The Boarded Window BY AMBROSE BIERCE
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In 1830, only a few miles away from what is now the great city of Cincinnati, lay an immense and almost unbroken forest. The whole region was sparsely settled by people of the frontier--restless souls who no sooner had shewn fairly habitable homes out of the wilderness and attained to that degree of prosperity which today we should call indigence, than, impelled by some mysterious impulse of their nature, they abandoned all and pushed farther westward, to encounter new perils and privations in the effort to regain the meager comforts which they had voluntarily renounced. Many of them had already forsaken that region for the remoter settlements, but among those remaining was one who had been of those first arriving.He lived alone in a house of logs surrounded on all sides by the great forest, of whose gloom and silence he seemed a part, for no one had ever known him to smile nor speak a needless word. His simple wants were supplied by the sale or barter of skins of wild animals in the river town, for not a thing did he grow upon the land which, if needful, he might have claimed by right of undisturbed possession. There were evidences of "improvement"--a few acres of ground immediately about the house had once be en cleared of its trees, the decayed stumps of which were halfconcealed by the new growth that had been suffered to repair the ravage wrought by the ax. Apparently the man's zeal for agriculturehad burned with a failing flame, expiring in penitential ashes.
The little log house, with its chimney of sticks, its roof ofwarping clapboards weighted with traversing poles and its"chinking" of clay, had a single door and, directly opposite, a window. The latter, however, was boarded up--nobody could remember a time when it was not. And none knew why it was so closed;certainly not because of the occupant's dislike of light and air,for on those rare occasions when a hunter had passed that lonely spot the recluse had commonly been seen sunning himself on hisdoorstep if heaven had provided sunshine for his need. I fancythere are few persons living today who ever knew the secret of thatwindow, but I am one, as you shall see.
The man's name was said to be Murlock. He was apparently seventyyears old, actually about fifty. Something besides years had had ahand in his aging. His hair and long, full beard were white, hisgray, lusterless eyes sunken, his face singularly seamed withwrinkles which appeared to belong to two intersecting systems. Infigure he was tall and spare, with a stoop of the shoulders--aburden bearer. I never saw him; these particulars I learned from mygrandfather, from whom also I got the man's story when I was a lad.He had known him when living near by in that early day.
One day Murlock was found in his cabin, dead. It was not a time andplace for coroners and newspapers, and I suppose it was agreed thathe had died from natural causes or I should have been told, andshould remember. I know only that with what was probably a sense ofthe fitness of things the body was buried near the cabin, alongsidethe grave of his wife, who had preceded him by so many years thatlocal tradition had retained hardly a hint of her existence. Thatcloses the final chapter of this true story--excepting, indeed, thecircumstance that many years afterward, in company with an equallyintrepid spirit, I penetrated to the place and ventured near enoughto the ruined cabin to throw a stone against it, and ran away toavoid the ghost which every well-informed boy thereabout knewhaunted the spot. But there is an earlier chapter--that supplied bymy grandfather.
When Murlock built his cabin and began laying sturdily about withhis ax to hew out a farm--the rifle, meanwhile, his means ofsupport--he was young, strong and full of hope. In that easterncountry whence he came he had married, as was the fashion, a youngwoman in all ways worthy of his honest devotion, who shared thedangers and privations of his lot with a willing spirit and lightheart. There is no known record of her name; of her charms of mindand person tradition is silent and the doubter is at liberty toentertain his doubt; but God forbid that I should share it! Oftheir affection and happiness there is abundant assurance in everyadded day of the man's widowed life; for what but the magnetism ofa blessed memory could have chained that venturesome spirit to alot like that?
One day Murlock returned from gunning in a distant part of theforest to find his wife prostrate with fever, and delirious. Therewas no physician within miles, no neighbor; nor was she in acondition to be left, to summon help. So he set about the task ofnursing her back to health, but at the end of the third day shefell into unconsciousness arid so passed away, apparently, withnever a gleam of returning reason.
From what we know of a nature like his we may venture to sketch insome of the details of the outline picture drawn by my grandfather.When convinced that she was dead, Murlock had sense enough toremember that the dead must be prepared for burial. In performanceof this sacred duty he blundered now and again, did certain thingsincorrectly, and others which he did correctly were done over andover. His occasional failures to accomplish some simple andordinary act filled him with astonishment, like that of a drunkenman who wonders at the suspension of familiar natural laws. He wassurprised, too, that he did not weep--surprised and a littleashamed; surely it is unkind not to weep for the dead. "Tomorrow,"he said aloud, "I shall have to make the coffin arid dig the grave;and then I shall miss her, when she is no longer in sight; butnow--she is dead, of course, but it is all right--it must be allright, somehow. Things cannot be so bad as they seem."
He stood over the body in the fading light, adjusting the hair andputting the finishing touches to the simple toilet, doing allmechanically, with soulless care. And still through hisconsciousness ran an undersense of conviction that all wasright--that he should have her again as before, and everythingexplained. He had had no experience in grief; his capacity had notbeen enlarged by use. His heart could not contain it all, nor hisimagination rightly conceive it. He did not know he was so hardstruck; that knowledge would come later, and never go. Grief is anartist of powers as various as the instruments upon which he playshis dirges for the dead, evoking from some the sharpest, shrillestnotes, from others the low, grave chords that throb recurrent likethe slow beating of a distant drum. Some natures it startles; someit stupefies. To one it comes like the stroke of an arrow, stingingall the sensibilities to a keener life; to another as the blow ofa bludgeon, which in crushing benumbs. We may conceive Murlock tohave been that way affected, for (and here we are upon surer groundthan that of conjecture) no sooner had he finished his pious workthan, sinking into a chair by the side of the table upon which thebody lay, and noting how white the profile showed in the deepeninggloom, he laid his arms upon the table's edge, and dropped his faceinto them, tearless yet and unutterably weary. At that moment camein through the open window a long, wailing sound like the cry of alost child in the far deeps of the darkening woods! But the man didnot move. Again, and nearer than before, sounded that unearthly cryupon his failing sense. Perhaps it was a wild beast; perhaps it wasa dream. For Murlock was asleep.
Some hours later, as it afterward appeared, this unfaithful watcherawoke and lifting his head from his arms intently listened--he knewnot why. There in the black darkness by the side of the dead,recalling all without a shock, he strained his eyes to see--he knewnot what. His senses were all alert, his breath was suspended, hisblood had stilled its tides as if to assist the silence. Who--whathad waked him, and where was it?
Suddenly the table shook beneath his arms, and at the same momenthe heard, or fancied that he heard, a light, softstep--another--sounds as of bare feet upon the floor!
He was terrified beyond the power to cry out or move. Perforce hewaited--waited there in the darkness through seeming centuries ofsuch dread as one may know, yet live to tell. He tried vainly tospeak the dead woman's name, vainly to stretch forth his handacross the table to learn if she were there. His throat waspowerless, his arms and hands were like lead. Then occurredsomething most frightful. Some heavy body seemed hurled against thetable with an impetus that pushed it against his breast so sharplyas nearly to overthrow him, and at the same instant he heard andfelt the fall of something upon the floor with so violent a thumpthat the whole house was shaken by the impact. A scuffling ensued,and a confusion of sounds impossible to describe. Murlock had risento his feet. Fear had by excess forfeited control of his faculties.He flung his hands upon the table. Nothing was there!
There is a point at which terror may turn to madness; and madnessincites to action. With no definite intent, from no motive but thewayward impulse of a madman, Murlock sprang to the wall, with alittle groping seized his loaded rifle, and without aim dischargedit. By the flash which lit up the room with a vivid illumination,he saw an enormous panther dragging the dead woman toward thewindow, its teeth fixed in her throat! Then there were darknessblacker than before, and silence; and when he returned toconsciousness the sun was high and the wood vocal with songs ofbirds.
The body lay near the window, where the beast had left it whenfrightened away by the flash and report of the rifle. The clothingwas deranged, the long hair in disorder, the limbs lay anyhow. Fromthe throat, dreadfully lacerated, had issued a pool of blood notyet entirely coagulated. The ribbon with which he had bound thewrists was broken; the hands were tightly clenched. Between theteeth was a fragment of the animal's ear.
The little log house, with its chimney of sticks, its roof ofwarping clapboards weighted with traversing poles and its"chinking" of clay, had a single door and, directly opposite, a window. The latter, however, was boarded up--nobody could remember a time when it was not. And none knew why it was so closed;certainly not because of the occupant's dislike of light and air,for on those rare occasions when a hunter had passed that lonely spot the recluse had commonly been seen sunning himself on hisdoorstep if heaven had provided sunshine for his need. I fancythere are few persons living today who ever knew the secret of thatwindow, but I am one, as you shall see.
The man's name was said to be Murlock. He was apparently seventyyears old, actually about fifty. Something besides years had had ahand in his aging. His hair and long, full beard were white, hisgray, lusterless eyes sunken, his face singularly seamed withwrinkles which appeared to belong to two intersecting systems. Infigure he was tall and spare, with a stoop of the shoulders--aburden bearer. I never saw him; these particulars I learned from mygrandfather, from whom also I got the man's story when I was a lad.He had known him when living near by in that early day.
One day Murlock was found in his cabin, dead. It was not a time andplace for coroners and newspapers, and I suppose it was agreed thathe had died from natural causes or I should have been told, andshould remember. I know only that with what was probably a sense ofthe fitness of things the body was buried near the cabin, alongsidethe grave of his wife, who had preceded him by so many years thatlocal tradition had retained hardly a hint of her existence. Thatcloses the final chapter of this true story--excepting, indeed, thecircumstance that many years afterward, in company with an equallyintrepid spirit, I penetrated to the place and ventured near enoughto the ruined cabin to throw a stone against it, and ran away toavoid the ghost which every well-informed boy thereabout knewhaunted the spot. But there is an earlier chapter--that supplied bymy grandfather.
When Murlock built his cabin and began laying sturdily about withhis ax to hew out a farm--the rifle, meanwhile, his means ofsupport--he was young, strong and full of hope. In that easterncountry whence he came he had married, as was the fashion, a youngwoman in all ways worthy of his honest devotion, who shared thedangers and privations of his lot with a willing spirit and lightheart. There is no known record of her name; of her charms of mindand person tradition is silent and the doubter is at liberty toentertain his doubt; but God forbid that I should share it! Oftheir affection and happiness there is abundant assurance in everyadded day of the man's widowed life; for what but the magnetism ofa blessed memory could have chained that venturesome spirit to alot like that?
One day Murlock returned from gunning in a distant part of theforest to find his wife prostrate with fever, and delirious. Therewas no physician within miles, no neighbor; nor was she in acondition to be left, to summon help. So he set about the task ofnursing her back to health, but at the end of the third day shefell into unconsciousness arid so passed away, apparently, withnever a gleam of returning reason.
From what we know of a nature like his we may venture to sketch insome of the details of the outline picture drawn by my grandfather.When convinced that she was dead, Murlock had sense enough toremember that the dead must be prepared for burial. In performanceof this sacred duty he blundered now and again, did certain thingsincorrectly, and others which he did correctly were done over andover. His occasional failures to accomplish some simple andordinary act filled him with astonishment, like that of a drunkenman who wonders at the suspension of familiar natural laws. He wassurprised, too, that he did not weep--surprised and a littleashamed; surely it is unkind not to weep for the dead. "Tomorrow,"he said aloud, "I shall have to make the coffin arid dig the grave;and then I shall miss her, when she is no longer in sight; butnow--she is dead, of course, but it is all right--it must be allright, somehow. Things cannot be so bad as they seem."
He stood over the body in the fading light, adjusting the hair andputting the finishing touches to the simple toilet, doing allmechanically, with soulless care. And still through hisconsciousness ran an undersense of conviction that all wasright--that he should have her again as before, and everythingexplained. He had had no experience in grief; his capacity had notbeen enlarged by use. His heart could not contain it all, nor hisimagination rightly conceive it. He did not know he was so hardstruck; that knowledge would come later, and never go. Grief is anartist of powers as various as the instruments upon which he playshis dirges for the dead, evoking from some the sharpest, shrillestnotes, from others the low, grave chords that throb recurrent likethe slow beating of a distant drum. Some natures it startles; someit stupefies. To one it comes like the stroke of an arrow, stingingall the sensibilities to a keener life; to another as the blow ofa bludgeon, which in crushing benumbs. We may conceive Murlock tohave been that way affected, for (and here we are upon surer groundthan that of conjecture) no sooner had he finished his pious workthan, sinking into a chair by the side of the table upon which thebody lay, and noting how white the profile showed in the deepeninggloom, he laid his arms upon the table's edge, and dropped his faceinto them, tearless yet and unutterably weary. At that moment camein through the open window a long, wailing sound like the cry of alost child in the far deeps of the darkening woods! But the man didnot move. Again, and nearer than before, sounded that unearthly cryupon his failing sense. Perhaps it was a wild beast; perhaps it wasa dream. For Murlock was asleep.
Some hours later, as it afterward appeared, this unfaithful watcherawoke and lifting his head from his arms intently listened--he knewnot why. There in the black darkness by the side of the dead,recalling all without a shock, he strained his eyes to see--he knewnot what. His senses were all alert, his breath was suspended, hisblood had stilled its tides as if to assist the silence. Who--whathad waked him, and where was it?
Suddenly the table shook beneath his arms, and at the same momenthe heard, or fancied that he heard, a light, softstep--another--sounds as of bare feet upon the floor!
He was terrified beyond the power to cry out or move. Perforce hewaited--waited there in the darkness through seeming centuries ofsuch dread as one may know, yet live to tell. He tried vainly tospeak the dead woman's name, vainly to stretch forth his handacross the table to learn if she were there. His throat waspowerless, his arms and hands were like lead. Then occurredsomething most frightful. Some heavy body seemed hurled against thetable with an impetus that pushed it against his breast so sharplyas nearly to overthrow him, and at the same instant he heard andfelt the fall of something upon the floor with so violent a thumpthat the whole house was shaken by the impact. A scuffling ensued,and a confusion of sounds impossible to describe. Murlock had risento his feet. Fear had by excess forfeited control of his faculties.He flung his hands upon the table. Nothing was there!
There is a point at which terror may turn to madness; and madnessincites to action. With no definite intent, from no motive but thewayward impulse of a madman, Murlock sprang to the wall, with alittle groping seized his loaded rifle, and without aim dischargedit. By the flash which lit up the room with a vivid illumination,he saw an enormous panther dragging the dead woman toward thewindow, its teeth fixed in her throat! Then there were darknessblacker than before, and silence; and when he returned toconsciousness the sun was high and the wood vocal with songs ofbirds.
The body lay near the window, where the beast had left it whenfrightened away by the flash and report of the rifle. The clothingwas deranged, the long hair in disorder, the limbs lay anyhow. Fromthe throat, dreadfully lacerated, had issued a pool of blood notyet entirely coagulated. The ribbon with which he had bound thewrists was broken; the hands were tightly clenched. Between theteeth was a fragment of the animal's ear.
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