“I woke up with a queer sensation that something was happening or
about to happen—I felt it even before I remembered my whereabouts. And
then, when I looked up, I saw, very faintly against the slightly pale oblong
of the open doorway, a sight more terrifying to me than snakes or
panthers.”
Lanberger tittered. “Do we have to guess what it was? I suggest it
was Mirsky being a beetle… . Sorry, Russell, I’m not really poking
fun—it’s just that your quite frightful story begins to make me
feel hysterical. I can’t help it. But do go on.”
Russell continued: “The woman was standing over me. I could feel and
smell, more than I could see her. And if, by the way, I had happened to be an
admirer of women, I think that might have been enough to cure me for ever. I
can get now, when I think of it, some of the fearfulness of that presence
near me—once again, in the darkness, I had an impression of something
elemental, and in a rather dreadful way, obscene. I won’t elaborate it,
though. Perhaps more to the point is the fact that she was carrying something
in her hand—something which, dimly outlined, looked to me very much
like the axe that Mirsky had been using to chop wood.
“I rather pride myself, you know, on keeping my head at these
awkward junctures. After my first spasm of terror, I felt quite calm. The
woman, I could see, was watching me, but I doubted whether she knew I had
wakened. My revolver was touching my hand— if she intended murder I
could forestall her by the merest pressure of a finger. I don’t know
that I’d have felt much compunction about it, either—I’ve
killed men for less, and I certainly didn’t feel in a chivalrous mood
just then, even if I ever did. Anyhow, to cut the story shorter, I gave her
the chance and she took it. I staged a noisy yawn, and saw her slink back,
axe and all, into the shadows at the other end of the hut.
“As you can guess, I didn’t go to sleep again that night. I
lay awake thinking things over, and the best plan, in the circumstances,
seemed a pretty quick exit in the morning. I just didn’t like the idea
of that woman. The Indian tribes, you know, aren’t particularly
intelligent, but they’re reputed to employ several highly original
methods of slaughter, and I wasn’t sure that I knew them all. So at
dawn I got up, waked my guide, and ordered him to prepare for the return
journey. Mirsky and the woman heard me, and also got up. Mirsky protested
against my going so soon, and wanted me to take a meal first, but I
declined—to tell the truth, though it may sound ridiculous—I
had a fear of poison. You see, I’d figured it out that the woman knew,
whether he’d told her so or not, that I was scheming to take him away
from her. It’s the sort of motive that grows with thinking about, and I
reckoned on her feeling more murderous than ever after that
middle-of-the-night fiasco. I didn’t hint anything of this to Mirsky,
of course. I merely said that as it hadn’t rained during the night, I
was anxious to take the chance of crossing the river. Mirsky said it would
still be impossible to cross, but I said I would go down and try, anyway. So
he went with me. My good-bye to the woman was somewhat frigidly polite.
“It’s about a mile downhill from the hut to the fording-
place, and Mirsky and I carried on a rather one-sided conversation most of
the way. It was then that I said I supposed the woman had found him half-dead
in the forest, and he just looked at me sardonically and shrugged his
shoulders. I also said: ’I don’t know what sort of report I can
make about you when I get back.’ He said: ’Why not tell the
truth?’ I answered: ‘It’s too ghastly.’ He then said:
‘I suppose it’s the woman that makes you say that.’ I
admitted as much, and he laughed in a sort of crackling way and answered:
’That’s just the trouble. You shouldn’t think about her.
You shouldn’t think about women at all. They’re not made for
it.’ I said they were generally considered to be of some importance in
a man’s life. He said: ’Important, yes. So are the colon and the
pylorus. But you only think about them when they’re not functioning
properly. Thought is Mishap. That’s a decent sort of Proudhon
definition anyway. Look at your world when you return to it—compare it
with the almost thoughtless world of the amoeba, or with the totally
thoughtless orbit of Betelgeuse.’ ’All very well,’ I
retorted, ’but the fact remains that what you’re saying now is
very much the product of thought. You seem to have the disease as badly as
anyone else.’ He laughed again at that, and we went on talking till we
reached the river. I can’t remember a lot that he said. As you remarked
just now, Lanberger, it probably wasn’t anything really original. But
it would no doubt pass for originality if Mirsky were to come back here on a
lecture tour, grizzled beard and Indian squaw complete. I can see the
women’s clubs in Cincinnati and Akron, Ohio, going wild about
him.”
“He’d certainly make a bigger hit than he did as a highbrow
art-critic,” agreed Oetzler. “But unfortunately you weren’t
able to persuade him to such an interestingly new career, I
gather?”
“No, but he nearly persuaded me to go back with him to the hut. He
said the river was very deep and had dangerous cross-currents, so that
I’d probably lose all my tackle if not my life. The Indian guide was
rather doubtful about it, too—the stream certainly was running pretty
high. I was half-preparing myself to accept the inevitable—after all,
I thought, I’ve got a revolver and know how to use it—when I
happened to give another glance at Mirsky, and all at once my guardian
instinct stepped in again. I can’t really describe the look that was in
his face. It was just—if the oxymoron conveys anything—pure
evil. I was aware then, as clearly as if I’d been told so outright,
that he knew all about the woman’s planned attack on me, that
he’d been a party to it, and that he wanted to get me back to the hut
for a second and more successful effort. Of course, you can say if you like
that I couldn’t possibly deduce all these things from a mere look, but
I say I could and DID. And it made me settle quite finally that I’d got
to cross that stream somehow or other. I told him so. He laughed and said he
supposed I had a right to drown myself if I chose. Then he suddenly cried
out, excitedly: ’You’re not going! You’re coming back with
me!’ I answered, as calmly as I could: ’My dear Mirsky, nothing
on earth would induce me to do that. If I can’t get across now,
I’ll camp out here on the bank until the water lowers.’ He said:
‘You don’t like my establishment, then?’ I answered rather
recklessly—perhaps you know how sometimes an idea comes to you which,
if you thought about it twice, you’d reject, but it just captures you
before you have time for the second thought. That’s what was happening
to me then, as I said: ’Oh, I don’t mind your establishment at
all, but I do object to being murdered in my sleep.’ I guessed that
would bring things to a climax, but the precise climax it did lead to
wasn’t among those I was prepared for. A rather curious change came
over him. He just nodded his head, very slowly; and, believe me, Oetzler, it
was as if, for a moment, the curtain lifted and he became as sane as you or
me. ‘She’s a devil, that woman is, Russell,’ he said, in
quite a calm voice.
“D’you know, it rather got me, moved me in a sense—his
saying that, and the way he said it—and I’m not a very easy
person to move. Perhaps it was partly his calling me by my name, for the
first time. I put my hand on his dirty, sun-browned shoulder and said:
’Mirsky, don’t be a fool—come with me now—this
instant— let’s both of us cross this damned river and get away.
Come on— don’t think of her again—just come with
me.’ I kept on talking, urging, waiting for him to say something in
reply, and what he said at length was just the one
word—’Clothes’—in a half-dazed voice. ‘Oh,
that’s all right,’ I replied. ’I can lend you things, and
we’ll get you a full rig-out in San Cristobal.’ ‘San
Cristobal?’ he echoed, as if the name reminded him of something. And
then he made a remark which made me think, as I told you before, that his
mind and memory must have undergone some peculiar twist. He said: ’I
must send a cable when I get to San Cristobal. Raphael Rassova is dead. Did
you know that?’ Well, of course I knew it, as everybody else does. I
just made some vague answer, not wishing to begin any irrelevant argument.
What I was most anxious for was to have him on the other side of that river.
And I honestly think I should have succeeded but for one of those appalling
mischances that change the entire pattern of fate. Hearing a sound in the
distance, we both looked to see what it was, and there, waddling down the
forest-track as fast as she could come, was that woman.”
Russell leaned forward a little and took another drink; talking so much
had made him a trifle husky. “I assure you solemnly, Oetzler, that I
very nearly killed her at that moment. And I suppose, by every civil and
moral law, it would have been plain murder if I had done. Yet she seemed to
me, as she approached, much more than someone who had tried to take my life.
As a matter of fact, I almost forgot about that. She seemed more than any
merely human personality—rather the incarnation of all that keeps men
enslaved, chained down. Do you know what I mean when I say she was too
FEMALE?”
Lanberger nodded. “Your kink again, Russell. But I do know what you
mean. I wonder if women ever think a man is too MALE? Perhaps those chaps are
that you see photographs of in the physical culture papers. … But I’m
too interested in your yarn to want to interrupt it again. Do
continue.”
“Well, there’s very little left. Of course her coming made
everything hopeless. The curtain re-descended on Mirsky—he began to
rant and shout, and though I tried to pacify him, it was clearly going to be
no use. Then the woman said something, and instantly he went on again about
the dangers of the water-crossing and how much better it would be if I were
to return with him to the hut and wait a while. That sudden change of
attitude, at the woman’s bidding, struck me so sinisterly that I gave
an immediate order to the guide, jumped on my mule, and plunged into the
river. As a final proof that I had done wisely, the crossing turned out to be
perfectly simple. There were no treacherous currents at all, and the water
wasn’t nearly as deep as Mirsky had made out. When I reached the other
side I took what I guessed was a last look at him and shouted good-bye. But
he was talking to the woman and didn’t answer. Then I headed my beast
into the forest and began the return journey to Yacaiba. That’s
all.”
He sighed gently as he prepared to let the other men talk. But for several
minutes neither of them did so, and Oetzler merely pushed across the whisky
and cigar-box. It was Lanberger who finally broke the silence. “Well,
at any rate,” he said, “I think any reasonable person will agree
that you couldn’t have done more. Not many would have done as
much.”
Oetzler nodded. “I second that. It’s a business I
shouldn’t myself have cared to face at all. A strange experience for
you, Russell. I hope you feel that the mere uniqueness of it is some reward
for its unpleasantness while it lasted.”
“Oh, yes,” answered Russell, smiling. “It will fit very
nicely into my autobiography, I admit.”
“Meanwhile,” Oetzler went on, “there’s one awkward
problem left over from it. What am I going to write to the girl in
Paris?”
“His sister? H’m… that is a problem. What sort of person is
she?”
“I haven’t much idea, but I gather she’s the widow of a
Frenchman, has no money, and supports herself by some rather paltry job. The
usual emigré tragedy. She and her brother are all of the family that have
survived. She seems to be very much attached to him—for the last few
months she’s been writing to me constantly, asking where he is and why
she hasn’t heard from him. I don’t suppose, but for her,
I’d really have bothered you to make any enquiries.”
“Does she know he went to Maramba?” Lanberger asked.
“Oh, yes, I told her all that. And his last letter to her was from
Rio, saying he was just about to set out for the earthquake zone.”
“Well, I don’t suppose you’ll feel inclined to tell her
the exact truth.”
“Good God, no! She probably wouldn’t believe me, and even if
she did, she’d only want to go out there right away and discover things
for herself. But I shall be compelled to tell her something, after my promise
to have enquiries made.”
They discussed the matter for some time, but Russell did not join in; he
seemed fatigued after his narration, and at length rose to go. Oetzler went
down with him to the front door, leaving Lanberger in the library. They
chatted a moment till the arrival of a cab, and then shook hands. Probably
Russell would have visited a good many other outlandish places before they
met again, Oetzler reflected.
As he climbed again the short flight of stairs to rejoin his guest, he
rather wished that Lanberger were not staying with him. The man had been
amusing enough at dinner, but he was too tiresomely decorative for a
conversation ŕ deux. No doubt at that very moment he was thinking of
something clever to say. Oetzler felt he would rather have been alone. The
evening had left him with a curious feeling of depression—curious
because he could not, as so often, whisk it away by a merely cynical twist of
thought. The talk at dinner and Russell’s long story somehow balanced
each other in his mind—two pictures of a world that made him glad he
was an old man.
When he entered the library Lanberger had lit a fresh cigar and was
evidently ready for an eager resumption of the conversation.
“An extraordinary yarn, Oetzler,” he began, puffing excitedly.
“Most good of you to let me in for it. As a novelist, I found it
horribly fascinating. But, you know, the character in the story that
interested me most of all was not Mirsky, nor even the woman, but Russell
himself. What a man! It’s rare that you get a real self-revelation like
that. His kink about the woman… most remarkable. He admitted himself that
we must make allowance for it. On the whole, I think it’s a pity he
didn’t bring back a few photographs.”