Woven with the Ship: A Novel of 1865 by Cyrus Townsend Brady
THE LAST TRIBUTE TO HIS GENIUS
TRAGEDY
"I have heard That guilty creatures sitting at a play, Have, by the very cunning of the scene, Been struck so to the soul that presently They have proclaim'd their malefactions; For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ."
SHAKESPEARE
The crime had been one of peculiar atrociousness. While the little oldman who kept the quaint curiosity-shop down on Linden Street seemed tohave few or no friends, he was blessed with a great manyacquaintances, especially among the people of the better class, forwhom it was quite a fad to visit the dingy, shabby little store, withits assortment of bric-a-brac, mouldy books, articles of virtu, andantiques, genuine or spurious, valuable or worthless, all heaped aboutin promiscuous confusion.
Indeed, the "Major" was not the least curious object in thecollection. Few people knew that the title represented gallant andyouthful soldiering in Rebellion days before he shrivelled and driedup in the musty little shop. When, therefore, he was found dead amonghis raffle of goods, about half after seven on a summer evening, withhis brains brutally beaten out by a hammer, which lay by his side, thegreatest excitement was manifested everywhere. That a man should bemurdered in a store on one of the main thoroughfares of the city atthat hour and in that way; that the murderer should make his escape bythe front door, which was left open, were in themselves sufficientlyremarkable facts to engage widespread attention.
Rewards were offered by the city government; the metropolitan policeforce, supplemented by the best detectives that could be imported, whowere paid by private subscription, worked upon the case in vain. Noclew presented itself, nothing whatever was discovered. The contentsof the shop were finally sold at auction and the store was closed. Theestate, which was surprisingly small, contrary to the generalopinion,--which, in fact, consisted merely of the proceeds of the saleof the goods,--was administered in the interests of some distantconnections, and the whole affair after a short time was practicallyforgotten. Yet somewhere on the earth a man wandered with the guilt ofmurder heavy on his soul.
* * * * *
When it was announced in the advertisements that Sir Henry Irving, thegreat English actor, was to play _The Bells_ on Thursday night,society--and those not within the charmed circle who could scrapetogether the unusual price demanded by the elaborate nature of SirHenry's staging--anticipated a great intellectual treat. To see thecharacter of Matthias interpreted by such a master of the tragic artcould hardly be called entertaining, of course, yet anything whichtakes us out of the humdrum routine of every-day life and quickens theblood that beats with such commonplace sluggishness ordinarily is mostdesirable. It is easy, therefore, to understand the avidity with whichthe opportunity for paying the unusual price for being shocked andterrified was welcomed.
The play, with its damnable iteration of chiming sleigh-bells and itsawful portrayal of the struggles of a crime-stained human soul againstdiabolic memories, proceeded with that wonderful smoothness andeffectiveness for which Sir Henry's productions were famous. After theshort intermission at the close of the second act, the audience, mostof whom were familiar with the story, settled themselves withdelicious thrills of foreboding anticipation to witness the dreadfuland harrowing denouement in which the murderer's dream--that the crimeof years is at last exposed and the brand of guilt is fixed upon hishonored brow--is exhibited on the stage in all its terrific realism.
The house, including the stage, was totally dark. A weird, ghastlybeam of light thrown from the wings fell fitfully upon the face of SirHenry,--no, of Matthias himself. The great actor's identity was lost,merged, forgotten in the character he portrayed. Not another thingcould be perceived in the theatre. The gaze of every man and woman andchild in that vast assemblage was concentrated upon that beautiful,mobile, terrible face. The silence with which the audience listened tothat piercing, shuddering voice out of the darkness was oppressive.Could one's attention have been distracted from that stage he mighthave caught the quickening intake of deep breaths, or here and theremarked the low, quivering sighs with which nervous people, under theinfluence of that terrible portrayal of the agony of remorse andapprehension at detected murder, trembled, watched, and waited.
Yet there was nothing actually to be seen in the opera-house but theface of the actor, or sometimes a white, ghastly hand and a dim, darksuggestion of a body writhing in mortal torture, so keen as almost topass belief, in a _tour de force_ of unwilling confession. Thedetachment was perfect, the illusion was complete; there before themwas a soul in judgment.
As the man was forced, under the influence of a higher power than hisown, to describe the murder, the base violation of hospitality, theblow of the axe that killed a guest, by which fifteen years before hehad laid the foundation of his fortune; as he was constrained to actagain before his judges in hypnotic trance the awful happenings of thetragedy of that Christmas Eve, of which none had suspected him; andwhen, on being released from the spell, his confession was read to himby the court, and the realization came to him that the fabric ofrespectability which he had carefully created upon the shifting sandof murder had crashed into nothing,--who, that has seen it, or heardit, will ever forget the fearful anguish and despair of that wreckedsoul?
As Matthias fell prostrate at the feet of the judges, moaning in utterdesolation and abandonment, the appalling stillness was suddenlybroken, and this time the sound came not from the stage. Out of thedarkness of the auditorium a thin, high voice, fraught with a note oftorture more real and intense, if possible, than that which themarvellous skill of the actor had produced, was hurled into the greatvault of the theatre.
"No, no," it cried; "you are wrong. It was a hammer!"
The surprise of the audience for the moment held them still, while thevoice shrieked out in the darkness,--
"It is enough! I'll confess. Guilty, oh, my God, guilty! It was I! Themurder--light, for God's sake, light!"
A woman screamed suddenly. People rose to their feet. One of thosestrange, swaying movements which bespeak a panic ran through thecrowd. Matthias on the stage rose instantly, faced about, and walkedtoward the dark footlights, a genuine horror in his soul this time,for no human voice that he had ever heard had carried such mortal painas that which had just spoken. The theatre was filled with a babel ofvoices. Confused shouts and cries came from all sides.
"Lights, lights!"
"What is it?"
"Go on with the performance!"
At that instant the lights were turned up. There, in the middle aisle,a few rows from the orchestra rail, a tall, thin man, his haggard facewhite with emotion, his eyes staring, his teeth clinched 'neathbloodless lips, stood swaying unsteadily to and fro. His handsuplifted as if to ward off a blow, he stood utterly oblivious ofeverything but Matthias. From the chair beside him a woman with a facescarcely less white, in which were mingled incredulity, surprise, andhorror, reached her arms up to him as if to save him.
"I can't stand it any longer!" cried the man, staring up at Matthias."You've done it. I'll confess all! It has torn me to pieces!" hescreamed, clutching at his throat. "The Major--I beat him to deathwith his hammer, like you did, for his money. I took it from hisperson. I knew it was there. I was his friend, his only friend. MyGod! There was no place to burn his body. He's always at my feet. He'sstaring at me now by you on the stage!"
Sir Henry shrank away involuntarily as the man went on.
"Pity, pity!" he wailed, staggering, stumbling forward, falling uponhis knees nearer to Sir Henry. "Mercy!" he whispered at last, yet withsuch distinctness that they heard him in every corner of the theatre.
He knelt with his hands outstretched toward the stage, waiting forreprieve, sentence, condemnation,--God knows what.
The audience stared likewise with suspended hearts from the great butmimic figure of murder on one side of the footlights to the greaterand real figure of murder upon the ot
"You're my prisoner. I arrest you!"
"Too late," whispered the man; "I'm--going--going--to plead--inanother--court."
He pitched forward and fell on his face--dead. And a woman, dry-eyedwith horror, old love surviving honor, respect, righteousness, kneltby his side, took his head in her arms, and strove to kiss away fromhis brow the mark of Cain.
So the mystery of the Major's murder was solved at last, and SirHenry, as he thought it over in his chamber that night, realized thathe had received the greatest tribute that mortal man could pay to hisacting. His art had been so perfect--he had appeared the incarnationof terror, remorse, and retribution--that to that struggling soul hehad been as the voice of conscience,--nay, as the very voice of God.For the man had actually given way, broken down, and confessed asecret crime under the mighty spell of his acting, and, as thecriminal in the play, had died in the confession!
OUT OF THE WEST
"The sun sets fair in that Western land, Romance rides over the plains; There hearts are gay at the close of day,-- Man's duty's done, God reigns."
WARREN GILES