The Realm Of The Unreal
IFor a part of the distance between Auburn and Newcastle the road --first on one side of a creek and then on the other -- occupies the wholebottom of the ravine, being partly cut out of the steep hillside, andpartly built up with boulders removed from the creek-bed by the miners.The hills are wooded, the course of the ravine is sinuous. In a darknight careful driving is required in order not to go off into the water.The night that I have in memory was dark, the creek a torrent, swollenby a recent storm. I had driven up from Newcastle and was within about amile of Auburn in the darkest and narrowest part of the ravine, lookingintently ahead of my horse for the roadway. Suddenly I saw a man almostunder the animal's nose, and reined in with a jerk that came nearsetting the creature upon its haunches.'I beg your pardon,' I said; 'I did not see you, sir.''You could hardly be expected to see me,' the man replied civilly,approaching the side of the vehicle; 'and the noise of the creekprevented my hearing you.'I at once recognized the voice, although five years had passedsince I had heard it. I was not particularly well pleased to hear it now.'You are Dr. Dorrimore, I think,' said I.'Yes; and you are my good friend Mr. Manrich. I am more than gladto see you -- the excess,' he added, with a light laugh, 'being due tothe fact that I am going your way, and naturally expect an invitation toride with you.''Which I extend with all my heart.'That was not altogether true.Dr. Dorrimore thanked me as he seated himself beside me, and Idrove cautiously forward, as before. Doubtless it is fancy, but it seemsto me now that the remaining distance was made in a chill fog; that Iwas uncomfortably cold; that the way was longer than ever before, andthe town, when we reached it, cheerless, forbidding, and desolate. Itmust have been early in the evening, yet I do not recollect a light inany of the houses nor a living thing in the streets. Dorrimore explainedat some length how he happened to be there, and where he had been duringthe years that had elapsed since I had seen him. I recall the fact ofthe narrative, but none of the facts narrated. He had been in foreigncountries and had returned -- this is all that my memory retains, andthis I already knew. As to myself I cannot remember that I spoke a word,though doubtless I did.Of one thing I am distinctly conscious: the man's presence at myside was strangely distasteful and disquieting -- so much so that when Iat last pulled up under the lights of the Putnam House I experienced asense of having escaped some spiritual peril of a nature peculiarlyforbidding. This sense of relief was somewhat modified by the discoverythat Dr. Dorrimore was living at the same hotel.
IIIn partial explanation of my feelings regarding Dr. Dorrimore I willrelate briefly the circumstances under which I had met him some yearsbefore. One evening a half-dozen men of whom I was one were sitting inthe library of the Bohemian Club in San Francisco. The conversation hadturned to the subject of sleight-of-hand and the feats of theprestidigitateurs, one of whom was then exhibiting at a local theatre.'These fellows are pretenders in a double sense,' said one of theparty; 'they can do nothing which it is worth one's while to be made adupe by. The humblest wayside juggler in India could mystify them to theverge of lunacy.''For example, how?' asked another, lighting a cigar.'For example, by all their common and familiar performances --throwing large objects into the air which never come down; causingplants to sprout, grow visibly and blossom, in bare ground chosen byspectators; putting a man into a wicker basket, piercing him through andthrough with a sword while he shrieks and bleeds, and then -- the basketbeing opened nothing is there; tossing the free end of a silken ladderinto the air, mounting it and disappearing.''Nonsense!' I said, rather uncivilly, I fear. 'You surely do notbelieve such things?''Certainly not: I have seen them too often.''But I do,' said a journalist of considerable local fame as apicturesque reporter. 'I have so frequently related them that nothingbut observation could shake my conviction. Why, gentlemen, I have my ownword for it.'Nobody laughed -- all were looking at something behind me. Turningin my seat I saw a man in evening dress who had just entered the room.He was exceedingly dark, almost swarthy, with a thin face, black-beardedto the lips, an abundance of coarse black hair in some disorder, a highnose and eyes that glittered with as soulless an expression as those ofa cobra. One of the group rose and introduced him as Dr. Dorrimore, ofCalcutta. As each of us was presented in turn he acknowledged the factwith a profound bow in the Oriental manner, but with nothing of Orientalgravity. His smile impressed me as cynical and a trifle contemptuous.His whole demeanour I can describe only as disagreeably engaging.His presence led the conversation into other channels. He saidlittle -- I do not recall anything of what he did say. I thought hisvoice singularly rich and melodious, but it affected me in the same wayas his eyes and smile. In a few minutes I rose to go. He also rose andput on his overcoat.'Mr. Manrich,' he said, 'I am going your way.''The devil you are!' I thought. 'How do you know which way I amgoing?' Then I said, 'I shall be pleased to have your company.'We left the building together. No cabs were in sight, the streetcars had gone to bed, there was a full moon and the cool night air wasdelightful; we walked up the California Street Hill. I took thatdirection thinking he would naturally wish to take another, toward oneof the hotels.'You do not believe what is told of the Hindu jugglers,' he saidabruptly.'How do you know that?' I asked.Without replying he laid his hand lightly upon my arm and with theother pointed to the stone sidewalk directly in front. There, almost atour feet, lay the dead body of a man, the face upturned and white in themoonlight! A sword whose hilt sparkled with gems stood fixed and uprightin the breast; a pool of blood had collected on the stones of the sidewalk.I was startled and terrified -- not only by what I saw, but by thecircumstances under which I saw it. Repeatedly during our ascent of thehill my eyes, I thought, had traversed the whole reach of that sidewalk,from street to street. How could they have been insensible to thisdreadful object now so conspicuous in the white moonlight.As my dazed faculties cleared I observed that the body was inevening dress; the overcoat thrown wide open revealed the dress-coat,the white tie, the broad expanse of shirt front pierced by the sword.And -- horrible revelation! -- the face, except for its pallor, was thatof my companion! It was to the minutest detail of dress and feature Dr.Dorrimore himself. Bewildered and horrified, I turned to look for theliving man. He was nowhere visible, and with an added terror I retiredfrom the place, down the hill in the direction whence I had come. I hadtaken but a few strides when a strong grasp upon my shoulder arrestedme. I came near crying out with terror: the dead man, the sword stillfixed in his breast, stood beside me! Pulling out the sword with hisdisengaged hand, he flung it from him, the moonlight glinting upon thejewels of its hilt and the unsullied steel of its blade. It fell with aclang upon the sidewalk ahead and -- vanished! The man, swarthy asbefore, relaxed his grasp upon my shoulder and looked at me with thesame cynical regard that I had observed on first meeting him. The deadhave not that look -- it partly restored me, and turning my headbackward, I saw the smooth white expanse of sidewalk, unbroken fromstreet to street.'What is all this nonsense, you devil?' I demanded, fiercelyenough, though weak and trembling in every limb.'It is what some are pleased to call jugglery,' he answered, with alight, hard laugh.He turned down Dupont Street and I saw him no more until we met inthe Auburn ravine.
IIIOn the day after my second meeting with Dr. Dorrimore I did not see him:the clerk in the Putnam House explained that a slight illness confinedhim to his rooms. That afternoon at the railway station I was surprisedand made happy by the unexpected arrival of Miss Margaret Corray and hermother, from Oakland.This is not a love story. I am no story-teller, and love as it iscannot be portrayed in a literature dominated and enthralled by thedebasing tyranny which 'sentences letters' in the name of the YoungGirl. Under the Young Girl's blighting reign -- or rather under the ruleof those false Ministers of the Censure who have appointed themselves tothe custody of her welfare --Love veils her sacred fires,And, unaware, Morality expires,famished upon the sifted meal and distilled water of a prudish purveyance.Let it suffice that Miss Corray and I were engaged in marriage. Sheand her mother went to the hotel at which I lived, and for two weeks Isaw her daily. That I was happy needs hardly be said; the only bar to myperfect enjoyment of those golden days was the presence of Dr.Dorrimore, whom I had felt compelled to introduce to the ladies.By them he was evidently held in favour. What could I say? I knewabsolutely nothing to his discredit. His manners were those of acultivated and considerate gentleman; and to women a man's manner is theman. On one or two occasions when I saw Miss Corray walking with him Iwas furious, and once had the indiscretion to protest. Asked forreasons, I had none to give, and fancied I saw in her expression a shadeof contempt for the vagaries of a jealous mind. In time I grew moroseand consciously disagreeable, and resolved in my madness to return toSan Francisco the next day. Of this, however, I said nothing.
IVThere was at Auburn an old, abandoned cemetery. It was nearly in theheart of the town, yet by night it was as gruesome a place as the mostdismal of human moods could crave. The railings about the plots wereprostrate, decayed, or altogether gone. Many of the graves were sunken,from others grew sturdy pines, whose roots had committed unspeakablesin. The headstones were fallen and broken across; brambles overran theground; the fence was mostly gone, and cows and pigs wandered there atwill; the place was a dishonour to the living, a calumny on the dead, ablasphemy against God.The evening of the day on which I had taken my madman's resolutionto depart in anger from all that was dear to me found me in thatcongenial spot. The light of the half moon fell ghostly through thefoliage of trees in spots and patches, revealing much that wasunsightly, and the black shadows seemed conspiracies withholding to theproper time revelations of darker import. Passing along what had been agravel path, I saw emerging from shadow the figure of Dr. Dorrimore. Iwas myself in shadow, and stood still with clenched hands and set teeth,trying to control the impulse to leap upon and strangle him. A momentlater a second figure joined him and clung to his arm. It was MargaretCorray!I cannot rightly relate what occurred. I know that I sprangforward, bent upon murder; I know that I was found in the grey of themorning, bruised and bloody, with finger marks upon my throat. I wastaken to the Putnam House, where for days I lay in a delirium. All thisI know, for I have been told. And of my own knowledge I know that whenconsciousness returned with convalescence I sent for the clerk of thehotel.'Are Mrs. Corray and her daughter still here?' I asked.'What name did you say?''Corray.''Nobody of that name has been here.''I beg you will not trifle with me,' I said petulantly. 'You seethat I am all right now; tell me the truth.''I give you my word,' he replied with evident sincerity, 'we havehad no guests of that name.'His words stupefied me. I lay for a few moments in silence; then Iasked: 'Where is Dr. Dorrimore?''He left on the morning of your fight and has not been heard ofsince. It was a rough deal he gave you.'
VSuch are the facts of this case. Margaret Corray is now my wife. She hasnever seen Auburn, and during the weeks whose history as it shapeditself in my brain I have endeavoured to relate, was living at her homein Oakland, wondering where her lover was and why he did not write. Theother day I saw in the Baltimore Sun the following paragraph:'Professor Valentine Dorrimore, the hypnotist, had a large audiencelast night. The lecturer, who has lived most of his life in India, gavesome marvellous exhibitions of his power, hypnotizing anyone who choseto submit himself to the experiment, by merely looking at him. In fact,he twice hypnotized the entire audience (reporters alone exempted),making all entertain the most extraordinary illusions. The most valuablefeature of the lecture was the disclosure of the methods of the Hindujugglers in their famous performances, familiar in the mouths oftravellers. The professor declares that these thaumaturgists haveacquired such skill in the art which he learned at their feet that theyperform their miracles by simply throwing the "spectators" into a stateof hypnosis and telling them what to see and hear. His assertion that apeculiarly susceptible subject may be kept in the realm of the unrealfor weeks, months, and even years, dominated by whatever delusions andhallucinations the operator may from time to time suggest, is a trifledisquieting.'
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