship’s exalted rank could manage.
At that, Carrie gracefully gave way. “Very well, sir, my lord, there is a strange box here, and where it came from, I’m sure I don’t know.”
Three men came bustling into the house, ready for action, Morris actually, for some reason, beginning to pull a thick wooden stake out of his carpetbag—and three men were deflated, like burst balloons, when they beheld the thin-sided, commonplace container on the parlor floor.
“Our furniture has not arrived yet, as you can see.” The lady of the house was socially apologetic.
Quincey Morris, muttering indelicate words, kicked off the scruffy lid, and indeed there was dirt inside, but only a few handfuls. And the two gentlemen hastily retreated to their waiting cab.
But George Harris lingered in the doorway, exchanging a few more words with Carrie. Until his lordship shouted at him to get a move on, there were other places to be examined. On with the search!
At sunset Carrie’s and Christopher’s cotenant came walking down the stairs into the parlor as before. There he paused, fussing with his cuffs as on the previous evening, But now his attention was caught by the rejected box. “And what is this? An attempt at furnishing?”
“You had some callers, Mr. Martin—de Ville—while you were asleep. I thought as maybe you didn’t wish to be disturbed.” And Carrie gave details.
“I see.” His dark eyes glittered at her. “And this—?”
“The gentlemen said they were looking for a large box of earth. So I thought the easiest way was to show ’em one. Chris and I put some dirt in and dragged it up from the cellar. ’Course this one ain’t nearly as big as yours. Not big enough for a tall man to lie down in. The gents were upset—this weren’t at all the one they wanted to find.”
There was a long pause, in which de Ville’s eyes probed the children silently. Then he bowed. “It seems I am greatly in your debt, Miss Carrie. Very greatly. And in yours, Master Christopher.”
Mr. de Ville seemed to sleep little the next day, or not at all, for the box in the garret held only earth. In the afternoon, Carrie by special invitation went with her new friend and his strange box to Doolittle’s Wharf, where she watched the man and his box board the sailing ship Czarina Catherine. And she waited at dockside, wondering, until the Russian vessel cast off and dropped down seaward on the outgoing tide.
As she returned to the house, feeling once more alone and unprotected, she noted that the evil Vincent was openly watching her again.
He grew bolder when, after several days, it seemed that the man of the house was gone.
George Harris came back once, on some pretext, but obviously to see Carrie, and they talked for some time. She learned that he was seventeen, and admitted she was three years younger.
Five days, then six, had passed since Czarina Catherine sailed away.
George Harris came back again, this time wondering if he might have left his order book behind on his previous visit. Carrie made him tea, out of the newly restocked pantry. Mr. de Ville had left them what he called a token of his gratitude for their timely help, and sometimes Carrie was almost frightened when she counted up the golden coins. There was a bed in each bedroom now, and chairs and tables below.
Tonight Chris was in the house alone, curled up and reading by the fire, nursing a cough made worse by London air. Carrie was out alone in the London fog, walking through the greasy, smoky chill.
She heard the terrifying voice of Vincent, not far away, calling her name. There were footsteps in pursuit, hard confident strides, and in her fresh anxiety she took a wrong turning into a dead-end mews.
In another moment she was running in panic, on the verge of screaming, feeling in her bones that screaming would do no good.
Someone, some presence, was near her in the fog—but no, there was no one and nothing there.
Only her pursuer’s footsteps, which came on steadily, slow and loud and confident—until they abruptly ceased.
Backed into a corner, she strained her ears, listening—nothing. Vincent must be playing cat and mouse with her. But at last a breath of wind stirred the heavy air, the gray curtain parted, and the way out of the mews seemed clear. Utterly deserted, only the body of some derelict, rolled into a corner.
No—someone was visible after all. Half a block ahead, a tall figure stood looking in Carrie’s direction, as if he might be waiting for her.
With a surge of relief and astonishment she hurried forward. “Mr. de Ville!”
“My dear child. It is late for you to be abroad.”
“I saw you board a ship for the Black Sea!”
His gaze searched the fog, sweeping back and forth over her head. “It is important that certain men believe I am still on that ship. And soon I really must depart from England. But I shall return to this sceptered isle one day.”
Anxiously she looked over her shoulder. “There was a man—”
“Your former neighbor, who meant you harm.” De Ville’s forehead creased. His eyes probed shadows in the mews behind her. “It is sad to contemplate such wickedness.” He sighed, put out a hand, patted her cheek. “But no matter. He will bother you no more. He told me—”
“You’ve seen him, sir?”
“Yes, just now—that he is leaving on a long journey—nay, has already left.”
Carrie was puzzled. “Long journey—to where, sir? America?”
“Farther than that, my child. Oh, farther than that.”
A man’s voice was audible above the endless traffic rumble, calling her name through the night from blocks away. The voice of George Harris, calling, concerned, for Carrie.
Bidding Mr. de Ville a hasty good night, she started to go to the young man. Then, meaning to ask another question, she turned back—the street was empty, save for the rolling fog.
2004
A DROP OF SOMETHING SPECIAL IN THE BLOOD
Monday, 16 July, 1888—
The dream again, last night. I shall continue to call these visitat
ions dreams, as the London specialist very firmly insisted upon doing, and it is at his urging that I begin this private record of events. As to the “dream” itself, I can only hope and pray that in setting it down on paper I may be able to exorcise at least a portion of the horror.
I awoke—or so I thought—in an unmanly state of fear, at the darkest hour of the night.
As before, the impression (whether true or not) that I had come wide-awake, was very firm. There was no confusion as to where I was; I immediately recognized, by the faint glow of streetlights coming in round the edges of the window curtain, the room in which I had lain down to sleep, in this case a somewhat overdecorated bedchamber in an overpriced Parisian hotel.
For a moment I lay listening, in a strange state of innocent anticipation. It was as if my certain memory of what must inexorably follow was for the moment held in abeyance. But that state lasted for a few breaths only. In the next instant, memory returned with a rush. There was a faint sound at the window; and I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt what I must see when I turned my gaze in that direction. She was standing there, of course, just inside the window. In my last coherent thoughts before falling asleep, I had begun to hope (absurdly, I suppose, whatever the true cause may be) that the visitations could not have followed me from London.
In the poor light it was as difficult as on the previous occasions to be sure of the color of her long curls of hair, but I thought they might be as red as my own were in my youth. The long tresses fell to her waist round her voluptuous body, that was otherwise only partially concealed by a simple shift or gown.
Though the moonlight was behind her, I thought that her slight figure threw no shadow on the floor. In spite of that, hers was a most carnal and unspiritual appearance. Plainly I could see her brilliant white teeth, that shone like pearls against the ruby of her full lips.
A tremendous longing strove against a great fear in my heart . . . I knew, as had happened on every previous occasion, a burning desire that she would kiss me with those red lips . . .
It is difficult for me to note these things down, lest someday this page should fall under the gaze of one I love, and cause great pain. (Florence, forgive me, if you can! Will I ever embrace you again?) But it is the truth, even if only a true account of a strange dream, and I must hope that the truth will set me free.
I have not yet learned my nocturnal visitor’s name—assuming that the woman is real enough to have one. Perhaps I should call her “the girl,” for she seems very young. As she approached my bed last night she laughed . . . such a silvery, musical laugh, but as hard as though the sound could never have come through the softness of human lips. It was like the intolerable, tingling sweetness of water glasses when played on by a cunning hand . . .
Overcome by a strange helplessness, I had closed my eyes. The girl advanced and bent over me till I could feel the movement of her breath upon me. Sweet it was in one sense, honey-sweet, and sent the same tingling through the nerves as her voice, but with a bitter underlying the sweet, a bitter offensiveness, as one smells in blood.
I was afraid to raise my eyelids, but could see out perfectly under the lashes. The girl bent over me, and I had the sense that she was fairly gloating. She actually licked her lips like an animal, till I could see in the moonlight the moisture shining on the scarlet lips and on the red tongue as it lapped the sharp white teeth. Lower and lower went her head as the lips went below the range of my mouth and bearded chin and seemed about to fasten on my throat . . . I could feel the hot breath on my neck, and the skin of my throat began to tingle as one’s flesh does when the hand that is to tickle it approaches nearer—nearer . . . the soft, shivering touch of the lips on the supersensitive skin of my throat, and the hard dents of two sharp teeth, just touching and pausing there. I closed my eyes in a languorous ecstasy and waited—waited with beating heart.
Suddenly she straightened, and her head turned as if listening for some distant but all-important sound. As if released from a spell, I moved as if to spring out of the bed, but in the instant before the motion could be completed, she bent over me again. The touch of her fingers on my arm seemed to drain the strength from all my limbs, and I sank back helplessly.
“So sweet is your blood, my little Irishman. I think there is a drop of something special in it,” the apparition murmured. In my confused state, the idea that this diminutive visitor might call my large frame “little” drew from my lips a burst of foolish laughter.
In response, the girl laughed again, a sound of ribald coquetry, and bent over me to accomplish her purpose.
Then the truth, or what seemed the truth, of what was happening overcame me, and I sank down in a delirium of unbearable horror and indescribable delight commingled, until my senses failed me.
ODDLY ENOUGH, my faint, if such it was, passed seamlessly into a deep and restful sleep, and I slept well until the street sounds of Paris, some cheerful and some angry, below my window, brought me round at almost ten o’clock.
My awakening this morning was slow and almost painful, and it was difficult to fight free of a persistent heaviness clinging to all my limbs. A single spot of dried blood, half the size of my little finger’s nail, stained the pillow, not three as on certain unhappy mornings in the recent past. In London I had independent confirmation (from a hotel maid) that the stains themselves are real, which at the time afforded me inordinate relief.
This morning, as before, an anxious examination in a mirror disclosed on my throat, just where I felt the pressure of lips and teeth, near the lower border of my full beard, the same ambiguous evidence—two almost imperceptible red spots, so trivial that in ordinary circumstances no one would give them a moment’s thought. I cannot say it is impossible that the small hemorrhage had issued from them, but it might as easily have come from nostril, mouth, or ear.
I take some comfort in the fact that if anyone in the world can help me, it is the physician I have come to Paris to see—Jean-Martin Charcot, perhaps the world’s foremost authority on locomotor ataxia, as well as hypnotism. Whether he can possibly help me, either in his character as mesmerist, or as expert in neuropathy, is yet to be discovered. If Charcot can help, in one capacity or the other, he must. If he cannot, I tremble for my very life. I have already gone past the point of fearing for my sanity.
I must force myself to write down what I have been avoiding until now, the evil I fear the most. If the girl has no objective reality, then mental horrors that I endure are sheer delusion, and the precursor of much worse to come, of an absolute mental and physical ruin. I am in the grip of a loathsome and shameful disease, contracted years ago—if that is so, then what is left of my life will not be worth the living. I only pray God that the source of my agony may not be syphilis. It is only with difficulty that I can force myself to pen the word on this white page—but there, it is done.
As far as I know, or the world knows, there is no cure. The more advanced physicians admit that the current standard of treatment, with potassium iodide, has been shown to be practically worthless. I know the early symptoms (alas, from my own case) and have seen the full horror of the tertiary stage expressed in the bodies of other men. Delusions are frequently a part of that catastrophe.
But the beast takes many forms. The first symptom of the last stage, sometimes appearing decades after the first, local signs of infection have passed away, tends to be a weakening or total loss of the ankle and knee reflex. In succeeding months and years the patient’s ability to walk, and even to stand normally, slowly declines. Sometimes in medical description the initials GPI are used, standing for general paralysis of the insane, the most dreaded late manifestation. The effects on the brain are varied, but include delusions, loss of memory, sometimes violent anger. Disorientation, incontinence, and convulsions occur often. Tabes dorsalis (also known as locomotor ataxia) is the commonest symptom of infection in the spinal cord. Others include darting attacks of intense pain in the legs and hips, difficult urination, numbness in hands or feet,
a sense of constriction about the waist, an unsteadiness in walking—all capped by a loss of sexual function.
So far I have experienced only the delusions—if such they are. Horrible as that fate would be, I believe this current torture of uncertainty is even worse. I will go mad if Heaven does not grant me an answer soon.
(LATER)—I find it a source of irritation that I will not be presenting myself, openly and honestly from the beginning, to Charcot as a sufferer in need of help, but only as a visiting “celebrity.” In the latter category I of course shine solely by the reflected light of my employer. No one here has shown the least awareness of my own small literary efforts; and I would not be surprised to learn that no Parisian has ever read Duties of Clerks of Petty Sessions in Ireland.
This concealment of my true purpose is, to a certain extent, dishonesty on my part. But when I consider the unfortunate publicity that might otherwise result, and the risk of harm to others if my condition were widely known, it seems to me the role of honor must include a measure of dishonesty. Desperate though my situation is, I wish to meet Charcot and form my own estimate of the man and his methods (which some denounce, perhaps out of jealousy), before committing myself completely into his hands.
EVENING: TODAY I HAVE seen and heard that which frightened me anew, but also that which gives me hope. Let me set down the events of the afternoon as quickly and calmly as I can, before the memory of even the smallest detail has begun to fade.
First, let me state my key discovery: The girl is real! Real, and, to my utter astonishment, a patient of Charcot’s!
I was certain, from the moment today when our eyes met in the hospital, that she knew me as instantly and surely as I knew her. I suppose I need not try to describe the hideous shock I suffered upon recognizing her among the inmates. There can be no possibility of a mistake, though in the filtered daylight her teeth appeared quite small and ordinary.
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