It was nearly a week after his letter before Maitland arrived. He sent us
no further word, but walked in one evening as we were talking about him.
He came upon us so suddenly that we were all taken aback and, for a
moment, I felt somewhat alarmed about Gwen. She had started up quickly
when the servant had mentioned Maitland’s name and pressed her hand
convulsively upon her heart, while her face and neck became of a deep
crimson colour. I was saying to myself that this was a common effect of
sudden surprise, when I saw her clutch quickly at the back of her chair,
as if to steady herself. A moment later she sank into her seat. Her face
was now as pale as ashes, and I felt I had good reason to be alarmed. I
think she was conscious of my scrutiny, for she turned her face from me
and remained motionless. The movement told me she was trying to regain
command of her faculties and I forbore to interfere in the struggle,
though I watched her with some solicitude. My fears were at once
dispelled, however, when Maitland entered, for Gwen was the first to
welcome him. She extended her hand with much of her old impulsiveness,
saying: “I have so much for which to thank you—” but Maitland
interrupted her. “Indeed, I regret to say,” he rejoined, “that I have been
unable thus far to be of any real service to you. The Ragobah clue was a
miserable failure, though we may do ourselves the justice to admit that we
had no alternative but to follow it to the end. I confess I have never
been more disappointed than in the outcome of this affair.” “My dear
fellow,” I said, “we all have much to be thankful for in your safe return,
let us not forget that.” Maitland laughed: “That reminds me,” he said, “of
the man who passed the hat at a coloured camp-meeting. When asked how much
he had collected, he replied: ‘I didn’t get no money, but I’se done got de
hat back.’ You’ve got your hat back, and that’s about all. However, with
Miss Darrow’s permission, I shall go back to the starting point and begin
all over again.”
“You are making me your debtor,” Gwen replied slowly, “beyond my power
ever to repay you.”
“It is in the hope that no payment may ever be demanded of you,” he
rejoined, “that I am busying myself in your affairs.” The colour sprang to
Gwen’s cheeks, but she only replied by a grateful glance. I knew what was
passing through her mind. She was thinking of her promise—of her
father’s last words, and of the terrible possibilities thereof from which
Maitland was seeking to rescue her. She felt that she could safely owe him
any debt of gratitude, however great, while he, on his part, took what I
fancied, both then and afterward, were unnecessary pains to assure her
that, in the event of his finding the assassin, she need have no fear of
his making any claim whatsoever upon her. And so the whole affair was
dropped for the time being and the rest of the evening devoted to
listening to Maitland’s account of his experiences while abroad.
The next morning I called upon our detective at his laboratory and asked
him what he intended to do next. He replied that he had no plans as yet,
but that he wished to review with me all the evidence at hand.
“You see,” he said, “the thing that renders the solution of this mystery
so difficult is the fact that all our clues, while they would be of the
utmost service in the conviction of the assassin had we found him, are
almost destitute of any value until he has been located. Add to this that
we are now unable to find any motive for the crime and you can see how
slight are our hopes of success. If ever we chance to find the man,—for
I feel that such a consummation would result more from chance than from
anything else,—I think we can convict him.
“Here, for example,” he said, taking up a small slip of glass which he had
cut from the eastern parlour window of the Darrow house, “is something I
have never shown either you or Miss Darrow. It is utterly worthless, so
far as assisting us to track the assassin is concerned, but, if ever we
suspect the right man, the evidence on that glass would probably convict
him, though there were ten thousand other suspects.”
I took the glass from him and, examining it with the utmost care, I
detected a smutch of yellowish paint upon it, nothing more. “For Heaven’s
sake, Maitland!” I said in astonishment, “of what possible use can that
formless daub of paint be, or is there something else on the glass that
has escaped me?” He laughed at my excitement as he replied:
“There is nothing there but the paint spot. Regarding that, however, you
have come to a very natural though erroneous conclusion. It is not
formless”; and he passed me a jeweller’s eye-glass to assist me in a
closer examination. He was right. The paint lay upon the glass in little
irregular furrows which arranged themselves concentrically about a central
oval groove somewhat imperfect in shape. “Well,” continued. Maitland, as I
returned him the magnifying glass, “what do you make of it?” “If you
hadn’t already attached so much importance to the thing,” I said, “I
should pronounce it a daub of paint transferred to the glass by somebody’s
thumb, but, as such a thing would be clearly useless, I am at a loss to
know what it is.”
“Well,” he rejoined, “you’ve hit the nail on the head,—that’s just
what it is, but you are entirely wrong in your assumption that the
thumb-mark can have no value as evidence. Do you not know that there are
no two thumbs in the world which are capable of making indistinguishable
marks?” I was not aware of this. “How do you know,” I asked, “that this
mark was made by the assassin? It seems to me there can hardly be a doubt
that one of the painters, while priming the sill, accidentally pressed his
thumb against the glass. His hands would naturally have been painty, and
this impression would as naturally have resulted.”
“What you say,” replied Maitland, “is very good, so far as it goes. My
reasons for believing this thumb-mark was made by the assassin are easily
understood. First: there was another impression of a thumb in the moist
paint of the sill directly under that upon the glass. Both marks were made
by the same thumb and, in the lower one, the microscope revealed minute
traces of gravel dust, not elsewhere discernible upon the sill. The thumb
carried the dust there, and was the thumb of the hand pressed into the
gravel,—the hand of which I have a cast. You see how this shows how
the thumb came to have paint upon it when pressed upon the glass. Second:
the two men engaged in priming the house, James Cogan and Charles Rice,
were the only persons save the assassin known to have been upon that side
of the house the day of the murder. “Here,” he said, carefully removing
two strips of glass from a box, “are the thumb-marks of Cogan and Rice
made with the same paint. You see that neither of these men could, by any
possibility, have made the mark upon the glass. So there you are. But we
are missing the question before us. What line of procedure can you
suggest, Doc? I’m all at sea.”
“We must find someone,” I said, “who could have had a motive. This someone
ought to have a particularly good reason for concealing his footprints,
and is evidently lame besides. I can’t for the life of me see anything
else we have to go by, unless it be the long nail of the little finger,
and I don’t see how that is going to help us find the assassin—unless
we can find out why it was worn long. If we knew that it might assist us.
As I have already suggested, a Chinaman might have a long nail on the
little finger, but he would also have the other nails long, wouldn’t he?
Furthermore, he might use the boards to conceal the prints of his telltale
foot-gear; but why should he not have put on shoes of the ordinary type?
If he had time to prepare the boards,—the whole affair shows
premeditation,—clearly he had time to change his boots. The Chinese
are usually small, and this might easily account for the smallness of the
hand as shown by your cast. These are the pros and cons of the only clue
that suggests itself to me. By the way, Maitland, it’s a shame we did not
try, before it was too late, to track this fellow down with a dog.”
“Ah,” he replied, “there is another little thing I have not told you.
After you had left the house with Miss Darrow on the night of the murder,
and all the servants had retired, I locked the parlour securely and
quietly slipped out to look about a bit. As you know, the moon was very
bright and any object moderately near was plainly visible. I went around
to the eastern side of the house where the prints of the hand and boards
were found, and examined them with extreme care. What I particularly
wished to learn was the direction taken by the assassin as he left the
house and the point at which he had removed the boards from his feet. The
imprints of the boards were clearly discernible so far as the loose gravel
extended, but beyond that nothing could be discovered. I sat down and
pondered over the matter. I had about concluded to drive two nails into
the heels of my boots to enable me to distinguish my own footprints from
any other trail I might intersect, and then, starting with the house as a
centre, to describe an involute about it in the hope of being able to
detect some one or more points where my course crossed that of the
assassin, when I remembered that my friend Burwell, whose Uncle Tom’s
Cabin Combination recently stranded at Brockton was at home. As you are
perhaps aware an Uncle Tom Company consists of a ‘Legree,’ one or two
‘Markses,’ one or two ‘Topsies,’ ‘Uncle Tom,’ a ‘Little Eva,’ who should
not be over fifty years old,—or at least should not appear to be,—two
bloodhounds, and anybody else that happens to be available. It really
doesn’t make the least difference how many or how few people are in the
cast. I have heard that an Uncle Tom manager on a Western circuit, most of
whose company deserted him because the ‘ghost’ never walked, succeeded in
cutting and rewriting the piece so as to double ‘George Harris’ and
‘Legree,’ ‘Marks’ and ‘Topsy,’ ‘Uncle Tom’ and ‘Little Eva.’ As for the
rest he had it so arranged that he could himself ‘get off the door’ in
time to ‘do,’ with the aid of the dogs, all the other characters. You see
the dogs held the stage while he changed, say, from ‘Eliza’ to Eva’s
father. ‘George Harris’ would look off left second entrance and say that
‘Legree’ was after him. Then he would discharge a revolver, rush off right
first entrance, where he would pass his weapon to ‘Eva’ and ‘Uncle Tom,’
and this bisexual individual would discharge it in the wings at the
imaginary pursuer, while ‘Harris’ would put on a wire beard, slouch hat,
black melodramatic cape, and, rushing behind the flat, enter left as
‘Legree.’
“The hardest thing to manage was the death of ‘Little Eva’ with ‘Uncle
Tom’ by the bedside, but managerial genius overcame the difficulty after
the style of Mantell’s ‘Corsican Brothers.’ You see it is all easy enough
when you know how. ‘Little Eva’ is discovered, sitting up in bed with the
curtains drawn back. She says what she has to say to her father and the
rest. Then her father has a line in which he informs ‘Eva’ that she is
tired and had better try to sleep. She says she will try, just to please
him, and he gently lowers her back upon the pillows and draws the curtains
in front of the bed. But instead of utilising this seclusion for a
refreshing sleep ‘Eva’ rolls out at the back side of the bed. ‘Legree’
snatches off ‘Eva’s’ wig and ‘Topsy’ deftly removes the white nightdress
concealing his—‘Eva’s’—‘Uncle Tom’ make-up, while the
erstwhile little girl hastily blackens his face and hands, puts on a negro
wig, and in less than a minute is changed in colour, race, and sex. He
‘gets round’ left and enters the sick room as ‘Uncle Tom’ with ‘Topsy.’
They are both told that ‘Little Eva’ is asleep, and ‘Topsy’ peeps
cautiously between the curtains and remarks that the child’s eyes are open
and staring. The father looks in and, overcome by grief, informs the
audience that his child is dead. ‘Topsy,’ tearful and grief-stricken,
‘gets off’ right and washes up to ‘do’ ‘Little Eva’ climbing the golden
stair in the last tableau. Meanwhile ‘Uncle Tom,’ in a paroxysm of grief,
throws himself upon the bed and holds the stage till he smells the red
fire for the vision; then he staggers down stage, strikes an attitude; the
others do likewise; picture of ‘Little Eva,’ curtain. Talk about doubling
‘Marcellus,’ ‘Polonius,’ ‘Osric,’ and the ‘First Grave Digger’! Why,
that’s nothing to these ‘Uncle Tom’ productions. But hold on, where did I
get side-tracked? Oh, yes, the dogs.
“Well, as I was saying, as soon as I thought of Burwell I made up my mind
at once to borrow one of his hounds. It was late when I got to his house.
When I knocked at the door both Pompey and Caesar began sub-bass solos of
growls, and Burwell was awake in a minute. I told him I wanted a dog for
private business and took Caesar off with me. He found the trail with no
difficulty, and followed it in a bee-line down to the water, where he
raised his big muzzle and howled in dismal impotency. The assassin had
taken to the water. I took the dog up and down the shore to see if he had
returned to land, but all I found of interest was a clump of alders from
which a pole had been cut. I knew by the dog’s actions that the assassin
had been there, for Caesar immediately took a new trail back to the house.
Try as I might I could learn nothing further, and I at once returned the
dog. There is no doubt that the murderer made his escape in a boat and
took with him the pole he had cut, the boards he had worn, and everything
else, I dare say, connected with his crime. One thing seems clear, and
that is that we are dealing with no ordinary criminal. I would wager a
good deal that this fellow, if ever he is caught, will be found to be a
man of brains. I don’t place much confidence in the Chinese theory, Doc,
but as I have nothing better to offer, let us go see Miss Darrow. If her
father has ever had any dealings with Chinamen, we shall probably deem it
wise to look the Orientals up a bit.”
We immediately acted upon this suggestion, waiting upon Gwen at my house.
She said she and her father had spent a year in San Francisco when she was
about seven years of age. While there their household was looked after by
two Chinese servants, named Wah Sing and Sam Lee. The latter had been
discharged by her father because of his refusal to perform certain minor
duties which, through oversight, had not been set down as part of his work
when he was engaged. So far as she knew no altercation had taken place and
there were no hard feelings on either side. Sam Lee had bade her good-bye
and had seemed sorry to leave, notwithstanding which, however, he refused,
with true Chinese pertinacity, to assume the new duties. She did not think
it likely that either of these Chinamen had been instrumental in her
father’s death, yet she agreed with Maitland that it would be a point
gained to be assured of this fact. Maitland accordingly determined to
depart at once for San Francisco, and the next day he was off.
We received no letters from him during his absence and were, accordingly,
unable to tell when he expected to get back. Since his return from India
Gwen had given evidence of a reviving interest in life, but now that he
was again away, she relapsed into her old listless condition, from which
we found it impossible to arouse her. Alice, who did her utmost to please
her, was at her wit’s end. She could never tell which of two alternatives
Gwen preferred, since that young lady would invariably express herself
satisfied with either and did not seem to realise why she should be
expected to have any choice in the matter. Alice was quite at a loss to
understand this state of affairs, until I told her that Gwen was in a
condition of semi-torpor in which even the effort of choice seemed an
unwarrantable outlay. She simply did not care what happened. She felt
nothing, save a sense of fatigue, and even what she saw was viewed as from
afar,—and seemed to her a drama in which she took no other part than
that of an idle, tired, and listless spectator. Clearly she was losing her
hold on life. I told Alice we must do our utmost to arouse her, to
stimulate her will, to awaken her interest, and we tried many things in
vain.
Maitland had been gone, I think, about three weeks when my sister and I
hit upon a plan which we thought might have the desired effect upon Gwen.
Before her father’s death she had been one of the most active members of a
Young People’s Club which devoted every Wednesday evening to the study of
Shakespeare. She had attended none of its meetings since her bereavement,
but Alice and I soon persuaded her to accompany us on the following week
and I succeeded, by a little quiet wire-pulling, in getting her appointed
to take charge of the following meeting, which was to be devoted to the
study of “Antony and Cleopatra.” When informed of the task which had been
imposed upon her Gwen was for declining the honour at once, and the most
Alice and I were able to do was to get her to promise to think it over a
day or so before she refused.
The next morning Maitland walked in upon us. He had found both of Mr.
Darrow’s former servants and satisfied himself that they were in San
Francisco on the night of the murder. So that ended my Chinese clue. While
Alice and Gwen were discussing the matter, I took occasion to draw
Maitland aside, and told him of Gwen’s appointment to take charge of the
Cleopatra night, and how necessary it was to her health that she should be
aroused from her torpor. It doesn’t take long for Maitland to see a thing,
and before I had whispered a dozen sentences he had completely grasped the
situation. He crossed the room, drew a chair up beside Gwen, and sat down.
“Miss Darrow,” he began, “I am afraid you will have a poor opinion of me
as a detective. This is the second time I have failed. I feel that I
should remind you again of our compact, at least, that part of it which
permits you to dispense with my services whenever you shall see fit to do
so, and, at the same time, to relieve you from your obligation to let me
order your actions. I tell you frankly it will be necessary for you to
discharge me, if you would be rid of me, for, unless you do so, or I find
the assassin, I shall never cease my search so long as I have the strength
and means to conduct it. What do you say? Have I not proved my
uselessness?” This was said in a tentative, half-jesting tone. Gwen
answered it very seriously.
“You have done for me,” she said, in the deep, vibrating tones of her rich
contralto voice, “all that human intelligence could suggest. You have
examined the evidence and conducted the whole affair with a thoroughness
which I never could have obtained elsewhere. That your search has been
unavailing is due, not to any fault of yours, but rather to the consummate
skill of the assassin, who, I think, we may conclude, is no ordinary
criminal. I do not know much of the abilities of Messrs. Osborne and
Allen, but I understand that M. Godin has the reputation of being the
cleverest detective in America. I cannot learn that he has made any
progress whatsoever in the solution of this terrible mystery. I do not
feel, therefore, that you have any right to reproach yourself. Such hope
as I have that my father’s murderer may ever be brought to justice rests
in your efforts; else I should feel bound to relieve you of a task, which,
though self-imposed, is, none the less, onerous and ill-paid. Do not
consider me altogether selfish if I ask that you still continue the
search, and that I—that I still be held to my covenant. I am aware
that I can never fully repay the kindness I am asking of you, but—”
Maitland did not wait for her to finish. “Let us not speak of that,” he
said. “It is enough to know that you are still satisfied with my, thus
far, unsuccessful efforts in your behalf. There is nothing affords me
keener pleasure than to struggle with and solve an intricate problem,
whether it be in algebra, geometry, or the mathematics of crime; and then—well,
even if I succeed, I shall quit the work your debtor.”
He had spoken this last impulsively, and when he had finished he remained
silent, as if surprised and a bit nettled at his own failure to control
himself. Gwen made no reply, not even raising her eyes; but I noticed that
her fingers at once busied themselves with the entirely uncalled-for
labour of readjusting the tidy upon the arm of her chair, and I thought
that, if appearances were to be trusted, she was very happy and contented
at the change she had made in the bit of lacework beneath her hands. With
singular good sense, with which she was always surprising me, Alice now
introduced the subject of the Young People’s Club, and mentioned
incidentally that Gwen was to have charge of the next meeting. Before Gwen
had time to inform Maitland that she intended to decline this honour, he
congratulated her upon it, and rendered her withdrawal difficult by
saying: “I feel that I should thank you, Miss Darrow, for the faithful way
in which you fulfil the spirit of your agreement to permit me to order
your actions. I know, if you consulted your own desires, you would
probably decline the honour conferred upon you, and that in accepting it,
you are influenced by the knowledge that you are pursuing just the course
I most wish you to follow. Verily, you make my office of tyrant over you a
perfect sinecure. I had expected you to chafe a little under restraint,
but, instead, I find you voluntarily yielding to my unexpressed desires.”
Gwen made no reply, but we heard no more of her resignation. She applied
herself at once to the preparation of her paper upon “Antony and
Cleopatra.” Maitland, who, like all vigorous, healthy, and informed
intellects, was an ardent admirer of Shakespeare, found time to call on
Gwen and to discuss the play with her. This seemed to please her very
much, and I am sure his interest in the play was abnormal. He confessed to
me that every morning, as he awoke, the first thing which flashed into his
mind, even before he had full possession of his senses, was these words of
Antony:
“I am dying, Egypt, dying.”
He professed himself utterly unable to account for this, and asked me what
I thought was the cause of it. He furthermore suddenly decided that he
would ask Gwen to propose his name for membership at the next meeting of
the Young People’s Club. I hastily indorsed this resolution, for I had a
vague sort of feeling that it would please Gwen.
The “Antony and Cleopatra” night at length arrived. We all attended the
meeting and listened to a very able paper upon the play. One of the most
marked traits of Gwen’s character is that whatever she does she does
thoroughly, and this was fully exemplified on the night in question.
Maitland was very much impressed by some verse Gwen had written for the
occasion, and a copy of which he succeeded in procuring from her. I think,
from certain remarks he made, that it was the broad and somewhat
unfeminine charity expressed in the verse which most astonished and
attracted him, but of this, after what I have said, you will, when you
have perused it, be as good a judge as I:
The exercises of the evening concluded with the reading of the familiar
poem, beginning:
It was about noon the next day when Maitland called upon me. “See here,
Doc,” he began at once, “do you believe in coincidences?” I informed him
that his question was not altogether easy to understand. “Wait a moment,”
he said, “while I explain. For at least two years prior to my recent
return from California the name ‘Cleopatra’ has not entered my mind. You
were the first to mention it to me, and from you I learned that Miss
Darrow was to have charge of the ‘Antony and Cleopatra’ night. That is all
natural enough. But why should I, on every morning since you first
mentioned the subject to me, awake with Antony’s words upon my lips? Why
should every book or paper I pick up contain some reference to Cleopatra?
Why, man, if I were superstitious, it would seem positively spookish. I am
getting to believe that I shall be confronted either by Cleopatra’s name,
or some allusion to her, every time I pick up a book. It’s getting to be
decidedly interesting.”
“I have had,” I replied, “similar, though less remarkable, experiences. It
is quite a common occurrence to learn of a thing, say, this morning for
the first time in one’s life, and then to find, in the course of the day’s
reading, three or four independent references to the same thing. Suppose
we step into the library, and pick out a few books haphazard, just to see
if we chance upon any reference to Cleopatra.”
To this Maitland agreed, and, entering the library, I pushed the Morning
Herald across the table to him, saying: “One thing’s as good as another;
try that.” He started a little, but did not touch the paper. “You will
have to find something harder than that,” he said, pointing to the
outspread paper.
I followed the direction of his finger, and read:
I was indeed surprised, but I said nothing. The next thing I handed him
was a copy of Godey’s Magazine, several years old. He opened it
carelessly, and in a moment read the following line: “I am dying,
sweetheart, dying.” “Doesn’t that sound familiar? It reminds me at once of
the poetic alarm clock that wakens me every morning,—‘I am dying,
Egypt, dying.’ There is no doubt that Higginson’s poem suggested this one.
Here is the whole of the thing as it is printed here,” he said, and read
the following:
“Yes,” I said, when he had finished. “I shall have to admit that
immediately suggests Higginson’s poem and Cleopatra’s name. But here, try
this,” and I threw an old copy of the Atlantic Monthly upon the table.
Maitland opened it and laughed. “This may be mere chance, Doc,” he said,
“but it is remarkable, none the less. See here!” He held the magazine
toward me, and I read: “Cleopatra’s Needle. The Historic Significance of
Central Park’s New Monument. Some of the Difficulties that Attended its
Transportation and Erection. By James Theodore Wright, Ph. D.” I was
dumfounded. Things were indeed getting interesting.
“Magazines and newspapers,” I said, “seem to be altogether too much in
your line. We’ll try a book this time. Here,” and I pulled the first one
that came to hand, “is a copy of Tennyson’s Poems I fancy it will trouble
you to find your reference in that.” Maitland took it in silence, and,
opening it at random, began to read. The result surprised him even more
than it did me. He had chanced upon these verses from “A Dream of Fair
Women”:
“There is no doubt about that,” I said, as he laid the book upon the
table. “I want to try this thing once more. Here is Pascal; if you can
find any reference to the ‘Serpent of the Nile’ in that, you needn’t go
any farther, I shall be satisfied,” and I passed the book to him. He
turned the pages over in silence for half a minute, or so, and then said:
“I guess this counts as a failure,—no, though, by Jove! Look here!”
His face was of almost deathly pallor, and his finger trembled upon the
passage it indicated as he held the book toward me. I glanced with some
anxiety from his face to the book, and read, as nearly as I now can
remember: “If Cleopatra’s nose had been shorter, the entire face of the
world would have been changed.”
It was some minutes before Maitland fully regained his composure, and
during that time neither of us spoke. “Well, Doc,” he said at length, and
his manner was decidedly grave, even for him:
“What do you make of it?” I didn’t know what to make of it, and I admitted
my ignorance with a frankness at which, considering my profession, I have
often since had occasion to marvel. I told him that I could scarcely
account for it on the ground of mere coincidence, and I called his
attention to that part of “The Mystery of Marie Roget,” where Poe figures
out the mathematical likelihood of a certain combination of peculiarities
of clothing being found to obtain in the case of two young women who were
unknown to each other. If the finding of a single reference to Cleopatra
had been a thing of so infrequent occurrence as to at once challenge
Maitland’s attention, what was to be said when, all of a sudden, her name,
or some reference to her, seemed to stare at him from every page he read?
murmured Maitland, more to himself than to me. “Come, what do you say?”
and he turned abruptly to me with one of those searching looks so peculiar
to him in moments of excitement. “I see,” I replied, “that you are
determined I shall give my opinion now and here, without a moment’s
reflection. Very well; you have just quoted ‘Hamlet’; I will do likewise:
“You seem in some strange way to be dominated by the shade of Cleopatra.
Now, if I believed in metempsychosis, I should think you were Mark Antony
brought down to date. There, with that present sober air of yours, you’d
pass anywhere for such an anachronism. But to be serious, and to give you
advice which is positively bilious with gravity, I should say, investigate
this thing fully; make a study of this ancient charmer. By the way, why
not begin by going to see Davenport in Sardou’s ‘Cleopatra’? You have
never seen her in it, have you?”
In this way, I succeeded in getting him out of his depressed state. We got
into an argument concerning the merits of Miss Davenport’s work. I know of
nothing Maitland would sooner do than argue, and, if attacked on a subject
upon which he feels strongly, he is, for the time being, totally oblivious
of everything else. For this reason I trapped him into this argument. I
abominate what is now known as “realism” just as much as he does, but you
don’t have much of an argument without some apparent difference of
opinion, so, for the nonce, I became a realist of whom Zola himself would
have been proud. “Why, man,” I said, “realism is truth. You certainly
can’t have any quarrel with that.” I knew this would have the effect of a
red rag flaunted in the face of a bull.
“Truth! Bah!” he exclaimed excitedly. “I have no patience with such
aesthetic hod-carriers! Truth, indeed! Is there no other truth in art but
that coarse verisimilitude, that vulgar trickery, which appeals to the
eyes and the ears of the rabble? Are there not psychological truths of
immensely greater importance? What sane man imagines for a moment that the
pleasure he derives from seeing that greatest of all tragedians, Edwin
Booth, in one of Shakespeare’s matchless tragedies, is dependent upon his
believing that this or that character is actually killed? Why, even the
day of the cranberry-juice dagger is long since passed. When Miss
Davenport shrieks in ‘Fedora,’ the shriek is literal—‘real,’ you
would call it—and you find yourself instinctively saying, ‘Don’t!—-don’t!’
and wishing you were out of the house. When Mr. Booth, as ‘Shylock’
shrieks at ‘Tubal’s’ news, the cry is not real, is not literal, but is
suggestive, and you see at once the fiendish glee of which it is the
expression. The difference between the two is the difference between vocal
cords and grey matter.”
“But surely,” I rejoined, “one doesn’t want untruth; one wants—” but
he did not let me finish.
“Always that cry of truth!” he retorted. “Do you not see how absurd it is,
as used by your exponents of realism? With a bit of charcoal some Raphael
draws a face with five lines, and some photographer snaps a camera at the
same face. Which would any sane man choose as the best work of art? The
five-line face, of course. Why? Is the work of the camera unreal? Is it
not more accurate in drawing, more subtle in gradation than the less
mechanical picture? To be sure. What, then, makes the superiority of the
few lines of our Raphael? That which makes the superiority of all noble
art—its truth, not on a low, but on a high, plane: its power of
interpreting. See!” he said, fairly aglow with excitement. “What does your
realist do, even assuming that he has reached that never-to—be-attained
perfection which is the lifelong Mecca of his desires? He gives you, by
his absolutely realistic goes with you, and interprets its grandeur to
you. Stand before his canvas and enjoy it as you would Nature herself if
there. Surely, you say, nothing more could be desired, and you clap your
hands, and shout, ‘Bravo!’ But wait a bit; the other side is yet to be
heard from. What does the true artist do for you by his picture of
Yosemite Valley? He not only gives you a free conveyance to it, but he
goes with you, and interprets its grandeur to you. He translates into the
language of your consciousness beauties which, without him, you would
entirely miss. It is this very capability of seeing more in Nature than is
ever perceived by the common throng that constitutes the especial genius
of the artist, and a work that is not aglow with its creator’s personality—personality,
mind you, not coarse realism—can never rank as a masterpiece. But,
come, this won’t do. Why did you want to get me astride my hobby?”
I thought it advisable to answer this question by asking another, so I
said: “But how about Davenport? Will you go?”
“Yes,” he replied. “Anything with a Cleopatra to it interests me. I’ll go
now and see about the tickets,” and he left me.
I have related Maitland’s aesthetic views as expressed to me upon this
occasion, not because they have any particular bearing upon the mystery I
am narrating, but because they cast a strong side-light upon the young
man’s character, and also for the reason that I believe his personality to
be sufficiently strong and unique to be of general interest.
We went that same night to see Sardou’s “Cleopatra.” I asked Maitland how
he liked the piece, and the only reply he vouchsafed was: “I have recently
read Shakespeare’s treatment of the same theme.”
