Chapter VII: Part 7

Hoyting lighted another cigarette. The atmosphere of my room was already densely blue, and I opened the window. His hand shot up. “Shut that, please. I can’t be interrupted by all those savage noises. God! for a breath of sea air!”

I sat down and faced him. After all, the man has never lived who could stage-manage Hoyting.

“Did you ever meet the Australian?” he asked.

“Whitaker? No.”

“A pretty bad lot, I gather.”

“Do you mean that he lied?”

“Oh, no. From what Paramore said, I should think that was just the one thing he didn’t do.”

Hoyting dropped his chin on his breast and narrowed his eyes. Then he shook his head very slowly. “At my time of life it’s silly to be always saying how strange things are, and how clever life is, and all that literary nonsense; but, on my word, if ever a scene was arranged to make a man a protagonist in spite of himself, this was it. Every element in that Dakar situation was contrived to bring Paramore out. He had fever and the prescience of death--which is often mistaken, but works just as well notwithstanding; he had performed his extraordinary task; he was in love with Madame Pothier. The cup was spilling over, and I was there to wipe up the overflow.”

Hoyting was silent for a moment. Then he spoke irritably.

“I don’t know where to begin. There isn’t any beginning to this story. It hasn’t any climax--or else it’s all climax. It’s just a mess. Well, I shall have to begin, I suppose, if Paramore didn’t. Perhaps the first thing was his sitting up in bed one morning and peering out at me through his mosquito-netting. It gave him a queer, caged look. His voice went with it--that cracked and throaty voice they have, you know. ‘Do you know Whitaker?’ he asked.

“‘No, indeed,’ I said. ‘You’d better lie down.’

“If you could have seen him then, you’d have felt, as I did, that he’d better not talk; that he wouldn’t say anything one wanted to hear.

“‘It was Whitaker that finished me.’ Still he peered out at me.

“‘You’re not finished.’ I remember lying quite peevishly about it. He so obviously _was_ finished.

“‘Yes, I am. And Whitaker did it. Oh, I mean I really did it.’

“I give you my word that he was startling, with that unnatural voice, that cunning look in his eyes the sick often get, and those little white cross-bars pressed against his face.

“‘Lie down,’ I said again. ‘What did Whitaker do?’

“He shook his head a little, and the netting moved on his face. It was horrid.

“‘He told them I couldn’t have done the stuff I’d brought back.’

“‘Did he know?’

“‘He didn’t know anything about folk-lore, but he did know where I’d been.’

“He spoke so impersonally that it led me on to ask questions. After all, I had told Madame Pothier I would stay with him through the morning, and I had to make the time go somehow for both of us. It was remittent fever without the chills, and there were fairish mornings at first. The afternoons and nights, when the malady rose like a wave and broke horribly after midnight--oh, those were bad. Madame Pothier and the regimental doctor took care of those. It looked fairly hopeful when he arrived, but finally all the worst symptoms came out, and before the end it was very bad. It was one of those cases that might, at the last, be yellow fever and just technically isn’t. Poor Paramore! Did I say that his face looked as old as all time under that shock of sun-bleached hair? It did.

“That questioning was the first of it. It fixed the name of Whitaker in my mind. I thought I’d find out something about him. You never can tell what will comfort a man in that state. But the Pothiers had never heard of him, or the Fathers at the Mission. I only mention those first remarks of Paramore’s to show you how I came into it. I had never heard of Paramore himself until that time in Dakar. I never read newspapers. All those good people said Paramore was a ‘grand savant,’ but they seemed a little vague, themselves. The only person who wasn’t vague was a lean, old, parchment-colored Father who was waiting for the next boat to take him home. He had been twenty years in the interior, and he was worn out--all except his voice, which was startlingly deep. He said no one could afford to study fetich but a priest. Père Bernard had no respect for anthropologists--thought they took a collector’s interest in preserving various primeval forms of sin, I suppose. I didn’t care for his mediæval manners, and I went back to Paramore with more sympathy. What a world! I always wondered if Paramore had some time, somewhere at the back of beyond, got him on the raw. Well, we shall never know. And yet I dare say the reverend old gentleman is here in Paris at this very moment. What a world! Nothing in it, according to Père Bernard, that isn’t magic--either white or black.

“I can’t tell you by what steps Paramore led me to his tragedy. I don’t remember those days separately at all. They went in jagged ups and downs--times when he talked, times when he was dumb, times when he might be said to rave. Then, too, he brought things out in no order at all. It was as if he lay in a world beyond perspective and expected you to sit outside of Space and Time, too, and see it all whole, as he did. That was rather unpleasant--he had so the manner of being dead and seeing his life from so far off that one thing in it was as near and as real as another. There was absolutely no selection. It was only by recurrence of certain things that you got any stress. And out of it all I managed to get the three main facts: the Royal Anthropological Institute, Whitaker, and the soul of Paramore. Madame Pothier was a close fourth, but she was only an accessory after the fact. That I swear. You believe it?”

I jerked my head up. “Good Heavens, Hoyting, how do I know? You haven’t told me anything yet.”

He rubbed his hands over his brows and frowned with closed eyes. “No; I beg your pardon. But, as I say, I see the whole thing. It’s hard to tell. It never was told to me. And I didn’t want you to think it was one of those silly tales of a man’s turning hero because he’s in love with a woman. If Paramore had asked me to tell Madame Pothier the story I’m telling you, I’d have turned on my heel and left him, if he’d been at the death gasp. I swear I would.”

Hoyting lighted another cigarette--the world’s supply must be inexhaustible!--and seemed to brace his huge body for concentrated effort.

“Well, here it is. Paramore had one passion in life--one double-distilled, quintessentially pure passion--and that passion was anthropology. There never was a stiffer, straighter, more Puritanical devotion to an idea than his. Get that into your head first, if you want to understand.”

I could be forgiven, it strikes me, for being sceptical, in the light of that neat _précis_ I had compiled from the newspapers. “Oh, come, Hoyting,” I said, “science doesn’t recruit from liars--not even when they’ve got Paramore’s deuced cheek. You are upset.”

One look at Hoyting’s gigantic lassitude put me in the wrong. It would take more than Paramore to upset Hoyting. He was perfectly firm, though very much bored. Imagine neurasthenia and Hoyting bunking together! One can’t. Hoyting smiled.

“No, it’s not nerves. Only you people who want everything all of a piece--you irritate me. The point about Paramore is that he combined contradictions. He was magnificently human. And as I am in possession of facts, I ask you to suspend your silly judgment until I’ve done. If you know anything about me, you know that I don’t go in for theories.”

I was silent.

“It was the only thing he cared about, I tell you. Nature implants something in every man that kills him in the end. Paramore wanted recognition from a very small, almost undiscernible, group of people whom neither you nor I nor any one else gives a damn for--a few old gentlemen in frock coats and gold eye-glasses who raise their poor, thin old eyebrows over the sins of Paris, but feel a tremulous pleasure in the nastiness of Melanesia. Why did he? Just because he believed they are a sacred sect. He honestly believed that anthropology was important. He thought it was big and real and vital and solemn. He had supreme respect for facts. He put every penny he had or ever hoped to have into going out to acquire them in the bush. The bush isn’t nice. The climate distressed him, the natives shocked him, the solitudes terrified him. Why did he go? Because he held, quite austerely, the scientific attitude towards data, evidence, material. Those old gentlemen needed more facts to feed their theories with, and Paramore was the boy to get them. When there’s neither health nor wealth nor pleasure to be got from doing a thing, a man doesn’t do it except for an idea.”

“Fame?” I suggested.

“Fame? Well, even if Paramore had told the truth, he wouldn’t have had any fame that you’d notice. It was just a pathetic belief in the sanctity of those few old gentlemen who potter round among unclean visions of primitive man. They can’t, in the nature of the case, be very numerous. If you want fame, you go for the crowd. He could have done a little fancy exploring if he’d wanted fame. No! Paramore had the superstition.”

“What really happened in Australia?”

“The only interesting thing happened inside Paramore. He decided to lie.”

“He must have been a bit of a coward. If he wanted so desperately to collect those filthy facts, why didn’t he collect them?”

“Bad luck--nothing else. He went as far as he could. But he was no seasoned traveller, you know. He just came to grief, as any man might, there in the wilderness. The stars in their courses--and so forth. He didn’t get so far west as he had meant to. Men went back on him, maps turned out incorrect, supplies failed awkwardly, everything happened that can happen. Then his interpreter died--his one absolutely trustworthy man--and the whole game was up. He lost his head; he believed his eyes; he believed lying natives. They made game of him, I dare say, in some grim, neolithic way. They said anything and everything about marriage customs--quite different things from group to group. He had bad luck with his own men--half a dozen of them died of dysentery or something--and he had to recruit on the spot. Why on earth should they tell him the truth? It was more fun not to. And, of course, now and then he pushed into some corner where the only use they had for him was to eat him. From those places he had to withdraw speedily. It’s not an anthropologist’s business to get killed unless he can be sure of getting his note-books home. He’s more like a spy, apparently, than a soldier.

“After eight or ten beastly months, despair was reeking round him like a mist. I think he said that, himself. His mind tried to peer out through it. He got nothing but a jumble of reports from those aborigines. Time after time they’d promise to let him in on some rite, and then their faces would be shamelessly blank when he kept his appointment. They said nothing that wasn’t carefully contradicted. Certain things he did get hold of, of course. Paramore swore to me that a good bit of his book was true as truth--but not enough to prove anything, to found theories on. About three of the note-books were genuine, but they made nothing coherent, he said. He put everything down, always intending to check and sift later.”

I may have looked a little bored, for Hoyting suddenly interrupted his narrative. “I’m telling you all this,” he said, “because it’s essential that you should know everything you can know about it. The thing’s going to be in your hands, and the more information you have the better. I’m not dragging you through this biography because I think it’s beautiful. I can see you loathe it all. Well ... if only you stay-at-home people would realize how much luck counts! You don’t dream of the mad dance of incalculable forces. What you really hate Paramore for is his having luck against him.”

“No,” I protested stiffly; “for lying.”

“If he had had luck, he wouldn’t have lied. He would have been prettier if he had been incapable of lying; but if he hadn’t needed to lie, you never would have known that he wasn’t as pretty as any one else. You’re quite right, of course. I’m not asking you to love Paramore, but I advise you to understand him as well as you can. You’ll find the whole business easier.”

“Say what you have made up your mind to say.” I couldn’t, at the moment, go further than that.

Hoyting swung back, as if there had been no interruption, as if I had been pleading with him not to stop.

“One day, when the despair was thickest, he had an idea. He may have been a little off his head, you know.... He wouldn’t confess his failure at all. He would let his imagination play over those note-books; he would supply from his generous brain everything that was needed. A good deal of it was new country, quite aboriginal and nasty, and his learning was sufficient to warn him off ground that had been authentically covered. It was also sufficient to keep him magnificently plausible. He would take his meagre gleanings to some secluded spot, and he would return to England with the completed sheaf. He would squeeze the last drop of significance out of every detail he had learned; and if he were put to it, he would invent. ‘No, not invent, exactly,’ he corrected himself when he told me. ‘I would draw conclusions and parallels; I would state probabilities as facts; and I would put in some--a very few--of the things I suspected but had no proof of. And then I would contradict a few things.’

“Those were his words, describing that ancient intention of his. ‘My pen got away with me,’ he confessed; ‘and the lust of making a beautiful book. There were things that occurred to me--I put them in. Any one who knows any folk-lore can make up customs with his eyes shut. After a little, you get to feel that if the beastly creatures didn’t do it that way they must be awful fools. And then you get to believe that they did. But I marked everything on the margin of my own manuscript as I wrote it, true or not true, inferred or just invented. That was later--much later--at Whitaker’s place.’

“I give you some of his words that I remember, you see. I don’t remember much. But that was the gist of his great confession. He had the idea--his one way to snap his fingers at luck. Until he got into the work, he didn’t know how his idea would dominate him. He first had the notion of putting just enough alloy into his book to give it body. In the end his idea rode him--and damned him. I’m leaving out a lot, but you can work that out for yourself--how his inspiration would have come, and what would have happened.”

“But what about his scientific passion? That has nothing to do with the ‘lust of making a beautiful book’--quite the contrary.”

“Wait till I’ve finished. Now comes Eve. _Place aux dames!_ ...

“Before he had struck out into the fatal west for himself, he had stopped with a planter. The planter’s name, of course, was Whitaker. There was a man who had isolated himself, and worked like a navvy, and made good. His history, I suppose, was much like all other local histories. His place, on one of the rivers that flow into Lake Eyre, was a kind of outpost. He was very glad to let Paramore sit on his verandah and talk to him in the evenings. Paramore must have been there six weeks before he finally started on his expedition--if you can call an unsuccessful, hand-made thing that leaked at every pore an expedition. The daughter, Joan Whitaker, was back from school in Melbourne. There was a fiancé of sorts about the place. I don’t remember much about him, least of all his name. He was approved by Whitaker. Paramore seems not to have noticed the girl--rather deliberately not to have noticed her, she being another man’s property. So Whitaker had no objection to prolonging Paramore’s stay. Paramore talked, I feel convinced, as well as he wrote. I saw of him only dregs and delirium, but I made that out. The love affair went on all over the plantation, while Whitaker and Paramore sat on the verandah and constituted society. They got on well enough, apparently. Paramore certainly liked Joan Whitaker, but he kept out of the way of the fortunate affair. Remember that; there’s no reason to doubt his word. It all came out, bit by bit, in troubled references--mixed up with his symptoms and medicines, and the ebb and flow of the fever.

“But out in the bush, later, the memory of her had grown upon him; I suppose, simply because, though so far away, she was the nearest feminine thing. At the heart of all that despair over the frustrated research, was an irrelevant sentimental regret that he shouldn’t be able to make love to her if he ever saw her again. In her flittings about, she had pricked his imagination once or twice--this bright creature that flitted at another man’s behest. You can see how it might be; and Paramore up to that time had been heart-whole. Moreover, his exploration was shocking and disgusting to him, as I’ve said--it was aimless nastiness without even the grace of bolstering up a theory. He didn’t love the work for itself, remember; only for its results and what he believed its sacred importance. He hated the technique of it. And Joan Whitaker was as different as a Melbourne schooling, and a fair complexion, and the awkwardness of innocence, could make her. She was all the things those unsatisfactory aborigines weren’t. I don’t think it went deeper than that. She merely served the moment. Any other girl would have done as well. Or, at least, that’s my notion.

“Well--you can see the rest from here. He went back with his big, insane idea, leaving despair farther behind him at every step. He struck straight back again to Whitaker’s place, and after nuisances and delays and impossible absurd misadventures, he got there. All the time, he carried his idea carefully intact, like a cup filled with precious liquid. He was most anxious to get to some place where he could sit down with pens and ink. He didn’t doubt Whitaker would take him in. Everything was to be completed before he sailed for England. The story would have been very different, I’m inclined to think, and Paramore might have been living to this day if the fiancé hadn’t turned out a bad lot and been shipped--or if Paramore himself hadn’t been a bit of a Puritan.

“He found Whitaker very much surprised to see him back so long before the date he had set, but only too glad to have him stay; and he also found the girl, no longer flitting about, but brooding on the bough. The rest was inevitable....

“Paramore got to work at once--making love to Joan Whitaker in the intervals, almost from the beginning. Then--mark the nature of the man--he found that the two things he was doing were incompatible. There’s no telling whether Joan Whitaker would have objected to his idea, but he seems to have been sure that she would if she knew. His idea rode him--the idea of getting the better of his bad luck. He didn’t want to cheat his fellow scientists, who had done him no harm, but he did want to cheat his mean destiny. He personified it like an enemy, I fancy. It must have been an obsession with him. Day by day, he saw better what the book--his revenge--was becoming; and in the end there was no mistaking it for a monstrous, magnificent lie, out of all proportion to what he had first intended. Some men might have managed even so--the men who keep life in water-tight compartments. Not Paramore. He didn’t see his way to offering Joan Whitaker a liar for a husband. It apparently never occurred to him to put the case before her. There are very few cases you can put to a girl of eighteen. And, as I’ve said, his feeling for her was all reverence and illusion and reversion to type. Any niceish girl would have done the trick for him; and any man would have looked eligible to her smarting conceit. But it was no marriage of true minds--just an affair of circumstance and of innocent senses, riotously collaborating. Madame Pothier--a finished creature--would have been a very different matter. But he had never seen her then....

“Oh, well; you see how it went. He was virtually staking everything on that book, which was virtually writing itself, ‘like a damned planchette,’ he told me. But he couldn’t let her stake anything on it; he couldn’t even ask her to. Moreover, it was one of those inconvenient situations where no explanation except the right one is of the slightest use. So he packed up his manuscript and left for some address, that he didn’t give, in New South Wales.”

“Like that?” I asked. The sudden turns of the thing were beginning to interest me, in spite of my Pharisaism.

“Oh, there were alarums and excursions, of course. But I had to guess them myself. Paramore’s mind had other things to dwell on. You can see it all, though: the girl, who had thought he was drifting towards a proposal; the man, Whitaker, who wanted his daughter settled and happy, and thought Paramore would do--oh, a lot of primitive instincts that we don’t recognize until they’re baffled; Paramore behaving as well as he knew how, granted his obsession; and they choosing to consider him a blackguard. Nothing violent happened, apparently, but you can understand the zest with which Whitaker probably spoke in London. There was black hate in his truth-telling. I fancy what Paramore had done wouldn’t in the least have shocked Whitaker if it had been done by his son-in-law. He didn’t mention the girl in that famous interview, and Paramore never knew what had become of her. I don’t think he cared. He never saw Whitaker again.”

Hoyting rose and walked to the window. The gray eyes looked curiously down on the rue de Rivoli, as if, for charity, he had taken a box at a pageant that bored him.

“This isn’t in my line, you know,” he said finally, turning back--“any of it. Paramore reeked of civilization--Great Russell Street, if you like. Hang civilization! Yet he went down with fever like a sick Kruboy. Well, I must get on with this. I wouldn’t stop in Paris another night for anything you could offer me.”

He sat down, his big frame shaking the little gilded armchair. But he seemed loath to begin. His gray eyes were closed.

“How did he get to Dakar?”

Hoyting’s eyes were still closed as he answered. “That was Paramore trying to wash himself white again. He was discredited, deservedly. He had lied, deliberately and rather long-windedly. No loophole anywhere for excuse. Paramore himself was the last man to find any excuse for it. He never carried a devil’s advocate about with him. Doubtless, at home, his own conscience had returned to him, in place of the changeling conscience that had dwelt with him in the wilderness. He knew his reputation was dead and buried with a stake through its heart. But he set himself to atone. Some men, feeling as he did, would have shaved their heads and put on a hair shirt. Not Paramore--though he would have saved me a lot of nuisance if he had. No; he wanted to retrieve himself in kind, as you might say. He would spend his life and his few crumbling bits of fortune in _doing_ the thing he had pretended to do. He would go to an utterly new field and stay till he’d amassed a treasure--priceless, authentic facts, each an unflawed pearl. That’s why he went to the Upper Niger--and here is his treasure.”

Hoyting opened his eyes suddenly, bent forward, and tossed the packet across to me.

“There you have it all. He went, he did the incredible thing, and then, quite properly, he died. The rest--the rest is mere drama.” He sat back.

I put the packet down. “Do you mean that these are his documents, and that you believe in them? Have you read them?”

“Have I read them? Do I look as if I would read an anthropologist’s note-books? Of course, I can see the humor of throwing over Christianity, lock, stock, and barrel, only to spend your life studying totemism--and on top of that, calling it a ‘career.’ If you think the absurdity of it is lost on me, you’re quite mistaken. But I would be willing to take my oath before the Last Tribunal that there isn’t a false word in that whole pile. Paramore did it--the more honor to him. When it comes to expecting any one else to believe it--I’m not such a fool. But I should think my word might suffice for you.”

I shrugged my shoulders.

Hoyting lighted another cigarette, folded his arms on the table, and looked at me. “I knew everything there was to know about Paramore before he died,” he affirmed. “I didn’t in the least want to know any of it, but it was inevitable. He had no control over his mental muscles--complete paralysis of the reticent nerve, you might say. I know, I tell you. If you don’t choose to believe it--you’ll have doubted my word, that’s all. I have all the evidence there is; and why should I lie about it?”

“Oh, I believe it--but it’s extraordinary.”

“Should I be here if it weren’t extraordinary? It’s preposterous. But there it is.”

“And the rest, you said, was drama?”

Hoyting looked out. “Let’s go to a café,” he said; “I want a rest.”

I assented. There is something in the transitoriness of a café crowd that quiets Hoyting. No one can be expected to stay overnight in a café. He likes the restlessness, the ridiculous suggestion that every one else may be as foot-loose as he. Besides, Hoyting is always restive under the strain of a story; he chafes at the bounds and limits of any rounded episode. He needs to draw breath and come back to it, as it were, from very far. So we ordered things; sitting on the very edge of the boulevard, we sipped and watched for an hour. In the end I saw signs of his return to the matter in hand.

“Beauty--” he began suddenly, pushing his glass aside, “it’s something I never see. But now and then a man or a woman delights me curiously. Madame Pothier was like that. She showed you what civilization of the older sort can do when it likes. And Paramore saw it, too. He was clean gone on her. He would have told her everything if he had had any right to. I said it wasn’t a silly tale of woman’s ennobling influence, didn’t I? No more it was. Yet he saw her as soon as he reached Africa, and I am sure he carried her image into the interior with him--as he once did Joan Whitaker’s, only with an immense difference, after all. This time he brought back truth instead of lies. So at least it couldn’t have been a bad image to live with.

“I got all this that I’ve been telling you, in bits and snatches, while I sat with him. The fever didn’t seem so bad at first--the doctor thought we could pull him through. You absolutely never know. I never thought he would pull through. Those very first questions of his, when he sat peering out at me through the mosquito-netting of his bed, didn’t seem to come from a man who had life before him. And when I had got those early details out of him, I somehow felt sure he’d go. I’m no pessimist; but I didn’t see life giving him a second chance. It was too much to hope that life would let him make good after all. And yet--he so nearly did. Damn fever!...

“Madame Pothier did everything she could. She was a good sort. I’ve always wondered, as much as it is permitted to wonder, whether she felt anything for Paramore. If she did, I am sure that she never knew it. There are women like that, you know. I don’t mean the women who gaze out of cold, sexless depths at the fires burning above, and wonder pruriently why the fires burn. She wasn’t that kind. I mean the women who, when they become wives, remain women only for their husbands. I don’t believe it would ever have occurred to her that any man save Marcel Pothier could look upon her with romantic interest. I don’t pretend to understand the phenomenon, but I know that it exists. A woman like that simply assumes that she is no longer a wandering lure constantly crossing the path of the male. She thinks all men’s eyes are veiled because hers are. A very pretty, pathetic ostrich trick. Sometimes it doesn’t work, but astonishingly often it does. With Paramore it did. All I mean is that she hadn’t dreamed Paramore worshipped her. She remembered him as a friend they had made two years before, and of course he was to come to them out of that pitiful Mission Hospital. No one in Dakar knew anything about Paramore’s fiasco. He wasn’t precisely famous, you see. Dakar was perfectly provincial. And Paramore was hoping, I dare say, that he could stave off the tale of his lie until he could lay before her the news of his atonement as well. The hardest thing he had to bear, probably, was dying and leaving his story to the telling of chance tongues, not knowing in what form it would eventually come to her. That, I am convinced, is why he told me so much--let his parched lips articulate those memories for me. But not once did he break down and ask me to tell her. Oh, I’ve good reason for respecting Paramore--a second-rate respect it must always be, I dare say, granted that extraordinary crumpling-up in Australia. But he never crumpled up again.

“For a day or two he hung in the balance. Then, after one exceedingly bad night, which left Madame Pothier blue under her fine eyes and white round her carved lips, he had his last coherent hours on earth....

“I shall never forget that morning. Pothier was away on duty. There were only the doctor, Madame Pothier, and I, and one or two frightened servants who wouldn’t come near. They thought it was yellow fever. Old Séraphine, Madame Pothier’s Auvergnat maid, hovered round in the corridors with a rosary. You could hear the click and shake of it in the still intervals. Once a ‘Je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grâce,’ cut across a delirious whispered oath. The pitiful part of it was that there was nothing to do. We just had to lift him through the agony and weakness as best we could until the coma should set in. There is nothing romantic about coast fever. It attacks you in the most sordid ways--deprives you first of dignity and then of life. Yet poor Paramore’s death-bed had a kind of nobility; perhaps because Madame Pothier was there. She was dressed in white and looked as wan and distant and compassionate as a nun. The straight black masses of her hair, arranged in an odd, angular way, looked like some kind of conventual cap. Paramore’s eyes followed her about....

“It was that morning he gave me the packet--told me where it was, made me get it out and take formal possession of it before him. Once, when the demon was leaving him a little quiet, he lifted his right hand. ‘I swear by--by all I hold sacred’ (his eyes were fixed on her, though he was speaking to me) ‘that I have told nothing there that is not true. All secondhand reports are in a note-book by themselves. It is labelled. Tell Beckwith especially about the Sabbath. Beckwith ought to follow it up. I sat in the hut by the sorcerer in his trance and waited for his spirit to come back. When he waked, he said he had delivered my message. He had delivered it. Three days later, the man I had sent for came running into the village. The sorcerer had told him, as he said he would, on the way to the Sabbath. I depose solemnly that the man came. His village was three days away. He had heard a voice at his door the night of the Sabbath--a voice that gave my message, that said it was in haste and could not stay. Very curious. Beckwith ought to know. It’s all there; but tell him. Of course, I never could get anything out of the sorcerer about the Sabbath. But Beckwith might put it in a foot-note, if they won’t print _me_.’ Then the sordid agony again.... Madame Pothier and the doctor didn’t understand English, by the way, and of course didn’t, in any case, understand the situation. They hadn’t listened to what I had listened to, all those earlier days. So when the doctor told me fussily that Paramore oughtn’t to talk and that death was only a few hours off, I paid no attention. Why shouldn’t he talk if death was so near? The only thing I could do for Paramore was to let him talk when he had strength. I sat tight and listened.”

Hoyting stopped. The lights winked out along the boulevard. Night had fallen with capricious suddenness. I ordered more drinks quietly. Hoyting was breathing hard; tired out, and, as I thought, very weary of it all, longing to slip the leash and be off. The air was cool and soft, and the crowd was thinning a little. People were dining and making ready to “go on.” I couldn’t have stirred, but that worn packet suddenly felt very heavy in my pocket.

Hoyting began sipping vermouth again. Finally he spoke. “He didn’t say a great deal more. The end was too near. But he spoke very clearly when he did speak; and whenever his eyes were open, they were fixed on Madame Pothier. Towards the last he put out his hand to me. I was holding the note-books--I shouldn’t have dared put them down so long as he was conscious. ‘There is only one woman in the world,’ he said, ‘and she belongs to Pothier. Look at her.’ I didn’t look at her, and he went on: ‘There may be other women alive, but I can’t believe it. Do you believe it?’

“He wasn’t wandering, you know. His mind had merely stripped his situation to its essentials; he was quite alone with the only facts that counted. He had summed life up, and didn’t have to keep truce any longer with mortal perspectives. He drew the real things round him like a cloak.... Absurd to talk of inconsequence; there was no inconsequence.

“I bent over him. ‘I’m not blind, Paramore.’

“‘No, but I am--blessedly blind.... And some day she’ll hate me, you think?’

“His lips were straining to ask me to see to it that she didn’t, but he controlled them. That--as much as anything--is why I’m here with you now. It was more than decent of him; it was fine. But, by the same token that he couldn’t ask, I couldn’t promise--though I saw that another _crise_ was near and the doctor was crossing over to the bed.

“‘I don’t believe she ever will,’ I said. ‘There’s so much she’ll never know.’

“I was thinking of his forlorn and beautiful passion for her, which she would have hated him for, because she would always have been afraid it was somehow her fault. Not quite fair when you work it out, but those women are like that. I saw in a flash, though--he took his eyes off her and looked at me, just once--that he thought I meant his miserable, discredited past. Then the doctor thrust me aside. The matter was never explained between us.

“There were only one or two more speeches of Paramore’s to record. The monosyllables wrung out of his weakness didn’t count--except, immensely, for pity. Very likely you know what the fatal fever symptoms are--ugly beyond compare. I won’t go into that. We were all pretty nearly done by the time the blessed coma settled over him. He opened his eyes just once more and fixed them on Madame Pothier, who stood at the foot of the bed. All his strength was in his poor eyes: his body was a corpse already. It was to me he spoke, but he looked at her until the lids fell. ‘Damn Whitaker! He’s a worm; but not such a worm as I.’

“A strange little blur came over his eyes. I turned my head for one instant. Madame Pothier, weeping, was holding up a crucifix. ‘I don’t believe God knows,’ he said. The words came very slowly from far down in his throat. We heard the voice just once more. ‘Madame!’ Then the eyes shut, and the scheduled number of hours followed, during which he was completely unconscious, until he died officially.”

Hoyting smoked quietly for a moment. Then he spoke hurriedly, as if he had to complete a report. “We buried him out there. The Pothiers were perfect. She was worn out by the strain of the illness and the nursing, but not more than any one would have been after such an experience. To the last I searched her face to see if she knew. It interested me curiously. I gave her a dozen chances to question me about Paramore. She behaved throughout as one who had no suspicion. She was polite about the note-books, and asked if they were to be edited, but she evidently didn’t in the least understand what he’d been up to. He was a ‘grand savant,’ she was sure, though Père Bernard thought, perhaps, his powers could have been more fortunately employed. Of course, _ce pauvre monsieur_ was not religious, which must be a great regret to his Catholic friends. She believed firmly, however, that the Divine Mercy was infinite and that there were more ways than one of making a good death. They were taking the liberty of having some masses said for his soul. Everything was said with the most perfect feeling, the utmost sincerity and gravity. What more _could_ a blind woman have said? I haven’t a shadow of doubt that, if ever the whole story were forced upon Thérèse Pothier, she would summon her intelligence gallantly and understand it all. Only, what on the face of it was there for her to understand?... I rather wish she were dead.”

“You wish--” I didn’t follow him.

“I’d like to be sure that, since she’ll never know the whole truth, she’ll never know more than she knew in Dakar. I was sorry for Paramore. He was tempted, and he fell, and he struggled up again and damned temptation to its face. Not a hero, oh, no. But there is something exhilarating in seeing the elements of heroism assemble in a man who is supposed to be a putty of cowardice.”

It was late, and, though Hoyting had not yet informed me of what he intended me to do with the packet, I suggested dining. We made our way to a very secluded and unfashionable restaurant, and ate, surrounded by French commercial types. Over our liqueurs, I asked him why he had given me the note-books.

“Why did you give me this stuff?”

Hoyting looked surprised. “I can’t do anything with it. I don’t know that sort of person. Can’t you look up the man Beckwith? I never heard of him, but he ought to be easy to find. I could tell all this to you, but I couldn’t go over to London and tell it to a court of inquiry. I don’t hold you responsible in any way, of course, but something ought to be done. I’m taking the night express to Genoa.”

“If you imagine I’m going to drop down from the blue on Sir James Beckwith--” I began.

Hoyting shrugged his shoulders. “You at least know who he is, apparently. That in itself is a sign.”

“But no one will read the tragic stuff,” I cried. “And yet you place Paramore’s reputation in my hands. You _do_ make me responsible.”

Hoyting looked at me across the table, smiling faintly and shaking his head.

“Didn’t I tell you that I don’t believe we can rehabilitate him? But we owe it to him to put his papers in the right hands. Beckwith couldn’t refuse to take them, at least; and then our duty would be done.”

I took the “our” without flinching. The tale of Paramore had weighed on me. “I’ll do it,” I said at last--“but never again, Hoyting.”

“Have I ever made such a request before?” he interrupted sharply.

“No, never.”

“Then, in God’s name, take it!” With his strong hand he made a gesture as if to sweep it all away from him. The liqueur glasses fell with a broken tinkle to the floor. Hoyting bit his lip. “I wouldn’t have the things back in my fingers again for anything under heaven. Good-bye.”

I started to my feet, but he had reached the door. He had the luck to step into a taxi the next instant with an indescribable farewell gesture.

It was part of Paramore’s persistent bad luck--the devil that pursued him was not put off by change of scene--that Sir James Beckwith died before I could make an appointment with him. From all I have heard of him, he certainly was the man to go to. Paramore’s note-books were coldly accepted in the quarters to which I finally took them; and I have always suspected that if my mien had been less desperate, they would have been politely handed back to me. No faintest echo of their reception has ever come to me, though I have, entirely on their account, subscribed to a dozen learned journals. I do not expect anything to happen, at this late date, in Paramore’s favor.

There is little reason to believe that the packet Hoyting cherished will be piously guarded by the hands to which I committed it. And, even if it were, no minor corroborations drifting in after many years could ever reconstitute for Paramore such a fame as he once lost. When I think of the matter at all, it is, curiously enough, to echo Hoyting’s wish that Madame Pothier would die. The best thing Paramore’s restless ghost can hope for, it seems to me, is that she may never know the very little the public knows about him. Sometimes that silence seems to me more desirable for him than rehabilitation itself. But then, I have never been interested in anthropology.

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

Hang civlization=> Hang civilization {pg 308}