The Beetle | Page 9

engagement;
the occasion which required my services passed, and I with it. After
another, and a longer interval, I again found temporary employment,
the pay for which was but a pittance. When that was over I could find
nothing. That was nine months ago, and since then I had not earned a
penny. It is so easy to grow shabby, when you are on the everlasting
tramp, and are living on your stock of clothes. I had trudged all over
London in search of work,--work of any kind would have been
welcome, so long as it would have enabled me to keep body and soul
together. And I had trudged in vain. Now I had been refused admittance
as a casual,--how easy is the descent! But I did not tell the man lying on
the bed all this. He did not wish to hear,-- had he wished he would have
made me tell him.
It may be that he read my story, unspoken though it was,--it is
conceivable. His eyes had powers of penetration which were peculiarly
their own,--that I know.
'Undress!'
When he spoke again that was what he said, in those guttural tones of
his in which there was a reminiscence of some foreign land. I obeyed,
letting my sodden, shabby clothes fall anyhow upon the floor. A look
came on his face, as I stood naked in front of him, which, if it was
meant for a smile, was a satyr's smile, and which filled me with a
sensation of shuddering repulsion.
'What a white skin you have,--how white! What would I not give for a
skin as white as that,--ah yes!' He paused, devouring me with his
glances; then continued. 'Go to the cupboard; you will find a cloak; put
it on.'
I went to a cupboard which was in a corner of the room, his eyes

following me as I moved. It was full of clothing,--garments which
might have formed the stock-in-trade of a costumier whose speciality
was providing costumes for masquerades. A long dark cloak hung on a
peg. My hand moved towards it, apparently of its own volition. I put it
on, its ample folds falling to my feet.
'In the other cupboard you will find meat, and bread, and wine. Eat and
drink.'
On the opposite side of the room, near the head of his bed, there was a
second cupboard. In this, upon a shelf, I found what looked like pressed
beef, several round cakes of what tasted like rye bread, and some thin,
sour wine, in a straw-covered flask. But I was in no mood to criticise; I
crammed myself, I believe, like some famished wolf, he watching me,
in silence, all the time. When I had done, which was when I had eaten
and drunk as much as I could hold, there returned to his face that satyr's
grin.
'I would that I could eat and drink like that,--ah yes!--Put back what is
left.' I put it back,--which seemed an unnecessary exertion, there was so
little to put. 'Look me in the face.'
I looked him in the face,--and immediately became conscious, as I did
so, that something was going from me,--the capacity, as it were, to be
myself. His eyes grew larger and larger, till they seemed to fill all
space--till I became lost in their immensity. He moved his hand, doing
something to me, I know not what, as it passed through the air--cutting
the solid ground from underneath my feet, so that I fell headlong to the
ground. Where I fell, there I lay, like a log.
And the light went out.
CHAPTER IV
A LONELY VIGIL
I knew that the light went out. For not the least singular, nor, indeed,
the least distressing part of my condition was the fact that, to the best of

my knowledge and belief, I never once lost consciousness during the
long hours which followed. I was aware of the extinction of the lamp,
and of the black darkness which ensued. I heard a rustling sound, as if
the man in the bed was settling himself between the sheets. Then all
was still. And throughout that interminable night I remained, my brain
awake, my body dead, waiting, watching, for the day. What had
happened to me I could not guess. That I probably wore some of the
external evidences of death my instinct told me,--I knew I did.
Paradoxical though it may sound, I felt as a man might feel who had
actually died,--as, in moments of speculation, in the days gone by, I had
imagined it as quite possible that he would feel. It is very far from
certain that feeling necessarily expires with what we call life. I
continually asked myself if I could be dead,--the inquiry pressed itself
on