Markheim by Robert Louis Stevenson
"Yes," said the dealer, "our windfalls are of various kinds. Some
customers are ignorant, and then I touch a dividend on my superior
knowledge. Some are dishonest," and here he held up the candle, so that
the light fell strongly on his visitor, "and in that case," he continued,
"I profit by my virtue."
Markheim had but just entered from the daylight streets, and his eyes had
not yet grown familiar with the mingled shine and darkness in the shop. At
these pointed words, and before the near presence of the flame, he blinked
painfully and looked aside.
The dealer chuckled. "You come to me on Christmas Day," he resumed, "when
you know that I am alone in my house, put up my shutters, and make a point
of refusing business. Well, you will have to pay for that; you will have
to pay for my loss of time, when I should be balancing my books; you will
have to pay, besides, for a kind of manner that I remark in you to-day
very strongly. I am the essence of discretion, and ask no awkward
questions; but when a customer cannot look me in the eye, he has to pay
for it." The dealer once more chuckled; and then, changing to his usual
business voice, though still with a note of irony, "You can give, as
usual, a clear account of how you came into the possession of the object?"
he continued. "Still your uncle's cabinet? A remarkable collector, sir!"
And the little pale, round-shouldered dealer stood almost on tip-toe,
looking over the top of his gold spectacles, and nodding his head with
every mark of disbelief. Markheim returned his gaze with one of infinite
pity, and a touch of horror.
"This time," said he, "you are in error. I have not come to sell, but to
buy. I have no curios to dispose of; my uncle's cabinet is bare to the
wainscot; even were it still intact, I have done well on the Stock
Exchange, and should more likely add to it than otherwise, and my errand
to-day is simplicity itself. I seek a Christmas present for a lady," he
continued, waxing more fluent as he struck into the speech he had
prepared; "and certainly I owe you every excuse for thus disturbing you
upon so small a matter. But the thing was neglected yesterday; I must
produce my little compliment at dinner; and, as you very well know, a rich
marriage is not a thing to be neglected."
There followed a pause, during which the dealer seemed to weigh this
statement incredulously. The ticking of many clocks among the curious
lumber of the shop, and the faint rushing of the cabs in a near
thoroughfare, filled up the interval of silence.
"Well, sir," said the dealer, "be it so. You are an old customer after
all; and if, as you say, you have the chance of a good marriage, far be it
from me to be an obstacle. Here is a nice thing for a lady now," he went
on, "this hand-glass—fifteenth century, warranted; comes from a good
collection, too; but I reserve the name, in the interests of my customer,
who was just like yourself, my dear sir, the nephew and sole heir of a
The dealer, while he thus ran on in his dry and biting voice, had stooped
to take the object from its place; and, as he had done so, a shock had
passed through Markheim, a start both of hand and foot, a sudden leap of
many tumultuous passions to the face. It passed as swiftly as it came, and
left no trace beyond a certain trembling of the hand that now received the
"A glass," he said hoarsely, and then paused, and repeated it more
clearly. "A glass? For Christmas? Surely not?"
"And why not?" cried the dealer. "Why not a glass?"
Markheim was looking upon him with an indefinable expression. "You ask me
why not?" he said. "Why, look here—look in it—look at
yourself! Do you like to see it? No! nor I—nor any man."
The little man had jumped back when Markheim had so suddenly confronted
him with the mirror; but now, perceiving there was nothing worse on hand,
he chuckled. "Your future lady, sir, must be pretty hard favoured," said
"I ask you," said Markheim, "for a Christmas present, and you give me this—this
damned reminder of years, and sins and follies—this hand-conscience!
Did you mean it? Had you a thought in your mind? Tell me. It will be
better for you if you do. Come, tell me about yourself. I hazard a guess
now, that you are in secret a very charitable man."
The dealer looked closely at his companion. It was very odd, Markheim did
not appear to be laughing; there was something in his face like an eager
sparkle of hope, but nothing of mirth.
"What are you driving at?" the dealer asked.
"Not charitable?" returned the other, gloomily. "Not charitable; not
pious; not scrupulous; unloving, unbeloved; a hand to get money, a safe to
keep it. Is that all? Dear God, man, is that all?"
"I will tell you what it is," began the dealer, with some sharpness, and
then broke off again into a chuckle. "But I see this is a love match of
yours, and you have been drinking the lady's health."
"Ah!" cried Markheim, with a strange curiosity. "Ah, have you been in
love? Tell me about that."
"I," cried the dealer. "I in love! I never had the time, nor have I the
time to-day for all this nonsense. Will you take the glass?"
"Where is the hurry?" returned Markheim. "It is very pleasant to stand
here talking; and life is so short and insecure that I would not hurry
away from any pleasure—no, not even from so mild a one as this. We
should rather cling, cling to what little we can get, like a man at a
cliff's edge. Every second is a cliff, if you think upon it—a cliff
a mile high—high enough, if we fall, to dash us out of every feature
of humanity. Hence it is best to talk pleasantly. Let us talk of each
other; why should we wear this mask? Let us be confidential. Who knows? we
might become friends."
"I have just one word to say to you," said the dealer. "Either make your
purchase, or walk out of my shop."
"True, true," said Markheim. "Enough fooling. To business. Show me
The dealer stooped once more, this time to replace the glass upon the
shelf, his thin blond hair falling over his eyes as he did so. Markheim
moved a little nearer, with one hand in the pocket of his greatcoat; he
drew himself up and filled his lungs; at the same time many different
emotions were depicted together on his face—terror, horror, and
resolve, fascination and a physical repulsion; and through a haggard lift
of his upper lip, his teeth looked out.
"This, perhaps, may suit," observed the dealer. And then, as he began to
rearise, Markheim bounded from behind upon his victim. The long,
skewer-like dagger flashed and fell. The dealer struggled like a hen,
striking his temple on the shelf, and then tumbled on the floor in a heap.
Time had some score of small voices in that shop—some stately and
slow as was becoming to their great age; others garrulous and hurried. All
these told out the seconds in an intricate chorus of tickings. Then the
passage of a lad's feet, heavily running on the pavement, broke in upon
these smaller voices and startled Markheim into the consciousness of his
surroundings. He looked about him awfully. The candle stood on the
counter, its flame solemnly wagging in a draught; and by that
inconsiderable movement the whole room was filled with noiseless bustle
and kept heaving like a sea: the tall shadows nodding, the gross blots of
darkness swelling and dwindling as with respiration, the faces of the
portraits and the china gods changing and wavering like images in water.
The inner door stood ajar, and peered into that leaguer of shadows with a
long slit of daylight like a pointing finger.
From these fear-stricken rovings, Markheim's eyes returned to the body of
his victim, where it lay, both humped and sprawling, incredibly small and
strangely meaner than in life. In these poor, miserly clothes, in that
ungainly attitude, the dealer lay like so much sawdust. Markheim had
feared to see it, and, lo! it was nothing. And yet, as he gazed, this
bundle of old clothes and pool of blood began to find eloquent voices.
There it must lie; there was none to work the cunning hinges or direct the
miracle of locomotion; there it must lie till it was found. Found! ay, and
then? Then would this dead flesh lift up a cry that would ring over
England, and fill the world with the echoes of pursuit. Ay, dead or not,
this was still the enemy. "Time was that when the brains were out," he
thought; and the first word struck into his mind. Time, now that the deed
was accomplished—time, which had closed for the victim, had become
instant and momentous for the slayer.
The thought was yet in his mind, when, first one and then another, with
every variety of pace and voice—one deep as the bell from a
cathedral turret, another ringing on its treble notes the prelude of a
waltz,—the clocks began to strike the hour of three in the
The sudden outbreak of so many tongues in that dumb chamber staggered him.
He began to bestir himself, going to and fro with the candle, beleaguered
by moving shadows, and startled to the soul by chance reflections. In many
rich mirrors, some of home design, some from Venice or Amsterdam, he saw
his face repeated and repeated, as it were an army of spies; his own eyes
met and detected him; and the sound of his own steps, lightly as they
fell, vexed the surrounding quiet. And still, as he continued to fill his
pockets, his mind accused him with a sickening iteration, of the thousand
faults of his design. He should have chosen a more quiet hour; he should
have prepared an alibi; he should not have used a knife; he should have
been more cautious, and only bound and gagged the dealer, and not killed
him; he should have been more bold, and killed the servant also; he should
have done all things otherwise. Poignant regrets, weary, incessant toiling
of the mind to change what was unchangeable, to plan what was now useless,
to be the architect of the irrevocable past. Meanwhile, and behind all
this activity, brute terrors, like the scurrying of rats in a deserted
attic, filled the more remote chambers of his brain with riot; the hand of
the constable would fall heavy on his shoulder, and his nerves would jerk
like a hooked fish; or he beheld, in galloping defile, the dock, the
prison, the gallows, and the black coffin.
Terror of the people in the street sat down before his mind like a
besieging army. It was impossible, he thought, but that some rumour of the
struggle must have reached their ears and set on edge their curiosity; and
now, in all the neighbouring houses, he divined them sitting motionless
and with uplifted ear—solitary people, condemned to spend Christmas
dwelling alone on memories of the past, and now startingly recalled from
that tender exercise; happy family parties struck into silence round the
table, the mother still with raised finger—every degree and age and
humour, but all, by their own hearths, prying and hearkening and weaving
the rope that was to hang him. Sometimes it seemed to him he could not
move too softly; the clink of the tall Bohemian goblets rang out loudly
like a bell; and alarmed by the bigness of the ticking, he was tempted to
stop the clocks. And then, again, with a swift transition of his terrors,
the very silence of the place appeared a source of peril, and a thing to
strike and freeze the passer-by; and he would step more boldly, and bustle
aloud among the contents of the shop, and imitate, with elaborate bravado,
the movements of a busy man at ease in his own house.
But he was now so pulled about by different alarms that, while one portion
of his mind was still alert and cunning, another trembled on the brink of
lunacy. One hallucination in particular took a strong hold on his
credulity. The neighbour hearkening with white face beside his window, the
passer-by arrested by a horrible surmise on the pavement—these could
at worst suspect, they could not know; through the brick walls and
shuttered windows only sounds could penetrate. But here, within the house,
was he alone? He knew he was; he had watched the servant set forth
sweet-hearting, in her poor best, "out for the day" written in every
ribbon and smile. Yes, he was alone, of course; and yet, in the bulk of
empty house above him, he could surely hear a stir of delicate footing; he
was surely conscious, inexplicably conscious of some presence. Ay, surely;
to every room and corner of the house his imagination followed it; and now
it was a faceless thing, and yet had eyes to see with; and again it was a
shadow of himself; and yet again behold the image of the dead dealer,
reinspired with cunning and hatred.
At times, with a strong effort, he would glance at the open door which
still seemed to repel his eyes. The house was tall, the skylight small and
dirty, the day blind with fog; and the light that filtered down to the
ground story was exceedingly faint, and showed dimly on the threshold of
the shop. And yet, in that strip of doubtful brightness, did there not
hang wavering a shadow?
Suddenly, from the street outside, a very jovial gentleman began to beat
with a staff on the shop door, accompanying his blows with shouts and
railleries in which the dealer was continually called upon by name.
Markheim, smitten into ice, glanced at the dead man. But no! he lay quite
still; he was fled away far beyond earshot of these blows and shoutings;
he was sunk beneath seas of silence; and his name, which would once have
caught his notice above the howling of a storm, had become an empty sound.
And presently the jovial gentleman desisted from his knocking and
Here was a broad hint to hurry what remained to be done, to get forth from
this accusing neighbourhood, to plunge into a bath of London multitudes,
and to reach, on the other side of day, that haven of safety and apparent
innocence—his bed. One visitor had come; at any moment another might
follow and be more obstinate. To have done the deed, and yet not to reap
the profit, would be too abhorrent a failure. The money—that was now
Markheim's concern; and as a means to that, the keys.
He glanced over his shoulder at the open door, where the shadow was still
lingering and shivering; and with no conscious repugnance of the mind, yet
with a tremor of the belly, he drew near the body of his victim. The human
character had quite departed. Like a suit half-stuffed with bran, the
limbs lay scattered, the trunk doubled, on the floor; and yet the thing
repelled him. Although so dingy and inconsiderable to the eye, he feared
it might have more significance to the touch. He took the body by the
shoulders, and turned it on its back. It was strangely light and supple,
and the limbs, as if they had been broken, fell into the oddest postures.
The face was robbed of all expression; but it was as pale as wax, and
shockingly smeared with blood about one temple. That was, for Markheim,
the one displeasing circumstance. It carried him back, upon the instant,
to a certain fair-day in a fishers' village: a gray day, a piping wind, a
crowd upon the street, the blare of brasses, the booming of drums, the
nasal voice of a ballad singer; and a boy going to and fro, buried
overhead in the crowd and divided between interest and fear, until, coming
out upon the chief place of concourse, he beheld a booth and a great
screen with pictures, dismally designed, garishly coloured—Brownrigg
with her apprentice, the Mannings with their murdered guest, Weare in the
death-grip of Thurtell, and a score besides of famous crimes. The thing
was as clear as an illusion He was once again that little boy; he was
looking once again, and with the same sense of physical revolt, at these
vile pictures; he was still stunned by the thumping of the drums. A bar of
that day's music returned upon his memory; and at that, for the first
time, a qualm came over him, a breath of nausea, a sudden weakness of the
joints, which he must instantly resist and conquer.
He judged it more prudent to confront than to flee from these
considerations, looking the more hardily in the dead face, bending his
mind to realise the nature and greatness of his crime. So little a while
ago that face had moved with every change of sentiment, that pale mouth
had spoken, that body had been all on fire with governable energies; and
now, and by his act, that piece of life had been arrested, as the
horologist, with interjected finger, arrests the beating of the clock. So
he reasoned in vain; he could rise to no more remorseful consciousness;
the same heart which had shuddered before the painted effigies of crime,
looked on its reality unmoved. At best, he felt a gleam of pity for one
who had been endowed in vain with all those faculties that can make the
world a garden of enchantment, one who had never lived and who was now
dead. But of penitence, no, not a tremor.
With that, shaking himself clear of these considerations, he found the
keys and advanced toward the open door of the shop. Outside, it had begun
to rain smartly, and the sound of the shower upon the roof had banished
silence. Like some dripping cavern, the chambers of the house were haunted
by an incessant echoing, which filled the ear and mingled with the ticking
of the clocks. And, as Markheim approached the door, he seemed to hear, in
answer to his own cautious tread, the steps of another foot withdrawing up
the stair. The shadow still palpitated loosely on the threshold. He threw
a ton's weight of resolve upon his muscles, and drew back the door.
The faint, foggy daylight glimmered dimly on the bare floor and stairs; on
the bright suit of armour posted, halbert in hand, upon the landing; and
on the dark wood-carvings, and framed pictures that hung against the
yellow panels of the wainscot. So loud was the beating of the rain through
all the house that, in Markheim's ears, it began to be distinguished into
many different sounds. Footsteps and sighs, the tread of regiments
marching in the distance, the chink of money in the counting, and the
creaking of doors held stealthily ajar, appeared to mingle with the patter
of the drops upon the cupola and the gushing of the water in the pipes.
The sense that he was not alone grew upon him to the verge of madness. On
every side he was haunted and begirt by presences. He heard them moving in
the upper chambers; from the shop, he heard the dead man getting to his
legs; and as he began with a great effort to mount the stairs, feet fled
quietly before him and followed stealthily behind. If he were but deaf, he
thought, how tranquilly he would possess his soul! And then again, and
hearkening with ever fresh attention, he blessed himself for that
unresting sense which held the outposts and stood a trusty sentinel upon
his life. His head turned continually on his neck; his eyes, which seemed
starting from their orbits, scouted on every side, and on every side were
half rewarded as with the tail of something nameless vanishing. The four
and twenty steps to the first floor were four and twenty agonies.
On that first story, the doors stood ajar—three of them, like three
ambushes, shaking his nerves like the throats of cannon. He could never
again, he felt, be sufficiently immured and fortified from men's observing
eyes; he longed to be home, girt in by walls, buried among bedclothes, and
invisible to all but God. And at that thought he wondered a little,
recollecting tales of other murderers and the fear they were said to
entertain of heavenly avengers. It was not so, at least, with him. He
feared the laws of nature, lest, in their callous and immutable procedure,
they should preserve some damning evidence of his crime. He feared tenfold
more, with a slavish, superstitious terror, some scission in the
continuity of man's experience, some wilful illegality of nature. He
played a game of skill, depending on the rules, calculating consequence
from cause; and what if nature, as the defeated tyrant overthrew the
chess-board, should break the mould of their succession? The like had
befallen Napoleon (so writers said) when the winter changed the time of
its appearance. The like might befall Markheim: the solid walls might
become transparent and reveal his doings like those of bees in a glass
hive; the stout planks might yield under his foot like quicksands and
detain him in their clutch. Ay, and there were soberer accidents that
might destroy him; if, for instance, the house should fall and imprison
him beside the body of his victim, or the house next door should fly on
fire, and the firemen invade him from all sides. These things he feared;
and, in a sense, these things might be called the hands of God reached
forth against sin. But about God himself he was at ease; his act was
doubtless exceptional, but so were his excuses, which God knew; it was
there, and not among men, that he felt sure of justice.
When he had got safe into the drawing-room, and shut the door behind him,
he was aware of a respite from alarms. The room was quite dismantled,
uncarpeted besides, and strewn with packing-cases and incongruous
furniture; several great pier-glasses, in which he beheld himself at
various angles, like an actor on a stage; many pictures, framed and
unframed, standing, with their faces to the wall; a fine Sheraton
sideboard, a cabinet of marquetry, and a great old bed, with tapestry
hangings. The windows opened to the floor; but by great good fortune the
lower part of the shutters had been closed, and this concealed him from
the neighbours. Here, then, Markheim drew in a packing-case before the
cabinet, and began to search among the keys. It was a long business, for
there were many; and it was irksome, besides; for, after all, there might
be nothing in the cabinet, and time was on the wing. But the closeness of
the occupation sobered him. With the tail of his eye he saw the door—even
glanced at it from time to time directly, like a besieged commander
pleased to verify the good estate of his defences. But in truth he was at
peace. The rain falling in the street sounded natural and pleasant.
Presently, on the other side, the notes of a piano were wakened to the
music of a hymn, and the voices of many children took up the air and
words. How stately, how comfortable was the melody! How fresh the youthful
voices! Markheim gave ear to it smilingly, as he sorted out the keys; and
his mind was thronged with answerable ideas and images: church-going
children, and the pealing of the high organ; children afield, bathers by
the brookside, ramblers on the brambly common, kite-flyers in the windy
and cloud-navigated sky; and then, at another cadence of the hymn, back
again to church, and the somnolence of summer Sundays, and the high
genteel voice of the parson (which he smiled a little to recall) and the
painted Jacobean tombs, and the dim lettering of the Ten Commandments in
And as he sat thus, at once busy and absent, he was startled to his feet.
A flash of ice, a flash of fire, a bursting gush of blood, went over him,
and then he stood transfixed and thrilling. A step mounted the stair
slowly and steadily, and presently a hand was laid upon the knob, and the
lock clicked, and the door opened.
Fear held Markheim in a vice. What to expect he knew not—whether the
dead man walking, or the official ministers of human justice, or some
chance witness blindly stumbling in to consign him to the gallows. But
when a face was thrust into the aperture, glanced round the room, looked
at him, nodded and smiled as if in friendly recognition, and then withdrew
again, and the door closed behind it, his fear broke loose from his
control in a hoarse cry. At the sound of this the visitant returned.
"Did you call me?" he asked, pleasantly, and with that he entered the room
and closed the door behind him.
Markheim stood and gazed at him with all his eyes. Perhaps there was a
film upon his sight, but the outlines of the new comer seemed to change
and waver like those of the idols in the wavering candle-light of the
shop; and at times he thought he knew him; and at times he thought he bore
a likeness to himself; and always, like a lump of living terror, there lay
in his bosom the conviction that this thing was not of the earth and not
And yet the creature had a strange air of the commonplace, as he stood
looking on Markheim with a smile; and when he added, "You are looking for
the money, I believe?" it was in the tones of everyday politeness.
Markheim made no answer.
"I should warn you," resumed the other, "that the maid has left her
sweetheart earlier than usual and will soon be here. If Mr. Markheim be
found in this house, I need not describe to him the consequences."
"You know me?" cried the murderer.
The visitor smiled. "You have long been a favourite of mine," he said;
"and I have long observed and often sought to help you."
"What are you?" cried Markheim; "the devil?"
"What I may be," returned the other, "cannot affect the service I propose
to render you."
"It can," cried Markheim; "it does! Be helped by you? No, never; not by
you! You do not know me yet; thank God, you do not know me!"
"I know you," replied the visitant, with a sort of kind severity or rather
firmness. "I know you to the soul."
"Know me!" cried Markheim. "Who can do so? My life is but a travesty and
slander on myself. I have lived to belie my nature. All men do; all men
are better than this disguise that grows about and stifles them. You see
each dragged away by life, like one whom bravos have seized and muffled in
a cloak. If they had their own control—if you could see their faces,
they would be altogether different, they would shine out for heroes and
saints! I am worse than most; myself is more overlaid; my excuse is known
to me and God. But, had I the time, I could disclose myself."
"To me?" inquired the visitant.
"To you before all," returned the murderer. "I supposed you were
intelligent. I thought—since you exist—you would prove a
reader of the heart. And yet you would propose to judge me by my acts!
Think of it—my acts! I was born and I have lived in a land of
giants; giants have dragged me by the wrists since I was born out of my
mother—the giants of circumstance. And you would judge me by my
acts! But can you not look within? Can you not understand that evil is
hateful to me? Can you not see within me the clear writing of conscience,
never blurred by any wilful sophistry, although too often disregarded? Can
you not read me for a thing that surely must be common as humanity—the
"All this is very feelingly expressed," was the reply, "but it regards me
not. These points of consistency are beyond my province, and I care not in
the least by what compulsion you may have been dragged away, so as you are
but carried in the right direction. But time flies; the servant delays,
looking in the faces of the crowd and at the pictures on the hoardings,
but still she keeps moving nearer; and remember, it is as if the gallows
itself was striding towards you through the Christmas streets! Shall I
help you—I, who know all? Shall I tell you where to find the money?"
"For what price?" asked Markheim.
"I offer you the service for a Christmas gift," returned the other.
Markheim could not refrain from smiling with a kind of bitter triumph.
"No," said he, "I will take nothing at your hands; if I were dying of
thirst, and it was your hand that put the pitcher to my lips, I should
find the courage to refuse. It may be credulous, but I will do nothing to
commit myself to evil."
"I have no objection to a death-bed repentance," observed the visitant.
"Because you disbelieve their efficacy!" Markheim cried.
"I do not say so," returned the other; "but I look on these things from a
different side, and when the life is done my interest falls. The man has
lived to serve me, to spread black looks under colour of religion, or to
sow tares in the wheat-field, as you do, in a course of weak compliance
with desire. Now that he draws so near to his deliverance, he can add but
one act of service: to repent, to die smiling, and thus to build up in
confidence and hope the more timorous of my surviving followers. I am not
so hard a master. Try me; accept my help. Please yourself in life as you
have done hitherto; please yourself more amply, spread your elbows at the
board; and when the night begins to fall and the curtains to be drawn, I
tell you, for your greater comfort, that you will find it even easy to
compound your quarrel with your conscience, and to make a truckling peace
with God. I came but now from such a death-bed, and the room was full of
sincere mourners, listening to the man's last words; and when I looked
into that face, which had been set as a flint against mercy, I found it
smiling with hope."
"And do you, then, suppose me such a creature?" asked Markheim. "Do you
think I have no more generous aspirations than to sin and sin and sin and
at last sneak into heaven? My heart rises at the thought. Is this, then,
your experience of mankind? or is it because you find me with red hands
that you presume such baseness? And is this crime of murder indeed so
impious as to dry up the very springs of good?"
"Murder is to me no special category," replied the other. "All sins are
murder, even as all life is war. I behold your race, like starving
mariners on a raft, plucking crusts out of the hands of famine and feeding
on each other's lives. I follow sins beyond the moment of their acting; I
find in all that the last consequence is death, and to my eyes, the pretty
maid who thwarts her mother with such taking graces on a question of a
ball, drips no less visibly with human gore than such a murderer as
yourself. Do I say that I follow sins? I follow virtues also. They differ
not by the thickness of a nail; they are both scythes for the reaping
angel of Death. Evil, for which I live, consists not in action but in
character. The bad man is dear to me, not the bad act, whose fruits, if we
could follow them far enough down the hurtling cataract of the ages, might
yet be found more blessed than those of the rarest virtues. And it is not
because you have killed a dealer, but because you are Markheim, that I
offer to forward your escape."
"I will lay my heart open to you," answered Markheim. "This crime on which
you find me is my last. On my way to it I have learned many lessons;
itself is a lesson—a momentous lesson. Hitherto I have been driven
with revolt to what I would not; I was a bond-slave to poverty, driven and
scourged. There are robust virtues that can stand in these temptations;
mine was not so; I had a thirst of pleasure. But to-day, and out of this
deed, I pluck both warning and riches—both the power and a fresh
resolve to be myself. I become in all things a free actor in the world; I
begin to see myself all changed, these hands the agents of good, this
heart at peace. Something comes over me out of the past—something of
what I have dreamed on Sabbath evenings to the sound of the church organ,
of what I forecast when I shed tears over noble books, or talked, an
innocent child, with my mother. There lies my life; I have wandered a few
years, but now I see once more my city of destination."
"You are to use this money on the Stock Exchange, I think?" remarked the
visitor; "and there, if I mistake not, you have already lost some
"Ah," said Markheim, "but this time I have a sure thing."
"This time, again, you will lose," replied the visitor quietly.
"Ah, but I keep back the half!" cried Markheim.
"That also you will lose," said the other.
The sweat started upon Markheim's brow. "Well then, what matter?" he
exclaimed. "Say it be lost, say I am plunged again in poverty, shall one
part of me, and that the worse, continue until the end to override the
better? Evil and good run strong in me, hailing me both ways. I do not
love the one thing; I love all. I can conceive great deeds, renunciations,
martyrdoms; and though I be fallen to such a crime as murder, pity is no
stranger to my thoughts. I pity the poor; who knows their trials better
than myself? I pity and help them. I prize love; I love honest laughter;
there is no good thing nor true thing on earth but I love it from my
heart. And are my vices only to direct my life, and my virtues to lie
without effect, like some passive lumber of the mind? Not so; good, also,
is a spring of acts."
But the visitant raised his finger. "For six and thirty years that you
have been in this world," said he, "through many changes of fortune and
varieties of humour, I have watched you steadily fall. Fifteen years ago
you would have started at a theft. Three years back you would have
blenched at the name of murder. Is there any crime, is there any cruelty
or meanness, from which you still recoil? Five years from now I shall
detect you in the fact! Downward, downward, lies your way; nor can
anything but death avail to stop you."
"It is true," Markheim said huskily, "I have in some degree complied with
evil. But it is so with all; the very saints, in the mere exercise of
living, grow less dainty, and take on the tone of their surroundings."
"I will propound to you one simple question," said the other; "and as you
answer I shall read to you your moral horoscope. You have grown in many
things more lax; possibly you do right to be so; and at any account, it is
the same with all men. But granting that, are you in any one particular,
however trifling, more difficult to please with your own conduct, or do
you go in all things with a looser rein?"
"In any one?" repeated Markheim, with an anguish of consideration. "No,"
he added, with despair; "in none! I have gone down in all."
"Then," said the visitor, "content yourself with what you are, for you
will never change; and the words of your part on this stage are
irrevocably written down."
Markheim stood for a long while silent, and, indeed, it was the visitor
who first broke the silence. "That being so," he said, "shall I show you
"And grace?" cried Markheim.
"Have you not tried it?" returned the other. "Two or three years ago did I
not see you on the platform of revival meetings, and was not your voice
the loudest in the hymn?"
"It is true," said Markheim; "and I see clearly what remains for me by way
of duty. I thank you for these lessons from my soul; my eyes are opened,
and I behold myself at last for what I am."
At this moment, the sharp note of the door-bell rang through the house;
and the visitant, as though this were some concerted signal for which he
had been waiting, changed at once in his demeanour.
"The maid!" he cried. "She has returned, as I forewarned you, and there is
now before you one more difficult passage. Her master, you must say, is
ill; you must let her in, with an assured but rather serious countenance;
no smiles, no overacting, and I promise you success! Once the girl within,
and the door closed, the same dexterity that has already rid you of the
dealer will relieve you of this last danger in your path. Thenceforward
you have the whole evening—the whole night, if needful—to
ransack the treasures of the house and to make good your safety. This is
help that comes to you with the mask of danger. Up!" he cried; "up,
friend. Your life hangs trembling in the scales; up, and act!"
Markheim steadily regarded his counsellor. "If I be condemned to evil
acts," he said, "there is still one door of freedom open: I can cease from
action. If my life be an ill thing, I can lay it down. Though I be, as you
say truly, at the beck of every small temptation, I can yet, by one
decisive gesture, place myself beyond the reach of all. My love of good is
damned to barrenness; it may, and let it be! But I have still my hatred of
evil; and from that, to your galling disappointment, you shall see that I
can draw both energy and courage."
The features of the visitor began to undergo a wonderful and lovely
change: they brightened and softened with a tender triumph, and, even as
they brightened, faded and dislimned. But Markheim did not pause to watch
or understand the transformation. He opened the door and went downstairs
very slowly, thinking to himself. His past went soberly before him; he
beheld it as it was, ugly and strenuous like a dream, random as chance
medley—a scene of defeat. Life, as he thus reviewed it, tempted him
no longer; but on the further side he perceived a quiet haven for his
bark. He paused in the passage, and looked into the shop, where the candle
still burned by the dead body. It was strangely silent. Thoughts of the
dealer swarmed into his mind, as he stood gazing. And then the bell once
more broke out into impatient clamour.
He confronted the maid upon the threshold with something like a smile.
"You had better go for the police," said he; "I have killed your master."