Fortunately — I mean fortunately for us because, as will be seen, it was very unfortunate for him — fortunately Von Hahn began to talk politics, and in his capacity as professor of philosophy and history he took upon himself to give us a crushing lecture on the tremendous destinies of the German world.
The audacity and absurdity of this discourse, which he allowed himself to deliver with his mouth full, can scarcely be imagined. Sometimes he was prophetic and sometimes poetic. I must admit that he served up the poetry in a deep voice moistened with white wine and emotion.
While many strong jaws were actively engaged many eyes were averted to hide their patriotic overflow. When Uncle Ulrich conjured up the vision of mothers and sisters “who in the midst of their tears, never allowed a day to pass without contributing the most gracious flower of their courage to the garlands that encircled the victorious brow of Germany,” I glanced at the ship-owning burgomaster opposite me. He was shedding tears into his plate over this balderdash!
Observing that I was aware of his emotion he hastily wiped his eyes with his left hand. It was then that I discovered he had no right hand, and I offered to cut up his food for him.... He replied very courteously that thanks to a combined knife and fork which had been obtained for him on board he could manipulate his food almost as easily as before.
“Is it long since you lost your hand?” I asked.
“No,” he answered, this time somewhat dryly, “not quite a month.”
“Were you wounded in the war?”
“Yes, in the war.”
And I saw at once that he was absolutely furious.
I did not pursue a subject which was evidently disagreeable to him, poor man, and how well I understood him.... Doubtless as a set-off against the agitation into which the remembrance of the mothers and sisters of his native land had thrown him, he began to tell his neighbours a few rollicking anecdotes....
I stared in bewilderment at the dozen persons whom I had observed, when I first came in, seated at the table in a line against the wall as in a refectory. They did not move when the others stood up. I noticed the fact, but it did not excite any comment. And I stared at the crutches standing against the wall behind them. These men had arms and hands right enough. Not a single hand was missing at that table... but limbs must certainly be missing under the table, or else why those crutches?
Well and what then? What is there unusual in reserving a place exclusively for cripples? These persons were no doubt wounded in the course of the fight and taken prisoners. And our submarine picked them up and is taking care of them. That is all... that is all.
For, after all, if they had lost a limb inside a certain saloon, behind a certain grille, they would not be hungry or thirsty, nor would they have the courage or enthusiasm to listen to the celebrated Professor von Hahn’s pompous futilities.... Or else, let madness fly away with me on the wings of fire, far from this monstrous guest-chamber.
Hostages! Like all the others they are hostages and are being loaded with delicate attentions.
So laugh, hostages... drink, hostages... shout, Hoch! hostages. One of these days a pretty picture will be taken behind the railed recess.
“Monsieur, can we get you anything?”
My neighbours were alarmed at my reverie. It seems that I was talking aloud and spluttering incomprehensible words.... I should like to go away: I should like to go to bed; but I cannot tear myself away.... I cannot leave this splendid, resounding gathering of prisoners dedicated to martyrdom and champagne.
To champagne first of all. It is the hour of champagne. It fills the glasses; it warms throats and hearts. An officer toasts: Notre Dame of champagne... for thus he christens the cathedral at Rheims, or what is left of it.
“Would you like some jam tart and cream, sir?” It was Buldeo who came up to me and asked the question. Silently but with complete mastery he had superintended the service for the dinner from the start.
“I think you would be well advised to return to your room, sir... I will take you there if you like.”
I had sufficient strength to shake my head decisively. I insist on remaining... I insist... I want to know more. But Buldeo persisted:
“You are whiter than the tablecloth, sir. I shouldn’t like you to be ill here. I fear you are not so strong as you think.”
With a feverish but imperative gesture I ordered him to leave me. As it happened, at that moment Lieutenant Smith, the Man from Funchal, whom I have called the Irishman, entered the room. He still wore that air of detachment from the things of this world that was imparted to him by his lifeless eyes.
I have already mentioned that these gentlemen had emptied several large glasses of champagne; and it was certainly this indulgence which was partly responsible for the furtive emotion of the ship-owning burgomaster with the one hand. I believe that it was the abuse of this generous wine which impelled him suddenly to stand up with his glass in his hand, and wildly to propose the toast: “The charming Lieutenant Smith with the lifeless eyes. He looks after us so well that it would be unpardonable,” declared the burgomaster in a frenzy, “not to drink his health.”
I fully expected shouts or protestations, or ironical applause; or some simple measure that would silence the burgomaster if only for the honour and dignity of Professor Hahn, of Bonn University, whose eloquence was literally stopped dead by this enthusiast. But I must admit that for the moment everybody’s attention was concentrated on what Lieutenant Smith was going to reply.
“Monsieur,” at last said Lieutenant Smith in a mournful voice, “you may take this opportunity to drink the health of Captain Hyx who has requested me to wish you good evening.”
It was then that we heard the insufferable voice of Uncle Ulrich who had been on the rack for at least five minutes during which he had not been able to utter a single stupidity.... I shall not soon forget how he drew up his corpulent little body, with its short arms, above the table against which he was leaning, in the manner affected by orators at society lectures, and asked with an emphasis which he tried to make impressive:
“And what about me, Professor von Hahn of Bonn University? Does Captain Hyx send me his good night wishes? No, of course not.... I understand that. He would not dare. There are certain liberties which are not permitted... even to the biggest fools.”
Meanwhile, on either side of him, Von Busch, his red face redder than ever, and Von Freemann, his green face greener than a dead frog, did their utmost to reduce him to silence; but no one has yet been able to keep a learned Professor quiet when the toasts are under way.
“Lieutenant Smith,” continued Von Hahn, “ tell Captain Hyx from me that he does well to behave with due respect towards the warriors of His Majesty William II, and to treat them as the first gentlemen in the whole world. Some people imagine that we still live in the days when hairdressers ran the risk of dying from starvation in our country.... Look around you.... What charm and elegance.... Might and civilisation.... That is what we represent... we the barbarians of Germany, soldiers of Arminius who saved the World.” (The poor man was slightly “elevated.”)
“Tell your master that the sword of Germany, like the hammer of Thor, is invincible. It is well that he should know it on this special day. Tell him that we have stabilised in immutable fashion the changing fortune of war, and that innumerable wreaths decorate our banners. Tell him that we have recovered the old paths leading to victory, and that no greater misfortune could befall him than to doubt it even for a moment.... Tell him also that his champagne is of the finest and purest quality.”
“Come and tell him all that yourself,” retorted Lieutenant Smith, with a suggestion of tit for tat in his mournful voice.
In spite of Von Busch and Von Freemann’s discreet remonstrance, the Professor was unable to resist the invitation, and he followed Lieutenant Smith out of the room. Buldeo calmly closed the door and ordered coffee and liqueurs to be brought in.
How is it that I who am never free from anxiety am filled with a n
ew dread? Why cannot I take my eyes away from the door which has just closed so naturally?
Buldeo, supervising everything, stands before the door. With his box of cigars in his hand he is the picture of a perfect butler. Why do I start in fear lest he may suddenly turn his short, silent steps towards me and hold out the box, and offer me one of those cigars which the others are smoking so intently?
Why has the conversation in this room, so noisy a moment ago, died away? How is it that for the last minute these people can find nothing to say? Perhaps it is... who knows... because they are all thinking the same thing... the thing which I am thinking. Can it be true?
I watch them... I watch them. A smile of pride still lingers round their full lips, but their faces are more gloomy than ever.... And they start to read the newspapers while sipping one after another their coffee and liqueurs.
A silence ensues which is singularly painful for everybody; and I am thankful when Von Busch breaks it, once for all, though what he is talking about I neither know nor care. Almost immediately they raise their voices together as if they are eager to make up for lost time. You may notice exactly the same thing in aviaries filled with little birds.
But, wonder of wonders, why do they not burst into laughter if they heard the shout which I heard, the shrill grotesque yell which slipped through a half-open door at the back of the room near the end of the principal table... the quaint cry of distress which recalls to mind the voice of the Professor when he is discoursing “with a frog in the throat”?
However, the persons who are at the end of the principal table must have heard it. The cry made me turn round bolt upright, nearly made me laugh in surprise and then tremble in fear. And yet I am the only one to be alarmed by it.
The door is closed quickly by some one who is passing; and the buzz of conversation reaches an unwonted pitch.
Meanwhile a burgomaster next to me gets up from the table and bows to me at the very moment when I am asking him if he heard anything, and without answering me, walks to the particular door, opens it and disappears. But this time no sound is heard through the door as it is being opened.
Another guest rises and drawing himself up solemnly walks to the door, as straight as an arrow, like a drunken man who is dreadfully afraid of making a false step lest he should never be able to recover himself. He opens it, and thrusts himself into the alley-way, and the door closes after him, but not before the strange clamour rises once more.
It is undoubtedly the ridiculous and despairing voice of Professor von Hahn.... I stammer meaningless words. My hand points to the door.... My feet wander irresistibly towards it. And yet no one takes the slightest notice of me; no one challenges me; no one answers the question that forces itself from my strained throat: “Did you hear?... Did you hear?”
They laugh.... Now they laugh with more abandon, and abandon themselves to more champagne. And some of them throw open the door without a word and disappear into the passage whence the tumult comes, as if they had seen nothing, as if they had heard nothing.... They vanish almost like phantoms walking upright with head erect.
And every time the door is opened the alarming cry is heard and is reflected on the gloomy faces in the room; and yet every mouth continues to talk and laugh and drink.
I reach the door, but am without the strength to make a movement.... I am quite bewildered... quite bewildered.
I am waiting for another of these gentlemen to get up, as has happened half a dozen times, open the door himself and make his way into the corridor. Then I will see what I can do.
Besides, I want to know what it all means. I feel that if I do not know very soon my mind will give way, for, after all, they heard... and if they heard they know the truth. Then why do they pretend not to know?... And why do some of them get up and go in the direction of the cries while others continue to behave as if they heard nothing at all?
Silence! I want to know if there is still shouting behind that door.... It must be an extremely well-padded door and constructed expressly to prevent sounds of torment from penetrating it unless one really wishes to hear them.
Then why do some of them open the door since they know that there is the sound of trouble behind it, and why, immediately the cries are heard, do they raise their voices so as to drown them?
In truth, I feel such an aversion for these people that I have no desire to see them again, and using what little remains of my energy and courage I quickly open the door, and, in my turn, force myself into the “shouting gallery.” Or rather the passage from which the cries came, because it is now silent... silent... and lit up by only one soft and distant glimmer.
I go towards the light and find myself in a small space where I recognise the six persons who opened the door and preceded me.... They are sitting entirely motionless with their hands on their knees like Egyptian gods in a subterranean chamber of ancient Thebes. Certainly they do not stir any more than if they were petrified. A tall Hindu servant whom I have not seen before brings up a chair and invites me to sit down.
I sit in the same manner as the others. Where are we? We see only our stone shadows in the reflection of the soft rose-coloured light descending from the ceiling.
But suddenly something dazzling appears before us; something behind the grating that I at once recognise.... It is a room with four square posts; a room that is known to me, all in white, like the room in an operating theatre; but a room which to-night is not absolutely awful to see.
I confess that the bare recollection of my first fainting fit in a railed recess — not this one, for it was easily reached through curtains, while this one ends in the blind alley of our prison — the bare recollection made me turn in my seat like one who is preparing to run away.... Oh, on the first occasion the posts were not so white.
Alas, I should like to get away, but I stay, and the same feeling has mastered me from the beginning of this incomprehensible evening. I want to understand it all, and know why the passage resounded with a cry from Professor von Hahn; for amid the shouts of pain I clearly recognised, I swear, the guttural voice of Uncle Ulrich.
I close my eyes.... I re-open them.
Everything is white... white... white. I cannot help looking. I must look. Why should I not look? Others are looking intently enough! It is a nice little theatre “ before the operation”... or after, for I perceive the Chinaman kneeling on the floor and he is holding in his hand a sponge all red.
In the foreground, immediately behind the grille which stands between the hospital-room and me, is a long oval table covered with a bright tablecloth on which the Chinaman, who has now risen to his feet, begins to set in order certain shining instruments.
The Chinaman is beaming. He no longer wears the shabby clothes which made him resemble a beggar in the dangerous quarter in Canton. He is dressed for the ceremony. He “looks the part” with his shaven head, his long pig-tail reaching nearly to the ground, over a sort of sleeveless tunic, his short gown, his close-fitting sky-blue cuish, and his footgear shaped like an ancient galley.
He makes finicking gestures as he sets the implements in order. I know what they are. But it was not during my travels in the Far East that I saw such things for the first time and thus learned to appreciate their appalling “utility.”
One day after leaving a big store on the left bank of the Seine in Paris, where I had bought a tie, I found myself by the merest chance outside the Foreign Missions House. I made my way into a cool and shady garden rejoicing to discover so sylvan a retreat after the bustle and confusion of a big emporium. From the garden, which was public, I went into a spacious reception-room which was railed off; and round the room in glass cases was a permanent exhibition, methodically classified, of the most interesting implements of torture illustrating the martyrdom of famous missionaries.
I had no sooner reached these gruesome but sacred relics than a young priest came up to me and enlightened my amazed ignorance about them. He told me with charming and kindly enthusiasm that he was preparing
to go and preach the Gospel in countries where these examples of the “locksmith’s art” were manufactured. And thus I grasped the significance of the implements in the Chinaman’s hands, for they brought back to my recollection the young missionary-priest with the friendly smile whom I met one morning after buying a tie.
Here were the five bronze rods eight inches long which were inserted between the fingers of each hand and the toes of each foot; they were then firmly bound together so that they necessarily compressed the small bones. The victim was placed on his knees and fastened to a stake; cords were attached to the rods and pulled in short sharp jerks, and every time this was done the bones cracked and were painfully distended and eventually torn out.
And here were the pincers for pulling out nails and gouging out eyes. I know them.... I know them.
They were quite clean and bright and in good condition, while those which were shown to me by the missionary were still rusty with bloodstains; but they were the same special pincers with the same Ingenious twist in them which seemed to lay hold of you and nip you from afar.
And do you think that I am going to stay long watching this kind of thing?... But why do these persons remain imperturbably seated around me.... Why?
Better not wait to understand.... Fly!
And here were the little oil-cans (like those used by workmen) for pouring boiling oil, so the missionary told me, into the victim’s bleeding wounds.... Here were solid planks studded with iron spikes and dagger blades gleaming brilliantly. But I do not know what they were used for. That the missionary did not explain to me. And I had no wish to know. I had no wish to know anything more. I wanted to run away.
“Let’s go.... Let’s go,” I said aloud.
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 343