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jestingly put into her head； in exhibiting her to us on the
previous night； had been ripening slowly in that dull brain； and
had found its way outward into words； about fifteen hours
afterward； under the irritating influence of my presence！
〃I don't want to touch his hair or his beard；〃 I said。 〃I leave
that entirely to you。〃
She looked around at me； her fat face flushing； her dull eyes
dilating； with the unaccustomed effort to express herself in
speech； and to understand what was said to her in return。
〃Say that again；〃 she burst out。 〃And say it slower this time。〃
I said it again； and I said it slower。
〃Swear it！〃 she cried； getting more and more excited。
I preserved my gravity （the canal was just visible in the
distance）； and swore it。
〃Are you satisfied now？〃 I asked。
There was no answer。 Her last resources of speech were exhausted。
The strange creature looked back again straight between the
pony's ears； emitted hoarsely a grunt of relief； and never more
looked at me； never more spoke to me； for the rest of the
journey。 We drove past the banks of the canal； and I escaped
immersion。 We rattled； in our jingling little vehicle； through
the streets and across the waste patches of ground； which I dimly
remembered in the darkness； and which looked more squalid and
more hideous than ever in the broad daylight。 The chaise tur ned
down a lane； too narrow for the passage of any larger vehicle；
and stopped at a wall and a gate that were new objects to me。
Opening the gate with her key； and leading the pony； Ariel
introduced me to the back garden and yard of Miserrimus Dexter's
rotten and rambling old house。 The pony walked off independently
to his stable； with the chaise behind him。 My silent companion
led me through a bleak and barren kitchen； and along a stone
passage。 Opening a door at the end； she admitted me to the back
of the hall； into which Mrs。 Macallan and I had penetrated by the
front entrance to the house。 Here Ariel lifted a whistle which
hung around her neck； and blew the shrill trilling notes with the
sound of which I was already familiar as the means of
communication between Miserrimus Dexter and his slave。 The
whistling over； the slave's unwilling lips struggled into speech
for the last time。
〃Wait till you hear the Master's whistle；〃 she said； 〃then go
upstairs。〃
So！ I was to be whistled for like a dog！ And； worse still； there
was no help for it but to submit like a dog。 Had Ariel any
excuses to make？ Nothing of the sort。
She turned her shapeless back on me and vanished into the kitchen
region of the house。
After waiting for a minute or two； and hearing no signal from the
floor above； I advanced into the broader and brighter part of the
hall； to look by daylight at the pictures which I had only
imperfectly discovered in the darkness of the night。 A painted
inscription in many colors； just under the cornice of the
ceiling； informed me that the works on the walls were the
production of the all…accomplished Dexter himself。 Not satisfied
with being poet and composer； he was painter as well。 On one wall
the subjects were described as 〃Illustrations of the Passions；〃
on the other； as 〃Episodes in the Life of the Wandering Jew。〃
Chance speculators like myself were gravely warned； by means of
the inscription； to view the pictures as efforts of pure
imagination。 〃Persons who look for mere Nature in works of Art〃
（the inscription announced） 〃are persons to whom Mr。 Dexter does
not address himself with the brush。 He relies entirely on his
imagination。 Nature puts him out。〃
Taking due care to dismiss all ideas of Nature from my mind； to
begin with； I looked at the pictures which represented the
Passions first。
Little as I knew critically of Art； I could see that Miserrimus
Dexter knew still less of the rules of drawing； color； and
composition。 His pictures were； in the strictest meaning of that
expressive word； Daubs。 The diseased and riotous delight of the
painter in representing Horrors was （with certain exceptions to
be hereafter mentioned） the one remarkable quality that I could
discover in the series of his works。
The first of the Passion pictures illustrated Revenge。 A corpse；
in fancy costume； lay on the bank of a foaming river； under the
shade of a giant tree。 An infuriated man； also in fancy costume；
stood astride over the dead body； with his sword lifted to the
lowering sky； and watched； with a horrid expression of delight；
the blood of the man whom he had just killed dripping slowly in a
procession of big red drops down the broad blade of his weapon。
The next picture illustrated Cruelty； in many compartments。 In
one I saw a disemboweled horse savagely spurred on by his rider
at a bull…fight。 In another； an aged philosopher was dissecting a
living cat； and gloating over his work。 In a third； two pagans
politely congratulated each other on the torture of two saints：
one saint was roasting on a grid…iron； the other； hung up to a
tree by his heels； had been just skinned； and was not quite dead
yet。 Feeling no great desire； after these specimens； to look at
any more of the illustrated Passions； I turned to the opposite
wall to be instructed in the career of the Wandering Jew。 Here a
second inscription informed me that the painter considered the
Flying Dutchman to be no other than the Wandering Jew； pursuing
his interminable Journey by sea。 The marine adventures of this
mysterious personage were the adventures chosen for
representation by Dexter's brush。 The first picture showed me a
harbor on a rocky coast。 A vessel was at anchor； with the
helmsman singing on the deck。 The sea in the offing was black and
rolling； thunder…clouds lay low on the horizon； split by broad
flashes of lightning。 In the glare of the lightning； heaving and
pitching； appeared the misty form of the Phantom Ship approaching
the shore。 In this work； badly as it was painted； there were
really signs of a powerful imagination； and even of a poetical
feeling for the supernatural。 The next picture showed the Phantom
Ship； moored （to the horror and astonishment of the helmsman）
behind the earthly vessel in the harbor。 The Jew had stepped on
shore。 His boat was on the beach。 His crewlittle men with
stony； white faces； dressed in funeral blacksat in silent rows
on the seats of the boat； with their oars in their lean； long
hands。 The Jew； also a black； stood with his eyes and hands
raised imploringly to the thunderous heaven。 The wild creatures
of land and seathe tiger； the rhinoceros； the crocodile； the
sea…serpent； the shark； and the devil…fishsurrounded the
accursed Wanderer in a mystic circle； daunted and fascinated at
the sight of him。 The lightning was gone。 The sky and sea had
darkened to a great black blank。 A faint and lurid light lighted
the scene； falling downward from a torch； brandished by an
avenging Spirit that hovered over the Jew on outspread vulture
wings。 Wild as the picture might be in its conception； there was
a suggestive power in it which I confess strongly impressed me。
The mysterious silence in the house； and my strange position at
the moment； no doubt had their effect on my mind。 While I was
still looking at the ghastly composition before me； the shrill
trilling sound of the whistle upstairs burst on the stillness。
For the moment my nerves were so completely upset that I started
with a cry of alarm。 I felt a momentary impulse to open the door
and run out。 The idea of trusting myself alone with the man who
had painted those frightful pictures actually terrified me； I was
obliged to sit down on one of the hall chairs。 Some minutes
passed before my mind recovered its balance； and I began to feel
like my own ordinary self again。 The whistle sounded impatiently
for the second time。 I rose and ascended the broad flight of
stairs which led to the first story。 To draw back at the point
which I had now reached would have utterly degraded me in my own
estimation。 Still； my heart did certainly beat faster than usual
as I approached the door of the circular anteroom； and I honestly
acknowledge that I saw my own imprudence； just then； in a
singularly vivid light。
There was a glass over the mantel…piece in the anteroom。 I
lingered for a moment （nervous as I was） to see how I looked in
the glass。
The hanging tapestry over the inner door had been left partially
drawn aside。 Softly as I moved； the dog's ears of Miserrimus
Dexter caught the sound of my dress on the floor。 The fine tenor
voice； which I had last heard singing； called to me softly。
〃Is that Mrs。 Valeria？ Please don't wait there。 Come in！〃
I entered the inner room。
The wheeled chair advanced to meet me； so slowly and so softly
that I hardly knew it again。 Miserrimus Dexter languidly held out
his hand。 His head inclined pensively to one side； his large blue
eyes looked at me piteously。 Not a vestige seemed to be left of
the raging； shouting creature of my first visit； who was Napoleon
at one moment； and Shakespeare at another。 Mr。 Dexter of the
morning was a mild； thoughtful； melancholy man； who only recalled
Mr。 Dexter of the night by the inveterate oddity of his dress。
His jacket； on this occasion； was of pink q