The Argosy | Page 5

into the flesh, and
the muscles had hardened so that I could no longer open them; and I
was looked upon as a very holy man. The words of the passers-by were
sweet in my ears, but I never spoke to them in return. Silent and
immovable, I stood there through the livelong day--and in my vision it
was always day. I had the power of looking back, and I knew that, in
the first instance, I had been led by religious enthusiasm to adopt that
mode of life. I should be in the world but not of it; I should have more
time for that introspective contemplation the aim and end of which is
mental absorption in the divine Brahma; besides which, people would
praise me, and all the world would know that I was a holy man. But the
strangest part of the affair remains to be told. In the eyes of the people I
had grown in sanctity from year to year; but in my own heart I knew
that instead of approaching nearer to Brahma, I was becoming more
depraved, more wicked, with a great inward wickedness, as time went
on. I struggled desperately against the slough of sin that was slowly

creeping over me, but in vain. It seemed to me as if the choice were
given me either to renounce my life of outward-seeming sanctity, and
becoming as other men were, to feel again that inward peace which had
been mine long years before; or else, while remaining holy in the eyes
of the multitude, to feel myself sinking into a bottomless pit of
wickedness from which I could never more hope to emerge. My mental
tortures while this struggle was going on I can never forget: they are as
much a real experience to me as if they had made up a part of my
genuine waking life. And still I stood with closed hands in the shade of
the tree; and the people cried out that I was holy, and placed their
offerings in my bowl; and I could not make up my mind to abnegate the
title they gave me and become as they were. And still I grew in inward
wickedness, till I loathed myself as if I were some vile reptile; and so
the struggle went on, and was still going on when I opened my eyes
and found myself again at Bon Repos."
As Platzoff ceased speaking, Cleon applied the light, and Ducie in his
eagerness drew a little nearer. Platzoff was dressed à la Turk, and sat
with cross legs on the low divan that ran round the room. Slowly and
deliberately he inhaled the smoke from his pipe, expelling it a moment
later, in part through his nostrils and in part through his lips. The layer
of tobacco at the top of the bowl was quickly burnt to ashes. By this
time the drug below was fairly alight, and before long a thick white
sickly smoke began to ascend in rings and graceful spires towards the
roof of the room. Cleon was gone, and a solemn silence was maintained
by both the men. Platzoff's eyes, black and piercing, were fixed on
vacancy; they seemed to be gazing on some picture visible to himself
alone. Ducie was careful not to disturb him. His inhalations were slow,
gentle and regular. After a time, a thin film or glaze began to gather
over his wide-open eyes, dimming their brightness, and making them
seem like the eyes of someone dead. His complexion became livid, his
face more cadaverous than it naturally was. Then his eyes closed
slowly and gently, like those of an infant dropping to sleep. For a little
time longer he kept on inhaling the smoke, but every minute the
inhalations became fainter and fewer in number. At length the hand that
held the pipe dropped nervelessly by his side, the amber mouthpiece
slipped from between his lips, his jaw dropped, and, with an almost

imperceptible sigh, his head sank softly back on to the cushions behind,
and M. Paul Platzoff was in the opium-eater's paradise.
Ducie, who had never seen anyone similarly affected, was frightened
by his host's death-like appearance. He was doubtful whether Platzoff
had not been seized with a fit. In order to satisfy himself he touched the
gong and summoned Cleon. That incomparable domestic glided in,
noiseless as a shadow.
"Does your master always look as he does now after he has been
smoking opium?" asked the Captain.
"Always, sir."
"And how long does it take him to come round?"
"That depends, sir, on the strength of the dose he has been smoking.
The preparation is made of different strengths to suit him at different
times; but always when he has been smoking drashkil I leave