The Complete Simon Iff (15 page)

“Precisely,” said the mystic.

“Well, he had a side to his nature which he did not put in his book.”

“Impossible,” said Iff. “Men’s books are always artistic images of themselves. Of course, this thing has no creative genius at all, and he’s a hopelessly bad critic, absolutely incapable of discerning greatness, just as a fly, whose time-sense is extremely rapid compared to ours, cannot perceive movement in a body which travels more slowly than about a yard a minute, or as an amoeba could not understand generation or even gemmation. But, such as his mind is, he must put it into every page he writes.”

“I’m going to show you he has a criminal mind.”

“We’re listening,” acquiesced the old magician.

“When he was at the University of London, there was a small scandal, which rather shows the man’s quality. He made friends with a man, who confided to him the secret of a love- affair with a woman of the streets. Haramzada Swamy tracked the girl, and tried to buy his friend’s letters to her, to blackmail him. The girl was loyal and told her lover, who horsewhipped the Eurasian soundly. Shortly after taking his degree he married an Englishwoman. I should like here to make the point that she was a sex-degenerate, like his mother; for all white women who marry colored men must be classed as such.” “I agree.”

“I agree.”

“She was quite crazy about him — ‘too fond of her most filthy bargain’ — and they were happy for awhile. Then the snake entered Eden in the shape of a little music-teacher, another degenerate, again a case of heredity, for she was marked with Hutchinson’s Teeth. You know what that means?”

Both men nodded gravely.

“The Swamy and his wife were great on preaching Free Love. The snake — and she had the temper of a Russell’s Viper! — agreed entirely. A few weeks later she became Haramzada Swamy’s mistress. She was so passionate and jealous that she resolved to upset the marriage; this decision was confirmed by necessity, for she became enceinte, and the Swamy, who hated the idea of children, showed every sign of throwing her off. She actually had the nerve to go to his wife with her story! After various violent scenes, a divorce was decided upon. The Swamy, who has no will of his own, was seized upon by the music-teacher, and never allowed to stir a foot, under penalty of other tempests, until the divorce was granted, and she dragged him to the registrar’s. With amazing cynicism, they had a wedding breakfast, with cake complete, and the baby playing on the floor!

“The Eurasian now had more freedom; he got an appointment in India, and on one excuse or another managed to leave his wife and child behind. Arrived in Hindustan, he set up a harem of dancing-girls, and was happy. But the necessity of a periodical remittance to the fair Florrie soon began to prey upon his mind. He determined to bring her out; for one thing, an English wife might do him some good socially, for of course he was an outcast from both English and native society; for another, it would be cheaper to keep her in India than in England; for another, perhaps, the climate might kill both wife and child, and put an end once and for all to the expense. As it happened, one of his best friends, a full-blooded Indian who also had a taste for white women, and so did not mind mixed marriages and their results so much as his stricter countrymen, was returning to India. He put his wife in charge of this man. On the voyage she promptly seduced him. When the husband became aware of the fact, some six weeks after they landed, he made some mild protest, but did nothing. In fact, they traveled about together, all three, for some months. But the woman was absolutely shameless, caressing her lover even in front of the servants, and the contempt of these — all true Indians are extremely moral and decent, even to prudishness, whether they are polygamists or not — the contempt of the servants became so marked that even the Swamy could not stand it any more. He insisted on a separation. In vain the wife implored her lover to take her with him; he had too much sense for that. It was ultimately agreed that his child — for she was again pregnant — should be treated by Haramzada as his own; and she was to go back to England with her husband.

“Two years later found them in New York. Florrie picked up another lover, greatly to the relief of the Swamy, who hated paying for her dinners. This man, however, insisted on her playing the game: a straight divorce: a straight marriage; and no more foolishness. Haramzada gladly agreed. But just at this moment it was discovered that Florrie was not so penniless as had been supposed; a rich uncle wrote, offering to make her his heir, his only son having been killed in France. The Swamy instantly altered his whole position. He went back to his wife, pleaded with her, begged her forgiveness, played on her pity — ultimately got her to waver. She was now again with child by the new lover. All this time, however, Haramzada was carrying on an intrigue with a German girl, the regular Broadway type. At this moment of sham reconciliation the uncle died. Haramzada resolved on a master-stroke. During her previous pregnancy the sea-voyage had come near to causing one, if not two deaths. He hated his wife most bitterly — of course, such a creature is utterly incapable of love for anybody — he was her heir, and besides, her life was heavily insured. So he insisted on her going to England to see her children, and attend to the estate left by her uncle. She became dangerously ill, and miscarried; but she lived. The Swamy then hurried over to join her. What was his chagrin to find that her uncle’s money was left in trust for her children, so that he could not touch more than a small necessary income?

“He was in great financial straits; robbery and murder were certainly in his heart. Can we be surprised that his hand followed suit? It only needed the opportunity; and the other night he evidently had it.”

“You have failed utterly,” replied the mystic with some scorn, “to grasp the mind of the thing. All because you will not read his book on Buddhism! He had no opportunity to rob and kill. Any other, yes; but not he. Consider all his acts. We find extreme meanness, selfishness, cunning, the most ignoble attitudes throughout, never a glimpse of anything vertebrate. This is all in accordance with his view of Buddhism. He had a thousand ‘opportunities’ to kill his wife in India. But not what he, Ananda Haramzada Swamy, calls opportunities. He won’t put his neck in a noose; not he! He hopes that the Indian climate may kill her; he hopes that the sea voyage may kill her. But he won’t do more in the way of murder than say: ‘Darling, do come out; I’m so lonesome,’ or ‘Darling, do go to England; I’m so anxious about the sweet babies.’ He’s cold as a fish, but he’s never brutal, and he’s a coward to the bone.”

“That’s rather cute,” said Flynn. “Now you mention it, I’ll do another lap. I got this story from Florrie’s lover No. 3, by the same token. You wouldn’t blame him for talking. I’ve known him twenty years, and he was all broken up — just in that state when one has to tell some one or burst. He told me how he left her. When she went back to the Swamy he cut off short, and she’s been plaguing him ever since to take her back. He won’t. Well, one day he had slapped her gently for impudence. She was going to try to make a slave of him, as she had of her yellow and black men. She said to him: ‘If only Ananda had beaten me I would have loved him always.’ So evidently he never had.”

“What was your friend doing in that galley?” asked Broughton.

“Oh, he’s a crank. Saw good in her and wanted to save her. Damned fool! But of course he knew that the only way was to be like a rock — never to yield an inch to any of her gusts of passion. If the Swamy had not murdered their baby I think he might have won.”

“I agree with your estimate. Your friend’s Quixotic,” said Simon Iff. “My interest is in schools, not in hospitals. To let the degenerates drop out is the true kindness — certainly to the race, perhaps even to them.”

“To get back to the point,” said Broughton. “You still hold the Swamy innocent?”

“I do. Buddhism is a religion of the most dauntless courage. The whole force of the universe from all eternity is challenged by him who would become an arahat, as they call what we call saints, only it’s more than that. The saint has God on his side; the would-be arahat has nothing but himself and the memory that there was once a man who won in that incalculable struggle. Yet you suggest that the man who not only fails to appreciate this courage, but even to perceive it, is brave enough to kill a woman with a poker, and even to return to the house where her corpse lies. If he had killed her, by some chance, he would have fled — fled, fled to the darkest corner of the earth! “No, sir, Dr. Haramzada Swamy did not kill that woman!” A newsboy ran across the lawn. “Extry! Extry!” he shouted, “full confession by the Injun!”

Broughton and Flynn jumped for the paper; Simon Iff only poured himself another glass of brandy.

Flynn’s professional eye first caught the paragraph. “Textual!” he exclaimed gleefully, and began to read aloud.

“As every one knows,” the confession began, “Lady Brooke Hunter was notorious for her immoralities.” Iff chuckled, and rubbed his hands.

“She had become old and unattractive. I met her at the Covent Garden ball. She begged me to pass the night with her. I took pity on her, and consented. A little before five o’clock she said she must go home. I remarked, as she rose, upon her obesity, and suggested, out of pure kindness, a way to remove it by practising Indian clubs. I illustrated some exercises with the poker. Suddenly I had a dizzy fit; the poker slipped out of my hand and struck her on the temple. Horrified, I rushed out to find a doctor; but in my bewilderment I could not do so. Then I bethought me of the telephone, and returned home to use it. To my surprise I found the police in the flat. Daniels must have stolen the jewels.” Broughton gave a great shout of laughter. “I don’t believe a word of it,” he roared. “Nor will the jury.”

“Nor do I,” said Jack Flynn. “Disgusting! look how he throws all the blame on every one else. All but the deathblow — and that’s an accident. Dizziness! No, sir, he had that poker by the business end all right!”

“I don’t altogether believe the story myself,” murmured Simon Iff, in a rather deprecating manner. “He never struck that blow. I’m humbled over this thing, gentlemen; I can’t see the truth. And what’s more, I can’t see why that Eurasian can’t tell the truth; I’m sure he could save his neck if he did. I can only think of two possibilities; one, that to tell the truth would disclose some other crime, some meaner crime, some vileness possible for him; two, that, somehow or other, he doesn’t know the truth himself. Or is it that he’s incapable of truth as such? Confound it, I’ve been so keen to argue with you that I’ve not put on my thinking cap!”

“I tell you what,” interjected Flynn. “Write me an article on the case; once the man’s condemned, as he will be, I can print it. And see if you can get a reprieve on the strength of his book on Buddhism!”

“You shall have the copy to-morrow. It’s time I paddled up to Henley. So long!”

The old man went down the lawn to his skiff. He was not as straight as usual; and as he pulled off, the others thought his figure an incarnate Note of Interrogation.

Not long afterwards the case was tried. Haramzada Swamy was found guilty, as the whole country had anticipated. The next day the article by Simon Iff appeared in the “Emerald Tablet.”

“I am no orator, as Antony was,” it began. “I come not to praise Caesar, but to postpone his burial”; and went on to recapitulate in a precise and logical form the arguments already advanced on the lawn at Skindle’s. The wife of the condemned man had delightfully given permission for the publication of her nauseating story. In her own eyes she was a heroine. The article ended by saying that murder depended upon three things, will, capacity and opportunity; that in this case all three were apparently present, but that the type of murder was one of which Dr. Haramzada Swamy was incapable. “I’m not saying this to flatter him. But he is incapable of it. A snake may bite you as you walk unwarily in the jungle or across the jhil. (Simple Simon delighted in exotic words.) But a snake will never kick you. I would stake my life that Dr. Haramzada Swamy is innocent of the murder for which he has been condemned to death. HE IS NOT GOOD ENOUGH. If he is hanged, it will not be, perhaps, altogether a miscarriage of justice. But it will be an error of law.”

The publication of this essay threw England into convulsions of merriment. Their beloved crank had surpassed all his previous efforts. Even the little clique of his admirers were compelled to represent this article as mere sublimity of paradox.

A week later came another explanatory confession from the Swamy, equally unavailing as it was unconvincing. A week before the date set for the execution he broke down altogether, made “true and full confession of deliberate murder,” disclosed the place where he had hidden the jewels, which were duly recovered, and was received into the Roman Catholic Church.

Reconciled thus with his Maker, he strove to obtain the pardon of his fellows; but the Home Secretary “declined to interfere” in a voice that destroyed a reputation for suavity of manner that he had been forty and three years in building!

At the appointed moment Ananda Haramzada Swamy, Doctor of Philosophy, suffered the extreme penalty of the law.

Jack Flynn was playing billiards with Simon Iff in the Hemlock Club. “You must be pretty fed up,” the editor remarked. “I don’t want to rub it in; but that final confession must have made you feel pretty sore!”

“Not a bit!” replied the mystic cheerfully, “it’s all of a piece with the rest of his life. He never touched that woman; and, now, I’m quite sure he was not only innocent but ignorant. Oh, I know what you want to quote: ‘A fool is more wise in his own conceit than seven men that can render a reason.’ Don’t mind my seniority!”

“Hang it,” said Flynn, “I don’t mean that; but — you — well, you are a bit obstinate, you know. By the way, here’s a letter for you. I brought it in from the office. More abuse, I suppose!”

Simple Simon put the letter in his pocket, and they finished their game.

“I’ll read the abuse,” said the mystic, taking a chair by the fire, “it may be amusing. Qui m’ abuse m’ amuse! to alter one of Wilde’s remarks a trifle.” But as he read his face did not lighten; and at the end he put the letter away carefully in his pocket. Flynn watched him in silence. For ten minutes Simon Iff remained as still as an Egyptian God. Then he rose.