The Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 1, No. 5 - August 1920), page 16
part #5 of The Black Mask Magazine Series
And he had sighed.
There were two other members of the family, one a boy about my age, good-natured and full of animal spirits, the other an older sister of Aunt Susan, a sweet-tempered, self-effacing little woman, who had been born a cripple. One leg was shorter than the other. Congenital hip-disease, they called it. I grew very fond of Aunt Stella.
Uncle John was troubled with dyspepsia. After each cautious meal he took pills. They didn't seem to help him much for I still recall his distress on the few occasions when he grew reckless and tasted of forbidden things. I remember the half-sorrowful, half-envious look in his eyes as he watched George and me romp around the place, slide down the balustrades and in other boyish ways give ear to the call of strident vitality within us. The wistful eyes that observed us as we gorged at meal times come vividly before me, even now.
One winter's day when the sidewalks were icily slick, Aunt Stella fell on the sidewalk and hurt her bad hip. There was an operation, gangrene and finally the great emancipation.
"Uncle," I said, three days after the funeral, "why did Aunt Stella suffer so?"
He seemed startled for a moment. Then he answered:
"My boy, when you are about twice as old as you are now you will understand. It is the law of compensation. We all must pay for what we take out of life."
I questioned him further but he would not pursue the subject. I didn't sleep much that night. My mind was racing with the problem of compensation but making little headway. In the course of a restless doze I dreamed that angels and demons were fighting for the possession of my body. The angels seemed to be hopelessly outnumbered and were getting the worst of it when suddenly they came over to the side of the demons and joined them sticking knives and pitchforks into me.
II
Life at Uncle John's soon returned to its normal gait. George and I again romped all over the place although I felt myself a bit subdued and prone to spells of puzzled reflection. My Uncle's attacks of dyspepsia continued and Aunt Susan complained almost constantly of feeling poorly without any definite ailment as far as I could learn.
We had many visitors. Mostly they were men and women in the late thirties and forties. Although much of the conversation was beyond me I liked to sit quietly in the large living room and listen to the callers. I believe it was during this period that my views relative to the Law of Compensation took coherent shape.
While my foster-parents' friends discussed every subject under the sun there was one topic upon which each and all spoke fluently and often — their ailments. Everybody seemed to have something the matter with him or her. Mrs. Austin had neuralgia, Mr. Hawkins had a heart lesion, Mr. Swift suffered from constant, inexplicable pains in the back, Mrs. Steffens brooded about an incipient goitre, Mr. Holliday was worried with a tenacious cough and Mrs. Taylor's stoutness preyed on her mind.
Of all the visitor's my favorite was John Shelton, a school principal. He had no particular malady except that his eyes gave him trouble. He complained that they hurt when he read at night.
"Mr. Shelton," I said to him one evening when we happened to be alone in the living room, "do all people get sick when they get to be thirty or thereabouts?"
He laughed good-naturedly.
"That's a funny question. Of course, not."
"Why is it, then," I asked, "that people of that age are always talking about their ailments or looking worried? There's you, for example. Why aren't you happy all the time, like I am?"
"Oh, you're young," he replied. "You have no cares, no responsibilities. There's nothing to keep you from being contented twenty-four hours in the day."
"That's what I thought," replied. "As you grow older you get the things that make you unhappy."
"That's the way of life," he answered soberly. "Take my advice, young man, and get all the pleasure you can out of your boyhood. The sweetness of living is now yours."
Suddenly he turned with a laugh and said:
"Paul, do you know where your heart is?"
"Certainly," and I struck my left side with the hand.
"You're wrong." he smiled. "It's here!" He pointed to a spot three inches to the right of the place I had indicated and two inches lower.
"Know where your stomach is?"
I showed him where I thought it was.
Apparently I knew less about the stomach than I did about the heart. I was somewhat ashamed and told Shelton that we had just started the study of anatomy at high school.
"Books will never tell you just where your vital organs are," he said, "and the longer you remain in ignorance the better off you will be. When you do learn exactly where your stomach is, it will be the finger of pain pointing it out. Suffering is the perfect instructor in anatomy."
Just at that time other callers arrived and the questions trembling on the point of my tongue went unasked. Afterward he avoided the subject of anatomy.
III
The next three years passed rapidly, happy, joyous, unrestrained years. My plan of life was rapidly developing. I was determined to squeeze out of existence every drop of happiness it contained before the location of my heart was known to me with exactness.
When I was not playing I observed men and women along novel lines. I read faces for signs of content and unhappiness. I fell into the habit of checking up the number of times I had seen this or that individual in a month, how many times he had been smiling, how many limes he had been frowning, how often he had appeared at ease, how often worried. I did not let these studies interfere with my main program. I sought enjoyment with almost hysterical insistence. I would permit nothing to depress me, nothing to divert me from my purpose.
At eighteen I was sent to college. Because knowledge came easily I was a good student. Had it been otherwise I would have quit the pursuit of learning and sought less strenuous occupation.
I had a room-mate, Arthur Gates, a jolly, harum-scarum, rich man's son, who worshipped at the shrine of Play as feverishly as L Although he was not lacking in serious moments he was dumfounded, I know, when I told him my secret.
We had been in the history lecture class together that afternoon when the instructor suddenly turned pale, clutched his coat lapel and fell at the foot of his desk. He was a man of about forty and seemingly had been in good health. We helped take him home. I learned that he was a sufferer from angina pectoris, an unusually painful affliction of the heart.
In our room that evening Gates mentioned the instructor's illness.
"That could never happen to me," I remarked.
"Why?" he asked. "Have you a guarantee on your heart?"
"No," I answered slowly, "but I shall not live that long."
"What are you talking about? Duckworth isn't over forty-five."
"When my forty-fifth birthday comes around." I replied calmly, "I know I will have been dead ten years."
Gates laughed.
"Been to see a fortune teller?" he jeered.
"No, but on the day that I finish my thirty-fifth year I shall kill myself."
"How do you know," asked my room-mate, "that you won't get angina before you're thirty-five?"
"I don't, but it's hardly likely. The percentage is in my favor."
Gates was beginning to be impressed with the fact that I was serious. He gazed at me with puzzled eyes.
"Arthur," I said. "I want you to listen to me for a few moments. What I am about to tell you I have told to no other person and will tell to no other person. I feel that I must unbosom myself to someone. Will you listen seriously?"
He nodded. I went on:
"I am now twenty-one years old. I have excellent health, plenty of money, no troubles, domestic or otherwise, and what are regarded as excellent prospects. Yet, I tell you in cold blood that at 7:32 a. m., on April 6th, 1920, I shall end my life. That will be the exact hour of my birth, thirty-five years before. Just how I shall do it I do not yet know. Naturally I shall take the least painful and least unpleasant way."
"But why?" interrupted Gates, who had been watching me with strange fascination.
"That," I replied, "will develop in the course of what I am about to tell you. Understand I am not trying to influence you in any way. I know that you will not agree with me. When I was a boy my father and mother both died in great agony. I can see them now, gray with torture, their pallid features furrowed with the lines of suffering and the perspiration of pain on their foreheads. I can still hear my father pleading for death — death that stood outside the door leeringly biding its time."
"Afterwards I lived for many years at the home of an uncle. There I saw more suffering. I began asking myself these questions — Is life worth living? If so, how long should one live? When do the tears of existence begin to outweigh the smiles? At what point in the span do the joys of carrying on no longer balance the sorrows?"
"In seeking answers to my interrogations I made a close and detailed study of scores of men and women. I watched their faces and searched their souls. I have continued the researches at college, coldly, scientifically. I have tables and charts and masses of statistics, and the conclusions I reached by observation have been borne out by analysis and precise data. And my conclusion is this: The average life after thirty-five is not worth living."
I saw a "why" trembling on Gates' lips and went on:
"The span of human life is seventy years. In the first thirty-five we sow, in the other thirty-five we reap. It is the Law of Compensation. The pleasures and enjoyment of existence are freely bestowed in the first half of the span, but the bills begin coming in with the thirty-sixth year. I have made up my mind not to pay. When the collector comes I will be out."
My room-mate shook his head.
"That's certainly a bizarre theory," he said.
"It's not theory," I returned. "It's a fact, a grim, irresistible fact. As I told you, I have reached my conclusions by way of scientific research."
"But how?" asked Gates. "I don't understand."
"For example," I replied, "I have gone to a man of thirty-seven night after night for a month and reviewed the entire day with him. I have tabulated the whole of his waking hours under three heads — Joy, Sorrow, Neutral. Under the first caption I have listed everything, no matter how trivial, that afforded the subject content or satisfaction. Under Sorrow I have scheduled every disappointment, every ache, every annoyance, no matter how petty — everything he had hoped would not happen, and so on. Under Neutral I have put these things that could not properly be classed under either of the other headings."
"And the result?"
"In the particular case I am speaking of there were twice as many notations under Sorrow as there were under Joy. I conducted my inquiries with a great number of men and women over a long period and the results were about the same. With younger persons it was just the reverse. The dividing line seemed to be just at thirty-five. Between thirty and thirty-five the Joys and Sorrows about balanced with a great number of notations in the Neutral column. Under thirty the Joys and Neutrals seemed to have the field pretty well to themselves."
"Often, of course, the Law of Compensation begins operating lightly and years may elapse before the victim notices that he is being dunned for payment. But settlement must be made and it is made through the body, through those held dear, through ambition, pride, vanity, through everything that is cherished and clung to. But I am going to dance and leave without paying the piper."
Gates listened quietly to my conclusion and with serious expression.
After a moment of silence, he said:
"The ordinary person would laugh at you, Paul, and call you crazy, but I believe that I understand you. Boyhood sorrows have merely distorted your views of life. I have no doubt of your sincerity and I do not question that right now you believe that you will kill yourself when you are thirty-six. Permit me, as a friend, to doubt it. I venture to say that you will be married in 1920, be the father of several children and would blush and stammer like a schoolgirl if I should happen along and repeat what you have just told me. You are young and in the next fifteen years your conception of life will undergo a radical series of changes."
"No, Arthur," I returned, "I shall not change my mind. I propose to enjoy the time I have allowed myself to the utmost. At the end of that period you will read of my death — if you haven't forgotten all about me. That's all. Let's go down town, have a few drinks and see a show."
Gates was glad to go. I never mentioned the subject of my plans to him again. During some of our boisterous celebrations I often caught a queer smile in his eyes, but he said nothing.
After graduation we separated. Gates went to his home in California while I moved to New York. For a few years we corresponded in a loose fashion and then lost touch.
I lived up to my set program. With a generous income I was able to do about what I pleased. I went where I wished, ate and drank what and where I wanted, and did little work except that connected with looking after my property. I remained free of serious love entanglements, my health continued excellent and I had no worries. I do not recall an ache or a pain or a severe disappointment in fifteen years.
There was a girl — her name is of no moment — a girl of wondrous beauty and celestial character, who did stagger my resolution for a brief spell. When I felt myself weakening I went to Bellevue Hospital where I knew a house surgeon, and walked through the wards. The Law of Compensation was operating on high gear that evening. I finished my tour, had a good laugh and never saw her again.
So this is the last night. I feel strangely happy. For my final repast I have ordered a royal gorge. I shall dine heartily at midnight and drink many a glass of rare vintage to the vanquished Law of Compensation. Then to bed for a few hours of calm rest. After that, tomorrow morning and 7:32.
IV
The following letter was received in the coroner's office from Dr. J. P. Sypes:
Dear Sir:
The enclosed communication or manuscript was found on a table in the room where Paul Traverse died last night. His death was entirely natural and was due, as stated in the burial certificate, to acute gastritis. The attack followed upon an unusually heavy meal he had eaten before retiring. The matter I am sending you was, I presume, a literary effort on his part.
After Midnight
by Marthe Neville
I
"Good night, Mr. Lannen." Louise Willoughby extended her hand.
"We breakfast at nine," she said "I'll see you then. I hope you sleep well."
"Thank you, I'm sure I shall."
She gathered the folds of an embroidered chiffon gown about her and slowly mounted the stairs. Lannen stood leaning against the newel post and watched her ascend.
As he turned away, he faced his host. The cold metallic glitter in the older man's black eyes gave him a strange uncomfortable feeling. "Well?" said Willoughby. "She's charming, Andrew; you should be proud of her. She has improved wonderfully in the three years since I saw her."
A slow smile crept about the drawn lips of the physician. It did not extend to his eyes, but became lost in the heavy mustache and Van Dyke beard he wore.
Lannen again shivered. The snaky glitter in his physician-friend's eyes fascinated him. He wondered if it could be true; that the woman who had just left him, with purity written on every curve and line of her, could be the wanton thing her husband fancied; that she had so forgotten herself and her social position as to stoop to an intrigue with her gardener.
It seemed impossible of Louise Willoughby. Yet many changes had taken place during the three years he had been abroad. He had not known her well before his departure, perhaps he did not know her at all now.
"Come up into my laboratory," Willoughby said suddenly.
He closed the windows and switched off all the lights with the exception of one held in a bronze Venus at the foot of the stairs.
"Andy," Lannen said as they entered the heavily odorous room, "I'd rather you said nothing more about this to me. Some day you will be sorry for having taken me into your confidence; and then our friendship will end. There are some things a man has no right to discuss with another. I don't need to remind you of that. This is one of them!"
"I've got to talk to some or go mad! You think it's my imagination! You think I'm a jealous fool! I tell you I know. From the day that man came here, she ha,s been different. I've watched them — I've seen his arm around her, I've heard him call her Louise—"
He broke, and buried his head on his arms he had flung on the table before him.
Lannen gripped his shoulder and shook him. "Why don't you send him away?"
Willoughby raised his bloodshot eyes. "And admit defeat? Give him the pleasure of saying he was fired because Andrew Willoughby's wife fell in love with him! — Never! Besides—" he sprang to his feet, and paced the little room nervously, his long hands with their gnarled crooked fingers, stained with chemicals, twitching and pulling at his coat as he walked " — how do I know that she won't go with him if I send him away?"
Lannen remembered the brief glimpse he had had of the gardener. A slim tall fellow, little more than a boy, with close cropped dark hair, a pale almost ethereal face, a quiet unassuming manner.
"How long has he been here?"
"Allering? Six weeks!"
Willoughby, hit the glass-topped table nervously. As he did so a tiny vial of amber covered liquid fell over, knocking the stopper out of it. A pungent sickish odor filled the room. The doctor gave a startled cry.
Flinging a small rubber blanket over the table, he lifted the vial gingerly. He placed the stopper back in it, carefully keeping it away from his face. Then he covered it with the rubber. He had become ashen colored. As though unable to speak, he motioned to Lannen to throw up the windows.
"Damn careless of me," he muttered a moment later.
He placed the bottle high up in a cabinet above him, then he locked the door of the chest. "Damn careless. It's an experiment of mine, Arthur. Dy'e feel alright?"
