The Invisible Man: A Grotesque Romance
showing, isn’t it? Quite a clot over there. Gets visible as it
coagulates, I see. It’s only the living tissue I’ve changed, and only
for as long as I’m alive.... I’ve been in the house three hours.”
“But how’s it done?” began Kemp, in a tone of exasperation. “Confound
it! The whole business—it’s unreasonable from beginning to end.”
“Quite reasonable,” said the Invisible Man. “Perfectly reasonable.”
He reached over and secured the whiskey bottle. Kemp stared at the
devouring dressing gown. A ray of candle-light penetrating a torn patch
in the right shoulder, made a triangle of light under the left ribs.
“What were the shots?” he asked. “How did the shooting begin?”
“There was a real fool of a man—a sort of confederate of mine—curse
him!—who tried to steal my money. _Has_ done so.”
“Is _he_ invisible too?”
“No.”
“Well?”
“Can’t I have some more to eat before I tell you all that? I’m
hungry—in pain. And you want me to tell stories!”
Kemp got up. “_You_ didn’t do any shooting?” he asked.
“Not me,” said his visitor. “Some fool I’d never seen fired at random.
A lot of them got scared. They all got scared at me. Curse them!—I
say—I want more to eat than this, Kemp.”
“I’ll see what there is to eat downstairs,” said Kemp. “Not much, I’m
afraid.”
After he had done eating, and he made a heavy meal, the Invisible Man
demanded a cigar. He bit the end savagely before Kemp could find a
knife, and cursed when the outer leaf loosened. It was strange to see
him smoking; his mouth, and throat, pharynx and nares, became visible
as a sort of whirling smoke cast.
“This blessed gift of smoking!” he said, and puffed vigorously. “I’m
lucky to have fallen upon you, Kemp. You must help me. Fancy tumbling
on you just now! I’m in a devilish scrape—I’ve been mad, I think. The
things I have been through! But we will do things yet. Let me tell
you—”
He helped himself to more whiskey and soda. Kemp got up, looked about
him, and fetched a glass from his spare room. “It’s wild—but I suppose
I may drink.”
“You haven’t changed much, Kemp, these dozen years. You fair men don’t.
Cool and methodical—after the first collapse. I must tell you. We will
work together!”
“But how was it all done?” said Kemp, “and how did you get like this?”
“For God’s sake, let me smoke in peace for a little while! And then I
will begin to tell you.”
But the story was not told that night. The Invisible Man’s wrist was
growing painful; he was feverish, exhausted, and his mind came round to
brood upon his chase down the hill and the struggle about the inn. He
spoke in fragments of Marvel, he smoked faster, his voice grew angry.
Kemp tried to gather what he could.
“He was afraid of me, I could see that he was afraid of me,” said the
Invisible Man many times over. “He meant to give me the slip—he was
always casting about! What a fool I was!
“The cur!
“I should have killed him!”
“Where did you get the money?” asked Kemp, abruptly.
The Invisible Man was silent for a space. “I can’t tell you to-night,”
he said.
He groaned suddenly and leant forward, supporting his invisible head on
invisible hands. “Kemp,” he said, “I’ve had no sleep for near three
days, except a couple of dozes of an hour or so. I must sleep soon.”
“Well, have my room—have this room.”
“But how can I sleep? If I sleep—he will get away. Ugh! What does it
matter?”
“What’s the shot wound?” asked Kemp, abruptly.
“Nothing—scratch and blood. Oh, God! How I want sleep!”
“Why not?”
The Invisible Man appeared to be regarding Kemp. “Because I’ve a
particular objection to being caught by my fellow-men,” he said slowly.
Kemp started.
“Fool that I am!” said the Invisible Man, striking the table smartly.
“I’ve put the idea into your head.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE INVISIBLE MAN SLEEPS
Exhausted and wounded as the Invisible Man was, he refused to accept
Kemp’s word that his freedom should be respected. He examined the two
windows of the bedroom, drew up the blinds and opened the sashes, to
confirm Kemp’s statement that a retreat by them would be possible.
Outside the night was very quiet and still, and the new moon was
setting over the down. Then he examined the keys of the bedroom and the
two dressing-room doors, to satisfy himself that these also could be
made an assurance of freedom. Finally he expressed himself satisfied.
He stood on the hearth rug and Kemp heard the sound of a yawn.
“I’m sorry,” said the Invisible Man, “if I cannot tell you all that I
have done to-night. But I am worn out. It’s grotesque, no doubt. It’s
horrible! But believe me, Kemp, in spite of your arguments of this
morning, it is quite a possible thing. I have made a discovery. I meant
to keep it to myself. I can’t. I must have a partner. And you.... We
can do such things ... But to-morrow. Now, Kemp, I feel as though I
must sleep or perish.”
Kemp stood in the middle of the room staring at the headless garment.
“I suppose I must leave you,” he said. “It’s—incredible. Three things
happening like this, overturning all my preconceptions—would make me
insane. But it’s real! Is there anything more that I can get you?”
“Only bid me good-night,” said Griffin.
“Good-night,” said Kemp, and shook an invisible hand. He walked
sideways to the door. Suddenly the dressing-gown walked quickly towards
him. “Understand me!” said the dressing-gown. “No attempts to hamper
me, or capture me! Or—”
Kemp’s face changed a little. “I thought I gave you my word,” he said.
Kemp closed the door softly behind him, and the key was turned upon him
forthwith. Then, as he stood with an expression of passive amazement on
his face, the rapid feet came to the door of the dressing-room and that
too was locked. Kemp slapped his brow with his hand. “Am I dreaming?
Has the world gone mad—or have I?”
He laughed, and put his hand to the locked door. “Barred out of my own
bedroom, by a flagrant absurdity!” he said.
He walked to the head of the staircase, turned, and stared at the
locked doors. “It’s fact,” he said. He put his fingers to his slightly
bruised neck. “Undeniable fact!
“But—”
He shook his head hopelessly, turned, and went downstairs.
He lit the dining-room lamp, got out a cigar, and began pacing the
room, ejaculating. Now and then he would argue with himself.
“Invisible!” he said.
“Is there such a thing as an invisible animal? ... In the sea, yes.
Thousands—millions. All the larvae, all the little nauplii and
tornarias, all the microscopic things, the jelly-fish. In the sea there
are more things invisible than visible! I never thought of that before.
And in the ponds too! All those little pond-life things—specks of
colourless translucent jelly! But in air? No!
“It can’t be.
“But after all—why not?
“If a man was made of glass he would still be visible.”
His meditation became profound. The bulk of three cigars had passed
into the invisible or diffused as a white ash over the carpet before he
spoke again. Then it was merely an exclamation. He turned aside, walked
out of the room, and went into his little consulting-room and lit the
gas there. It was a little room, because Dr. Kemp did not live by
practice, and in it were the day’s newspapers. The morning’s paper lay
carelessly opened and thrown aside. He caught it up, turned it over,
and read the account of a “Strange Story from Iping” that the mariner
at Port Stowe had spelt over so painfully to Mr. Marvel. Kemp read it
swiftly.
“Wrapped up!” said Kemp. “Disguised! Hiding it! ‘No one seems to have
been aware of his misfortune.’ What the devil _is_ his game?”
He dropped the paper, and his eye went seeking. “Ah!” he said, and
caught up the _St. James’ Gazette_, lying folded up as it arrived. “Now
we shall get at the truth,” said Dr. Kemp. He rent the paper open; a
couple of columns confronted him. “An Entire Village in Sussex goes
Mad” was the heading.
“Good Heavens!” said Kemp, reading eagerly an incredulous account of
the events in Iping, of the previous afternoon, that have already been
described. Over the leaf the report in the morning paper had been
reprinted.
He re-read it. “Ran through the streets striking right and left.
Jaffers insensible. Mr. Huxter in great pain—still unable to describe
what he saw. Painful humiliation—vicar. Woman ill with terror! Windows
smashed. This extraordinary story probably a fabrication. Too good not
to print—_cum grano_!”
He dropped the paper and stared blankly in front of him. “Probably a
fabrication!”
He caught up the paper again, and re-read the whole business. “But when
does the Tramp come in? Why the deuce was he chasing a tramp?”
He sat down abruptly on the surgical bench. “He’s not only invisible,”
he said, “but he’s mad! Homicidal!”
When dawn came to mingle its pallor with the lamp-light and cigar smoke
of the dining-room, Kemp was still pacing up and down, trying to grasp
the incredible.
He was altogether too excited to sleep. His servants, descending
sleepily, discovered him, and were inclined to think that over-study
had worked this ill on him. He gave them extraordinary but quite
explicit instructions to lay breakfast for two in the belvedere
study—and then to confine themselves to the basement and ground-floor.
Then he continued to pace the dining-room until the morning’s paper
came. That had much to say and little to tell, beyond the confirmation
of the evening before, and a very badly written account of another
remarkable tale from Port Burdock. This gave Kemp the essence of the
happenings at the “Jolly Cricketers,” and the name of Marvel. “He has
made me keep with him twenty-four hours,” Marvel testified. Certain
minor facts were added to the Iping story, notably the cutting of the
village telegraph-wire. But there was nothing to throw light on the
connexion between the Invisible Man and the Tramp; for Mr. Marvel had
supplied no information about the three books, or the money with which
he was lined. The incredulous tone had vanished and a shoal of
reporters and inquirers were already at work elaborating the matter.
Kemp read every scrap of the report and sent his housemaid out to get
every one of the morning papers she could. These also he devoured.
“He is invisible!” he said. “And it reads like rage growing to mania!
The things he may do! The things he may do! And he’s upstairs free as
the air. What on earth ought I to do?”
“For instance, would it be a breach of faith if—? No.”
He went to a little untidy desk in the corner, and began a note. He
tore this up half written, and wrote another. He read it over and
considered it. Then he took an envelope and addressed it to “Colonel
Adye, Port Burdock.”
The Invisible Man awoke even as Kemp was doing this. He awoke in an
evil temper, and Kemp, alert for every sound, heard his pattering feet
rush suddenly across the bedroom overhead. Then a chair was flung over
and the wash-hand stand tumbler smashed. Kemp hurried upstairs and
rapped eagerly.
CHAPTER XIX.
CERTAIN FIRST PRINCIPLES
“What’s the matter?” asked Kemp, when the Invisible Man admitted him.
“Nothing,” was the answer.
“But, confound it! The smash?”
“Fit of temper,” said the Invisible Man. “Forgot this arm; and it’s
sore.”
“You’re rather liable to that sort of thing.”
“I am.”
Kemp walked across the room and picked up the fragments of broken
glass. “All the facts are out about you,” said Kemp, standing up with
the glass in his hand; “all that happened in Iping, and down the hill.
The world has become aware of its invisible citizen. But no one knows
you are here.”
The Invisible Man swore.
“The secret’s out. I gather it was a secret. I don’t know what your
plans are, but of course I’m anxious to help you.”
The Invisible Man sat down on the bed.