by Неизвестный
He was, however silent. He stared at her proud and beautiful mouth, at her long, pale hands, at the white stem of her throat, and admitted to himself that he desired her. Yet he had no immediate wish to touch her, but only longed passionately for the stiff, waxen body of this effigy to melt and transform itself into warm living flesh and blood. Somewhere, somehow, this miracle must be accomplished, for if he was unable to possess her he thought that, such was the spell she had cast upon him, he must inevitably pine and sicken, for she was La Belle Dame Sans Merci, and he was in her thrall. At last he spoke to her, softly, scarcely knowing that he spoke.
‘You are a witch,’ he said, ‘and you possess my body and soul. You ought to be burnt, and since you are made of wax it should not be difficult to destroy you … I have a good mind to try.’
This time there was no mistake; a gleam of sardonic laughter came to her eyes, a strange and elfin smile to her curling lips. She defied him. And as before, the row of murderers behind seemed to move simultaneously with the rustling murmur of excitement. As before, too, he was saved by a footstep from the outer world. He turned sharply, a woman came into the room.
Patrick stiffened, became once more the respectful and vigilant attendant. The woman hesitated for a moment, then approached him slowly; for she was bent and squat and elderly, and walked with the help of a stick. He noticed vaguely that she was dressed in dingy black, with a frowsy bonnet askew upon her head and a film of veil that partially concealed her face. He bent down politely
‘Yes, madam? Is there anything I can do?’
‘There is,’ said the old woman. Her voice was clear and decisive, the voice of one who is accustomed to command. ‘I have stupidly neglected to buy a catalogue at the door, and as I am old, and not so good a walker as I was, I wonder if you would save my going back by being kind enough to tell me something about the waxworks. These are murderers, are they not?’
Patrick, only too pleased to occupy his mind in this accustomed fashion, began mechanically:
‘Yes, madam. There on my right is Richard Sayers, the Scottish bodysnatcher, who shot two men before he was arrested, and protested his innocence to the last … Next to Sayers is Mugivan’s conception of Jack the Ripper, the criminal who was never captured … this figure is modelled according to the description of his appearance given to the police by those persons who protested that they had seen hull before or after his appalling crimes … Next to Jack the Ripper we have Landru …’
But while his voice droned on he was dreading the moment when they must face Mrs Raeburn, when he would look once more upon her pale, remote face and meet once again her steady, contemptuous gaze. He lingered beside the midget, the freakish ox, the local giant. The old woman listened to him attentively, beady eyes darting from beneath her heavy veil. Once or twice she asked him a question, but otherwise was silent, seeming pleasantly absorbed in his monotonous catalogue of grim and fiendish crimes. At last the moment dreaded by Patrick could be postponed no longer; at last they faced the figure of Mrs Raeburn, standing slim and straight and self-possessed beneath the grating window. Suddenly Patrick remembered that he knew nothing of this murderess save that she had killed by poison; here he was speechless and could recite no bloodthirsty dossier, nor did he even know her victim; only that she was young and fair and that she had cast a spell upon him, and these things could not be told to his companion. There was a pause during the course of which the old woman examined the wax figure attentively and in silence. At length, he mumbled:
‘This is Mrs Raeburn … the poisoner.’
As he spoke he shot a sharp glance at the effigy and observed that she was blank and mask-like once more, indifferent both to him and his companion. His witch had again become a waxwork.
The old lady shuffled closer to the figure, peered with a certain attentive inquisitiveness, then turned to him and remarked critically:
‘The likeness is not very good.’
He was startled, and gaped, unable quite to grasp the purport of her words.
He asked: ‘You knew her?’
She did not answer him, but said, still peering: ‘She was taller, she had more dignity, more of an air. And I think she was wilder. But it’s long ago,’ and her face changed all the time.
He asked again, trembling, his hands clammy cold, his voice unconsciously menacing: ‘You knew her?’
For the first time the old creature turned to look at him, seeming to observe him closely. She chuckled, and at first he thought that one of the waxworks had laughed, so ghostly, so unexpected, was this little bubbling sound in the quietness of the dim hall.
She said, still chuckling: ‘I am Mrs Raeburn.’
And as he did not answer she pulled back her veil. She was younger than he had at first supposed. She revealed a fat, gross, heavy-jowled face, sallow, unhealthy, with high Mongolian cheekbones. Her nose was squat and thick, her checks carved with two deep-cut lines running from her nostrils to the corners of her mouth. Her little sharp grey eyes were almost buried in folds of flesh. Beneath the shoddy bonnet a strand of hair hung untidily; it was dyed a bright orange tint. The face, which leered forth so boldly at Patrick, was seamed and stamped with the marks of every foul and obscene vice; brazen, debauched, so brutal as to be three parts animal, it seemed to hang in the air, this gargoyle face, to gloat triumphantly upon his horror and confusion. Then, swiftly, the woman whisked back her veil and said crisply, in her clear and resonant voice: ‘It didn’t do me justice, your image.’ Then in a moment she was gone, while behind her the effigy of Mrs Raeburn, poisoner, remained standing cool and pale and remote upon her dais, all the paler, all the cooler, for being now the centre of a flood of cold and frozen moonlight.
Patrick fled after the old woman, not because he wished to see her again, but because of the two of them the waxen image had become the more repulsive, yet, when he reached the Hall of Monarchs, she had already disappeared.
He waited, sick and shivering, until the clock struck seven and the show shut down, then he went in search of Mr Mugivan, whom he found in his office, reading an evening paper, with his feet on his desk.
‘Good evening,’ said Patrick. ‘I want to tell you something.’
Mr Mugivan put down his paper.
‘My word, young fellow, you look cheap. What is it now?’
Patrick, gulping, said: ‘Do you know who’s been here this afternoon?’
‘I do not,’ said Mr Mugivan. ‘I’m proprietor of a waxwork show, not a magician. Who has been here?’
‘Mrs Raeburn. The real Mrs Raeburn. She came to see her waxwork. She’s just gone.’
As Mr Mugivan gaped, his red face became curiously mottledwhite and purple in patches, Patrick noticed dispassionately ‘Mrs Raeburn?’
‘Yes.’
Mr Mugivan climbed laboriously from his chair.
‘Mrs Raeburn, eh? Somebody’s been pulling your leg. You don’t know your catalogue, either. Mrs Raeburn indeed?’
And he pulled a document from the untidy desk, licked his thumb, and flipped over a page.
‘Mrs Raeburn,’ he said, speaking very loud and not looking at Patrick, ‘was scragged—hanged, you understand—hanged by the neck for the murder of her husband more than twenty years ago. That being so, you could hardly have seen her here just now. And that’s enough of your funny stuff for one day.’
Patrick said nothing. There was really nothing to say nor did Mr Mugivan break the silence, but waddled to and fro about the little room, changing his carpet slippers for boots, struggling into his overcoat, cramming a check cap upon his head. In a moment he had gone.
Patrick switched off the office light, then went forth, as was his custom, to extinguish the gas jets in the exhibition before locking up for the night. His comrade of the turnstile had already gone home; he was alone, entirely alone, with more than a hundred waxen effigies. It was now quite dark outside, for the moon had fled behind a screen of clouds, and there was a rushing sound of strong wind, which swept in gusts pas
t the shuttered windows.
He paused to light a forbidden cigarette, and then it was that he realized with an odd detachment that what he had seen during the afternoon was not a ghost, but something even more monstrous—a disembodied soul. The foul and evil soul of this wretched woman whose lovely image had bewitched him. The hideous reflection of a hideous mind. Behind her seeming purity and beauty had always been this horror, dormant, waiting to leap forth and devour. The wind rose, moaning, battering at the panes.
On such a night, he mused, as he tramped towards the Monarchs, ghouls would surely stalk abroad and witches soar through the air clutching their broomsticks and screaming aloud their lust for satan, vampires, sorcerers and fiends. A nightmare pack of horrors … He stretched on tiptoe to lower the gas above the wan, impassive face of King Richard II … And in the old days witches were burnt alive like the guys now consumed by flames each Fifth of November … And after burning he supposed that these evil women could do no more harm, but were destroyed forever, they and their spells. A good job, too. He entered the second chamber.
That night the inhabitants of the city were surprised to perceive a crimson flush sweeping the sky above the roof tops of a distant street. Then came a clanging of bells, a roar of motor-engines, and, hot-toot, in pursuit of the fire brigade, a yelling, excited rabble. Mugivan’s Waxwork Exhibition was on tire. No one wanted to miss the show, doubly welcome because it was free.
The wind was strong that night, and licked the flames eagerly, strengthening them until the efforts of the men armed with hosepipes became pathetic in their futility. At length the roof crashed in, and a wall of roaring flame rose as though to leap into the sky. They were triumphant, these pillars of tire, as though they knew that they were purifying, destroying a witch.
By morning Mugivan’s Waxwork Show was a drenched and sooty ruin. Many of the figures were entirely destroyed, the Monarchs having been on the whole unluckier than the Murderers. Down in the Hall of Curiosities and Horrors there were a few survivors. Some were quite untouched. Mrs Raeburn, for instance, appeared to have emerged unscathed from the ordeal, and stood upon her dais proudly and gracefully, pale hands folded demurely upon her breast. And yet, on closer inspection, Mrs Raeburn proved not to be entirely unharmed.
Her waxen face had melted, and running, the stuff had twisted upon her features a strange and devilish sneer. Save for her pride of carriage she was unrecognizable, distorted. And then the firemen made a further discovery.
Lying near by, where the flames had crackled most fiercely was a charred and sodden bundle of clothing. They bent to examine it. It was, they found, a human body, the body of a young man.
Football On The Tung—T’ing Lake
(China)
Herbert A. Miles
Wang Shih-hsiu was a native of Lu-chou, and such a strong fellow that he could pick up a stone mortar. Father and son were both good football players; but when the former was about forty years of age he was drowned while crossing the Money Pool. Eight or nine years later our hero happened to be on his way of Hunan; and anchoring in the Tung—t’ing lake, watched the moon rising in the east and illuminating the water into a bright sheet of light. While he was thus engaged, lo! from out of the lake emerged five men, bringing with them a large mat, which they spread on the surface of the water so as to cover about six yards square. Wine and food were then arranged upon it, and Wang heard the sound of the dishes knocking together, but it was a dull, soft sound, not at all that of ordinary crockery. Three of the men sat on the mat and the other two waited upon them. One of the former was dressed in yellow, the other two in white, and each wore a black turban. Their demeanour, as they sat there side by side, was grave and dignified; in appearance they resembled three of the ancients, but by the fitful beams of the moon Wang was unable to see very clearly what they were like. The attendants wore black serge dresses, and one of them seemed to be a boy, while the other was many years older. Wang now heard the man in the yellow dress say, ‘This is truly a fine moonlight night for a drinking bout;’ to which one of his companions replied, ‘It quite reminds me of the night when Prince Kuang-li feasted at Pearblossom Island.’ The three then pledged each other in clinking goblets, talking all the time in such a low tone that Wang could not hear what they were saying. The boatmen kept themselves concealed, crouching down at the bottom of the boat; but Wang looked hard at the attendants, the elder of whom bore a striking resemblance to his father, though he spoke in quite a different tone of voice. When it was drawing towards midnight, one of them proposed a game at ball; and in a moment the boy disappeared into the water, to return immediately with a huge ball—quite an armful in fact—apparently full of quicksilver, and lustrous within and without. All now rose, and the man in the yellow dress bade the old attendant join them in the game. The ball was kicked up about ten or fifteen feet in the air, and was quite dazzling in its brilliancy; but once, when it had gone up with a whish—h—h, it fell at some distance off, right in the very middle of Wang’s boat. The occasion was irresistible, and Wang, exerting all his strength, kicked the ball with all his might. It seemed unusually light and soft to the touch, and his foot broke right through. Away went the ball to a good height, pouring forth a stream of light like a rainbow from the hole Wang had made, and making as it fell, a curve like that of a comet rushing across the sky. Down it glided into the water, where it fizzed a moment and then went out. ‘Ho there!’ cried out the players in anger, ‘what living creature is that who dares thus to interrupt our sport?’ ‘Well kicked indeed!’ said the old man, ‘that’s a favourite dropkick of my own.’ At this, one of the two in white clothes began to abuse him, saying, ‘What! You old baggage, when we are all so annoyed in this manner, are you to come forward and make a joke of it? Go at once with the boy and bring back to us this practical joker, or your own back will have a taste of the stick.’ Wang was of course unable to flee; however, he was not a bit afraid, and grasping a sword stood there in the middle of the boat. In a moment, the old man and boy arrived, also armed, and then Wang knew that the former was really his father, and called out to him at once. ‘Father, I am your son.’ The old man was greatly alarmed, but father and son forgot their troubles in the joy of meeting once again. Meanwhile, the boy went back, and Wang’s father bade him hide, or they would all be lost. The words were hardly out of his mouth when the three men jumped on board the boat. Their faces were black as pitch, their eyes as big as pomegranates, and they at once proceeded to seize the old man. Wang struggled hard with them, and managing to get the boat free from her moorings, he seized his sword and cut off one of his adversaries’ arms. The arm dropped and the man in the yellow dress ran away; whereupon one of those in white rushed at Wang, who immediately cut off his head, and he fell into the water with a splash, at which the third disappeared. Wang and his father were now anxious to get away, when suddenly a great mouth arose from the lake, as big and deep as a well, and against which they could hear the noise of the water when it struck. This mouth blew forth a violent gust of wind, and in a moment the waves were mountains high and all the boats on the lake were tossing about. The boatmen were terrified, but Wang seized one of two huge stones there were on board for use as anchors, about 130 lb. in weight, and threw it into the water, which immediately began to subside; and then he threw in the other one, upon which the wind dropped, and the lake became calm again. Wang thought his father was a disembodied spirit, but the old man said, ‘I never died. There were nineteen of us drowned in the river; all of whom were eaten by the fish-goblins except myself: I was saved because I could play football. Those you saw got into trouble with the Dragon King, and were sent here. They were all marine creatures, and the ball they were playing with was a fish-bladder.’ Father and son were overjoyed at meeting again, and at once proceeded on their way. In the morning, they found in the boat a huge fin—the arm that Wang had cut off the night before.
The Isle of Voices
(Hawaii)
R.L. Stevenson
&nbs
p; Keola was married to Lehua, daughter of Kalamake, the wise man of Molokai, and he kept his dwelling with the father of his wife. There was no man more cunning than that prophet; he read the stars, he could divine by the bodies of the dead, and by means of evil creatures: he could go alone into the highest parts of the mountain, into the region of the hobgoblins, and there he would lay snares to entrap the spirits of the ancient. For this reason no man was more consulted in all the kingdom of Hawaii. Prudent people bought, and sold, and married, and laid out their lives by his counsels; and the King had him sent twice to Kona to seek the treasures of Kamehameha. Neither was any man more feared: of his enemies, some had dwindled in sickness by the virtue of his incantations, and some had been spirited away, the life and the clay both, so that folk looked in vain for so much as a bone of their bodies. It was rumoured that he had the art or the gift of the old heroes. Men had seen him at night upon the mountains, stepping from one cliff to the next; they had seen him walking in the high forest, and his head and shoulders were above the trees.
This Kalamake was a strange man to look at. He came of the best blood in Molokai and Maui, of a pure descent; and yet he was more white to look upon than any foreigner; his hair the colour of dry grass, and his eyes red and very blind, so that ‘Blind as Kalamake that can see across tomorrow,’ was a byword in the islands.
Of all these doings of his father-in-law, Keola knew a little by common repute, a little more he suspected, and the rest he ignored. But there was one thing that troubled him. Kalamake was a man that spared for nothing, whether to eat or to drink, or to wear; and for all he paid in bright new dollars. ‘Bright as Kalamake’s dollars,’ was another saying in the Eight Isles. Yet he neither sold, nor planted, nor hired—only now and then for his sorceries—and there was no source conceivable for so much silver.
It chanced one day, Keola’s wife was gone upon a visit to Kaunakakai on the lee side of the island, and the men were at the sea, fishing. But Keola was an idle clog, and he lay in the verandah and watched the surf heat on the shore and the birds fly about the cliff. It was the chief thought with him always—the thought of the bright dollars. When he lay down to bed he would be wondering why they were so many, and when he woke at morn he would be wondering why they were all new; and the thing was never absent from his mind. But this day of all days he resolved of some discovery.