The Madman's Room

‘Maybe it’s too late to continue? I imagine after such a busy day, you’d rather retire.’

‘Harris!’ protested his wife, ‘don’t play your little games with me! You’ve started your story, now you have to finish it. Mother and father aren’t tired.’

‘Even if we were,’ replied Howard Hilton, ‘we wouldn’t be able to sleep without hearing the end… Would we, Dorothy?’

Mrs. Hilton replied with an amiable wink. Only her husband knew that her silence was indicative of disapproval.

‘That was the question the members of his family were asking themselves,’ continued Harris, stroking his ginger beard. ‘And then the day arrived when he presented them with a thick manuscript, the fruit of more than two years’ work.’ He looked regretful. ‘You might as well know right away that the manuscript, to my knowledge, doesn’t exist anymore and we don’t really know what was in it. What we do know, however, is that his father was the first to read it and, when he’d finished it, an extraordinary change came over him. He refused all food and quickly lost all his strength. A few days later he became very ill and died. Our grandfather Stephen and his brother Thomas took turns to read it and remained in a state of shock for a while. I hasten to add they didn’t suffer their father’s fate. The manuscript was returned to its author with strict instructions never to take it out of the room again. The only information we have about the contents were imparted to us by our mother, who got it from her husband, who had been told in confidence by our grandfather Stephen. Apparently it’s something unbearably atrocious, a slow and inexorable descent into madness which seizes hold of the reader and drags him into a state of unspeakable nausea. It’s an account of unparalleled evocative power: evil, not to say diabolic. As for the theme, it’s about reflections on life, its origins… and its future. I can’t tell you any more,’ he added, after a slight hesitation.

‘But you do know more, darling,’ interceded Sarah. ‘I can tell!’

Harris glanced thoughtfully at his wife, then looked down.

‘Well, yes. But I don’t know whether one should place too much confidence on a testimony passed along by three people, one after another. It seems that the principal character in the book is none other than Harvey’s own father, the time and manner of whose death were predicted precisely.’

A ripple ran through the audience. Harris coughed and continued:

‘The attitude of his family hurt Harvey profoundly. He treated them as ignorant and illiterate: how could they ignore and despise a genius like himself? His father’s death? It had been written, he could do nothing about it. He shut himself up for good in his room and wrote many other books. The years went by. Stephen and Thomas did everything possible to conceal the existence of someone they considered to be unbalanced and who brought dishonour to the family name. Here, I need to mention that Thomas had been decorated by the queen for services to the crown and any hint of scandal would ruin his career. Their brother was mad, so be it, but as long as nobody else knew, there was no reason to be alarmed. The bombshell exploded when a London publisher sought them out to talk to them about manuscripts which their brother Harvey had submitted for publication. Needless to say, there was no question of him printing them, but he wished to draw their attention to the fact they had been written by someone who was clearly mad, which could turn out to be dangerous if they were indeed published, given that they had been sent to several other publishers as well. Thomas and our grandfather took all the necessary precautions: enquiring of other editors and increased surveillance of their brother. After a while, the panic died down and became nothing more than an unfortunate memory.

‘A few more words before I finish. It was rare for anyone to go into Harvey’s study — he slept and worked there — but if they did cross the threshold, they were immediately seized by a curious and indefinable sense of unease, as if the premises were really and truly unhealthy. Another curious fact: Harvey stocked up with large quantities of water every day. He filled two or three bottles which he took back to his room and one might assume it was purely to quench his thirst. Except that, every time anyone entered his room, whether he was there or not, there at the centre of the table was a sort of large glass full to the brim with water!’

‘Hardly surprising,’ observed Sarah, ‘if he liked to drink so much.’

‘I don’t know,’ retorted Mr. Hilton, tongue in cheek. ‘Why would a heavy drinker of any kind leave behind a full glass?’

‘Of course not,’ said Francis with a shrug of the shoulders aimed at Sarah. ‘But I assume that detail is important somehow?’