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    The King in Yellow and Other Horror Stories
    The King in Yellow and Other Horror Stories
    The King in Yellow and Other Horror Stories
    Ebook407 pages8 hours

    The King in Yellow and Other Horror Stories

    By Robert W. Chambers

    3.5/5

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    "Every story of The King in Yellow has something riveting about it … so perfectly realized, they became the model for much of twentieth-century horror/fantasy." — New York Press
    One of the most important works of American supernatural fiction since those of Poe, The King in Yellow was among the first attempts to establish the horror of the nameless and the unimaginable. A treasured source used by almost all the significant writers in the American pulp tradition — H. P. Lovecraft, A. Merritt, Robert E. Howard, and many others — it endures as a work of remarkable power and one of the most chillingly original books in the genre.
    This collection reprints all the supernatural stories from The King in Yellow, including the grisly "Yellow Sign," the disquieting "Repairer of Reputations," the tender "Demoiselle d'Ys," and others. Robert W. Chambers' finest stories from other sources have also been added, such as the thrilling "Maker of Moons" and "The Messenger." In addition, an unusual pleasure awaits those who know Chambers only by his horror stories: three of his finest early biological science-fiction fantasies from In Search of the Unknown appear here as well.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDover Publications
    Release dateJun 10, 2013
    ISBN9780486317625
    The King in Yellow and Other Horror Stories
    Author

    Robert W. Chambers

    Robert W. Chambers (1865–1933) was an American author and painter best known for his short story collection The King in Yellow (1895). Born in Brooklyn, Chambers studied art in Paris and was a professional illustrator before he turned to writing. In addition to The King in Yellow, his supernatural tales include The Maker of Moons (1896) and The Mystery of Choice (1897). Later in his career, Chambers wrote bestselling romances and historical novels. 

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    Reviews for The King in Yellow and Other Horror Stories

    3.5/5

    316 ratings24 reviews

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    • 3/5
      An erratic collection published in 1885, ranging from "flavor of life" pieces about contemporary art students in France to war and romance to the truly weird. They also range from the mediocre, to the effective, to the masterful, but never descend to the truly bad. Worth reading even without the acknowledged place of Chanbers as someone who influenced later authors of horror. "The Repairer of Reputations" is an exceptional story. Also contains an Introduction by S.T. Joshi, some sparse endnotes, and some reprints of critics on Chamber's work, including contemporary reviews and an excerpt from Lovecraft's "Supernatural Horror in Literature".
    • 4/5
      DESTINYI came to the bridge which few may pass."Pass!" cried the keeper, but I laughed, saying, "There is time;" and he smiled and shut the gates.To the bridge which few may pass came young and old. All were refused. Idly I stood and counted them, until, wearied of their noise and lamentations, I came again to the bridge which few may pass.Those in the throng about the gates shrieked out, "He comes too late!" But I laughed, saying, "There is time.""Pass!" cried the keeper as I entered; then smiled and shut the gates.I have wanted to read this book of short stories for a long time, as I have heard it mentioned as a good example of weird fiction. There are three types of story in this book. Stories which refer to the notorious play called The King in Yellow, which send anyone who reads it mad, stories that are like snippets of dreams, and stories of American art students living in Paris (as the author himself did) and falling in love with various unsuitable women. These are mostly more realistic, but there is some overlap with the weird fiction of the first few stories. The first story, The Restorer of Reputations, gets the book off to a strong start and is the only one that I had read before. I might have given it four stars if not for the art student stories, but it's a 3.5 star book for me overall.
    • 4/5
      Finally reading this one, the book that inspired H.P. Lovecraft in his story creation of pushing the weird and horrible, especially in the way that Chambers keeps the horror within the speculative, leaving the audience to picture just how horrible the effects of reading "The King in Yellow" actually are.My only problem with this book is that not every story continues the title's influence. While the argument could be made that the stories are all interconnected through the artist characters (either through location or names mentioned in previous tales that connect them to later characters and places), but the sudden switch in tone is a bit off-putting, especially when Chambers starts with such a powerful story in "The Repairer of Reputations." And while he does arrange the stories thematically, with "The Demoiselle D'Ys" and "The Prophet's Paradise" bridging the gap between the supernatural tales and the straight-up romances ("The Demoiselle D'Ys" being both supernatural and romance), the overall effect can leave the reader underwhelmed.Still, overall an enjoyable read, and the stories within what has come to be called "The Yellow Mythos" are truly horrifying in their telling.
    • 3/5
      I don't know what to think. I liked most of the stories but there is no real 'whole' about this book. Some of the stories touch each other, but throwing all of these together seems rather random.
    • 4/5
      A bit conflicted on this title. Another reviewer called the collection "uneven" and that says it pretty well. Of the four actual "King in Yellow" stories, I thought two were pretty good, one wasn't bad, and one was not great. There is also a three page "story" filled with repetition that forced me to skim half the lines because holy crap irritating. The other five stories are all romances, to one degree or another. Frankly, I think Lovecraft and the editor of my edition are both idiots when they claim Chambers a failure by taking the "easy route" of writing romances after not achieving the same sort of success in supernatural/horror after this work. Personally I found the romances to be better written than most of the rest in here. I am a huge horror fan; I do not read romances. But it was his romances that engaged me more and kept me intrigued. Therefore I would say he made the wise choice to do what he had the better talent for.All in all, I'm glad to see what provided a big chunk of Lovecraft's inspiration, but I would hesitate to recommend this to a casual reader.
    • 3/5
      I couldn't find the particular print of this that I have because it's Powell's specific. This thing is public domain and too obscure to be in print by a mainstream publisher so there a lot of different little POD type versions floating around.Most people's entry point to this is going to be knowing of it being referenced from Lovecraft. In fact, it's notable for being the originator of the Lovecraftian device of the "obscure grimoire" which is described obliquely, has its contents only hinted at, and which per motif of harmful sensation drives its readers insane. The eponymous fictional book itself sounds very Lovecraftian, taking place in a decadent civilization on a foreign planet and centering around a semi-divine figure of obscure horror. However the rest of the horror stories that feature that book are much more conventional ghost stories in their other respects. With the possible exception of Repairer of Reputations which is my favorite of the lot due to its use of an elaborate alternate timeline setting that has absolutely nothing to do with the plot and exists only for ornamental or obfuscatory purposes (kind of like Ada's).Only half of the stories in the book are even horror stories though. The other half don't mention the King in Yellow at all, have no real horror elements and are more slice of life picaresques about bohemian expatriate American artists living in 1900s - 1910s Paris. They're actually pretty charming and I think I like them better than Chamber's horror stories to be honest. They don't quite reach the level of Wodehousian but the better ones edge near it.
    • 3/5
      Chambers has a nice narrator's voice, but he is so busy explaining everything around the main characters that the scary stuff that happens sort of evaporates in the waterfall of words that he uses. That diminishes the horror effect of the King in Yellow and the Yellow Sign when used in the stories. Funny that the stories in which the King is merely referenced, worked better for me than the ones in which the actual presence of King, Play or Sign featured.
    • 5/5
      The fame of this book rests, deservedly so, on the first four stories. Their mysterious and oppresive atmosphere has inspired multiple authors of horror and weird fiction, most notably, H.P. Lovecraft. The fifth story seems perfect for a Twilight Zone episode. The other stories only interest resides in their portrayal of the life of Art students in XIX century fin-de-siecle Paris. The stories are well written and have internal consistency. I was pleasantly surprised to discover an author I had never read before.

      The Arc Dreams Publishing edition is beautifully bound, and has many useful annotations. It is illustrated by Paraguayan artist Samuel Araya. My only minor complaint is that the illustration for the story "The Yellow Sign" is a knock off from Arnold Böcklin's "Toteninsel" and there is no attribution. Böcklin made five versions of his painting so I see no problem in Araya's beautiful and haunting interpretation, only that one of the notes should have pointed this out.
    • 4/5
      A very good annotated version of Chambers's work which makes it more accessible in many ways, but the sparse nature of the art, and the deft, yet pared back story line, makes me crave more detail. It's the only thing that I'd complain about, otherwise a very good collection & interpretation of Chambers's work. You can see how it inspired but didn't over power Lovecraft.
    • 4/5
      The first four stories (The Repairer of Reputations, The Mask, In the Court of the Dragon, The Yellow Sign) of this book are great horror pieces. I can see where Lovecraft gets inspiration from Chambers. The rest are not quite of the same nature and thusly, I did not enjoy them as much.
    • 3/5
      Decent collection of short stories. Seemed to lose some steam in the later stories.
    • 3/5
      An uneven collection, starting out with tales of occult, then diving into stories of romance. The 4 stories revolving around Carcosa and the madness inducing play "The King in Yellow" are pretty creepy, a la Edgar Allen Poe. The romances? Not my cup of tea.
    • 3/5
      One of those books that's always discussed in spec fic circles, so I wanted to try it.It's a decent read, but inconsistent. The main thing is that the nature of the stories changes considerably over the course of the book, and as such, will probably appeal to different people.The first four are deeply weird stories. They combine alternative history, a very sinister supernatural, and lyrical writing, with excellent results. All are macabre and intriguing. The Repairer of Reputations is a really effective tale of the unreliable narrator, which paints a fascinating and alarming picture of madness. It's not until right at the end that you can begin to unravel the complex delusions that intertwine, and find the very foundations of the story are shifting sand. This is already one of my favourite weird tales.The titular King in Yellow features in The Yellow Sign. It's actually a much less strange story, essentially just a twist of the supernatural curse. However, it's very well-executed, with compelling writing that really sells the repulsiveness of the watchman, and the dogged thoughts that will not leave our protagonist alone. I confess, though, that all the build-up this story has elsewhere had led me to expect a far weirder tale.The Court of the Dragon, The Mask and The Damoiselle d'Ys are less striking, though all of them are solid supernatural tales. There's a little flavour of the weird to Court, which I liked a great deal, and all are well-written and drew me along easily.Beyond this, the collection moves into essentially historical writing, with the odd supernatural touch. The stories are a little grim, centring on Bohemian lives of poverty and hardship, even while the rich and idle move amongst them. One is a war story of Paris under siege. They aren't without interest, and the writing remains good, but having come for weirdness I found little to appeal in them. In particular, the several tales of Bohemian artists of them felt like style over substance, for very little seemed to happen, either in plot or in character development. That being said, they do evoke their atmosphere very effectively. Personally I found them of limited interest and was glad to finish them.On the whole, this feels like a slightly odd collection that's neither one thing nor t'other. I would recommend the first few tales to those interested in weird fiction, and the last few to literary types.
    • 5/5
      The first four stories are macabre in tone, centering on characters that are often artists or decadents, and involve a fictional two-act play of the same title as the book, a play that is as accursed to those who possess it as the Necronomicon would later be. The first story "The Repairer of Reputations", is set in an imagined future 1920s America (and as such the book can be considered to fall into the Sci-Fi genre). The next three are set in Paris at the same time.

      The color yellow signifies the decadent and aesthetic attitudes that were fashionable at the end of the 19th century, typified by such publications as The Yellow Book, a literary journal associated with Oscar Wilde and Aubrey Beardsley. It has also been suggested that the color yellow represents quarantine — an allusion to decay, disease, and specifically mental illness. For instance, the famous short story "The Yellow Wallpaper", involving a bedridden woman's descent into madness, was published shortly before Chambers' book.

      The other stories in the book do not quite follow the same macabre theme of the first four, or their connection to the fictional Yellow King, although some are linked to the preceding stories via their Parisien setting and artistic protagonists. What they all have in common however is the underlying theme of obsession.

      This is not only an historic work of American fiction, but an unique work of literature that in my view surpasses in excellence and originality any of the works it later inspired (eg the works of HP Lovecraft).
    • 3/5
      Chambers is the forgotten member of the pantheon of weird fiction, whose story The Repairer of Reputations, was praised by Lovecraft. That and The Mask, The Court of the Dragon and The Yellow Sign all fit together in a loose mythology concerning the dreaded play The King in Yellow and the bizarre events the follow it. The remaining stories are a mixed collection that range from passable ghost stories to clichéd romance. Lovecraft was right in calling Chambers a fallen titan since it's clear that much of his talent for weird fiction was wasted in the more profitable field of romance genre fiction.
    • 5/5
      This book is chiefly known for its opening quartet of stories of eldritch horrors and macabre dystopias. Some works contain only those four, which may well satisfy the majority of readers who (like myself) are drawn to it due to the thread it weaves through the works of others, most famously H.P. Lovecraft. However that does the author a disservice. Chambers collected these stories together and intended them to be read as a complete work.Doing that, you appreciate the arc he takes from the futurist dystopia of The Repairer of Reputations, with its claustrophobic feeling of paranoia, through the subsequent alchemical and supernatural tales, onto the fifth story, a folkloric fairytale, a short set of Gibran-like (though simultaneously unlike) prose poems, and so gradually into the historical world of everyday reality, with its wars and romance, comedy and pathos. An expert writer who deserves recognition for more than horror.

      1 person found this helpful

    • 4/5
      What an interesting group of stories. It is easy to see how these stories influenced so many great writers. The tales are witty, intelligent and well written. Some of them are down right creepy. Highly recommended.
    • 3/5
      Robert Chambers probably would not be remembered today without H. P. Lovecraft. The sole title his is now recognized for is The King in Yellow. Like most literary works, it was drifting into the dark and cold zone of cultural oblivion. Then he was caught in the gravity well of that coalescing star of weird fiction, H. P. Lovecraft. And, once illuminated by Lovecraft’s in his Supernatural Horror in Literature, this work became sort of a bright satellite beckoning Lovecraft fans to explore it.But Chambers’ book is one of those moons with only one face of any interest.To be sure, there is the appearance, in several connected stories, of the sinister effects and reputation of the titular volume and its enigmatic references to the Pallid Mask and Carcosa and Hastur and the lake of Hali. And the notion of such a book definitely inspired Lovecraft to create his more famous book of blasphemy, the Necronomicon.But that’s only half the book, five weird stories. This group of stories is just connected enough to justify reading in order.“The Repairer of Reputations” first seems to be an unexpected piece of science fiction, the future world of 1920 as imagined in 1895 with attendant projections of Progressive-era politics, turn of the century American imperialism, and contemporary anti-Semitism. Taken on those terms alone, it’s interesting, but we also get a plot about a mysterious Mr. Wilde who has allegedly built up, via social coercion and blackmail, a vast network of political control. Such a powerful network, in fact, that the artist protagonist of the story dreams of using it to usurp his cousin’s place as heir to the Imperial Dynasty of America. Or maybe not. Not everything is as it seem,s and some of the clues to that are in later stories.“The Mask”’s plot – hinging on an artist who has discovered a way of petrifying living matter while preserving its most delicate structures – has little interest and kind of a sappy ending. However, the bits expanding Chambers’ mythology and the mystery of the King in Yellow make it worth reading.“In the Court of the Dragon” is another slight story. After reading The King in Yellow, its hero encounters a menacing organist at a church service and begins to see the threatening man everywhere. As with “The Mask”, the real interest is the tantalizing bits we get about “the towers of Carcosa”.“The Yellow Sign” is justifiably the most anthologized of the stories here and the high point of the book. Like most of the stories in the book, it involves an artist. Outside his studio, he sees a young man who reminds him of a “coffin-worm”. His favorite model, for whom he has great affection, tells him of a dream she had with the same man driving a hearse with the artist as its dead cargo. Chambers not only packs plenty of weirdness in, gives us the largest description of the contents of The King in Yellow of any story here, but also gives us an ending which I suspect influenced Lovecraft’s work.“The Demoiselle D’Ys” eschews the usual Paris or New York City settings of the other stories, but it’s a standard and predictable time-slip romance.And that’s it for the book’s interest as weird fiction. We then get a bunch of enigmatic vignettes and poems and then a batch of uninteresting and forgettable romantic stories of American artists in Paris. To be fair, though, there is one interesting part in “The Street of the First Shell” set, it seems, during the siege of Paris in the Franco-Prussian War of 1871. There is an extended passage in part three when the hero joins a French army attempting a breakout. It is an eerie account with a supernatural quality in its descriptions of the fog-shrouded battle, the confusion, and vivid bits of description.So, for those who are interested in Carcosa and the related bits of Chambers’ mythology (actually some of it comes from Ambrose Bierce), the first half of this book is a must read. For those just looking for good quality weird fiction, just read “The Repairer of Reputations” and “The Yellow Sign”.
    • 5/5
      ‘It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living god.’The King in Yellow is a book containing nine short stories, four of which are interrelated (and the subject of this review); they are, ‘The Repairer of Reputations,’ ‘The Mask,’ ‘In the Court of the Dragon,’ and ‘The Yellow Sign.’ The remaining five stories are (somewhat bizarrely) romances of a Francophile sort that are stale and wooden and worth very little of one’s time. The four stories mentioned above—the King in Yellow cycle, proper—are some of the most astoundingly original pieces of short fiction in all of American literature.A profound influence on the work of Lovecraft and other ‘mythos’ writers of the early 20th Century, The King in Yellow begins with one of the most elemental of Gothic premises: a book that poisons. The King in Yellow, you see, is actually not a collection of stories at all; it is a play within a collection of stories—a play entirely denounced by both pulpit and press: a play capable of opening the mind to truths of such wicked import that to look upon them once is to look upon the face of madness; and this play trickles through the skeleton of each narrative in the King in Yellow cycle: a constant and sweetly sinister miasma that corrupts body, mind, and the very ethers of soul and sanity.Through a quartet of stories, Robert W. Chambers—a man of remarkable, if briefly employed, vision—sustains a sense of dread only occasionally matched by the great talents he would inspire several decades later. Written in the fin de siècle period and gently touched by the influences of Bierce, Wilde, and Machen, Chambers’ near-revolutionary breed of cosmic terror is so bleak, atmospheric, and saturated with the cloak of doom that to dip into The King in Yellow is almost to taste the madness described therein; it is one of the most relentlessly disturbing works of fiction I have ever encountered. The fevered descent that Chambers has titled ‘The Repairer of Reputations’ is the most successful story in the cycle and opens it, establishing its necessary mythology and tone; in many ways it simultaneously foreshadows not only the horror work of Lovecraft and his ilk, but also the dystopian nightmares of Orwell and Huxley (and, in fact, the vision that reverberates throughout the entire King in Yellow cycle actually startles with its prophecy, as if the reader himself had fallen into the same insidious hypnosis that the play described therein is reputed to induce). The opening story is a brilliant piece of fiction in and of itself, with subtle hints throughout the tale suggesting its jarring and brutally ambiguous ending early on (but to describe any more would rob the story of its impact, so I’ll digress).The remainder of the cycle picks up where ‘The Repairer of Reputations’ leaves off, examining situations that occasionally make subtle reference to each other without ever explicitly crossing-over. ‘The Mask,’ which is the most accessible of the quartet, echoes Wilde with more insistence; ‘In the Court of the Dragon’ is terrifying and otherworldly stuff that waxes more sinister each time one returns to it. The closing story of the cycle, ‘The Yellow Sign,’ is the most popular with anthologists and was the most influential on later authors; it is one of the grimmest, most thoroughly desolate pieces of fiction I have ever read. Chambers’ prolific literary output has largely been forgotten (excepting this, his masterpiece): and perhaps this is rightly so, given most of his work’s insipid, commercial triviality. The menace he nourishes to such ‘notable heights of cosmic fear’ (to quote Lovecraft’s Supernatural Horror in Literature) is largely missing from his other work (which can be sampled in several of the later, unrelated stories in The King in Yellow). But The King in Yellow is enough: there are so few works of such visionary genius in the canon of spectral literature that to define truly pioneering work is really quite easy—and Chambers’ genius ranks alongside Walpole, Poe, and Maturin for sheer originality and durability: for the King in Yellow cycle is intelligent, haunting, and exquisitely unnerving in a way that few ‘story cycles’ have maintained.A product of the same decade that spawned Dracula, The Picture of Dorian Gray, The Turn of the Screw, The Island of Dr. Moreau, Salome, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, The Sorrows of Satan, and Trilby, The King in Yellow is part of that great fabric of decadent, brilliant, and eerily fresh fiction that we have called fin de siècle. While other works remain firm in their categorization, The King in Yellow is one of the few works of the 1890s to remain entirely unclassifiable: it is at once decadent and austere, anarchic and conventional, sagacious and utterly indolent. Above all else, though, it is profound beyond words: a kind of saturnine mirror of its own content, waiting to suffocate thought beneath the wings of some pythonic ‘Other.’ The King in Yellow is darkness—darkness and the gulf of nihility that broods beyond us: deep in the sky, where strange gods sleep. It will haunt you, certainly—but that breath of contagion is sweet; the empyrean heights to which it aspires—the heights that Lovecraft would shatter some time later—are as full of humbling gloom as that later luminary’s work, and just as insistent in the totality of their vision. Unlike Lovecraft, however, Chambers’ opus marvels in the sheer ambiguity of cosmic terror, never shedding a harsh light upon its subjects or delving too deeply into the complexity of mythology that the Lovecraftian throng would explore with such brilliance. But this is not a failing—if anything, the briefness and laconicism of the King in Yellow quartet is an important part of its beauty and overall success: it is the blueprint of an entire movement—a real-life parallel of the terrors posited within its pages.
    • 4/5
      You would be well advised to treat the short stories in this collection as two distinct sets,plus a one-off .The first set of six are excellent tales of horror and the supernatural,connected by a manuscript known as 'The King in Yellow'. All who read it are affected by it in terrible ways,often driven mad and suffering strange delusions. I would recommend these to anyone who favours the writings of Poe,Lovecraft or Bierce ,as you will find many similarities between them.The 'one-off' is a short piece called 'The Prophet's Paradise',and consists of eight fragments of prose,which frankly I could make little sense of. The most I can say is that they reminded me somewhat of the works of Oscar Wilde.The final three stories are very different from the rest,in that I suppose you would term them as historical romances. They seemed to take a long time to get nowhere and were personally of little interest to me.The book is well worth reading however for the six early stories,which although extremely strange,are nevertheless fine additions to the horror genre.
    • 2/5
      I only read the first four stories, as I didn't find the other poems and stories particularly interesting.The first four stories: The Repairer Of Reputations, The Mask, In The Court Of The Dragon and The Yellow Sign all focus on the play "The King in Yellow". Anyone who reads the second act either goes insane or meets a grisly end.This book obviously inspired H.P Lovecraft, as it contains many of Lovecraft's themes such as cosmic horror, dangerous books, and insanity.
    • 2/5
      A couple of good stories. I especially liked the creepy first book, but the rest were just s-so. I understand this is a classic of the horror genre, but I didn't enjoy it.
    • 4/5
      A collection of short stories, possible dream fragments, and poetry. Some of the poetry isn't great, but there were a few good poems. What appear to be dream fragments are occasionally spooky and feel a bit trippy. There's some good stories in here, but as others have commented, the last two stories are long and only match in that they take place in the Latin Quarter of Paris. Not bad, but jarring with the strange tone of the rest of the book. It would be interesting to find out precisely why Chambers included them. Was it an attempt to boost sale of the other material? From what I understand the last two stories reflected the type of material he was popular for at the time.I read a digitized copy of the first version from the Internet Archive. (I think it was from there, but I can't remember for sure. It may have been from Google Books).
    • 3/5
      This book started off very well, but was of patchy quality overall. It is a collection of short stories, several of which are thematically linked by their setting (Paris just prior to the First World War), and especially by an intriguing and damned book-within-a-book, the eponymous King in Yellow. This is a play which sends its readers mad from reading it, though copies of the work seem fairly easy to come by in the sybaritic demimonde of the Paris art scene. It is easy to see the influence of this madness-inducing tome on later writers like H.P. Lovecraft. The stories which concern the King in Yellow are generally good, moody and sinister. We never learn the contents of the play; only see the effects on those who dare to read it -- never good.The later stories however, are less weird and more romantic and in my opinion none the better for it. They don't really fit with the more powerful tales in the book, apart from their French setting. A couple of stories are barely longer than a page or two and have no depth at all. Read the first half of this book, up to and including the tale 'The King in Yellow' of course and you will probably have sampled the best of it.

    Book preview

    The King in Yellow and Other Horror Stories - Robert W. Chambers

    Stories

    The

    Yellow Sign

    Along the shore the cloud waves break,

    The twin suns sink behind the lake,

    The shadows lengthen

    In Carcosa.

    Strange is the night where black stars rise,

    And strange moons circle through the skies,

    But stranger still is

    Lost Carcosa.

    Songs that the Hyades shall sing,

    Where flap the tatters of the King,

    Must die unheard in

    Dim Carcosa.

    Song of my soul, my voice is dead,

    Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed

    Shall dry and die in

    Lost Carcosa.

    Cassilda’s Song in The King in Yellow.

    Act I. Scene 2.

    I. BEING THE CONTENTS OF AN UNSIGNED LETTER SENT TO THE AUTHOR

    T

    HERE

    are so many things which are impossible to explain! Why should certain chords in music make me think of the brown and golden tints of autumn foliage? Why should the Mass of Sainte Cécile send my thoughts wandering among caverns whose walls blaze with ragged masses of virgin silver? What was it in the roar and turmoil of Broadway at six o’clock that flashed before my eyes the picture of a still Breton forest where sunlight filtered through spring foliage and Silvia bent, half curiously, half tenderly, over a small green lizard, murmuring: To think that this also is a little ward of God!

    When I first saw the watchman his back was toward me. I looked at him indifferently until he went into the church. I paid no more attention to him than I had to any other man who lounged through Washington Square that morning, and when I shut my window and turned back into my studio I had forgotten him. Late in the afternoon, the day being warm, I raised the window again and leaned out to get a sniff of air. A man was standing in the courtyard of the church, and I noticed him again with as little interest as I had that morning. I looked across the square to where the fountain was playing and then, with my mind filled with vague impressions of trees, asphalt drives, and the moving groups of nursemaids and holiday-makers, I started to walk back to my easel. As I turned, my listless glance included the man below in the churchyard. His face was toward me now, and with a perfectly involuntary movement I bent to see it. At the same moment he raised his head and looked at me. Instantly I thought of a coffin-worm. Whatever it was about the man that repelled me I did not know, but the impression of a plump white grave-worm was so intense and nauseating that I must have shown it in my expression, for he turned his puffy face away with a movement which made me think of a disturbed grub in a chestnut.

    I went back to my easel and motioned the model to resume her pose. After working awhile I was satisfied that I was spoiling what I had done as rapidly as possible, and I took up a palette knife and scraped the color out again. The flesh tones were sallow and unhealthy, and I did not understand how I could have painted such sickly color into a study which before that had glowed with healthy tones.

    I looked at Tessie. She had not changed, and the clear flush of health dyed her neck and cheeks as I frowned.

    Is it something I’ve done? she said.

    No,—I’ve made a mess of this arm, and for the life of me I can’t see how I came to paint such mud as that into the canvas, I replied.

    Don’t I pose well? she insisted.

    Of course, perfectly.

    Then it’s not my fault?

    No. It’s my own.

    I’m very sorry, she said.

    I told her she could rest while I applied rag and turpentine to the plague spot on my canvas, and she went off to smoke a cigarette and look over the illustrations in the Courier Français.

    I did not know whether it was something in the turpentine or a defect in the canvas, but the more I scrubbed the more that gangrene seemed to spread. I worked like a beaver to get it out, and yet the disease appeared to creep from limb to limb of the study before me. Alarmed I strove to arrest it, but now the color on the breast changed and the whole figure seemed to absorb the infection as a sponge soaks up water. Vigorously I plied palette knife, turpentine, and scraper, thinking all the time what a seance I should hold with Duval who had sold me the canvas; but soon I noticed that it was not the canvas which was defective nor yet the colors of Edward. It must be the turpentine, I thought angrily, or else my eyes have become so blurred and confused by the afternoon light that I can’t see straight. I called Tessie, the model. She came and leaned over my chair blowing rings of smoke into the air.

    "What have you been doing to it?" she exclaimed.

    Nothing, I growled, it must be this turpentine!

    What a horrible color it is now, she continued. Do you think my flesh resembles green cheese?

    No, I don’t, I said angrily, did you ever know me to paint like that before?

    No, indeed!

    Well, then!

    It must be the turpentine, or something, she admitted.

    She slipped on a Japanese robe and walked to the window. I scraped and rubbed until I was tired and finally picked up my brushes and hurled them through the canvas with a forcible expression, the tone alone of which reached Tessie’s ears.

    Nevertheless she promptly began: That’s it! Swear and act silly and ruin your brushes! You have been three weeks on that study, and now look! What’s the good of ripping the canvas? What creatures artists are!

    I felt about as much ashamed as I usually did after such an outbreak, and I turned the ruined canvas to the wall. Tessie helped me clean my brushes, and then danced away to dress. From the screen she regaled me with bits of advice concerning whole or partial loss of temper, until, thinking, perhaps, I had been tormented sufficiently, she came out to implore me to button her waist where she could not reach it on the shoulder.

    Everything went wrong from the time you came back from the window and talked about that horrid-looking man you saw in the churchyard, she announced.

    Yes, he probably bewitched the picture, I said, yawning. I looked at my watch.

    It’s after six, I know, said Tessie, adjusting her hat before the mirror.

    Yes, I replied, I didn’t mean to keep you so long. I leaned out of the window but recoiled with disgust, for the young man with the pasty face stood below in the churchyard. Tessie saw my gesture of disapproval and leaned from the window.

    Is that the man you don’t like? she whispered.

    I nodded.

    I can’t see his face, but he does look fat and soft. Someway or other, she continued, turning to look at me, he reminds me of a dream,—an awful dream I once had. Or, she mused, looking down at her shapely shoes, was it a dream after all?

    How should I know? I smiled.

    Tessie smiled in reply.

    You were in it, she said, so perhaps you might know something about it.

    Tessie! Tessie! I protested, don’t you dare flatter by saying you dream about me!

    But I did, she insisted; shall I tell you about it?

    Go ahead, I replied, lighting a cigarette.

    Tessie leaned back on the open window-sill and began very seriously.

    One night last winter I was lying in bed thinking about nothing at all in particular. I had been posing for you and I was tired out, yet it seemed impossible for me to sleep. I heard the bells in the city ring ten, eleven, and midnight. I must have fallen asleep about midnight because I don’t remember hearing the bells after that. It seemed to me that I had scarcely closed my eyes when I dreamed that something impelled me to go to the window. I rose, and raising the sash, leaned out. Twenty-fifth Street was deserted as far as I could see. I began to be afraid; everything outside seemed so—so black and uncomfortable. Then the sound of wheels in the distance came to my ears, and it seemed to me as though that was what I must wait for. Very slowly the wheels approached, and, finally, I could make out a vehicle moving along the street. It came nearer and nearer, and when it passed beneath my window I saw it was a hearse. Then, as I trembled with fear, the driver turned and looked straight at me. When I awoke I was standing by the open window shivering with cold, but the black-plumed hearse and the driver were gone. I dreamed this dream again in March last, and again awoke beside the open window. Last night the dream came again. You remember how it was raining; when I awoke, standing at the open window, my night-dress was soaked.

    But where did I come into the dream? I asked.

    You—you were in the coffin; but you were not dead.

    In the coffin?

    Yes.

    How did you know? Could you see me?

    No; I only knew you were there.

    Had you been eating Welsh rarebits, or lobster salad? I began laughing, but the girl interrupted me with a frightened cry.

    Hello! What’s up? I said, as she shrank into the embrasure by the window.

    The—the man below in the churchyard;—he drove the hearse.

    Nonsense, I said, but Tessie’s eyes were wide with terror. I went to the window and looked out. The man was gone. Come, Tessie, I urged, don’t be foolish. You have posed too long; you are nervous.

    Do you think I could forget that face? she murmured. Three times I saw the hearse pass below my window, and every time the driver turned and looked up at me. Oh, his face was so white and—and soft? It looked dead—it looked as if it had been dead a long time.

    I induced the girl to sit down and swallow a glass of Marsala. Then I sat down beside her, and tried to give her some advice.

    Look here, Tessie, I said, you go to the country for a week or two, and you’ll have no more dreams about hearses. You pose all day, and when night comes your nerves are upset. You can’t keep this up. Then again, instead of going to bed when your day’s work is done, you run off to picnics at Sulzer’s Park, or go to the Eldorado or Coney Island, and when you come down here next morning you are fagged out. There was no real hearse. That was a soft-shell crab dream.

    She smiled faintly.

    What about the man in the churchyard?

    Oh, he’s only an ordinary unhealthy, everyday creature.

    As true as my name is Tessie Reardon, I swear to you, Mr. Scott, that the face of the man below in the churchyard is the face of the man who drove the hearse!

    What of it? I said. It’s an honest trade.

    "Then you think I did see the hearse?"

    Oh, I said, diplomatically, if you really did, it might not be unlikely that the man below drove it. There is nothing in that.

    Tessie rose, unrolled her scented handkerchief, and taking a bit of gum from a knot in the hem, placed it in her mouth. Then drawing on her gloves she offered me her hand, with a frank, Good-night, Mr. Scott, and walked out.

    II

    T

    HE

    next morning, Thomas, the bellboy, brought me the Herald and a bit of news. The church next door had been sold. I thanked Heaven for it, not that being a Catholic I had any repugnance for the congregation next door, but because my nerves were shattered by a blatant exhorter, whose every word echoed through the aisle of the church as if it had been my own rooms, and who insisted on his r’s with a nasal persistence which revolted my every instinct. Then, too, there was a fiend in human shape, an organist, who reeled off some of the grand old hymns with an interpretation of his own, and I longed for the blood of a creature who could play the doxology with an amendment of minor chords which one hears only in a quartet of very young undergraduates. I believe the minister was a good man, but when he bellowed: And the Lorrrrd said unto Moses, the Lorrrd is a man of war; the Lorrrd is his name. My wrath shall wax hot and I will kill you with the sworrrd! I wondered how many centuries of purgatory it would take to atone for such a sin.

    Who bought the property? I asked Thomas.

    Nobody that I knows, sir. They do say the gent wot owns this ’ere ’Amilton flats was lookin’ at it. ’E might be a bildin’ more studios.

    I walked to the window. The young man with the unhealthy face stood by the churchyard gate, and at the mere sight of him the same overwhelming repugnance took possession of me.

    By the way, Thomas, I said, who is that fellow down there?

    Thomas sniffed. That there worm, sir? ’E’s night-watchman of the church, sir. ’E maikes me tired a-sittin’ out all night on them steps and lookin’ at you insultin’ like. I’d a punched ’is ’ed, sir—beg pardon, sir—

    Go on, Thomas.

    One night a comin’ ’ome with ’Arry, the other English boy, I sees ’im a sittin’ there on them steps. We ’ad Molly and Jen with us, sir, the two girls on the tray service, an’ ’e looks so insultin’ at us that I up and sez: ’Wat you looking hat, you fat slug?’—beg pardon, sir, but that’s ’ow I sez, sir. Then ’e don’t say nothin’ and I sez: ‘Come out and I’ll punch that puddin’ ’ed.’ Then I hopens the gate an’ goes in, but ’e don’t say nothin’, only looks insultin’ like. Then I ’its ’im one, but, ugh! ’is ’ed was that cold and mushy it ud sicken you to touch ’im.

    What did he do then? I asked, curiously.

    ‘Im? Nawthin’.

    And you, Thomas?

    The young fellow flushed with embarrassment and smiled uneasily.

    Mr. Scott, sir, I ain’t no coward an’ I can’t make it out at all why I run. I was in the 5th Lawncers, sir, bugler at Tel-el-Kebir, an’ was shot by the wells.

    You don’t mean to say you ran away?

    Yes, sir; I run.

    Why?

    That’s just what I want to know, sir. I grabbed Molly an’ run, an’ the rest was as frightened as I.

    But what were they frightened at?

    Thomas refused to answer for a while, but now my curiosity was aroused about the repulsive young man below and I pressed him. Three years’ sojourn in America had not only modified Thomas’ cockney dialect but had given him the American’s fear of ridicule.

    You won’t believe me, Mr. Scott, sir?

    Yes, I will.

    You will lawf at me, sir?

    Nonsense!

    He hesitated. Well, sir, it’s God’s truth that when I ’it ’im ’e grabbed me wrists, sir, and when I twisted ’is soft, mushy fist one of ’is fingers come off in me ’and.

    The utter loathing and horror of Thomas’ face must have been reflected in my own for he added:

    It’s orful, an’ now when I see ’im I just go away. ’E maikes me hill.

    When Thomas had gone I went to the window. The man stood beside the church-railing with both hands on the gate, but I hastily retreated to my easel again, sickened and horrified, for I saw that the middle finger of his right hand was missing.

    At nine o’clock Tessie appeared and vanished behind the screen with a merry Good-morning, Mr. Scott. When she had reappeared and taken her pose upon the model-stand I started a new canvas much to her delight. She remained silent as long as I was on the drawing, but as soon as the scrape of the charcoal ceased and I took up my fixative she began to chatter.

    Oh, I had such a lovely time last night. We went to Tony Pastor’s.

    Who are ‘we’? I demanded.

    Oh, Maggie, you know, Mr. Whyte’s model, and Pinkie McCormick—we call her Pinkie because she’s got that beautiful red hair you artists like so much—and Lizzie Burke.

    I sent a shower of spray from the fixative over the canvas, and said: Well, go on.

    We saw Kelly and Baby Barnes the skirt-dancer and—and all the rest. I made a mash.

    Then you have gone back on me, Tessie?

    She laughed and shook her head.

    He’s Lizzie Burke’s brother, Ed. He’s a perfect gen’l’man.

    I felt constrained to give her some parental advice concerning mashing, which she took with a bright smile.

    Oh, I can take care of a strange mash, she said, examining her chewing gum, but Ed is different. Lizzie is my best friend.

    Then she related how Ed had come back from the stocking mill in Lowell, Massachusetts, to find her and Lizzie grown up, and what an accomplished young man he was, and how he thought nothing of squandering half a dollar for ice-cream and oysters to celebrate his entry as clerk into the woollen department of Macy’s. Before she finished I began to paint, and she resumed the pose, smiling and chattering like a sparrow. By noon I had the study fairly well rubbed in and Tessie came to look at it.

    That’s better, she said.

    I thought so too, and ate my lunch with a satisfied feeling that all was going well. Tessie spread her lunch on a drawing table opposite me and we drank our claret from the same bottle and lighted our cigarettes from the same match. I was very much attached to Tessie. I had watched her shoot up into a slender but exquisitely formed woman from a frail, awkward child. She had posed for me during the last three years, and among all my models she was my favorite. It would have troubled me very much indeed had she become tough or fly, as the phrase goes, but I never noticed any deterioration of her manner, and felt at heart that she was all right. She and I never discussed morals at all, and I had no intention of doing so, partly because I had none myself, and partly because I knew she would do what she liked in spite of me. Still I did hope she would steer clear of complications, because I wished her well, and then also I had a selfish desire to retain the best model I had. I knew that mashing, as she termed it, had no significance with girls like Tessie, and that such things in America did not resemble in the least the same things in Paris. Yet, having lived with my eyes open, I also knew that somebody would take Tessie away some day, in one manner or another, and though I professed to myself that marriage was nonsense, I sincerely hoped that, in this case, there would be a priest at the end of the vista. I am a Catholic. When I listen to high mass, when I sign myself, I feel that everything, including myself, is more cheerful, and when I confess, it does me good. A man who lives as much alone as I do, must confess to somebody. Then, again, Sylvia was Catholic, and it was reason enough for me. But I was speaking of Tessie, which is very different. Tessie also was Catholic and much more devout than I, so, taking it all in all, I had little fear for my pretty model until she should fall in love. But then I knew that fate alone would decide her future for her, and I prayed inwardly that fate would keep her away from men like me and throw into her path nothing but Ed Burkes and Jimmy McCormicks, bless her sweet face!

    Tessie sat blowing rings of smoke up to the ceiling and tinkling the ice in her tumbler.

    Do you know, Kid, that I also had a dream last night? I observed. I sometimes called her the Kid.

    Not about that man, she laughed.

    Exactly. A dream similar to yours, only much worse.

    It was foolish and thoughtless of me to say this, but you know how little tact the average painter has.

    I must have fallen asleep about 10 o’clock, I continued, and after awhile I dreamt that I awoke. So plainly did I hear the midnight bells, the wind in the tree-branches, and the whistle of steamers from the bay, that even now I can scarcely believe I was not awake. I seemed to be lying in a box which had a glass cover. Dimly I saw the street lamps as I passed, for I must tell you, Tessie, the box in which I reclined appeared to lie in a cushioned wagon which jolted me over a stony pavement. After a while I became impatient and tried to move but the box was too narrow. My hands were crossed on my breast so I could not raise them to help myself. I listened and then tried to call. My voice was gone. I could hear the trample of the horses attached to the wagon and even the breathing of the driver. Then another sound broke upon my ears like the raising of a window sash. I managed to turn my head a little, and found I could look, not only through the glass cover of my box, but also through the glass panes in the side of the covered vehicle. I saw houses, empty and silent, with neither light nor life about any of them excepting one. In that house a window was open on the first floor and a figure all in white stood looking down into the street. It was you.

    Tessie had turned her face away from me and leaned on the table with her elbow.

    I could see your face, I resumed, and it seemed to me to be very sorrowful. Then we passed on and turned into a narrow black lane. Presently the horses stopped. I waited and waited, closing my eyes with fear and impatience, but all was silent as the grave. After what seemed to me hours, I began to feel uncomfortable. A sense that somebody was close to me made me unclose my eyes. Then I saw the white face of the hearse-driver looking at me through the coffin-lid—

    A sob from Tessie interrupted me. She was trembling like a leaf. I saw I had made an ass of myself and attempted to repair the damage.

    Why, Tess, I said, I only told you this to show you what influence your story might have on another person’s dreams. You don’t suppose I really lay in a coffin, do you? What are you trembling for? Don’t you see that your dream and my unreasonable dislike for that inoffensive watchman of the church simply set my brain working as soon as I fell asleep?

    She laid her head between her arms and sobbed as if her heart would break. What a precious triple donkey I had made of myself! But I was about to break my record. I went over and put my arm about her.

    Tessie dear, forgive me, I said; I had no business to frighten you with such nonsense. You are too sensible a girl, too good a Catholic to believe in dreams.

    Her hand tightened on mine and her head fell back upon my shoulder, but she still trembled and I petted her and comforted her.

    Come, Tess, open your eyes and smile.

    Her eyes opened with a slow languid movement and met mine, but their expression was so queer that I hastened to reassure her again.

    It’s all humbug, Tessie, you surely are not afraid that any harm will come to you because of that.

    No, she said, but her scarlet lips quivered.

    Then what’s the matter? Are you afraid?

    Yes. Not for myself.

    For me, then? I demanded gayly.

    For you, she murmured in a voice almost inaudible, I—I care for you.

    At first I started to laugh, but when I understood her, a shock passed through me and I sat like one turned to stone. This was the crowning bit of idiocy I had committed. During the moment which elapsed between her reply and my answer I thought of a thousand responses to that innocent confession. I could pass it by with a laugh, I could misunderstand her and reassure her as to my health, I could simply point out that it was impossible she could love me. But my reply was quicker than my thoughts, and I might think and think now when it was too late, for I had kissed her on the mouth.

    That evening I took my usual walk in Washington Park, pondering over the occurrences of the day. I was thoroughly committed. There was no back out now, and I stared the future straight in the face. I was not good, not even scrupulous, but I had no idea of deceiving either myself or Tessie. The one passion of my life lay buried in the sunlit forests of Brittany. Was it buried forever? Hope cried No! For three years I had been listening to the voice of Hope, and for three years I had waited for a footstep on my threshold. Had Sylvia forgotten? No! cried Hope.

    I said that I was not good. That is true, but still I was not exactly a comic opera villain. I had led an easy-going reckless life, taking what invited me of pleasure, deploring and sometimes bitterly regretting consequences. In one thing alone, except my painting, was I serious, and that was something which lay hidden if not lost in the Breton forests.

    It was too late now for me to regret what had occurred during the day. Whatever it had been, pity, a sudden tenderness for sorrow, or the more brutal instinct of gratified vanity, it was all the same now, and unless I wished to bruise an innocent heart my path lay marked before me. The fire and strength, the depth of passion of a love which I had never even suspected, with all my imagined experience in the world, left me no alternative but to respond or send her away. Whether because I am so cowardly about giving pain to others, or whether it was that I have little of the gloomy Puritan in me, I do not know, but I shrank from disclaiming responsibility for that thoughtless kiss, and in fact had no time to do so before the gates of her heart opened and the flood poured forth. Others who habitually do their duty and find a sullen satisfaction in making themselves and everybody else unhappy, might have withstood it. I did not. I dared not. After the storm had abated I did tell her that she might better have loved Ed Burke and worn a plain gold ring, but she would not hear of it, and I thought perhaps that as long as she had decided to love somebody she could not marry, it had better be me. I, at least, could treat her with an intelligent affection, and whenever she became tired of her infatuation she could go none the worse for it. For I was decided on that point although I knew how hard it would be. I remembered the usual termination of Platonic liaisons and thought how disgusted I had been whenever I heard of one. I knew I was undertaking a great deal for so unscrupulous a man as I was, and I dreaded the future, but never for one moment did I doubt that she was safe with me. Had it been anybody but Tessie I should not have bothered my head about scruples. For it did not occur to me to sacrifice Tessie as I would have sacrificed a woman of the world. I looked the future squarely in the face and saw the several probable endings to the affair. She would either tire of the whole thing, or become so unhappy that I should have either to marry her or go away. If I married her we would be unhappy. I with a wife unsuited to me, and she with a husband unsuitable for any woman. For my past life could scarcely entitle me to marry. If I went away she might either fall ill, recover, and marry some Eddie Burke, or she might recklessly or deliberately go and do something foolish. On the other hand if she tired of me, then her whole life would be before her with beautiful vistas of Eddie Burkes and marriage rings and twins and Harlem flats and Heaven knows what. As I strolled along through the trees by the Washington Arch, I decided that she should find a substantial friend in me anyway and the future could take care of itself. Then I went into the house and put on my evening dress for the little faintly perfumed note on my dresser said, Have a cab at the stage door at eleven, and the note was signed Edith Carmichel, Metropolitan Theater, June 19th, 189—.

    I took supper that night, or rather we took supper, Miss Carmichel and I, at Solari’s and the dawn was just beginning to gild the cross on the Memorial Church as I entered Washington Square after leaving Edith at the Brunswick. There was not a soul in the park as I passed among the trees and took the walk which leads from the Garibaldi statue to the Hamilton Apartment House, but as I passed the churchyard I saw a figure sitting on the stone steps. In spite of myself a chill crept over me at the sight of the white puffy face, and I hastened to pass. Then he said something which might have been addressed to me or might merely have been a mutter to himself, but a sudden furious anger flamed up within me that such a creature should address me. For an instant I felt like wheeling about and smashing my stick over his head, but I walked on, and entering the Hamilton went to my apartment. For some time I tossed about the bed trying to get the sound of his voice out of my ears, but could not. It filled my head, that muttering sound, like thick oily smoke from a fat-rendering vat or an odor of noisome decay. And as I lay and tossed about, the voice in my ears seemed more distinct, and I began to understand the words he had muttered. They came to me slowly as if I had forgotten them, and at last I could make some sense out of the sounds. It was this:

    Have you found the Yellow Sign?

    Have you found the Yellow Sign?

    Have you found the Yellow Sign?

    I was furious. What did he mean by that? Then with a curse upon him and his I rolled over and went to sleep, but when I awoke later I looked pale and haggard, for I had dreamed the dream of the night before and it troubled me more than I cared to think.

    I dressed and went down into my studio. Tessie sat by the window, but as I came in she rose and put both arms around my neck for an innocent kiss. She looked so sweet and dainty that I kissed her again and then sat down before the easel.

    Hello! Where’s the study I began yesterday? I asked.

    Tessie looked conscious, but did not answer. I began to hunt among the piles of canvases, saying, Hurry up, Tess, and get ready; we must take advantage of the morning light.

    When at last I gave up the search among the other canvases and turned to look around the room for the

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