"Barlow, C S - Juxtaposed, Yet Infinitely Distant" - читать интересную книгу автора (Barlow C S)

Yours,
Connerly

Mid-November was the triumphant expedition's homecoming (I will record few of their triumphs here, for most have little real relevance to this tale and are widely documented and freely accessible elsewhere). Connerly, however, was absent. During the journey back to Boston, I was told, he had been the recipient of a message informing of distressing turns in his father's condition, and so, on alighting, had sought immediate passage for Scotland.



1933

For the first few months of the year I addressed many letters to Connerly House enquiring after the Lord's health, but received no replies. I surmised that either the old man had at last died, leaving his son in deep mourning, or that he yet fought to live, leaving Stanley no time to respond to my queries.
In late August I heard news from an English visitor to the university that the Lord had indeed passed away, in fact at the year's turning, and more than this, that Connerly had been married! Admittedly offended at not having been earlier informed of these events, I penned another letter. I waited three weeks for my answer, though Connerly was not the author:



Dear Sir,
For my atrocious manners in taking the liberty of opening your letter to my husband I offer my sincerest apologies, but I believe you will forgive me once you learn my reasons. I will endeavour to be brief, but it is always wise to start at the beginning:-
I am, or rather was, a history student at the Miskatonic, and I have long been enamoured of Stanley Connerly. When I heard of the Mongolian expedition and his place therein, I quickly applied for, and was granted, a position. To my great delight, during the expedition's course, Stanley and I became very close. On our return to Boston, when Stanley learnt of his father's deterioration and resolved to go to Scotland, I asked to accompany him. I did not wish to be an ocean away when he would surely require comfort and sympathy.
The evening of the 2nd of January saw the sad inevitable, and Stanley entered into a period of almost abyssal mourning, during which I endevoured to be respectfully attentive to his every need. Some four months passed before I was grateful and pleased to note Stanley gradually overcome his remorse and return, as best he could, to his old self. It was then he proposed marriage, and I, overjoyed, accepted.
We were married at this mansion, and lounged through our honeymoon here, and I am most sincere when I tell you, Sir, that these events were the happiest of my life. But now all is dark.
Three months ago my husband began to pass almost all his waking hours within his study, deeming only to emerge for meals. In a somewhat teasing manner I asked him what he did (foolishly, nay, pathetically, believing he was about some pleasant surprise for me), but to my distress he would reveal nothing, and actually forbade my, or anyone else's, access to the room. He began to avoid me, and two weeks ago, without explanation, ceased to sleep in our bed. Three days gone saw the culmination when I discovered that he had appropriated food and drink from the kitchen and locked himself in the study. He ignores my pleas to come out, to explain his behaviour, he ignores my frustrated shouts and -- yes -- screams; he simply tells me he wants no interruptions, and to keep the staff away.
Receiving your letter this morning, and knowing from my once frequent conversations with Stanley of your friendship, I resolved to write to you.
What shall I do? Why does he torture me so? I fear for his sanity. This singular behaviour is beyond my wits to comprehend or deal with. He drives me to despair! Am I so detestable to his sight?
In desperation I turn to you. Could you come and speak with him, Sir? You may be able to help. Could you come? We will of course pay all expenses.

Yours in Hope,
Kathrine Connerly

I should think my concern over all this needs no explanation. Speedy arrangements were made with the university and, after sending word to Kathrine of my compliance, I set off.



Connerly House was a rambling affair of mullioned windows and sharply angled roofs, backed and bordered by a wide strip of well-tended garden, its high south wall bordering the clear waters of Morar. I breathed in the quiet Scottish air and knocked on the impressively arched front door. After stating my name to the aged butler I was conducted to a small library to await Lady Connerly.
Within moments she entered, and I understood immediately -- at least in part -- why Connerly had finally fallen for "reality's woman", for Kathrine was exceedingly beautiful -- possessing long raven hair and the complexion of one well acquainted with open spaces. In a rather quiet voice she thanked me for my prompt arrival, for putting aside my teaching at such short notice, and asked if I required refreshment after my journey. Having eaten at Fort William whilst awaiting transport to the House, I replied that a sherry would be welcome. She busied herself about a small cabinet and presently handed me a generous measure.
As I sipped I found it difficult to broach the subject of Stanley, and, as it seemed stupid to talk of anything else, a momentary silence ensued between us. But presently, as if that nice hurdle had already been leaped, Kathrine said:
"Since I wrote you he has ceased to speak, no matter how I implore. I told him of your coming but he gave no reaction. I try to embarrass him, I threaten to force my way in, even to involve the police, but still he ignores me. I only know he lives because recently he cut a judas through the door, and you can make of that what you will."
She took a slow breath. "How long does he expect me to put up with this, Mr Stephenson? If he wishes me to leave, why can't he simply say so?"
I could not answer, knowing I did not possess the necessary qualities to console her (what was wrong with Connerly that he could treat a woman so? Could treat anyone so? How had he suddenly become so selfish and uncaring?). Rather abruptly I asked, "Where is his study?"
She smiled grimly, "The top floor. I'll show you."
I set down my sherry and she led me back into the wide hallway and up three flights of darkly stained wooden stairs to a short, unfurnished corridor illuminated by a small skylight and terminating in a stout oak door.
"Stanley," called Kathrine, quite loudly, "A friend has come to see you." She turned to me, "I will leave you, Mr Stephenson. If you are to get anything from him it won't be in my presence." She turned and walked down the stairs.
There came a scuffling from behind the door, and then Connerly's voice, unheard by me for over a year. "She's gone, hasn't she, Stephenson? Just check would you?"
"Why... Eh, yes." Flustered, I looked over the banister in time to see Kathrine's dark head reach the first landing and continue descending. I turned back to the door expectantly.
The lock clicked, the handle turned and was pulled back. "I was hoping you would arrive, my friend. Someone should witness this. Come in, come in. Lock the door behind you."
The room was black, nothing visible, and I hesitated a moment before doing as Connerly asked.
"Oh. Sorry, Stephenson. Waiting and wondering is easier in darkness. I'll open the curtains a touch. You'll have to forgive the smell, too. Even whilst trying to bypass some of Nature's forces, one must still obey others. I dump it in the lake, through the window, but there's nothing to disinfect the bucket with. Anyway, the worst of that should fade soon. I stopped eating four days ago."
I closed the door, turned its key, and, in the process, sniffed. Emanating from somewhere to my left was a notable faecal aroma.
Thin daylight suddenly filtered into the room as heavy drapes obscuring the window were pulled slightly apart. There, in a far corner, was a lidded metal bucket. I looked elsewhere. The dim rays revealed a wide desk upon which rested two books and a large, cloth-covered spherical object. The walls supported well-stacked bookshelves, the odd hunting trophy, and various maps. A chair scraped, and I watched Connerly sit at the desk. He was wearing his dressing gown, pyjama bottoms, and, for some unguessable reason, a deerstalker hat with flaps in place. In different circumstances I would have found this spectacle quite comical.
"That's enough light for now, I think. I'm not used to it -- it hurts my eyes. Sit down, Stephenson. It's good to see you -- I hoped you would come. I can't think of anyone else I would rather, eh, reveal all to."
"What's going on, Connerly?" I asked, incredulous, "Why are you living like a ... like this? Don't you realize what your wife is going through? What is this madness?"
He raised and lowered his hands in a pacifying manner. "Calm down. Calm down. This isn't madness, it's incredible! And I am fully aware of Kathrine's pain. Believe me, I sympathize, but... Oh, good God, man! Let me explain. Sit. You'll understand in a while."