Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (134 page)

Authors: Travelers In Time

From
The Beast with Five
Fingers,
by
William Fryer Harvey, reprinted by permission of £. P. Dutton & Co., Inc.,
New York, and
J.
M. Dent & Sons Ltd., of Canada and
England.

August
Heat

By WILLIAM FRYER HARVEY

Phenistone
Road, Clapham August
20th,
190—

I
have had what i believe to
be the most remarkable day in my

life,
and while the events are still fresh in my mind, I wish to put them down on
paper as clearly as possible.

Let me say at the outset that my name is James Clarence Withencroft.

I am forty years old, in perfect health, never having known a day's
illness.

By profession I am an artist, not a very
successful one, but
I
earn enough money by my black-and-white work
to satisfy my necessary wants.

My only near relative, a sister, died five
years ago, so that
I
am independent.

I breakfasted this morning at nine, and after
glancing through the morning paper I lighted my pipe and proceeded to let my
mind wander in the hope that I might chance upon some subject for my pencil.

The room, though door and windows were open,
was oppressively hot, and I had just made up my mind that the coolest and most
comfortable place in the neighbourhood would be the deep end of the public
swimming bath, when the idea came.

I
began to draw. So intent was I on my work that I left my lunch untouched, only
stopping work when the clock of St. Jude's struck four.

The
final result, for a hurried sketch, was, I felt sure, the best thing I had
done.

It
showed a criminal in the dock immediately after the judge had pronounced
sentence. The man was fat—enormously fat. The flesh hung in rolls about his
chin; it creased his huge, stumpy neck. He was clean shaven (perhaps I should
say a few days before he must have been clean shaven) and almost bald. He stood
in the dock, his short, clumsy fingers clasping the rail, looking straight in
front of him. The feeling that his expression conveyed was not so much one of
honor as of utter, absolute collapse.

There
seemed nothing in the man strong enough to sustain that mountain of flesh.

I
rolled up the sketch, and without quite knowing why, placed it in my pocket.
Then with the rare sense of happiness which the knowledge of a good thing well
done gives, I left the house.

I
believe that I set out with the idea of calling upon Trenton, for I remember
walking along Lytton Street and turning to the right along Gilchrist Road at
the bottom of the hill where the men were at work on the new tram lines.

From
there onwards I have only the vaguest recollection of where I went. The one
thing of which I was fully conscious was the awful heat, that came up from the
dusty asphalt pavement as an almost palpable wave. I longed for the thunder
promised by the great banks of copper-coloured cloud that hung low over- the
western sky.

I
must have walked five or six miles, when a small boy roused me from my reverie
by asking the time.

It was twenty minutes to
seven.

When
he left me I began to take stock of my bearings. I found myself standing before
a gate that led into a yard bordered by a strip of thirsty earth, where there
were flowers, purple stock and scarlet geranium. Above the entrance was a board
with the inscription—

C
hs.
A
tkinson

M
onumental
M
ason worker in
english and italian marbles

From
the yard itself came a cheery whistle, the noise of hammer blows, and the cold
sound of steel meeting stone.

A
sudden
impulse
made
me
enter.

A
man
was
sitting
with
his
back
towards
me,
busy
at
work
on
a
slab of
curiously
veined
marble.
He
turned
round
as
he
heard
my
steps
and I
stopped
short.

It
was
the
man
I
had
been
drawing,
whose
portrait
lay
in
my
pocket.

He
sat
there,
huge
and
elephantine,
the
sweat
pouring
from
his scalp,
which
he
wiped
with
a
red
silk
handkerchief.
But
though
the face
was
the
same,
the
expression
was
absolutely
different.

He
greeted
me
smiling,
as
if
we
were
old
friends,
and
shook
my hand.

I
apologised
for
my
intrusion.

"Everything
is
hot
and
glary
outside,"
I
said.
"This
seems
an
oasis
in the
wilderness."

"I
don't
know
about
the
oasis,"
he
replied,
"but
it
certainly
is
hot, as
hot
as
hell.
Take
a
seat,
sir!"

He
pointed
to
the
end
of
the
gravestone
on
which
he
was
at
work, and
I
sat
down.

"That's
a
beautiful
piece
of
stone
you've
got
hold
of,"
I
said.

He
shook
his
head.
"In
a
way
it
is,"
he
answered;
"the
surface
here is
as
fine
as
anything
you
could
wish,
but
there's
a
big
flaw
at
the
back, though
I
don't
expect
you'd
ever
notice
it.
I
could
never
make
really a
good
job
of
a
bit
of
marble
like
that.
It
would
be
all
right
in
the summer
like
this;
it
wouldn't
mind
the
blasted
heat.
But
wait
till
the winter
comes.
There's
nothing
quite
like
frost
to
find
out
the
weak points
in
stone."

"Then
what's
it
for?"
I
asked.

The
man
burst
out
laughing.

"You'd
hardly
believe
me
if
I
was
to
tell
you
it's
for
an
exhibition, but
it's
the
truth.
Artists
have
exhibitions:
so
do
grocers
and
butchers; we
have
them
too.
All
the
latest
little
things
in
headstones,
you
know."

He
went
on
to
talk
of
marbles,
which
sort
best
withstood
wind
and rain,
and
which
were
easiest
to
work;
then
of
his
garden
and
a
new sort
of
carnation
he
had
bought.
At
the
end
of
every
other
minute he
would
drop
his
tools,
wipe
his
shining
head,
and
curse
the
heat.

I
said
little,
for
I
felt
uneasy.
There
was
something
unnatural, uncanny,
in
meeting
this
man.

I
tried
at
first
to
persuade
myself
that
I
had
seen
him
before,
that his
face,
unknown
to
me,
had
found
a
place
in
some
out-of-the-way
corner of my memory, but
I
knew that I was practising little more than a plausible piece of
self-deception.