He arrived late at night by the yellow diligence, stiff and cramped
after the toilsome ascent of three slow hours. The village, a single
mass of shadow, was already asleep. Only in front of the little hotel
was there noise and light and bustle--for a moment. The horses, with
tired, slouching gait, crossed the road and disappeared into the stable
of their own accord, their harness trailing in the dust; and the
lumbering diligence stood for the night where they had dragged it--the
body of a great yellow-sided beetle with broken legs.
In spite of his physical weariness, the schoolmaster, revelling in
the first hours of his ten-guinea holiday, felt exhilarated. For the
high Alpine valley was marvellously still; stars twinkled over the torn
ridges of the Dent du Midi where spectral snows gleamed against rocks
that looked like ebony; and the keen air smelt of pine forests,
dew-soaked pastures, and freshly sawn wood.
He took it all in with a kind of bewildered delight for a few
minutes, while the other three passengers gave directions about their
luggage and went to their rooms. Then he turned and walked over the
coarse matting into the glare of the hall, only just able to resist
stopping to examine the big mountain map that hung upon the wall by the
door.
And, with a sudden disagreeable shock, he came down from the ideal
to the actual. For at the inn--the only inn--there was no vacant room.
Even the available sofas were occupied.
How stupid he had been not to write! Yet it had been impossible, he
remembered, for he had come to the decision suddenly that morning in
Geneva, enticed by the brilliance of the weather after a week of
rain.
They talked endlessly, this gold-braided porter and the hard-faced
old woman--her face was hard, he noticed--gesticulating all the time,
and pointing all about the village with suggestions that he ill
understood, for his French was limited and their patois was
fearful.
'There!'--he might find a room, 'or there! But we are, hélas
full--more full than we care about. To-morrow, perhaps-if So-and-So
give up their rooms--!' And then, with much shrugging of shoulders, the
hard-faced old woman stared at the gold-braided porter, and the porter
stared sleepily at the school-master.
At length, however, by some process of hope he did not himself
understand, and following directions given by the old woman that were
utterly unintelligible, he went out into the street and walked towards
a dark group of houses she had pointed out to him. He only knew that he
meant to thunder at a door and ask for a room. He was too weary to
think out details. The porter half made to go with him, but turned back
at the last moment to speak with the old woman. The houses sketched
themselves dimly in the general blackness. The air was cold. The whole
valley was filled with the rush and thunder of falling water. He was
thinking vaguely that the dawn could not be very far away, and that he
might even spend the night wandering in the woods, when there was a
sharp noise behind him and he turned to see a figure hurrying after
him. It was the porter--running.
And in the little hall of the inn there began again a confused
three-cornered conversation, with frequent muttered colloquy and
whispered asides in patois between the woman and the porter--the net
result of which was that, 'If Monsieur did not object--there was a
room, after all, on the first floor--only it was in a sense "engaged".
That is to say--' But the school-master took the room without inquiring
too closely into the puzzle that had somehow provided it so suddenly.
The ethics of hotel-keeping had nothing to do with him. If the woman
offered him quarters it was not for him to argue with her whether the
said quarters were legitimately hers to offer.
But the porter, evidently a little thrilled, accompanied the guest
up to the room and supplied in a mixture of French and English details
omitted by the landlady--and Minturn, the schoolmaster, soon shared the
thrill with him, and found himself in the atmosphere of a possible
tragedy.
All who know the peculiar excitement that belongs to lofty mountain
valleys where dangerous climbing is a chief feature of the attractions,
will understand a certain faint element of high alarm that goes with
the picture. One looks up at the desolate, soaring ridges and thinks
involuntarily of the men who find their pleasure for days and nights
together scaling perilous summits among the clouds, and conquering inch
by inch the icy peaks that for ever shake their dark terror in the
sky.
The atmosphere of adventure, spiced with the possible horror of a
very grim order of tragedy, is inseparable from any imaginative
contemplation of the scene: and the idea Minturn gleaned from the
half-frightened porter lost nothing by his ignorance of the language.
This Englishwoman, the real occupant of the room, had insisted on going
without a guide. She had left just before daybreak two days before--the
porter had seen her start--and...she had not returned! The route was
difficult and dangerous, yet not impossible for a skilled climber, even
a solitary one.
And the Englishwoman was an experienced mountaineer. Also, she was
self-willed, careless of advice, bored by warnings, self-confident to a
degree. Queer, moreover; for she kept entirely to herself, and
sometimes remained in her room with locked doors, admitting no one, for
days together; a 'crank,' evidently, of the first water.
This much Minturn gathered clearly enough from the porter's talk
while his luggage was brought in and the room set to rights; further,
too, that the search party had gone out and might, of course, return at
any moment. In which case--. Thus the room was empty, yet still hers.
'If Monsieur did not object--if the risk he ran of having to turn out
suddenly in the night--' It was the loquacious porter who furnished the
details that made the transaction questionable; and Minturn dismissed
the loquacious porter as soon as possible, and prepared to get into the
hastily arranged bed and snatch all the hours of sleep he could before
he was turned out.
At first, it must be admitted, he felt uncomfortable--distinctly
uncomfortable. He was in some one else's room. He had really no right
to be there. It was in the nature of an unwarrantable intrusion; and
while he unpacked he kept looking over shoulder as though some one were
watching him from corners. Any moment, it seemed, he would hear a step
in the passage, a knock would come at the door, the door would open and
there he would see this vigorous Englishwoman looking him up and down
with anger. Worse still--he would hear her voice asking him what he was
doing in her room--her bedroom. Of course, he had an adequate
explanation, but still--!
Then, reflecting that he was already half undressed, the humour of
it flashed for a second across his mind, and he laughed--quietly. And
at once, after that laughter, under his breath, came the sudden sense
of tragedy he had felt before. Perhaps, even while he smiled, her body
lay broken and cold upon those awful heights, the wind of snow playing
over her hair, her glazed eyes staring sightless up to the stars...It
made him shudder. The sense of this woman whom he had never seen, whose
name even he did not know, became extraordinarily real. Almost he could
imagine that she was somewhere in the room with him, hidden, observing
all he did.
He opened the door softly to put his boots outside, and when he
closed it again he turned the key. Then he finished unpacking and
distributed his few things about the room. It was soon done, for, in
the first place, he had only a small Gladstone and a knapsack, and
secondly, the only place where he could spread his clothes was the
sofa. There was no chest of drawers, and the cupboard, an unusually
large and solid one, was locked. The Englishwoman's things had
evidently been hastily put away in it. The only sign of her recent
presence was a bunch of faded Alpenrosen standing in a glass jar upon
the wash-hand-stand. This, and a certain faint perfume, were all that
remained. In spite, however, of these very slight evidences, the whole
room was pervaded with a curious sense of occupancy that he found
exceedingly distasteful. One moment the atmosphere seemed subtly
charged with a 'just left' feeling; the next it was a queer awareness
of 'still here' that made him turn and look hurriedly behind him.
Altogether, the room inspired him with a singular aversion, and the
strength of this aversion seemed the only excuse for his tossing the
faded flowers out of the window, and then hanging his mackintosh upon
the cupboard door in such a way as to screen it as much as possible
from view.
For the sight of that big, ugly cupboard, filled with the clothing
of a woman who might then be beyond any further need of covering--thus
his imagination insisted on picturing it--touched in him a startled
sense of the incongruous that did not stop there, but crept through his
mind gradually till it merged somehow into a sense of a rather
grotesque horror. At any rate, the sight of that cupboard was
offensive, and he covered it almost instinctively. Then, turning out
the electric light, he got into bed.
But the instant the room was dark he realised that it was more than
he could stand; for, with the blackness, there came a sudden rush of
cold that he found it hard to explain. And the odd thing was that, when
he lit the candle beside his bed, he noticed that his hand
trembled.
This, of course, was too much. His imagination was taking liberties
and must be called to heel.
Yet the way he called it to order was significant, and its very
deliberateness betrayed a mind that has already admitted fear. And
fear, once in, is difficult to dislodge. He lay there upon his elbow in
bed and carefully took note of all the objects in the room--with the
intention, as it were, of taking an inventory of everything his senses
perceived, then drawing a line, adding them up finally, and saying with
decision, 'That's all the room contains! I've counted every single
thing.
There is nothing more. Now--I may sleep in peace!'
And it was during this absurd process of enumerating the furniture
of the room that the dreadful sense of distressing lassitude came over
him that made it difficult even to finish counting. It came swiftly,
yet with an amazing kind of violence that overwhelmed him softly and
easily with a sensation of enervating weariness hard to describe. And
its first effect was to banish fear. He no longer possessed enough
energy to feel really afraid or nervous. The cold remained, but the
alarm vanished. And into every corner of his usually vigorous
personality crept the insidious poison of a muscular fatigue--at
first--that in a few seconds, it seemed, translated itself into
spiritual inertia. A sudden consciousness of the foolishness, the crass
futility of life, of effort, of fighting--of all that makes life worth
living, oozed into every fibre of his being, and left him utterly weak.
A spit of black pessimism, that was not even vigorous enough to assert
itself, invaded the secret chambers of his heart...
Every picture that presented itself to his mind came dressed grey
shadows; those bored and sweating horses toiling up the ascent
to--nothing! That hard-faced landlady taking so much trouble to let her
desire for gain conquer her sense of morality--for a few francs! That
gold-braided porter, so talkative, fussy, energetic, and so anxious to
tell all he knew! What was the use of them all? And for himself, what
in the world was the good of all the labour and drudgery he went
through in that preparatory school where he was junior master? What
could it lead to?
Wherein lay the value of so much uncertain toil, when the ultimate
secrets of life were hidden, and no one knew the final goal? How
foolish was effort, discipline, work! How vain was pleasure! How
trivial the noblest life!...
With a jump that nearly upset the candle Minturn challenge this weak
mood. Such vicious thoughts were usually so remote from his normal
character that the sudden vile invasion produced a swift reaction. Yet,
only for a moment. Instantly, again, the depression descended upon him
like a wave. His work--it could lead to nothing but the dreary labour
of a small headmastership after all--seemed as vain and foolish as his
holiday in the Alps. What an idiot he had been, to be sure, to come out
with a knapsack merely to work himself into a state of exhaustion
climbing over toilsome mountains that led to nowhere--resulted in
nothing. A dreariness of the grave possessed him. Life was a ghastly
fraud! Religion a childish humbug!
Everything was merely a trap--a trap of death; a coloured toy that
Nature used as a decoy! But a decoy for what? For nothing! There was no
meaning in anything. The only real thing was--DEATH. And the happiest
people were those who found it soonest.
Then why wait for it to come?
He sprang out of bed, thoroughly frightened. This was horrible.
Surely mere physical fatigue could not produce a world a black, an
outlook so dismal, a cowardice that struck with rich sudden
hopelessness at the very roots of life? For, normally, he was cheerful
and strong, full of the tides of healthy living; and this appalling
lassitude swept the very basis of his personality into nothingness and
the desire for death. It was like the development of a Secondary
Personality. He had read, of course, how certain persons who suffered
shocks developed thereafter entirely different characteristics, memory,
tastes, and so forth. It had all rather frightened him. Though
scientific men vouched for it, it was hardly to be believed. Yet here
was similar thing taking place in his own consciousness. He was, beyond
question, experiencing all the mental variations of--someone else! It
was un-moral. It was awful. It was--well, after all, at the same time,
it was uncommonly interesting.
And this interest he began to feel was the first sign of his
returned normal Self. For to feel interest is to live, and to love
life.
He sprang into the middle of the room--then switched on the electric
light. And the first thing that struck his eye was--the big
cupboard.
'Hallo! There's that--beastly cupboard!' he exclaimed to himself,
involuntarily, yet aloud. It held all the clothes, the winging skirts
and coats and summer blouses of the dead woman. For he knew
now--somehow or other--that she was dead...
At that moment, through the open windows, rushed the sound of
falling water, bringing with it a vivid realisation of the desolate,
snow-swept heights. He saw her--positively saw her!--lying where she
had fallen, the frost upon her cheeks, the snow-dust eddying about her
hair and eyes, her broken limbs pushing against the lumps of ice. For a
moment the sense of spiritual lassitude--of the emptiness of
life--vanished before this picture of broken effort--of a small human
force battling pluckily, yet in vain, against the impersonal and
pitiless potencies of inanimate nature--and he found himself again his
normal self. Then instantly, returned again that terrible sense of
cold, nothingness, emptiness...
And he found himself standing opposite the big cupboard where her
clothes were. He suddenly wanted to see those clothes--things she had
used and worn. Quite close he stood, almost touching it. The next
second he had touched it. His knuckles struck upon the wood.
Why he knocked is hard to say. It was an instinctive movement
probably. Something in his deepest self dictated it--ordered it. He
knocked at the door. And the dull sound upon the wood into the
stillness of that room brought--horror. Why it should have done so he
found it as hard to explain to himself as why he should have felt
impelled to knock. The fact remains that when he heard the faint
reverberation inside the cupboard, it brought with it so vivid a
realisation of the woman's presence that he stood there shivering upon
the floor with a dreadful sense of anticipation; he almost expected to
hear an answering knock from within--the rustling of the hanging skirts
perhaps--or, worse still, to see the locked door slowly open towards
him.
And from that moment, he declares that in some way or other he must
have partially lost control of himself, or at least of his better
judgment; for he became possessed by such an over-mastering desire to
tear open that cupboard door and see the clothes within, that he tried
every key in the room in the vain effort to unlock it, and then,
finally, before he quite realised what he was doing--rang the bell!
But, having rung the bell for no obvious or intelligent reason at
two o'clock in the morning, he then stood waiting in the middle of the
floor for the servant to come, conscious for the first time that
something outside his ordinary self had pushed him towards the act. It
was almost like an internal voice that directed him...and thus, when at
last steps came down the passage and he faced the cross and sleepy
chambermaid, amazed at being summoned at such an hour, he found no
difficulty in the matter of what he should say. For the same power that
insisted he should open the cupboard door also impelled him to utter
words over which he apparently had no control.
'It's not you I rang for!' he said with decision and impatience. 'I
want a man. Wake the porter and send him up to me at once--hurry! I
tell you, hurry--!'
And when the girl had gone, frightened at his earnestness, Minturn
realised that the words surprised himself as much as they surprised
her. Until they were out of his mouth he had not known what exactly he
was saying. But now he understood that some force, foreign to his own
personality, was using his mind and organs. The black depression that
had possessed him a few moments before was also part of it. The
powerful mood of this vanished woman had somehow momentarily taken
possession of him--communicated, possibly, by the atmosphere of things
in the room still belonging to her. But even now, when the porter,
without coat or collar, stood beside him in the room, he did not
understand why he insisted, with a positive fury admitting no denial,
that the key of that cupboard must be found and the door instantly
opened.
The scene was a curious one. After some perplexed whispering with
the chambermaid at the end of the passage, the porter managed to find
and produce the key in question. Neither he nor the girl knew clearly
what this excited Englishman was up to, or why he was so passionately
intent upon opening the cupboard at two o'clock in the morning. They
watched him with an air of wondering what was going to happen next. But
something of his curious earnestness, even of his late fear,
communicated itself to them, and the sound of the key grating in lock
made them both jump.
They held their breath as the creaking door swung slowly open. All
heard the clatter of that other key as it fell against the wooden
floor--within. The cupboard had been locked from the inside. But it was
the scared housemaid, from her position in the corridor, who first
saw--and with a wild scream fell crashing against the banisters.
The porter made no attempt to save her. The schoolmaster and himself
made a simultaneous rush towards the door, now wide open. They, too,
had seen.
There were no clothes, skirts or blouses on the pegs, but they saw
the body of the Englishwoman suspended in mid-air, the head bent
forward. Jarred by the movement of unlocking, the body swung slowly
round to face them...Pinned upon the inside of the door was a hotel
envelope with the following words pencilled in straggling writing:
'Tired--unhappy--hopelessly depressed...I cannot face life any
longer...All is black. I must put an end to it...I meant to do it on
the mountains, but was afraid. I slipped back to my room unobserved.
This way is easiest and best...'
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