this strange record of it—demanded an explanation, and I was more determined than ever to discover what it was.
R. Y.
Gainesville, FL
April 2011
Fig. 37
It is no longer possible to escape men.
Farewell to the monsters,
Farewell to the saints.
Farewell to pride.
All that is left is men.
—Jean-Paul Sartre
After several years of service to the monstrumologist, I approached him with the idea of recording, in the interest of posterity, one or two of his more memorable case studies. I waited, of course, until he was in one of his better moods. Approaching Pellinore Warthrop while he wallowed in one of his frequent bouts of melancholia could be hazardous to one’s physical well-being. Once, when I made that ill-advised approach, he hurled a volume of Shakespeare’s tragedies at my head.
The moment presented itself at the delivery of the day’s mail, which included a letter from President McKinley, thanking Warthrop for his service to the country upon the satisfactory conclusion of “that peculiar incident in the Adirondacks.” The doctor, whose ego was as robust as any of Mr. P. T. Barnum’s sideshow strong men, read it aloud three times before entrusting it to my care. I was his file clerk, among other things—or, I should say, as well as
Beyond elevating his moribund spirits and thus ensuring—momentarily, at least—my physical safety, the letter also provided the perfect entree for my suggestion.
“It
“Hmmm? Yes, I suppose.” The monstrumologist was absorbed in the latest issue of the
“It would make quite a tale, if someone were to tell it,” I ventured.
“I have been thinking of preparing a small piece for the
“I was thinking of something for more widespread consumption. A story for the
“An interesting idea, Will Henry,” he said. “But wholly impractical. I made a promise to the president that the matter would remain strictly confidential, and I’ve no doubt that, if I should break my vow, I might find myself locked up in Fort Leavenworth, not exactly the ideal place to pursue my studies.”
“But if you published something in the
“Oh, who reads
“Some might say your actions were nothing short of heroic,” I countered. If I could not appeal to his reason, I would plead to his ego.
“Some
But not
“Very well. Another case, then. That matter in Campeche, at Calakmul…”
“What is this, Will Henry?” He glared at me over the magazine. “Can’t you see I am trying to relax?”
“Holmes has his Watson.”
“Holmes is a fictional character,” he pointed out.
“But he is based on someone real.”
“Ah.” He was smiling slyly at me. “William James Henry, do you have literary ambitions? I am astounded.”
“That I might have literary ambitions?”
“That you have any ambition at all.”