Teleny or the Reverse of the Medal (24 page)

—But did he really exist?

—He did.

—And who was he?

—A man of my own age, and so exactly like myself that we might have been taken for twin brothers.

—And he had saved your life?

—Yes; it appears that on meeting me, he was not only struck with the strong likeness that existed between us, but also by the wildness of my appearance, therefore he was prompted to follow me. Having seen me throw myself into the water, he ran after me and managed to get me out.

—And did you see him again?

—I did, poor fellow! But that is another strange incident of my too-eventful life. Perhaps I'll tell it to you some other time.

—Then from the
Morgue?

—I begged to be transported to some neighboring hospital, where I could have a private room all to myself, where I should see nobody, where nobody would see me; for I felt ill—very ill.

As I was about to enter the carriage and go off from the charnel house, a shrouded corpse was borne thither. They said it was a young man who had just committed suicide.

I shuddered with fear, a terrible suspicion came into my mind. I begged the doctor who was with me to bid the coachman stop. I must see that corpse. It must be Teleny. The physician did not heed me, and the cab drove on.

On reaching the hospital, my attendant seeing my state of mind sent to inquire who the dead man was. The name they mentioned was unknown to me.

Three days passed. When I say three days, I mean a weary, endless space of time. The opiates the doctor had given me had put me to sleep, and had even stopped the horrible quivering of my nerves. But what opiate can cure a crushed heart?

At the end of those three days my manager had found me out, and came to see me. He seemed terrified with my appearance.

Poor fellow! he was at a loss what to say. He avoided anything that might jar upon my nerves, so he spoke about business. I listened for a while, though his words had no meaning for me, then I managed to find out from him that my mother had left town, and that she had already written to him from Geneva, where she was at present staying. He did not mention Teleny's name and I myself durst not utter it.

He offered me a room in his house, but I refused, and drove home with him. Now that my mother had gone I was obliged to go there— at least for a few days.

No one had called during my absence; there was no letter or message left for me, so that I too could say:

'My kinsfolk have failed, and my familiar friends have forgotten me.

'They that dwell in mine house, and my maids, count me for a stranger: I am an alien in their sight.'

Like Job I felt now that—

'All my inward friends abhorred me: and they whom I loved are turned against me.

'Yea, young children despised me.'

Still I was anxious to know something about Teleny, for terrors made me afraid on every side. Had he gone off with my mother, and not left the slightest message for me?

Still, what was he to write?

If he had remained in town, had I not told him that, whatever his fault might be, I should always forgive him if he sent me back the ring.

—And had he sent it back, could you have pardoned him?

—I loved him.

I could not bear this state of things any longer. Truth, however painful, was preferable to this dreadful suspense.

I called on Briancourt. I found his studio shut. I went to his house. He had not been at home for two days. The servants did not know where he was. They thought that he had, perhaps, gone to his father's in Italy.

Disconsolate, I roamed about the streets, and soon I found myself again before Teleny's house. The door downstairs was still open. I stole by the porter's lodge, frightened lest I might be stopped and told that my friend was not at home. No one, however, noticed me. I crept upstairs, shivering, nerveless, sick. I put the key in the lock, the door yielded noiselessly as it had done a few nights before. I went in.

Then I asked myself what I was to do next, and I almost turned on my heels and ran off.

As I stood there wavering, I thought I heard a faint moan.

I listened. All was quiet.

No, there was a groan—a low, dying wail.

It seemed to proceed from the white room.

I shuddered with horror.

I rushed in.

The recollection of what I saw freezes the very marrow in my bones.

'Even when I remember I am afraid, and trembling taketh hold of my flesh.'

I saw a pool of coagulated blood on the dazzling-white, fur carpet, and Teleny, half-fallen on the bearskin-covered couch. A small dagger was plunged in his breast, and the blood continued to trickle out of the wound.

I threw myself upon him; he was not quite dead; he groaned; he opened his eyes.

Overwhelmed by grief, distracted by terror, I lost all presence of mind. I let go of his head, and clasped my throbbing temples between my palms, trying to collect my thoughts and to dominate myself so as to help my friend.

Should I pluck the knife from the wound? No, it might be fatal.

Oh, if I had a slight knowledge of surgery! But having none, the only thing I could do was to call for help.

I ran onto the landing; I screamed out with all my might:

'Help, help! Fire, fire! Help!'

On the stairs my voice sounded like thunder.

The porter was out of his lodge in an instant.

I heard doors and windows opening. I again screamed out, 'Help!' and then, snatching up a bottle of cognac from the dining room sideboard, I hurried back to my friend.

I moistened his lips; I poured a few spoonfuls of brandy, drop by drop, down his mouth.

Teleny opened his eyes again. They were veiled and almost dead; only that mournful look he always had, had increased to such intensity that his pupils were as gloomy as a yawning grave; they thrilled me with an unutterable anguish. I could hardly stand that pitiful, stony look; I felt my nerves stiffen; my breath stopped; I burst out into a convulsive sobbing.

'Oh, Teleny! why did you kill yourself?' I moaned. 'Could you have doubted my forgiveness, my love?'

He evidently heard me, and tried to speak, but I could not catch the slightest sound.

'No, you must not die, I cannot part with you, you are my very life.'

I felt my fingers pressed slightly, imperceptibly.

The porter now made his appearance, but he stopped on the threshold, frightened, terrified.

'A doctor—for mercy's sake, a doctor! Take a carriage—run!' I said, imploringly.

Other people began to come in. I waved them back.

'Shut the door. Let no one else enter, but for God's sake fetch a doctor before it is too late!'

The people, aghast, stood at a distance, staring at the dreadful sight.

Teleny again moved his lips.

'Hush! silence!' I whispered sternly. 'He speaks!'

I felt racked at not being able to understand a single word of what he wanted to say. After several fruitless attempts I managed to make out:

'Forgive!'

'If I forgive you, my angel? But I not only forgive you, I'd give my life for you!'

The dreary expression of his eyes had deepened, still, grievous as they were, a happier look was to be seen in them. Little by little the heartfelt sadness teemed with ineffable sweetness. I could hardly bear his glances any longer; they were torturing me. Their burning fire sank far into my soul.

Then he again uttered a whole phrase, the only two words of which I guessed rather than heard were—

'Briancourt—letter.'

After that his waning strength began to forsake him.

As I looked at him I saw that his eyes were getting clouded, a faint film came over them, he did not seem to see me any more. Yes, they were getting ever more glazed and glassy.

He did not attempt to speak, his lips were tightly shut. Still, after a few moments, he opened his mouth spasmodically; he gasped. He uttered a low, choking raucous sound.

It was his last breath. Death's awful rattle.

The room was hushed.

I saw the people cross themselves. Some women knelt, and began to mumble prayers.

A horrible light dawned upon me.

What! He is dead, then?

His head fell lifeless on my chest.

I uttered a shrill cry. I called for help.

A doctor had come at last.

'He is beyond help,' the doctor said; 'he is dead.'

What! My Teleny dead?

I looked around at the people. Aghast, they seemed to shrink from me. The room began to spin around. I knew nothing more. I had fainted.

I only came back to my senses after some weeks. A certain dullness had come over me,

Earth seemed a desert

I was bound to traverse.

Still the idea of self-murder never returned to my mind. Death did not seem to want me.

In the meanwhile, my story, in veiled words, had appeared in every newspaper. It was too dainty a bit of gossip not to spread about at once like wildfire.

Even the letter Teleny had written to me before his suicide—stating that his debts, which had been paid by my mother, had been the cause of his infidelity—had got to be public property.

Then, Heaven having revealed my iniquity, the earth rose against me; for if Society does not ask you to be intrinsically good, it asks you to make a goodly show of morality, and, above all, to avoid scandals. Therefore a famous clergyman—a saintly man—preached at that time an edifying sermon, which began with the following text:

'His remembrance shall perish from the earth, and he shall have no name in the street.'

And he ended it, saying:

'He shall be driven from light into darkness, and chased out of the world.'

Whereupon all Teleny's friends, the Zophars, the Eliphazes, and the Bildads uttered a loud Amen!

—And Briancourt and your mother?

—Oh, I promised to tell you her adventures! I may do so some other time. They are well worth hearing.