Can Such Things Be?

To-day I am said to live; to-morrow, here in this room, will lie a senseless shape of clay that all too long was I. If anyone lift the cloth from the face of that unpleasant thing it will be in gratification of a mere morbid curiosity.  Some, doubtless, will go further and inquire, “Who was he?” In this writing I supply the only answer that I am able to make—­Caspar Grattan.  Surely, that should be enough.  The name has served my small need for more than twenty years of a life of unknown length.  True, I gave it to myself, but lacking another I had the right.  In this world one must have a name; it prevents confusion, even when it does not establish identity.  Some, though, are known by numbers, which also seem inadequate distinctions.

One day, for illustration, I was passing along a street of a city, far from here, when I met two men in uniform, one of whom, half pausing and looking curiously into my face, said to his companion, “That man looks like 767.”  Something in the number seemed familiar and horrible.  Moved by an uncontrollable impulse, I sprang into a side street and ran until I fell exhausted in a country lane.

I have never forgotten that number, and always it comes to memory attended by gibbering obscenity, peals of joyless laughter, the clang of iron doors.  So I say a name, even if self-bestowed, is better than a number.  In the register of the potter’s field I shall soon have both.  What wealth!

Of him who shall find this paper I must beg a little consideration.  It is not the history of my life; the knowledge to write that is denied me.  This is only a record of broken and apparently unrelated memories, some of them as distinct and sequent as brilliant beads upon a thread, others remote and strange, having the character of crimson dreams with interspaces blank and black—­witch-fires glowing still and red in a great desolation.

Standing upon the shore of eternity, I turn for a last look landward over the course by which I came.  There are twenty years of footprints fairly distinct, the impressions of bleeding feet.  They lead through poverty and pain, devious and unsure, as of one staggering beneath a burden —

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow.

Ah, the poet’s prophecy of Me—­how admirable, how dreadfully admirable!

Backward beyond the beginning of this via dolorosa—­this epic of suffering with episodes of sin—­I see nothing clearly; it comes out of a cloud.  I know that it spans only twenty years, yet I am an old man.

One does not remember one’s birth—­one has to be told.  But with me it was different; life came to me full-handed and dowered me with all my faculties and powers.  Of a previous existence I know no more than others, for all have stammering intimations that may be memories and may be dreams.  I know only that my first consciousness was of maturity in body and mind—­a consciousness accepted without surprise or conjecture.  I merely found myself walking in a forest, half-clad, footsore, unutterably weary and hungry.  Seeing a farmhouse, I approached and asked for food, which was given me by one who inquired my name.  I did not know, yet knew that all had names.  Greatly embarrassed, I retreated, and night coming on, lay down in the forest and slept.

The next day I entered a large town which I shall not name.  Nor shall I recount further incidents of the life that is now to end—­a life of wandering, always and everywhere haunted by an overmastering sense of crime in punishment of wrong and of terror in punishment of crime.  Let me see if I can reduce it to narrative.

I seem once to have lived near a great city, a prosperous planter, married to a woman whom I loved and distrusted.  We had, it sometimes seems, one child, a youth of brilliant parts and promise.  He is at all times a vague figure, never clearly drawn, frequently altogether out of the picture.

One luckless evening it occurred to me to test my wife’s fidelity in a vulgar, commonplace way familiar to everyone who has acquaintance with the literature of fact and fiction.  I went to the city, telling my wife that I should be absent until the following afternoon.  But I returned before daybreak and went to the rear of the house, purposing to enter by a door with which I had secretly so tampered that it would seem to lock, yet not actually fasten.  As I approached it, I heard it gently open and close, and saw a man steal away into the darkness.  With murder in my heart, I sprang after him, but he had vanished without even the bad luck of identification.  Sometimes now I cannot even persuade myself that it was a human being.

Crazed with jealousy and rage, blind and bestial with all the elemental passions of insulted manhood, I entered the house and sprang up the stairs to the door of my wife’s chamber.  It was closed, but having tampered with its lock also, I easily entered and despite the black darkness soon stood by the side of her bed.  My groping hands told me that although disarranged it was unoccupied.

“She is below,” I thought, “and terrified by my entrance has evaded me in the darkness of the hall.”

With the purpose of seeking her I turned to leave the room, but took a wrong direction—­the right one!  My foot struck her, cowering in a corner of the room.  Instantly my hands were at her throat, stifling a shriek, my knees were upon her struggling body; and there in the darkness, without a word of accusation or reproach, I strangled her till she died!

There ends the dream.  I have related it in the past tense, but the present would be the fitter form, for again and again the somber tragedy reenacts itself in my consciousness—­over and over I lay the plan, I suffer the confirmation, I redress the wrong.  Then all is blank; and afterward the rains beat against the grimy window-panes, or the snows fall upon my scant attire, the wheels rattle in the squalid streets where my life lies in poverty and mean employment.  If there is ever sunshine I do not recall it; if there are birds they do not sing.

There is another dream, another vision of the night.  I stand among the shadows in a moonlit road.  I am aware of another presence, but whose I cannot rightly determine.  In the shadow of a great dwelling I catch the gleam of white garments; then the figure of a woman confronts me in the road—­my murdered wife!  There is death in the face; there are marks upon the throat.  The eyes are fixed on mine with an infinite gravity which is not reproach, nor hate, nor menace, nor anything less terrible than recognition.  Before this awful apparition I retreat in terror—­a terror that is upon me as I write.  I can no longer rightly shape the words.  See! they —

Now I am calm, but truly there is no more to tell:  the incident ends where it began—­in darkness and in doubt.

Yes, I am again in control of myself:  “the captain of my soul.”  But that is not respite; it is another stage and phase of expiation.  My penance, constant in degree, is mutable in kind:  one of its variants is tranquillity.  After all, it is only a life-sentence.  “To Hell for life”—­that is a foolish penalty:  the culprit chooses the duration of his punishment.  To-day my term expires.

To each and all, the peace that was not mine.