The King in Yellow
When at last I gave up the search among the other canvases and turned
to look around the room for the missing study I noticed Tessie standing
by the screen with her clothes still on.
“What’s the matter,” I asked, “don’t you feel well?”
“Yes.”
“Then hurry.”
“Do you want me to pose as—as I have always posed?”
Then I understood. Here was a new complication. I had lost, of course,
the best nude model I had ever seen. I looked at Tessie. Her face was
scarlet. Alas! Alas! We had eaten of the tree of knowledge, and Eden
and native innocence were dreams of the past—I mean for her.
I suppose she noticed the disappointment on my face, for she said: “I
will pose if you wish. The study is behind the screen here where I put
it.”
“No,” I said, “we will begin something new;” and I went into my
wardrobe and picked out a Moorish costume which fairly blazed with
tinsel. It was a genuine costume, and Tessie retired to the screen with
it enchanted. When she came forth again I was astonished. Her long
black hair was bound above her forehead with a circlet of turquoises,
and the ends, curled about her glittering girdle. Her feet were encased
in the embroidered pointed slippers and the skirt of her costume,
curiously wrought with arabesques in silver, fell to her ankles. The
deep metallic blue vest embroidered with silver and the short Mauresque
jacket spangled and sewn with turquoises became her wonderfully. She
came up to me and held up her face smiling. I slipped my hand into my
pocket, and drawing out a gold chain with a cross attached, dropped it
over her head.
“It’s yours, Tessie.”
“Mine?” she faltered.
“Yours. Now go and pose,” Then with a radiant smile she ran behind the
screen and presently reappeared with a little box on which was written
my name.
“I had intended to give it to you when I went home to-night,” she said,
“but I can’t wait now.”
I opened the box. On the pink cotton inside lay a clasp of black onyx,
on which was inlaid a curious symbol or letter in gold. It was neither
Arabic nor Chinese, nor, as I found afterwards, did it belong to any
human script.
“It’s all I had to give you for a keepsake,” she said timidly.
I was annoyed, but I told her how much I should prize it, and promised
to wear it always. She fastened it on my coat beneath the lapel.
“How foolish, Tess, to go and buy me such a beautiful thing as this,” I
said.
“I did not buy it,” she laughed.
“Where did you get it?”
Then she told me how she had found it one day while coming from the
Aquarium in the Battery, how she had advertised it and watched the
papers, but at last gave up all hopes of finding the owner.
“That was last winter,” she said, “the very day I had the first horrid
dream about the hearse.”
I remembered my dream of the previous night but said nothing, and
presently my charcoal was flying over a new canvas, and Tessie stood
motionless on the model-stand.
III
The day following was a disastrous one for me. While moving a framed
canvas from one easel to another my foot slipped on the polished floor,
and I fell heavily on both wrists. They were so badly sprained that it
was useless to attempt to hold a brush, and I was obliged to wander
about the studio, glaring at unfinished drawings and sketches, until
despair seized me and I sat down to smoke and twiddle my thumbs with
rage. The rain blew against the windows and rattled on the roof of the
church, driving me into a nervous fit with its interminable patter.
Tessie sat sewing by the window, and every now and then raised her head
and looked at me with such innocent compassion that I began to feel
ashamed of my irritation and looked about for something to occupy me. I
had read all the papers and all the books in the library, but for the
sake of something to do I went to the bookcases and shoved them open
with my elbow. I knew every volume by its colour and examined them all,
passing slowly around the library and whistling to keep up my spirits.
I was turning to go into the dining-room when my eye fell upon a book
bound in serpent skin, standing in a corner of the top shelf of the
last bookcase. I did not remember it, and from the floor could not
decipher the pale lettering on the back, so I went to the smoking-room
and called Tessie. She came in from the studio and climbed up to reach
the book.
“What is it?” I asked.
“_The King in Yellow._”
I was dumfounded. Who had placed it there? How came it in my rooms? I
had long ago decided that I should never open that book, and nothing on
earth could have persuaded me to buy it. Fearful lest curiosity might
tempt me to open it, I had never even looked at it in book-stores. If
I ever had had any curiosity to read it, the awful tragedy of young
Castaigne, whom I knew, prevented me from exploring its wicked pages.
I had always refused to listen to any description of it, and indeed,
nobody ever ventured to discuss the second part aloud, so I had
absolutely no knowledge of what those leaves might reveal. I stared at
the poisonous mottled binding as I would at a snake.
“Don’t touch it, Tessie,” I said; “come down.”
Of course my admonition was enough to arouse her curiosity, and before
I could prevent it she took the book and, laughing, danced off into the
studio with it. I called to her, but she slipped away with a tormenting
smile at my helpless hands, and I followed her with some impatience.
“Tessie!” I cried, entering the library, “listen, I am serious. Put
that book away. I do not wish you to open it!” The library was empty. I
went into both drawing-rooms, then into the bedrooms, laundry, kitchen,
and finally returned to the library and began a systematic search.
She had hidden herself so well that it was half-an-hour later when I
discovered her crouching white and silent by the latticed window in the
store-room above. At the first glance I saw she had been punished for
her foolishness. _The King in Yellow_ lay at her feet, but the book was
open at the second part. I looked at Tessie and saw it was too late.
She had opened _The King in Yellow_. Then I took her by the hand and
led her into the studio. She seemed dazed, and when I told her to lie
down on the sofa she obeyed me without a word. After a while she closed
her eyes and her breathing became regular and deep, but I could not
determine whether or not she slept. For a long while I sat silently
beside her, but she neither stirred nor spoke, and at last I rose, and,
entering the unused store-room, took the book in my least injured hand.
It seemed heavy as lead, but I carried it into the studio again, and
sitting down on the rug beside the sofa, opened it and read it through
from beginning to end.
When, faint with excess of my emotions, I dropped the volume and leaned
wearily back against the sofa, Tessie opened her eyes and looked at me.
* * * * *
We had been speaking for some time in a dull monotonous strain before
I realized that we were discussing _The King in Yellow_. Oh the sin
of writing such words,—words which are clear as crystal, limpid and
musical as bubbling springs, words which sparkle and glow like the
poisoned diamonds of the Medicis! Oh the wickedness, the hopeless
damnation of a soul who could fascinate and paralyze human creatures
with such words,—words understood by the ignorant and wise alike,
words which are more precious than jewels, more soothing than music,
more awful than death!
We talked on, unmindful of the gathering shadows, and she was begging
me to throw away the clasp of black onyx quaintly inlaid with
what we now knew to be the Yellow Sign. I never shall know why I
refused, though even at this hour, here in my bedroom as I write this
confession, I should be glad to know _what_ it was that prevented me
from tearing the Yellow Sign from my breast and casting it into the
fire. I am sure I wished to do so, and yet Tessie pleaded with me in
vain. Night fell and the hours dragged on, but still we murmured to
each other of the King and the Pallid Mask, and midnight sounded from
the misty spires in the fog-wrapped city. We spoke of Hastur and of
Cassilda, while outside the fog rolled against the blank window-panes
as the cloud waves roll and break on the shores of Hali.
The house was very silent now, and not a sound came up from the misty
streets. Tessie lay among the cushions, her face a grey blot in the
gloom, but her hands were clasped in mine, and I knew that she knew and
read my thoughts as I read hers, for we had understood the mystery of
the Hyades and the Phantom of Truth was laid. Then as we answered each
other, swiftly, silently, thought on thought, the shadows stirred in
the gloom about us, and far in the distant streets we heard a sound.
Nearer and nearer it came, the dull crunching of wheels, nearer and
yet nearer, and now, outside before the door it ceased, and I dragged
myself to the window and saw a black-plumed hearse. The gate below
opened and shut, and I crept shaking to my door and bolted it, but I
knew no bolts, no locks, could keep that creature out who was coming
for the Yellow Sign. And now I heard him moving very softly along the
hall. Now he was at the door, and the bolts rotted at his touch. Now
he had entered. With eyes starting from my head I peered into the
darkness, but when he came into the room I did not see him. It was only
when I felt him envelope me in his cold soft grasp that I cried out
and struggled with deadly fury, but my hands were useless and he tore
the onyx clasp from my coat and struck me full in the face. Then, as
I fell, I heard Tessie’s soft cry and her spirit fled: and even while
falling I longed to follow her, for I knew that the King in Yellow had
opened his tattered mantle and there was only God to cry to now.
I could tell more, but I cannot see what help it will be to the world.
As for me, I am past human help or hope. As I lie here, writing,
careless even whether or not I die before I finish, I can see the
doctor gathering up his powders and phials with a vague gesture to the
good priest beside me, which I understand.
They will be very curious to know the tragedy—they of the outside
world who write books and print millions of newspapers, but I shall
write no more, and the father confessor will seal my last words with
the seal of sanctity when his holy office is done. They of the outside
world may send their creatures into wrecked homes and death-smitten
firesides, and their newspapers will batten on blood and tears, but
with me their spies must halt before the confessional. They know that
Tessie is dead and that I am dying. They know how the people in the
house, aroused by an infernal scream, rushed into my room and found
one living and two dead, but they do not know what I shall tell them
now; they do not know that the doctor said as he pointed to a horrible
decomposed heap on the floor—the livid corpse of the watchman from the
church: “I have no theory, no explanation. That man must have been dead
for months!”
* * * * *
I think I am dying. I wish the priest would—
THE DEMOISELLE D’YS
“Mais je croy que je
Suis descendu on puiz
Ténébreux onquel disoit
Heraclytus estre Vereté cachée.”
“There be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, four
which I know not:
“The way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock;
the way of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man
with a maid.”
I
The utter desolation of the scene began to have its effect; I sat down
to face the situation and, if possible, recall to mind some landmark