Man-size in Marble

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:04):
This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in
the public domain. For further information or to volunteer, please
visit LibriVox dot org. Recording by Andimina Man Size in
Marble by E. Nesbitt. Although every word of this story

(00:29):
is as true as despair, I do not expect people
to believe it nowadays a rational explanation is required before
belief is possible. Let me then at once offer the
rational explanation which finds most favor among those who have
heard the tale of my life's tragedy. It is held

(00:50):
that we were under a delusion, Laura and I on
that thirty first of October, and that this supposition places
the whole matter on a satisfactory, a believable basis. The
reader can judge, when he too has heard my story,
how far this is an explanation, and in what sense
it is rational. There were three who took part in this,

(01:14):
Laura and I and another man. The other man still
lives and can speak to the truth of the least
credible part of my story. I never in my life
knew what it was to have as much money as
I required to supply the most ordinary needs. Good colors, books,
and cab fares. And when we were married, we knew

(01:34):
quite well that we should only be able to live
at all by strict punctuality and attention to business. I
used to paint in those days, Laura used to write,
and we felt sure we could keep the pot at
least simmering. Living in town was out of the question,
so we went to look for a cottage in the
country which should be at once sanitary and picturesque. So

(01:56):
rarely do these two qualities meet in one cottage that
our search was for some time quite fruitless. We tried advertisements,
but most of the desirable rural residences which we did
look at proved to be lacking in both essentials. And
when a cottage chanced to have drains, it always had
stucco as well, and was shaped like a tea caddy.

(02:17):
And if we found a vine or rose covered porch,
corruption invariably lurked within. Our minds got so befogged by
the eloquence of house agents and the rival disadvantages of
the fever traps and outrageous to beauty which we had
seen and scorned, that I very much doubt whether either
of us on our wedding morning knew the difference between

(02:39):
a house and a haystack. But when we got away
from friends and house agents on our honeymoon, our wits
grew clear again and we knew a pretty cottage when
at last we saw one. It was at Brenzett, a
little village set on a hill over against the southern Marshes.
We had gone there from the seaside village where we
were staying, to see the church, and two fields from

(03:01):
the church we found this cottage. It stood quite by itself,
about two miles from the village. It was a long,
low building with rooms sticking out in unexpected places. There
was a bit of stone work, ivy covered and moss grown,
just two old rooms all that was left of a
big house that had once stood there, and round this

(03:23):
stone work the house had grown up, stripped of its
roses and jasmine. It would have been hideous as it stood.
It was charming, and after a brief examination we took it.
It was absurdly cheap. The rest of our honeymoon we
spent in grubbing about in second hand shops in the
county town, picking up bits of old oak and chippendale

(03:45):
chairs for our furnishing. We wound up with a run
up to town and a visit to Liberty's, and soon
the low oak been lattice windowed rooms began to be home.
There was a jolly old fashioned garden with grass paths
and no end of holly hoose, and sunflowers and big lilies.
From the window you could see the marsh pastures and

(04:05):
beyond them the blue thin line of the sea. We
were as happy as the summer was glorious, and settled
down into work sooner than we ourselves expected. I was
never tired of sketching the view and the wonderful cloud
effects from the open lattice, and Laura would sit at
the table and write verses about them, in which I
mostly played the part of foreground. We got a tall,

(04:28):
old peasant woman to do for us. Her face and
figure were good, though her cooking was of the homeliest.
But she understood all about gardening, and told us all
the old names of the coppices and corn fields, and
the stories of the smugglers and highwaymen, and better still,
of the things that walked, and of the sights which

(04:48):
met one in lonely glens on a starlit night, She
was a great comfort to us, because Laura hated housekeeping
as much as I loved folklore, and we soon came
to leave all the domestic blas business to Missus Dorman,
and to use her legends in little magazine stories, which
brought in the jingling guinea. We had three months of

(05:09):
married happiness and did not have a single quarrel. One
October evening, I had been down to smoke a pipe
with the doctor, our only neighbor, a pleasant young irishman.
Laura had stayed at home to finish a comic sketch
of a village episode for the monthly marplot. I left
her laughing over her own jokes, and came in to

(05:29):
find her a crumpled heap of pale muslin, weeping on
the window seat. Good Heavens, my darling, what's the matter?
I cried, Taking her in my arms. She leant her
little dark head against my shoulder and went on crying.
I had never seen her cry before. We had always
been so happy, you see, and I felt sure some
frightful misfortune had happened. What is the matter? Do speak?

(05:54):
It's Missus Dorman. She sobbed. What has she done? I inquired,
immensely relieved. She says she must go before the end
of the month. And she says her niece is ill.
She's gone down to see her now. But I don't
believe that's the reason, because her niece is always ill.
I believe some one's been setting her against us. Her

(06:15):
manner was so queer. Never mind, pussy, I said, whatever
you do, don't cry, or I shall have to cry
too to keep you in countenance. Then you'll never respect
your man again. She dried her eyes obediently on my handkerchief,
and even smiled faintly. But you see, she went on,
it really is serious, because these village people are so sheepy,

(06:37):
and if one won't do a thing, you may be
quite sure none of the others will. And I shall
have to cook the dinners and wash up the hateful,
greasy plates, and you will have to carry cans of
water about and clean the boots and knives. And we
shall never have time for work or earn any money
or anything. We shall have to work all day and
only be able to rest when we are waiting for
the kettle to boil. I represented to her that even

(07:01):
if we had to perform these duties, the day would
still present some margin for other toils and recreations. But
she refused to see the matter in any but the
greyest light. She was very unreasonable, my Laura. But I
could not have loved her any more if she had
been as reasonable as weightly. I'll speak to missus Dorman
when she comes back and see if I can't come

(07:22):
to terms with her, I said, perhaps she wants a
rise in her screw. It'll be all right. Let us
walk up to the church. The church was a large
and lonely one, and we loved to go there, especially
upon bright nights. The path skirted a wood cut through
it once, and ran along the crest of the hill,
through two meadows, and round the churchyard wall, over which

(07:44):
the old ewes loomed in black masses of shadow. This path,
which was partly paved, was called the bier Balk, for
it had long been the way by which the corpses
had been carried to burial. The churchyard was richly treed
and was shaded by gray eight elms, which stood outside
and stretched their majestic arms in benediction over the happy dead.

(08:06):
A large low porch let one into the building by
a Norman doorway, and the heavy oak door studded with iron.
Inside the arches rose into darkness, and between them the
reticulated windows, which stood out white in the moonlight. In
the chancel. The windows were of rich glass, which showed
and fainted like their noble coloring, and made the black

(08:29):
oak of the choir pews hardly more solid than the shadows.
But on each side of the altar lay a gray
marble figure of a knight in full plate armor, lying
upon a low slab, with hands held up in everlasting prayer.
And these figures, oddly enough, were always to be seen
if there were any glimmer of light in the church.

(08:50):
Their names were lost, but the peasants told of them
that they had been fierce and wicked men, marauders by
land and sea, who had been the skirt of their time,
and had been guilty of deeds so foul that the
house that they had lived in, the big house by
the way that had stood on the side of our cottage,
had been stricken by lightning and the vengeance of heaven.

(09:13):
But for all that the gold of their heirs had
brought them a place in the church. Looking at the
bad hard faces reproduced in the marble. This story was
easily believed. The church looked at its best and weirdest
on that night, for the shadows of the yew trees
fell through the windows upon the floor of the nave

(09:33):
and touched the pillars with tattered shade. We sat down together,
without speaking, and watched the solemn beauty of the old
church with some of the owe which inspired its early builders.
We walked to the chancel and looked at the sleeping warriors.
Then we rested some time on the stone seat in
the porch, looking out over the stretch of quiet moonlit meadows,

(09:57):
feeling in every fiber of our being a piece of
the night and of our happy love, and came away
at last with a sense that even scrubbing and black
leading were but small troubles at their worst. Missus Dorman
had come back from the village, and I at once
invited her to a teate our tte Now, Missus Dorman,

(10:19):
I said, when I had got her into my painting room,
what's all this about your not staying with us? I
should be glad to get a wayser for the end
of the month. She answered, with her usual placid dignity,
Have you any fault to find missus dormant, none at all, sir,
you and your lady who oz been most kind? I'm sure?
Well what is it? Are your wages not high enough? No, sir,

(10:43):
a cat's quiet enough? Then why not stay? I'd rather
not with some hesitation. My niece is ill, but your
niece has been ill ever since we came no answer.
There was a long and awkward silence. I broke it.
Can't you stay for another month? I asked nouser. I'm

(11:05):
bound to go by Thursday, and this was Monday. Well,
I must say, I think you might have let us
know before. There's no time now to get any one else,
and your mistress is not fit to do heavy housework.
Can't you stay till next week and might be able
to come back next week? I was now convinced that
all she wanted was a brief holiday, which we should

(11:26):
have been willing enough to let her have as soon
as we could get a substitute. But why must you
go this week? I persisted? Come out with it? Missus
Dorman drew the little shawl which she always wore tightly
across her bosom, as though she were cold. Then she said,
with a sort of effort, they's aeser as this was
a big house in Catholic times, and are as many

(11:48):
deeds done here. The nature of that deeds might be
vaguely inferred from the inflection of Missus Dorman's voice, which
was enough to make one's blood run cold. I was
glad that Laura was not in the room. She was
always nervous, as highly strung natures are, and I felt
that these tales about our house, told by this old
peasant woman, with her impressive manner and contagious credulity, might

(12:12):
have made our home less. Dear to my wife, tell
me all about it, Missus Dorman, I said, you needn't
mind about telling me. I'm not like the young people
who make fun of such things, which was partly true. Well, sir,
she sank her voice. You may have seen in the
church beside the altar two shapes. You mean the effiges

(12:32):
of the knights in armor, I said, cheerfully. I mean
them two bodies drawed up mansize in marble. She returned,
and I had to admit that her description was a
thousand times more graphic than mine. Say nothing of a
certain weird force and uncannonness about the phrase drawed out
man's size in marble. They do see as Arnold's ain'ts

(12:54):
eve them? Two bodies sits up on those labs and
gets off them and then walks down the ale in
their mind. Another good phrase, Missus Dorman. And as a
church clock strakes levenny walks out of the church door
and over the greaves and along the beer boot. And
if it's a wet night, there's the marks of their
feet in the morning. And where did they go? I asked,

(13:15):
rather fascinated. They comes back here to their rooms, sir
money man one meets them. Well, what then, I asked?
But no, not another word could I get from her?
Say that her niece was ill and she must go.
After what I had heard, I scorned to discuss the
niece and tried to get from missus Dorman more details
of the legend. I could get nothing but warnings. Whatever

(13:38):
you do, sir, lock the door early on all Saints Eve,
and make the cross sign over the doorstep and on
the windows. But has any one ever seen these things?
I persisted, That's not for me to say. I know what.
I knows her well, who was here last year? No answer,
lady has owned the house only stopped during summer, and
she always went to London a month of all the night.

(14:01):
And I am sorry to inconvenience you and your lady,
but my niece is ill and I must go. One Thursday.
I could have shaken her for her absurd reiteration of
that obvious fiction, after she had told me her real
reasons she was determined to go. Nor could our United
entreatis move her in the least. I did not tell
Laura the legend of the shapes that walked in their marble,

(14:24):
partly because a legend concerning our house might perhaps trouble
my wife, and partly, I think some more ocult reason.
This was not quite the same to me as any
other story, and I did not want to talk about
it until the day was over. I had very soon
ceased to think of the legend. However, I was painting
a portrait of Laura against the lattice window, and I

(14:47):
could not think of much else. I had got a
splendid background of yellow and gray sunset, and was working
away with enthusiasm at her lace. On Thursday, missus Drman went.
She relented at parting so far as to say, don't
you put yourself about too much, ma'am. Then if it
does any little thing I can do next week, I'm
sure I shan't mind. From which I inferred that she

(15:09):
wished to come back to us after Halloween. Up to
the last she adhered to the fiction of the niece
with touching fidelity. Thursday passed off pretty well. Laura showed
marked ability in the matter of steak and potatoes, and
I confess that my knives and the plates which I
insisted upon washing, were better done than I dared to expect.

(15:31):
Friday came. It is about what happened on that Friday
that this is written. I wonder if I should have
believed it, if any one had told it to me.
I will write the story of it as quickly and
plainly as I can. Everything that happened on that day
is burnt into my brain. I shall not forget anything

(15:52):
nor leave anything out. I got up early, I remember,
and lighted the kitchen fire and had just cheap to
smoky success when my little wife came running down, as
sunny and sweet as the clear October morning itself. We
prepared breakfast together and found it very good fun. The
housework was soon done, and when brushes and brooms and

(16:14):
pails were quiet again, the house was still. Indeed, it
is wonderful what a difference one makes in a house.
We really missed missus Dorman. Quite apart from considerations concerning
pots and pans, we spent the day in dusting our
books and putting them straight, and dined gaily on cold
steak and coffee. Laura was, if possible, brighter and gayer

(16:37):
and sweeter than usual, and I began to think that
a little domestic toil was really good for her. We
had never been so merry since we were married, and
the walk we had that afternoon was I think the
happiest time of all my life. When we had watched
the deep scarlet clouds slowly pale into leaden gray against
a pale green sky, and all the white mists curl

(17:01):
up along the hedge rows in the distant marsh, we
came back to the house silently, hand in hand. You're sad,
my darling, I said, half jestingly, as we sat down
together in our little parlor. I expected a disclaimer, for
my own silence had been the silence of complete happiness.

(17:22):
To my surprise, she said, yes, I think I am sad,
or rather I am uneasy. I don't think I'm very well.
I've shivered three or four times since we came in.
And it's not cold, is it, no, I said, and
hoped it was not a chill caught from the treacherous
mists that roll up from the marshes in the dying light. No,

(17:44):
she said, she did not think so. Then after a silence,
she spoke, suddenly, do you ever have presentiments of evil? No,
I said, smiling, and I shouldn't believe in them. If
I had, I do, She went on the night my
father died, I knew it, though he was right away
in the north of Scotland. I did not answer in words.

(18:05):
She sat looking at the fire for some time in silence,
gently stroking my hand. At last she sprang up, came
behind me, and, drawing my head back, kissed me. There
it's over now, she said, What a baby I am.
Come light the candles and we'll have some of these
new Rubenstein duets. And we spent a happy hour or

(18:26):
two at the piano. At about half past ten, I
began to long for the good night pipe, but Laura
looked so white that I felt it would be brutal
of me to fill our sitting room with the fumes
of strong cavendish. I'll take my pipe outside, I said,
let me come too, No, sweetheart, not to night. You're
much too tired. I shan't belong get to bed, or

(18:50):
I shall have an invalid to nurse to morrow, as
well as the boots to clean. I kissed her and
was turning to go when she flung her arms round
my neck and held me as if she would never
let me go again. I stroked her hair. Come, pussy,
you're overtired. The housework has been too much for you.
She loosened her clasp a little and drew a deep breath. No,

(19:13):
we've been very happy to day, jack, haven't We don't
stay up too long. I won't, my dearie. I strolled
out of the front door, leaving it unlatched. What a
night it was. The jagged masses of heavy dark cloud
were rolling at intervals from horizon to horizon, and thin
white wreaths covered the stars through all the rush of

(19:36):
the cloud river. The moon swam, breasting the waves and
disappearing again in the darkness. When now and again her
light reached the woodlands, they seemed to be slowly and
noiselessly moving in time to the swing of the clouds
above them. There was a strange gray light over all
the earth. The fields had that shadowy bloom over them
which only comes from the marriage of dew and moonshine,

(19:59):
or frost and starlight. I walked up and down, drinking
in the beauty of the quiet earth and the changing sky.
The night was absolutely silent. Nothing seemed to be abroad.
There was no scurrying of rabbits or twitter of the
half asleep birds. And though the clouds went sailing across
the sky, the wind that drove them never came low

(20:21):
enough to rustle the dead leaves in the woodland paths.
Across the meadows, I could see the church tower standing
out black and gray against the sky. I walked there,
thinking over our three months of happiness, and of my wife,
her dear eyes, her loving ways. Oh, my little girl,
my own little girl. What a vision came then, of

(20:42):
a long, glad life for you and me together. I
heard a bell beat from the church eleven already I
turned to go in, but the night held me. I
could not go back to our little warm rooms. Yet
I would go up to the church. I felt very
vaguely that it would be good to carry my love
and thankfulness to the sanctuary, whither so many loads of

(21:06):
sorrow and gladness had been borne by the men and
women of the dead years. I looked in at the
low window as I went by. Laura was half lying
on her chair in front of the fire. I could
not see her face, only her little head showed dark
against the pale blue wall. She was quite still asleep,

(21:27):
no doubt. My heart reached out to her as I
went on. There must be a god, i thought, and
a god who was good. How otherwise could anything so
sweet and dear as she have ever been imagined. I
walked slowly along the edge of the wood. A sound
broke the stillness of the night. It was a rustling

(21:47):
in the wood. I stopped and listened. The sound stopped too.
I went on, and now distinctly heard another step than
mine answer mine like an echo. It was a poacher
or wood steeler, most likely, for these were not unknown
in our Arcadian neighborhood. But whoever it was, he was

(22:08):
a fool not to step more lightly. I turned into
the wood, and now the footsteps seemed to come from
the path I had just left. It must be an echo.
I thought. The wood looked perfect in the moonlight, the
large dying ferns and the brushwood showed where through thinning
foliage the pale light came down. The tree trunks stood

(22:30):
up like Gothic columns all around me. They reminded me
of the church, and I turned into the bier Balk
and passed through the corpse gate between the graves to
the low porch. I paused for a moment on the
stone seat where Laura and I had watched the fading landscape.
Then I noticed that the door of the church was open,

(22:51):
and I blamed myself for having left it unlatched the
other night. We were the only people who ever cared
to come to the church except on Sundays, and I
was vexed to think that through our carelessness, the damp
autumn ares had had a chance of getting in and
injuring the old fabric. I went in. It will seem strange,
perhaps that I should have gone half way up the

(23:12):
aisle before I remembered with a sudden chill, followed by
a sudden a rush of self contempt. So this was
the very day and hour when, according to tradition, the
shapes drawed out Man's size in marble, began to walk,
having thus remembered the legend, and remembered it with a shiver,
of which I was ashamed. I could not do otherwise,

(23:34):
and walk up towards the altar, just to look at
the figures, as I said to myself, Really, what I
wanted was to assure myself first that I did not
believe the legend, and secondly that it was not true.
I was rather glad that I had come. I thought
now I could tell missus Dorman how vain her fancies were,
and how peacefully the marble figures slept on through the

(23:56):
ghastly hour. With my hands in my pocket, I passed
up the aisle. In the gray dim light, the eastern
end of the church looked larger than usual, and the
arches above the two tombs looked larger too. The moon
came out and showed me the reason. I stopped short.
My heart gave a leap that nearly choked me, and

(24:19):
then sank sickeningly. The bodies drawed out Man's sides were gone,
and their marble slabs lay wide and bare in the
vague moonlight that slanted through the east window. Were they
really gone? Or was I mad? Clenching my nerves, I
stopped and passed my hand over the smooth slabs and

(24:40):
felt their flat, unbroken surface. Had someone taken the things away?
Was it some vile, practical joke? I would make sure anyway.
In an instant I had made a torch of a
newspaper which happened to me in my pocket, and lighting it,
held it high above my head. Its yellow glare illumined
the dark arches and those slabs. The figures were gone,

(25:04):
and I was alone in the church? Or was I alone?
And then a horror seized me, A horror indefinable and indescribable,
an overwhelming certainty of supreme and accomplished calamity. I flung
down the torch and tore along the island out through
the porch, biting my lips as I ran to keep

(25:24):
myself from shrieking aloud. Oh was I mad? Or what
was this thing that had possessed me? I let the
churchyard wall and took a straight cut across the fields,
led by the light from our windows. Just as I
got over the first style, a dark figure seemed to
spring out of the ground. Mad still with that certainty
of misfortune. I made for the thing that stood in

(25:45):
my path, shutting get out of the way, can't you?
But my push was met with a more vigorous resistance
than I had expected. My arms were caught just above
the elbow and held as in a vice, and the
raw boned Irish doctor actually took me. Would ye, he
cried in his own unmistakable accents. Would ye? Then let

(26:05):
me go, you fool, I gasped. The marble figures have
gone from the church. I tell you they've gone. He
broke into a ringing laugh. I'll have to give you
a draft to morrow. I see you've been spoken too
much and listening to old wives tales. I tell you
I've seen the bare slabs. We'll come back with me.
I am going to Tom Palmer's his daughter sell. We're

(26:27):
looking at the church and let me see the bear slabs.
You go if you like, I said, a little less
frantic for his laughter, I'm going home to my wife.
Rubbish man said he do you think i'll permit of that?
Are you to go? Saying all your knife that you've
seen solid marble endowed with fatality, and me to girl
me noice saying that's you're a coward, daughter. You shan't

(26:47):
do it. The night air a human voice, and I
think also the physical contact with this six feet of
solid common sense brought me back a little to my
ordinary self, and the word coward was a mental shower bath.
Come on, then, I said, sullenly, perhaps you're right. He
still held my arm tightly. We got over the stile

(27:10):
and walked back to the church. All was still as death.
The place smelt very damp and earthy. We walked up
the aisle. I'm not ashamed to confess that I shut
my eyes. I knew the figures would not be there.
I heard Kelly strike a match here there are you
see it right enough? You've been dreaming of drinking, asking

(27:32):
your pardon for the invitation. I opened my eyes by Kelly's
expiring vesta. I saw two shapes lying in their marble
on their slabs. I drew a deep breath and caught
his hand. I'm awfully indebted to you, I said. It
must have been some trick of the light, or I've
been working rather hard. Perhaps that's it. Do you know?

(27:55):
I was quite convinced they were gone. Don't even aware
of that? He answered, rather grit. You'll have to be
careful of that brain of yours, my friend, I assure you.
He was leaning over and looking at the right hand figure,
whose stony face was the most villainous and deadly in
expression by jove. He said, sometimes been afoot you? Those

(28:15):
hand is broken, and so it was. I was certain
that it had been perfect the last time Laura and
I had been there. Perhaps someone's tried to remove them,
said the young doctor. That won't account for my impression.
I objected. Too much painting and tobacco will account for that.
Well enough, come along, I said, or my wife will

(28:36):
be getting anxious. You'll come in and have a drop
of whiskey and drink. Confusion to ghosts and better sense
to me. I ought to go to Palmous, but it's
so late now I'd best live it till mornin, he replied.
I was carefully at the union, and I've had to
see a lot of people since all Royce. I'll come
back with ye, I think, he fancied. I needed him

(28:58):
more than did Palmer's Girl. So discussing how such an
illusion could have been possible, and deducing from this experience
large generalities concerning ghostly apparitions. We walked up to our cottage.
We saw as we walked up the garden path that
the bright lights streamed out of the front door, and
presently saw that the parlor door was open too. Had

(29:20):
she gone out? Come in? I said, and Doctor Kelly
followed me into the parlor. It was all ablaze with candles,
not only the wax ones, but at least a dozen guttering, glaring,
tallow dips stuck in vases, and ornaments in unlikely places.
Light I knew was Laura's remedy for nervousness, Poor child?

(29:40):
Why had I left her? Brute that I was? We
glanced round the room, and at first we did not
see her. The window was open and the draft set
all the candles flaring one way. Her chair was empty,
and her handkerchief and book lay on the floor. I
turned to the window. There in the roo of the
window I saw her. Oh, my child, my love. Had

(30:04):
she gone to that window to watch for me? And
what had come into the room behind her? To what
had she turned with that look of frantic fear and horror? Oh,
my little one? Had she thought that it was I
whose step she heard? And turned to meet what. She
had fallen back across a table in the window, and
her body lay half on it and half on the

(30:26):
window seat, and her head hung down over the table.
The brown hair loosened and fallen to the carpet. Her
lips were drawn back and her eyes wide wide open.
They saw nothing, now, what had they seen last? The
doctor moved towards her, but I pushed him aside and

(30:47):
sprang to her, caught her in my arms and cried,
it's all right, Laura, I've got you safe, wifey. She
fell into my arms in a heap. I clasped her
and kissed her, and called her by all her pet names.
But I think I knew all the time that she
was dead. Her hands were tightly clenched in one of them,

(31:10):
she held something fast. When I was quite sure that
she was dead and that nothing mattered tall any more,
I let him open her hand to see what she held.
It was a gray marble finger end of man's eye

(31:31):
in marble.