About me in my exhaustion I could see only strange walls and windows and old gambrel roofs. The steep street of my approach was nowhere visible, and the little I did see succumbed rapidly to a mist that rolled in from the river despite the glaring moonlight. Suddenly the urn to which I clung began to tremble, as if sharing my own lethal dizziness; and in another instant my body was plunging downward to I knew not what fate.
The man who found me said that I must have crawled a long way despite my broken bones, for a trail of blood stretched off as far as he dared to look. The gathering rain soon effaced this link with the scene of my ordeal, and reports could state no more than that I had appeared from a place unknown, at the entrance of a little black court off Perry Street.
I never sought to return to those tenebrous labyrinths, nor would I direct any sane man thither if I could. Of who or what that ancient creature was, I have no idea; but I repeat that the city is dead and full of unsuspected horrors. Whither he has gone, I do not know; but I have gone home to the pure New England lanes up which fragrant sea-winds sweep at evening.
THE STRANGE CASE OF LEMUEL JENKINS
by Philip M. Fisher, Jnr.
More and more the density of population and the complexity of life are forcing the individual to conform. The tendency to be absorbed in the crowd, to move with the current, to allow our emotions and ambitions to be dictated by the mob breathing and flowing around us, is daily growing more difficult to resist. In this story we read of a man who sought to plumb this thesis to its utmost - and found more than he'd bargained for.
WE were just getting into the full swing of our morning constitutional through the campus when suddenly, without any reason that I could see, Burns came to an abrupt halt. A moment he stood thus, stiff, alert, questioning, as a good pointer will in the sage. Then he half raised his cane and pointed.
"Do you see that chap on the bench over there, P.M.?" he questioned.
I followed his direction, and smiled.
"If you mean that rather forlorn and washed-out rag some careless keeper has thrown over the green slats - why, yes," I answered.
"Well," he went on, "that rag, as you call it, is a man for all your brilliant wit - and a queer enough one, too. It is Lemuel Jenkins."
Burns whispered this last bit of information as though he expected me to start with wonder at the announcement.
"Ah - Lemuel Jenkins," I repeated dryly. Yet, nevertheless, I surveyed with some curiosity the woebegone individual of whom we spoke, for I knew something of my companion's propensity for forming strange friendships. And I could not help but add, for the sake of bringing the story I suspected: "Rather extraordinary name that - Lemuel Jenkins. Must be a Russian platinum prince at least. Or some other of the experienced persons you so love to -"
"Stop!" whispered my friend fiercely. Then he seized my arm. "Come over and meet the man. Observe the way he greets me - observe it carefully, every detail. I'll talk a bit so you can do it. Then we'll leave him to his bench and I'll tell you something - something more."
I shrugged my shoulders, for I never cared to show too sudden an interest in Burns's adventures. I did that, once, and in ten seconds he had sputtered excitedly an extraordinary tale with a metaphysical background, that properly worked up, should have kept me on edge for a good solid hour. If there is anything about this limp, thin-backed scarecrow huddled before us, I reflected now, let it come slowly and with relish.
"Watch everything he does," cautioned Burns once more, as he stepped into the crunching sand of the drive - "his manner - everything."
At the sound of our feet a tremor ran over the stranger. Then slowly, still gathered into himself like a scared rabbit, he twisted his head about, and his eyes met mine. Those eyes! Shall I ever forget the look of wild pleading, the haunting fear, the desperate hope, that swam in those deep-set glowing eyes. The desperate hope - then as my own eyes held steadily upon them, as in truth I could not now prevent, the sudden terror which submerged that hope, and flooded out what rational light the stranger's eyes had held. I felt Burns's fingers press tighter on my arm.
Then the tortured eyes flitted fearfully to my companion, and behold -another transformation! For they lit up on the instant; the terror was overflowed by such swift relief as might shine in those of a sea-maddened castaway when at last he spies the sail. This light brightened, burned with a joy that was good to see, and my heart gave a great throb of sympathy, though as yet I did not understand. I glanced at my companion. Was Burns not going to speak to the man? Why did he stare at the unhappy creature so blankly - as if he were not before us at all? I shifted back to the stranger on the bench, in time to see the light in his eyes grow dark again beneath a smooth black wave of returning desperation, of fear, of blasted hope.
A moment thus, I know not why, I was in agony for him as Burns's steady stare concentrated on the shrubbery immediately behind the bench. Then suddenly Burns pressed my arm again, started rather violently, and precipitously thrust out his hand.
"Why" - he cried explosively - "why there you are - Jenkins! Good old Lem Jenkins! I didn't expect you would be here."
The tide of eager joy that swept all else from the man's face then was glorious. Lemuel Jenkins untangled himself and snapped up as though my companion's words had touched a hidden spring. He seized Burns's hands both in his and wrung them in feverish joviality.
"Oh!" he gasped - "I was afraid -"
Burns withdrew one hand and clapped it on the other's shoulder. He seemed quite to ignore the man's words.
"I am glad you're here," he cried. Then he seized my arm with an extra pressure I understood. "Here" - he said to the man - "I want you two good friends of mine to meet." He introduced us.
The hand I pressed clung to mine an appreciably longer moment than was necessary, and the man's eyes glowed on mine rather strangely until I nodded and smiled. Then Mr. Jenkins smiled, too brightly, then loosened his grip and seized Burns's hand again. With a glance at me my companion engaged him in a bit of light chatter, in which, in Burns's voice at least, I thought I discerned a slight undercurrent of effort to put the stranger at his ease. Then he held out his hand again.
"Good-by, Lem," he said, smiling peculiarly. Then added - "Awfully glad to have seen you."
I was watching Mr. Jenkins as Burns said these last words. The man started again, and I saw once more a flash of pain flit across his eyes, Then his mouth tightened, he stiffened his shoulders, and returned with emphasis:
"Yes, my friend, I am glad you saw me."
I then muttered some sort of appreciation of our meeting, and we left. After a dozen paces or so I followed Burns's hint and glanced back. The man was still standing with his eager eyes yet fixed upon us. Burns nudged me again.
"Wave to him - quick!" he almost ordered. And as we did, the man's face lit up again with that most curiously happy smile. His arm went up spasmodically in answer - then dropped wearily as he slumped back to his bench.
We crunched on, I deep in thought. So this was Lemuel Jenkins, was it? Well, who is Lemuel Jenkins, anyway? Why does he huddle shabbily on a campus bench at this early morning hour? Why that appealing shadow in his eyes, that hope that seemed so often to have met rebuff, that look that one so often sees in a lost dog searching for his master, or just for a friendly face? Why the sudden light in them when at last Burns spoke? And why the man's manner towards me, a manner that was suggestive of apprehension lest I refuse to notice him, or to shake his hand? Why the pain at Burns's last words - and the misplaced emphasis of Jenkins' own farewell when he had repeated after Burns:
"Yes, my friend, I am glad you saw me."
I shrugged my shoulders - just another of Burns's haphazard pick-ups, I decided. Just another stranded individual who at one time or another had poured his story into the ever-eager ears of my friend. I found myself wondering what that story might be. Just another -a quick sigh from my companion interrupted my thoughts.
"Well," he said, as I turned to him questioningl
y, "that was Lemuel Jenkins."
Evidently no answer was desired, or was necessary. I simply nodded and walked on.
"You watched him?" Burns continued.
In noncommittal silence I nodded again.
"Then you saw what I wanted you to see, of course," my friend went on. "You saw the changes while I paused before him as though in doubt whether to recognize him or not. You saw -"
It was my turn to interrupt.
"You did that on purpose?" I could not help but cry. "You tortured him on?"
Burns seized my arm again.
"I wanted you to believe what I'm about to tell you," he declared earnestly. "I wanted you to believe. And in order to believe you must see - see for yourself. So I held poor Jenkins in suspense a few moments before I let him know I saw him. And he acted as I suspected he would - and you saw."
I could hardly withhold my temper at the almost cold-blooded manner in which Burns recited his case.
"But his eyes!" I cried. "The desperation, the hope, then the horrible terror when you stared straight through him. It wasn't right, man, to treat him so; to cut so old an acquaintance as you say -"
Burns swung upon me.
"Cut him!" he exploded, his face suddenly red, and his eyes snapping angrily. "I wasn't going to cut Jenkins - I wasn't even cutting him for the moment. We're too old friends for that. Why, Jenkins wasn't hurt because he thought I was going to cut him, or because he thought that I didn't for the moment recognize him. Jenkins knows that as well as I do. Jenkins -"
"Then why did he palpitate so?" I persisted. "What was it held him in suspense that way? And why was he suddenly so happy when finally you spoke, if it was not because he thought at first that you wouldn't notice him hunched there on his bench?"
Burns smiled gravely.
"Now you're getting to the point, old man," he said. "Jenkins didn't fear that I wouldn't recognize him - hardly. But Jenkins did fear that I wouldn't notice him."
I jerked my shoulders.
"What's the difrerence?"
"Difrerence, P.M.?" Burns went on coolly. "Well, I'll ask you a question: does one ever notice something which one cannot see?"
I stared.
"Which one cannot see?" I repeated.
"That's what I said," nodded my companion gravely. "And Jenkins -"
I interrupted with great scorn.
"And Jenkins was afraid you couldn't see him, eh? Not afraid you wouldn't, but couldn't. Bah! I've heard other yarns of yours, remember. The next thing you'll be telling me is that Jenkins thought you were mad, or blind, or some such. Or else -" I paused a moment before throwing my capping bit of sarcasm.
"Go on," ordered Burns gravely. "Be logical - go on."
"Or else that Jenkins thought that he himself could not be seen. That he himself was - oh, nonsense! You're gaming me, old fellow, and I don't like it; particularly after seeing the real pain in that poor chap's eyes."
Burns swung about.
"We will take this other path back through the campus and I'll tell you about our friend yonder," he answered. "You saw how Jenkins acted - that at least you saw, and must believe. Now I'll tell you why." Burns glanced across the eucalyptus Campanile clock. "We have time aplenty, and I'll tell you why.
"Jenkins was, or rather is, a biologist here at the university, and very sane about his work - as he was, and still is, about everything he does. Too sane, almost, and too determined to make himself a name in it. A man can be that way, you know - too sane; too sanely strong in his beliefs."
Burns struck his stick at a bit of shrubbery. Then shrugged his shoulders and muttered once more: "Yes, too sane, the man is. And too deadly logical. That's what put that look in his eyes, or rather helped put it there."
I interrupted.
"You mean he - overworked?"
My companion shook his head.
"No - not that. It was due to his logic that he drew the conclusion which made him what he is. You see, not only is he so sanely logical, so doggedly in earnest when on the trail of a great idea, but he is also impressionable. You saw that."
I nodded and reflected in memory upon the strange man's eyes.
"Yes," I repeated. "I saw that. The man is impressionable - now at least."
Burns looked at me gravely.
"He was then, too. Sanity, logic, imagination, impressionability - characteristics that make great scientists - he had them all. And they made him grow in his work even as they should-and his promise was great: Hall of Fame, you know, and all that. Then came the final irony of their concerted action - or reaction, whatever you may call it." Burns swung his stick again and carefully lifted a curling bit of eucalyptus bark from our path. Then, as if to himself: "And now - poor Jenkins, poor chap." Then louder - "And yet he still hangs on here at the university and he's going to make out. Getting over it right along. You should have seen him, his eyes - a month ago."
I muttered something to the effect that for my own sanity's sake I was glad I had not.
"You know," Burns ran on, "it happened only a month ago - or just over it. Four weeks last Tuesday, to be exact. That's why I thought maybe you'd heard."
"In the depths of the Humboldt redwoods one doesn't hear much," I answered. "Stage once a week, not even papers -"
"Of course, I had forgotten," my companion apologized quickly. "And we kept it out of the papers," he exclaimed rather bitterly. "No use having them make fools of us all. And we had to think of poor Jenkins, too. His position - we had to keep it from the papers. We had to
"We could do it easily enough, too. It happened at the club, you know - in the low-ceilinged walnut smoking-room. You know how secluded that dark-panelled retreat is - and how cool and soothing. And how soft are the lights, and all. I never sink into one of those deep-cushioned lounge chairs by that heavy, deep-toned table that I don't feel a great peace stealing over me. It even mellows men's voices - mellows their thoughts, too - allows the imagination to slide smoothly along without the slightest hitch. If one of the boys wants to untangle a business snarl, or work out his lectures, or get inspiration and quiet for a story - that's the place. And that's where this thing occurred to Lemuel Jenkins. That's the place - cool, dark, soothing."
Burns eyed me gravely, reflectively.
"You saw his eyes - you believe them at least. I wonder if you -"
"Go on!" I cried. "Go on!"
"Well," said Burns, after a deep breath, as we passed a clump of fragrant golden acacia. "we were lounging in the half gloom pulling slowly on our cigars, and just saturated with the calm and comfort of it all. It was early in the evening. Dinner had been soul-satisfying, digestions were content, the mutual satisfaction of mutual peace and physical ease did not lend itself to conversation. Now and then one of the fellows - there were only the usual half dozen, you know - would drop a single word and a low chuckle would run about the group, a chuckle that was as rich and low and soothing, too, as of waters in one of your deep-hid redwood canons, P.
M. This, with an occasional long-drawn sigh, or the light shift of cushion springs as one leaned to flick his ash, were the only sounds.
"Suddenly - and it broke as startlingly loud as a lion's scream from that same black Humboldt cañon of yours, old man - suddenly, I say, from the depths of his own precious chair, Jenkins's fist leaped out and crashed down upon the table. At the same time he cried explosively:
" 'It can be done - it can be! I say it is possible - it can be done!' "
Burns paused a moment reflectively, then turned to me with a dry smile.
"Do you think that lion's screech would startle you?" he asked softly. "Coming in the everlasting peace of a damp, gloomy, Humboldt forest?"
My appreciative smile was sufficient answer.
"Then" - my companion went on - "then you will understand how that crashing fist hit us. And understand, too, just why we tried the trick on him a few minutes later - the trick that turned out so weirdly awful, and that brought Jenkins to what you saw on the bench back there
."
"Go on," I said again.
"Well," Burns continued, "I can still see the startled white faces and staring eyes against the dark of the half-lit room as every manjack of us was jerked bolt upright out of his reverie. Then, as we stared, the man's fist came down again, and once more, as though half in argument with his own doubts, Jenkins cried:
" 'I say it is possible - it can be done. And, by Heaven, I'll find the way!' "
"Ridges - Ridges, M.D., you know him, P.M. - finally lay back among his cushions, drew a long breath through his black cigar, and drawled in as insulting a tone as he could muster:
" 'Have it your own way, my unfortunate biologist. Have it your own way.' "
Jenkins' eyes snapped.
" 'You don't believe it?' " he cried.
"Ridges chuckled. Harvey Gilson, opposite me, laughed loudly.
" 'Been dissecting somethin' extra old this aft', old man? Fumes, or somethin', seem to have
' "Ridges cut in again with a chuckle.
"Perhaps," he drawled again - 'perhaps if our vehement friend would propound his argument without first half stunning us, and would explain just what it is that can be done, and why, we might understand why he is so certain of his own ability to find the way.'
"Ridges could talk thus to him, you know," Burns went on in an aside to me - "he had introduced Jenkins to our little circle and felt responsible - naturally. And Jenkins we had come to like, he was, still is, so deucedly earnest about things - You saw his eyes."
Terror in the Modern Vein Page 10