The Greatest Christmas Tales & Poems in One Volume (Illustrated). О. Генри

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СКАЧАТЬ How could I put out as my own another man's work and retain my self -respect? I resolved on another and better course--to send you the story in lieu of my own with a full statement of the circumstances under which it had come into my possession, when that demon rose up out of the floor at my side, this time more evil of aspect than before, more commanding in its manner. With a groan I shrank back into the cushions of my chair, and by passing my hands over my eyes tried to obliterate forever the offending sight; but it was useless. The uncanny thing approached me, and as truly as I write sat upon the edge of my couch, where for the first time it addressed me.

      "Fool!" it said, "how can you hesitate? Here is your position: you have made a contract which must be filled; you are already behind, and in a hopeless mental state. Even granting that between this and to-morrow morning you could put together the necessary number of words to fill the space allotted to you, what kind of a thing do you think that story would make? It would be a mere raving like that other precious effort of August. The public, if by some odd chance it ever reached them, would think your mind was utterly gone; your reputation would go with that verdict. On the other hand, if you do not have the story ready by to-morrow, your hold on the Idler will be destroyed. They have their announcements printed, and your name and portrait appear among those of the prominent contributors. Do you suppose the editor and publisher will look leniently upon your failure?"

      "Considering my past record, yes," I replied. "I have never yet broken a promise to them."

      "Which is precisely the reason why they will be severe with you. You, who have been regarded as one of the few men who can do almost any kind of literary work at will--you, of whom it is said that your 'brains are on tap'--will they be lenient with you? Bah! Can't you see that the very fact of your invariable readiness heretofore is going to make your present unreadiness a thing incomprehensible?"

      "Then what shall I do?" I asked. "If I can't, I can't, that is all."

      "You can. There is the story in your hands. Think what it will do for you. It is one of the immortal stories--"

      "You have read it, then?" I asked.

      "Haven't you?"

      "Yes--but--"

      "It is the same," it said, with a leer and a contemptuous shrug. "You and I are inseparable. Aren't you glad?" it added, with a laugh that grated on every fibre of my being. I was too overwhelmed to reply, and it resumed: "It is one of the immortal stories. We agree to that. Published over your name, your name will live. The stuff you write yourself will give you present glory; but when you have been dead ten years people won't remember your name even--unless I get control of you, and in that case there is a very pretty though hardly a literary record in store for you."

      Again it laughed harshly, and I buried my face in the pillows of my couch, hoping to find relief there from this dreadful vision.

      "Curious," it said. "What you call your decent self doesn't dare look me in the eye! What a mistake people make who say that the man who won't look you in the eye is not to be trusted! As if mere brazenness were a sign of honesty; really, the theory of decency is the most amusing thing in the world. But come, time is growing short. Take that story. The writer gave it to you. Begged you to use it as your own. It is yours. It will make your reputation, and save you with your publishers. How can you hesitate?"

      "I shall not use it!" I cried, desperately.

      "You must--consider your children. Suppose you lose your connection with these publishers of yours?"

      "But it would be a crime."

      "Not a bit of it. Whom do you rob? A man who voluntarily came to you, and gave you that of which you rob him. Think of it as it is-- and act, only act quickly. It is now midnight."

      The tempter rose up and walked to the other end of the room, whence, while he pretended to be looking over a few of my books and pictures, I was aware he was eyeing me closely, and gradually compelling me by sheer force of will to do a thing which I abhorred. And I--I struggled weakly against the temptation, but gradually, little by little, I yielded, and finally succumbed altogether. Springing to my feet, I rushed to the table, seized my pen, and signed my name to the story.

      "There!" I said. "It is done. I have saved my position and made my reputation, and am now a thief!"

      "As well as a fool," said the other, calmly. "You don't mean to say you are going to send that manuscript in as it is?"

      "Good Lord!" I cried. "What under heaven have you been trying to make me do for the last half hour?"

      "Act like a sane being," said the demon. "If you send that manuscript to Currier he'll know in a minute it isn't yours. He knows you haven't an amanuensis, and that handwriting isn't yours. Copy it."

      "True!" I answered. "I haven't much of a mind for details to-night. I will do as you say."

      I did so. I got out my pad and pen and ink, and for three hours diligently applied myself to the task of copying the story. When it was finished I went over it carefully, made a few minor corrections, signed it, put it in an envelope, addressed it to you, stamped it, and went out to the mail-box on the corner, where I dropped it into the slot, and returned home. When I had returned to my library my visitor was still there.

      "Well," it said, "I wish you'd hurry and complete this affair. I am tired, and wish to go."

      "You can't go too soon to please me," said I, gathering up the original manuscripts of the story and preparing to put them away in my desk.

      "Probably not," it sneered. "I'll be glad to go too, but I can't go until that manuscript is destroyed. As long as it exists there is evidence of your having appropriated the work of another. Why, can't you see that? Burn it!"

      "I can't see my way clear in crime!" I retorted. "It is not in my line."

      Nevertheless, realizing the value of his advice, I thrust the pages one by one into the blazing log fire, and watched them as they flared and flamed and grew to ashes. As the last page disappeared in the embers the demon vanished. I was alone, and throwing myself down for a moment's reflection upon my couch, was soon lost in sleep.

      It was noon when I again opened my eyes, and, ten minutes after I awakened, your telegraphic summons reached me.

      "Come down at once," was what you said, and I went; and then came the terrible denouement, and yet a denouement which was pleasing to me since it relieved my conscience. You handed me the envelope containing the story.

      "Did you send that?" was your question.

      "I did--last night, or rather early this morning. I mailed it about three o'clock," I replied.

      "I demand an explanation of your conduct," said you.

      "Of what?" I asked.

      "Look at your so-called story and see. If this is a practical joke, Thurlow, it's a damned poor one."

      I opened the envelope and took from it the sheets I had sent you-- twenty-four of them.

      They were every one of them as blank as when they left the paper -mill!

      You know the rest. You know that I tried to speak; that my utterance failed me; and that, finding myself unable at the time to control my emotions, I turned and rushed madly from the office, leaving the СКАЧАТЬ