I

von Robert W. Chambers

There are so many things that are impossible to explain! Why do certain chords in music remind me of the rich browns and golds of autumn leaves? Why does the Mass of Sainte Cécile send my thoughts drifting into caverns where the walls shimmer with raw, untouched silver? What was it about the chaos of Broadway at six o’clock that conjured up the image of a quiet Breton forest, where sunlight filtered through fresh spring leaves, and Sylvia leaned over a small green lizard, half curious and half tender, murmuring, “To think that this too is a little ward of God!”

When I first saw the watchman, his back was turned to me. I regarded him with indifference until he stepped into the church. I paid him no more attention than I had given to any other man strolling through Washington Square that morning, and when I closed my window and turned back to my studio, I had completely forgotten him.

Later in the afternoon, with the warmth of the day still lingering, I opened the window again and leaned out for a breath of fresh air. A man stood in the church courtyard, and I noticed him again with the same lack of interest I had felt that morning. I glanced across the square at the fountain, and then, my mind filled with vague impressions of trees, asphalt paths, and groups of nannies and holiday-goers, I turned to walk back to my easel. As I did, my casual gaze fell on the man below in the churchyard. His face was now turned toward me, and without thinking, I leaned in to get a better look. At that moment, he raised his head and met my gaze. Instantly, I was struck by a disturbing thought: he reminded me of a coffin-worm. I couldn’t pinpoint what it was about him that repelled me, but the image of a plump, white grave-worm was so vivid and nauseating that I must have shown my discomfort, for he turned his puffy face away, evoking the image of a disturbed grub in a chestnut.

I returned to my easel and gestured for the model to resume her pose. After working for a while, I realized I was ruining what I had created, so I picked up a palette knife and scraped the paint off. The flesh tones looked sickly and unhealthy, and I couldn’t understand how I had managed to paint such a ghastly color into a study that had previously glowed with vitality.

I glanced at Tessie. She hadn’t changed; the healthy flush of color still graced her neck and cheeks as I frowned in frustration.

“Is it something I’ve done?” she asked.

“No, I’ve messed up this arm, and I can’t figure out how I ended up painting such mud onto the canvas,” I replied.

“Don’t I pose well?” she pressed.

“Of course, perfectly.”

“Then it’s not my fault?”

“No. It’s my own.”

“I’m really sorry,” she said.

I told her she could take a break while I worked on the troublesome spot on my canvas, and she wandered off to smoke a cigarette and browse through the illustrations in the _Courrier Français_.

I didn’t know if it was something in the turpentine or a flaw in the canvas, but the more I scrubbed, the more the infection seemed to spread. I worked tirelessly to fix it, yet the problem appeared to creep from limb to limb of the study before me. Alarmed, I tried to stop it, but soon the color on the breast changed, and the whole figure seemed to absorb the infection like a sponge soaking up water. I vigorously wielded my palette knife, turpentine, and scraper, all the while thinking about the conversation I would have with Duval, the man who sold me the canvas. But soon I realized it wasn’t the canvas that was defective, nor the colors I used. “It must be the turpentine,” I thought angrily, “or maybe my eyes have become so blurred and confused by the afternoon light that I can’t see straight.”

I called for Tessie, and she came over, leaning on my chair and blowing rings of smoke into the air.

“What have you done to it?” she exclaimed.

“Nothing,” I grumbled. “It must be this turpentine!”

“What a horrible color it is now,” she continued. “Do you think my flesh looks like green cheese?”

“No, I don’t,” I snapped. “Have you ever known me to paint like that before?”

“No, never!”

“Well, then!”

“It must be the turpentine or something,” she conceded.

She slipped on a Japanese robe and walked to the window. I scraped and rubbed until I was exhausted, finally picking up my brushes and hurling them at the canvas with a forceful gesture that only Tessie could hear.

Immediately, she began, “That’s it! Swear and act foolish and ruin your brushes! You’ve spent three weeks on that study, and now look! What’s the point of tearing the canvas? What creatures artists are!”

I felt the familiar sting of shame wash over me after my outburst, and I turned the ruined canvas to face the wall. Tessie helped me clean my brushes before dancing off to get dressed. From behind the screen, she showered me with bits of advice about managing anger, and after what felt like an eternity of her teasing, she emerged to ask me to button her waist where she couldn’t reach on her shoulder.

“Everything went downhill from the moment you came back from the window and started talking about that creepy-looking guy you saw in the churchyard,” she said.

“Yeah, he probably cursed the painting,” I replied with a yawn, glancing at my watch.

“It’s after six, I know,” Tessie said, adjusting her hat in front of the mirror.

“Right,” I said, “I didn’t mean to keep you so long.” I leaned out the window but quickly recoiled in disgust; the young man with the pasty face was still lurking below in the churchyard. Tessie noticed my reaction and leaned out to see.

“Is that the guy you don’t like?” she whispered.

I nodded.

“I can’t see his face, but he looks soft and pudgy. Somehow,” she said, turning back to me, “he reminds me of a dream I once had—a really awful one. Or,” she mused, glancing down at her stylish shoes, “was it even a dream?”

“How would I know?” I smiled.

Tessie returned my smile.

“You were in it,” she said, “so maybe you know something about it.”

“Tessie! Tessie!” I protested, “don’t flatter me by saying you dream about me!”

“But I did,” she insisted. “Do you want to hear about it?”

“Sure,” I replied, lighting a cigarette.

Tessie leaned back against the open window-sill and began earnestly.

“One night last winter, I was lying in bed, not really thinking about anything. I had just posed for you and was exhausted, but sleep wouldn’t come. I heard the bells in the city toll ten, eleven, and then midnight. I must have finally drifted off around midnight because I don’t remember hearing the bells after that. It felt like I had barely closed my eyes when something compelled me to go to the window. I got up and leaned out. Twenty-fifth Street was deserted as far as I could see. I started to feel scared; everything outside seemed so dark and unsettling. Then I heard the distant sound of wheels, and it felt like I had to wait for them. Slowly, the wheels drew closer, and eventually, I could see a vehicle moving along the street. It got nearer and nearer, and when it passed beneath my window, I realized it was a hearse. Just then, as I trembled with fear, the driver turned and looked straight at me. When I woke up, I was standing by the open window, shivering from the cold, but the black-plumed hearse and the driver were gone. I had that dream again in March, and once more, I woke up by the open window. Last night, it happened again. You remember how it was raining? When I woke up, standing at the open window, my nightgown was soaked.”

“But where do I fit into this dream?” I asked.

“You—you were in the coffin, but you weren’t dead.”

“In the coffin?”

“Yes.”

“How did you know? Could you see me?”

“No; I just knew you were there.”

“Had you eaten something weird, like Welsh rarebits or lobster salad?” I joked, but Tessie interrupted me with a frightened gasp.

“Wait! What’s wrong?” I asked as she shrank back into the corner by the window.

“The—the man below in the churchyard; he drove the hearse.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said, but Tessie’s eyes were wide with terror. I went to the window and looked out. The man was gone. “Come on, Tessie,” I urged, “don’t be silly. You’ve been posing too long; you’re just nervous.”

“Do you think I could forget that face?” she murmured. “Three times I saw the hearse pass beneath my window, and each time the driver turned and looked up at me. Oh, his face was so pale and soft. It looked dead—it looked like it had been dead a long time.”

I persuaded her to sit down and have a glass of Marsala. Then I sat beside her, trying to offer some comfort.

“Listen, Tessie,” I said, “you should take a trip to the country for a week or two. You won’t have any more dreams about hearses. You pose all day, and by night, your nerves are shot. You can’t keep this up. Plus, instead of going to bed after a long day, you run off to picnics at Sulzer’s Park or head to the Eldorado or Coney Island. Then you come back here the next morning completely worn out. There was no real hearse; it was just a bad dream.”

She smiled faintly.

“What about the man in the churchyard?”

“Oh, he’s just an ordinary, unhealthy guy.”

“As true as my name is Tessie Reardon, I swear to you, Mr. Scott, that the face of the man below in the churchyard is the same face of the man who drove the hearse!”

“What of it?” I said. “It’s an honest job.”

“Then you think I really did see the hearse?”

“Oh,” I said carefully, “if you really did, it’s possible that the man downstairs was the one who drove it. There’s nothing suspicious about that.”

Tessie stood up, unwrapped her scented handkerchief, and pulled a piece of gum from a knot in the hem, popping it into her mouth. After slipping on her gloves, she extended her hand to me with a straightforward, “Good night, Mr. Scott,” and then walked out.