 The Terrible Old Man by H. P. Lovecraft. Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to learn how to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. It was the design of Angelo Ricci and Joe Zanick and Manuel Silva to call on the terrible old man. This old man dwells all alone in a very ancient house on Water Street near the sea and is reputed to be both exceedingly rich and exceedingly feeble, which forms a situation very attractive to the men of the profession of Missers, Ricci, Zanick and Silva. For that profession was nothing less dignified than robbery. The inhabitants of Kingsport say and think many things about the terrible old man, which generally kept him safe from the attention of gentlemen like Mr. Ricci and his colleagues, despite the almost certain fact that he hides a fortune of indefinite magnitude somewhere about his musty and venerable abode. He is in truth a very strange person, believed to have been a captain of East India clipperships in his day. So old that no one can remember when he was young, and so taciturn that few know his real name. Among the gnarled trees in the front yard of his aged and neglected place, he maintains a strange collection of large stones, oddly grouped and painted so that they resemble the idols of some obscure eastern temple. This collection frightens away most of the small boys who love to taunt the terrible old man about his long white hair and beard, or to break the small pained windows of his dwelling with wicked missiles. But there are other things which frighten the older and more curious folk who sometimes steal up to the house to peer in through the dusty pains. Most folks say that on a table in the bare room on the ground floor are many peculiar bottles on each a small piece of lead suspended pendulum-wise from a string, and they say that the terrible old man talks to these bottles, addressing them by such names as Jack, Scarface, Long Tom, Spanish Joe, Peters, and Mate Ellis. And whenever he speaks to a bottle, the little lead pendulum within makes certain definite vibrations as if in answer. Those who have watched the tall, lean, terrible old man in these peculiar conversations do not watch him again. But Angelo Ricci and Joe Zanick and Manuel Silva were not of Kingsport blood. They were of that new and heterogeneous alien stock which lies outside the charm circle of New England life and traditions, and they saw in the terrible old man merely a tottering, almost helpless grey beard who could not walk without the aid of his knotted cane and whose thin, weak hands shook pitifully. They were really quite sorry in their way for the lonely, unpopular old fellow whom everybody shunned and at whom all the dogs barked singularly. But business is business, and to a robber whose soul is in his profession there is a lure and challenge about a very old and very feeble man who has no account at the bank and who pays for his few necessities in the village store with Spanish gold and silver minted two centuries ago. Messers Ricci, Zanick and Silva selected the night of April 11th for their call. Mr. Ricci and Mr. Silva were to interview the poor old gentlemen, whilst Zanick waited for them and their presumably metallic burden with a covered motor car in Ship Street by the gate in the tall rear wall of their host's grounds. Desire to avoid needless explanations in case of unexpected police intrusions prompted these plans for a quiet and unaustentatious departure. As prearranged the three adventurers started out separately in order to prevent any evil-minded suspicions afterward. Messers Ricci and Silva met in Water Street by the old man's front gate and although they did not like the way the moon shone down upon the painted stones through the budding branches of the gnarled trees they had more important things to think about than mere idle suspicion. They feared it might be unpleasant work making the terrible old man loquacious concerning his hoarded gold and silver, for aged sea-captains are notably stubborn and perverse. Still he was very old and feeble and there were two visitors. Messers Ricci and Silva were experienced in the art of making unwilling persons valuable and the screams of a weak and exceptionally venerable man can be easily muffled. So they moved up to the one-lighted window and heard the terrible old man talking childishly to his bottles with pendulums. Then they donned masks and knocked politely at the weather-stained oaken door. Waiting seemed very long to Mr. Zanuck as he fidgeted restlessly in the covered motor-car by the terrible old man's back gate in Ship Street. He was more than ordinarily tender-hearted and he did not like the hideous screams he had heard in the ancient house just after the hour appointed for the deed. Had he not told his colleagues to be as gentle as possible with the pathetic old sea-captain, very nervously he watched the narrow oaken gate in the high and ivy-clad stone wall. Frequently he consulted his watch and wondered at the delay. Had the old man died before revealing where the treasure was hidden, had a thorough search become necessary? Mr. Zanuck did not like to wait so long in the dark in such a place. Then he sensed the soft tread or tapping on the wall inside the gate, heard a gentle fumbling at the rusty latch, and saw the narrow heavy door swing inward. And in the pallid glow of the single, dim street-lamp, he strained his eyes to see what his colleagues had brought out of that sinister house which loomed so close behind. But when he looked, he did not see what he had expected. For his colleagues were not there at all. But only the terrible old man leaning quietly on his nodded cane and smiling hideously. Mr. Zanuck had never before noticed the color of the man's eyes. Now he saw that they were yellow. Little things make considerable excitement in little towns, which is the reason that Kingsport people talked all that spring and summer about the three unidentifiable bodies, horribly slashed as with many cutlasses and horribly mangled as by the tread of many cruel boot-heels which the tide washed in. And some people even spoke of things as trivial as the deserted motor-car found on Ship Street, or certain especially inhuman cries, probably of a stray animal or migratory bird, heard in the night by wakeful citizens. But in this idle village gossip the terrible old man took no interest at all. He was by nature reserved, and when one is aged and feeble, one's reserve is doubly strong. Besides, so ancient a sea-captain must have witnessed scores of things much more stirring in the far-off days of his unremembered youth. End of The Terrible Old Man Two Friends by Guy de Maupassant This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording by James Christopher, JXChristopher at Yahoo.com. Besieged parrots was in the throes of famine. Even the sparrows on the roofs and the rats in the sewers were growing scarce. People were eating anything they could get. As Monsieur Morissot, watchmaker by profession, and idler for the nonce, was strolling along the boulevard one bright January morning, his hands in his trouser pockets and stomach empty, he suddenly came face-to-face with an acquaintance, Monsieur Savage, a fishing chum. Before the war broke out, Morissot had been in the habit every Sunday morning of setting forth with a bamboo rod in his hand and a tin box on his back. He took the urgent train, got out at Colombe, and walked thence to the ill morrent. The moment he arrived at this place of his dreams he began fishing, and fished till nightfall. Every Sunday he met in this very spot Monsieur Savage, a stout, jolly little man, a draper in the rue Notre-Dame d'Hilaire, and also an art at fisherman. They often spent half the day side by side, rod in hand and feet dangling over the water, and a warm friendship had sprung up between the two. Some days they did not speak. At other times they chatted, but they understood each other perfectly without the aid of words, having similar taste and feelings. In the spring, about ten o'clock in the morning, when the early sun caused a light mist to float on the water and gently warm the backs of the two enthusiastic anglers, Morissot would occasionally remark to his neighbor, my but it's pleasant here, to which the other would reply, I can't imagine anything better. And these few words suffice to make them understand and appreciate each other. In the autumn toward the close of the day, when the setting sun shed a blood-red glow over the western sky, and the reflection of the crimson clouds tinged the whole river with red, brought a glow to the faces of the two friends, and gilded the trees, whose leaves were already turning at the first chill touch of winter, Monsieur Savage would sometimes smile at Morissot and say, what a glorious spectacle. And Morissot would answer, without taking his eyes from his float, this is much better than the boulevard, isn't it? As soon as they recognized each other, they shook hands cordially, affected at the thought of beating under such changed circumstances. Monsieur Savage with a sigh murmured, these are sad times. Morissot shook his head mournfully. In such weather, this is the first fine day of the year. The sky was, in fact, of a bright cloudless blue. They walked along, side by side, reflective and sad. And to think of the fishing, said Morissot, what good times we used to have. When shall we be able to fish again? asked Monsieur Savage. They entered a small cafe and took an absinthe together, then resumed their walk along the pavement. Morissot stopped suddenly. Shall we have another absinthe, he said? If you like, agreed Monsieur Savage. And they entered another wine-shop. They were quite unsteady when they came out, owing to the effect of the alcohol in their empty stomachs. It was a fine, mild day, and a gentle breeze fan their faces. The fresh air completed the effect of the alcohol on Monsieur Savage. He stopped suddenly, saying, Suppose we go there. Where? Fishing. Why, to the old place, the French outpost are close to Cologne. I know Colonel Dumblin, and we shall easily get leave to pass. Morissot trembled with desire. Very well, I agree. And they separated to fetch their rods and lines. An hour later they were walking side by side on the high road. Presently they reached the villa occupied by the Colonel. He smiled at their request and granted it. They resumed their walk, furnished with a password. Soon they left the outpost behind them, made their way through deserted Cologne Bay, and found themselves on the outskirts of the small vineyards which bordered the Seine. It was about eleven o'clock. Before them lay the village of Artenouie, apparently lifeless. The heights of Orga Men and Sagnos dominated the landscape. The great plain, extending as far as Nantarie, was empty. Quite empty, a waste of done-colored soil and bare cherry trees. Monsieur Savage pointing to the heights murmured, The Prussians are up yonder. And the sight of the deserted country led two friends with vague misgivings. The Prussians. They had never seen them as yet, but they had felt their presence in the neighborhood of Paris for months past, ruining France, pillaging, massacring, starving them. And a kind of superstitious terror mingled with the hatred they already felt towards this unknown, victorious nation. Suppose we weren't to meet any of them, said more so. We'd offer them some fish, replied Monsieur Savage, with that Parisian light-heartedness which nothing can wholly quench. Still, they hesitated to show themselves in the open country, overall by the utter silence which reigned around them. At last, Monsieur Savage said boldly, Come, we'll make a start, only let us be careful. And they made their way through one of the vineyards, bent double, creeping along beneath the cover afforded by the vines, with eye and ear alert. A strip of bare ground remained to be crossed before they could gain the riverbank. They ran across this and, as soon as they were at the water's edge, concealed themselves among the dry reeds. Moreso placed his ear to the ground to ascertain, if possible, where their footsteps were coming their way. He heard nothing. They seemed to be utterly alone. Their confidence was restored, and they began to fish. Before them, the deserted ill morant hid them from the farther shore. The little restaurant was closed and looked as if it had been deserted for years. Monsieur Savage caught the first gudgeon, Monsieur Moreso the second, and almost every moment one or other raised his line with a little glittering silvery fish wriggling at the end. They were having excellent sport. They slipped their catch gently into a closed mesh bag lying at their feet. They were filled with joy, the joy of once more indulging in a pastime, of which they had long been deprived. The sun poured its rays on their backs. They no longer heard anything or thought of anything. They ignored the rest of the world. They were fishing. But suddenly a rumbling sound which seemed to come from the bowels of the earth shook the ground beneath them. The cannon were resuming their thunder. Moreso turned his head and could see towards the left, beyond the banks of the river, the formidable outline of Montvalerian, from whose summit arose a white puff of smoke. The next instant a second puff followed the first, and in a few moments a fresh detonation made the earth tremble. Others followed, and minute by minute the mountain gave forth its deadly breath in a white puff of smoke, which rose slowly into the peaceful heaven and floated above the summit of the cliff. Monsieur Sauvage shrugged his shoulders. They are at it again, he said. Moreso, who was anxiously watching his float bobbing up and down, was suddenly seized with the angry impatience of a peaceful man towards the madmen who were firing thus, and remarked indignantly, What fools they are to kill one another like that! They're worse than animals, replied Monsieur Sauvage. And Moreso, who had just caught a bleak, declared, and to think that it will be just the same so long as there are governments. The Republic would not have declared war in her post-Monsieur Sauvage. Moreso interrupted him. Under a king we have foreign wars. Under a Republic we have civil war. And the two began placidly discussing political problems with the sound common sense of peaceful, matter-of-fact citizens, agreeing on one point, that they would never be free. And Montvalerian thundered ceaselessly, demolishing the houses of the French with its cannonballs, grinding lives of men to powder, destroying many a dream, many a cherished hope, many a prospective happiness, ruthlessly causing endless woe and suffering in the hearts of wives, of daughters, of mothers, in other lands. Such is life, declared Monsieur Sauvage. Say, rather, such is death, replied Moreso, laughing. But they suddenly trembled with alarm at the sound of footsteps behind them, and, turning round, they perceived close at hand for tall, bearded men, dressed after the manner of livery servants in wearing flat caps on their heads. They were covering the two anglers with their rifles. The rods slipped from their owner's grasp and floated down the river. In the space of a few seconds they were seized, bound, thrown into a boat, and taken across to the ill Marant. And behind the house they had thought deserted were about a score of German soldiers. A shaggy-looking giant, who was bestwriting a chair and smoking a long clay pipe, addressed them in excellent French with the words, Well, gentlemen, have you had good luck with your fishing? Then a soldier deposited at the officer's feet the bag full of fish, which he had taken care to bring away. The Prussians smiled. Not bad, I see. But we have something else to talk about. Listen to me, and don't be alarmed. You must know, in my eyes, you are two spies sent to reconnoiter me in my movements. Naturally I capture you, and I shoot you. You pretend to be fishing. The better to disguise your real errand. You have fallen into my hands and must take the consequences, such as war. But as you came here through the outpost you must have a password for your return. Tell me that password, and I will let you go. The two friends, pale as death, stood silently side by side, a slight fluttering of the hands alone betraying their emotion. No one will ever know, continued the officer. You will return peacefully to your homes, and the secret will disappear with you. If you refuse, it means death. Instant death. Choose. They stood motionless and did not open their lips. The Prussian perfectly calm went on with hand-out stretch towards the river. Just think that in five minutes you will be at the bottom of that water. In five minutes you have relations, I presume. Montavallarian still thundered. The two fishermen remained silent. The German turned and gave an order in his own language. Then he moved his chair a little way off, that he might not be so near the prisoners. And a dozen men stepped forward, one hand, and took up a position twenty paces off. I give you one minute, said the officer, not a second longer. Then he rose quickly, went over to the two Frenchmen, took Morceau by the arm, let him a short distance off, and said in a low voice, Quick, the password, your friend will know nothing. I will pretend to relent. Morceau answered not a word. Then the Prussian took Monsieur Savage aside in like manner and made him the same proposal. Monsieur Savage made no reply. Again they stood side by side. The officer issued his order. The soldiers raised their rifles. Then by chance Morceau's eyes fell on the bag of gudgeon lying in the grass a few feet from him. A ray of sunlight made the still quivering fish glisten like silver. And Morceau's hearts sank. Despite his efforts at self-control, his eyes filled with tears. Goodbye, Monsieur Savage, he faltered. Goodbye, Monsieur Morceau, reply, Savage. They shook hands, trembling from head to foot, with a dread beyond their mastery. The officer cried, Fire. The twelve shots were as one. Monsieur Savage fell forward instantaneously. Morceau, being the taller, swayed slightly and fell across his friend with face turned skyward and blood oozing from a rent in the breast of his coat. The German issued fresh orders. His men dispersed and presently returned with ropes and large stones which they attached to the feet of the two friends. Then they carried them to the river bank. Montvalerian, its summit now enshrouded in smoke, still continued to thunder. Two soldiers took Morceau by the head and feet. Two others did the same with Savage. Their bodies swung lustily by strong hands, were cast into a distance, and, describing a curve, fell feet foremost into the stream. The water splashed high, foamed, eddied and then grew calm. Tiny waves lapped the shore. A few streaks of blood fled the surface of the river. The officer, calm throughout, remarked with grim humor, It's the fish's turn now. Then he retraced his way to the house. Suddenly he caught sight of the net full of gudgens lying forgotten in the grass. He picked it up, examined it, smiled, and called, Willhelm. A white apron soldier responded to the summons and the Prussian, tossing him the catch of the two murdered men, said, Have these fish fried for me at once while they are still alive. They'll make a tasty dish. Then he resumed his pipe. Twenty-five years ago the school children used to chant their lessons. The manner of their delivery was a sing-song recitative between the utterance of an Episcopal minister and the drone of a tired sawmill. I mean no disrespect. We must have lumber and sawdust. I remember one beautiful and instructive little lyric that emanated from the physiology class. The most striking line of it was this. The shin bone is the longest bone in the human body. What an inestimable boon it would have been if all the corporeal and spiritual facts pertaining to man had thus been tunefully and logically inculcated in our youthful minds. But what we gained in anatomy, music, and philosophy was meager. The other day I became confused. I needed a ray of light. I turned back to those school days for aid. And in all the nasal harmonies we whined forth from those hard benches I could not recall one that treated of the voice of agglomerated mankind. In other words, of the composite vocal message of massed humanity. In other words, of the voice of a big city. Now the individual voice is not lacking. We can understand the song of the poet, the ripple of the brook, the meaning of the man who wants five dollars until next Monday, the descriptions on the tombs of the pharaohs, the language of flowers, the step lively of the conductor, and the prelude of the milk cans at 4 a.m. Certain large-eared ones even assert that they are wise to the vibrations of the tympanum produced by concussion of the air emanating from Mr. H. James. But who can comprehend the meaning of the voice of the city? I went out to see. First I asked Aurelia. I saw a Swiss and a hat with flowers on it and ribbons and ends of things fluttered here and there. Tell me, I said, stammeringly, for I have no voice of my own. What does this bigger, enormous, or whopping city say? It must have a voice of some kind. Does it ever speak to you? How do you interpret its meaning? It is a tremendous mass, but it must have a key. Like a Saratoga trunk! Ask Aurelia. No, said I, please do not refer to the lid. I have a fancy that every city has a voice. Each one has something to say to the one who can hear it. What does the big one say to you? All cities, said Aurelia judicially, say the same thing. When they get through saying it, there is an echo from Philadelphia, so they are unanimous. Here are four million people, by scholastically, compressed upon an island which is mostly land surrounded by wall-street water. The conjunction of so many units into so small of space must result in an identity, or rather a homogeneity that finds its oral expression through a common channel. It is, as you might say, a consensus of translation, concentrating in a crystallized general idea which reveals itself in what may be termed the voice of the city. Can you tell me what it is? Aurelia smiled wonderfully. She sat on a high stoop. A spray of insolent ivy bobbed against her right ear. A ray of impudent moonlight flickered upon her nose. But I was adamant, nickel-plated. I must go and find out, I said, what is the voice of this city? Other cities have voices. It is an assignment. New York, I continued in a rising tone, had better not hand me a cigar and say, oh, man, I can't talk for publication. No, other cities act in that way. Chicago says, unhesitatingly, I will. Philadelphia says, I should. New Orleans says, I used to. Louisville says, don't care if I do. St. Louis says, excuse me? Pittsburgh says, smoke up. Now New York, Aurelia smiled. Very well, said I, I must go elsewhere and find out. I went into a palace, tile-floored, chair-up-ceilinged, and square with the cop. I put my foot on the brass rail and said to Billy Magnus, the best bartender in the diocese. Billy, you've lived in New York a long time. What kind of a song and dance does this old town give you? What I mean is, doesn't the gab of it seem to kind of bunch up and slide over the bar to you in a sort of amalgamated tip that hits off the burg in a kind of an epigram with a dash of bitters and a slice of, excuse me a minute? Said Billy, somebody's punching the button at the side door. He went away, came back with an empty ten bucket, again vanished with it full, returned and said to me, that was Mame, she rings twice, she likes a glass of beer for supper, her and the kid. If you ever saw that little ski-six of mine brace up in his high-chair and take his beer and say, what was yours? I get kind of excited when I hear them two rings. Was it the baseball score or gin-fizz you ask for? Gin-gerail, I answered. I walked up to Broadway. I saw a cop on the corner. The cops take kids up, women across, and men in. I went up to him. If I'm not exceeding the spiel limit, I said, let me ask you, you see New York during its vocative hours. It is the function of you and your brother cops to preserve the acoustics of the city. There must be a civic voice that is intelligible to you. At night, during your lonely rounds, you must have heard it. What is the epitome of its turmoil and shouting? What does the city say to you? Friend, said the policeman, spinning his club, it don't say nothing. It's from the man higher up. Say, I guess you're all right. Stand here for a few minutes and keep an eye open for the roundsmen. The cop melted into the darkness of the side street. In ten minutes he had returned. Mary last Tuesday, he said, half-gruffly. You know how they are. She comes to that corner at nine every night for a— comes to say hello. I generally managed to be there. Say, what was it you asked me a bit ago? What's doing in the city? There's a roof gardener to just open twelve blocks up. I crossed a crow's foot of street-car tracks and skirted the edge of an unbridged park. An artificial diana, gilded, heroic, poised, wind-ruled on the tower, shimmered in the clear light of her namesake in the sky. Along came my poet, hurrying, hadded, haired, emitting dactyls, spondies, and dactylists. I seized him. Said I, in the magazine he is Cleon. Give me a lift. I am on an assignment to find out the voice of the city. You see, it's a special order, ordinarily a symposium comprising the views of Henry Clues, John L. Sullivan, Edwin Markham, May Irwin, and Charles Schwab would be about all, but this is a different matter. We want a broad, poetic, mystic vocalization of the city's soul and meaning. You are the very chap to give me a hint. Some years ago a man got at the Niagara Falls and gave us its pitch. The note was about two feet below the lowest G on the piano. Now you can't put New York into a note unless it's better endorsed than that, but give me an idea of what it would say if it should speak. It is bound to be a mighty and far-reaching utterance. To arrive at it we must take the tremendous crash of the chords of the day's traffic, the laughter and music of the night, the solemn tones of Dr. Parkhurst, the ragtime, the weeping, the stealthy hum of cab wheels, the shout of the press agent, the tinkle of fountains on the roof gardens, the hullabaloo of the strawberry vendor and the covers of everybody's magazine, the whispers of the lovers in the parks. All these sounds must go into your voice, not combined but mixed, and of the mixture and essence made, and of the essence an extract, an audible extract of which one drop shall form the thing we seek. Do you remember, as the poet with the chuckle, that California girl we met at Stiver's studio last week, while I'm on my way to see her, she repeated that poem of mine, the tribute of Spring, word for word, she's the smartest proposition in the town just at presence. Say, how does this confounded tie look? I spoil four before I got one to set right. And the voice that I ask you about? I inquired. Oh, she doesn't sing, said Cleon, but you ought to hear her recite my angel of the inshore wind. I passed on, I cornered a newsboy, and he flashed at me prophetic pink papers that outstripped the news by two revolutions of the clock's longest hand. Son, I said, while I pretended to chase coins in my penny-pocket, doesn't it sometimes seem to you as if the city ought to be able to talk? All these ups and downs and funny business and queer things happening every day? What would it say, do you think, if it could speak? Quit your kidding, said the boy. What paper you want? I got no time to waste. It's Mag's birthday, and I want thirty cents to get her a present. Here was no interpreter of the city's mouthpiece. I bought a paper and consigned its undeclared treaties, its premeditated murders, and unfault battles to an ash-can. Again I repaired to the park and sat in the moonshade. I thought and I thought, and I wondered why none could tell me what I asked for. Again I repaired to the park and sat in the moonshade. I thought and thought, and wondered why none could tell me what I asked for. And then, as swift as light from a fixed star, the answer came to me. I arose and hurried, hurried as so many reasoners must, back around my circle. I knew the answer and I hugged it in my breast as I flew, fearing less someone would stop me and demand my secret. Aurelia was still on the stoop. The moon was higher and the ivy shadows were deeper. I sat at her side and we watched a little cloud tilt at the drifting moon and go asunder, quite pale and confident. And then, wonder of wonders and delight of delights, our hands somehow touched and our fingers closed together and did not part. After half an hour, Aurelia said with that smile of hers, Do you know you haven't spoken a word since you came back? That, said I, nodding wisely, is the voice of the city. End of The Voice of the City by O. Henry. Recording by Linda McDaniel, Atlanta, Georgia, July 2008.