Nightshade and Damnations

THE KING WHO COLLECTED CLOCKS

Secrets such as Pommel told me burn holes in the pockets of the brain. If I could tell you the real name of the king and his country, your eyebrows would go up and your jaws would go down—and then, more likely than not, you would damn me for a sensational rogue and a dirty liar.

I met the Count de Pommel in the casino at Monte Estoril, in Portugal. At first I thought that he was a confidence trickster operating under a mask of shy reserve. The Count de Pommel had lost all his ready money on the third block of numbers, and was feverishly convinced that his luck was about to change. Offering me his watch as security, he asked me to lend him a thousand escudos; about ten pounds. In England, as things were then, almost any watch that ticked was worth ten pounds. I gave him the money. Then he began to win. In three-quarters of an hour he won eleven thousand escudos, stopped playing, and returned my money in exchange for his watch, with a thousand expressions of gratitude and the offer of a glass of champagne. He gave me, at the same time, six square inches of visiting card: he was the Count de Pommel, of the Quinta Pommel at Cascais and the Villa Pommel, Lausanne, Switzerland. The watch, he said, was worth four hundred pounds.

“Who made it?” I asked.

“I did,” he said.

“There is something about you that made me think you were a clever man with your hands,” I said.

He held out his hands. Transparent, bloodless, reticulated with narrow black veins, they seemed to vibrate like the wings of an insect. “Once upon a time, yes,” he said. “Now, no. A nervous disorder. There is nothing worse than nerves in my profession.”

“Your profession?”

“Or trade, if you prefer the word. I am, or was, a watchmaker. I got my title of nobility from King Nicolas, Nicolas the Third,” he said, and added: “I am not a nobleman by birth. Actually, I was a Swiss.”

“Oh, of course,” I said, remembering. “Nicolas the Third collected clocks and watches.”

“His was the finest collection in the world.”

“And you—of course, of course! Pommel—now I get it—Pommel is a name I associate with the Nicolas clock.”

The Count de Pommel smiled and said: “It was a toy rather than a clock in the proper sense of the word. Birds sprang out singing and flapping their wings, Father Time held up a mechanical calendar in the shape of an hourglass; and I devised a barometer also worked by clockwork, so that figures representing the four seasons appeared according to changes of atmospheric pressure. The Nicolas clock was overcomplicated. I am far more proud to have made the watch I pledged with you this evening.”

“It seemed to me to be made of gold.”

“Only the case. It is a very simple watch, but perfect; foolproof and waterproof—absolutely accurate. It seems silly, perhaps. I am a retired man, and time does not matter to me. Still, I like accuracy for the sake of accuracy—it is something to be achieved. I cannot work any more; my hands are unsteady, as you see. So I have a regard for that watch. It is the only thing left to me of all that I have made. The others are museum pieces, collectors’ pieces—dead!”

“Did you also make the figures on the Nicolas clock, Count de Pommel? They are works of art.”

“No, a Belgian artist made those: Honoré de Kock. We worked together.”

“Ah, yes, Honoré de Kock. He died, didn’t he?”

“Yes, poor Honoré. . . . He was a very good fellow. I liked him very much. It was a pity.”

“He died in an accident, I believe?” I said.

“He died on purpose,” said the Count de Pommel.

“You don’t mean to say he killed himself?”

“No, far from it.”

“Are you telling me that de Kock was murdered?” I asked.

“I would rather not talk about him just now, if you will excuse me.”

“I beg your pardon, Count,” I said.

He was troubled. “No,” he insisted, “no, no, no! You have been very kind, very accommodating. I liked your face as soon as I saw you; and you were very good, too, charming! I should never have been so bold . . . only when I start playing, which is seldom, I am carried away. I take only a certain sum with me, and if I leave the table—then I lose the thread of the game. I can’t imagine what possessed me to . . . to . . . to . . . Will you dine with us tomorrow, sir?”

“With pleasure,” I said, and so we finished the bottle and parted; and I walked back to my hotel, thinking of incongruities. I remembered a temperamental plumber, a clumsy oaf with a soldering iron, who convinced everyone that he was a great craftsman because he was ferociously arrogant; and I thought of Pommel, the greatest living master of his craft, clock and watchmaker to King Nicolas himself—and singularly like a trapped mouse in his pitiful humbleness, in spite of his title of nobility.

I wanted to know more about him. Among other things, I wondered what sort of woman he had married. Pommel must have been more than seventy years old. I imagined a bloated, faded woman of fifty or so, soured by cumulative marital discontent.

I was wrong. She was fifty years old, and fat, but still attractive. Pommel called her Minna. Her hair was dull red, her eyes were blue and clear, and she had the warm, creamy, calm air of a woman who has achieved happiness, so that nothing can hurt or touch her. She was a Hungarian, and had been a needlewoman in King Nicolas’s palace—the kind of girl that sings as she works and likes to sit still. She was well beloved, secure, healthy and contented—a woman who could grow festive over a crust, or dance to her own singing. Before an hour had passed I gathered that she had been poor Honoré de Kock’s mistress, not because she liked him but because he was so unhappy; that she loved Pommel because he was happy with her and because he was kindhearted; and that there was a big, dark secret about which she had promised not to speak.

This, of course, was the inside story of the death of Nicolas, the king who collected clocks. In the end I got that story.

When I was twelve years old (said Pommel, after dinner) I was apprenticed to Tancred Dicker, and I learned a lot from him. You have, perhaps, seen pictures of him—Tancred Dicker, the one that looked like a sheepdog. Soon he let me work for him as a journeyman; I had the knack. By the time I was twenty I worked with Dicker. I went with him when King Nicolas asked him to come and stay and work on clocks, more than forty-five years ago, when I was twenty-two. When Dicker and I arrived we had first to meet a gentleman named Kobalt, a distant relation of King Nicolas’s queen, a very powerful man indeed. The king relied upon him: the poor king was getting old, and had rheumatoid arthritis. He no longer cared very much for affairs of state, you see. He liked best of all his pastime, his hobby, which was collecting clocks and watches. Oh, yes, yes, the king had had other hobbies in his day; but he had got old—more than seventy-three years old—and turned his mind to higher things, being more or less tired out.

Before we saw the king we saw Kobalt, as I was saying, and Kobalt talked to us about what we had come for. You will have heard of Kobalt, no doubt—or it may be that he was a little before your time. It was Kobalt who ran away with Marli Martin, the wife of the minister; your father, more likely, heard of that affair. Kobalt is probably no longer in the land of the living; he must have been fifty years old when I first saw him more than forty years ago, and he was still good-looking. He was wicked, and a pig, but all the same he was a nobleman and a gentleman—a dangerous beast, and cunning; very brave—a wild boar, as you might say. He had light hair and moustaches, light-colored eyes, no eyelashes. As soon as I saw him I disliked him: there was badness all over him. He said to us:

“I am very happy to meet you. His Majesty is very anxious to consult with you. He is . . . but listen!”

He raised a finger, pulling out his watch with his free hand; smiled and said: “Exactly five o’clock.” Almost before he had finished speaking, the place became full of music. Birds sang, bells rang, silver and golden gongs sounded—dozens and dozens of striking clocks chimed the hour. A German timepiece sent twelve lame-looking Apostles staggering out to strike a gold-headed Satan with bronze hammers. From a cheap wooden affair leapt a scraggy-looking little cuckoo with five hiccups, while a contraption under a glass dome let out five American-sounding twangs.

“His Majesty the King has a collection of more than seven hundred clocks,” said Kobalt, as soon as he could make his voice heard. “He has a sort of weakness for clocks—like Louis XVI. But never mention Louis XVI in his Majesty’s presence; the name of that unhappy monarch strikes a not-too-pleasant note in the king’s ears. We’ll see more of each other, I hope, my dear Monsieur Dicker. I am sure that we have much in common. Much!”

Dicker bowed low, and so did I. But I was full of a new idea. If his Majesty liked clocks, he should have clocks—toys, novelties, nonsense—clocks with figures and contrivances. That was when I first conceived the Nicolas clock. Tancred Dicker and I worked on it for four and a half years. Some of the technical innovations are his, but it was I who got the credit for the whole; and so I became watchmaker to King Nicolas III.

De Kock designed, modeled, and cast the case and the figures. He had talent—almost genius, the genius of the old Dutch Masters who could portray a man, an apple, a monkey, a grape, a bit of linen or a ray of sunshine, exactly as it appeared. He had a photographic hand; and it was this that made him unhappy—he wanted to make his own things, you see—it humiliated him merely to imitate the handiwork of the Lord God Almighty. He ate his heart out in his longing to create something with life of its own, but he never could. It is a sad thing when a man like de Kock becomes at last convinced that au fond he is a mediocrity; it breaks his heart.

Although he was very popular and successful and made a great deal of money, poor Honoré was very unhappy. He had already taken to drinking. Personally, I liked him very much indeed, and had a great admiration for him. He was a craftsman rather than an artist, he could work in any medium. Bronze, ivory, wood, marble, glass, gold, iron—anything and everything. Yet, because he could not reconcile himself to the fact that God did not see fit to give him the divine spark, he was always deep in melancholy. So it may, after all, have been true that poor Honoré de Kock committed suicide in the end. But I am by no means sure of this.

But where was I? Ay, yes, Dicker and I were talking to Kobalt, that smooth, terribly dangerous nobleman. It was a marvelous thing to hear all those clocks striking at once, and afterwards, when the last chime had died away (there was one vulgar little beast of a clock that was always a little late, and arrived breathless after all the others had done)—it was marvelous, afterwards, to listen to the ticking of all those clocks. The whole palace was full of it. At night, first of all, you could not sleep; you lay awake, listening, waiting for the concert that almost deafened you every quarter of an hour. There was one silly figurine of a dancing girl. Every hour she performed a little can-can, showing her underclothes, and kicking a tambourine which she held in her right hand. Another contraption—an old French novelty clock—was decorated with a dozen fantastic musicians. When their hour came they all went raving mad, throwing their limbs in all directions, while an extraordinarily strident musical box, concealed in their platform, played a lively jig. And there was a German clock—somehow a typically German clock—upon which there stood, in a painted farmyard, a farmer, his wife, his son, his daughter, and a pig. Without fail, twenty-four times a day, the farmer beat his wife, the wife smacked the son, the son kicked his sister, she pulled the pig’s tail, and they all shrieked. A crazy clock! I could see that Dicker and I would have our hands pretty full, because these tricky toy clocks tend to be too sensitive, and sometimes have to be nursed like quarrelsome old invalids. What a business! His Majesty employed a staff of nine highly-skilled men who had nothing to do but wind up his clocks and see that they were set at the correct time. But he would not let them tamper with the works. That is what we had been employed for, at a salary that took even Dicker’s breath away; and Dicker was accustomed to eccentric millionaires to whom money was of no importance.

I am sorry. I am boring you with all this talk of clocks, clocks, clocks. But clocks, you see, are my whole life: I know nothing else. Also, if I am to tell you the really remarkable part of this story, I cannot avoid reference to clocks. His Majesty Nicolas III, in his old age, thought of nothing but his collection. You might have thought that a man, even a king, so old and broken (or, I should say, especially a king) would not like to be reminded of the passing of time. But no, his love of clocks was stronger even than his fear of death.

We were hurried to his presence. You might have thought that we were doctors and he was dying. Oh, dear me, how very old his Majesty was! He was sitting stiffly in a great velvet chair, wrapped from neck to ankles in a wonderful dressing-gown; and even with this, in spite of the fact that the windows were sealed and a fire was blazing, he seemed to be blue with cold. He was dried up, so to speak. There was no moisture left in him. Even his poor old eyes looked dry and he kept blinking as if he were trying to moisten them. The king was suffering from a sort of paralysis which, it was said, was the price he had to pay for certain youthful indiscretions. Also he had arthritis and moved with great difficulty, dragging his feet. I shall never forget how shocked I was when I first saw him. I had had some silly childish idea that a king in real life looks like a king. And there was this little, corpse-like man, old as the hills and weary of the world, quivering to the fingertips, shuddering and sighing and groaning, swaying his tired old head from side to side like a turtle. Only his beard was magnificent; it was like floss-silk, and covered most of his face and part of his chest.

But when he saw Dicker and me he came to life. He brushed aside the formalities and came straight to business. Oh, that awful voice! It was like a death-rattle, punctuated with groans. From time to time, forgetting his afflictions in his excitement, he started to make a gesture; but his arthritis stopped him with a painful jerk and he let out a moan of pain. He said that we were welcome, very welcome. We could have anything we liked, all we had to do was ask; even for money. We were to live in the palace, where a workshop had been fitted up. His clocks had been neglected. His beautiful collection of seven hundred rare clocks was going to the devil. We were to go to work at once. First and foremost, there was a job to be done on a unique Swiss clock. It had stopped. It was all the fault of one Fritz Harlin, who had poked his clumsy fingers into the works, pretending to repair it. This was to be put right at once, and he would watch while we worked. It was his only pleasure, that poor old king—watching workmen tinkering with clocks. He has sat and watched me for eight hours on end in my workshop; even taking his meals out of a vessel like a tea-pot—he could digest nothing but milk—on the spot.

We were conducted to this workshop, which was a workshop out of a dream. Upon the bench stood a silent clock upon which stood a bronze Father Time about two feet high, and a dozen other figures about four inches high. There was a king encrusted with jewels and wearing a golden crown; an enameled cardinal in a red robe; a knight in silver armor; a merchant carved out of lapis lazuli; a surgeon with a knife in one hand and a human heart made of a spinel ruby in the other; a nun of silver and ivory; an infanta of ivory and red gold; a painted harlot hung with oddments of jewelry; a peasant, all sinews, in old ivory and bronze; and an aged beggar made of bone and studded with sores which were little rubies. The idea was, at the striking of the hour, Time mowed these figures down, one by one, finishing with the king, who came under the scythe on the last stroke of midnight. It was a beautiful piece of workmanship, and we approached it with reverence.

Soon the King came in between two attendants. One of these was an old doctor and the other was a sturdy young man with a nondescript face; they supported him under the arms and led him to another red velvet chair. When Dicker and I began to bow the king said: “No, no, no need, no need. Get on with the work.” Then, trying to make an imperious gesture with his hand, he cried out in agony and groaned with terrible oaths and curses. Dicker and I went to work. This Fritz must have been a fool. I will not try your patience with technical details; but he had not seen one dazzlingly simple thing—one steel wire, less than half an inch long, bent at an angle of about sixty-five degrees, upon which the movement of the main figures, and therefore the movement of the whole mechanism, ultimately depended. Wear and tear and tiredness—for even steel gets tired—had reduced this angle by half a degree. I adjusted it in thirty seconds with a pair of pliers, wound and set the clock, and then—swish went the scythe, down went peasant, soldier, priest and king while the clock was still solemnly chiming (it had little golden bells like church bells). His Majesty uttered a cry of delight, a groan of anguish, half a dozen shocking words and a gracious compliment. We explained that it was nothing; that we would make a new angle-pin of the finest tempered steel, and Time would cut down men for another hundred years.

And after that, I can assure you, Dicker and I were established, under King Nicolas III. We could do no wrong. I really believe that even if Dicker and I had committed murder it would somehow have been hushed up and we could have got away with it. Poor Dicker—this went to his head. Once, for example, when the chamberlain at the palace, a terribly proud man with a very hasty temper, told Dicker to remember his place, Dicker threatened to go home. The chamberlain was dismissed with ignominy.

This man, whose name was Tancredy, then conceived a frightful hate for the king, and secretly gave his support to the Liberal-Democrat Party. I dare say you will have read something about the political situation in that country in King Nicolas’s time, especially towards the end of his reign when there was a great deal of discontent. King Nicolas, like his fathers before him, was an absolute monarch. In effect he was the Law.

After his father, King Vindex II, had been assassinated by a woman who threw a seven-pound bomb into his carriage, Nicolas, influenced by a wise old minister, had brought about certain reforms in the country. He had started a system of free education, free medical services, sanitation, the encouragement of the fine arts and of heavy industry, the development of an export trade—all this and much more was associated with Nicolas III. Nevertheless, the ordinary man of the people was subject to restrictions which horrified me. I am Swiss, you see.

There was no real freedom of speech or of the press. The average man had to glance over his shoulder before he felt it was safe to say what he wanted to say. There was frightful corruption in the highest places—especially when the king had grown too old and feeble and sick to care about anything but his seven hundred fantastic clocks. Consequently discontent was driven out of sight as an acorn is driven into the ground by your foot when you tread on it. This acorn, if I may put it that way, sent out all sorts of underground roots and pushed up unforeseen shoots. There were the Anarcho-Liberals, the terrorists of the Brutus party; the Democratic-Socialists, the Independent-Anarchists; the Republicans; the Labor-Royalists; and a dozen others. But the most subtle and formidable force working against the king was that of the Liberal-Democrat party, led by an ex-lawyer named Martin. This was a party to be reckoned with. Its methods were unquestionably constitutional and its policy was not to dethrone the king but to take away his power—which meant that the king would become a mere puppet; a king in name only. The Monarchists, who kept a great deal of personal power mainly because the king was a proper king, hated these Liberal-Democrats; and had indeed, my dear sir, very good reason to hate them. They were afraid of the Liberal-Democrats and of Martin, whose party was growing stronger and stronger. He was suspected of encouraging, and even of financing and inspiring, all kinds of anti-Nicolas propaganda—mysterious little newspapers, scurrilous and filthy books and pamphlets and cartoons printed abroad; riots, acts of terror, and sometimes strikes. But nothing could be proved. Martin was too clever.

It was believed that only the personality of King Nicolas III kept the system in one piece. And poor King Nicolas was senile, paralytic, crippled with arthritis, and not far from death. After he died—and he was expected to die fairly soon—all the quiet, pale things underground would rush out and overwhelm the country.

As long as the old king lived, the Monarchists had something to stand on. You see, nobody was allowed to forget that old King Nicolas had been a much better man than his ancestors; that he was a humane, kind-hearted father of his people, and meant to make everyone happy as soon as he could afford to do so. Also, he was the king; as such, he inspired the people with an almost superstitious veneration.

But he had no issue. There had been only one son, a pitiful, sickly boy, who was dead of anemia.

It took me many months to learn all this, and, having learned it, I began to feel that, after all, Dicker and I were not as well provided for as we had thought.

By then I was working on the great clock of Nicolas. The old king came every day to watch while we worked. It is a strange thing: although I like a clock to be a clock and not a silly mechanical toy, I developed a kind of weakness for these ingenious little bits of machinery. It was very pleasant working in the palace: everything was to hand. His Majesty had a passion for exclusiveness: he insisted that the inner workings of the clock we were making should be seen by himself, Dicker, and (of course) me. Honoré de Kock worked with us later, because he, as the sculptor and caster of the figures, had to know what made them work. There was not a great deal for de Kock to do in the beginning. He was a bored, melancholy man, as I have said; and he could not keep his hands still; he was always playing with something.

One day, when it was necessary for him to stand by until we had worked out the details of the knee-joint of the central figure of the great clock of Nicolas, he began to knead and fidget with a large lump of putty on the bench. An hour passed. “What’s that?” asked his Majesty.

“Nothing your Majesty,” said de Kock.

“Show me,” said the king.

Then we saw that Honoré de Kock with his fidgety, photographic hands had squeezed, gouged, and patted out of that lump of putty an exact likeness of Dicker. The King was childishly delighted and said: “Do one of me.”

Poor de Kock bowed and said: “With pleasure, your Majesty, but not in putty. Putty will not hold its shape. If it would please you I could make your likeness in, say, wax—simply, Sire, as a little game to divert you.”

Although it was early in the day, de Kock had already drunk a whole bottle of apricot brandy, and scarcely knew, or cared, what he was saying.

“Yes,” he went on, “it might amuse your Majesty. One of the first commissions I ever had was a lady who had her likeness made in wax—full-length.”

“What for?” asked the king.

“Why, her husband was suspicious of her, you see, because she was very much younger than he. She used to leave her room stealthily in the dead of night to visit someone else. Her husband was in the habit of peeping in at odd hours to see if she was still there. I made her a perfect likeness, movable at the joints like a dressmaker’s dummy, so that she could put herself into all kinds of attitudes; and deceived her husband perfectly for three years.”

“And what happened then?”

“Your Majesty, one night the husband crept in to spy upon his wife as usual, and was so overcome by the beauty of my waxwork that he ventured to creep up and kiss it. And then he rushed out yelling that his wife was dead—just as she came creeping back along the passage.”

“And then? Did he kill her?”

“No, he broke up the wax model.”

That was the only occasion on which I ever saw the king laugh. It hurt him, and the laugh turned into a groan, and the groan into a curse. But de Kock’s story had put him into a very good humor. King Nicolas had been a very gay fellow in his time, fond of practical jokes—you know, making fools of people; pouring water over them, setting booby-traps so that when they opened the door a pailful of something nasty emptied itself over them . . . and so forth.

“Yes,” he said to de Kock, “you shall make me in wax, life-size. But you mustn’t tell anyone about it, do you hear? You go on and model me—every hair, every line, everything. Then we’ll have fun. Yes, we’ll play tricks. I shall be in two places at the same time. I’ll frighten them out of their wits, the rogues. . . .”

Later, the king sent de Kock a beautiful gold cigar-case, studded with diamonds, but de Kock was gloomy and furious. “Why did I tell him?” he cried. “Why in God’s name? After all these years—have I come down to making wax dolls for old men in their second childhood?”

But I said: “Wax doll or bronze doll, what is the difference? If it pleases the old gentleman, let him have it. You know how generous he is when he is pleased. You’ll have to hang about in the workshop for several months, perhaps. You will be bored. Instead of playing with a bit of putty, play with a bit of wax, and do yourself some good at the same time.”

De Kock was mollified; and set up a great lump of clay on a stand and went to work on the king’s head. His technique was, if I remember rightly, as follows: first he modeled the head with microscopic accuracy in sculptor’s clay. When this was dry, he made with infinite care a plaster mold, into which a special sort of wax was poured. So, the mold being taken away, section by section, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, out came the head, looking so horrible that it gave me a nightmare. It did not look a bit like the king at that stage, because de Kock had made him without the hair and the beard.

The putting in of the king’s hair was the most tedious part of the business, because in a real life-like waxwork image every hair must be put in separately. I should not have cared for the job of putting in King Nicolas’s beard a hair at a time; but when de Kock was at work he was a fanatic in his thoroughness. That is why he was what he was, poor fellow. Also, in spite of his first angry reluctance, he became engrossed in the king’s head. He went to a shop where such things were sold, and bought an enormous quantity of beautiful silky white hair. (The starving peasant women of the Balkans, some of whom have beautiful heads of hair, sell their crowning glory for a few copper coins in order to buy something to eat.) The old king watched, blinking, fascinated. Then, looking at him, an idea occurred to me. I said to de Kock: “Since the old gentleman has taken such an interest in this doll, as you call it, why not let us combine our two arts? If you can fix your model constructionally, I can undertake to do the rest.”

“What do you mean?” asked de Kock.

“Why,” I said, “it would be no trouble at all for me to devise a clockwork mechanism to make him blink his eyes, sway his poor old head, tremble all over, and move those stiff, shaky hands of his. To me, that would be as easy as making a cuckoo-clock.”

De Kock was delighted with the idea. We arranged it between us secretly, so as to give his Majesty a pleasant little surprise. If he wanted his harmless fun, he could have it. No one knew what we were doing. Dicker was very ill with a disease of the heart—of which, by the way, he died shortly after. So de Kock and I spent all our spare time playing with his dummy and, as a matter of fact, we really began to take quite a fancy to it—as a job, I mean. It had taken hold of us.

The machinery that made the eyes and the head move and the hands tremble was nothing: a mere toy-maker’s job. I always liked difficult, intricate pieces of work. So it occurred to me that it might be really amusing to fix the jointed figure so that it could stand up and even take a few stiff rheumaticky paces backwards and forwards. That also was easy—hawkers in the street sell tin toys which can do that very thing; and even turn somersaults. No, it was not complicated enough for me.

Having made the dummy tremble and blink and sit and stand and walk, I now wanted to make it talk.

Well, you know that the phonograph had been invented then, although it was a very crude affair and did not sound real. But then again, neither did the king’s voice sound real—in fact it sounded rather like a scratchy old phonograph record. Also, the king’s voice was the easiest thing in the world for any man to imitate. You can imitate it yourself if you like. Let a lot of saliva run to the back of your throat and groan—there is the king’s voice. I say once again, it was easy. The entire mechanism fitted into the back of the figure between the shoulder blades and the hips, and was operated by several levers. If you pressed one, the figure stood up. If you pressed another, it walked twelve paces forward and turned on its heel. So if you wanted the figure to pace up and down all you had to do was repeat the pressure on that lever.

Another lever made it sit down. As the thighs and legs made an angle of ninety degrees, the phonograph automatically started. Choking imprecations, together with groans of pain came out of the mouth. All the time the dummy shook and quivered, while a perfectly simple, concertina-shaped bellows inside the head sucked in the air and blew it out, so that the moustache that concealed the mouth was constantly in motion, and you could hear a kind of wheezy breathing.

It was all quite life-like, especially when we dressed it in clothes which we borrowed from the king’s wardrobe. As the king’s clockmaker, I was a person of great consequence in the palace. Everybody knew what had happened to Tancredy; they all went out of their way to be polite to me. I could even have had intrigues with duchesses if I had been so disposed. I had no difficulty in getting from the master of the king’s wardrobe a complete outfit of the royal clothes, including fur slippers, a sable dressing-gown and a round velvet cap such as his Majesty invariably wore. When the dummy was dressed we sat it in a deep red velvet chair in the workshop, covered it with a sheet, and waited. At last the moment came. De Kock and I were excited, like children who have prepared a wonderful surprise for a beloved parent and are impatient to reveal it.

The king came in, with his doctor and his attendant holding him up, and was lowered, groaning and cursing, into his usual chair.

“What have you got there?” he asked.

I said: “A little surprise for your Majesty.” Then I pressed two of the levers and whisked away the sheet all in one movement, and the dummy got up, walked twelve paces, which brought it face to face with his Majesty, and turned scornfully on its heel. I had measured my distance. Following it, I pressed another lever and it walked straight back to the chair and turned on its heel again. Another touch and it sat down, and the gramophone started and the great groaning voice bellowed dirty language right into the king’s face.

I looked towards him laughing in anticipation of his delight, but what I saw horrified me. His face had become blue. His eyes seemed to be trying to push themselves out of their sockets. His mouth opened, and he uttered a terrible rattling scream. I still hear that scream in my dreams.

“Your Majesty,” I cried, “forgive me!”

But he did not hear me. He fell back, and seemed to shrink like a sack of flour ripped open with a knife; and the old doctor, with a face as blue and terrified as the old king’s, felt his heart and stammered: “Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God! He’s dead—the king is dead!” And I remember that the sturdy attendant, bursting into tears, threw himself on his knees and cried: “Oh, your Majesty, your Majesty! Don’t go without me! Take me with you! Oh, your Majesty!” He shouted this in a heartbroken voice, something like the howl of a dog in the night. Then I heard footsteps; the door opened. I saw Kobalt with a dozen others behind him. Kobalt naturally looked first towards the king’s chair, and when he saw what was there, the blood ran out of his face. Yet he was a quick-thinking man, even at a moment like this. He swung round and shouted: “Back to your posts! God help the man I find in this corridor! Colonel of the guard, a double guard on the outer gates—no one leaves the palace!”

After that he slid into the workshop, shut the door, approached the royal chair and said: “Doctor Zerbin—is his Majesty——?”

“His Majesty is dead,” said the doctor, with tears on his face. I felt that it was I who had killed the king and I said: “Your Highness, it was all well meant. His Majesty asked us, de Kock and me, to make a figure, for a joke. The king wanted to——”

Kobalt turned, quick as a snake, with murder in his eyes. But then he saw the figure in the chair and his mouth hung open. He looked from it to the dead king. You know how death changes people. His Majesty, poor man, was all shrunk and shriveled and blue, and looked somehow less than half as big as he had been five minutes before. The dummy, in every hair and every baggy pouch and wrinkle, was the image of the king as he had been when he was alive. Kobalt came slowly towards me. I never was a brave man, and loathe violence. I thought Kobalt was going to kill me, and all in a rush I said: “Don’t be hasty! De Kock and I are perfectly innocent, I swear it. His Majesty wanted a waxwork figure just to play a trick. A figure . . . like this. . . .”

And I pressed levers. I made the wax image of Nicolas III stand up. It walked twelve rheumaticky paces, looked at the corpse of the king, turned on its heel, strode back, sat down groaning and trembling, and puffed at Kobalt all the vile words you have ever heard, in a voice like the voice of his Majesty. Then it was still, except for a swaying of the head and a continuous tremor. In a quiet place, of course, anyone could have heard the noise of the powerful clockwork that made it move. But in the palace of poor King Nicolas III, where there were more than seven hundred clocks, the noise of cogs, ratchets and pendulums was perpetually in everybody’s ears; even the members of the kitchen staff when they were out imagined that they were still hearing the ticking of clocks.

Kobalt actually bowed to the image and started to say: “Your Majesty,” but he stopped himself after the first syllable, and said: “How very remarkable!”

“It is only a doll,” said de Kock, and there was a certain gratification mixed with the terror in his voice, “a wax doll, a mere nothing.”

“It looks real enough,” I said, pressing the levers again; whereupon the figure got up, stood, walked twelve paces, turned, walked back, sat, groaned with agony and damned our eyes. Kobalt touched its wax forehead and shuddered. He went over to the king and felt his hand. Then his keen eyes veiled themselves. I could see that he was thinking hard and fast. It was not difficult to guess what was in his mind; the end of the king was the end of Kobalt. He, too, was as good as dead.

Soon he looked at me and said: “You made this machinery, did you? I want to have a word with you. And you, Monsieur de Kock, you made this waxwork figure? For the moment it deceived me. You are a very talented man, Monsieur de Kock . . . and his Majesty collapsed on seeing your little work, gentlemen? Few artists live to boast of a thing like that.”

If he had simply said: “Few artists can boast of a thing like that,” I might not be here to tell you this story. But when he said “live to boast,” I knew that there was something wicked in his mind. I knew that I was in frightful danger. Poor de Kock was already beginning to swell up like a pigeon, rolling his eyes and pushing out his chest. Kobalt went to a speaking-tube and blew into it, and then he said: “Major Krim? . . . Come down here at once with four or five men upon whom you can rely.” Turning to me he said: “When I give you the word, make that thing work again.”

With an air of reverence—smiling now—he threw the sheet with which we had covered the dummy over the dead body of King Nicolas. Footsteps sounded. “Now!” said Kobalt to me and I pressed levers. Major Krim, a man with a scarred face, came in with four others. As they entered, the dummy got out of the chair and walked abstractedly a few paces while Kobalt, keeping a wicked eye on me, said: “His Majesty commands that Dr. Zerbin and the attendant Putzi be put under arrest instantly and kept incommunicado.”

The thunderstruck doctor and the grief-stunned attendant were taken away. As the door closed the unhappy Putzi began to weep again, looking back over his shoulder at the thing covered by the sheet.

“Oh, you may well cry, you scabby dog!” shouted Kobalt, and then the image sat down groaning and quivering with the inevitable asthmatic curses, and the door closed.

Kobalt opened it again very quickly and glanced outside; shut it again and locked it, and said to me: “What a very remarkable man you are, my dear M. Pommel, to make something like that. Why, it is almost—if I may say so without irreverence—almost like God breathing the breath of life into clay. How does it work?”

I have always been a timid and obliging man, but now—thank God—something prompted me to say: “Your Highness, that is my secret and I refuse to tell you.”

Kobalt still smiled, but there was a stiffness in his smile and a brassy gleam in his eyes. He said: “Well, well, far be it from me to pry into your professional secrets—eh, M. de Kock? . . . How wonderful, how marvelous—how infinitely more important than the death of kings, who are only human after all and come and go—how very much more important is the work that makes a man live for ever! To be a great artist—only that is worth while. Ah, M. de Kock, M. de Kock, how I envy you!”

Poor foolish de Kock said: “Oh, a mere nothing.”

He had been drinking plum brandy. His vanity was tickled. I could not help thinking that if he had a tail he would wag it then.

“How does that work?” asked Kobalt, and the very intonation of his voice was a gross flattery. I could not stop looking at the body of the king under the sheet; but de Kock, full of pride, said: “What do I know of such things? Your Highness, I am an artist—an artist—not a maker of clockwork toys. Your Highness, I neither know nor wish to know, nor have I the time to get to know, the workings of an alarm clock.”

In quite a different tone of voice, Kobalt then said: “Oh, I see.” And so he gave another order, and Major Krim conducted de Kock to his suite, where, three weeks later, he was found with his brains blown out and the muzzle of a pistol in his mouth. The verdict was suicide: de Kock had emptied three bottles of a liqueur called Gurika that day.

But that is not the point. As soon as the Major had led de Kock out of the workshop, Kobalt began to talk to me.

Oh, that was a very remarkable and a very dangerous man! You were asking me about de Kock, earlier in the evening, and I said that I was not quite sure whether poor Honoré really committed suicide. Well, thinking again, I am convinced that he did not. The butt of the revolver was in his hand, the muzzle was in his mouth, and his brains were on the wall. There was one peculiar aspect of this suicide, as it was so called: the revolver was held in de Kock’s right hand, and I happened to know that he was left-handed. It seems to me that he would have picked up his revolver with the same hand that he used to pick up the tools of his trade. A man dies, if he must, as he lives—by his best hand. And then again: Dr. Zerbin and the attendant Putzi disappeared.

I beg your pardon, all this happened later. I was telling you that when I was alone in the workshop with Kobalt, he talked to me. He said that he would give me scores of thousands, together with the highest honors that man could receive, if I would communicate to him the secret of that unhappy dummy that de Kock and I had made to amuse the King who now crouched dead in his chair. I have always been timid but never a fool. I became calm, extremely calm, and I said:

“I think I see your point, your Highness. Without his Majesty, you are nothing. Naturally you want to be what you are and to save what you have—you want to be, as it were, the regent in everything but name. If the news of his Majesty’s death reaches Tancredy, you are out. You may even have to run for your life, leaving many desirable things behind you. Yes,” I said, “I believe that I can see to the back of your scheme. Once you are acquainted with the working of this doll, you will work it. King Nicolas III, the poor old gentleman, was the father of his country, with half a century of tradition behind him. As long as King Nicolas could show himself to the people, the monarchy was safe. And as long as the monarchy was safe, you were great. This dummy here looks so much like his unhappy Majesty that even you, at close quarters, were deceived for a moment. If the real king had not been sitting over there, you would never have known anything. I may go so far as to say that the figure de Kock made and I animated is even stronger than the king because it can stand up and walk of its own accord, which his Majesty could not; and say the same things in the same voice. It can even write his Majesty’s signature.”

This, in point of fact, was perfectly true. The arthritic fingers of the king had no suppleness left in them, so that he wrote with his arm. Keep your arm stiff, grip a pen between the thumb and the first finger of your right hand, write the name Nicolas and you will see what I mean. Like this:

I had saved this for a last surprise—God forgive me. To demonstrate the truth of what I was saying (for I felt that I was fighting for my life) I got an inked pen, put it between the fingers of the dummy, and squeezed the thumb inwards. Immediately, upon a piece of paper which I presented, the pen scratched out the royal signature, and then the fingers opened and the pen was tossed aside.

“I will not tell you as much as I know,” I said, “because I know that if I do, I shall be a dead man. It is useless for you to pry into the inside workings of this dummy because you will never discover three very important things. Only I can tell you how the clockwork is wound. There are nine different springs, which must be tightened in their proper order. There are certain very perishable parts, and these must be constantly replaced. I warn you that you had better leave me alone.”

I said all this out of the mad bravado of a very nervous man, you understand. Having finished, and feeling myself on the verge of hysterics, I picked up a bottle that de Kock had left on my bench, and gulped down a couple of mouthfuls of it.

“I don’t suppose you know that I could make you talk,” said Kobalt, in a voice that made me shudder.

In reply I told him the honest truth. I said: “I am sure you could. But please don’t. I can’t stand pain. Oh, it is not only that,” I added, as I saw him beginning to smile, “I can’t stand pain—that’s perfectly true—but when I said I shouldn’t do it if I were you, I meant to say that the things I handle are actually more delicate than feathers. You could make me talk easily—you could make me talk by threatening me only with your fist. But don’t you see?—the things I would tell you to do need a certain sort of hand, a certain kind of skill, and the training of many years. You’d never be able to do what you made me tell you to do. And I couldn’t do it myself because you would have thrown me out of gear. Honestly, your Highness, you’d better leave me alone.”

Kobalt looked at me steadily and coldly for a long time and then said: “My dear Monsieur Pommel, heaven forbid that I should argue with an expert. You’re the greatest man of your time in your profession or, for that matter, any other. Let it be exactly as you say. Let us be friends. You are a cleverer man even than I thought.”

And so it happened, my friend, that the real King Nicolas III—God rest his soul—was secretly buried somewhere in the country, having been carried out of the palace in a wine cask, while the dummy made by de Kock and animated by me became a head of state. The news was given out that the old king, miraculously recovered, could walk again, with only one attendant. I was that attendant. I had to be with him, to wind him up, keep him in good repair and press the proper levers. Every day I took him down to the workshop and he sat while I went on with my work on the great clock of Nicolas, which—as all the world must know—I completed. Another artist took up work on the moving figures where de Kock had left off. That is why experts have observed certain discrepancies.

It is fantastic, when you come to think of it: I was the real ruler of that country. I was the hand, the voice, the presence and the personality of his Majesty, King Nicolas III! Kobalt continued to be a man of power. When he, in conjunction with the Minister of the Interior, put forward the Monopol bill that included clauses involving the oppression and persecution of Jews, I caused King Nicolas to run a wet pen across the document. He tossed away the pen with a groan and an oath, without signing. After that, the whole world marveled at the renewed vigor of this aged man.

At about this time, my dear Minna came into the story. I hate to say it, but old King Nicolas—like the aged King David in the scriptures—used to keep himself warm at night through the proximity of young women. I provided a young woman. His Majesty had always loved women of a certain shape with red hair. He said that their very presence kept him alive. It was necessary for me to have someone whom I could take into my confidence, because my nerves were giving way. Remember, all this went on for several years. My dear Minna kept company at night with the wax image of Nicolas III. I taught her how to work the levers that made it move, and cut for her a copy of the big key—it had a handle like a corkscrew—that went into the little hole in the region of the left kidney and wound him up. From the beginning there was a deep sympathy between us . . . was there not, Minna, my little love?

It was Minna, in fact, who made a nobleman of me. She said: “Why should you not call yourself by the same title as others do?” She was right. I was a foreigner, and not well born. People were talking. It was impossible for me to discuss things with the gentry as man-to-man. I procured a Patent of Nobility and, over the signature of his Majesty, became the Count de Pommel.

Meanwhile, I believe, I was instrumental in bringing about more reforms. We taxed the big landowners, we built big blocks of flats for workmen, we sent an expedition to observe weather conditions; we brought engineers from Scotland to improve the tramway system and installed electric light, and we did a great deal to establish the paper industry. We cultivated tobacco in the south and were beginning to draw revenue from exports. I had always wondered why the whole world had not heard of aka, the smoked roe of a fish that lived only in one of our lakes. Aka is delicious. We made a monopoly of it, salted it, bottled it, and sold it back to our own country and to the world.

If all had been well, I might have made an earthly paradise. But it was too good to last. All the intrigues of Kobalt, all the agitation of the Liberal-Democrats could not hurt us. The monarchy had never been stronger. No, it was the will of God. In the first place, the surface of de Kock’s dummy began, naturally, to show signs of wear and tear. I could have adjusted that. I could have found another waxwork artist and kept him perpetually incarcerated. I could easily have done this. It was not a matter of the first importance. A thousand times more important than the appearance of his Majesty was, in the long run, the way he behaved. How he moved, and what he said, you understand, depended on me.

One morning I awoke out of an anxious dream and found that my hand was unsteady. Do not misunderstand me—mine was not a drunken tremor, because I never used to drink. It was anxiety, I think, that made me shake. It was extremely serious. Everything depended on my skill. I began to worry. And the more I worried, the more I trembled. I could easily, no doubt, have employed a highly skilled watchmaker, and trained him, telling him exactly what to do . . . keeping him in confinement, incommunicado. But I did not dare. Also my magnifying glass began to be misty, and the mist would not wipe off. To be brief, my eyes were going. A tremor and a foggy eye—that is death to a watchmaker.

Yet again, in spite of everything, in spite of all I had done, the Liberal-Democrats had got stronger under Tancredy. Trouble was brewing. Still, I should have stayed on to the end if Minna had not been there. Thank God, she made me see reason. Dear Minna said: “What is all this to you, Pommel, my dear? You are a Swiss. Most of your money is in the Bank of Lausanne. You can retire and do what you like. The great clock of Nicolas is finished. The old king died years ago. Be sensible and get out now!”

It seemed to me that Minna was right. I could no longer trust myself to work as I used to. I arranged for Minna and for me what the French call a coupe-fil, a “wire-cutter”—a diplomatic passport. Having plenty of money—my wages only, and no plunder—put away in Switzerland, I drove with Minna over the border, and so, after many years, came home.

A little later, I learned that Kobalt had led his Majesty to address a delegation of Liberal-Democrats. Kobalt pressed the wrong levers. His Majesty sat down, cursed abominably, got up, walked twelve paces—straight into the fire—and stood, his hair and clothes blazing. As he stood, he melted. The fire took hold of the wax. The burning wax ran over the thick carpet. One wing of the palace was burned down. After that, upon the slogan The king is dead: long live the people, the Liberal-Democrats scrambled up to power, and then were overthrown by the Communal-Workers’ party. The Communal-Workers were later accused of having shot King Nicolas III in a cellar. Tancredy went into exile. The last time I heard of Kobalt, he was supposed to be running a very prosperous nightclub in one of the Latin-American countries . . . but I do not know anything about this, and I do not care to know. I cannot think of that man without a shudder.

But, on the whole, it is a strange story in its way—No? A little out of the ordinary—Yes?