WEBVTT
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Chapter thirty one of The Beetle. This is a LibriVox recording.
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All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more
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00:00:09.480 --> 00:00:15.119
information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. Recording
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by Ruth Golding. The Beetle by Richard Marsh chapter thirty one,
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The Terror by Day. My first impulse after Sidney's disappearance
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was to laugh. Why should he display anxiety on my behalf?
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Merely because I was to be the sole occupant of
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an otherwise empty house for a few minutes more or less,
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and in broad daylight too, to say the least, the
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anxiety seemed unwarranted. I lingered at the gate for a
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moment or two, wondering what was at the bottom of
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mister Holt's singular proceedings, and what Sydney really proposed to
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gain by acting as a spy upon his wandering. Then
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I turned to re enter the house. As I did so,
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another problem suggested itself to my mind. What connection of
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the slightest importance could a man in poor Lessingham's position
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have with the eccentric being who had established himself in
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such an unsatisfactory dwelling place. Mister Holt's story I had
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only dimly understood. It struck me that it would require
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a deal of understanding. It was more like a farrago
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of nonsense, an outcome of delirium, than a plain statement
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of solid facts to tell the truth. Sydney had taken
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it more seriously than I expected. He seemed to see
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something in it which I emphatically did not. What was
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double dutch to me seemed clear as print to him,
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so far as I could judge, he actually had the
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presumption to imagine that Paul, my Paul, Paul Lessingham, the
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Great Paul Lessingham, was mixed up in the very mysterious
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adventures of poor, weak minded, hysterical mister Holt, in a
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manner which was hardly to his credit. Of course, any
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idea of the kind was purely and simply balderdash. Exactly
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what B. Sydney had got in his bonnet I could
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not guess, but I did know. Paul only let me
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find myself face to face with the fantastic author of
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mister Holt's weird tribulations, and I, a woman, single handed,
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would do my best to show him that whoever played
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pranks with Paul Lessingham trifled with edged tools. I had
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returned to that historical front room, which, according to mister Holt,
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had been the scene of him most disastrous burglarious entry.
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Whoever had furnished it had had original notions of the
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resources of modern upholstery. There was not a table in
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the place, no chair or couch, nothing to sit down
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upon except the bed. On the floor. There was a
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marvelous carpet which was apparently of Eastern manufacture. It was
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so thick and so pliant to the tread that moving
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over it was like walking on thousand year old turf.
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It was woven in gorgeous colors and covered with When
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I discovered what it actually was covered with, I was
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conscious of a disagreeable sense of surprise. It was covered
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with beetles all over it, with only a few inches
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of space between each were representations of some peculiar kind
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of beetle. It was the same beetle, over and over
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and over. The artist had woven his undesirable subject into
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the warp and woof of the material with such cunning
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skill that, as one continued to gaze, one began to
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wonder if, by any possibility the creatures could be alive
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in spite of the softness of the texture, and the
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art of a kind which had been displayed in the workmanship.
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I rapidly arrived at the conclusion that it was the
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most uncomfortable carpet I had ever seen. I wagged my
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finger at the repeated portrayals of the to me unspeakable insect.
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If I had discovered that you were there before Sidney went,
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I think it just possible that I should have hesitated
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before I let him go. Then there came a revulsion
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of feeling. I shook myself. You ought to be ashamed
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of yourself, Marjorie Lindon to even think such nonsense. Are
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you all nerves and morbid imaginings? You who have prided
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yourself on being so strong minded a pretty sort? You
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are to do battle for any one? Why they're only
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make believes? Half? Involuntarily, I drew my foot over one
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of the creatures. Of course, it was nothing but imagination,
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but I seemed to feel it squelch beneath my shoe.
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It was disgusting. Come, I cried, this won't do as
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Sydney would praise it. Am I going to make an
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idiot of myself? I turned to the window, looking at
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my watch, it's more than five minutes ago since Sydney went.
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That companion of mine ought to be already on the way.
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I'll go and see if he is coming. I went
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to the gate. Was not a soul in sight. It
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was with such a distinct sense of disappointment that I
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perceived this was so that I was in two minds
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what to do to remain where I was looking with
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gaping eyes for the policeman or the cabman, or whoever
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it was Sydney was despatching To act as my temporary
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associate was tantamount to acknowledging myself as simpleton, while I
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was conscious of the most unmistakable reluctance to return within
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the house. Common sense, or what I took for common sense, however, triumphed,
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and after loitering for another five minutes, I did go
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in again, this time ignoring to the best of my
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ability the beetles on the floor. I proceeded to expend
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my curiosity and occupy my thoughts in an examination of
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the bed. It only needed a very cursory examination, however,
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to show that the seeming bed was in reality none
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at all, or if it was a bed after the
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manner of the Easterns. It certainly was not after the
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fashion of the Britons. There was no framework, nothing to
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represent the bedstead. It was simply a heap of rugs,
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piled apparently indiscriminately upon the floor. A huge mass of
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them there seemed to be, of all sorts and shapes,
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and sizes and materials too. The top one was of
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white silk in quality exquisite. It was of huge size,
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yet with a little compression one might almost have passed
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it through the proverbial wedding ring. So far as space admitted,
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I spread it out in front of me. In the
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middle was a picture. Whether it was embroidered on the
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substance or woven in it, I could not quite make out,
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nor at first could I gather what it was the
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artist had intended to depict. There was a brilliancy about
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it which was rather dazzling. By degrees, I realized that
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the lurid hues were meant for flames, and when one
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had got so far one perceived that they were by
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no means badly imitated either. Then the meaning of the
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thing dawned on me. It was a representation of a
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human sacrifice in its way as ghastly a piece of realism,
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as one could see. On the right was the majestic
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seated figure of a goddess. Her hands were crossed upon
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her knees, and she was naked from her waist upwards.
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I fancied it was meant for isis. On her brow
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was perched a gaily apparelled beetle, that ubiquitous beetle for
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a bright spot of color against her coppery skin. It
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was an exact reproduction of the creatures which were imaged
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on the carpet. In front of the idol was an
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enormous fiery furnace. In the very heart of the flames
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was an altar. On the altar was a naked white
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woman being burned alive. There could be no doubt as
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to her being alive, for she was secured by chains
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in such a fashion that she was permitted a certain
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amount of freedom, of which she was availing herself to
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contort and twist her body into shapes which were horribly
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suggestive of the agony which she was enduring. The artist
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indeed seemed to have exhausted his powers in his efforts
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to convey a vivid impression of the pains which were
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tormenting her A pretty picture on my word, a pleasant
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taste in art. The garnitures of this establishment suggest the
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person who likes to live with this kind of thing,
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especially as a covering to his bed, must have his
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own notions as to what constitute agreeable surroundings. As I
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continued staring at the thing, all at once, it seemed
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as if the woman on the altar moved. It was preposterous,
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but she appeared to gather her limbs together and turn
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half over. What can be the matter with me? Am?
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I going mad? She can't be moving. If she wasn't,
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then certainly something was. She was lifted right into the air.
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An idea occurred to me. I snatched the rugger side.
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The mystery was explained. The thin, yellow, wrinkled hand was
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protruding from amidst the heap of rugs. It was its
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action which had caused the seeming movement of the figure
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on the altar. I stared confound it. The hand was
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followed by an arm, the arm by a shoulder, The
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shoulder pio, a head, and the most awful, hideous, wicked
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looking face I had ever pictured, even in my most
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dreadful dreams. A pair of baleful eyes were glaring up
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at mine. I understood the position in a flash of
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startled amazement. Sydney in following mister Holt had started on
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a wild goose chaise. After all, I was alone with
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the occupant of that myster house, the chief actor in
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mister Holt's astounding tale. He had been hidden in the
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heap of rugs all the while. End of Chapter thirty
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one and end of Book three. Recording by Ruth Golding
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Chapter thirty one of The Beetle. This is a LibriVox recording.
2
00:00:05.759 --> 00:00:09.439
All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more
3
00:00:09.480 --> 00:00:15.119
information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. Recording
4
00:00:15.359 --> 00:00:21.239
by Ruth Golding. The Beetle by Richard Marsh chapter thirty one,
5
00:00:21.640 --> 00:00:28.199
The Terror by Day. My first impulse after Sidney's disappearance
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was to laugh. Why should he display anxiety on my behalf?
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Merely because I was to be the sole occupant of
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an otherwise empty house for a few minutes more or less,
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and in broad daylight too, to say the least, the
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anxiety seemed unwarranted. I lingered at the gate for a
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moment or two, wondering what was at the bottom of
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mister Holt's singular proceedings, and what Sydney really proposed to
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gain by acting as a spy upon his wandering. Then
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I turned to re enter the house. As I did so,
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another problem suggested itself to my mind. What connection of
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the slightest importance could a man in poor Lessingham's position
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have with the eccentric being who had established himself in
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such an unsatisfactory dwelling place. Mister Holt's story I had
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only dimly understood. It struck me that it would require
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a deal of understanding. It was more like a farrago
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of nonsense, an outcome of delirium, than a plain statement
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of solid facts to tell the truth. Sydney had taken
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it more seriously than I expected. He seemed to see
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something in it which I emphatically did not. What was
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double dutch to me seemed clear as print to him,
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so far as I could judge, he actually had the
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presumption to imagine that Paul, my Paul, Paul Lessingham, the
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Great Paul Lessingham, was mixed up in the very mysterious
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adventures of poor, weak minded, hysterical mister Holt, in a
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manner which was hardly to his credit. Of course, any
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idea of the kind was purely and simply balderdash. Exactly
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what B. Sydney had got in his bonnet I could
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not guess, but I did know. Paul only let me
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find myself face to face with the fantastic author of
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mister Holt's weird tribulations, and I, a woman, single handed,
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would do my best to show him that whoever played
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pranks with Paul Lessingham trifled with edged tools. I had
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returned to that historical front room, which, according to mister Holt,
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had been the scene of him most disastrous burglarious entry.
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Whoever had furnished it had had original notions of the
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resources of modern upholstery. There was not a table in
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the place, no chair or couch, nothing to sit down
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upon except the bed. On the floor. There was a
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marvelous carpet which was apparently of Eastern manufacture. It was
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so thick and so pliant to the tread that moving
46
00:03:30.159 --> 00:03:33.560
over it was like walking on thousand year old turf.
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It was woven in gorgeous colors and covered with When
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I discovered what it actually was covered with, I was
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conscious of a disagreeable sense of surprise. It was covered
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with beetles all over it, with only a few inches
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of space between each were representations of some peculiar kind
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of beetle. It was the same beetle, over and over
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and over. The artist had woven his undesirable subject into
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the warp and woof of the material with such cunning
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skill that, as one continued to gaze, one began to
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wonder if, by any possibility the creatures could be alive
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in spite of the softness of the texture, and the
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art of a kind which had been displayed in the workmanship.
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I rapidly arrived at the conclusion that it was the
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most uncomfortable carpet I had ever seen. I wagged my
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finger at the repeated portrayals of the to me unspeakable insect.
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If I had discovered that you were there before Sidney went,
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I think it just possible that I should have hesitated
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before I let him go. Then there came a revulsion
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of feeling. I shook myself. You ought to be ashamed
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of yourself, Marjorie Lindon to even think such nonsense. Are
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you all nerves and morbid imaginings? You who have prided
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yourself on being so strong minded a pretty sort? You
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are to do battle for any one? Why they're only
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make believes? Half? Involuntarily, I drew my foot over one
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of the creatures. Of course, it was nothing but imagination,
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but I seemed to feel it squelch beneath my shoe.
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It was disgusting. Come, I cried, this won't do as
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Sydney would praise it. Am I going to make an
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idiot of myself? I turned to the window, looking at
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my watch, it's more than five minutes ago since Sydney went.
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That companion of mine ought to be already on the way.
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I'll go and see if he is coming. I went
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to the gate. Was not a soul in sight. It
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was with such a distinct sense of disappointment that I
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perceived this was so that I was in two minds
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what to do to remain where I was looking with
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gaping eyes for the policeman or the cabman, or whoever
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it was Sydney was despatching To act as my temporary
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associate was tantamount to acknowledging myself as simpleton, while I
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was conscious of the most unmistakable reluctance to return within
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the house. Common sense, or what I took for common sense, however, triumphed,
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and after loitering for another five minutes, I did go
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in again, this time ignoring to the best of my
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ability the beetles on the floor. I proceeded to expend
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my curiosity and occupy my thoughts in an examination of
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the bed. It only needed a very cursory examination, however,
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to show that the seeming bed was in reality none
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at all, or if it was a bed after the
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manner of the Easterns. It certainly was not after the
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fashion of the Britons. There was no framework, nothing to
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represent the bedstead. It was simply a heap of rugs,
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piled apparently indiscriminately upon the floor. A huge mass of
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them there seemed to be, of all sorts and shapes,
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and sizes and materials too. The top one was of
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white silk in quality exquisite. It was of huge size,
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yet with a little compression one might almost have passed
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it through the proverbial wedding ring. So far as space admitted,
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I spread it out in front of me. In the
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middle was a picture. Whether it was embroidered on the
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substance or woven in it, I could not quite make out,
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nor at first could I gather what it was the
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artist had intended to depict. There was a brilliancy about
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it which was rather dazzling. By degrees, I realized that
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the lurid hues were meant for flames, and when one
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had got so far one perceived that they were by
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no means badly imitated either. Then the meaning of the
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thing dawned on me. It was a representation of a
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human sacrifice in its way as ghastly a piece of realism,
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as one could see. On the right was the majestic
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seated figure of a goddess. Her hands were crossed upon
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her knees, and she was naked from her waist upwards.
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I fancied it was meant for isis. On her brow
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was perched a gaily apparelled beetle, that ubiquitous beetle for
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a bright spot of color against her coppery skin. It
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was an exact reproduction of the creatures which were imaged
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on the carpet. In front of the idol was an
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enormous fiery furnace. In the very heart of the flames
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was an altar. On the altar was a naked white
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woman being burned alive. There could be no doubt as
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to her being alive, for she was secured by chains
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in such a fashion that she was permitted a certain
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amount of freedom, of which she was availing herself to
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contort and twist her body into shapes which were horribly
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suggestive of the agony which she was enduring. The artist
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indeed seemed to have exhausted his powers in his efforts
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to convey a vivid impression of the pains which were
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tormenting her A pretty picture on my word, a pleasant
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taste in art. The garnitures of this establishment suggest the
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person who likes to live with this kind of thing,
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especially as a covering to his bed, must have his
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own notions as to what constitute agreeable surroundings. As I
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continued staring at the thing, all at once, it seemed
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as if the woman on the altar moved. It was preposterous,
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but she appeared to gather her limbs together and turn
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half over. What can be the matter with me? Am?
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I going mad? She can't be moving. If she wasn't,
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then certainly something was. She was lifted right into the air.
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An idea occurred to me. I snatched the rugger side.
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The mystery was explained. The thin, yellow, wrinkled hand was
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protruding from amidst the heap of rugs. It was its
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action which had caused the seeming movement of the figure
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on the altar. I stared confound it. The hand was
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followed by an arm, the arm by a shoulder, The
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shoulder pio, a head, and the most awful, hideous, wicked
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looking face I had ever pictured, even in my most
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dreadful dreams. A pair of baleful eyes were glaring up
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at mine. I understood the position in a flash of
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startled amazement. Sydney in following mister Holt had started on
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a wild goose chaise. After all, I was alone with
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the occupant of that myster house, the chief actor in
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mister Holt's astounding tale. He had been hidden in the
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heap of rugs all the while. End of Chapter thirty
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one and end of Book three. Recording by Ruth Golding
