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- Herausgeber: ePembaBooks
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
- This edition includes the following editor's introduction: Robert William Chambers, a successful, influential and chameleonic writer
American writer Robert W. Chambers is best known for his book “The King in Yellow,” a collection of short stories mostly of the macabre horror variety. His book “In Search of the Unknown,” published in 1904, shows a more light hearted side to Chambers. This work is ostensibly a novel, but it reads more like a collection of short stories that have been cobbled together into one continuous narrative. They are linked by a frame narrative (the protagonist is sent to help secure an odd creature) and similar structure (the protagonist falls in love and fails to win the heart of the source of his infatuation).
Chambers' early novel explores the mysteries of the unknown. Throughout the stories, the book's protagonist and narrator, Mr. Gilland, will go on the hunt for strange animals and the supernatural.
“In Search of the Unknown” is science fiction in the most literal sense, in that it’s not about speculative visions of outer space or the future, but rather about a scientist and the practice of science.
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Robert W. Chambers
Table of contents
Robert William Chambers, a successful, influential and chameleonic writer
IN SEARCH OF THE UNKNOWN
Preface
Epigraph
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
Robert William Chambers, a successful, influential and chameleonic writer
The work of Robert William Chambers, little known by the average fan of fantasy and horror, occupies a modest but meritorious place in fantasy literature, so it seems necessary to vindicate the role played by this American author.
Chambers was born in New York in 1865. He was one of the offspring of a wealthy family whose origins went back to the founder of Rhode Island. He was the brother of the architect Walter Boughton Chambers. He attended Brooklyn Polytechnic Institute, where his interest in painting, sports and nature became evident. As a result, he joined the Art Students' League, where he was a fellow student and, later, a friend of the illustrator Charles Dana Gibson, who would later illustrate some of his works. In 1886 he went to live in Paris to attend the École des Beaux-Arts and the Julien Academy, exhibiting his paintings at the Paris Salon in 1889. In 1893 he returned to New York, where he got a job as an illustrator for the current affairs magazines Life, Truth and Vogue. In 1894 he published his first book, entitled “In The Quarter,” an exercise in Parisian bohemianism that served as the basis for his immediately subsequent work, which was none other than “The King in Yellow” (1895), marked by the theme of supernatural horror. The book was so successful that Chambers devoted himself professionally to literature, writing more fantasy-themed books such as “The Maker of Moons” (1896) and “The Mystery of Choice” (1897) or historical novels such as the cycle comprising “The Red Republic” (1895), “Lorraine” and “Ashes of Empire” (both published as a book in 1898), chronologically centred on the Franco-Prussian War and the fall of the Second French Empire. He married in 1898 and lived between New York and his home in Broadbaldin, at the foot of the Adirondacks, where he devoted himself to enjoying his more than varied hobbies, including collecting butterflies, medieval armour and Far Eastern art, becoming the cult dilettante Lovecraft dreamed of without ever achieving it. At the beginning of the 20th century, Chambers' literary career was already a more than lucrative job, and while he tackled the epic of American history with works of recognized fame such as “Cardigan” (1901), he began to write an endless number of romantic novels for the female audience, some of which became successful best-sellers that enjoyed film adaptations in the silent movies of the time, such as "The Danger Mark" (1909). Mired in this dynamic (history and romance), and less and less interested in literary prestige and the opinion of critics, he became a much more conventional writer but very well paid by magazines and literary publishers, without abandoning sporadic incursions into other genres such as mystery, horror and even science fiction with titles such as “ In Search of the Unknown” (1904), “The Tree of Heaven” (1907) and “The Slayer of Souls” (1920). An intestinal ailment led Chambers to his death in 1933, leaving behind a character who was very famous in his time, a member of the National Institute of Arts and Letters, a regular visitor to fashionable clubs and author of about eighty-five books (including novels and anthologies of short stories) of very uneven quality. Time covered his name with oblivion, and his memory, by ironies of fate, is due to the influence that a handful of his early stories exerted on a cursed writer of posthumous fame: Howard Phillips Lovecraft.
Time is an implacable literary judge, first exalting and then forgetting fashions and circumstances. Chambers enjoyed the sweetness of success with a production of little originality and good literary marketing, but he has survived with a handful of fantastic stories made, and never better said, for the love of art.
The Editor, P.C. 2022
IN SEARCH OF THE UNKNOWN
Robert W. Chambers
To My Friend E. Le Grand Beers
MY DEAR LE GRAND,—You and I were early drawn together by a common love of nature. Your researches into the natural history of the tree–toad, your observations upon the mud–turtles of Providence Township, your experiments with the fresh–water lobster, all stimulated my enthusiasm in a scientific direction, which has crystallized in this helpful little book, dedicated to you.
THE AUTHOR.
Preface
It appears to the writer that there is urgent need of more "nature books"—books that are scraped clear of fiction and which display only the carefully articulated skeleton of fact. Hence this little volume, presented with some hesitation and more modesty. Various chapters have, at intervals, appeared in the pages of various publications. The continued narrative is now published for the first time; and the writer trusts that it may inspire enthusiasm for natural and scientific research, and inculcate a passion for accurate observation among the young.
THE AUTHOR.
April 1, 1904.
Epigraph
I
Because it all seems so improbable—so horribly impossible to me now, sitting here safe and sane in my own library—I hesitate to record an episode which already appears to me less horrible than grotesque. Yet, unless this story is written now, I know I shall never have the courage to tell the truth about the matter—not from fear of ridicule, but because I myself shall soon cease to credit what I now know to be true. Yet scarcely a month has elapsed since I heard the stealthy purring of what I believed to be the shoaling undertow—scarcely a month ago, with my own eyes, I saw that which, even now, I am beginning to believe never existed. As for the harbor–master—and the blow I am now striking at the old order of things—But of that I shall not speak now, or later; I shall try to tell the story simply and truthfully, and let my friends testify as to my probity and the publishers of this book corroborate them.
On the 29th of February I resigned my position under the government and left Washington to accept an offer from Professor Farrago—whose name he kindly permits me to use—and on the first day of April I entered upon my new and congenial duties as general superintendent of the water–fowl department connected with the Zoological Gardens then in course of erection at Bronx Park, New York.
For a week I followed the routine, examining the new foundations, studying the architect's plans, following the surveyors through the Bronx thickets, suggesting arrangements for water–courses and pools destined to be included in the enclosures for swans, geese, pelicans, herons, and such of the waders and swimmers as we might expect to acclimate in Bronx Park.
It was at that time the policy of the trustees and officers of the Zoological Gardens neither to employ collectors nor to send out expeditions in search of specimens. The society decided to depend upon voluntary contributions, and I was always busy, part of the day, in dictating answers to correspondents who wrote offering their services as hunters of big game, collectors of all sorts of fauna, trappers, snarers, and also to those who offered specimens for sale, usually at exorbitant rates.
To the proprietors of five–legged kittens, mangy lynxes, moth–eaten coyotes, and dancing bears I returned courteous but uncompromising refusals—of course, first submitting all such letters, together with my replies, to Professor Farrago.
One day towards the end of May, however, just as I was leaving Bronx Park to return to town, Professor Lesard, of the reptilian department, called out to me that Professor Farrago wanted to see me a moment; so I put my pipe into my pocket again and retraced my steps to the temporary, wooden building occupied by Professor Farrago, general superintendent of the Zoological Gardens. The professor, who was sitting at his desk before a pile of letters and replies submitted for approval by me, pushed his glasses down and looked over them at me with a whimsical smile that suggested amusement, impatience, annoyance, and perhaps a faint trace of apology.
"Now, here's a letter," he said, with a deliberate gesture towards a sheet of paper impaled on a file—"a letter that I suppose you remember." He disengaged the sheet of paper and handed it to me.
"Oh yes," I replied, with a shrug; "of course the man is mistaken—or—"
"Or what?" demanded Professor Farrago, tranquilly, wiping his glasses.
"—Or a liar," I replied.
After a silence he leaned back in his chair and bade me read the letter to him again, and I did so with a contemptuous tolerance for the writer, who must have been either a very innocent victim or a very stupid swindler. I said as much to Professor Farrago, but, to my surprise, he appeared to waver.
"I suppose," he said, with his near–sighted, embarrassed smile, "that nine hundred and ninety–nine men in a thousand would throw that letter aside and condemn the writer as a liar or a fool?"
"In my opinion," said I, "he's one or the other."
"He isn't—in mine," said the professor, placidly.
"What!" I exclaimed. "Here is a man living all alone on a strip of rock and sand between the wilderness and the sea, who wants you to send somebody to take charge of a bird that doesn't exist!"
"How do you know," asked Professor Farrago, "that the bird in question does not exist?"
"It is generally accepted," I replied, sarcastically, "that the great auk has been extinct for years. Therefore I may be pardoned for doubting that our correspondent possesses a pair of them alive."
"Oh, you young fellows," said the professor, smiling wearily, "you embark on a theory for destinations that don't exist."
He leaned back in his chair, his amused eyes searching space for the imagery that made him smile.
"Like swimming squirrels, you navigate with the help of Heaven and a stiff breeze, but you never land where you hope to—do you?"
Rather red in the face, I said: "Don't you believe the great auk to be extinct?"
"Audubon saw the great auk."
"Who has seen a single specimen since?"
"Nobody—except our correspondent here," he replied, laughing.
I laughed, too, considering the interview at an end, but the professor went on, coolly:
"Whatever it is that our correspondent has—and I am daring to believe that it is the great auk itself—I want you to secure it for the society."
When my astonishment subsided my first conscious sentiment was one of pity. Clearly, Professor Farrago was on the verge of dotage—ah, what a loss to the world!
I believe now that Professor Farrago perfectly interpreted my thoughts, but he betrayed neither resentment nor impatience. I drew a chair up beside his desk—there was nothing to do but to obey, and this fool's errand was none of my conceiving.
Together we made out a list of articles necessary for me and itemized the expenses I might incur, and I set a date for my return, allowing no margin for a successful termination to the expedition.
"Never mind that," said the professor. "What I want you to do is to get those birds here safely. Now, how many men will you take?"
"None," I replied, bluntly; "it's a useless expense, unless there is something to bring back. If there is I'll wire you, you may be sure."
"Very well," said Professor Farrago, good–humoredly, "you shall have all the assistance you may require. Can you leave to–night?"
The old gentleman was certainly prompt. I nodded, half–sulkily, aware of his amusement.
"So," I said, picking up my hat, "I am to start north to find a place called Black Harbor, where there is a man named Halyard who possesses, among other household utensils, two extinct great auks—"
We were both laughing by this time. I asked him why on earth he credited the assertion of a man he had never before heard of.
"I suppose," he replied, with the same half–apologetic, half–humorous smile, "it is instinct. I feel, somehow, that this man Halyard has got an auk—perhaps two. I can't get away from the idea that we are on the eve of acquiring the rarest of living creatures. It's odd for a scientist to talk as I do; doubtless you're shocked—admit it, now!"
But I was not shocked; on the contrary, I was conscious that the same strange hope that Professor Farrago cherished was beginning, in spite of me, to stir my pulses, too.
"If he has—" I began, then stopped.
The professor and I looked hard at each other in silence.
"Go on," he said, encouragingly.
But I had nothing more to say, for the prospect of beholding with my own eyes a living specimen of the great auk produced a series of conflicting emotions within me which rendered speech profanely superfluous.
As I took my leave Professor Farrago came to the door of the temporary, wooden office and handed me the letter written by the man Halyard. I folded it and put it into my pocket, as Halyard might require it for my own identification.
"How much does he want for the pair?" I asked.
"Ten thousand dollars. Don't demur—if the birds are really—"
"I know," I said, hastily, not daring to hope too much.
"One thing more," said Professor Farrago, gravely; "you know, in that last paragraph of his letter, Halyard speaks of something else in the way of specimens—an undiscovered species of amphibious biped—just read that paragraph again, will you?"
I drew the letter from my pocket and read as he directed:
"When you have seen the two living specimens of the great auk, and have satisfied yourself that I tell the truth, you may be wise enough to listen without prejudice to a statement I shall make concerning the existence of the strangest creature ever fashioned. I will merely say, at this time, that the creature referred to is an amphibious biped and inhabits the ocean near this coast. More I cannot say, for I personally have not seen the animal, but I have a witness who has, and there are many who affirm that they have seen the creature. You will naturally say that my statement amounts to nothing; but when your representative arrives, if he be free from prejudice, I expect his reports to you concerning this sea–biped will confirm the solemn statements of a witness I know to be unimpeachable.
"Yours truly, BURTON HALYARD.
"BLACK HARBOR."
"Well," I said, after a moment's thought, "here goes for the wild–goose chase."
"Wild auk, you mean," said Professor Farrago, shaking hands with me. "You will start to–night, won't you?"
"Yes, but Heaven knows how I'm ever going to land in this man Halyard's door–yard. Good–bye!"
"About that sea–biped—" began Professor Farrago, shyly.
"Oh, don't!" I said; "I can swallow the auks, feathers and claws, but if this fellow Halyard is hinting he's seen an amphibious creature resembling a man—"
"—Or a woman," said the professor, cautiously.
I retired, disgusted, my faith shaken in the mental vigor of Professor Farrago.
II
The three days' voyage by boat and rail was irksome. I bought my kit at Sainte Croix, on the Central Pacific Railroad, and on June 1st I began the last stage of my journey via the Sainte Isole broad–gauge, arriving in the wilderness by daylight. A tedious forced march by blazed trail, freshly spotted on the wrong side, of course, brought me to the northern terminus of the rusty, narrow–gauge lumber railway which runs from the heart of the hushed pine wilderness to the sea.
Already a long train of battered flat–cars, piled with sluice–props and roughly hewn sleepers, was moving slowly off into the brooding forest gloom, when I came in sight of the track; but I developed a gratifying and unexpected burst of speed, shouting all the while. The train stopped; I swung myself aboard the last car, where a pleasant young fellow was sitting on the rear brake, chewing spruce and reading a letter.
"Come aboard, sir," he said, looking up with a smile; "I guess you're the man in a hurry."
"I'm looking for a man named Halyard," I said, dropping rifle and knapsack on the fresh–cut, fragrant pile of pine. "Are you Halyard?"
"No, I'm Francis Lee, bossing the mica pit at Port–of–Waves," he replied, "but this letter is from Halyard, asking me to look out for a man in a hurry from Bronx Park, New York."
"I'm that man," said I, filling my pipe and offering him a share of the weed of peace, and we sat side by side smoking very amiably, until a signal from the locomotive sent him forward and I was left alone, lounging at ease, head pillowed on both arms, watching the blue sky flying through the branches overhead.
Long before we came in sight of the ocean I smelled it; the fresh, salt aroma stole into my senses, drowsy with the heated odor of pine and hemlock, and I sat up, peering ahead into the dusky sea of pines.
Fresher and fresher came the wind from the sea, in puffs, in mild, sweet breezes, in steady, freshening currents, blowing the feathery crowns of the pines, setting the balsam's blue tufts rocking.
Lee wandered back over the long line of flats, balancing himself nonchalantly as the cars swung around a sharp curve, where water dripped from a newly propped sluice that suddenly emerged from the depths of the forest to run parallel to the railroad track.
"Built it this spring," he said, surveying his handiwork, which seemed to undulate as the cars swept past. "It runs to the cove—or ought to—" He stopped abruptly with a thoughtful glance at me.
"So you're going over to Halyard's?" he continued, as though answering a question asked by himself.
I nodded.
"You've never been there—of course?"
"No," I said, "and I'm not likely to go again."
I would have told him why I was going if I had not already begun to feel ashamed of my idiotic errand.
"I guess you're going to look at those birds of his," continued Lee, placidly.
"I guess I am," I said, sulkily, glancing askance to see whether he was smiling.
But he only asked me, quite seriously, whether a great auk was really a very rare bird; and I told him that the last one ever seen had been found dead off Labrador in January, 1870. Then I asked him whether these birds of Halyard's were really great auks, and he replied, somewhat indifferently, that he supposed they were—at least, nobody had ever before seen such birds near Port–of–Waves.
"There's something else," he said, running, a pine–sliver through his pipe–stem—"something that interests us all here more than auks, big or little. I suppose I might as well speak of it, as you are bound to hear about it sooner or later."
He hesitated, and I could see that he was embarrassed, searching for the exact words to convey his meaning.
"If," said I, "you have anything in this region more important to science than the great auk, I should be very glad to know about it."
Perhaps there was the faintest tinge of sarcasm in my voice, for he shot a sharp glance at me and then turned slightly. After a moment, however, he put his pipe into his pocket, laid hold of the brake with both hands, vaulted to his perch aloft, and glanced down at me.
"Did you ever hear of the harbor–master?" he asked, maliciously.
"Which harbor–master?" I inquired.
"You'll know before long," he observed, with a satisfied glance into perspective.
This rather extraordinary observation puzzled me. I waited for him to resume, and, as he did not, I asked him what he meant.
"If I knew," he said, "I'd tell you. But, come to think of it, I'd be a fool to go into details with a scientific man. You'll hear about the harbor–master—perhaps you will see the harbor–master. In that event I should be glad to converse with you on the subject."
I could not help laughing at his prim and precise manner, and, after a moment, he also laughed, saying:
"It hurts a man's vanity to know he knows a thing that somebody else knows he doesn't know. I'm damned if I say another word about the harbor–master until you've been to Halyard's!"
"A harbor–master," I persisted, "is an official who superintends the mooring of ships—isn't he?"
But he refused to be tempted into conversation, and we lounged silently on the lumber until a long, thin whistle from the locomotive and a rush of stinging salt–wind brought us to our feet. Through the trees I could see the bluish–black ocean, stretching out beyond black headlands to meet the clouds; a great wind was roaring among the trees as the train slowly came to a stand–still on the edge of the primeval forest.
Lee jumped to the ground and aided me with my rifle and pack, and then the train began to back away along a curved side–track which, Lee said, led to the mica–pit and company stores.
"Now what will you do?" he asked, pleasantly. "I can give you a good dinner and a decent bed to–night if you like—and I'm sure Mrs. Lee would be very glad to have you stop with us as long as you choose."
I thanked him, but said that I was anxious to reach Halyard's before dark, and he very kindly led me along the cliffs and pointed out the path.
"This man Halyard," he said, "is an invalid. He lives at a cove called Black Harbor, and all his truck goes through to him over the company's road. We receive it here, and send a pack–mule through once a month. I've met him; he's a bad–tempered hypochondriac, a cynic at heart, and a man whose word is never doubted. If he says he has a great auk, you may be satisfied he has."
My heart was beating with excitement at the prospect; I looked out across the wooded headlands and tangled stretches of dune and hollow, trying to realize what it might mean to me, to Professor Farrago, to the world, if I should lead back to New York a live auk.
"He's a crank," said Lee; "frankly, I don't like him. If you find it unpleasant there, come back to us."
"Does Halyard live alone?" I asked.
"Yes—except for a professional trained nurse—poor thing!"
"A man?"
"No," said Lee, disgustedly.
Presently he gave me a peculiar glance; hesitated, and finally said: "Ask Halyard to tell you about his nurse and—the harbor–master. Good–bye—I'm due at the quarry. Come and stay with us whenever you care to; you will find a welcome at Port–of–Waves."
We shook hands and parted on the cliff, he turning back into the forest along the railway, I starting northward, pack slung, rifle over my shoulder. Once I met a group of quarrymen, faces burned brick–red, scarred hands swinging as they walked. And, as I passed them with a nod, turning, I saw that they also had turned to look after me, and I caught a word or two of their conversation, whirled back to me on the sea–wind.
They were speaking of the harbor–master.
III
Towards sunset I came out on a sheer granite cliff where the sea–birds were whirling and clamoring, and the great breakers dashed, rolling in double–thundered reverberations on the sun–dyed, crimson sands below the rock.
Across the half–moon of beach towered another cliff, and, behind this, I saw a column of smoke rising in the still air. It certainly came from Halyard's chimney, although the opposite cliff prevented me from seeing the house itself.
I rested a moment to refill my pipe, then resumed rifle and pack, and cautiously started to skirt the cliffs. I had descended half–way towards the beech, and was examining the cliff opposite, when something on the very top of the rock arrested my attention—a man darkly outlined against the sky. The next moment, however, I knew it could not be a man, for the object suddenly glided over the face of the cliff and slid down the sheer, smooth lace like a lizard. Before I could get a square look at it, the thing crawled into the surf—or, at least, it seemed to—but the whole episode occurred so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that I was not sure I had seen anything at all.
However, I was curious enough to climb the cliff on the land side and make my way towards the spot where I imagined I saw the man. Of course, there was nothing there—not a trace of a human being, I mean. Something had been there—a sea–otter, possibly—for the remains of a freshly killed fish lay on the rock, eaten to the back–bone and tail.
The next moment, below me, I saw the house, a freshly painted, trim, flimsy structure, modern, and very much out of harmony with the splendid savagery surrounding it. It struck a nasty, cheap note in the noble, gray monotony of headland and sea.
The descent was easy enough. I crossed the crescent beach, hard as pink marble, and found a little trodden path among the rocks, that led to the front porch of the house.
There were two people on the porch—I heard their voices before I saw them—and when I set my foot upon the wooden steps, I saw one of them, a woman, rise from her chair and step hastily towards me.
"Come back!" cried the other, a man with a smooth–shaven, deeply lined face, and a pair of angry, blue eyes; and the woman stepped back quietly, acknowledging my lifted hat with a silent inclination.
The man, who was reclining in an invalid's rolling–chair, clapped both large, pale hands to the wheels and pushed himself out along the porch. He had shawls pinned about him, an untidy, drab–colored hat on his head, and, when he looked down at me, he scowled.
"I know who you are," he said, in his acid voice; "you're one of the Zoological men from Bronx Park. You look like it, anyway."
"It is easy to recognize you from your reputation," I replied, irritated at his discourtesy.
"Really," he replied, with something between a sneer and a laugh, "I'm obliged for your frankness. You're after my great auks, are you not?"
"Nothing else would have tempted me into this place," I replied, sincerely.
"Thank Heaven for that," he said. "Sit down a moment; you've interrupted us." Then, turning to the young woman, who wore the neat gown and tiny cap of a professional nurse, he bade her resume what she had been saying. She did so, with deprecating glance at me, which made the old man sneer again.
"It happened so suddenly," she said, in her low voice, "that I had no chance to get back. The boat was drifting in the cove; I sat in the stern, reading, both oars shipped, and the tiller swinging. Then I heard a scratching under the boat, but thought it might be sea–weed—and, next moment, came those soft thumpings, like the sound of a big fish rubbing its nose against a float."
Halyard clutched the wheels of his chair and stared at the girl in grim displeasure.
"Didn't you know enough to be frightened?" he demanded.
"No—not then," she said, coloring faintly; "but when, after a few moments, I looked up and saw the harbor–master running up and down the beach, I was horribly frightened."
"Really?" said Halyard, sarcastically; "it was about time." Then, turning to me, he rasped out: "And that young lady was obliged to row all the way to Port–of–Waves and call to Lee's quarrymen to take her boat in."
Completely mystified, I looked from Halyard to the girl, not in the least comprehending what all this meant.
"That will do," said Halyard, ungraciously, which curt phrase was apparently the usual dismissal for the nurse.
She rose, and I rose, and she passed me with an inclination, stepping noiselessly into the house.
"I want beef–tea!" bawled Halyard after her; then he gave me an unamiable glance.
"I was a well–bred man," he sneered; "I'm a Harvard graduate, too, but I live as I like, and I do what I like, and I say what I like."
"You certainly are not reticent," I said, disgusted.
"Why should I be?" he rasped; "I pay that young woman for my irritability; it's a bargain between us."
"In your domestic affairs," I said, "there is nothing that interests me. I came to see those auks."
"You probably believe them to be razor–billed auks," he said, contemptuously. "But they're not; they're great auks."
I suggested that he permit me to examine them, and he replied, indifferently, that they were in a pen in his backyard, and that I was free to step around the house when I cared to.
I laid my rifle and pack on the veranda, and hastened off with mixed emotions, among which hope no longer predominated. No man in his senses would keep two such precious prizes in a pen in his backyard, I argued, and I was perfectly prepared to find anything from a puffin to a penguin in that pen.
I shall never forget, as long as I live, my stupor of amazement when I came to the wire–covered enclosure. Not only were there two great auks in the pen, alive, breathing, squatting in bulky majesty on their sea–weed bed, but one of them was gravely contemplating two newly hatched chicks, all bill and feet, which nestled sedately at the edge of a puddle of salt–water, where some small fish were swimming.
For a while excitement blinded, nay, deafened me. I tried to realize that I was gazing upon the last individuals of an all but extinct race—the sole survivors of the gigantic auk, which, for thirty years, has been accounted an extinct creature.
I believe that I did not move muscle nor limb until the sun had gone down and the crowding darkness blurred my straining eyes and blotted the great, silent, bright–eyed birds from sight.
Even then I could not tear myself away from the enclosure; I listened to the strange, drowsy note of the male bird, the fainter responses of the female, the thin plaints of the chicks, huddling under her breast; I heard their flipper–like, embryotic wings beating sleepily as the birds stretched and yawned their beaks and clacked them, preparing for slumber.
"If you please," came a soft voice from the door, "Mr. Halyard awaits your company to dinner."
IV
I dined well—or, rather, I might have enjoyed my dinner if Mr. Halyard had been eliminated; and the feast consisted exclusively of a joint of beef, the pretty nurse, and myself. She was exceedingly attractive—with a disturbing fashion of lowering her head and raising her dark eyes when spoken to.
As for Halyard, he was unspeakable, bundled up in his snuffy shawls, and making uncouth noises over his gruel. But it is only just to say that his table was worth sitting down to and his wine was sound as a bell.
"Yah!" he snapped, "I'm sick of this cursed soup—and I'll trouble you to fill my glass—"
"It is dangerous for you to touch claret," said the pretty nurse.
"I might as well die at dinner as anywhere," he observed.
"Certainly," said I, cheerfully passing the decanter, but he did not appear overpleased with the attention.
"I can't smoke, either," he snarled, hitching the shawls around until he looked like Richard the Third.
However, he was good enough to shove a box of cigars at me, and I took one and stood up, as the pretty nurse slipped past and vanished into the little parlor beyond.
