THREATENING storm-clouds came over the sky about four o'clock, and instantly it became dark and stifling in the mansion. It is true, perhaps, that I should have set to work already. But I have suddenly become so wretched that I could not make myself useful, and instead found a fascinating thing to do: I was lounging about the house, opening curtains in the windows. "The electricity is always recommended for economizing," decided I. Before the arrest I enjoyed doing housework simply because I did not care to comply with the requests of my father, which I considered unjust. I had been brought up "in a genteel, almost aristocratic family" and had not been meant for sweeping floors and washing rags. And even though it is not appropriate for a man to clean and cook (at least that's what my mother always said) labor for me has always been the deliverance from another feeling, darker and more bitter, which I could not myself have defined sometimes. However, for a year past I had been so harassed with constant work that now I could not even look at a broom without feeling disgust.
I went down the stairs and looked about me. The dim light shone through the curtains melancholically and almost mysteriously; there was a dreadful stillness... I went to the window, opened it, and, leaning from a large central bay, stared meditatively into the distance. It was drizzling. Low, ragged, dingy clouds moved rapidly across the cold sky. Somewhere far away, behind the gloomy veil of fog and rain, all the lights were already going on in New-York.
"There is life, real life it is!" I mused. "Not here: there is no life in a suburb. It weaves among the electric signboards, wanders through cabaret and underground drinking rooms, and then excited with triumph glides on through the seachange of faces and jazz notes under the constantly changing light of the city. Only if I could run away! Work in a newspaper, find a house— nothing expensive, a bungalow at eighty a month— Live! Mayn't I have at least that?"
I stood motionless in front of the window, listening to the wind. While the rain continued it sounded like the murmur of a million voices, rising and swelling a little, now and then, with gusts of emotion; like a reminder of gay, exciting things that happened a while since. These voices held me most with their fluctuating, feverish warmth. And I Imagined that I, too, was hurrying toward gayety and freedom.
At that very moment the wind lashed furiously into the living room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like scarlet flags. It was time to go. I closed the window, adjusted the curtains, arranged my apron and went upstairs. There it was even darker. Stevens' house had never seemed so enormous to me; once I even tumbled upon the keys of a ghostly piano.
As I passed the master office, I heard something creak. Then there was a momentary sonorous clang like the ringing of a tin bell, and all was still again. I was going to go inside and ask about the weird sounds, but decided against it. I shrugged it off and went on.
The only room that I had not yet visited was the one closest to the stairs. I opened the door and went in. First I thought it was some sort of storeroom: the furniture was of different sorts, everything was in disorder, dusty and filthy, picked up here and there, and all utterly worthless. There were two card-tables, a chest of drawers made of elder, a big deal table that must have come from the kitchen, chairs and a sofa with trellis-work back. The filthy wall-paper hung in tatters from the walls. The room was musty, as though it hadn't been aired for many days, and no wonder: there weren't any windows. At the first glance there seemed to be nothing interesting, and yet, just in time, a particular detail caught my attention. In the corner between the sofa and the little cupboard something like a curtain hung on the wall. "Why is that curtain here?" I went up to it quietly and felt that there was something hiding behind it.
I pushed it aside and saw a cradle. A small, baby cradle. There wasn't anything special about it, but it can hardly have been the whole reason for my bewilderment.
Suddenly the sound of rapid footsteps was heard in the corridor. I stood still for a moment, listening carefully. But all was quiet, so it must have been my fancy.
"Stevens is older than me, obviously," I mused. "So he has children? Where are they? And where is his wife? For if there is a child, then, of course, there must be a mother..."
Long ago, just at the time when the first rumors of the mysterious slave-owner were in the air (back then I have not yet turned seventeen, for what I remember), stories of the most varied kind were going about the country. Perhaps I had heard something about him: it was a man of the highest connections, and very closely associated with the business of my father. Though I believe he was by no means of exalted origin, yet it happened that he had formed an alliance with René Mantrousse — the author of the infamous 'Slave Theory'. When Stevens positively asserted the absolute truth of the newly formed rumors, he became a national figure in a way — one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence before the age of thirty that everything afterward savors of anti-climax. The facts were generally more or less well known, but it was evident that in addition to the facts there were certain ideas accompanying them, and what's more, a great number. Once I even heard a rumor that Stevens was, in fact, a cross-dressed woman.
In other words, I knew little to nothing about my owner, and the idea of him having a family had made a peculiar impression on me.
Suddenly the voice came from the first floor:
"John!"
"Won't give me a moment's peace," muttered I. "Hell, when did he manage to go down..."
I left the room, closed the door and slipped downstairs. Stevens stood there, in the middle of the living room, and wore an expression of such intense displeasure that it seemed like he swallowed a lemon.
"Who asked you to do that?"
"Do what?"
"Why did you open up the curtains?"
"Pardon me," I mumbled in confusion. "But I could break my neck in such darkness..."
"And for what do I have electricity here, then?"
"I thought electricity is to be economized."
Stevens shook his head, went towards the window and drew the curtains.
"Turn it on. The daylight is too bright, I get headaches from it."
I wanted to inquire about the difference between the electric and natural light, but decided not to. "What is it, shattered nerves?" I thought, turning on the lights. "What kind of man lives in a constant darkness?"
"Why, do you burn in the sun or something?"
Stevens responded with a dry–that is, irritated–gaze.
"It is very possible."
"Please don't think it too familiar," I began calmly, gloating beforehand over the venomous phrases I was about to utter. "But once I happened to read a certain book... And you remind me of the main character."
"Which book?" inquired he, evidently with no interest.
"I do not remember the exact name, but it was about ghouls... that is, vampires. Those live in darkness, for they are very afraid of the daylight."
Stevens seemed positively offended — which was reflected in the expression of his physiognomy.
"You better not run your mouth," hissed he. "You insult me for the mere pleasure of insulting."
"Insulting?" I shook my head. "I did not intend to insult you, Sir. You do not look like a vampire at all; the vampires have smaller noses. Besides, the main character is not a vampire."
By God, I don't know whether he was good-looking or not, but I liked looking at him when he got angry before me like that. It was because I felt insulted and aggrieved, and desired to vindicate myself by at least showing off my intelligence; truthfully, it was said more to wound him than anything else... (though his nose was actually quite large and conspicuously aquiline. "A regular Roman nose," he used to say, "with my goiter I've quite the countenance of an ancient Roman patrician.")
"Don't forget with whom you are talking." answered Stevens. "I can punish you."
I shrugged.
"Hm, you can, indeed. But how? Will you make me wear a cap? What harm can it do for me? For I am not afraid of beating; I went through a lot in prison. And what then, Mr. Stevens?"
Stevens stood silently, puckering up his lips. There was something almost frenzied in his eyes, as if he was desperately trying to find an appropriate answer.
"I can kill you, do you know that? Not because I've gotten angry or become offended, but–just so, simply kill you, because I have the right to do so..."
I felt as if a hand was griping at my heart within my breast, still I tried to keep my features as indifferent as possible.
"Good," I thought, turning cold. "This is beyond the cat playing with a mouse, like this morning. It is a real threat."
He kept looking at me with some sort of haughty indifference, as if not understanding that he had literally threatened me with murder.
"I know. Well, if such thought happens to cross your mind, do it quickly. So it doesn't hurt."
"I shall try my best."
Obviously, none of this talk was productive. "He can't be showing off his power with no motive... He must have another object. To scare me!"
There was a stupid silence that was not broken for fully ten seconds. Then in a moment his face became transfigured; he grew deadly white, his hands trembled. Stevens pulled out a cigar out of his pocket and bit off the end of it. He did not even bother to open the window; he retrieved a lighter and started smoking.
"Draw all the curtains and turn on the lights if needed," muttered he. "The floors upstairs must be washed... everywhere, except for the room near the stairs; don't go in there."
I nodded. I was smart enough not to tell that I had been there already.
"And don't you dare disturb me while I am working."
He put his hands in his pockets and made haste to turn away, as if my presence burdened him. So I left him standing there alone — surrounded with the clouds of tobacco.
***
THE EVENING was approaching. I was scrubbing and cleaning and washing the floors, and carried out this occupation with such zeal, that dampness soon set upstairs and my fingers began to hurt. It would have been difficult to sink to a lower ebb of disorder, but to me in my present state of mind this was positively agreeable. Hundreds of thoughts were swarming in my brain, and all of them seemed absurd to me.
It was dark outside when Vella called me for dinner. Theodosia fussed over the electric stove and did not pay any attention to us. "She is making dinner for His Excellency," explained Vella. We sat opposite each other at the kitchen table with a plate of cold fried duck and a teapot full of stale tea. Before eating Vella clasped her hands together and said grace. I followed her example.
Of course, the meal was rather to invigorate than to satiate. I took a bite from a duck leg and felt dizzy all of a sudden. I attributed my sudden weakness to the fact that I was not hungry. I put the leg aside and wiped my lips with a napkin.
"Why aren't you eating?" asked Vella.
"I am not really hungry..."
"But you haven't eaten anything today! And your face is pale, too..."
"Really, I ain't hungry. Thank you."
For the next ten minutes I sat quietly and from time to time let my head drop into my hands dejectedly. However, soon enough my allowance was gone, and I told her everything about the recent conversation.
Vella listened with anything but incredulity.
"It shouldn't surprise you," she began, after a short pause. "For Mr. Stevens is a man of exuberant nature, and his conversation is... peculiar, indeed. He was probably joking."
"How can one make jokes about murder? Besides, it doesn't seem like a joke to me: the expression is put in very significantly and plainly, and there was besides a threat that he will kill me. Well, what do you think? Would you not be alarmed?
"N-no," answered Vella, with more animation. "I saw clearly that it was too plainly expressed, and that perhaps His Excellency meant something different..."
"Excuse me, but really this is sheer despotism..."
"I am in no mood for arguing, Mr. Keyle," interrupted Vella. "Listen, Mr. Stevens is the kindest of souls. He wouldn't hurt a fly."
"Are you so completely certain?"
"I am."
We were silent for a minute. Then I decided to change the topic.
"I was going to ask you, Miss Smith... Is Mr. Stevens married, by any chance?"
Vella gazed up in surprise.
"No, he is not. Why are you asking?"
"Perhaps he has children?"
The maid frowned and looked down for a second. Her face changed.
"He does not have children."
And then she repeated coldly:
"Why are you asking?"
Sadly, I didn't have time to explain: Theodosia stepped back from the stove, put a plate on the table and said, intentionally loud:
"Done."
On the plate there was an exquisite-looking meat that smelled strongly of truffles and paprika. I had long forgotten the taste of such dishes, and my mouth actually watered at the sight.
Vella bounded up like a spring and grabbed the plate.
"I shall bring it to him."
She left without saying another word. I remained sitting, staring at the spot where the plate used to be.
"Did I say something wrong?"
Theodosia shrugged, excused herself and left the kitchen.
The evening flew by, and I was ordered to return to the barrack. I vowed to myself to keep as silent as possible, to watch and listen and for once at least to control my overstrained nerves. Among the other slaves I kept quiet; I undressed and went to bed. It was pretty hard to fall asleep on the rigid wooden bunk though, despite my exhaustion.
***
ABOUT A WEEK had passed, and the situation had begun to grow more complicated. I may mention in passing that I suffered a great deal during that unhappy week, as I worked constantly with an iron weight of women's clothing upon my shoulders. What weighed upon me most was the feeling of shame, though I saw no one except for other slaves and the master of the house. I was so morbidly apprehensive that I expected that everyone knew about my position already, the whole country. All the stupid rumors about John Keyle and his personality were the main reason why I called myself with a fake name. Soon I found that other slaves knew about such an individual and expressed an intense repulsion towards him, even hatred. I had no intention of being beaten to death. The slaves were waiting for Stevens to throw away another newspaper.
I appeared calm on the outside, but my heart was in a constant, turbulent riot. The most grotesque and fantastic conceits haunted me, and each time, after long musing, suddenly, as if it were spontaneously and by chance, a daring thought would come into my head. This thought preoccupied me, and yet I did not hasten to act upon it.
A week passed and I still did not know who my owner was. No, obviously I knew his name and his status — Eugene Stevens, a slave-owner, a real politico and an ardent supporter of René Mantrousse's Slave Theory. Everybody heard about Hamilton, for there were whispers about him from those who found little that it was necessary to talk about politics. I have been studying this man from the moment I saw him, and through special circumstances know a great many facts about him now, at the time I write. He was quite a character, and back then this eccentric behavior of his confused me.
Stevens was irritable, sensitive and extremely nervous. He complained about everything, disconnectedly and endlessly, smoked a lot and seemed to be looking down on all of humanity. His face had a strange facility for changing with extraordinary quickness, from the most kind expression, for instance, to the most indifferent, and even angry. We did not talk much, only briefly and to the point. Each time on being actually spoken to I felt my habitual irritable and uneasy aversion for his face.
That's why I was so surprised when on the seventh day of our acquaintance he had tried to strike a conversation with me. It was two past midday, and I was waxing floors upstairs. Suddenly, from the very bottom of the stairs came the sound of swiftly approaching footsteps. I recognized them instantly: only one person could walk at such a fast pace.
"It is not the right way to wax floors, Keyle."
I turned around. Stevens stood on the steps and gazed down at me with disapproving eyes.
"And why is that?" muttered I.
"Look at your hands... At this rate, you are going to wipe a hole in the parquet. Do not scrub it so roughly."
"I am doing my job, Mr. Stevens. You cannot really think that you are better at floor washing than me..."
"Oh, believe me, I am."
And then he added:
"I make bold to inquire—have you been in the service?"
He stood facing me at the other end of the corridor, which was five paces away, and waited for the answer with a look of unwonted radiance on his face. "Is he bored or something? Why hanging on like this?"
"No, I have not happened to."
"Well, I have," Stevens signed, as if his mind became filled with memories. "I graduated from the university in 1913, and participated in the Great War a little later."
"Did you kill people?"
I could not help imagining him in uniform, with a weapon.
"Why, yes. I was in the Ninth Machine-Gun Battalion, got my majority soon. I was relocated to the headquarters, however; as a telegraphist. Quite upsetting... But perhaps it's for the best. If I remained on the frontline, I would probably have had my nose shot off."
He smiled sadly at his own words. I dropped my eyes. Vague thoughts surged through my mind. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.
"Why are you telling me this?" asked I.
"I do not want you to die from boredom. Sometimes a small conversation is enough to raise one's spirit. Don't you think so?"
I decided not to answer.
"John."
I hummed in response.
"John!"
"What?"
Such conduct rather wounded my vanity. I need hardly to say that I had long ago guessed this intention of his, and saw through it completely. Stevens desired reconciliation. He, too, saw through me; that is, he clearly perceived that I could not stand him. My irritation was perhaps petty and stupid; but I did not intend to reconcile with a man who threatened me with murder not too long ago.
"What did you do for fun before you were arrested?"
I grabbed the washing-cloth, soaked it in water and began scrubbing the floor.
"I don't know... I drank, rode horses, read..."
"Read? What exactly?"
"It matters not... But I quite enjoy Greek mythology," answered I, simply in order to have something to say.
Stevens paused, as though hesitating; then nodded and asked:
"Are you, by any chance, familiar with Oscar Wilde's work?"
I mused.
"No... Why? And who is he?"
All at once there was a gleam of something unclear in his black eyes.
"Pity. You would enjoy it, I believe."
"What do you mean?"
Stevens smiled strangely.
"Never mind. Anyhow, keep going. You have done good work thus far..."
With those words he retreated to his office.
SOON it was time for lunch. Miss Silver sat at the kitchen table, sorting the grits. I sat down opposite from her and drew a bowl of broth nearer to myself. The cook made a hurried bow, glancing curiously at me. Unlike Vella, Theodosia had avoided me and had scarcely had a word to say to me. She did not explain the reason.
"I see what's happening." said the cook, quite unexpectedly.
"Is something happening?" I inquired innocently.
"For your information, I read the newspapers, too," she did not look away from the grits. "Allow me to tell you that you might have treated His Excellency rather more justly."
"Miss, I do not understand you."
"I'm talking about the dress. Obviously, you find a certain pleasure in dressing as a woman, and Mr. Stevens has nothing to do with it.
I felt a rush of indignation.
"Pardon..."
"Really, Mr. Keyle. Lookin' like a man on the outside, but on the inside... I just can't understand it.
Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots. Vella burst into the kitchen.
"Blessed it be the day!" exclaimed she. "Please excuse me, I looked outdoors for a minute. There must be a bird in the bushes. It's singing away..."
I squinted at the cook. She sat as if she did not say anything at all.
Vella sat down and glanced searchingly at her. It must have been my fancy, but I felt like there was something special in that gaze; some sort of disguised thought. I did not pay much attention to it, however.
"I suppose it was a nightingale," assumed I. "I heard it, too."
Vella gave me a radiant smile of delight.
"Yes, probably a nightingale."
AFTER FINISHING the cleaning, I took my stand in the middle of the corridor and looked at my hands. The red bumps covered my fingertips, and they might only too likely be the forerunners of blisters.
I do not know what exactly drew me on: It could have been the confidence inspired by the conversation with Stevens, or perhaps it was simple curiosity. I am positively sure, however, that the restless nature of mine was the one to blame. I was going to ask for some sort of remedy.
I went to the office door and knocked; quietly, soberly, and without impatience.
"Mr. Stevens?"
No answer. I knocked again.
"Mr. Stevens, may I come in?"
Upon noticing that the door was not locked, I opened it a tiny crack and peered inside. The room was empty. Of course! To the best of my recollection, Stevens was always outside at that time of day, giving orders. I gave a sudden start; another thought, that I had had before, slipped back into my mind.
"No, it's not right," I tried to reason with myself. "I am not to go in there. Especially when the master is absent..."
I knew, I had felt beforehand, that this thought must come back, I was expecting it; besides it was not only today's thought. The difference was that a week ago, yesterday even, it was a mere dream: but now... now it appeared not a dream at all.
"But why? What's inside?" I continued, pursuing the whirling ideas that chased each other in my brain. "Documents? Money, perhaps? Stevens must be rich as hell if he can give off five hundred dollars at a time! That's why he doesn't let the servants in, for he is afraid to be robbed..."
I shifted uneasily and began fumbling with the doorknob.
I had been thinking about escaping for a long time now, morbidly reckoning the chances at one moment with hope and at the next with despair. I thought there was every probability of realising my plan, and felt a rush of hope in my heart, believing that there really might be a way of escape and salvation. Stevens had shown almost all his cards, and if he had really had anything up his sleeve (I reflected), he would have shown that, too. He had nothing, no facts but psychology, to suspect my intentions.
"If I act quietly and sedately, without hurry, he will never know..."
A faint and even pleasant shiver ran down my spine.
"No, it's too early to think of it. Am I to rob him without a plan? I must learn the details first. What if the big money shows up?"
After some painful hesitation, I decided to risk an action: I looked about me, making sure that nobody was around, and with a sinking heart slipped into the room. The strong smell of tobacco tickled my nostrils immediately, as if I walked into some sort of wayside public-house.
The room was lofty, carpeted with rugs, and contained somewhat heavy old-fashioned furniture. On the desk before the window stood a lamp, a typewriter, a telephone, and a humidor with two stale dry cigars inside. A big divan occupied almost the whole of one wall, and a little commode stood beside it. So soon as I began to pull open the drawers, so soon as I heard their jingling, a convulsive shudder passed over me. I suddenly felt tempted again to give it all up and go away. But that was only for an instant; it was too late to go back.
There turned out to be various useless papers, a broken watch, a silver pin, as well as the jar with some unknown pills. On the shelf above the divan I found nothing but books. The desk drawer was also empty.
"Where is it...where is the money?" I mumbled in despair. "I cannot run away without it! He's probably hidden it... I understand! Papers, pills... The money must be somewhere else. Never mind, I shall find it next time... I'd better leave before he returns."
I admitted my defeat and made haste to go, but here a shock of terror awaited me such as I had not felt for a long time.
The telephone on the table rang startlingly, out of the blue. I came to a sudden halt; it seemed to me all at once that I was turned to stone, that it was like a dream in which one is being pursued, and is rooted to the spot and cannot even move one's arms.
"Good God!" I muttered. "What's it with me? I must fly, fly," and I rushed into the entry. I was about to leave the room, but suddenly the footsteps were heard in the corridor; easily recognizable, exceedingly rapid steps.
And if at that moment I had been capable of seeing and reasoning more correctly, if I had been able to realise all the difficulties of my position, it is very possible that I would have flung up everything, and would have gone to give myself up. But instead I rushed to the divan, hid behind its back and went still as death. Fear gained more and more mastery over me.
"I knew it," I whispered in horror. "A stupid telephone! Why, a little thing like this spoils the whole plan..."
The door creaked and I heard the hurried footsteps. Someone picked up the telephone.
"Stevens is talking."
I sat squatting on my heels behind the divan and waited holding my breath.
"Yes, hello. How are you doing? Me too," Stevens paused, listening to his interlocutor. "I am surprised that you have waited a whole week before calling me."
Silence continued for some few moments.
"The newspapers are telling the truth. I have granted your wish, Thomas... Yes, I am sure. That's him... Yes... All swarthy, big ears... What? Ah, yes, yes. Well, not really..."
"They are talking about me... "It's clear, quite clear!"
I felt somewhat mortified.
"Sometimes he is fearfully reserved; never listens to what is said to him and thinks very highly of himself. Well, what more?"
Silence.
"Smith? Do not worry, I talked to her already. She Is not going to say anything... Tomorrow? Why, do you not believe me? No, I'm just... Yes, alright. So be it... I understand."
Stevens chuckled.
"Et vous avez raison. Of course I will. No, but I..." Stevens hesitated. "See you, Mr. Mantrousse. Goodbye."
He hung up the line and muttered:
"Suspicious motherfucker."
Then there was the crunch of leather chair and the click of a lighter. Something new was beginning, quite unlike the previous silence, something very strange too.
"Keyle, calm your breathing already."