The Burnaby Experiments

by Stephen Gilbert

  There was an old man sitting in a wooden armchair near the fireplace. He was sitting perfectly still with his back to the windows. He was clean-shaven. Marcus noticed that his eyes were shut, and that his head was tilted back rather oddly over the back of the chair. The top of his head was bald, and the hair at the sides and back was grey. His face was an uneven, yellow colour.

  Marcus couldn’t take his eyes from the old man’s face. A horrible suspicion began to steal into his mind. If only the old man would move—but he didn’t move.

  Marcus felt that he was in a trap, some ghastly, ghostly trap. He knew now that there had been no Caldwell, that Caldwell had been an illusion: this was real. He was terrified. He stood without moving hand or foot. He was afraid to move.

  CHAPTER XIII

  FOR perhaps a minute Marcus was too terrified to be able to think. He was terrified of the stairs behind him, of the two closed doors on the landing, and of the body. . . . He strained his ears to hear footsteps, heavy, deliberate steps beginning far below and gradually coming up and up, and nearer and nearer. He listened for the stealthy creak of an opening door. At the same time he watched the old man’s face, expecting every moment to see it turn slowly towards him.

  But the place was completely still: not a clock ticked, not a board creaked. Marcus had never known such silence in a house before—and this was an old house, an old, old house: only his own breath made a whistling noise in his nostrils. He began to breathe through his mouth, gently, carefully. He remembered that soon it would be completely dark.

  Gradually Marcus got over the first shock of his discovery. The outside edge of his mind began to thaw. He was able to think a little. He wished he was at home. He might so easily have been at home, sitting with the others, round the morning-room fire. Last night after dinner he and Margaret had played tennis on the lawn in front of the house. They had gone on till it was nearly dark, too dark to see the balls properly. It had been pleasant and safe and homely. If only he could get back: if only he could think that this was a dream: if only it could be morning—even here—with the sun shining through the windows.

  He wished he had sufficient courage to run down the stairs and out into the open. He would run and run—but perhaps the whole demesne was haunted, the village and the road, all the land between the sea and the mountains. . . . Perhaps he wouldn’t be able to get back: perhaps he had stepped across a line into another world and was now whirling on a different orbit, an orbit which would never again coincide with the orbit of the old world with which he was familiar.

  A black cat which Marcus hadn’t noticed before crossed the room from its basket near the window and jumped on to the old man’s knee. It turned round once or twice, sinking its claws into his trouser-legs and pulling them out again. Its tail brushed the end of his nose. The old man sneezed, startling Marcus and the cat almost equally. Marcus jumped and the cat hopped down quickly to the floor: from there it looked up inquiringly, and then it was back again, purring and rubbing itself against the old man.

  Marcus felt slightly relieved. It struck him that he ought to have found out if the occupant of the chair were really dead or not, that he ought to have tried in some way to restore him to life. Yet still he didn’t do anything: he was too frightened. He knew now that the old man was going to become completely conscious, was going to open his eyes and discover his visitor. Marcus felt a new dread: how was he going to explain his intrusion into this wizard’s lair?

  The cat curled up and went to sleep on the old man’s knees.

  And at last the old man did open his eyes: he opened them slowly, without any other movement of his face or body. “Light the fire,” he said, in a low, husky voice.

  Marcus saw at once that the fire was laid and that there was a box of matches on the edge of the fender. He hurried over to the hearth and kneeling down struck a match and put it to the paper. The fire started easily. Marcus remained on his knees, watching the sticks catch, then the turf. He was no longer really frightened. He was only nervous, because he didn’t know what to do, and because he didn’t know how to explain his presence.

  “Put on more turf,” the old man said, “a lot more. Now sit up in that chair and look at me—and for goodness sake don’t get into another panic.”

  Marcus made no reply, but he began to understand. He felt ashamed and rather hostile. He sat down in the chair at the opposite side of the hearth, but he looked into the fire.

  “Do you know who I am?” the old man asked.

  “Caldwell,” Marcus whispered, without raising his eyes.

  “Yes, Caldwell,” he agreed, “but only the Caldwell of today, and last week—the Caldwell of your dream. I have nothing to do with your school friend Caldwell. Where he is I don’t know. I am also John Burnaby.”

  “I suppose . . . .” Marcus began. He was going to say that he supposed the real Caldwell was grown up, but suddenly he felt that Mr. Burnaby wasn’t interested in the real Caldwell, that he didn’t want to talk any more. His eyelids had begun to droop, for a moment they flickered as if he were making an effort to keep awake: then they closed completely.

  Marcus watched him and knew that he would wake again presently. His manner had been slightly cross, but he was kind-looking. Marcus felt more at ease. After all he knew the old man already—he was the boy with whom he had spent the day, and that strange fact was more reassuring than frightening—but how he wished it had really been a boy, not this queer, wrinkled old man. At any rate it would not be he who would have to do the explaining. Caldwell had promised to explain everything, and no doubt the old man would fulfil that promise. Of course a great deal was explained already—the peculiar incidents of the journey, why Caldwell hadn’t been able to open doors, why everyone had ignored him: but the whole existence of the illusory Caldwell was still a mystery. Would the old man explain that?

  Marcus studied the face of the sleeper calmly. With eyes shut and head tilted back Mr. Burnaby’s expression was slightly saturnine. He had a wide mouth, which though it was closed now in an almost straight line, turned down a little at the corners. His lips were thin. The nose was very broad and snub: the cheeks were almost chubby. Marcus had only seen his eyes open for a few moments, but he thought that they were grey. Caldwell’s eyes, he remembered, had been nearly black.

  The cat was still on Mr. Burnaby’s knee, and his hands rested on it lightly. The cat was not asleep. With one half-open, green eye it watched Marcus. Mr. Burnaby’s hands were unusual, narrow and small-boned with long, delicate fingers. Marcus had read of people having aristocratic hands, and this he imagined was the shape aristocratic hands should be. But they were not attractive hands: the skin on the backs was coarse and red and hairy—and somehow a little toad-like. Marcus’s eyes strayed on down and fixed on the black-socked feet—very small feet with high insteps—surely more like a woman’s than a man’s.

  “They’ve been asleep,” the old man said, “—very much asleep. I’d no idea pins and needles could be so unpleasant.”

  Marcus was a little startled: how long had Mr. Burnaby been watching him? He gave the impression of knowing everything that Marcus thought. Marcus was guiltily aware that his thoughts had not been all that they should have been. “Could I do anything?” he offered awkwardly.

  Mr. Burnaby gave him a hard look. “Yes. Rub them: rub my hands and feet.”

  Marcus rubbed first one foot and then the other, but he didn’t like doing it, didn’t like touching the old man at all. He had thought at first that Mr. Burnaby was a corpse and this idea still lingered in his mind. Old people were like corpses: their skin had withered and dried up, and their flesh had shrivelled away. Though they were still alive, death was already creeping in on them from the outside. They were fires which were nearly burnt out, little heaps of grey ashes glowing only at the centre. Mr. Burnaby’s feet were hard. It was as if there were
only the bones of a skeleton inside the thick woollen socks.

  Marcus kept his head lowered. He felt that if Mr. Burnaby saw his eyes he would guess his thoughts. But Mr. Burnaby did not guess, for his voice, when he spoke, sounded grateful and pleased. “That’s better,” he said. “Now put on the kettle. I always drink a glass of hot whiskey after these adventures: it helps to bring me to life again.”

  Marcus’s parents were both strict teetotallers. For a moment he was surprised and a little shocked at Mr. Burnaby’s request. Then he remembered that it was only wrong to use alcohol for pleasure. It could sometimes be used beneficially for medicinal purposes. No doubt Mr. Burnaby required the whiskey for medicinal reasons.

  There was a black iron kettle beside the hearth. Marcus found that it was already filled, and he made a bed for it in the fire. When he had put it on and was sure that it was quite steady he looked up at Mr. Burnaby. Mr. Burnaby’s expression had changed: it was no longer saturnine: instead he was watching Marcus with a broad, benevolent smile. Marcus was embarrassed: he lowered his eyes quickly and fixed them on the kettle. Mr. Burnaby was pleased, pleased to have Marcus there, pleased at the success of his scheme: but Marcus didn’t share this feeling: he felt almost that he had been cheated. He didn’t exactly wish that the adventure had never begun, but he wasn’t sure that he hadn’t had almost enough of it. He was on his guard.

  When the kettle boiled Mr. Burnaby pointed to a cupboard beside the fireplace. There Marcus found a bottle of whiskey, a bowl of sugar, and some glasses. “What about you?” Mr. Burnaby asked. “Will you join me?” His tone was slightly jocular and it grated on Marcus.

  “I’m a teetotaller,” he answered disapprovingly.

  “And a very good thing too,” Mr. Burnaby responded with a sort of weak gaiety. “Publicans, you know, like their barmen to be teetotallers; then they don’t get drunk themselves, or help themselves to the stock.”

  Marcus didn’t like being compared with a barman, but Mr. Burnaby seemed to have no idea that he had offended. He was painfully feeble. It cost him a considerable effort to talk at all, but he was trying to put Marcus at his ease. “And I’d like a dessertspoonful of sugar in the bottom of the tumbler,” he directed. “Now fill it half-full with whiskey—go on till I tell you to stop. That’s all right, that’ll do. Now put in hot water almost to the top and give it a bit of a stir.”

  Marcus, being careful not to give Mr. Burnaby a drop more whiskey than he demanded, carried out these instructions correctly. He handed the glass to Mr. Burnaby. Mr. Burnaby, however, was at first unable to grip it, and Marcus, feeling suddenly a little ashamed of his own stiffness, had to hold it to his lips.

  After two or three mouthfuls Mr. Burnaby was a great deal steadier and when the glass was half-empty he was able to take it himself. “I’m not usually quite so decrepit as this,” he said apologetically. “You’ll see a great change tomorrow.”

  “Would you not like a doctor?” Marcus suggested: “I could go to the village . . . .”

  “There’s no doctor there,” Mr. Burnaby replied, “and I don’t want a doctor. There’s not a thing wrong with me. A doctor forsooth!” All the same he didn’t look displeased.

  He finished the glass of whiskey slowly, and demanded another. While he was drinking it, he began to talk. “This one’s just for pleasure,” he explained, tapping the glass, and unconsciously re-awakening all Marcus’s prejudices. “The first really was medicine.” After a pause he went on, “What puzzles me is that you didn’t tumble to it much sooner and surely you must have recognized the house—or haven’t you realized that even yet?”

  “I did think on the road . . . .” Marcus began and stopped. A wave of understanding flooded into his mind. “Oh yes,” he gasped. “I didn’t. . . . I didn’t think before. Oh yes. This is where I came in my dream.” It was overwhelming and very, very strange.

  Mr. Burnaby watched him gravely.

  “I liked it in my dream,” Marcus muttered to himself. “I always wanted to get back.”

  “And now you’re not so sure?” Mr. Burnaby’s voice was kind, but he sounded disappointed, and perhaps a little bitter.

  “It’s taken me by surprise,” Marcus stammered. “I didn’t know it was real. It was like a place I could go to—only sometimes I couldn’t go—and it’s a long time. It stopped when I was at school.”

  “You can stay now,” Mr. Burnaby said, “if you want to, that is.”

  Marcus put his face between his hands, and stared into the fire.

  “I don’t know that I’ve done everything in the best way,” Mr. Burnaby confessed, “but it was difficult. I could have explained everything to you at the beginning; but would you have come if I had? I could have told you this morning that I was invisible to everyone but you; but again I was afraid to. As it was I gave you hints. It gave me a sort of mischievous pleasure. You see when I was Caldwell I felt like a small boy. You have no idea what fun it is to an older person to be young again, even if only for a short time. It’s a sort of holiday.

  “And you see I’ve wanted you for so long. I needed you for very special work—nobody else would do. I’ve known about you since you were quite small.”

  “When I was ten?”

  “I suppose so. You had just gone to your preparatory school. There was no one else wandering about like that . . . . just you and I: and you didn’t understand.”

  “I don’t think I understand yet.” Marcus spoke coldly. He wanted time to think. Till he had thought, calmly and alone, he didn’t want even to hear the plans which he knew Mr. Burnaby must have made for him.

  “I’ve work for you,” Mr. Burnaby said, “hard work, work I can’t complete myself. It’s more important than anything else in the world.”

  “Oh.” Marcus was determined not to commit himself, determined not to give Mr. Burnaby any encouragement. He knew that if he showed the slightest enthusiasm Mr. Burnaby would tell him what the work was: but he didn’t feel enthusiastic. He had set out in the morning in search of youth, and joy, and light; and he was offered important work. He might accept the offer: he might do the work: but it couldn’t fail to be a disappointment. Besides, he was hungry and tired: the most exciting adventure in the world could not interest him just at present.

  Suddenly Mr. Burnaby realized this. He had begun to feel angry, and to look it. Now his expression altered. “You must be famished,” he exclaimed, putting down the cat and getting rather unsteadily to his feet. “I should have thought of that before.” He crossed to a table in the corner where there were two candlesticks. He picked up one of them and lit the candle by thrusting it into the fire. From this he lit the other which he gave to Marcus. “What would you like?” he inquired.

  “I don’t mind much,” Marcus replied. “Whatever’s easiest.”

  They went out on to the landing and holding their candles above their heads, began a slow descent of the winding stairs. On the lower landing Mr. Burnaby paused and turned half round. “Do you like cheese?” he enquired.

  “I could eat anything,” Marcus answered.

  “That’s good”, Mr. Burnaby returned, “—if there is anything.” He was half joking of course, but it was not very encouraging. Marcus felt that Mr. Burnaby didn’t really know whether there was any food in the house or not, and apparently he was not hungry himself.

  They went on down, the old man, and the cat, and the youth, with the shadows leaping around them, with the darkness melting before them and closing in again as they passed. Marcus watched Mr. Burnaby’s slow progress, and remembered how quickly, as Caldwell, he had come up those same stairs a short time before.

  When they reached the bottom they crossed the great hall and passed through a door at the far end into a stone-flagged passage. This brought them to a big, white-washed kitchen, with black rafters in the ceiling. There was
cold ham in the larder and plenty of bread and butter, but as the fire in the range was out Marcus had to do without tea which he would have liked—for it didn’t seem worth while to go all the way up to the tower, and refill the black kettle and boil it again, and bring it down. The ham was nicely cured and mild, and Marcus ate four slices of it and two rounds of bread and butter. Mr. Burnaby ate practically nothing: obviously he was only keeping Marcus company.

  When he had finished, Mr. Burnaby, with the cat twining in and out round his feet, took Marcus back to the tower, to show him the bedroom where he was to sleep. “There you are,” he said, opening a door on the second landing and standing aside. “I hope you’ll find all you need. The door opposite is the bathroom, though I’m afraid the water’ll be cold now. If you want a bath you’ll have to wait till the morning. The water’ll be hot any time after eight. I usually have breakfast at nine.”

  They wished each other good night. Marcus shut his door and stood quite still, listening. After an interval of perhaps thirty seconds he heard Mr. Burnaby’s footsteps go slowly up the stairs. Very cautiously and quietly Marcus turned the key in the lock. Then he looked round his room.

  It was a big room, with two straight sides and a curved one. At the far end was an iron bed, painted white: it was broad and low, and looked very inviting to the sleepy Marcus. Like most of the rest of the house this bedroom had white-washed walls. The floor was of dark polished oak. There was no carpet, but there were a good many thick rugs, and an easy chair. On the right was a window, set half-way through the wall, which was evidently at least six feet thick. Spread out on a wash-stand below the window were wash-things and shaving things. They were all new and arranged so that Marcus could not fail to see them. At the opposite side of the room there was a wardrobe and a dressing-table, with a pair of hairbrushes and a comb.