Doctor Nikola (Windsor Magazine, 1896)/Chapter 1

T was Saturday afternoon, about a quarter-past four o'clock if my memory serves me, and the road, known as the Maloo, leading to the Bubbling Well, that single breathing place of Shanghai, was crowded. Fashionable barouches, C-spring buggies, spider-wheel dogcarts, to say nothing of every species of 'rickshaw, bicycle, and pony, were following each other in one long procession towards the Well. All the European portion of Shanghai, and a considerable percentage of the native, had turned out to witness the finish of the paper hunt, which, though, not exciting in itself, was important as being the only amusement the settlement boasted that afternoon.

I had walked as far as the Horse Bazaar myself, and had taken a 'rickshaw thence, more from pride than because I could afford it. To tell the truth, which will pop out sooner or later, however much I may try to prevent it, I was keeping up appearances, and though I lay back in my vehicle and smoked my cheroot with a princely air, I was painfully conscious of the fact that when the ride should be paid for the exchequer would scarcely survive the shock.

Since my arrival in Shanghai I had been more than usually unfortunate. I had tried for every billet then vacant, from those choice pickings at the top of the tree among the high gods, to the secretaryship of a Eurasian hub of communistical tendencies located somewhere on the confines of the native city, but always without success. For the one I had not the necessary influence, for the other I lacked that peculiar gift of obsequiousness which is so essential to prosperity in that particular line of business.

In the meantime my expenditure was going remorselessly on, and I very soon saw that unless something happened, and that quickly too, I had every prospect of finding myself deprived of my belongings, sleeping on the Bund, and finally figuring in that Mixed Court in the Magistrate's Yamen, which is so justly dreaded by every Englishman, as the debtor of a Cochin China Jew. The position was not a cheerful one, look at it in whatever light I would, but I had experienced it a good many times before, and had always come out of it, if not with an increased amount of self-respect, certainly without any very great degree of personal embarrassment.

Arriving at the Well I paid off my coolie and took up a position near “the last jump,” which I noticed was a prepared fence and ditch of considerable awkwardness. A moment later the horses came at it with a rush; some cleared it, some refused it, while others, adopting a middle course, jumped on the top of it, blundered over, and finally sent their riders spinning over their heads into the mud at the feet of their fairest friends. It was not exactly an æsthetic picture, but it was certainly a very amusing one.

When the last horse, had landed, thinking the sport over for the day I was in the act of moving away when there was a shout to stand clear, and wheeling round again, I was just in time to see a last horseman come dashing at the fence. Though he rode with considerable determination, and was evidently bent on putting a good finish to his day's amusement, it was plain that his horse was not of the same way of thinking, for, when he was distant about half a dozen yards from the fence, he broke his stride, stuck his feet into the mud, and endeavoured to come to a standstill. The result was not at all what he expected; he slid towards the fence, received his rider's quirt, viciously administered, round his flank, made up his mind to jump too late, hit the top rail with his forehead, turned a complete somersault, and landed with a crash at my feet. His rider fell into the arms of the ditch, out of which I presently dragged him. When I got him on the bank he did not look a pretty sight, but on the other hand that did not prevent him from recognizing me.

“Wilfred Bruce, by all that's glorious!” he cried, at the same time rising to his feet and mopping his streaming face with a very muddy pocket-handkerchief. “This is a fortunate encounter, for do you know, I spent two hours this morning looking for you?”

“I am very sorry you should have had so much trouble,” I answered; “but just at present my doings are a little uncertain.”

He winked knowingly, and then turned to his horse, which had struggled to his feet and was gazing stupidly about him.

“Let me first send this clumsy brute home,” he said, “then I'll find my cart, and if you'll permit me I'll take you back to town with me.”

We saw the horse led away, and, when we had discovered his dogcart among the crowd of vehicles waiting for their owners, mounted to our seats and set off—after a few preliminary antics on the part of the leader—on our return to the settlement.

Once comfortably on our way George Barkston, whom, I might mention here, I had known for more than ten years, placed his whip in the bucket and turned to me.

“Look here, Bruce,” he said, flushing a little in anticipation of what he was about to say, “I'm not going to mince matters with you, so let us come straight to the point; we are old friends, and though we've not seen as much of each other during this visit to Shanghai as we used to do in the old days when you were deputy-commissioner of whatever it was, and I was your graceless subordinate, I think I am pretty well conversant with your present condition. I don't want you to think me impertinent, but I do want you to let me help you if I can.”

“That's very good of you,” I answered, not without a little tremor, however, as he shaved a well-built American buggy by a hair's breadth. “To tell the honest truth, I want to get something to do pretty badly. There's a serious deficit in the exchequer, my boy. And though I'm a fairly old hand at the game of poverty, I've still a sort of pride left, and I have no desire to figure in the Mixed Court next Wednesday on a charge of inability to pay my landlord twenty dollars for board and lodging.”

“Of course you don't,” said Barkston warmly; “and so, if you'll let me help you, I've an idea that I can put you on to the right track to something. The fact is, there was a chap in the smoking-room at the club the other night with whom I got into conversation. He interested me more than I can tell you, for he was one of the most curious beings I should imagine who has ever visited the East. I never saw such an odd-looking fellow in my life. Talk about eyes—well, his were—augh! Why, he looked you through and through. You know old Benwell, of the revenue-cutter Y-chang? Well, while I was talking to this fellow, after a game of pool, in he came.

“Hallo! Barkston,” he said, as he brought up alongside the table, “I thought you were shooting with Jimmy Woodrough up the river? By the way, have you seen” He had got as far as this before he became aware of my companion. Then his jaw dropped; he looked hard at him, said something under his breath, and, shaking me by the hand, made a feeble excuse, and fled the room. Not being able to make it out at all, I went after him and found him looking for his hat in the hall. “Come, I say, Benwell,” I cried; “what's up? What on earth made you bolt like that? Have I offended you?” He led me on one side, so that the servants should not hear, and having done so said confidentially: “Barkston, I am not a coward; in my time I've tackled Europeans, Zulus, Somalis, Malays, Japanese and Chinese, to say nothing of Manilla and Solomon boys, and what's more, I don't mind facing them all again; but when I find myself face to face with Dr. Nikola, I tell you I don't think twice, I bolt! Take my tip and do the same.” As he might just as well have talked to me in low Dutch for all I should have understood, I tried to question him, but I might have spared myself the trouble, for I could get nothing satisfactory out of him. He simply shook me by the hand, told the boy in the hall to call him a 'rickshaw, and as soon as it drew up at the steps jumped into it and departed. When I got back to the billiard-room Nikola was still there, practising losing hazards of extraordinary difficulty.

“I've an opinion I've seen your friend before,” he said, as I sat down to watch him. “He is Benwell of the Y-chang, and if I mistake not Benwell of the Y-chang remembers me.”

“Have you ever met him before,” I asked, surprised at the calm way he spoke.

“Yes,” Nikola continued after a little pause; “I have had the pleasure of being in Mr. Benwell's company once before. It was in Saigong.” Then with peculiar emphasis: “I don't know what he thinks of the place, of course, but somehow I have an idea your friend will not willingly go near Saigong again.” After he had said this he remained silent for a little while, then he took a letter from his pocket, read it carefully, examined the envelope, and having done so turned to me again.

“I want to ask you a question,” he said, putting the cue he had been using back into the rack. “You know a person named Bruce, don't you? a man who used to be in the Civil Service, and who has the reputation of being able to disguise himself so like a Chinaman that even Li Chang Tung would not know him for a European?”

“I do,” I answered; “he is an old friend of mine; and what is more, he is in Shanghai at the present moment. It was only this morning I heard of him.”

“Bring him to me,” said Nikola quickly. “I am told he wants a billet, and if he sees me before twelve to-morrow night I think I can put him in the way of obtaining a good one.” Now there you are, Bruce, my boy. I have done my best for you.”

“And I am sincerely grateful to you,” I answered. “But who is this man Nikola, and what sort of a billet do you think he can find me?”

“Who he is I can no more tell you than I can fly. But if he is not the first cousin of the Old Gentleman himself, well, all I can say is that I'm no hand at finding relationships.”

“I am afraid that doesn't tell me very much,” I answered. “What's he like to look at?”

“Well, in appearance he might be described as tall, though you must not run away with the idea that he's what you would call a big man. On the contrary, he is most slenderly built. Anything like the symmetry of his figure, however, I don't remember to have met with before. His face is clean shaven, and is always deadly pale, a sort of toad-skin paleness that is worse than any other lack of colour. His eyes and hair are as black as night, and he is as neat and natty as a new pin. When he is watching you he seems to be looking through the back of your head into the wall behind, and when he speaks you've just got to pay attention, whether you want to or not. All things considered, the less I see of him the better I shall like him.”

“But what on earth can he want with me?”

“He's Apollyon himself,” laughed Barkston, “and wants a maître d'hôtel. I suppose he imagines you'll suit.”

By this time we had left the Maloo and were entering the town.

“Where shall I find this extraordinary man?” I asked, as we drew near the place where I intended to alight.

“We'll drive to the club and see if he's there,” said Barkston, whipping up his horses. “But, putting all joking aside, he really seemed most anxious to find you, and as he knew I was going to look for you I don't doubt that he will have left some message for one of us there.”

Having reached the Wanderers' Club, which is too well known to need any description here, Barkston went inside, leaving me to look after the horses. Five minutes later he emerged again, carrying a letter in his hand.

“I'm sorry, Bruce,” he said, with a disappointed expression upon his handsome face; “Nikola was here until ten minutes ago; he's gone home now, but has left this note for me. If I find you he begs that I will send you on to his bungalow without delay. I have discovered that it is Fere's old place in the French Concession, Rue de la Fayette; you know it, the third house on the right hand side, just past where that renegade French Marquis shot his wife. If you would care about it I'll give you a note to him, and you can dine, think it over quietly, and then take it on yourself this evening or not, as pleases you best.”

“That would be the better plan,” I said. “I should like to have a little time to collect my thoughts before seeing him.”

Thereupon Barkston went back into the building, and when he returned, in something under a quarter of an hour, he brought the letter he had promised me in his hand. He jumped up and took the reins, the Chinese groom sprang out of the way, and we were off.

“Can I drive you round to where you are staying?” he asked.

“I don't think you can,” I answered, “and for reasons which would be sure to commend themselves to you if I were to tell them. But I am very much obliged to you all the same. I'll think the whole matter carefully out this evening, and if I approve, after dinner I'll walk over and present this letter personally.”

I thereupon descended from the dogcart at the corner of the road, and having again thanked my friend for the kindness he had shown me, bade him good-bye and took myself off.

Reaching the Bund I sat myself down on a seat beneath a tree and dispassionately reviewed the situation. All things considered it was a pretty complicated one. Though I had not revealed as much to Barkston, who had derived such happiness from his position of guide, philosopher, and friend, this was not the first time I had heard of Nikola. Such a strange personality as his could not expect to go unremarked in a gossip-loving community such as the East, and all sorts of stories had accordingly been circulated concerning him. Though I knew my East too well to place credence in half of what I had heard, it was impossible for me to prevent myself from feeling a considerable amount of curiosity about the man.

Leaving the Bund I went home, had my tea, and about eight o'clock donned my hat again and set off in the direction of the French Concession. It was not a pleasant night, being dark and inclined towards showery. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and drove the dust like hail against one's face. Though I stood a good chance of obtaining what I wanted so much—employment, I cannot affirm with any degree of truth that I felt easy in my mind. Was I not seeking to become connected with a man who was almost universally feared, and about whom the most curious stories were circulated? This thought in itself was not of a reassuring nature. But in the face of my poverty I could not afford to be too squeamish. So leaving the Rue de la Paix on my left hand I turned into the Rue de la Fayette, where Nikola's bungalow was situated, and having picked it out from its fellows, made my way towards it.

The compound and the house itself were in total darkness, but after I had twice knocked at the door a light came slowly down the passage towards me. The door was opened, and a China boy stood before me holding a candle in his hand.

“Does Dr. Nikola live here?” I inquired, in very much the same tone as our boyhood's hero, Jack of Beanstalk climbing fame, might have used when he asked to be admitted to the residence of the giant Fee-fo-fum. The boy nodded, whereupon I handed him my letter, and ordered him to convey it to his master without delay. With such celerity did he accomplish his errand that in less than two minutes he had returned and was beckoning me to follow him. I accordingly accompanied him down a long  passage towards the door of a small room on the left hand side. Through this I passed and the door was immediately closed behind me. There was no one in the apartment, and I was thus permitted an opportunity of examining it to my satisfaction, and drawing my own conclusions before anyone entered.

As I have said, it was not large, nor was its furniture, with a few exceptions, in any way extraordinary. The greater part of it was of the usual bungalow type, neither better nor worse. On the left hand as one entered was a window, which I observed was heavily barred and shuttered; between that and the door stood a tall book-shelf, filled with works on almost every conceivable subject, from the elementary principles of Bimetallism to abstract Confucianism. A thick matting covered the floor and a heavy curtain sheltered a doorway on the side opposite to that by which I had entered. On the walls were several good engravings, but I noticed that they were all based on uncommon subjects, such as the visit of Saul to the Witch of Endor, a performance of the magicians before Pharaoh, and the converting of the dry bones into men in the desert. A clock ticked on the bookcase, but with that exception there was nothing to disturb the silence of the room.

I suppose I must have waited fully five minutes before my ears caught the sound of a soft footstep in an adjoining apartment, then the second door opened, the curtain which covered it was drawn slowly aside, and a man, who could have been none other than Dr. Nikola, entered. His description was exactly what Barkston had given me, even to the peculiar eyes and, what proved to be an apt illustration, the white toad-coloured skin. He was attired in faultless evening dress, and its deep black harmonised well with his dark eyes and hair. What his age might have been I could not possibly tell, but I afterwards discovered that he was barely thirty-four. He crossed the room to where I stood, holding out his hand as he did so and saying—

“Mr. Wilfred Bruce?”

“That is my name,” I answered, “and I believe you are Dr. Nikola?”

“Exactly,” he said, “I am Dr. Nikola; and now that we have settled that much, let us get to business.”

As he spoke he moved with that peculiar walk that always characterised him across to the door by which he had entered, and having opened it signed to me to pass through. I did so, and found myself in another large room, possibly forty feet long by twenty wide. At the further end was a lofty windowwhich looked to my eyes, very much like stained glass; the walls were hung with Japanese tapestry, and were ornamented with swords, battle-axes, two or three specimens of Rajput armour, books galore, and a quantity of exceedingly valuable china. The apartment was lit by three hanging lamps of rare workmanship and design, while scattered about the room were numberless cushioned chairs and divans, beside one of which I noticed a beautifully inlaid huqa of a certain shape and make that I had never before seen out of Istamboul.

“Pray sit down,” said Dr. Nikola, and as he spoke he signed me to a chair at the further end. I seated myself and wondered what would come next.

“This is not your first visit to China, I am given to understand,” he continued as he seated himself in a chair opposite mine and regarded me steadfastly with his extraordinary eyes.

“It is not,” I answered. “I am an old resident in the East, and I think I may say I know China as well as any living Englishman.”

“Quite so. You were present at the meeting at Quongsha's house in the Wanhsien on the 23rd August, 1889, if I remember aright, and you eventually assisted Mah Poo to evade capture by the mandarins the week following.”

“How on earth did you know that?” I asked, my surprise quite getting the better of me, for I had always convinced myself that no other soul, save the man himself, was aware of my participation in that affair.

“One becomes aware of many strange things in the East,” said Nikola, hugging his knee and looking at me over the top of it, “and yet that little circumstance I have just referred to is apt to teach one how much one might know, and how small after all our knowledge is of each other's lives. One could almost expect as much from brute beasts.”

“I am afraid I don't quite follow you,” I said simply.

“Don't you?” he answered. “And yet it is very simple after all. Let me give you a practical illustration of what I mean. If you see anything in it other than I intend, the blame must be upon your own head.”

Upon a table close to his hand lay a large sheet of white paper. This he placed upon the floor. He then took a stick of charcoal in his hand and presently uttered a long and very peculiar whistle. Next moment, without any warning, an enormous cat, black as his master's coat, leapt down from somewhere on to the floor, and stood swishing his tail before us.

“There are some people in the world,” said Nikola calmly, at the same time stroking the great beast's soft back, “who would endeavour to convince you that this cat is my familiar spirit, and that, with his assistance, I work all sorts of extraordinary magic. You, of course, would not be so silly as to believe such idle tales. But to bear out what I was saying just now let us try an experiment.”

Here he stooped and wrote a number of figures up to ten with the charcoal upon the paper, duplicating them in a line below. He then took the cat upon his knee, stroked it carefully, and finally whispered something in its ear. Instantly the brute sprang down, placed its right fore-paw on one of the numerals of the top row, while, whether by chance or magic I cannot say, it performed a similar action with its left on the row below.

“Twenty-four,” said Nikola, with one of his peculiar smiles.

Then taking the piece of charcoal once more in his hand, and turning the paper over, he wrote upon it the names of the different months of the year. Placing it on the floor he again said something to the cat, who this time stood upon June. The alphabet followed, and letter by letter the uncanny beast spelt out “Apia.”

“On the 24th June,” said Nikola, “of a year undetermined you were in Apia. Let us see if we can discover the year.”

Again he wrote the numerals up to ten, and immediately the cat, with fiendish precision, worked out 1875.

“Is that correct?” asked this extraordinary person when the brute had finished its performance.

It was quite correct, and I told him so.

“I'm glad of that. And now do you want to know any more?” he asked. “If you wish it I might perhaps be able to tell you your business there.”

I did not want to know. And I can only ask you to believe that I had very good reasons for not doing so. Nikola laughed softly, and pressed the tips of his long white fingers together.

“Now tell me truthfully what you think of my cat?” said he.

“One might be excused if one endowed him with Satanic attributes,” I answered.

“And yet, though you think it so wonderful, it is only because I have subjected him to a curious form of education. Do you know, Mr. Bruce, I should be very interested to find out exactly how far you think the human intelligence can go; that is to say, how far you think it can penetrate into the regions of what is generally called the occult?”

“Again I must make the excuse,” I said, “that I do not follow you.”

“Well, then, let me place it before you in a rather simpler form. If I may put it so bluntly, where should you be inclined to say this world begins and ends?”

“I should say,” I replied—this time without hesitation—“that it begins with birth and ends with death.”

“And after death?”

“Well, what happens then is a question of theology, and one for the parsons to decide.”

“You have no individual opinion?”

“I have the remnants of what I learned as a boy.”

“I see; then you of course believe that as soon as the breath has forsaken this mortal body a certain indescribable part of us, which for the sake of argument we will denominate soul, leaves this mundane sphere and enters upon a new existence in one or other of two places?”

“That is certainly what I was taught,” I answered.

“Quite so; that was the teaching you received in the parish of High Walcombe, Somersetshire, and might be taken as a very good type of what your class thinks throughout the world, from the Archbishop of Canterbury down to the farm labourer's child who walks three miles every seventh day to attend Sunday school. But in that self-same village, if I remember rightly, there was a little man of portly build whose adherents numbered precisely forty-five souls; he was called Father O'Rorke, and I have not the slightest doubt, if you had asked him, he would have given you quite a different account of what becomes of that soul, or essence, if we may so call it, after it has left this mortal body. Tobias Smallcombe, who preaches in a spasmodic windy way on the green to a congregation made up of a few enthusiasts, a dozen small boys and a handful of donkeys and goats will give you yet another, and so on through numberless varieties of creeds to the end of the chapter. Each will claim the privilege of being right, and each will want you to believe exactly as he does. But at the same time we must remember, if we would be quite fair, that there are not wanting scientists, admittedly the cleverest men of the day, who assert that, while all our friends agree that there is a life after death—a spirit world, in fact—they are all wrong. If you will allow me to give you my own idea of what you think, I should say that your opinion is, that when you've done with the solid flesh that makes up Wilfred Bruce it doesn't much matter what happens. But let us suppose that Wilfred Bruce, or his mind, shall we say—that part of him at any rate which is anxious, which thinks and which suffers—is destined to exist afterwards through endless æons, a prey to continual remorse for all misdeeds: how would he regard death then?”

“But you've got to prove that he does so continue to exist,” I said.

“That's exactly what I desire and intend to do,” said Nikola, “and it is to that end I have sought you out, and we are arguing in this fashion now. Is your time very fully occupied at present?”

I smiled.

“I quite understand,” he said. “Well, I have got a proposition to make to you, if you will listen to me. Years ago and quite by chance, when the subject we are now discussing, and in which I am more interested than you can imagine, was first brought properly under my notice, I fell into the company of a most extraordinary man. He was originally an Oxford don, but for some reason he went wrong, and was afterwards shot by Balmaceda at Santiago during the Chilian war. Among other places, he had lived for many years in North-Western China. He possessed one of the queerest personalities, but he told me some wonderful things, and what was more to the point, he backed them with proofs. You would probably have called them clever conjuring tricks. So did I then, but I don't now. Nor do I think will you when I have done with you. It was from that man and an old Buddhist priest, with whom I spent some time in Ceylon, that I learnt the tiny fact which put me on the trail of what I am now following up. I have tracked it clue by clue, carefully and laboriously, with varying success for eight long years, and at last I am in the position to say that I believe I have my thumb upon the key-note. If I can press it down and obtain the result I want, I can put myself in possession of information the magnitude of which the world—I mean the European world, of course—has not the slightest conception of. I am a courageous man, but I will confess that the prospect of what I am about to attempt almost frightens me. It is neither more nor less than to penetrate, with the help of certain Chinese secret societies, into the most extraordinary monastery that you or any other men ever heard of, and when there to beg, borrow, or steal the marvellous secrets they possess. I cannot go alone, so must find a man to accompany me; that man must be one in a thousand, and he must also necessarily be a consummate Chinese scholar. He must be plucky beyond the average, he must be capable of disguising himself so that his nationality shall never for a moment be suspected, and he must go fully convinced in his own mind that he will never return. If he is prepared to undertake so much I am prepared to be generous. I will pay him £10,000 down before we start and £10,000 when we return, if return we do. What do you say to that?”

I didn't know what to say. I wanted money more than I had ever done in my life before, and this was a sum beyond even my wildest dreams; I also had no objection to adventure, but at the same time I must confess this seemed too foolhardy an undertaking altogether.

“What can I say?” I answered. “It's such an extraordinary proposition.”

“So it is,” he said. “But as I take it, we are both extraordinary men. Had you been one of life's rank and file I should not be discussing it with you now. I would think twice before I refused if I were you; Shanghai is such an unpleasant place to get into trouble in, and besides that, you know, next Wednesday will see the end of your money.”

He said this with such an air of innocence that for the moment it did not strike me to wonder how he had become acquainted with the state of my finances.

“Come,” he said, “you had better say yes.”

“I should like a little more time to think it over,” I answered. “I cannot pledge myself to so much without giving it thorough consideration. That would not be fair to you.”

“Very good, then. Go home and think about it. Come and see me to-morrow night at this time and let me have your decision. In the meantime if I were you I would say nothing about what I have spoken to you to anyone.”

I assured him I would not, and then he rose, and I understood that our interview was at an end. I followed him into the hall, the black cat marching sedately at our heels. In the verandah he stopped and held out his hand, saying with an indescribable sweetness—

“I hope, Mr. Bruce, you will believe that I am most anxious for your companionship. I don't flatter you, I simply state the truth when I affirm that you are the only man in China whose co-operation I would ask. Now good-night. I hope you will come to me with a favourable answer to-morrow.”

As he spoke, and as if to emphasize his request, the black cat, which up to that time had been standing beside him, now came over and began to rub its head, accompanying its action with a soft, purring noise, against my leg.

“I will let you know without fail,” I said, “by this time tomorrow evening. Good-night.”