For the Dream-Master had set up His own picture, and full-length and in the most gorgeous colors, in his window. Choking and spluttering, I saluted it, and then, still filled with laughter, I crossed the street once more and went inside, where I knew I would find Him. A man awaited me there—not the one I sought, but one who understood Whom it was I had come for, and knew as well as I that His capture was beyond any thief taker’s power. I knelt, and there, though not to the satisfaction I suppose of Baron H——, Fräulein A——, Herr R——, and the Count and Countess von V——, I destroyed the Dream-Master as He has been sacrificed so often, devouring His white, wheaten flesh that we might all possess life without end.
Dear people, dream on.
G. K. Chesterton wrote that ordinary life “is like ten thousand thrilling detective stories mixed up with a spoon.” If we look at it that way—which is rather fun—we can quickly come up with ten thousand stories.
Some of which will show that the criminal cannot be apprehended. And some of which will show, like this one, that the criminal should not be.
I will not lecture you on Jesus of Nazareth, but I advise you to find Chesterton’s The Everlasting Man. In this story I asked you to consider that everlasting man’s short fiction. Fans have written me to say that this or that story stayed with them for days. Each letter makes me proud and happy. In my happiness and pride, I am prone to forget that there was once a storyteller from Galilee whose stories have stayed with us for millennia.
Kevin Malone
Marcella and I were married in April. I lost my position with Ketterly, Bruce & Drake in June, and by August we were desperate. We kept the apartment—I think we both felt that if we lowered our standards there would be no chance to raise them again—but the rent tore at our small savings. All during July I had tried to get a job at another brokerage firm, and by August I was calling fraternity brothers I had not seen since graduation and expressing an entire willingness to work in whatever businesses their fathers owned. One of them, I think, must have mailed us the advertisement.
Attractive young couple, well educated and well connected, will receive free housing, generous living allowance, for minimal services.
There was a telephone number, which I omit for reasons that will become clear.
I showed the clipping to Marcella, who was lying with her cocktail shaker on the chaise longue. She said, “Why not,” and I dialed the number.
The telephone buzzed in my ear, paused, and buzzed again. I allowed myself to go limp in my chair. It seemed absurd to call at all; for the advertisement to have reached us that day, it must have appeared no later than yesterday morning. If the position was worth having—
“The Pines.”
I pulled myself together. “You placed a classified ad. For an attractive couple, well educated and the rest of it.”
“I did not, sir. However, I believe my master did. I am Priest, the butler.”
I looked at Marcella, but her eyes were closed. “Do you know, Priest, if the opening has been filled?”
“I think not, sir. May I ask your age?”
I told him. At his request, I also told him Marcella’s (she was two years younger than I) and gave him the names of the schools we had attended, described our appearance, and mentioned that my grandfather had been a governor of Virginia and that Marcella’s uncle had been ambassador to France. I did not tell him that my father had shot himself rather than face bankruptcy, or that Marcella’s family had disowned her—but I suspect he guessed well enough what our situation was.
“You will forgive me, sir, for asking so many questions. We are almost a half day’s drive, and I would not wish you to be disappointed.”
I told him that I appreciated that, and we set a date—Tuesday of the next week—on which Marcella and I were to come out for an interview with “the master.” Priest had hung up before I realized that I had failed to learn his employer’s name.
During the teens and twenties some very wealthy people had designed estates in imitation of the palaces of the Italian Renaissance. The Pines was one of them, and better preserved than most—the fountain in the courtyard still played, the marbles were clean and unyellowed, and if no red-robed cardinal descended the steps to a carriage blazoned with the Borgia arms, one felt that he had only just gone. No doubt the place had originally been called La Capanna or Il Eremo.
A serious-looking man in dark livery opened the door for us. For a moment he stared at us across the threshold. “Very well . . . ,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said that you are looking very well.” He nodded to each of us in turn, and stood aside. “Sir. Madame. I am Priest.”
“Will your master be able to see us?”
For a moment some exiled expression—it might have been amusement—seemed to tug at his solemn face. “The music room, perhaps, sir?”
I said I was sure that would be satisfactory, and followed him. The music room held a Steinway, a harp, and a dozen or so comfortable chairs; it overlooked a rose garden in which old remontant varieties were beginning that second season that is more opulent though less generous than the first. A kneeling gardener was weeding one of the beds.
“This is a wonderful house,” Marcella said. “I really didn’t think there was anything like it left. I told him you’d have a john collins—all right? You were looking at the roses.”
“Perhaps we ought to get the job first.”
“I can’t call him back now, and if we don’t get it, at least we’ll have had the drinks.”
I nodded to that. In five minutes they arrived, and we drank them and smoked cigarettes we found in a humidor—English cigarettes of strong Turkish tobacco. A maid came, and said that Mr. Priest would be much obliged if we would let him know when we would dine. I told her that we would eat whenever it was convenient, and she dropped a little curtsy and withdrew.
“At least,” Marcella commented, “he’s making us comfortable while we wait.”
Dinner was lamb in aspic, and a salad, with a maid—another maid—and a footman to serve while Priest stood by to see that it was done properly. We ate at either side of a small table on a terrace overlooking another garden, where antique statues faded to white glimmerings as the sun set.
Priest came forward to light the candles. “Will you require me after dinner, sir?”
“Will your employer require us; that’s the question.”
“Bateman can show you to your room, sir, when you are ready to retire. Julia will see to Madame.”
I looked at the footman, who was carrying in fruit on a tray.
“No, sir. That is Carter. Bateman is your man.”
“And Julia,” Marcella put in, “is my maid, I suppose?”
“Precisely.” Priest gave an almost inaudible cough. “Perhaps, sir—and madame—you might find this useful.” He drew a photograph from an inner pocket and handed it to me.
It was a black-and-white snapshot, somewhat dog-eared. Two dozen people, most of them in livery of one kind or another, stood in brilliant sunshine on the steps at the front of the house, men behind women. There were names in India ink across the bottom of the picture: James Sutton, Edna DeBuck, Lloyd Bateman . . .
“Our staff, sir.”
I said, “Thank you, Priest. No, you needn’t stay tonight.”
The next morning Bateman shaved me in bed. He did it very well, using a straight razor and scented soap applied with a brush. I had heard of such things—I think my grandfather’s valet may have shaved him like that before the First World War—but I had never guessed that anyone kept up the tradition. Bateman did, and I found I enjoyed it. When he had dressed me, he asked if I would breakfast in my room.