The Dead of Night

by Oliver Onions

  It came, this check I have spoken of, one night, as I was in the very middle of a sentence; and though I have cudgelled my brains in seeking how best I can describe it, I am reduced to the simple statement that it was as arresting, as sharp, actual and impossible to resist, as if my hand had been seized and pinned down in its passage across the paper. I can even see again the fragment of the sentence I had written: ‘ . . . and the mere contemplation of a betrayal so essential – ’ Then came that abrupt and remarkable stop. It was such an experi­ence as I had formerly known only in nightmare.

  I sat there looking blankly and stupidly at my own hand. And not only was my hand arrested, but my brain also had completely ceased to work. For the life of me I could not recall the conclusion of the sentence I had planned a moment before.

  I looked at my hand, and looked again; and as I looked I remem­bered something I had been reading only a few days before – a profoundly unsettling description of an experiment in auto-suggestion. The ex­peri­ment had consisted of the placing of a hand upon a table, and the laying upon it the conjuration that, the Will notwithstanding, it should not move. And as I watched my own hand, pale on the paper in the pearly light, I knew that, by some consent to the nullification of the Will that did not proceed from the Self I was accustomed to regard as my own, that injunction was already placed upon it. My conscious and deliberate Will was powerless. I could only sit there and wait until whatever inhibition had arrested my writing hand should permit it to move forward again.

  It must have been several minutes before such a tingling of the nerves as announces that the blood is once more returning to a cramped member warned me that I was about to be released. Warily I awaited my moment; then I plucked my hand to myself again with a suddenness that caused a little blot of ink to spurt from my fountain-pen on to the surface of the paper. I drew a deep breath. I was free again. And with the freedom came a resolve – that whatever portion of myself had been responsible for this prank should not repeat it if I could possibly prevent it.

  But scarcely had I come, as I may say (and not without a little gush of alarm now that it was over), to myself, when I was struck by a thought. It was a queer wild sort of thought. It fetched me out of my chair and set me striding across the library to a lower shelf in the farthest corner. This shelf was the shelf on which I kept my letter-files. I stooped and ran my fingers along the backs of the dusty row. I drew out the file for 1900, and brought it back to my writing-table. My contracts, I ought to say, reposed in a deed-box at my agent’s office; but my files contained, in the form of my agent’s letters, a sufficient record of my business transactions.

  I opened the file concertina-wise, and turned to the section lettered ‘R’. I drew out the correspondence that related to the sale of the first series of the Martin Renards. As I did so I glanced at the movable calendar on my table. The date was January 20th.

  The file contained no letters for January of any significance whatever.

  The thought that had half formed in my brain immediately became nonsense. I replaced the letters in their compartment, and took the file back to its shelf again. For some minutes I paced the library irresolutely; then I decided I would work no more that night. When I gathered together my papers I was careful to place that with the half-finished sentence on the top, so that with the first resting of my eyes upon it on the morrow my memory might haply be refreshed.

  I tried again to finish that sentence on the morrow. With certain modifications that I need not particularise here, my experience was the same as on the previous night.

  It was the same when I made the attempt on the day after that.

  At ten o’clock of the night of the fourth day I completed the sentence without difficulty. I just sat down in my chair and wrote it.

  With equal ease I finished the chapter on professional artists.

  It was not likely that Schofield would have refrained from telling Maschka of our little difference on our last meeting; and within a week of the date I have just mentioned I learned that she knew all about it. And, as the circumstances of my learning this were in a high degree unusual, I will relate them with such clearness as I am able.

  I ought first to say, however, that the selection of the drawings that were to illustrate the book having been made (the drawings for which my own text was to serve as commentary would be the better ex­pression), the superintendence of their production had been left to Schofield. He, Maschka, and I passed the proofs in consultation. The blocks were almost ready; and the reason for their call that evening was to consider the possibility of having all ready for production in the early spring – a possibility which was contingent on the state of advancement of my own share of the book.

  That evening I had experienced my second check. (I omit those that had immediately succeeded the first one, as resembling that one so closely in the manner of their coming.) It had not come by any means so completely and definitively as the former one, but it had sufficed to make my progress, both mentally and mechanically, so sluggish and struggling a performance that for the time being I had given up the attempt, and was once more regarding with a sort of perturbed stupor my hand that held the pen. Andriaovsky’s portrait stood in its usual place, on the chair at the end of my writing-table; but I had eyes for nothing but that refractory hand of mine.

  Now it is true that during the past weeks I had studied Andria­ovsky’s portrait thoroughly enough to be able to call up the vivid mental image of it at will; but that did not entirely account for the changed aspect with which it now presented itself to that uncom­prehended sense within us that makes of these shadows such startling realities. Flashing and life-like as was the presentation on the canvas (mind you, I was not looking at it, but all the time at my own hand), it was dead paint by comparison with that mental image which I saw (if I may so use a term of which custom has restricted the meaning to one kind of seeing) as plainly as I ever saw Andriaovsky in his life. I know now that it was by virtue of that essential essence that bound us heart and brain and soul together that I so saw him, eyes glittering, head sardonically wagging, fine mouth shaping phrases of insight and irony. And the strange thing was, that I could not have located this so living image by confining it to any portion of the space within the four walls of my library. It was before me, behind me, within my head, about me, was me, invading and possessing the ‘me’ that sat at the table. At one moment the eyes mockingly invited me to go on with my work; the next, a frown had seated itself on that massive pylon of his forehead; and then suddenly his countenance changed entirely . . . A wave of horror broke over me. He was suddenly as I had seen him that last time in the Hampstead ‘Home’ – sitting up on his pillow, looking into my eyes with that terrible look of profundity and familiarity, and asking me who I was . . . ‘Harrison – ha ha! . . . You shall very soon know that I know you, if . . . ’

  It is but by the accident of our limited experience that sounds are loud or soft to that inner ear of us; these words were at one and the same time a dreadful thunder and a voice interstellarly inaccessible and withdrawn. They, too, were before, behind, without, and within. And incorporated (I know not how else to express it) with these words were other words, in the English I knew, in the Hebrew in which he had quoted them from the sacred Books of his People, in all languages, in no language save that essential communication of which languages are but the inessential husk and medium – words that told me that though I took the Wings of the Morning and fled into the uttermost parts of the earth, yea, though I made my bed in Hell, I could not escape him . . .

  He had kept his word. I did know that he knew who and what I was . . .

  I cannot tell whether my lips actually shaped the question that even in that moment burst from me.

  ‘But Form – and Forms? It is then true that all things are but aspects of One thing? . . . ’

  ‘Yes – in death,’ the voice seemed to reply.

&nb
sp; My next words, I know, were actually spoken aloud.

  ‘Then tell me – tell me – do you not wish me to write it?’

  Suddenly I leapt out of my chair with a gulping cry. A voice had spoken . . .

  ‘Of course we wish you to write it . . . ’

  For one instant of time my vision seemed to fold on itself like smoke; then it was gone. The face into which I was wildly staring was Maschka’s, and behind her stood Schofield. They had been announced, but I had heard nothing of it.

  ‘Were you thinking of not writing it?’ she demanded, while Scho­field scowled at me.

  ‘No – no – ’ I stammered, as I got up and tardily placed them chairs.

  Schofield did not speak, but he did not remove his eyes from me. Somehow I could not meet them.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘Jack had already told me that you seemed in two minds about it. That’s what we’ve called about – to know definitely what it is you propose to do.’

  I saw that she had also called, if necessary, to quarrel. I began to recover a little.

  ‘Did you tell her that?’ I demanded of Schofield. ‘If you did, you – misinterpreted me.’

  In my house, he ignored the fact that I was in the room. He replied to Maschka.

  ‘I understood Mr Harrison to say definitely, and in those words, that if I didn’t like the way in which he was writing Michael’s “Life”’ I might write and publish one myself,’ he said.

  ‘I did say that,’ I admitted; ‘but I never said that whatever you did I should not go on with mine.’

  ‘Yours!’ cried Maschka. ‘What right have you in my brother’s “Life”?’

  I quickly told her.

  ‘I have the right to write my recollections of him, and, subject to certain provisions of the Law, to base anything on them I think fit,’ I replied.

  ‘But,’ she cried aghast, ‘there can’t be two “Lives”! . . . ’

  ‘It’s news to me that two were contemplated,’ I returned. ‘The point is, that I can get mine published, and you can’t.’

  Schofield’s harsh voice sounded suddenly – but again to Maschka, not to me.

  ‘Ye might remind Mr Harrison that others have capabilities in business besides himself. Beyond a doubt our sales will be compar­at­ively small, but they’ll be to such as have not made the great refusal.’

  Think of it! . . . I almost laughed.

  ‘Oh! . . . Been trying it?’ I enquired.

  He made no reply.

  ‘Well, those who have made the refusal have at least had some­thing to refuse,’ I said mildly. Then, realising that this was mere quarrelling, I returned to the point. ‘Anyhow, there’s no question of refusing to write the “Life”. I admit that during the last fortnight I’ve met with certain difficulties; but the task isn’t so easy as perhaps it looks . . . I’m making progress.’

  ‘I suppose,’ she said hesitatingly, after a pause, ‘that you don’t care to show it as far as it is written?’

  For a moment I also hesitated. I thought I saw where she was. Thanks to that Lancashire jackanapes, there was division between us; and I had pretty well made up my mind, not only that he thought himself quite capable of writing Andriaovsky’s ‘Life’ him­self, but that he had actually made an attempt in that direction. They had come in the suspicion that I was throwing them over, and, though that suspicion was removed, Maschka wished, if there was any throw­ing over to be done, to do it herself. In a word, she wanted to compare me with Schofield.

  ‘To see it as far as it is written,’ I repeated slowly . . . ‘Well, you may. That is, you, Michael’s sister, may. But on the condition that you neither show it to anybody else nor speak of it to anybody else.’

  ‘Ah!’ she said . . . ‘And only on those conditions?’

  ‘Only on those conditions.’

  I saw a quick glance between them. ‘Shall we tell him?’ it seemed to say . . .

  ‘Including the man Michael’s sister is going to marry?’ she said abruptly.

  My attitude was deeply apologetic, but, ‘Including anybody whom­soever,’ I answered.

  ‘Then,’ she said, rising, ‘we won’t bother. But will you at least let us know, soon, when we may expect your text?’

  ‘I will let you know,’ I replied slowly, ‘one week from today.’

  On that assurance they left; and when they had gone I crossed once more to the lower shelf that contained my letter-files. I turned up the file for 1900 once more. During their visit I had had an idea.

  I ran through the letters, and then replaced them . . .

  Yes, I ought to be able to let them know within the week.

  5

  Against the day when I myself shall come to die, there are in the pigeon-holes of the newspaper libraries certain biographical records that deal roughly with the outward facts of my life; and these, supplemented by documents I shall place in the hands of my exec­utors, will tell the story of how I leaped at a bound into wealth and fame with the publication of The Cases of Martin Renard. I will set down as much of that story as has its bearing on my present tale.

  Martin Renard was not immediately accepted by the first editor to whom it was offered. It does not suffice that in order to be popular a thing shall be merely good – or bad; it must be bad – or good – in a particular way. For taking the responsibility when they happen to miss that particular way editors are paid their salaries. When they happen to hit it they grow fat on circulation-money: since it becomes me ill to quarrel with the way in which any man earns his money, I content myself with merely stating the fact.

  By the time the fourth editor had refused my series I was about at my last gasp. To write the things at all I had had to sink four months in time; and debts, writs and pawnshops were my familiars. I was little better off than Andriaovsky at his very worst. I had read the first of the Martin Renards to him, by the way; the gigantic outburst of mirth with which he had received it had not encouraged me to read him a second. I wrote the others in secret.

  I wrote the things in the spring and summer of 1900; and by the last day of September I was confident that I had at last sold them. Except by a flagrant breach of faith, the editor in whose desk they reposed could hardly decline them. As it subsequently happened, I have now nothing but gratitude for him that he did, after all, decline them; for I had a duplicate copy ‘on offer’ in another quarter.

  He declined them, I say; and I was free to possess my soul again among my writs, debts and pawnshops.

  But four days later I received the alternative offer. It was from the Falchion. The Falchion, as you may remember, has since run no less than five complete series of Martin Renards. It bought ‘both sides’, that is to say, both British and American serial rights. Of the twelve Martin Renards I had written, my wise agent had offered the Falchion six only. On his advice I accepted the offer.

  Instantaneously with the publication of those six stories came my success. In two continents I was ‘home’ – home in the hearts of the public. I had my small cheque – it was not much more than a hundred pounds – but ‘Wait,’ said my agent; ‘let’s see what we can do with the other six . . . ’

  Precisely what he did with them only he and I know; but I don’t mind saying that £3000 did not buy my first serial rights. Then came second and third rights, and after them the book rights, British, American, and Colonial. Then came the translation rights. In French, my creation is, of course, as in English, Martin Renard; in German he is Martin Fuchs; and by a similar process you can put him – my translators have put him – into Italian, Swedish, Nor­wegian, Russian, and three-fourths of the tongues of Europe. And this was the first series only. It was only with the second series that the full splendour of my success appeared. My very imitators grew rich; my agent’s income from his comparatively small percentage on my royalties was han
dsome; and he chuckled and bade me wait for the dramatic rights and the day when the touring companies should get to business . . .

  I had ‘got there’.

  And I remember, sadly enough now, my first resolution when the day came when I was able to survey the situation with anything approaching calm. It was, ‘Enough’. For the rest of my days I need not know poverty again. Thenceforward I need not, unless I chose, do any but worthy work. Martin Renard had served his purpose handsomely, and I intended to have nothing more to do with him.

  Then came that dazzling offer for the second series . . .

  I accepted it.

  I accepted the third likewise; and I have told you about the fourth . . .

  I have tried to kill Martin Renard. He was killing me. I have, in the pages of the Falchion, actually killed him; but I have had to resuscitate him. I cannot escape from him . . .

  I am not setting down one word more of this than bears directly on my tale of Andriaovsky’s ‘Life’. For those days, when my whole future had hung in the balance, were the very days covered by that portion of Andriaovsky’s life at which I had now arrived. I had reached, and was hesitating at, our point of divergence. Those checks and releases which I had at first found so unaccountable corresponded with the vicissitudes of the Martin Renard negotiations.

  The actual dates did not, of course, coincide – I had quickly discov­ered the falsity of that scent. Neither did the intervals between them, with the exception of those few days in which I had been unable to complete that half-written sentence – the few days immed­iately prior to my (parallel) acceptance by the Falchion. But, by that other reckon­ing of time, of mental and spiritual experience, they tallied exactly. The gambling chances of five years ago meant present stumblings and haltings; the breach of faith of an editor long since meant a present respite; and another week should bring me to that point of my so strangely reduplicated experience that, allowing for the furious mental rate at which I was now living, would make another node with that other point in the more slowly lived past that had marked my accept­ance of the offer for the second half-dozen of the Martin Renards.