THE HAND
By Guy
de Maupassant
LA MAIN (Rimbaud)
All were
crowding around M. Bermutier, the judge, who was giving his opinion about the
Saint-Cloud mystery. For a month this in explicable crime had been the talk of
Paris. Nobody could make head or tail of it.
M. Bermutier,
standing with his back to the fireplace, was talking, citing the evidence,
discussing the various theories, but arriving at no conclusion.
Some women
had risen, in order to get nearer to him, and were standing with their eyes
fastened on the clean-shaven face of the judge, who was saying such weighty
things. They, were shaking and trembling, moved by fear and curiosity, and by
the eager and insatiable desire for the horrible, which haunts the soul of
every woman. One of them, paler than the others, said during a pause:
The judge
turned to her:
"True, madame,
it is likely that the actual facts will never be discovered. As for the word
'supernatural' which you have just used, it has nothing to do with the matter.
We are in the presence of a very cleverly conceived and executed crime, so well
enshrouded in mystery that we cannot disentangle it from the involved
circumstances which surround it. But once I had to take charge of an affair in
which the uncanny seemed to play a part. In fact, the case became so confused
that it had to be given up."
Several women
exclaimed at once:
"Oh! Tell us
about it!"
M. Bermutier
smiled in a dignified manner, as a judge should, and went on:
"Do not
think, however, that I, for one minute, ascribed anything in the case to
supernatural influences. I believe only in normal causes. But if, instead of
using the word 'supernatural' to express what we do not understand, we were
simply to make use of the word 'inexplicable,' it would be much better. At any
rate, in the affair of which I am about to tell you, it is especially the
surrounding, preliminary circumstances which impressed me. Here are the facts:
"I was, at
that time, a judge at Ajaccio, a little white city on the edge of a bay which
is surrounded by high mountains.
"The majority
of the cases which came up before me concerned vendettas. There are some that
are superb, dramatic, ferocious, heroic. We find there the most beautiful
causes for revenge of which one could dream, enmities hundreds of years old,
quieted for a time but never extinguished; abominable stratagems, murders
becoming massacres and almost deeds of glory. For two years I heard of nothing
but the price of blood, of this terrible Corsican prejudice which compels
revenge for insults meted out to the offending person and all his descendants
and relatives. I had seen old men, children, cousins murdered; my head was full
of these stories.
"One day I
learned that an Englishman had just hired a little villa at the end of the bay
for several years. He had brought with him a French servant, whom he had
engaged on the way at Marseilles.
"Soon this
peculiar person, living alone, only going out to hunt and fish, aroused a
widespread interest. He never spoke to any one, never went to the town, and
every morning he would practice for an hour or so with his revolver and rifle.
"Legends were
built up around him. It was said that he was some high personage, fleeing from
his fatherland for political reasons; then it was affirmed that he was in
hiding after having committed some abominable crime. Some particularly horrible
circumstances were even mentioned.
"In my
judicial position I thought it necessary to get some information about this
man, but it was impossible to learn anything. He called himself Sir John
Rowell.
"I therefore
had to be satisfied with watching him as closely as I could, but I could see
nothing suspicious about his actions.
"However, as
rumors about him were growing and becoming more widespread, I decided to try to
see this stranger myself, and I began to hunt regularly in the neighborhood of
his grounds.
"For a long
time I watched without finding an opportunity. At last it came to me in the
shape of a partridge which I shot and killed right in front of the Englishman.
My dog fetched it for me, but, taking the bird, I went at once to Sir John
Rowell and, begging his pardon, asked him to accept it.
"He was a
big man, with red hair and beard, very tall, very broad, a kind of calm and
polite Hercules. He had nothing of the so-called British stiffness, and in a
broad English accent he thanked me warmly for my attention. At the end of a
month we had had five or six conversations.
"One night,
at last, as I was passing before his door, I saw him in the garden, seated
astride a chair, smoking his pipe. I bowed and he invited me to come in and
have a glass of beer. I needed no urging.
"He received
me with the most punctilious English courtesy, sang the praises of France and
of Corsica, and declared that he was quite in love with this country.
"Then, with
great caution and under the guise of a vivid interest, I asked him a few
questions about his life and his plans. He answered without embarrassment,
telling me that he had travelled a great deal in Africa, in the Indies, in
America. He added, laughing:
"'I have
had many adventures.'
"Then I
turned the conversation on hunting, and he gave me the most curious details on
hunting the hippopotamus, the tiger, the elephant and even the gorilla.
"I said:
"'Are all
these animals dangerous?'
"He smiled:
"'Oh, no! Man
is the worst.'
"And he
laughed a good broad laugh, the wholesome laugh of a contented Englishman.
"'I have
also frequently been man-hunting.'
"Then he
began to talk about weapons, and he invited me to come in and see different
makes of guns.
"His parlor
was draped in black, black silk embroidered in gold. Big yellow flowers, as
brilliant as fire, were worked on the dark material.
"He said:
"'It is a
Japanese material.'
"But in the
middle of the widest panel a strange thing attracted my attention. A black
object stood out against a square of red velvet. I went up to it; it was a
hand, a human hand. Not the clean white hand of a skeleton, but a dried black
hand, with yellow nails, the muscles exposed and traces of old blood on the
bones, which were cut off as clean as though it had been chopped off with an
axe, near the middle of the forearm.
"Around the
wrist, an enormous iron chain, riveted and soldered to this unclean member,
fastened it to the wall by a ring, strong enough to hold an elephant in leash.
"I asked:
"'What is
that?'
"The Englishman
answered quietly:
"'That is my
best enemy. It comes from America, too. The bones were severed by a sword and
the skin cut off with a sharp stone and dried in the sun for a week.'
"I touched
these human remains, which must have belonged to a giant. The uncommonly long
fingers were attached by enormous tendons which still had pieces of skin
hanging to them in places. This hand was terrible to see; it made one think of
some savage vengeance.
"I said:
"'This man
must have been very strong.'
"The Englishman
answered quietly:
"'Yes, but I
was stronger than he. I put on this chain to hold him.'
"I thought
that he was joking. I said:
"'This chain
is useless now, the hand won't run away.'
"Sir John
Rowell answered seriously:
"'It always
wants to go away. This chain is needed.'
"I glanced
at him quickly, questioning his face, and I asked myself:
"'Is he an
insane man or a practical joker?'
"But his
face remained inscrutable, calm and friendly. I turned to other subjects, and
admired his rifles.
"However, I
noticed that he kept three loaded revolvers in the room, as though constantly
in fear of some attack.
"I paid
him several calls. Then I did not go any more. People had become used to his
presence; everybody had lost interest in him.
"A whole year rolled by. One morning, toward
the end of November, my servant awoke me and announced that Sir John Rowell had
been murdered during the night.
"Half an hour
later I entered the Englishman's house, together with the police commissioner
and the captain of the gendarmes. The servant, bewildered and in despair, was
crying before the door. At first I suspected this man, but he was innocent.
"The guilty
party could never be found.
"On entering
Sir John's parlor, I noticed the body, stretched out on its back, in the middle
of the room.
"His vest
was torn, the sleeve of his jacket had been pulled off, everything pointed to,
a violent struggle.
"The Englishman
had been strangled! His face was black, swollen and frightful, and seemed to
express a terrible fear. He held something between his teeth, and his neck,
pierced by five or six holes which looked as though they had been made by some
iron instrument, was covered with blood.
"A physician
joined us. He examined the finger marks on the neck for a long time and then
made this strange announcement:
"'It looks
as though he had been strangled by a skeleton.'
"A cold
chill seemed to run down my back, and I looked over to where I had formerly seen
the terrible hand. It was no longer there. The chain was hanging down, broken.
"I bent
over the dead man and, in his contracted mouth, I found one of the fingers of
this vanished hand, cut--or rather sawed off by the teeth down to the second
knuckle.
"Then the
investigation began. Nothing could be discovered. No door, window or piece of
furniture had been forced. The two watch dogs had not been aroused from their
sleep.
"Here, in a
few words, is the testimony of the servant:
"For a month
his master had seemed excited. He had received many letters, which he would
immediately burn.
"Often, in a
fit of passion which approached madness, he had taken a switch and struck
wildly at this dried hand riveted to the wall, and which had disappeared, no
one knows how, at the very hour of the crime.
"He would
go to bed very late and carefully lock himself in. He always kept weapons
within reach. Often at night he would talk loudly, as though he were
quarrelling with some one.
"That night,
somehow, he had made no noise, and it was only on going to open the windows
that the servant had found Sir John murdered. He suspected no one.
"I communicated
what I knew of the dead man to the judges and public officials. Throughout the
whole island a minute investigation was carried on. Nothing could be found out.
"One night,
about three months after the crime, I had a terrible nightmare. I seemed to see
the horrible hand running over my curtains and walls like an immense scorpion
or spider. Three times I awoke, three times I went to sleep again; three times
I saw the hideous object galloping round my room and moving its fingers like
legs.
"The following
day the hand was brought me, found in the cemetery, on the grave of Sir John
Rowell, who had been buried there because we had been unable to find his
family. The first finger was missing.
"Ladies, there
is my story. I know nothing more."
The women, deeply stirred, were pale and
trembling. One of them exclaimed:
"But that is
neither a climax nor an explanation! We will be unable to sleep unless you give
us your opinion of what had occurred."
The judge
smiled severely:
"Oh! Ladies,
I shall certainly spoil your terrible dreams. I simply believe that the
legitimate owner of the hand was not dead, that he came to get it with his
remaining one. But I don't know how. It was a kind of vendetta."
One of the
women murmured:
"No, it
can't be that."
And the
judge, still smiling, said:
"Didn't I tell
you that my explanation would not satisfy you?"
23 December 1883.
23 December 1883.
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