Sir Robert Cargrave?” he asked, but he spoke with difficulty, certain sounds—such as the b in Robert and the v in Cargrave—being almost impossible for him to utter. To shape these sounds, the lips must be used, and the gentleman before me was the victim of some terrible affliction that had caused his lips to be pulled perpetually apart from each other, baring his teeth in a continuous ghastly smile. It was the same mirthless grin I had seen once before: on the face of a person in the last throes of lockjaw. We physicians have a name for that chilling grimace, a Latin name, and as it entered my mind, it seemed to dispel yet another mystery, for the term we use to describe the lockjaw smile is: risus sardonicus. A pallor approaching phosphorescence completed his astonishing appearance.
“Yes,” I replied, covering my shock at the sight of his face. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Sardonicus?”
We shook hands. He wore a ring on one finger: the stone, I noted, was a sardonyx. After an exchange of courtesies, he said, “I have ordered dinner to be served in the large dining hall one hour hence. In the meantime, my valet will show you to your rooms, for I am sure you will wish to refresh yourself after your journey.”
“You are most kind.” The valet appeared—a man of grave countenance, like the butler and the coachman—and I followed him up a long flight of stone stairs. As I walked behind him, I reflected on the unsmiling faces in this castle, and no longer were they things of wonder. For who would be disposed to smile under the same roof with him who must smile forever? The most spontaneous of smiles would seem a mockery in the presence of that afflicted face. I was filled with pity for Maude’s husband: of all God’s creatures, man alone is blest with the ability to smile; but for the master of Castle Sardonicus, God’s great blessing had become a terrible curse. As a physician, my pity was tempered with professional curiosity. His smile resembled the risus of lockjaw, but lockjaw is a mortal disease, and Mr. Sardonicus, his skullish grin notwithstanding, was very much alive. I felt shame for some of my earlier uncharitable thoughts towards this gentleman, for surely such an unfortunate could be forgiven much. What bitterness must fester in his breast; what sharp despair gnaw at his inwards!
My rooms were spacious and certainly as comfortable as this dank stone housing could afford. A hot tub was prepared, for which my tired and dusty frame was most grateful. As I lay in it, I began to experience the pleasant pangs of appetite. I looked forward to dinner. After my bath, I put on fresh linen and a suit of evening clothes. Then, taking from my bag two small gifts for my host and hostess—a bottle of scent for Maude, a box of cigars for her husband—I left my rooms.
I was not so foolish as to expect to find my way, unaided, to the main dining hall; but since I was early, I intended to wander a bit and let the ancient magnificence of the castle impress itself upon me.
Tapestries bearing my host’s S were frequently displayed. They were remarkably new, their colours fresh, unlike the faded grandeur of their fellow tapestries. From this—and from Mr. Sardonicus’ lack of title—I deduced that the castle had not been inherited through a family line, but merely purchased by him, probably from an impoverished nobleman. Though not titled, Mr. Sardonicus evidently possessed enormous wealth. I pondered its source. My ponderings were interrupted by the sound of Maude’s voice.
I looked up. The acoustical effects in old castles are often strange—I had marked them in our own English castles—and though I stood near neither room nor door of any kind, I could hear Maude speaking in a distressed tone. I was standing at an open window which overlooked a kind of courtyard. Across this court, a window was likewise open. I took this to be the window of Maude’s room; her voice was in some way being amplified and transported by the circumstantial shape of the courtyard and the positions of the two windows. By listening very attentively, I could make out most of her words.
She was saying, “I shan’t. You must not ask me. It is unseemly.” And then the voice of her husband replied: “You shall and will, madam. In my castle, it is I who decide what is seemly or unseemly. Not you.” I was embarrassed at overhearing this private discussion on what was obviously a painful subject, so I made to draw away from the window that I might hear no more, but was restrained by the sound of my own name on Maude’s lips. “I have treated Sir Robert with courtesy,” she said. “You must treat him with more than courtesy,” Mr. Sardonicus responded. “You must treat him with warmth. You must rekindle in his breast those affections he felt for you in other days . . .”
I could listen no longer. The exchange was vile. I drew away from the window. What manner of creature was this Sardonicus who threw his wife into the arms of other men? As a practitioner of medicine, a man dedicated to healing the ills of humankind, I had brought myself to learn many things about the minds of men, as well as about their bodies. I fully believed that, in some future time, physicians would heal the body by way of the mind, for it is in that terra incognita that all secrets lie hidden. I knew that love has many masks; masks of submission and of oppression; and even more terrible masks that make Nature a stranger to herself and “turn the truth of God into a lie,” as St. Paul wrote. There is even a kind of love, it if can be elevated by that name, that derives its keenest pleasure from the sight of the beloved in the arms of another. These are unpleasant observations, which may one day be codified and studied by healers, but which, until then, may not be thought on for too long, lest the mind grow morbid and stagger under its load of repugnance.
With a heavy heart, I sought out a servant and asked to be taken to the dining hall. It was some distance away, and by the time I arrived there, Sardonicus and his lady were already at table, awaiting me. He arose, and with that revolting smile, indicated a chair; she also arose, and took my arm, addressing me as “Dear Sir Robert” and leading me to my place. Her touch, which at any previous time would have gladdened me, I now found distinctly not to my liking.
A hollow joviality hung over the dinner table throughout the meal. Maude’s laughter struck me as giddy and false; Sardonicus drank too much wine and his speech became even more indistinct. I contrived to talk on trivial subjects, repeating some anecdotes about the London theatre which I had hitherto related to Maude, and describing Mr. Macready’s interpretation of Macbeth.
“Some actors,” said Sardonicus, “interpret the Scottish chieftain as a creature compounded of pure evil, unmingled with good qualities of any kind. Such interpretations are often criticized by those who feel no human being can be so unremittingly evil. Do you agree, Sir Robert?”
“No,” I said, evenly; then, looking Sardonicus full in the face, I added, “I believe it is entirely possible for a man to possess not a single one of the virtues, to be a demon in human flesh.” Quickly, I embarked upon a discussion of the character of Iago, who took ghoulish delight in tormenting his fellow man.
The dinner was, I suppose, first rate, and the wine an honourable vintage, but I confess to tasting little of what was placed before me. At the end of the meal, Maude left us for a time and Sardonicus escorted me into the library, whither he ordered brandy to be brought. He opened the box of cigars, expressed his admiration of them and gratitude for them, and offered them to me. I took one and we both smoked. The smoking of the cigar made Sardonicus look even more grotesque; being unable to hold it in his lips, he clenched it in his constantly visible teeth, creating an unique spectacle. Brandy was served; I partook of it freely, though I am not customarily given to heavy drinking, for now I deemed it to be beneficial to my dampened spirits.
“You used the word ‘ghoulish’ a few moments ago, Sir Robert,” said Sardonicus. “It is one of those words one uses so easily in conversation—one utters it without stopping to think of its meaning. But, in my opinion, it is not a word to be used lightly. When one uses it, one should have in one’s mind a firm, unwavering picture of a ghoul.”
“Perhaps I did,” I said.
“Perhaps,” he admitted. “And perhaps not. Let us obtain a precise definition of the word.” He arose and walked to one of the bookcases that lined the room’s walls. He reached for a large two-volume dictionary. “Let me see,” he murmured. “We desire Volume One, from A to M, do we not? Now then: ‘ghee’ . . . ‘gherkin’ . . . ‘ghetto’ . . . ‘ghoom’ (an odd word, eh, Sir Robert? ‘To search for game in the dark’) . . . ‘ghost’ . . . ah, ‘ghoul!’ ‘Among Eastern nations, an imaginary evil being who robs graves and feeds upon corpses.’ One might say, then, that he ghooms?” Sardonicus chuckled. He returned to his chair and helped himself to more brandy. “When you described Iago’s actions as ‘ghoulish,’” he continued, “did you think of him as the inhabitant of an Eastern nation? Or an imaginary being as against the reality of Othello and Desdemona? And did you mean seriously to suggest that it was his custom to rob graves and then to feed upon the disgusting nourishment he found therein?”
“I used the word in a figurative sense,” I replied.
“Ah,” said Sardonicus. “That is because you are English and do not believe in ghouls. Were you a Middle-European, as am I, you would believe in their existence, and would not be tempted to use the word other than literally. In my country—I was born in Poland—we understood such things. I, in point of fact, have known a ghoul.” He paused for a moment and looked at me, then said, “You English are so blasé. Nothing shocks you. I sit here and tell you a thing of dreadful import and you do not even blink your eyes. Can it be because you do not believe me?”
“It would be churlish to doubt the word of my host,” I replied.
“And an Englishman may be many things, but never a churl, eh, Sir Robert? Let me refill your glass, my friend, and then let me tell you about ghouls—which, by the way, are by no means imaginary, as that stupid lexicon would have us think, and which are not restricted to Eastern nations. Neither do they—necessarily—feed upon carrion flesh, although they are interested, most interested, in the repellent contents of graves. Let me tell you a story from my own country, Sir Robert, a story that—if I have any gift at all as a spinner of tales—will create in you a profound belief in ghouls. You will be entertained, I hope, but I also hope you will add to your learning. You will learn, for example, how low a human being can sink, how truly monstrous a man can become.”