Delphi collected works o.., p.580
Delphi Collected Works of Peter Cheyney Illustrated, page 580
“FIGURE to yourself then, my dear Lucien,” continued Krasinsky, “that my young friend and erstwhile companion, Hyacinth Jones, was, like yourself, a somewhat unsuccessful poet. This unsuccess he attributed to the stupidity of publishers in general and one in particular — a Mr. Verdant Pastures, upon whom my unfortunate Hyacinth had inflicted four hundred and sixty-three different stories, plays, novels, books of poetry, and other things, and of which the said Pastures had purchased but one effort, which was an article on how to dye white blouses pink with green ink which had been written (in a moment of despair) by Hyacinth’s landlady, and had been included (with an unpaid laundry bill) in his bundle of manuscripts by mistake.
“Understand that he was not without a certain comeliness. He was a charming young man, and, in spite of the somewhat shabby condition of his clothes, possessed an air; for his mother had been a Lanruoye of Burgundy, whilst his father was a prepossessing commercial traveller with ways of his own, whose marriage with the noble lady had been unduly hastened or perhaps one should say made necessary by a slight contretemps which is no part of my story. He also possessed an extensive vocabulary and a quick brain. He suffered, however, from certain fits of depression which would descend upon him without warning and which reduced him almost to tears, and it was at these times (as with you, I think, my Lucien) that he urgently desired that intensive sympathy of a charming woman which alone can make a fit of depression worth while.
“It was on just such an evening as this that he was walking slowly across Bedford Square. He was depressed beyond endurance, two manuscripts having been returned to him that morning, and his landlady having informed him in a few well chosen and succinct words that unless his rent was forthcoming almost immediately, his room would be preferable to his presence.
“Candidly, his sense of humour, which had always been of the greatest use to him, was becoming slightly worn. His head was aching (due, no doubt, to absence of food) and he desired nothing so much as a feminine bosom on which he might weep gracefully. This desire, however, seemed to him likely to go ungratified.
“It was at this moment,” said Mr. Krasinsky with a charming and reminiscent smile, “that he encountered me — quite by accident, so to speak, and in the same circumstances as obtained just now when we met.
“‘Ah, it is my Hyacinth,’ said I, extending my hand. I am delighted to see you. I trust that things are progressing.’
“‘Damn you, Krasinsky,’ said Hyacinth Jones with some heat. ‘You know how things go with me. The only matter which remains for my contemplation is whether I shall presently walk over some convenient bridge into the river, or whether I shall use my braces to hang myself with. I would die, being absolutely sick of this too appalling existence.’
“‘You are, as usual, entirely wrong, my delightful friend,’ I told him. For I think that you are upon the threshold of a somewhat staggering experience. Also, be good enough to remember that courage is not always (in spite of the dialectics of the effulgent Napoleon) associated with an overfull stomach. The things which you find so necessary are not so distant as you imagine, but whether you really require them, or whether you require only the desire for them is another matter. However, being yourself, with a little aplomb I am assured of your success. My benedictions.’
“And with these entirely cheering remarks, I disappeared — at least so far as he was aware, but from the position of vantage which I use on these occasions I watched him very carefully, mainly I believe in order that today I should be able to give you the benefit of his experience.
“Hyacinth, with something that sounded like a curse or a sob, crossed the road to the pavement which runs on the left hand side of the Square. His eyes were cast down upon the ground before him; his head, now aching so badly that it seemed made of lead, hung heavily upon his shoulders. Suddenly he looked up and stood, petrified, and trembling with a feeling so delicious that it seemed almost unendurable.
“A few yards away a large car faced him. It was unattended, the chauffeur having, evidently, been despatched upon some errand. The interior of the car was lit by some soft light, and reclining against a purple cushion was a lady.
“She possessed,” Krasinsky continued, giving another crumb to the sparrow which was now affectionately perched upon his left knee, “a beauty so entirely mysterious that it would be foolish for me to endeavour to use the unworthy medium of words to describe it. But her appearance was of such wonder that Hyacinth’s breath was stopped for quite two minutes.
“He stood for this time reluctantly considering moving away and thereby losing this lovely picture. Then, as he gazed, the lady (who was quite oblivious of his presence) made a movement to leave the car. She leaned forward and protruded a foot and ankle of great allurement in search of the step. Unfortunately, as she did so, she pulled the door toward her by mischance, and sinking backwards, found her foot imprisoned between the door and the frame.
“She gave a little cry which had hardly escaped her lips when Hyacinth was beside the car. He pulled back the door, freeing her foot, and knelt upon the step, a picture of concern, his hat in his hand.
“‘I am greatly indebted to you, sir,’ she murmured.
“Hyacinth said nothing. Spellbound by a closer view of her beauty he was unable to speak. He knelt, gazing at her like one in a trance, and it was only when, under this prolonged scrutiny, a colour appeared in her cheeks, that he was able to find his tongue. He began to speak, but his own voice sounded strange to him, and the words which issued from his lips appeared to come of their own volition.
“‘Madame,’ said he, ‘understand that I adore you with a passion so intense that it appears to be strangling me. Your wonderful eyes have gazed at me out of a hundred dreams. Your mouth, of such seduction that the thought of kissing it qualifies me for a lunatic asylum, has been the one thing I have lived for. You will please understand that I realise how utterly impossible it is that you could ever reciprocate. I am a poor and unknown poet, whose only possessions are his dreams. But I have seen you, and now I can at least die with some semblance of satisfaction that my life has not been entirely misspent. For die I must. Life would be too execrably impossible should I continue living, knowing that you were in the same city, in the same country, in the same world, and that you were unattainable. I go to hang myself from the banisters with my best braces, which happily are white, thereby endowing my demise with an air of unmistakable purity. My last thoughts shall be of you. Adieu, Madame,’ quoth Hyacinth, the tears rolling down his cheeks. ‘Adieu....’
“‘One moment, Sir,’ she murmured, inhaling from a jewelled smelling salts bottle. ‘One moment... Am I to understand that you consider death through love of me? Is there no alternative?’
“‘None,’ replied Hyacinth with sad determination. ‘As you cannot be mine there remains only death. Once more, adieu....’
“‘I wish that you would not be in such a hurry,’ she murmured faintly, having recourse once more to the jewelled bottle. ‘Will you be good enough to enter the car and to discuss this matter from a logical point of view?’
“Hyacinth obeyed. As she made room for him a breath of the scent she wore made his brain reel. He sat, gazing before him, unutterably lost in emotions too poignant for his physique.
“‘It would appear, Sir,’ she continued, ‘that you intend to place me in a situation of the utmost difficulty. Either I must surrender myself to you (in which case I am undone), or you will proceed to hang yourself (in which case you are undone) and this last, I am assured, would cause me much mental torture in the future. Indeed, I doubt whether I should be able ever to forget it. It also appears that you are not entirely unattractive, in fact I consider your eyes to be quite nice, and I do not doubt that you possess other good points which might be apparent at some future time. Also, I admire your modesty, which sent you, post haste, to hang yourself before you even permitted yourself to consider whether or not I might consent to the first part of your proposition.’
“Hyacinth found himself almost senseless. Could it be that this wonderful creature was agreeing to fall in love with him? His voice trembled as he replied:
“Madame, I did not consider that you might possibly care for me in such a short time. It did not seem feasible....’
“‘It is not feasible,’ she murmured. ‘That is why the idea is so attractive. However, I beg that you will allow me a little time in which to consider this matter fully, and to make such arrangements as may be necessary. Will you therefore be good enough to write your name and address on the writing pad which is hanging on your left — there is a pencil attached — and I will give you my word that you shall hear from me tomorrow. In the meantime may I hope that your idea of suicide is absolutely dismissed?’
“Hyacinth, having written his name and the address of his garret on the pad with fingers which shook, managed, somehow to descend from the car, and stood, his hand upon the door, regarding her with eyes filled with such wonder that they looked as if they might burst at any moment.
“‘Madame,’ said he, ‘I cannot believe at this minute that all this has really happened. I feel that tomorrow I shall awake and find that I have but dreamed. Therefore I entreat you, if this be really true, that you will allow your letter to reach me in the early part of the morrow, as I feel that my sanity will last only till then.’
“She smiled. A tantalising, slow and delicious smile.
“‘You shall have my letter in the morning,’ she said. ‘In the meantime this may help you to remember that I really exist and that you have not dreamed.’
“She held towards him a tiny handkerchief.
“Hyacinth took it. Suddenly he became aware that the chauffeur was back in his seat. He bent over her hand, and in a moment found himself gazing at the rear lights of the car as it sped away.”
“I do not consider that it would be at all good for you, my Lucien,” continued Krasinsky, “for me to make you fully aware of the contents of the letter which my (possibly) lucky young friend Hyacinth received on the following morning from his lady (who by the way was the Comtesse Eriane de Meriacca — a place not far from Majorca, not unduly noted for love, garlic, and other strong condiments), but I will tell you that this missive was such that he almost expired in the most extreme paroxysms of delight. Neither do I propose to excite your juvenile mentality with a description of his next meeting with her, which took place on the same evening at a charming flat near this very Park, which abode she used (I believe) as a retreat from the mundane cares of this world, and as a place for the due consideration (in appropriate quietness) of those things which are so essential to the well-being of any right thinking lady. Let it suffice that under the guidance of her inspiration the soul of my friend Hyacinth assumed such Brobdignagian proportions that it became almost too big for his convenience.
“He commenced to write in the most exquisite manner. At first he found difficulty in finding a vehicle for the charming thoughts which continuously assailed him, but eventually, at the Countess’ suggestion, he wrote in that intimate style (so popular with our too-journalistic aristocracy when describing the merits of somebody’s face cream), the actual story of his first meeting with the Countess, and having polished it to his own and her complete satisfaction, took it, with a pardonable assumption of success, to the publisher, Mr. Verdant Pastures.
“Mr. Pastures, who, I regret to say, suffered from an enlarged liver and who had, on that very morning, experienced a slight disagreement with his spouse over a matter (entirely personal) which he considered important, and she a nuisance, was not as encouraging as Hyacinth had hoped.
“He perused the manuscript, and then sitting back in his chair and gazing at Hyacinth in the offensive and superior manner so dear to publishers, said:
“‘It is apparent to me, Mr. Jones, that something has happened to you which has, at last, enabled you to write coherently. At the same time the incident described in this story is so absolutely foolish that I fail to see how you can imagine that a man of my intelligence would ever hope that the public could believe it. Such an happening could not, in any circumstances, take place. It is not only impossible it is also improbable. Take it away.’
“Hyacinth flushed.
“‘Mr. Pastures,’ he said, ‘I perceive clearly that you are a fool. This happening, far from being impossible or improbable, actually took place a short time ago, and has been the cause of the most excruciating happiness to me. I regret that your lack of imagination allows you to see no further than your too unsightly nose.’
“Mr. Pastures sneered.
“‘I do not believe you, Mr. Jones,’ he said. ‘Firstly because you are too provincial to speak the truth, and secondly because I do not believe that any lady possessing beauty worth consideration would be so short-sighted as to succumb to your entirely inexperienced charms. However, as I am a man of my word, and of the world, I should like to tell you that if you will arrange that this lady whom you so poetically describe, and who in the circumstances is surely interested in your artistic welfare, shall come to me and inform me personally that the incident is true, I give you my word that I will publish your story.’
“And with this retort and a leer which reminded Hyacinth of nothing so much as the hot glance of a lustful codfish. Mr. Pastures rang his bell and requested that the enraged poet be shown to the door.
“The hate which possessed the soul of the young lover could not be described. At first, the most charming blandishments administered by the Countess, to whom he rushed post haste with the tale of the perfidy of Pastures, were insufficient to assuage his appalling wrath, and it was only after continued effort on her part that he was eventually reduced to a state where he could tell her of the too impossible condition upon which the publisher had agreed to publish the story.
“‘Consider, my beloved,’ said Hyacinth. ‘Consider the terrible suggestion that I should allow you to go and inform this execrable Mormon that my story of our first meeting is true. Imagine my allowing you to talk to this beast whose Midas-like ears would flap with excitement. Consider...’
“But at this moment Hyacinth found his mouth most effectively stopped.
“‘My adored one,’ said she, with that passionate intensity which he found so captivating, ‘realise that your love having become superb, it is essential that your art should be of the same quality. Therefore you will please leave this matter to me, for I feel that with some thought I may solve this difficulty. In the meantime I would point out to you that you have not kissed me for sixteen seconds.’”
KRASINSKY continued:
“It was two weeks after this,” said he, “that my young friend experienced a great shock. Strolling one day in the Strand, he purchased a copy of the Pastures’ Magazine — Love in Idleness — and was amazed to find, printed in the most effective manner, his story. A horrible, sickening fear seized at his heart. His brain reeled, and it was with the utmost difficulty that he staggered into a telephone box.
“In quivering tones he telephoned his mistress, the very sound of her voice intensifying his agony.
“‘Eriane...’ he gasped, ‘I have just observed that the beast has published my story. What does this mean... can it mean... does it mean... that you... that you...?’
“‘Light of my soul,’ she cooed, ‘do not disturb yourself. It is true that I have gone so far as to inform Mr. Pastures that the incident so beautifully recorded by you, my beloved, was true. But do not distress yourself unduly. Walk quietly here, counting ten before using any really strong expressions. Do nothing immediately. You will be so much more reasonable in my arms.’
“Hyacinth hung up the receiver. Red lights danced before his eyes. The death of Pastures would alone suffice to right this business. But on second thoughts Hyacinth came to the conclusion that death would be too good. He hurried, running in his anxiety, to the Countess, thinking with intense passion of new methods by which the entrails of Pastures could be most slowly and painfully destroyed.
“Arrived, he gazed at her with tears of sorrow and pride coursing down his flushed cheeks.
“‘Adored one,’ he said eventually, ‘what can I say to you? What admiration can I bestow on your wondrous courage which enabled you to do this thing for me and for my art. From you has come my first success. But at what a price! My soul shudders as I imagine you, blushingly, stammeringly, telling him... the words stumbling unwillingly from your tongue.
“‘Now I shall deal with him. Love and art are assured to me. There remains only the satisfaction of revenge to be desired. I shall kill this creature... in cold blood I shall suffocate him with his own blotting paper. I shall...’
“With a gesture she stopped him, and drawing him to her side, couched his head on that place intended by a beneficent Nature for its reception.
“‘Sweetheart,’ she murmured, ‘you do not desire revenge, because I assure you that you do not need it. Your vengeance is already satisfied. The unfortunate Pastures is dead. He died, most unwillingly, of apoplexy at breakfast on the morning when I told him that your story was true.
“‘You see, Beloved,’ she continued with a caress, I forgot to tell you that Mr. Verdant Pastures was my husband....’”
MR. KRASINSKY drew a fat cigar from his pocket, which he lit with gusto. The shadows were already thick upon the green sward of the Park.
Lucien Grey bestirred himself.
“What happened then, Krasinsky?” he asked.
Krasinsky yawned.
“Hyacinth married her,” he answered, “and took over the publishing business of the deceased Pastures. I should have thought,” continued Krasinsky with a small smile, “that this was obvious to you.”
“Obvious to me,” echoed Lucien.
Then a thought struck him.
“Heavens!” he exclaimed. “It is he! The appalling publisher who returns all my best work is named Hyacinth Jones! it is — it must be the same!”
