The Collected Works of Ambrose Bierce — Volume 2: In the Midst of Life: Tales of Soldiers and Civilians

Beyond a smart shock of surprise and a shudder of mere loathing Mr. Brayton was not greatly affected.  His first thought was to ring the call bell and bring a servant; but although the bell cord dangled within easy reach he made no movement toward it; it had occurred to his mind that the act might subject him to the suspicion of fear, which he certainly did not feel.  He was more keenly conscious of the incongruous nature of the situation than affected by its perils; it was revolting, but absurd.

The reptile was of a species with which Brayton was unfamiliar.  Its length he could only conjecture; the body at the largest visible part seemed about as thick as his forearm.  In what way was it dangerous, if in any way?  Was it venomous?  Was it a constrictor?  His knowledge of nature’s danger signals did not enable him to say; he had never deciphered the code.

If not dangerous the creature was at least offensive.  It was de trop—­ “matter out of place”—­an impertinence.  The gem was unworthy of the setting.  Even the barbarous taste of our time and country, which had loaded the walls of the room with pictures, the floor with furniture and the furniture with bric-a-brac, had not quite fitted the place for this bit of the savage life of the jungle.  Besides—­insupportable thought!—­ the exhalations of its breath mingled with the atmosphere which he himself was breathing.

These thoughts shaped themselves with greater or less definition in Brayton’s mind and begot action.  The process is what we call consideration and decision.  It is thus that we are wise and unwise.  It is thus that the withered leaf in an autumn breeze shows greater or less intelligence than its fellows, falling upon the land or upon the lake.  The secret of human action is an open one:  something contracts our muscles.  Does it matter if we give to the preparatory molecular changes the name of will?

Brayton rose to his feet and prepared to back softly away from the snake, without disturbing it if possible, and through the door.  Men retire so from the presence of the great, for greatness is power and power is a menace.  He knew that he could walk backward without error.  Should the monster follow, the taste which had plastered the walls with paintings had consistently supplied a rack of murderous Oriental weapons from which he could snatch one to suit the occasion.  In the mean time the snake’s eyes burned with a more pitiless malevolence than before.

Brayton lifted his right foot free of the floor to step backward.  That moment he felt a strong aversion to doing so.

“I am accounted brave,” he thought; “is bravery, then, no more than pride?  Because there are none to witness the shame shall I retreat?”

He was steadying himself with his right hand upon the back of a chair, his foot suspended.

“Nonsense!” he said aloud; “I am not so great a coward as to fear to seem to myself afraid.”

He lifted the foot a little higher by slightly bending the knee and thrust it sharply to the floor—­an inch in front of the other!  He could not think how that occurred.  A trial with the left foot had the same result; it was again in advance of the right.  The hand upon the chair back was grasping it; the arm was straight, reaching somewhat backward.  One might have said that he was reluctant to lose his hold.  The snake’s malignant head was still thrust forth from the inner coil as before, the neck level.  It had not moved, but its eyes were now electric sparks, radiating an infinity of luminous needles.

The man had an ashy pallor.  Again he took a step forward, and another, partly dragging the chair, which when finally released fell upon the floor with a crash.  The man groaned; the snake made neither sound nor motion, but its eyes were two dazzling suns.  The reptile itself was wholly concealed by them.  They gave off enlarging rings of rich and vivid colors, which at their greatest expansion successively vanished like soap-bubbles; they seemed to approach his very face, and anon were an immeasurable distance away.  He heard, somewhere, the continuous throbbing of a great drum, with desultory bursts of far music, inconceivably sweet, like the tones of an æolian harp.  He knew it for the sunrise melody of Memnon’s statue, and thought he stood in the Nileside reeds hearing with exalted sense that immortal anthem through the silence of the centuries.

The music ceased; rather, it became by insensible degrees the distant roll of a retreating thunder-storm.  A landscape, glittering with sun and rain, stretched before him, arched with a vivid rainbow framing in its giant curve a hundred visible cities.  In the middle distance a vast serpent, wearing a crown, reared its head out of its voluminous convolutions and looked at him with his dead mother’s eyes.  Suddenly this enchanting landscape seemed to rise swiftly upward like the drop scene at a theatre, and vanished in a blank.  Something struck him a hard blow upon the face and breast.  He had fallen to the floor; the blood ran from his broken nose and his bruised lips.  For a time he was dazed and stunned, and lay with closed eyes, his face against the floor.  In a few moments he had recovered, and then knew that this fall, by withdrawing his eyes, had broken the spell that held him.  He felt that now, by keeping his gaze averted, he would be able to retreat.  But the thought of the serpent within a few feet of his head, yet unseen—­perhaps in the very act of springing upon him and throwing its coils about his throat—­ was too horrible!  He lifted his head, stared again into those baleful eyes and was again in bondage.

The snake had not moved and appeared somewhat to have lost its power upon the imagination; the gorgeous illusions of a few moments before were not repeated.  Beneath that flat and brainless brow its black, beady eyes simply glittered as at first with an expression unspeakably malignant.  It was as if the creature, assured of its triumph, had determined to practise no more alluring wiles.

Now ensued a fearful scene.  The man, prone upon the floor, within a yard of his enemy, raised the upper part of his body upon his elbows, his head thrown back, his legs extended to their full length.  His face was white between its stains of blood; his eyes were strained open to their uttermost expansion.  There was froth upon his lips; it dropped off in flakes.  Strong convulsions ran through his body, making almost serpentile undulations.  He bent himself at the waist, shifting his legs from side to side.  And every movement left him a little nearer to the snake.  He thrust his hands forward to brace himself back, yet constantly advanced upon his elbows.