The Fool-Killer

by O. Henry

　　

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Down South whenever any one perpetrates someparticularly monumental piece of foolishness every-body says: "Send for Jesse Holmes." Jesse Holmes is the Fool-Killer. Of course he is amyth, like Santa Claus and Jack Frost and GeneralProsperity and all those concrete conceptions thatare supposed to represent an idea that Nature hasfailed to embody. The wisest of the Southrons can-not tell you whence comes the Fool-Killer's name;but few and happy are the households from the Ro-anoke to the Rio Grande in which the name of JesseHolmes has not been pronounced or invoked. Alwayswith a smile, and often with a tear, is he summonedto his official duty. A busy man is Jesse Holmes. I remember the clear picture of him that hung onthe walls of my fancy during my barefoot days whenI was dodging his oft-threatened devoirs. To mebe was a terrible old man, in gray clothes, with along, ragged, gray beard, and reddish, fierce eyes.I looked to see him come stumping up the road ina cloud of dust, with a white oak staff in his handand his shoes tied with leather thongs. I mayyet -- But this is a story, not a sequel. I have taken notice with regret, that few storiesworth reading have been written that did not con-tain drink of some sort. Down go the fluids, fromArizona Dick's three fingers of red pizen to the in-efficacious Oolong that nerves Lionel Montressor torepartee in the "Dotty Dialogues." So, in suchgood company I may introduce an absinthe drip --one absinthe drip, dripped through a silver dripper,orderly, opalescent, cool, green-eyed -- deceptive. Kerner was a fool. Besides that, he was an artistand my good friend. Now, if there is one thing onearth utterly despicable to another, it is an artistin the eyes of an author whose story he has illus-trated. Just try it once. Write a story about amining camp in Idiho. Sell it. Spend the money,and then, six months later, borrow a quarter (ora dime), and buy the magazine containing it. Youfind a full-page wash drawing of your hero, BlackBill, the cowboy. Somewhere in your story you em-ployed the word "horse." Aha! the artist hasgrasped the idea. Black Bill has on the regulationtrousers of the M. F. H. of the Westchester CountyHunt. He carries a parlor rifle, and wears a mon-ocle. In the distance is a section of Forty-secondStreet during a search for a lost gas-pipe, and theTaj Mahal, the famous mausoleum in India. "Enough! I hated Kerner, and one day I met himand we became friends. He was young and glori-ously melancholy because his spirits were so highand life bad so much in store for him. Yes, he wasalmost riotously sad. That was his youth. When aman begins to be hilarious in a sorrowful way youcan bet a million that he is dyeing his hair. Ker-ner's hair was plentiful and carefully matted as anartist's thatch should be. He was a cigaretteur, andbe audited his dinners with red wine. But, most ofall, be was a fool. And, wisely, I envied him, andlistened patiently while he knocked Velasquez andTintoretto. Once he told me that he liked a story ofmine that he bad come across in an anthology. Hedescribed it to me, and I was sorry that Mr. Fitz-James O'Brien was dead and could not learn of theeulogy of his work. But mostly Kerner made fewbreaks and was a consistent fool. I'd better explain what I mean by that. Therewas a girl. Now, a girl, as far as I am concerned,is a thing that belongs in a seminary or an album;but I conceded the existence of the animal in orderto retain Kerner's friendship. He showed me herpicture in a locket -- she was a blonde or a brunette-- I have forgotten which. She worked in a factoryfor eight dollars a week. Lest factories quote thiswage by way of vindication, I will add that the girlbad worked for five years to reach that supreme ele-vation of remuneration, beginning at $1.50 per week. Kerner's father was worth a couple of millionsHe was willing to stand for art, but he drew theline at the factory girl. So Kerner disinherited hisfather and walked out to a cheap studio and livedon sausages for breakfast and on Farroni for dinner.Farroni had the artistic soul and a line of credit forpainters and poets, nicely adjusted. Sometimes Ker-rier sold a picture and bought some new tapestry, aring and a dozen silk cravats, and paid Farronitwo dollars on account. One evening Kerner had me to dinner with himselfand the factory girl. They were to be married assoon as Kerner could slosh paint profitably. As forthe ex-father's two millions -- pouf! She was a wonder. Small and half-way pretty,and as much at her ease in that cheap cafe as thoughshe were only in the Palmer House, Chicago, with asouvenir spoon already safely hidden in her shirtwaist. She was natural. Two things I noticed abouther especially. Her belt buckle was exactly in themiddle of her back, and she didn't tell us that a largeman with a ruby stick-pin had followed her up all theway from Fourteenth Street. Was Kerner such a fool?I wondered. And then I thought of the quantity ofstriped cuffs and blue glass beads that $2,000,000can buy for the heathen, and I said to myself that hewas. And then Elise -- certainly that was her nametold us, merrily, that the brown spot on her waistwas caused by her landlady knocking at the doorwhile she (the girl -- confound the English language)was heating an iron over the gas jet, and she hid theiron under the bedclothes until the coast was clear,and there was the piece of chewing gum stuckto it when she began to iron the waist, and -- well,I wondered bow in the world the chewing gumcame to be there -- don't they ever stop chewingit? A while after that -- don't be impatient, the ab-sinthe drip is coming now -- Kerner and I were diningat Farroni's. A mandolin and a guitar were beingattacked; the room was full of smoke in nice, longcrinkly layers just like the artists draw the steamfrom a plum pudding on Christmas posters, and alady in a blue silk and gasolined gauntlets was be-ginning to bum an air from the Catskills. "Kerner," said I, "you are a fool." "Of course," said Kerner, "I wouldn't let her goon working. Not my wife. What's the use to wait?She's willing. I sold that water color of the Pali-sades yesterday. We could cook on a two-burner gasstove. You know the ragouts I can throw together?Yes, I think we will marry next week." "Kerner," said I, "you are a fool." "Have an absinthe drip?" said Kerner, grandly."To-night you are the guest of Art in paying quan-tities. I think we will get a flat with a bath." "I never tried one -- I mean an absinthe drip,"said I. The waiter brought it and poured the water slowlyover the ice in the dripper. "It looks exactly like the Mississippi River waterin the big bend below Natchez," said I, fascinated,gazing at the be-muddled drip. "There are such flats for eight dollars a week,"said Kerner. "You are a fool," said I, and began to sip thefiltration. "What you need," I continued, "is theofficial attention of one Jesse Holmes." Kerner, not being a Southerner, did not compre-hend, so he sat, sentimental, figuring on his flat inhis sordid, artistic way, while I gazed into the greeneyes of the sophisticated Spirit of Wormwood. Presently I noticed casually that a procession ofbacchantes limned on the wall immediately below theceiling bad begun to move, traversing the room fromright to left in a gay and spectacular pilgrimage. Idid not confide my discovery to Kerner. The artistictemperament is too high-strung to view such devia-tions from the natural laws of the art of kalsomining.I sipped my absinthe drip and sawed wormwood. One absinthe drip is not much -- but I said again toKerner, kindly: "You are a fool." And then, in the vernacular:"Jesse Holmes for yours." And then I looked around and saw the Fool-Killer,as he had always appeared to my imagination, sittingat a nearby table, and regarding us with his reddish,fatal, relentless eyes. He was Jesse Holmes from topto toe; he had the long, gray, ragged beard, thegray clothes of ancient cut, the executioner's look,and the dusty shoes of one who bad been called fromafar. His eyes were turned fixedly upon Kerner. Ishuddered to think that I bad invoked him from hisassiduous southern duties. I thought of flying, andthen I kept my seat, reflecting that many men bad es-caped his ministrations when it seemed that nothingshort of an appointment as Ambassador to Spaincould save them from him. I had called my brotherKerner a fool and was in danger of hell fire. Thatwas nothing; but I would try to save him from JesseHolmes. The Fool-Killer got up from his table and cameover to ours. He rested his hands upon it, andturned his burning, vindictive eyes upon Kerner, ig-noring me. "You are a hopeless fool," be said to the artist."Haven't you had enough of starvation yet? I of-fer you one more opportunity. Give up this girl andcome back to your home. Refuse, and you must takethe consequences." The Fool-Killer's threatening face was within afoot of his victim's; but to my horror, Kerner madenot the slightest sign of being aware of his presence. "We will be married next week," be muttered ab-sent-mindedly. "With my studio furniture and somesecond-hand stuff we can make out." "You have decided your own fate," said the Fool-Killer, in a low but terrible voice. "You may con-sider yourself as one dead. You have had your lastchance." "In the moonlight," went on Kerner, softly, "wewill sit under the skylight with our guitar and singaway the false delights of pride and money." "On your own head be it," hissed the Fool-Killer,and my scalp prickled when I perceived that neitherKerner's eyes nor his ears took the slightest cog-nizance of Jesse Holmes. And then I knew that forsome reason the veil had been lifted for me alone, andthat I bad been elected to save my friend from de-struction at the Fool-Killer's bands. Something ofthe fear and wonder of it must have showed itself inmy face. "Excuse me," said Kerner, with his wan, amiablesmile; "was I talking to myself? I think it is gettingto be a habit with me." The Fool-Killer turned and walked out of Far-ronils. "Wait here for me," said I, rising; "I must speakto that man. Had you no answer for him? Becauseyou are a fool must you die like a mouse under hisfoot? Could you not utter one squeak in your owndefence? "You are drunk," said Kerner, heartlessly. "Noone addressed me." "The destroyer of your mind," said I, "stoodabove you just now and marked you for his victim.You are not blind or deaf." "I recognized no such person," said Kerner. "Ihave seen no one but you at this table. Sit down.Hereafter you shall have no more absinthe drips." "Wait here," said I, furious; "if you don't carefor your own life, I will save it for you." I hurried out and overtook the man in gray half-way down the block. He looked as I bad seen him inmy fancy a thousand times - truculent, gray andawful. He walked with the white oak staff, and butfor the street-sprinkler the dust would have been fly-ing under his tread.I caught him by the sleeve and steered him to adark angle of a building. I knew he was a myth, andI did not want a cop to see me conversing with va-cancy, for I might land in Bellevue minus my silvermatchbox and diamond ring. "Jesse Holmes," said I, facing him with apparentbravery, "I know you. I have heard of you all mylife. I know now what a scourge you have been toyour country. Instead of killing fools you have beenmurdering the youth and genius that are necessary tomake a people live and grow great. You are a foolyourself, Holmes; you began killing off the brightestand best of our countrymen three generations ago,when the old and obsolete standards of society andhonor and orthodoxy were narrow and bigoted. Youproved that when you put your murderous mark uponmy friend Kerner -- the wisest chap I ever knew inmy life." The Fool-Killer looked at me grimly and closely. "You've a queer jag," said he, curiously. "Oh,yes; I see who you are now. You were sitting withhim at the table. Well, if I'm not mistaken, I heardyou call him a fool, too." "I did," said I. "I delight in doing so. It isfrom envy. By all the standards that you know he isthe most egregious and grandiloquent and gorgeousfool in all the world. That's why you want to killhim." "Would you mind telling me who or what you thinkI am?" asked the old man. I laughed boisterously and then stopped suddenly,for I remembered that it would not do to be seen sohilarious in the company of nothing but a brickwall. "You are Jesse Holmes, the Fool-Killer," I said,solemnly, "and you are going to kill my friend Ker-ner. I don't know who rang you up, but if you dokill him I'll see that you get pinched for it. Thatis," I added, despairingly, "if I can get a cop to seeyou. They have a poor eye for mortals, and I thinkit would take the whole force to round up a myth mur-derer." "Well," said the Fool-Killer, briskly, "I must begoing. You had better go home and sleep it off.Good-night." At this I was moved by a sudden fear for Kerner toa softer and more pleading mood. I leaned againstthe gray man's sleeve and besought him: "Good Mr. Fool-Killer, please don't kill little Ker-ner. Why can't you go back South and kill Con-gressmen and clay-caters and let us alone? Whydon't you go up on Fifth Avenue and kill millionairesthat keep their money locked up and won't let youngfools marry because one of 'em lives on the wrongstreet? Come and have a drink, Jesse. Will younever get on to your job?" "Do you know this girl that your friend has madehimself a fool about?" asked the Fool-Killer. "I have the honor," said I, "and that's why Icalled Kerner a fool. He is a fool because he haswaited so long before marrying her. He is a foolbecause be has been waiting in the hopes of gettingthe consent of some absurd two-million-dollar-foolparent or something of the sort." "Maybe," said the Fool-Killer -- " maybe I -- Imight have looked at it differently. Would you mindgoing back to the restaurant and bringing your friendKerner here?" "OH, what's the use, Jesse," I yawned. "He can'tsee you. He didn't know you were talking to himat the table, You are a fictitious character, youknow." "Maybe He can this time. Will you go fetchhim?" "All right," said I, "but I've a suspicion thatyou're not strictly sober, Jesse. You seem to be wa-vering and losing your outlines. Don't vanish beforeI get back." I went back to Kerner and said: "There's a man with an invisible homicidal maniawaiting to see you outside. I believe he wants tomurder you. Come along. You won't see him, sothere's nothing to be frightened about." Kerner looked anxious. "Why," said be, "I had no idea one absinthewould do that. You'd better stick to Wurzburger.I'll walk home with you." I led him to Jesse Holmes's. "Rudolf," said the Fool-Killer, "I'll give in.Bring her up to the house. Give me your hand,boy.", "Good for you, dad," said Kerner, shaking handswith the old man. You'll never regret it after youknow her." "So, you did see him when he was talking to youat the table?" I asked Kerner. "We hadn't spoken to each other in a year," saidKerner. "It's all right now." I walked away. "Where are you going?" called Kerner. "I am going to look for Jesse Holmes," I an-swered, with dignity and reserve.

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