"One tremendous, straining effort"
The Weird and the Wonderful YouTube show has a brief overview of A Book of Bargains here. O'Sullivan had not been on my radar before, but this is an exciting collection of stories.
O'Sullivan's bargains naturally have their hidden costs. Sometimes they are hidden from protagonists, sometimes by them.
In the world of O'Sullivan' characters, payoffs are always steep. Some succumb in the pitiless steel mesh of personal logic or social consequence. Others race toward suicide like it's the last plane out.
A Book of Bargains gives us a look at various insiders, outsiders, successes, failures, and those lumpen figures who've simply fallen off the bottom rung of class society. The stories are bleak, brief, and direct in their evocation of life in its febrile succulence.
The First Bargain: The Bargain of Rupert Orange
Orange, near destitute, is offered material wealth and physical invulnerability for five years. He becomes a successful and respected writer and social fixture.
As with all such deals, the harvest reaped by accepting the bargain is worse than what the artist produced while starving:
....Yesterday afternoon I took from amongst my books a novel of Rupert Orange, and as I turned over the leaves, I fell to pondering how difficult it is to obtain any of his works to‐day, while but a few years ago all the world was reading them; and to lose myself in amaze at our former rapturous and enthusiastic admiration of his literary art, his wit, his pathos. For in truth his art is a very tawdry art to my present liking; his wit is rather stale, his pathos a little vulgar. And the charm has likewise gone out of his poetry: even his "Chaunt of the Storm‐ Witch," which we were used to think so melodious and sonorous, now fails to please. To explain the precise effect which his poetry has upon me now, I am forced to resort to a somewhat unhappy figure; I am forced to say that his poetry has an effect on me like sifted ashes! I cannot in the least explain this figure; and if it fail to convey any idea to the reader, I am afraid the failure must be set down to my clumsy writing. And yet what praise we all bestowed on these works of Rupert Orange! How eagerly we watched for them to appear; how we prized them; with what zeal we studied the newspapers for details of his interesting and successful life!
"The Bargain of Rupert Orange" is the most substantial story in A Book of Bargains. It deals in detail with all its implications, deft in point of view and unafraid in its grotesque heft.
* * *
The Second Bargain: My Enemy and Myself
Romance, jealousy, betrayal, and vengeance.
....One moment I paused to peer through the window, and make sure of my man. Then I fetched a run, and was on him like a panther, holding him close, with his hot breath scorching my face. Coming on him from behind, as I did, the middle finger of my left hand struck his eye, and now, as I pressed, the eye bulged out.
"My friend," he groaned, "for Christ's sake, have pity!"
"To hell with your friendship!" I said. "Much pity you had for my honour!" says I, and with that I let him have the knife in his throat, and the blood spurted over my hands hot and sticky. As soon as I could get free of his clutch, I looked up at Jacquette's bedroom window, and there she was, sure enough! in her nightdress, with the blind in her hand, gazing out. Straight up to her room I went, and flung open the door. She turned to me gray and whingeing.
"My little love —," she began.
I put my hands on my hips and spat hard into her face. Then I tramped down stairs and out of the lonely cottage.
I had not the least fear of detection: the servants slept in an out‐house, and the place was too desolate for any chance passenger. I stood triumphing by the corpse of my enemy; but even as I looked the moon shewed from a rift of cloud, lighting the blood, and the hue left by violent death in the features, and I ran for my life from that hideous one‐eyed thing.
* * *
The Third Bargain: The Business of Madame Jahn
To support an expensive boulevardier lifestyle, clerk Gustave kills his wealthy aunt, shop owner Madame Jahn.
On the night after the funeral, Gustave was sitting alone before the fire in Madame Jahn's room, smoking and making his plans. He thought, that when all this wretched mock grief and pretence of decorum was over, he would again visit the cafés which he greatly savoured, and the little Mademoiselle with yellow hair would once more smile on him delicious smiles, with a gleaming regard. Thus he was thinking when the clock on the mantel‐piece tinkled eleven; and at that moment a very singular thing happened. The door was suddenly opened: a girl came in, walked straight over to the writing‐desk, pulled out the small drawer, and then sat staring at the man by the fire. She was distinctly beautiful; although there was a certain old‐fashionedness in her peculiar silken dress, and the manner of wearing her hair. Not once did it occur to Gustave, as he gazed in terror, that he was gazing on a mortal woman: the doors were too well bolted to allow any one from outside to enter, and besides, there was a strange baffling familiarity in the face and mien of the intruder. It might have been an hour that he sat there; and then, the silence becoming too horrible, by a supreme effort of his wonderful courage he rushed out of the room and up‐stairs to get his hat. There in his murdered aunt's bedroom,— there, smiling at him from the wall — was a vivid presentment of the dread vision that sat below: a portrait of Madame Jahn as a young girl. He fled into the street, and walked, perhaps two miles, before he thought at all. But when he did think, he found that he was drawn against his will back to the house to see if It was still there: just as the police here believe a murderer is drawn to the Morgue to view the body of his victim. Yes; the girl was there still, with her great reproachless eyes; and throughout that solemn night Gustave, haggard and mute, sat glaring at her. Towards dawn he fell into an uneasy doze; and when he awoke with a scream, he found that the girl was gone.
* * *
The Fourth Bargain: A Study in Murder
"How odd it is," says Gladwin, as we strolled towards the Empire, "that all this stir and bustle which I am in the midst of to‐night, will be going on just the same to‐morrow night, as though I had never existed."
"Yes," I replied; "how proud you must feel as you move amongst this commonplace throng ! Dr. Johnson said, that when a man has resolved to kill himself, he may go and take the king of Prussia by the nose, at the head of his army. It is a fair question whether a man has not a right to take leave of life when it ceases to charm — to be beautiful."
"If you are so much in love with suicide," says Gladwin, rather irritably for him, "why on earth don't you do it yourself?"
"Oh! I have a great many reasons. The chief of them is, that so many people depend on my life. Take my valet, for instance. That young man supports his mother and three sisters. Now if I were to die, I should be a cause of misfortune to all of them. No; I cannot commit suicide, because of my valet."
"Of course you are right," said Gladwin, as we turned into the theatre; "and I am a fool!"
* * *
The Fifth Bargain: Original Sin
Alphonse D'Aubert, a "morbidly good-natured" gentleman, battles with himself in this black-hearted hair-raising tale. He has a great affection for Madame Dantonel. But he has an even greater desire to strangle her four-year-old daughter Clotilde. He does everything he can think of to distract himself. There is no escape.
Things having come to this point, you may ask fairly: Why did he not turn to the obvious remedy — self‐destruction? Yes! But upon reflection it does not seem so likely. Indeed, upon reflection it would appear, that when a man has a desire, a fierce lust to satisfy, he prefers, however the powers of his soul may rebel, to live for the gratification of that desire, that fierce lust. Be that as it will, the man I am writing about did not contemplate suicide; did not, for a moment, glance along that road of escape. But he gave a dainty supper, to which he invited some of his male acquaintance, and a few ladies of generous virtue. There sat by him a superb creature, with gleaming shoulders and snapping black eyes; and as the mirth grew more disordered, he laid his hand on her swelling throat and tried to tempt himself to kill her in the sight of the revellers. Any one rather than the child! But even as he thought it, the child floated before his eyes; the remembrance of the strange satiety he would feel when he had choked out her life, which he would not feel at all were he to kill this woman, caused his hand to fall listlessly to his side; and pleading a sudden dizziness, he left the merry‐makers to themselves.
So on the next afternoon, we find him once more repairing to the Champs‐Elysées and the house of Madame Dantonel He was feeling easier to‐day; and he discovered at Madame Dantonel's, one visitor who helped to soothe his irritated nerves. This was an old military officer: and Alphonse found his cheerfulness and honest geniality of character very pleasant. He had sat for about twenty minutes, when Madame Dantonel exclaimed:—
"My poor little Clotilde! She has a cold, a slight sore throat, and this is the time when the bonne goes down‐stairs, so she will be quite alone. Forgive me if I go to her."
The time had come. "Permit me!" said Alphonse, on his feet in an instant. It was as though a stranger were talking: he could no more help the words than he could help breathing. "Pray do not deprive Monsieur of your company. I will go to Clotilde; it will delight me to see her, and I know the room quite well."
He hardly waited for the murmured pleasure, but ran, trembling with eagerness, up the stairs. The little girl was in bed playing with her doll, and she greeted him with a smile and a glad cry. He clenched his teeth....
* * *
The Sixth Bargain: When I Was Dead
An I'm-dead-already story saved by O'Sullivan's droll style and precise observation.
....On an autumn evening, when the wind soughed and wailed through the trees in the park, and the dead leaves whistled and chattered, while the rain clamoured at the windows, small wonder that folk with gentle nerves went a‐straying in their wits! An acute nervous system is a grievous burthen on the deck of a yacht under sunlit skies: at Ravenel the chain of nerves was prone to clash and jangle a funeral march. Nerves must be pampered in a tea‐drinking community; and the ghost that your grandfather, with a skinful of port, could face and never tremble, sets you, in your sobriety, sweating and shivering; or, becoming scared (poor ghost!) of your bulged eyes and dropped jaw, he quenches expectation by not appearing at all. So I am left to conclude that it was tea which made my acquaintance afraid to stay at Ravenel. Even Wilvern gave over; and as he is in the Guards, and a polo player, his nerves ought to be strong enough. On the night before he went I was explaining to him my theory, that if you place some drops of human blood near you, and then concentrate your thoughts, you will after a while see before you a man or a woman who will stay with you during long hours of the night, and even meet you at unexpected places during the day. I was explaining this theory, I repeat, when he interrupted me with words, senseless enough, which sent me fencing and parrying strangers, — on my guard.
"I say, Alistair, my dear chap!" he began, "you ought to get out of this place, and go up to town and knock about a bit — you really ought, you know."
"Yes," I replied, "and get poisoned at the hotels by bad food, and at the clubs by bad talk, I suppose. No, thank you: and let me say that your care for my health enervates me."
"Well, you can do as you like," says he, rapping with his feet on the floor; "I'm hanged if I stay here after to‐morrow — I'll be staring mad if I do!"
He was my last visitor. Some weeks after his departure I was sitting in the library with my drops of blood by me. I had got my theory nearly perfect by this time; but there was one difficulty.
The figure which I had ever before me, was a figure of an old woman with her hair divided in the middle; and her hair fell to her shoulders, white on one side and black on the other. She was a very complete old woman; but, alas! she was eyeless, and when I tried to construct the eyes she would shrivel and rot in my sight. But to‐night I was thinking, thinking, as I had never thought before, and the eyes were just creeping into the head, when I heard a terrible crash outside as if some heavy substance had fallen. Of a sudden the door was flung open, and two maid‐servants entered. They glanced at the rug under my chair, and at that they turned a sick white, cried on God, and huddled out.
* * *
The Seventh Bargain: Hugo Raven's Hand
Hugo Raven, successful lawyer, moves to free himself from bonnet shop salesgirl Grace Casket so that he can proceed with marriage to the socially appropriate Hilda Chancel.
....On Tuesday he was busy; and it was after six o'clock when he arrived at Acton Green. Grace Casket was waiting for him.
"How late you are!"
"How could I get here before?" he asked crossly.
Then he subdued the irritation which this girl always caused him, and went on quietly: "I came as soon as I could. I was engaged all day."
"Yes, I know, dear. I was stupid to say that!"
"Have you been here long?" he asked, not because he cared, but because he could think of nothing else to make conversation.
"Since four o'clock. I know you said five, but I had an idea that I might miss you, and I have something important to say." She looked as if she had been crying.
"Well! won't you say it now?"
"Not yet, please! I would rather wait awhile."
They walked on through the strange, pretty village — strange, because it is like a toy, or model, village, set down in the midst of one of the ugliest parts of London — till they came to a stile, on the other side of which was a path which led over the fields to Willesden. It was very still. Overhead, the leaves of the trees intermingling looked like patterns of Brussels lace. The sun having hung in the sky for some time, like a plate of red‐hot metal, suddenly dropped down; and night was there.
"Tell me your important thing, Gracie."
"Not yet! not yet!— oh, I can't yet!"
She was only playing on him in her old silly way, he thought. It was her troublesome, tortuous method again, and it maddened him.
They climbed the stile, and walked some yards till they came to a clump of bushes. Hugo looked all around.
"Why won't you tell me?"
"Hugo dearest, you did not kiss me when we met; and I feel so tired. You have not kissed me to‐day."
"No, by God! but I'll kiss you now!" and with that he drove a knife into her neck, behind the ear.
She gave a deep groan, and Hugo put his hand over her mouth to stifle her. She caught his hand between her teeth and bit it. Then they fell on the ground together, and Hugo saw her eyes staring up at him full of hate or love — he could not tell which; only recognised a great longing for the power of speech — to say one word — in them. She dug her fingers into the earth, and stretched out straight — stiff and straight. She was dead.
He bound his bleeding hand with his handkerchief, and fled from the corpse, leaving the knife — a common one, not easily to be recognised — in the neck. As he sped over the field he had but one thought. "She is dead! I shall not have to marry her. No exposure! She is dead. Marry a girl like that, who could hardly spell! and her rough hands! No! a thousand times, no!" He ran, and this thought ran in his company, till he came face to face with a man whom he took to be a tramp. By one of those uncontrollable impulses, which impel us at times to do just what we would not, he was moved to accost the man and ask the way to Willesden. The man told him civilly enough; and then begged. Hugo gave him two shillings, and started off again. How mad of him to speak to the tramp. The man must have noted, even in the dusk, his disturbed air. And to give him two shillings — a ridiculously large sum! It was like hush‐money.
Jay
22 April 2021
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