Hollow House, part 1

Or, the Lure of Pornography; & sundry Comments relating.

"Do you think I meant country matters?"
Shakespeare, Hamlet, III.2

A little Scum of dirty snow; a blasting, whorish wind. Only the slow erection of the Sun cou'd remind us, that soon enough He will stand upright and the leaves bustle again in the trees.

In this season when Persephone carts from her wormy home, Love most frequent visits the Bainton estate. Altho' servants will never exhaust their internecine intrigues, and the burghers and townsmen have fill'd my Ears to the brimming with tales of wintry Scandal, SPRING gives a new tenor & Complexion to the general Flux of emotion. The longer day will rejuvenate the trees; the increased heat will clot the skies with clouds; the grey, ice salt dust will disappear, and the streams fill again, beneath the burst of rain-storms.

But often enough the rain makes for a swampy mire, too. Yest., around four o' the clock, I had ensconc'd myself in the Publick House, attending to correspondence, doodling my tepid imitations of Lucian onto spare pages, et other such nonsense. In the midst of such dawdling repast, I saw enter thro' the door a grievous Couple, the Teuffeldrecks.

Herr T., more commonly Manfred, has been an invaluable Conduit between my fields & the bartering Lines of Norfolk. He keeps a pretty accounting House, uptown of myself, where the rooms are filled with Ledgers, thick & heavy as slabs of granite. His fasitidious habits extend to his quills, which he arranges in various orders (length of feather, thickness of point, speckle of feather, etc.), and sharpens their points every night before returning to his Rooms, back of his business.

There waits for him, Olga. She & I have manag'd a most remarkable peace these past months, & I fully intend to maintain the amity. Thus shall I present my tale without adornment, or comment:

The family T. sat at my Table, Manfred draped at Olga's elbow, despite having a good eight inches above her.

"Well, Epaph," she said, "I see you are busy as ever." She waved her knobby fingers that so emetically remind one of pigs' feet.

"Aye, I have much in the way of corrections to be made here. I apologize that I cannot better amuse refined palates such as yrs." Here, Manfred winced. I am sorry for that now.

"T'would take no refin'd palate for this fare, Epaph. Merely a sturdy Stomach, for when you start spouting your bile." Her lips, rippled like the curdlings of Cheese, jiggl'd in triumph. I had no appettite for this pinioning.

"Ah, ah - Tell me, Epaph, sir - Ah, do you find your Goodman Stubb well?" Manfred pluck'd at his snuffy nose with a stiff cloth. "I haven't chance to speak to him on the Market Days, but I repine most for his company, in this winter." Olga cast a rheumy eye on this comment, blinking with bovine scorn.

"Stubb keeps himself well. It is not Stubb that occupies my thoughts before sleep; 'tis his loutish cousin, Lester Jacob. I have hired him out for these next two years, & his sole industry has been corrupting the ears of my maids. Always & ever I stumble on him, hand buried in a petticoat, himself grumbling lascivious at an innocent ear."

"Oh I'm sure they are not so innocent as you say. Certainly you wou'd have taught them to know something of the world."

The thousand injuries of this beefy matron I could bear no longer. "Aye, worldly enough are they. But I only wish he would not spend himself on such pregnable women - I have trouble enough without children. I do wonder why he speaks of those pornographies so much."

I had said this in passing, but the report from her lips was as if I had skinn'd her back with my Buck-knife. "Why, indecent writings! Speaking of such a thing! We must needs send him away - for Physic!"

UNTO THIS LAST

Being, a Narrative in three Parts; a secret & true Historie of former Employ; a Parable of Christian Import; & a Tale of an abandoned Life:

In Which a Guest Offers an Alternate Viewpoint on a Particular Experience Shared With Our Benefactor

By Captain Karl Gaartenbach

Our esteemed Sir Epaphroditus Bainton is, at heart, a man of some modesties, and he has relayed to me that the following tale is one he does not wish to personally share as he feels it paints him in an unnecessarily boastful light. This is a falsehood, as the tale in question is one of coarseness and Horrors, leading me to believe that the true purpose of his mysterious reticence is all the more obscure, perhaps motivated by a desire to see his own terrifying actions from the viewpoint of a third party, like a man gazing at his own slack bed-bound corpse from above as his soul rises to the Great Reward. Whatever the circumstance, I hope to provide an alternate perspective on our benefactor, a perspective made all the more jarring by its grim veracity.

Though I am now a Man of the Seas, I once busied myself in the occupation of Entertainments, serving as the ringmaster for a Carnevale of some note. It was through this profession that I became re-acquainted with E. Bainton, a former rival turned friend and compatriot. I could see within Bainton's eyes the distinctive glitter of intelligence, and upon finding that he yearned for employment (his previous career as a Chirurgeon had been rendered obsolete by Progress, though I can attest to his skills in the field of Humours), I quickly set upon finding a suitable task which he might relieve me of. As every Circus must need its corresponding Bread, I decided to offer E. Bainton a career selling Fried and Sugared Doughs at the Carnevale Concessions. Though the work was beneath a man of his standing, he took to it as a Chinaman takes to the Rail, and as I watched the parade of merry Fatmen leaving his sugar-crusted register with thick smiles upon their greasy faces, I realized Bainton was the man I had sought to replace me, as I had grown weary of consorting with the Clownes and standing deep in the dung of the Elephaunts and Jungled Cats. I asked my Employer, the owner of the Carnevale, if she had objection to Bainton replacing myself as Ringmaster. She said she had no reservations regarding my plan.

At this point you are no doubt staggered by my use of the feminine pronoun. Yes, friends, I was in the Employ of a Woman. It remains unclear how she came to own the Carnevale, yet I believe it was bequeathed to her by wealthy aged relatives whose minds were too syphilis-blown to realize the error of their ways. While the “fairer” sex is generally known to be weak of mind and will, this particular example was a craven and venal simpleton, a platonic ideal of cronyism and incompetence. To refer to her as a “pin-head” would be an insult to the microencephalitics who would joyously caper in our center ring. She shall henceforth be referred to as “The Humbug.”

With The Humbug's blessing, I began to train Bainton in the art of Ringmastering, showing him how to utilize Confidence in order to part a man from his purse as surely and righteously as Moses parted the Red Sea. To the surprise of none, he took to the trade quickly, and I had utter faith in his ability to continue the operation of the Carnevale once I had returned to the North Pacific to hunt Steller's Sea-Cow. All seemed well at the Carnevale, until, that is, it came time for Bainton to receive his first pay-cheque, totaled and signed by The Dread Humbug herself. He came before me in confusion, for The Humbug had made him to understand that his added work was in vain, as he would not be taking over the Carnevale as Ringmaster, and to make matters worse, his pay-cheque came out to seven Spanish doubloons less than was previously understood. Bainton was paid less than even the Slop-Man, as though The Humbug wished to not only insult but emasculate him.

Over many Ham-Burgs, which were the food style at this time, we conspired to confront The Humbug regarding her poor treatment of Bainton, who, with each passing moment, seemed to become increasingly enraged at his foul lot. His rage was directed not at the pittance he was paid, as he believes money to be a cipher upon which small men project merit, but rather at the Principle behind the Principal. A man of Principle, as we all know, is a man only a fool would double-cross.

We confronted The Humbug in her office quarters and were surprised to find her with her two small children. Many would hold back their ire upon finding mother and child together, being reminded perhaps of the Pieta, but Bainton's rage was immune to all sentiment. While never raising his voice nor employing a cussed-word, he unleashed a barrage of vitriol upon The Humbug, accusing her of Shenanigans, Japes, and darkest Skullduggery. His words cut with surgical precision, owing, no doubt, to his previous experiences in less metaphorical blood-letting. I watched as The Humbug drew her offsprings to her breast, as though frightened that Bainton would steal them away and devour them in Saturnine fashion, a fear which, I should add, seemed apropos at the time. I had already suggested to The Humbug that perhaps her young ones should retire to my cabin and listen to the phonograph, as I had recently acquired a number of amusing recordings on wax cylinder, some of which ran nearly ninety seconds in length. She demurred, her bearings thrown so far from their axes that she could no longer cogitate rationally, seemingly preferring her children watch their mother's verbal vivisection.

While I remember few specifics of Bainton's heated oration (other than a reference to The Humbug's “obfuscatory duplicity”), I remain struck by the unrelenting viciousness of the whole affair. This put me in mind of when, as a child, I watched my Uncle Durastis beat a crazed dog to death with a small shillelagh that he kept for the purpose of beating feral animals to death. I remember being conflicted at the time; I hated the dog, which had taken to biting and snapping, and I knew it had to die, yet it was difficult to watch beloved Uncle Durastis drive the shillelagh into the creature's skull, as I knew the dog was not intelligent enough to know better, nor intelligent enough to defend itself. The hound, I regret to say, was infinitely more capable of defense than The Humbug.

Bainton left The Humbug in a state of glazed hysteria. We left the Carnevale, never to return in a professional capacity, through I understand Bainton did eventually receive his Doubloons. While I was startled by his capacity for Venoms, I cannot help but admire his conviction, which did not wither in the face of pitiable circumstance. I do not know The Humbug's fate, and I regret that I see Bainton infrequently now, but whenever I am hauling a sea-cow from the oceans and witness a shark-fish tearing the organs from its pasty belly, I offer a brief knowing smile.

Captain Karl Gaartenbach

[When I was a Stripling, Col. Bainton, my esteem'd Father, took me on a Survey of his Lands. There we found a wrecked Acre of vine-trellises, dragged across the tortur'd Ground like a wild Blanket of Green & Purple. He had, in some Years passed, set up a Vineyard here, on top an old Indian Field, but Maintenance had been neglect'd. He pointed with his Cane, and sd only, "Epaph, the World runs away."

So it is with Memory, & thus Capt. Gaartenbach steps from the Shadows of that other neglect'd Vineyard, the Past. The Letter came to me by the Roads & Foot-paths of Bearskin's people, out of Carolina & up the Roanoke, to meet this wild & untest'd Shenandoah. Tho' Gaartenbach now makes his Home at Sea, where there are no Dirt Floors, & the only Naturalls are Cannibal or Finn'd, I think of that noble Corsair often, & from that Time we spent together, do my best to wipe clean the Blood.]

[Gratias Tibi ago to B. R. Williams, previous mention'd Here, for his noble Work in Locating the elusive Gaartenbach, & transcribing his peculiar Style.]

The Purloined Letter

Often has it been in History, that newes is only deliver'd surreptitiously. On the sly, the News-sneak slips in thro' the window, careful to shut silently the pane, creepingly coming down the hallway & up the Stairs, till finally it has come to its summa, its master goal, its telos - that Master-Room where we keep Pride, our Secrets, our Confidence. Those snug Bedmates are alarum'd by the Intrusion of uncouth Rumour, who wears a paint'd Mask & motley Garb to disguise his hateful visage - lest Someone recognize him in his plain, beggarly form.

So does Poe deliver the story. A poor Princess has been depriv'd of her precious Letter, by an unscrupulous Minister D_____. His villainous Machinations turn upon themselves, Wheels w.in wheels, a behemoth of Scheme - quite as monstrous as that Mechanized Daimon, so treacherously provided to the Devillish Indian.

But a certain M. Dupin unlocks the Tongue of this riddling quandry - Where did the lady's letter go? Dupin uncovers a most mysterious & Cryptic Limit of Man's Ratiocination - That one can only find what one expects to see.

Hence

"...in this world of lies, Truth is forced to fly like a scared white doe in the woodlands; and only by cunning glimpses will she reveal herself, as in Shakespeare and other masters of of the great Art of Telling the Truth, - even though it be covertly and by snatches."
-H. Melville, Hawthorne & His Mosses

So modest & skittish is Truth, quite like a jeune fille, that she flits & capes thro' the verdant boughs, hops the Streams & fluid Channels, with only a whisper of Leaves. A Struggle, then, one quite opposite to the might of Hercules, subduing Anteus. Anteus must be lift'd from the Ground, that sustaining Stability that fuels his riotous muscles, and held up to the Mischievous Air. Yet only Hercules had might enough to heave Anteus up to the Sky, & crush him, mere Feet off his nourishing Soil.

Contrariwise, we seekers after Truth chase fleet Harpies with Needle-pins, hoping to stick them in our quaint Butter-Fly-Cases. Plucking & dabbling at the ether with our greazy Fingers, most oft, we succeed only in sullying the Purity of that Fair Medium - leaving a Trail of our Missteps, a genealogy of our Immorals.

And yet, in rare Seasons, those quickly chas'd from our Eyes, a Boon descends into our Path, quite unbidden, quite unforeseen. One that slits a cold Knife thro' our Veils of illusion, that so frequent dance before our eyes in profusion. Thus is the mellifluous Moon plung'd from the Sky; thus doth high-puff'd Fame whistle, deflate, & die.


A Dialogue, betwixt Rosalind & Hypatia, in Scribbles

Hypatia - This is gonna be a long year!
Rosalind - yeah, tell me about it. He's so weird. I'm afraid he's going to be a hard grader.
H. - He probably will be but hows the next class with him?
R. - It's whatever. I'm the only one in the class now. so it's a lot of down time.
H. - What? Only you! Wa happen to the PG's
R. - They are going to a study hall with their coach now. yeah, it's a little weird.
H. - I'm sorry! I bet that sucks!

[transcrib'd with faith & accuracy. apologies.]