The Lust of Hate by Guy Newell Boothby (ebook reader for pc .txt) 📖

more and more!”

 

“And why? Considering that I know China better than you know that

part of London situated, shall we say, between Blackfriars Bridge and

Charing Cross, and have spent many years of my life here, the first

should not astonish you. And as I am warmly attached to my cat, who

has accompanied me in all my wanderings about the globe, I cannot see

that you should be surprised at the other. Perhaps you would like to

see both?”

 

As may be supposed, I jumped eagerly at the opportunity; and upon

my saying so, Nikola pressed a knob in the wall at his side. He had

hardly taken his finger away before my ear detected the shuffling of

feet in the passage outside. Next moment the door opened, and in

walked the most hideous man I have ever yet beheld in my life. In

Australia I had met many queer specimens of the Chinese race, but

never one whose countenance approached in repulsiveness that of the

man Nikola employed as his servant. In stature he was taller than his

master, possibly a couple or three inches above six feet, and broad

in proportion. His eyes squinted inwardly, his face was wrinkled and

seamed in every direction, his nose had plainly been slit at some

time or another, and I noticed that his left ear was missing from his

head. He was dressed in his native costume, but when he turned round

I noticed that his pigtail had been shorn off at the roots.

 

“You are evidently puzzled about something,” said Nikola, who had

been watching my face.

 

“I must confess I am,” I answered. “It is this. If he is deaf and

dumb, as you say, how did he hear the bell you rang, and also how do

you communicate your orders to him?”

 

“This knob,” replied Nikola, placing his finger on the bell-push,

“releases a smaller shutter and reveals a disc that signifies that I

desire his services. When I wish to give him instructions I speak to

him in his own language, and he answers it. It is very simple.”

 

“But you said just now that he is deaf and dumb,” I cried,

thinking I had caught him in an equivocation. “If so, how can he hear

or speak?”

 

“So he is,” replied my host, looking at me as he spoke, with an

amused smile upon his face. “Quite deaf and dumb.”

 

“Then how can you make him hear. And how does he reply?”

 

“As I say, by word of mouth. Allow me to explain. You argue that

because the poor fellow has no tongue wherewith to speak, and his

ears are incapable of hearing what you say to him, that it is

impossible for him to carry on a conversation. So far as your meaning

goes, you are right. But you must remember that, while no sound can

come from his lips, it is still possible for the words to be framed.

In that case our eyes take the place of our ears, and thus the

difficulty is solved. The principle is a simple one, and a visit to

any modern deaf and dumb school in London will show you its efficacy.

Surely you are not going to ask me to believe you have not heard of

the system before?”

 

“Of course I have heard of it,” I answered, “but in this case the

circumstances are so different.”

 

“Simply because the man is a Chinaman—that is all. If his skin

were white instead of yellow, and he wore English dress and parted

his hair in the middle, you would find nothing extraordinary in it.

At any rate, perpetual silence on the part of a servant and physical

inability to tittle-tattle of the affairs one would wish kept a

secret, is a luxury few men can boast.”

 

“I agree with you; but how did the poor fellow come to lose his

faculties?”

 

“To let you into that secret would necessitate the narration of a

long and, I fear to you, uninteresting story. Suffice that he was the

confidential servant of the Viceroy of Kweichow until he was detected

in an amiable plot to assassinate his master with poisoned rice. He

was at once condemned to die by ling-chi or the death of a

thousand cuts, but by the exercise of a little influence which,

fortunately for him, I was able to bring to bear, I managed to get

him off.”

 

“I wonder you care to have a man capable of concocting such a plot

about you,” I said.

 

“And why? Because the poor devil desired to kill the man he hated,

is it certain that he should wish to terminate the existence of his

benefactor, for whom he has a great affection? Moreover, he is a

really good cook, understands my likes and dislikes, never grumbles,

and is quite conscious that if he left me he would never get another

situation in the world. In the nineteenth century, when good servants

are so difficult to procure, the man is worth a gold mine—a Wheel

of Fortune, if you like.”

 

“You would argue, then,” I said, disregarding the latter part of

his speech, “that if a man hates another he is justified in

endeavouring to rid the world of him?”

 

“Necessarily it must depend entirely on the circumstances of the

case,” replied Nikola, leaning back in his chair and stedfastly

regarding me. “When a man attempts to do, or succeeds in doing, me an

injury, I invariably repay him in his own coin. Presume, for

instance, that a man were to rob you of what you loved best, and

considered most worth having, in the world—the affection of your

wife, shall we say?—in that case, if you were a man of spirit you

would feel justified in meting out to him the punishment he deserved,

either in the shape of a duel, or severe personal chastisement. If he

shot at you in any country but England, you would shoot at him. Eye

for eye, and tooth for tooth, was the old Hebrew law, and whatever

may be said against it, fundamentally it was a just one.”

 

I thought of Bartrand, and wished I could apply the principle to

him.

 

“I fear, however,” continued Nikola, after a moment’s pause, “that

in personal matters the men of the present day are not so brave as

they once were. They shelter themselves too much behind the law of

the land. A man slanders you; instead of thrashing him you bring an

action against him for libel, and claim damages in money. A man runs

away with your wife; you proclaim your shame in open court, and take

gold from your enemy for the affront he has put upon your honour. If

a man thrashes you in a public place, you don’t strike him back; on

the contrary, you consult your solicitor, and take your case before a

magistrate, who binds him over to keep the peace. If, after all is

said and done, you look closely into the matter, what is crime? A

very pliable term, I fancy. For instance, a duke may commit an

offence, and escape scot free, when, for the same thing, only under a

different name, a costermonger would be sent to gaol for five years.

And vice versa. A subaltern in a crack regiment may run up

tailors’ bills—or any others, for that matter—for several thousands

of pounds and decamp without paying a halfpenny of the money, never

having intended to do so from the very beginning, while if a chimney

sweep were to purloin a bunch of radishes from a tray outside a

greengrocer’s window, he would probably be sent to gaol for three

months. And yet both are stealing, though I must confess society

regards them with very different eyes. Let clergymen and other

righteous men say what they will, the world in its heart rather

admires the man who has the pluck to swindle, but he must do so on a

big scale, and he must do so successfully, or he must pay the penalty

of failure. Your own case, with which, as I said earlier, I am quite

familiar, is one in point. Everyone who has heard of it, and who

knows anything of the man, feels certain that Bartrand stole from you

the information which has made him the millionaire he is. But does it

make any difference in the world’s treatment of him? None whatever.

And why? Because he swindled successfully. In the same way they

regard you as a very poor sort of fellow for submitting to his

injustice.”

 

“Curse him!”

 

“Exactly. But, you see, the fact remains. Bartrand has a house in

Park Lane and a castle in Shropshire. The Duke of Glendower dined

with him the night before last, and one of the members of the Cabinet

will do so on Saturday next. Yesterday he purchased a racing stable

and a stud, for which he paid twenty thousand pounds cash; while I am

told that next year he intends building a yacht that shall be the

finest craft of her class in British waters. It is settled that he is

to be presented at the next levee, and already he is in the first

swim of the fashionable world. If he can only win the Derby this

year, there is nothing he might not aspire to. In ten years, if his

money lasts and he is still alive, he will be a peer of the realm and

founding a new family.”

 

“He must not live as long. Oh, if I could only meet him

face to face and repay him for his treachery!”

 

“And why not? What is there to prevent you? You can walk to his

house any morning and ask to see him. If you give the butler a

fictitious name and a tip he will admit you. Then, when you get into

the library, you can state your grievance and, having done so, shoot

him dead.”

 

I uttered a little involuntary cry of anger. Deeply as I hated the

man, it was not possible for me seriously to contemplate murdering

him in cold blood. Besides—no, no; such a scheme could not be

thought of for a moment.

 

“You don’t like the idea?” said Nikola, with that easy

nonchalance which characterised him. “Well, I don’t wonder at

it; it’s bizarre, to say the least of it. You would probably

be caught and hanged, and hanging is an inartistic termination to the

career of even an unsuccessful man. Besides, in that case, you

would have lost your money and your life; he only his life, so that

the balance would still be in his favour. No; what you want is

something a little more subtle, a little more artistic. You want a

scheme that will enable you to put him out of the way, and, at the

same time, one that will place you in possession of the money that is

really yours. Therefore it must be done without any esclandre.

Now I don’t doubt you would be surprised if I were to tell you that

in the event of his death you would find yourself his sole heir.”

 

“His sole heir?” I cried. “You must be mad to say such a

thing.”

 

“With due respect, no more mad than you are,” said this

extraordinary man. I have seen the will for myself—never mind how I

managed it—and I know that what I say is correct. After all, it is

very feasible. The man, for the reason that he has wronged you, hates

you like poison, and while he lives you may be sure you will never

see a penny of his fortune. But he is also superstitious, and

believing, as he does, that he stands a chance