The Blue Flower [18]
ruins of the chimney, a man
of an aspect so striking that to this day his face and figure
are as vivid in my memory as if it were but yesterday that I
had met him.
He was dressed in black, the coat of a somewhat formal
cut, a long cravat loosely knotted in his rolling collar. His
head was bare, and the coal-black hair, thick and waving, was
in some disorder. His face, smooth and pale, with high
forehead, straight nose, and thin, sensitive lips--was it old
or young? Handsome it certainly was, the face of a man of
mark, a man of power. Yet there was something strange and
wild about it. His dark eyes, with the fine wrinkles about
them, had a look of unspeakable remoteness, and at the same
time an intensity that seemed to pierce me through and
through. It was as if he saw me in a dream, yet measured me,
weighed me with a scrutiny as exact as it was at bottom
indifferent.
But his lips were smiling, and there was no fault to be
found, at least, with his manner. He had risen from the broad
stone where he had evidently been sitting with his back against
the chimney, and came forward to greet me.
"You will pardon the abruptness of my greeting? I thought
you might not care to make acquaintance with the present
tenant of this old house--at least not without an
introduction."
"Certainly not," I answered, "you have done me a real
kindness, which is better than the outward form of courtesy.
But how is it that you stay at such close quarters with this
unpleasant tenant? Have you no fear of him?"
"Not the least in the world," he answered, laughing. "I
know the snakes too well, better than they know themselves.
It is not likely that even an old serpent with thirteen
rattles, like this one, could harm me. I know his ways.
Before he could strike I should be out of reach."
"Well," said I, "it is a grim thought, at all events, that
this house, once a cheerful home, no doubt, should have fallen
at last to be the dwelling of such a vile creature."
"Fallen!" he exclaimed. Then he repeated the word with a
questioning accent--"fallen? Are you sure of that? The snake,
in his way, may be quite as honest as the people who lived here
before him, and not much more harmful. The farmer was a miser
who robbed his mother, quarrelled with his brother, and starved
his wife. What she lacked in food, she made up in drink, when
she could. One of the children, a girl, was a cripple, lamed by
her mother in a fit of rage. The two boys were ne'er-do-weels
who ran away from home as soon as they were old enough. One of
them is serving a life-sentence in the State prison for
manslaughter. When the house burned down some thirty years ago,
the woman escaped. The man's body was found with the head
crushed in--perhaps by a falling timber. The family of our
friend the rattlesnake could hardly surpass that record, I think.
But why should we blame them--any of them? They were only acting
out their natures. To one who can see and understand, it is all
perfectly simple, and interesting--immensely interesting."
It is impossible to describe the quiet eagerness, the cool
glow of fervour with which he narrated this little history. It
was the manner of the triumphant pathologist who lays bare some
hidden seat of disease. It surprised and repelled me a little;
yet it attracted me, too, for I could see how evidently he
counted on my comprehension and sympathy.
"Well," said I, "it is a pitiful history. Rural life is
not all peace and innocence. But how came you to know the
story?"
"I? Oh, I make it my business to know a little of
everything, and as much as possible of human life, not
excepting the petty chronicles of the rustics around me. It
is my chief pleasure. I earn my living by teaching boys. I
find my satisfaction in studying men. But you are on a
journey, sir, and night is falling. I must not detain you.
Or perhaps you will allow me to forward you a little by
serving as a guide. Which way were you going when you turned
aside to look at this dismantled
of an aspect so striking that to this day his face and figure
are as vivid in my memory as if it were but yesterday that I
had met him.
He was dressed in black, the coat of a somewhat formal
cut, a long cravat loosely knotted in his rolling collar. His
head was bare, and the coal-black hair, thick and waving, was
in some disorder. His face, smooth and pale, with high
forehead, straight nose, and thin, sensitive lips--was it old
or young? Handsome it certainly was, the face of a man of
mark, a man of power. Yet there was something strange and
wild about it. His dark eyes, with the fine wrinkles about
them, had a look of unspeakable remoteness, and at the same
time an intensity that seemed to pierce me through and
through. It was as if he saw me in a dream, yet measured me,
weighed me with a scrutiny as exact as it was at bottom
indifferent.
But his lips were smiling, and there was no fault to be
found, at least, with his manner. He had risen from the broad
stone where he had evidently been sitting with his back against
the chimney, and came forward to greet me.
"You will pardon the abruptness of my greeting? I thought
you might not care to make acquaintance with the present
tenant of this old house--at least not without an
introduction."
"Certainly not," I answered, "you have done me a real
kindness, which is better than the outward form of courtesy.
But how is it that you stay at such close quarters with this
unpleasant tenant? Have you no fear of him?"
"Not the least in the world," he answered, laughing. "I
know the snakes too well, better than they know themselves.
It is not likely that even an old serpent with thirteen
rattles, like this one, could harm me. I know his ways.
Before he could strike I should be out of reach."
"Well," said I, "it is a grim thought, at all events, that
this house, once a cheerful home, no doubt, should have fallen
at last to be the dwelling of such a vile creature."
"Fallen!" he exclaimed. Then he repeated the word with a
questioning accent--"fallen? Are you sure of that? The snake,
in his way, may be quite as honest as the people who lived here
before him, and not much more harmful. The farmer was a miser
who robbed his mother, quarrelled with his brother, and starved
his wife. What she lacked in food, she made up in drink, when
she could. One of the children, a girl, was a cripple, lamed by
her mother in a fit of rage. The two boys were ne'er-do-weels
who ran away from home as soon as they were old enough. One of
them is serving a life-sentence in the State prison for
manslaughter. When the house burned down some thirty years ago,
the woman escaped. The man's body was found with the head
crushed in--perhaps by a falling timber. The family of our
friend the rattlesnake could hardly surpass that record, I think.
But why should we blame them--any of them? They were only acting
out their natures. To one who can see and understand, it is all
perfectly simple, and interesting--immensely interesting."
It is impossible to describe the quiet eagerness, the cool
glow of fervour with which he narrated this little history. It
was the manner of the triumphant pathologist who lays bare some
hidden seat of disease. It surprised and repelled me a little;
yet it attracted me, too, for I could see how evidently he
counted on my comprehension and sympathy.
"Well," said I, "it is a pitiful history. Rural life is
not all peace and innocence. But how came you to know the
story?"
"I? Oh, I make it my business to know a little of
everything, and as much as possible of human life, not
excepting the petty chronicles of the rustics around me. It
is my chief pleasure. I earn my living by teaching boys. I
find my satisfaction in studying men. But you are on a
journey, sir, and night is falling. I must not detain you.
Or perhaps you will allow me to forward you a little by
serving as a guide. Which way were you going when you turned
aside to look at this dismantled