Натаниель Готорн - The Devil in Manuscript and Other Tales of Forbidden Books

Prosperity brought the fulfillment of my youthful dreams. I was now able to rent and fit out one of the most artistic studios in Washington Square. But, in spite of this, I was far from happy. I had moments of deep depression when my work galled me cruelly—moments when the only spur that kept me going was the knowledge that before long I could retire and live a life of leisure.

Meanwhile Paul had passed his examinations to the bar and was actually practicing. No sooner had he hung out his shingle than he was besieged daily by a ragged multitude of clients whom he shrewdly suspected Martin had sent his way. A stream of villainous faces passed through his office at all hours—faces which one could imagine as being associated with every crime in the calendar. Paul had a keen mind; he soon developed into a criminal lawyer of exceptional reputation. His clients, in spite of their poverty stricken appearance, paid him well for his services and he soon became affluent.

I saw a great deal of my brother at this time. We had become much closer friends. The four years which divided us, no longer seemed such an insurmountable barrier. Now he would often take me into his confidence.

There was only one topic on which we could not agree. Paul was still an ardent admirer of Martin; while I, although I had to acknowledge the man’s gifts, loathed the very mention of his name. I could not forgive him his prophecy concerning my career. Yes, that afternoon in Paris, lie had told me what I would soon become. And because he had seen so clearly into the hidden recesses of my character, I felt that I would hate him till the end. It is primitive but human to resist the prying eyes of genius. The ego—that most precious possession of man—is outraged to find itself held up before the clear, steady flame of psychological insight.

Paul had a way of referring to Martin which was extremely annoying to me. He would repeat over and over again that he owed everything to him. It used to make me very angry to hear him belittle his own success by such a quixotic statement. Surely he owed a large measure of his practice to his own acuteness and perseverance. Often we would argue about it.

“Yes,” Paul would say, glancing about his well-appointed library, “I owe all this to him. He cured me of drunkenness and sent me my clients.”

“Nonsense! Perhaps he did help to cure you and perhaps he sent you a few clients; but if you hadn’t had strength of will enough to leave the liquor alone and strength of mind enough to win the majority of your cases, his help wouldn’t have amounted to much.”

But Paul would shake his head obstinately and repeat: “He has done everything for me—everything.”

And then I would generally lose my temper and express my true feelings. “How about that book he is writing? He may be able to make you, but he doesn’t seem to be able to make himself. He’s been writing for over two years now and has had only one story in print. Won’t the publishers take his work?”

Now Paul, in his turn, would flush angrily and his blue eyes would grow darker. “How should I know? He never talks about himself. But I’ll tell you this, Charley—when his work is published, the whole world will know about it!”

Often, after one of these heated controversies, I would leave my brother’s apartment in a temper and walk the streets for hours before I regained my habitual calm. It was on one of these midnight rambles that I met Martin, himself, under rather singular and sinister circumstances—circumstances which left a never-to-be-forgotten impression on my mind.

One mild March night I left Paul’s apartment with rather more than my usual irritation. I was so heated, in fact, that I determined to walk it out of my system, if possible, before retiring. As I knew by former experience, a nocturnal ramble has a quieting effect on ruffled nerves. All the poor, petty passions of man flourish best between four walls. They are soon smothered in the sable robe of outer night.

It was a fine evening for a stroll. The aroma of budding spring was strong in the air—spring, that supple, green-limbed goddess whose presence is felt even in the cold, atrophied arteries of the city. A new moon hung lazily in the heavens, riding the small, silver clouds which swept past it like charging breakers. But the stars were not so fortunate. Often they were submerged beneath these foam-flecked billows of the infinite, bobbing up again into view like floating lanterns.

As I walked along toward Washington Square, the irritation, which had been so real a moment before, vanished entirely. It was followed hy an almost philosophic calm. I began to take myself to task.

Why should I interfere with Paul in his choice of friends? Surely he was old enough now to choose them for himself. Just because I happened to dislike Martin, that was no reason why I should attempt to influence my brother against him. And when it came to that, what had the fellow ever done to me that I should so hate the sound of his name? He had told me several truths hard to stomach, indeed; but no doubt they had been intended kindly as a warning. On the other hand, he had nursed me back to health when my life had hung in the balance. What had I ever done to thank him? Nothing—absolutely nothing. Well, I would turn over a new leaf; I would apologize to Paul for what I had said.

By this time I was within a few blocks of home. Seeing an inviting alley which I had not yet explored and which might prove to be a short cut, I wandered into it and into a strange adventure as well. Winding smoothly along for several hundred yards, it was so narrow and tortuous that the old brick houses on either side seemed to be twisted out of normal shape; to be tottering toward each other like drunkards about to embrace. And then suddenly, almost violently, the alley ended in a precipitous, ivy covered wall.

This wall brought me to an abrupt halt. I experienced a sensation of surprise, of chagrin. I had followed this alley as a man follows an odd and rather attractive philosophy, thinking that in due course it would bring me out into familiar, homely surroundings; and here was this disconcerting wall looming up like an abrupt and positive negative. I could not have been more unpleasantly surprised if a friend, while telling me a whimsical, fantastic tale, had suddenly dropped dead in the middle of a sentence. Indeed there was something brooding and brutal about this wall, like death itself.

The little street was as dark as a subterranean passageway. I might very easily have blundered into the wall without seeing it, had it not been for an antique, iron lantern which was suspended from it and which shed its nickering beams over its rough, red surface. The light, however, was not sufficient to make objects at a short distance discernable. For instance the houses on either side, and more especially their areaways, were in tottering, unstable shadow.

I came to an enforced halt near the wall and glanced at the house on my right. It seemed to me that the shadowy figure of a man was sitting on the stoop in the attitude of one who is patiently waiting; but I could not be sure of this as the mantle of gloom enshrouding the house was almost impenetrable. Whatever it was, it remained absolutely motionless.

I turned and was about to retrace my steps when I suddenly heard strange shuffling sounds. Flip, flap, flip, flap, the sounds grew nearer and nearer. And for some unaccountable reason I felt a flicker of fear. Through those hurrying footsteps, that flapping of worn out leather on cobblestones, there sounded the warning of approaching danger. Flip,’flap, flip, flap—it was like the frantic beating of terror stricken wings.

I came to a halt and attempted to pierce the shadows in front of me. At the next moment, I stepped aside with a warning cry.