Speaker 1: Joseph, a story by Catherine Rickford. They were sitting round
the fire after dinner. Not an ordinary fire, one of
those fires that has a little room all to itself,
with seats at each side of it to hold a
couple of people or three. The big dining room was
paneled with oak. At the far end was a handsome
dresser that dated back for generations. One's imagination ran riot
when one pictured the people who must have laid those
pewter plates on the long, narrow, solid table. Massive medieval
chests stood against the walls. Arms and parts of armor
hung against the paneling. But one noticed few of these things,
for there was no light in the rooms save what
the fire gave. It was Christmas Eve. Games had been played,
the old had vied with the young, snatching raisins from
the burning snapdragon. The children had long since gone to bed.
It was time their elders followed them. But they lingered
round the fire, taking turns at telling stories. Nothing very
weird had been told. No one had felt any wish
to peep over his shoulder or try to penetrate the
darkness of the far end of the room. The omission
caused a sensation of something wanting from each one there
this thought went out, and so a sudden silence fell
upon the party. It was a girl who broke it,
a mere child. She wore her hair up that night
for the first time, and that seemed to give her
the right to sit up. So late, mister Grady is
going to tell one, she said. All eyes were turned
to a middle aged man in a deep arm chair,
placed straight in front of the fire. He was short,
inclined to be fat, with a bald head and a
pointed beard, like the beards that sailors wear. It was
plain that he was deeply conscious of the sudden turning
of so much strained yet forceful thought upon himself. He
was restless in his chair, as people are in a
room that is overheated. He blinked his eyes as he
looked round the company. His lips twitched in a nervous manner.
One side of him seemed to be endeavoring to restrain
another side of him from a feverish desire to speak.
It was this room that made me think of him,
he said thoughtfully. There was a long silence, but it
occurred to no one to prompt him. Every one seemed
to understand that he was going to speak, or rather
that something inside him was going to speak, some force
that craved expression and was using him as a medium.
The little old man's pink face grew strangely calm. The
animation that usually lit it was gone. One would have
said that the girl who had started him already regretted
the impulse and now wanted to stop him. She was
breathing heavily, and once or twice made as though she
would speak to him, but no words came. She must
have abandoned the idea, for she fell to studying the company.
She examined them carefully, one by one. This one, she
told herself, is so and so, and that one there
just another so and so. She stared at them, knowing
that she could not turn them to herself with her stare.
They were just bodies, kept working, so to speak, by
some subtle sort of sentry left behind by the real
selves that streamed out in pent up. Thought to the
little old man in the chair in front of the fire.
His name was Joseph, at least they called him Joseph.
He dreamed, you understand dreams. He was an extraordinary lad
in many ways. His mother I knew her very Well
had three children in quick succession soon after marriage. Then
ten years went by, and Joseph was born, quiet and reserved.
He always was contained child whose only friend was his mother.
People said things about him, you know how people talk.
Some said he was not Clara's child at all, but
that she had adopted him. Others that her husband was
not his father, and these put her change of manner
down to a perpetual struggle to keep her husband comfortably
in the dark. I always imagined that the boy was
in some way aware of all this gossip, for I
noticed that he took a dislike to the people who
spread it most. The little man rested his elbows on
the arms of his chair and let the tips of
his fingers meet in front of him. A smile played
about his mouth. He seemed to be searching among his
reminiscences for the one that would give the clearest portrait
of Joseph Well. Anyway, he said at last, the boy
was odd. There is no gainsaying the fact. I suppose
he was eleven when Clara came down here with her
family for Christmas. The Conningtons owned the place then, Missus
Connington was Clara's sister. It was Christmas Eve, as it
is now many years ago, we had spent a normal
Christmas Eve, a little happier perhaps than usual, by reason
of the family reunion, and because of the presence of
so many children. We had eaten and drank, laughed and played,
and gone to bed. I woke in the middle of
the night from sheer restlessness. Clara, knowing my weakness, had
given me a fire in my room. I lit a cigarette,
played with the book, and then, purely from curiosity, opened
the door and looked down the passage. From my door,
I could see the head of the staircase in the distance.
The opposite wing of the house, or the passage rather
beyond the stairs, was in darkness. The reason I saw
the staircase at all was that the window you passed
coming downstairs allowed the moon to throw an uncertain light
upon it, a weird light because of the stained glass.
I was arrested by the curious effect of this patch
of light in so much darkness. When suddenly some one
came into it, turned and went downstairs. It was just
like a scene in a theater. Something was about to
happen that I was going to miss. I ran, as
I was barefooted to the head of the stairs and
looked over the banister. I was excited, strung up, too
strung up to feel the fright that I knew must
be with me. I remember this sensation perfectly. I knew
that I was afraid, Yet I did not feel fright.
On the stairs, nothing moved. The little hall down here
was lost in darkness. Looking over the banister, I was
facing the stained glass window. You know how the stairs
run around three sides of the hall. Well, it occurred
to me that if I went half way down and
stood under the window, I should be able to keep
the top of the stairs in sight and see anything
that might happen in the hall. I crept down very
cautiously and waited under the window. First of all, I
saw the suit of empty armor just outside the door here.
You know how a thing like that, if you stare
at it in a poor light, appears to move. Well.
It moved sure enough, and the illusion was enhanced by
clouds being blown across the moon by the fire. Like this,
one can talk of these things rationally, but in the
dead of night it is a different matter. So I
went down a few steps to make sure of that armor,
when suddenly something passed me on the stairs. I did
not hear it, I did not see it. I sensed
it in no way. I just knew that something had
passed me on its way upstairs. I realized that my
retreat was cut off, and with the knowledge, fear came
upon me. I had seen someone come down the stairs
that at any rate was definite. Now I wanted to
see him again. Any ghost is bad enough, but a
ghost that one can see is better than one that
one can I managed to get past the suit of armor,
but then I had to feel my way to these
double doors. Here he indicated the direction of the doors
by a curious wave of his hand. He did not
look toward them, nor did any of the party. Both
men and women were completely absorbed in his story. They
seemed to be mesmerized by the earnestness of his manner.
Only the girl was restless. She gave an impression of
impatience with the slowness with which he came to his point.
One would have said that she was apart from her fellows,
an alien among strangers. So dense was the darkness that
I made sure of finding the first door closed. But
it was not. It was wide open, and standing between them,
I could feel that the other was open too. I
was literally standing in the wall of the house, and
as I peered into the room, trying to make out
some familiar object, thoughts ran through my mind of people
who had been bricked up in walls and left there
to die. For a moment, I caught the spirit of
the inside of a thick wall. Then suddenly I felt
the sensation I've often read about but never experienced before.
I knew there was some one in the room. You
are surprised, yes, But wait, I knew more. I knew
that some one was conscious of my presence. It occurred
to me that whoever it was, might want to get
out of the door. I made room for him to pass.
I waited for him, made sure of him, began to
feel giddy, and then a man's voice, deep and clear.
There is some one there. Who is it? I answered mechanically,
George Grady. I'm Joseph. A match was drawn across a
match box, and I saw the boy bending over a candle,
waiting for the wick to catch. For a moment I
thought he must be walking in his sleep. But he
turned to me quite naturally and said in his own
boyish voice, lost anything. I was amazed at the lad's
complete calm. I wanted to share my fright with someone. Instead,
I had to hide it from this boy. I was
conscious of a curious sense of shame. I had watched
him grow, taught him, praised him, scolded him, and yet
here he was waiting for an explanation of my presence
in the dining room at that odd hour of the night.
Soon he repeated the question, lost anything, No, I said,
and then I stammered, have you no? He said, with
a little laugh, it's that room. I can't sleep in it. Oh,
I said, what's the matter with the room? It's the
room I was killed in, he said, quite simply. Of
course I had heard about his dreams, but I had
had no direct experience of them. When therefore he said
that he had been killed in his room, I took
it for aunted that he had been dreaming again. I
was at a loss to know quite how to tackle him,
whether to treat the whole thing as absurd and laugh
it off as such, or whether to humor him and
hear his story. I got him upstairs to mine room,
sat him in a big arm chair, and poked the
fire into a blaze. You've been dreaming again, I said, bluntly,
Oh no, I haven't. Don't you run away with that idea.
His whole manner was so grown up that it was
quite unthinkable to treat him as the child he really was.
In fact, it was a little uncanny, this man in
a child's frame. I was killed there, he said again.
How do you mean killed? I asked him, why? Killed? Murdered? Course,
it was years and years ago. I can't say when.
Still I remember the room. I suppose it was the
room that reminded me of the incident. Incident, I exclaimed,
what else? Being killed is only an incident in the
existence of any one. One makes a fuss about it
at the time, of course, but really, when you come
to think of it, tell me about it, I said,
lighting a cigarette. He lit one too, that child, and began.
You know, my room is the only modern one in
this old house. Nobody knows why it is modern. The
reason is obvious, of course, it was made modern after
I was killed there. The funny thing is that I
should have been put there. I suppose it was done
for a purpose. Because I He looked at me so fixedly,
I knew he would catch me if I lied what
I asked, dream, Yes, I said, that is why you
were put there. I thought so. And yet of all
the rooms, but then, of course no one knew anyhow.
I did not recognize the room until after I was
in bed. I had been asleep some time, and then
I woke. Suddenly there was an old wheelback chair in there,
the only old thing in the room. It is standing
facing the fire, as it must have stood the night
I was killed. The fire was burning brightly. The pattern
of the back of the chair was thrown into shadow
across the ceiling. Now, the night I was murdered, the
conditions were exactly the same. So directly I saw that
pattern on the ceiling, I remembered the whole thing. I
was not dreaming, don't think it. I was not. What
happened that night was this. I was lying in bed,
counting the parts of the back of that chair in
shadow on the ceiling. I probably could not get to sleep,
you know, the sort of thing count up to a
thousand and remember in the morning where you got to Well.
I was counting those pieces when suddenly they were all obliterated.
The whole back became a shadow. Someone was sitting in
the chair. Now, surely you understand that directly I saw
the shadow of that chair on the ceiling tonight. I
realized that I had not a moment to lose. At
any moment, that same person might come back to that
same chair, and escape would be impossible. I slipped from
my bed as quickly as I could and ran downstairs.
But were you not afraid? I asked downstairs that she
might follow me? It was a woman? You know, No,
I don't think I was. She does not belong downstairs anyhow,
She didn't No, I said, no, My voice must have
been out of control, for he caught me up at once.
You don't mean to say you saw her, he said, vehemently.
Oh no, you felt her. She passed me as I
came downstairs. I said, what can I have done to
her that she follows me? So he buried his face
in his hands, as though searching for an answer to
his thought. Suddenly he looked up and stared at me.
Where had I got to? Oh, yes, the murder. I
can remember how startled I was to see that shadow
in the chair. Startled, you know, but not really frightened.
I leaned up in bed and looked at the chair,
and sure enough a woman was sitting in it, a
young woman. I watched her with profound interest until she
began to turn in her chair as I felt to
look at me. When she did that, I shrank back
in bed. I dared not meet her eyes. She might
not have had eyes, she might not have had a face.
You know, the sort of pictures that one sees when
one glances back at all one's soul has ever thought.
I got back in the bed as far as I could,
and peeped over the sheets at the shadow on the ceiling.
I was tired, frightened to death. I grew weary of watching.
I must have fallen asleep, for suddenly the fire was
almost out, the pattern of the chair barely discernible. The
shadow had gone. I raised myself with a sense of
huge relief. Yes, the chair was empty, but just think
of it. The woman was on the floor, on her
hands and knees, crawling toward the bed. I fell back,
stricken with terror. Very soon I felt a gentle pull
at the counterpane. I thought I was in a nightmare,
but too lazy or too uncomfortable to try to wake
myself from it. I waited in an agony of suspense,
but nothing seemed to be happening. In fact, I had
just persuaded myself that the movement of the counterpane was fancy.
When a hand brushed softly over my knee, there was
no mistaking it. I could feel the long, thin fingers.
Now was the time to do something. I tried to
rouse myself, but all my efforts were futile. I was
stiff from head to foot. Although the hand was lost
to me outwardly, it now came within my range of knowledge,
if you know what I mean. I knew that it
was groping its way along the bed, feeling for some
other part of me. At any moment, I could have
said exactly where it had got to. When it was
hovering just over my chest, another hand knocked lightly against
my shoulder, I fancied it lost and wandering in search
of its fellow. I was lying on my back, staring
at the ceiling when the hands met. The weight of
their presence brought a feeling of oppression to my chest.
I seemed to be completely cut off from my body.
I had no sort of connection with any part of it.
Nothing about me would respond to my will to make
it move. There was no sound at all anywhere. I
fell into a state of indifference, a sort of patient
indifference that can wait for an appointed time to come.
How long I waited I cannot say. But when the
time came, it found me ready. I was not taken
by surprise. There was a great upward rush of pent
up force released. It was like a mighty mass of
men who have been lost in prayer rising to their feet.
I can't remember clearly, but I think the woman must
have got on to my bed. I could not follow
her distinctly. My whole attention was concentrated on her hands
at the time I felt those fingers itching for my throat.
At last, they moved slowly at first, then quicker, and
then a long, drawn swish, like the sound of an
over bold wave that has broken too far up the
beach and is sweeping back to join the sea. The
boy was silent for a moment. Then he stretched out
his hand for the cigarettes. You remember nothing else, I
asked him, No, he said. The next thing I remember
clearly is deliberately breaking the nursery window because it was
raining and mother would not let me go out. There
was a moment's tension, then the strain of listening past,
and everyone seemed to be speaking at once. The rector
was taking the story seriously. Tell me, grady, he said,
how long do you suppose elapsed between the boy's murder
and his breaking the nursery window. But a young married woman,
in the first flush of her happiness, broke in between them.
She ridiculed the whole idea. Of course, the boy was dreaming.
She was drawing the majority to her way of thinking.
When from the corner where the girl sat a hollow
sounding voice and the boy where is he? The tone
of the girl's voice inspired horror, that fear that does
not know what it is. It fears. One could see
it on every face, on every face, that is, except
the face of the bald headed man. There was no
horror on his face. He was smiling serenely as he
looked the girl straight in the eyes. He's a man now,
he said, alife. She cried, Why not, said the little
old man, rubbing his hands together. She tried to rise,
but her frock had got caught between the chairs and
pulled her to her seat again. The man next her
put out his hand to steady her, but she dashed
it away. Roughly. She looked round the party for an instant,
for all the world, like an animal at bay. Then
she sprang to her feet and charged blindly. They crowded
round her to prevent her falling. At the touch of
their hands, she stopped. She was out of breath, as
though she had been running. All right, she said, pushing
their hands from her. All right, I'll come quietly. I
did it. They caught her as she fell, and laid
her on the sofa, watching the color fade from her face.
The hostess, an old woman with white hair and a
kind face, approached the little old man. For once in
her life. She was roused to anger. I can't think
how you could be so stupid, she said, See what
you have done. I did it for a purpose. He said,
for a purpose. I have always thought that girl was
the culprit. I have to thank you for the opportunity
you have given me of making sure end of Joseph,
a story