Speaker 1: A dead Finger by Sabine bearing gold. Why the National
Gallery should not attract so many visitors as say the
British Museum, I cannot explain. The latter does not contain
much that one would suppose appeals to the interest of
the ordinary sightseer. What knows such of prehistoric flints and
scratched bones of a Syrian sculpture, of Egyptian hieroglyphics. The
Greek and Roman statuary is cold and dead. The paintings
in the National Gallery glow with color and are instinct
with life. Yet somehow a few listless wanderers saunter yawning
through the National Gallery, whereas swarms port through the halls
of the British Museum and talk in past remarks about
the objects they are exposed, of the date and meaning
of which they have not the faintest conception. I was
thinking of this problem and endeavoring to unravel it one morning,
whilst sitting in the room for English Masters at the
Great Collection in Trofulgar's Square. At the same time, another
thought forced itself upon me. I had been through the
rooms devoted to foreign schools, and had then come into
that given over Reynolds Moreland Gainsborough, Constable and Hogarth. The
morning had been for a while propitious, but towards noon
a dense, umber tinted fog had come on, making it
all but impossible to see the pictures, and quite impossible
to do them justice. I was tired, and so seated
up myself on one of the chairs, and fell into
the consideration, first of all, of why the National Gallery
is not as popular as it should be, and secondly
how it was that the British school had no beginnings
like those of Italy and the Netherlands. We can see
the art of the painter from its first initiation in
the Italian peninsula and among the Flemings. It starts on
its progress like a child, and we can trace every
stage of its growth. Not so with English art. It
springs to life in full and splendid maturity. Who were
there before Reynolds and Gainsboro and Hogarth. The names of
those portrait and subject painters who have left their canvasses
upon the walls of our country houses were those of foreigners. Holbein,
Nuller van Dyke and Lily for portraits, and Moneyer for
flower and fruit pieces. Landscapes figure subjects were all importations
none homegrown? How came that about? Was there no limmur
that was native? Was it that fashion trampled on homegrown
pictorial beginnings as it flouted and spurned native music? Here
was food for contemplation, dreaming in the brown fog, looking
through it without seeing its beauties at Hogarth's painting of
Lavinia Fenton as Polly Peachum, without wondering how so indifferent
a beauty could have captivated the Duke of Bolton and
held him for thirty years. I was recalled to myself
and my surroundings by the strange conduct of a lady
who had seated herself on the shared next to me,
also discouraged by the fog and awaiting its dispersion. I
had not noticed her, particularly at the present moment. I
do not remember particularly what she was like, So far
as I can recollect, she was middle aged and quietly
yet well dressed. It was not her face nor her
dress that attracted my attention and disturbed the current of
my thoughts. The effect I speak of was produced by
her strange movements and behavior. She was sitting listless, probably
thinking of nothing at all, or nothing in particular, when
in turning her eyes round, and, finding that she could
see nothing of the paintings, she began to study me.
This did concern me greatly. A cat may look at
the king, but to be contemplated by a lady is
a compliment sufficient to please any gentleman. It was not
gratified vanity that troubled my thoughts, but the consciousness that
my appearance produced, first of all startled surprise, then undisguised alarm,
and finally indescribable horror. A man can sit quietly, leaning
on the head of his umbrella and glow internally warmed
and illumined by the consciousness that he is being surveyed
with admiration by a lovely woman, even when he is
middle aged and not fashionably dressed. But no man can
maintain his composure when he discovers himself to be an
object of aversion and terror. What was it? I passed
my hand over my chin and upper lip, thinking it
not impossible that I might have forgotten to shave that morning,
and in my confusion, not considering that the fog would
prevent the lady from discovering neglect in this particular had
it occurred, which had not. I am a little careless,
perhaps about shaving when in the country, but wood in town. Never.
The next idea that occurred to me was a smut.
Had a London black curdled in that dense pea soup
atmosphere descended on my nose and blackened it. I hastily
drew my silk handkerchief from my pocket, moistened it, and
passed it over my nose and then each cheek. I
then turned my eyes into the corners and looked at
the lady to see whether by this means I had
got rid of what was objectionable in my personal appearance.
Then I saw that her eyes, dilated with horror, were
riveted not on my face, but on my leg, my leg.
What on earth could that harmless member have in it
so terrifying? The morning had been dull, there had been
rain in the night, and I admit that, on leaving
my hotel, I had turned up the bottoms of my trousers.
That is a proceeding not so uncommon, not so outrageous
as to account for the stony stare of the woman's eyes.
If that were all, I would turn my trousers down.
Then I saw her shrink from the chair on which
She sat to one further removed from me, but still
with her eyes fixed on my leg about the level
of my knee. She had let fall her umbrella and
was grasping the seat of her chair with both hands
as she backed for me. I need hardly say that
I was greatly disturbed in mind and feelings, and forgot
all about the origin of the English schools and painters
in the question why the British Museum is more popular
than the National Gallery. Thinking that I might have been
spattered by a handsome whilst crossing Oxford Street, I passed
my hand down my side hastily with a sense of annoyance,
and all at once touched something cold, clammy that sent
a thrill to my heart and made me start and
take a step forward. At the same moment, the lady,
with a cry of horror, sprang to her feet and
with raised hands, fled from the room, leaving her umbrella
where I had fallen. There were other visitors to the
picture gallery besides ourselves, who had been passing through the saloon,
and they turned at her cry and looked in surprise.
After her. The policeman stationed in the room came to
me and asked what had happened. I was in such
agitation that I hardly knew what to answer. I told
him that I could explain what had occurred little better
than himself. I had noticed that the lady had worn
an odd expression and had behaved in most extraordinary fashion,
and that he had best take charge of her umbrella
and wait for her return to claim it. This questioning
by the official was vexing, as it prevented me from,
at once and on the spot, investigating the cause of
her alarm and mind hers at something she must have
seen on my leg, and mine at something I had
distinctly felt creeping up my leg. The numbing and sickening
effect on me of the touch of the object I
had not seen was not to be shaken off at once. Indeed,
I felt as though my hand were contaminated, and that
I could have no rest till I had thoroughly washed
the hand and, if possible, washed away the feeling that
had been produced. I looked on the floor, I examined
my leg, but saw nothing. As I wore my overcoat,
it was probable that in rising from my seat, the
skirt had fallen over my trousers and hidden the thing.
Whatever it was. I therefore hastily removed my overcoat and
shook it, then looked at my trousers. There was nothing
whatever on my leg, and nothing fell from my overcoat
when shaken accordingly. I reinvested myself and hastily left the gallery.
Then took my way as speedily as I could without
actually running, to the Charing Cross station and down the
narrow way leading to the Metropo, where I went into
Faulkner's bath and hair dressing establishment and asked for hot
water to thoroughly wash my hand and well soap it.
I bathed my hand in water as hot as I
could endure it, employed carbolic soap, and then, after having
a good brush down, especially on my left side, where
my hand had encountered the object that had so affected me,
I left. I had entertained the intention of going to
the Princess's Theater that evening, and of securing a ticket
in the morning, But all thought of theater going was
gone for me. I could not free my heart from
the sense of nausea and cold that had been produced
by the touch. I went into Gattis to have lunch
and ordered something I forget what, but when served I
found that my appetite was gone. I could eat nothing.
The food inspired me with disgust. I thrust it from me, untasted,
and after drinking a couple of glasses of claret, left
the restaurant and returned to my hotel. Feeling sick and faint,
I threw my overcoat over the sofa back and cast
myself on my bed. I do not know that there
was any particular reason for my doing so. But as
I lay my eyes around my great coat, the density
of the fog has passed away, and there was light again,
not a first quality, but sufficient for a Londoner to
swear by, so that I could see everything in my
room through a veil darkly. I do not think my
mind is occupied in any way about. The only occasions
on which, to my knowledge my mind is actually passive
or inert is when crossing the channel in the foam
from Dover to Calais, when I am always in every
weather objectly seasick and thoughtless. But as I now lay
on my bed, uncomfortable, squeamish, without knowing why, I was
in the same inact of mental condition, but not for long,
I saw something that startled me. First it appeared to
me as if the lappet of my overcoat pocket were
in movement being raised. I did not pay much attention
to this, as I suppose that the garment was sliding
down onto the seat of the sofa from the back,
and that this displacement of gravity caused movement. I observed
this I soon saw was not the case. That which
moved the la pet was something in the pocket that
was struggling to get out. I could see now that
it was working its way up the inside, and that
when it reached the opening, it lost balance and fell
down again. I can make this out by the projections
and indentations in the cloth. These moved as the creature
or whatever it was, worked its way up to the lining.
A mouse, I said, and forgot my seediness. I was
interested the little rascal, however, did it? He concrived to
seat himself in my pocket, and I have worn that
overcoat all morning. But no, it was not a mouse.
I saw something white poke its way out from under
the la pet, and in another moment an object was
revealed that, though revealed, I could not understand, nor could
I distinguish what it was. Now Roused by curiosity, I
raised myself on my elbow. In doing this, I made
some noise. The bed creaked instantly. The something dropped to
the floor, lay outstretched for a moment to recover itself,
then began with the motions of a maggot to run
along the floor. There is a caterpillar called the measurer
because when it advances, it draws its tail up to
where its head is, and then throws forward its full length,
and again draws up its extremity, forming at each time
a loop, and with each step measuring its total length.
The object I now saw on the floor was advancing
precisely like the measuring caterpillar. It had the color of
a cheese maggot, and in length was about three and
a half inches. It was not, however, like a caterpillar,
which is flexible throughout its entire length. But this was,
as it seemed to me, jointed in two places, one
joint being more conspicuous than the other. For some moments,
I was so completely paralyzed by the astonishment that I
remained motionless, looking at the thing as it crawled along
the carpet, a dull green carpet with darker green, almost
black flowers in it. It had as it seemed to
me a glossy head distinctly marked, but as the light
was not really I could not make out very clearly,
and moreover, the rapid movements prevented close scrutiny. Presently, with
a shock still more startling than it produced by its apparition,
at the opening of the pocket of my greatcoat. But
became convinced that what I saw was a finger, a
human forefinger, and that the glossy head was no other
than the nail. The finger did not seem to have
been amputated. There was no sign of blood or laceration
where the knuckle should be, but the extremity of the
finger or root rather faded away to indistinctness, and I
was unable to make out the root of the finger.
I could see no hand, no body behind this finger,
nothing whatever, except a finger that had little token of
warm life in it, no coloration as through blood circulated
in it. And this finger was an active motion, creeping
along the carpet towards a wardrobe that stood against the
wall by the fireplace. I sprang off the bed and
pursued it. Evidently the finger was alarmed, for it redoubled
its pace reached the wardrobe and went under it. By
the time I had arrived at the article of furniture,
it had disappeared. I lit a vesta match and held
it beneath the wardrobe that was raised above the carpet
by about two inches on turned feet, but I could
see nothing more of the finger. I got my umbrella
and thrust it beneath and raked forwards and backwards, right
and left, and raked out flew and nothing more solid.
I packed my poormanteau next day and returned to my
home in the country. All desire for amusement in town
was gone, and the faculty to transact business had departed
as well. A linger in qualms had come over me,
and my head was in a maze. I was unable
to fix my thoughts on anything. At times I was
disposed to believe that my wits were deserting me, at
others that I was on the verge of a severe illness. Anyhow,
whether likely to go off my head or not, or
to take my bed home was the only place for me,
and homeward I sped accordingly. On reaching my country habitation,
my servant, as usual, took my pormanteau to my bedroom
unstrapped it, but did not unpack it. I object to
his throwing out the contents of my gladstone bag, not
that there is anything that he may not see. That
he puts my things where I cannot find him again.
My clothes, he is welcome to place them where he
likes and where they belong. In this latter he knows
better than I do. But then I carry about with
me other things in a dress, suit and changes of
linen and flannel. There are letters, papers, books, and the
proper destinations of these are known only to myself. A
servant has a singular and evil knack of putting away
literary matter and odd volumes in such places that it
takes the owner half a day to find them again.
Although I was uncomfortable and my head in a whirl,
I opened and unpacked my own pormanteau. As I was
thus engaged, I saw something curled up in my collar box,
the lid of which had gotten broken by a boot
heel and pinging on it. I had pulled off the
damage cover to see if my callers had been spoiled,
when something curled up inside suddenly rose on end and
left dressed like a cheese jumper out of the box,
over the edge of the gladstone bag, and scurried away
across the floor in a manner already familiar to me.
I could not doubt for a moment what it was.
Here was the finger again. It had come with me
from London to the country. Whither it went in its
run over the floor, I do not know. I was
too bewildered to observe. Somewhat later, towards evening, I seated
myself in my easy chair, took up a book and
tried to read. I was tired with the journey, with
a knocking about in town, and the discomfort and alarm
produced by the apparition of the finger. I felt worn out.
I was unable to give my attention to what I read,
and before I was aware was asleep. Roused for an
instant by the fall of a book from my hands,
I speedily relapsed into unconsciousness. I am not sure that
a doze in the armchair ever does good. It usually
leaves me in a semi stupid condition and with a headache.
Five minutes in a horizontal position on my bed as
worth thirty in a chair. That is my experience in
sleeping in a sedentary position that the head is a difficulty.
It drops forward or lalls on one side of the
other and has to be brought back into a position
in which the line to the center of gravity runs
through the trunk. Otherwise the head carries the body over
in a sort of general capsize out of the chair
onto the floor. I slept on the occasion of which
I'm speaking pretty healthily, because deadly weary. But I was
brought to waking not by my head falling over the
arm of the chair and my trunk tumbling after it,
but by a feeling of cold extending from my throat
to my heart. When I awoke, I was in a
diagonal position, with my right ear resting on my right
shoulder and exposing the left side of my throat. And
it was here where the jugular vein throbs, that I
felt the greatest intensity of cold. At once I shrugged
my left shoulder, rubbing my neck with the collar of
my coat, and so doing immediately something fell off upon
the floor, and again I saw the finger. My disgust
horror were intensified when I perceived that it was dragging
something after it, which might have been an old stalking
in which I took a first glance for something of
the sort. The evening sun shone in through my window
in a brilliant gold ray that lighted the object as
it scrambled. Along with this illumination, I was able to
distinguish what the object was. It was not easy to
describe it, but I will make the attempt. The finger
I saw was solid and material. What it drew after
it was neither, or was in a nebulous protoplasmic condition.
The finger was attached to a hand that was curdling
into matter and in process of acquiring solidity. Attached to
the hand was an arm in a very filmy condition,
and this arm belonged to a human body in a
still more vaporous immaterial condition. This was being dragged along
the floor by the finger, just as a silkworm might
pull after it the tangle of its web. I could
see legs and arms, and head and coat tail tumbling
about and interlacing and disentangling again in a promiscuous manner.
There were no bone, no muscle, no substance in the figure.
The members were attached to the trunk, which was spineless,
but they had evidently no functions and were wholly dependent
on the finger, which pulled them along in a jumble
of parts as it advanced in such confusion. Did the
whole vaporous matter seem that? I think? I cannot say
for certain it was so, But the impression left on
my mind was that one of the eyeballs was looking
out at a nostril, and the tongue lolling out of
one of the ears. Was, however, only for a moment
that I saw this germ body. I can not call
by another name, that which had not more substance than smoke.
I saw it only so long as it was being
dragged athwart the ray of sunlight. The moment it was
pulled jerkily out of the beam into the shadow beyond,
I could see nothing of it, only the crawling finger.
I had not sufficient moral energy or physical force in
me to rise, pursue and stamp on the finger, and
grind it with my heel into the floor. Both seemed
drained out of me, but became of the finger. Whither
it went. How it managed to discreet itself, I do
not know. I had lost the power to inquire. I
sat in my chair, chilled, staring before me into space. Please, sir,
a voice said, that's mister Square below electrical engineer. A
I looked dreamily around my valet was at the door. Please, sir,
the gentleman would be glad to be allowed to go
over the house and see all the electrical apparatus is
in order. Oh, indeed, yes, show him up. I had
recently placed the lighting of my house in the hands
of an electrical engineer, a very intelligent man, mister Square,
for whom I had contracted a sincere friendship. He had
built a shed with a dynamo out of sight and
had entrusted the laying of the wires to subordinates, as
he had been busy with other orders and cannot personally
watch every detail. But he was not the man to
let anything pass unobserved, and he knew that electricity was
not a force to be played with. That or careless
workmen will often insufficiently protect the wires or neglect the
insertion of the lead, which serves as a safety valve.
In the event of the current being too strong, houses
may be set on fire, and beings fatally shocked by
the neglect of a bad or slovenly workman. The apparatus
for my mansion was just completed, but mister Square had
come to inspect it and make sure that it was
all right. He was an enthusiast in the matter of electricity,
and saw for it a vast perspective, the limits of
which could not be predicted. All forces, said he, are correlated.
When you have force in one form, you may just
turn it into this or that as you like. In
one form it is motive power, in another, it is
light in another heat. Now we have electricity for illumination,
we employ it, but not as freely as in the States.
For propelling vehicles, Why should we have horses drawing our buses?
We should use only electric trams. Why do we burn
coal to warm our shins? There is electricity which throws
out no filthy smoke as does coal. Why should we
let the tides waste their energies in the Thames? In
other estuaries there we have nature supplying us free gratis,
and for nothing, with all the force we want for propelling,
for heating, for lighting. I will tell you something more,
my dear sir, said mister Square. I have mentioned but
three modes of force, and have incense but a limited
number of uses to which electricity may be turned. How
is it with photography? Is not electric light becoming an
artistic agent? I bet you, said he, Before long it
will become a therapeutic agent as well. Oh yes, I
have heard of certain impostures with their life belts. Mister
Square did not relish with this little deck I gave him.
He winced, but returned to the charge. We don't know
how to direct it, all right, that is all, said he.
I haven't taken the matter up, but others will, I bet,
and we shall have electricity used as freely as now
we use powders and pills. I don't believe in doctor's
stuff myself. I hold that disease lays hold of a
man because he lacks physical force to resist it. Now,
is it not obvious that you are beginning at the
wrong end when you attack the disease. What you want
is to supply force make up for the lack of
physical power. And force is force wherever you find it.
Here motive, they're illuminating, and so on. I don't see
why physicians should not utilize the tide rushing out under
London Bridge for restoring the feeble vigor of all who
are languid and a prey to disorder in the metropolis.
It will come to that, I bet. And that is
not all. Force is force everywhere, political, moral force, physical force,
dynamic force, heat, light, tidal ways and so on. All
are one, All is one. In time we shall know
how to galvanize into aptitude and moral energy all the
limp and crooked consciences and wills that need taking in hand,
and such there always will be in modern civilization. I
don't know how to do it. I don't know how
it will be done. But in the future the priest
as well as the doctor, will turn electricity hon as
his principle, nay, his only agent, and he can get
his force anywhere, out of the running stream, out of
the wind, out of the tidal wave. I'll give you
an instance, continued mister Square, chuckling and rubbing his hands,
to show you the great possibilities and electricity used in
the crude fashion. In a certain great city far west
in the States, a go had placed too, more so
than New York. They had electric trans all up and
down and along the roads to everywhere. The union men
working for the company demanded that the non unionists should
be turned off, but the company didn't see it. Instead,
it turned off the union men. It had up its
sleeve a sufficiency of the others, and filled all places
at once. Union men didn't like it, and passed word
that at a given hour on a certain day, every
wire was to be cut. The company knew this by
means of its spies, and turned on ready for them,
three times of power into all the wires at the
fixed moment. Up the poles with the strikers to cut
the cables, and down they came a dozen times quicker
than they went up. Then there came wires to the
hospitals from all quarters for stretchers to carry off the
disabled men. Some broken legs, arms, ribs, two or three
had their necks broken. I reckon. The company was wonderfully merciful.
It didn't put on sufficient force to make cinders of them.
Then in there possibly opinion might not have liked it.
Stopped the strike did that great moral effect. All dead
by electricity. In this manner, mister Square was wont to
rattle on. He interested me, and I came to think
that there might be something in what he said, that
his suggestions were not mere nonsense. I was glad to
see mister Square enter my room, shown in by my man.
I did not rise from my chair to shake his hand,
for I had not sufficient energy to do so. In
a languid tone, I welcomed him and signed to him
to take a seat. Mister Square looked at me with
some surprise. Why what's the matter, he said, you seem unwell.
Knock out the flu have you? I beg your pardon
the influenza. Every third person is crying out that he
has it, And the sale of eucalyptus is enormous, not
that eucalyptus is anyth good influenza microbes. Indeed, what cared
they for eucalyptus? We've gone down some steps of the
latter of life since I last saw you, Squire, how
do you account for that? I hesitated about the mentioning
the extraordinary circumstances that had occurred. But Square was a
man who would not allow any beating about the bush.
He was downright and straight, and in ten minutes he
got the entire story out of me. Rather boisterous for
your nerves. That a crawling finger, he said he it's
a queer story taken on end. Then he was silent,
considering after a few minutes, he rose and said, I'll
go and look at the fittings, and then I'll turn
this little matter of yours over again and see if
I can't knock the bottom out of it. I'm kinder
fond of those sort of things. Mister Square was not
a Yankee, but he had lived for some time in
America and affected to speak like an American. He used
expressions terms of speech common in the States, but had
none of the Transatlantic twang. He was a man absent, sally,
without affection in every other particular. This was his sole weakness,
and it was harmless. The man was so thorough in
all he did that I did not expect him to
return immediately. He was certain to examine every portion of
the dynamo engine and all the connections and burners. This
would necessarily engage him for some hours. As the day
was nearly done, I knew he could not accomplish what
he wanted that evening, and accordingly gave orders that a
room should be prepared for him. Then, as my head
was full of pain and my skin was burning, I
told my servant to apologize for my absence from dinner
and tell mister Square that I was really forced to
return to my bed by sickness, and that I believed
I was about to be prostrated by an attack of influenza.
The valet, a worthy fellow who had been with me
for six years, was concerned at my appearance and urged
me to allow him to send for a doctor. I
had no confidence in the local practitioner, and if I
sent for another from the nearest town, I should offend him,
and a row would perhaps ensue. So I declined, if
I were really in for an Leuwenza attack, I knew
about as much as my any doctor how to deal
with it. Quinny and quiney, that was all. I bade
my man light a small lamp, lower it so as
to give sufficient illumination to enable me to find some
lime juice at my bed head and my pocket handkerchief,
and to be able to read my watch. When he
had done this, I bade him leave me. I lay
in bed, burning, racked with pain in my head and
my eyeballs on fire. Whether I fell asleep or went
off my head for a while I cannot tell. I
may have fainted. I have no recollection of anything. After
gone to bed and taking a sip of lime juice
that tasted to me like soap, till I was roused
by a sense of pain in my ribs, a slow, gnawing,
torturing pain, waxing momentarily more intense. In half consciousness, I
was partly dreaming and partly aware of actual suffering. The
pain was real, but in my fancy I thought that
a great maggot was working its way into my side
between my roobs. I seemed to see it. It twisted
itself half round, then reverted to its former position again,
a twisting itself, moving like a brattle, not like a gimlet,
which latter forms a complete revolution. This obviously must have
been a dream hallucination only as I was lying on
my back and my eyes were directed towards the bottom
of my bed, the coverlet and blankets, and she intervened
between my eyes and the side. But in fever one
seized without eyes, and in every direction, and through all obstructions,
roused thoroughly by an excruciating twinge, I tried to cry out,
and succeeded in throwing myself over on my right side,
that which was in pain. At once I felt the
thing withdrawn that was all in If I may use
the word in between my ribs. And now I saw
standing beside the bed a figure that had its arm
under the bed clothes and was slowly removing it. The
hand was leisurely drawn from under the coverings and rested
on the eider down coverlet, with the forefinger extended. The
figure was that of a man in shabby clothes, with
a sallow, mean face, a retreating forehead, and hair cut
after the French fashion, and a mustache. The draws and
chin were covered with a bristly growth, as if shaving
had been neglected for a fortnight. The figure did not
appear to be thoroughly solid, but to be of the
consistency of curd, and the face was of the complexion
of curd. As I looked at this object, it withdrew,
sliding backward an odd sort of manner, and as though
overweighted by the hand, which was the most substantial, indeed
the only substantial portion of it. Though the finger retreated stooping,
yet it was no longer huddled along by the finger,
as if it had no material existence. If the same,
it had acquired a consistency in a solidity which it
did not possess before. How it vanished. I do not
know nor whether it went. The door opened and Square
came in. What he explained with cheery voice, influenza is it?
I don't know. I think it's that finger again. Now
look here, said Square, I'm not going to have that
cuss at its pranks anymore. Tell me about it. I
was now so exhausted, so feeble, that I was not
able to give a connected account of what had taken place.
But Square to put me just a few pointed questions
and elicited the main facts. He pieced him together in
his own orderly mind, so as to form a connected whole.
There is a feature in the case, said he, that
strikes me as remarkable and important. At first a finger only,
then a hand that a nebulous figure attached to the hand,
without backbone, without consistency. Lastly a complete form with consistency
and with backbone, but the latter in a gelatinous condition,
and the entire figure overweighted by the hand, just as
hand and figure were previously overweighted by the finger. Simultaneously,
with this compacting and consolidating of the figure came your
degeneration and lost of vital force. And in a word
of help, what you lose, the object acquires, and what
it acquires it gains by contact with you. That's clear enough,
is it not? I dare say I don't know. I
can't think. I suppose not. The faculty of thought is
drained out of you. Very well, I must think for you,
and I will force his force, and see if I
can't deal with your visitant in such a way as
will prove just as truly a moral dissuasive that employed
on the union men on striking. Never mind where it was,
that's not the point. Will you kindly give me some
lime juice? I entreated. I sipped the acid drought, but
without relief. I listened to Square, but without hope. I
wanted to be left alone. I was wary of my pain,
weary of everything, even of life. It was a matter
of indifference to me whether I recovered or slipped out
of its existence. It will be here again, shortly, said
the engineer, as the French say, l'a pativia monjan. It
has been at you thrice. It won't be content without
another peck, And if it does get another, I guess
it will pretty well about finish you. Mister Square rubbed
his chin and then put his hands into his trousers pockets.
That was also a trick acquired in the States, and
an elegant one. His hands, when not actively occupied, went
into his pockets. Inevitably they gravitated thither. Ladies did not
like square. They said he was not a gentleman. But
it was not that he said or did anything off color.
Only he spoke to them, looked at them, and walked
with them, always with his hands in his pockets. I've
seen a lady turn her back on him deliberately because
of this trick. Standing now with his hands in his pockets,
he studied my bed and said, contemptuously, old fashioned and bad.
Four poster oughtn't be allowed. I guess, unwholesome all the
way around. I was not in a condition to dispute this.
I like a four poster with curtains at head and feet,
not that I ever draw them, but it gives a
sense of privacy, that is wanting in one of your
half tester beds. If there is a window at one's feet,
one can lie in bed without the glaring one's eyes,
and yet without darkening the room by drawing the blinds.
There's much to be said for a four poster, but
this is not the place in which you say it.
Mister Square pulled his hands out of his pockets and
began fiddling with the electric point near the head of
my bed. Attached a wire, swept it in a semicircle
along the floor, then thrust the knob at the end
into my hand in the bed. Keep your eye open,
he said, and your hand shut and covered. If that
finger comes again tickling your ribs, try it with the point.
I'll manage to switch from behind the curtain. Then he disappeared.
I was too indifferent in my misery to turn my
head and observe where he was. I remained inert, with
the knob in my hand and my eyes closed, suffering
and thinking of nothing, with the shooting pains through my
head and the aches in my loins and back and legs.
Sometime probably elapsed before I felt the finger again at
work at my ribs. It groped, but no longer bored.
I now felt the entire hand, not a single finger,
and the hand was substantial, cold and clammy. I was aware,
how I know not that if the finger point reached
the region of my heart on the left side, that
the hand would so to speak, sit down on it
with the cold palm over it. And then immediately my
heart ceased to beat, and it would be a Square
might express it gone coon with me. In self preservation,
I brought up the knob of the electric wire against
the hand against one of the ringers, I think, and
at once was aware of a rapping, squealing noise. I
turned my head languidly and saw the form, now more
substantial than before, capering in an ecstasy of pain, endeavoring
fruitlessly to withdraw its arm from under the bedclothes and
the hand from the electric point. At the same moment,
Square stepped from behind the curtain with a dry laugh
and said, I thought we should fix him. He has
the coil about him and can't escape. Now let us
drop to particulars. But I shan't let you off until
I know all about you. The last sentence was addressed
not to me, but to the apparition. Thereupon he bade
me to take the point away from the hand of
the figure, being whatever it was, but to be ready
with it at a moment's notice. He then proceeded to
catchize my visitor, who moved restlessly within the circle of
the wire, but could not escape from it, it replied,
in a thin, squealing voice that sounded as if to
come from a distance, and had a querulous tone in it.
I'd not pretend to give all that was said. I
cannot recollect everything that passed. My memory was affected by
my illness as well as my body. Yet I prefer
giving the scraps that I recollect to what Square told
me he had heard. Yes, I was unsuccessful. Always was
nothing answered with me. The world was against me, society was.
I hate society. I don't like work, neither never did.
But I like agitating against what is established. I hate
the royal family, the landed interest, the parsons, everything that
is except the people that is, the unemployed. I always did,
I couldn't get work as suited me. When I died,
they buried me in a cheap coffin dirt cheap, and
gave me a nasty grave cheap, and a service ratt
away cheap, and no monument. Didn't want none. Oh, there
are lots of us, all discontented. Discontent. That's a passion
it is. It gets into the veins, it fills the brain,
it occupies the heart. It's a sort of divine cancer
that takes possession of the entire man and makes him
dissatisfied with everything and hate everybody. But we must have
our share of happiness at some time. We all crave
for it in one way or other. Somethink is a
future state of blessedness, and so of hope, and look
to attain it. For hope is a cable and anchor
that attaches to what is real. But when you have
no hope of that sort, don't believe in any future state.
You must look for happiness in life. Here we didn't
get it when we were alive, so we seek to
procure it after we are dead. We can't do it
if we can get out of our cheap and nasty coffins,
but not till the greater part of us is molded away.
If a finger or two remains that can work its
way up to the surface, those cheap deal coffins go
to pieces quick enough, then the only solid part of
us left can pull them. The rest of us that
has gone to nothing after it. Then we grow up
about after the living, the well to do if we
can get at them, the honest, working poor. If we can't,
we hate them too, because they are content and happy.
If we reach any of these and can touch them,
then we can draw their vital force out of them
into ourselves and recuperate at their expense. That was about
what I was going to do with you, getting on famous,
nearly solidified into a new man, and given another chance
in life. But I've missed it this time, just my luck.
Miss everything always have, except misery and disappointment. Get plenty
of that. What are you all asked swear anarchists out
of employee? Some of us go by that name, some
by other designations, but we are all one and own
allegiance to what one monarch sovereign discontent. We are bred
to have a distaste for manual work, and we grow
up loafers, grumbling at everything and quarreling with society that
is around us and the providence that is above us.
And what do you call yourselves? Now call ourselves nothing?
We are the same in another condition. That is all
folk once called this anarchists, nihilists, socialists, levelers. Now they
call us the influenza. The learned talk of microbes and
baccali and bacteria, microbes, baccalie and bacteria be blowed. We
are the influenza. We are the social failures, the generally discontented,
coming up out of our cheap and nasty graves in
the form of physical disease. We are the influenza. There
you are, I guess, exclaimed Square triumphantly. Did I not
say that all forces were correlated? If so, then all
negations deficiencies of force are one in their several manifestations.
Talk of divine discontent as a force impelling to progress rubbish.
It is a paralysis of energy. It turns all it
absorbs into acid to envy, spite, gall It inspires nothing
but rots the whole moral system. Here you have it moral, social,
political desas content in another form, nay, aspect. That is all.
What anarchism is the body politic. The influenza is the
body physical. Do you see that? Yes, I believe, I answered,
and dropped away into the land of dreams. I recovered.
What Square did with the thing, I do not know,
but believe that he reduced it again to its former
negative and self decomposing condition. End of a dead finger.