W C MORROW
Only once in my life have I seen Dr Entrefort not in full possession of all his wonderful faculties. How it really came about that he lost himself would make a very interesting story, revealing in a singular light one of the many sides of this extraordinary man, but the purpose of this narrative is to relate merely the consequences of his condition.
His confidential servant came to me one night in great distress and perplexity and informed me that the physician desired my presence immediately.
I found Entrefort reeling and plunging about his bedroom in complete nervous disorganisation. He was arrayed in a dressing-gown thrown over his sleeping clothes, and his bed showed that he had been occupying it that night. His face was flushed, his eyes danced and glistened, and the erratic conduct of his muscular system plainly indicated a serious mental disorder.
He seemed greatly relieved to see me.
‘I thought you would never come!’ he greeted me breathlessly, as though he might have been running a long distance. Then he dismissed the servant for the night, locked the door, and threw himself tumultuously upon his couch, where he lay for some moments panting and making a masterly effort to bring himself under control. I was so alarmed at seeing my friend in this condition that I asked him if he was ill, for if so he should have a physician at once.
‘No!’ he cried in alarm. ‘For heaven’s sake, no! Something is the matter with me — I don’t know what. It would be impossible to frighten me under ordinary circumstances. You have seen me in all sorts of trying positions, and you never saw my nerve fail. In all my life I have never had the strange and terrible sensations that now seem to be straining me to bursting. I am mad for the time — that is all. I need your kind, gentle presence, your sympathy, your companionship. I was sane enough to send for you in time. No; I don’t need a physician. Why should I?’ he asked, shooting a suspicious look at me.
I suggested that he return to bed and make himself comfortable, but he vehemently refused. His whole manner was so wild and distraught that I could only await results to determine my procedure.
Entrefort, cautiously listening for any sound in the corridor, sat up on the couch and whispered: ‘A terrible accident has happened — my statue toppled over this evening while I was dusting it, and the left arm broke off just above the elbow.’
A tug at the seal of this mystery at last. For the first time in all these years of our intimacy, Entrefort seemingly was going to break the silence. I held my breath and tried to conceal my eagerness. Well I remembered that wonderful piece of chiselled marble. I had already had a glimpse of the history of the strange and beautiful girl whom it represented, but it was all shadowy and intangible, and Entrefort had never proffered an explanation. I knew that after a rumour of her death Entrefort kept in the strictest seclusion for a long time, that when he emerged he looked for a while singularly old, withered and decrepit, and that he returned but gradually to his normal condition of boundless enthusiasm and irrepressible energy; and I knew that he then had with him a marble statue of the girl, and that it was a surpassingly beautiful and startling production. I knew that he took the most exquisite care of it, permitting no one but himself to go near it or touch it, and that in his travels he invariably took it with him, tending it as though it might have been a sentient thing, packing and unpacking it with incredible patience and unfailing skill, and keeping it always locked securely in a closet or, if he could, a special room. I was aware that he kept fresh flowers daily on a table at its side, and that he would sometimes spend hours alone with it, emerging in the deepest melancholy.
The figure was that of a young woman in whose features appeared strong traces of Oriental blood. It showed a woman of medium size, perfectly modelled and adorned with all the finer graces of configuration peculiar to the sex. The attitude was the most striking feature of the work. The sculptor had chosen a pose showing the right arm upraised in a gesture of agonised pleading, which the expression of the wide-open eyes, the parted lips and the head thrust forward emphasised to a marvellous extent. The left arm seemed to be arrested as it was being raised from the side, and was the one awkward feature of the sculpture. That it, the one best protected against injury, should have been the one to suffer fracture, appeared to me to be a very puzzling circumstance. I could find in the work not the slightest trace of skill of any of the great sculptors, for it seemed vastly finer than any of them could produce. Entrefort had never enlightened me on the subject.
‘Yes,’ repeated Entrefort, ‘the left arm is broken off at the elbow. Do you know what that means to me?’
I shook my head.
‘It means despair, it means —’ He threw himself again on his couch and writhed and ground his teeth.
I drew my chair close to him, took his hand, and began to speak soothingly. Presently I suggested: ‘I can’t see how that should be a serious matter. There are artisans who are skilled in mending fractured marbles.’
‘None but God could mend this fracture!’ he passionately exclaimed.
‘Entrefort,’ said I, for the first time speaking firmly and threateningly, ‘unless you make an effort to control yourself you will become a madman in an hour.’
He shivered under the thrust.
‘Am I not already a madman?’ he asked, his eyes opening wide in terror. ‘Is anyone of us ever safe from that frightful malady? But I am sane — it is only an unspeakable dread that unmans me. Let me explain, and then you will understand; for, man, I need your sympathy, the consolation of your friendship.
‘I loved her, living, as a man of my ardent temperament must love the one woman in the world who was created for him to live with all his soul. She was heart of my heart, soul of my soul. There enwrapped us in one enfolding a great encompassing spirit of infinite power and sweetness. My friend, there are degrees of affinities between men and woman. The more nearly perfect the affinity, the purer their love. What is affinity? Merely mutual adaptability. It is as true of love as of chemistry. Two molecules with totally different elements combine and form a third, more complex than either, but with properties and functions none the less stable. Thenceforward they work for ever as one. That also is love, perfect love.
‘Such was the love between her and me. It was as perfect and pure on her side as on mine. But was mine really perfect? If so, how came it that I brought her to that terrible end? Was it perfect indeed, and was the inconceivable evil that I brought upon her and myself but a part of the divine plan? Who can know?
‘Listen. She was so surpassingly beautiful that I longed with all the intensity of my nature to perpetuate her heaven-sent charms. I knew that I should in time grow old and die, but I wanted the world to keep her glorious beauty for ever. As God is my witness, I had no selfish design in all that I did. You know that there never has been a limit to my insane ambition. You have understood me well.
‘I was frank with her, for without frankness there can be no love. I told her what I desired to do. I can never forget the look of amused astonishment that lighted up her face. She chided me for hunting will-o’-the-wisps, and said that it was all impossible — impossible, mind you — to me! And then she said she would infinitely prefer that we grew old together, so that the harmony between us should remain unshaken.
‘But I could not bear to think of her slowly passing into decay and death, and I frankly told her that I would adhere to my purpose. At this she laughingly replied that if I was so determined she would yield. I did not realise, in the exuberance of my self-confidence, that she had no faith in the plans which I intended to follow. She submitted cheerfully to the régime that I imposed upon her — not a hard one, understand; that would have been impossible with me. It was all pleasant enough, and she went singing through it without the slightest mar to our happiness.
‘A curious feature of the regime was that while she was utterly unconscious of the effect that it was having upon her, I could see clearly the signs of progress. Had I not given the best thought of my life to the subject? Had I not delved sufficiently into the mysteries of life to learn how the ravages of years may be checked? This, you will understand, is a thing not for the world to know. The laws of nature are of divine institution; to set them aside, to violate them — that is a crime. These secrets will be learned in time, but that time has not yet come. Evolution must be shown in order to be permanent and beneficial. I told her plainly that I could see the changes taking place, but she only laughed and called me a darling idiot!
‘There came at last some symptoms that puzzled me exceedingly — a marble-like appearance of the skin, a coldness to the touch, a remarkable increase in weight, a disappearance of the usual elasticity of movement, and an unaccountable languor. Some of these I could not understand, but I went over my studies carefully, I analysed my formula, I made exhaustive tests of the ingredients composing the preparation that I was administering to her. She had perfect health and content, but an alarming tendency to sleep. Then her muscles became indurated. Instead of all this there should have been nothing but a heightening and fixing of her charms. Still I could find nothing wrong either with the theory or the formula.
‘One day, after having been out, I returned to find a most distressing condition of affairs. She was sitting on a chair asleep and, as I entered, the death-like appearance that sat upon her face startled me. I ran to her, caught her by the arm, called loudly to her, and tried to raise her to her feet. I suddenly found that her weight had become so great that this was nearly impossible. Presently she stood erect, her eyes still closed. She was terribly white, and her skin had the clarity of the finest marble, and she was very cold. I called loudly, I shook her, I kissed her, I tried to breathe into her some of the intense vitality that filled me. She opened her eyes slowly and stared straight ahead. I called the more urgently, a torrent of agonised anxiety pouring forth in my words.
‘She trembled, breathed faintly, and turned her glance upon me. Gradually there began to well up in them the flood of the old love that had filled them for so long. A faint smile played upon her lips. I stepped back, and, holding out my arms, asked her to come to me. She made an effort and failed. Then a great and awful fear came into her face. Her eyes stared, she thrust out her head toward me, her lips parted, her right arm was slowly raised in an attitude of desperate supplication. Faintly there came from her lips the cry, “Save me!” I still pleaded with her to come, but there she stood immovable. Then, with a feeling of unspeakable dread, I went close and touched her. She was perfectly rigid — she was a marble statue! Do you wonder that I have kept this lifeless stone with me and tended it so carefully? It is she herself, not a carved image of her. And do you understand what the fearful calamity of the broken arm means when I tell you that all my hopes, all my efforts, are directed to her restoration to life?’
Entrefort’s breathless, passionate delivery of this history had a strangely impressive effect upon me. At the close he was in a transport of nervous exaltation.
‘I have said it was marble!’ he cried. ‘You have thought it was. Wait.’
He strode into the small room in which the statue stood, took the separated arm from the table, and brought it to me.
‘Look at this section,’ he exclaimed, holding up the fractured surface to my inspection.
It is with great hesitancy that I now relate what I saw. Up to this time, in spite of the vivid account that Entrefort had given, there still had remained with me unconsciously a rational explanation of the whole wonderful thing. But now, when I examined the fracture and saw what it revealed — After all, what do I care? It is incumbent on no one to believe — it is best that none should. And as I lay greater store by my veracity than by my reputation, I will out with it, and the wise ones — there is always an abundance of such in the world — may think what they please. In the centre was a spot of delicate, cream-tinted stone; surrounding it was a zone of denser, coarser and whiter stone; outside of this a thicker one of pure white stone of the finest and most delicate structure. That is to say, I saw the marrow, bone, and flesh of a human arm, all turned to stone.
Entrefort, gazing at me triumphantly, returned the arm to its table in the inner room, and came back. I was looking at him stupidly, amazed. The strain under which he had laboured thus far suddenly relaxed. He swept his hand across his forehead in a bewildered manner and began to totter. I caught him and laid him on his bed, and there he at once fell into a profound slumber.
I watched at his bedside all night and till late the next day, when he awoke. He seemed surprised and gratified to see me.
‘When did you come?’ he faintly asked.
‘Last night, when you sent for me.’
‘Sent for you? I don’t remember.’
‘You don’t remember — all that you told me last night of the history of the statue?’
It was as though I had dealt him a heavy physical blow.
‘Did I tell you a fantastic story about its having been once a woman, and about my changing her to stone while trying to render her immune to age and death?’
I nodded, wondering at the sneering bitterness with which he spoke.
‘Well, of course a man of your sense will understand that it was a lie from beginning to end.’
I made no response.
‘Do you not?’ he asked, with angry petulance.
But I merely turned my head and looked another way, and my gentle pressure of his hand calmed him into silence.