DOI article:
Graves, Robert: A parable
DOI Page / Citation link: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.29343#0022
The meal began. Mr. Poeta soon roused himself suffi-
ciently to apologise for the absence of his landlady and
the simplicity of the meal, excused the shakiness of his
hands as due to a touch of malaria,andbegan a desultory
and nervous conversation on generallines rapidly devel-
oping into a discussion of murders and homicidal mania.
Mr. Lector at first mystified, then embarrassed, soon be-
came definitely concerned for his own safety, especially
when he was aware of his host’s eyes fixed in an eager
stare on something apparently hanging above his own
head. He involuntarily followed their direction, and
saw on the wall behind him what he had not seen be-
fore, a grcat Oriental scimitar in a tarnished scabbard
hanging on a nail above the chimneypiece. As he turned
his head again with a look of some alarm, Mr. Poeta
gave a bellow of rage, leapt across the table and began
to wrench the scimitarfrom the scabbard, which, hap-
pily, held it somewhat stiffly. Mr. Lector, having no
weapon to his hand of any sort, for the table was too
massive to pick up and the mugs of beer were too small
to be of service, instantly fled from the room. The front
door was shut and he could not find the trick to open it;
an ominous hiss and a shout suggested that the maniac
had succeeded in drawing the weapon, and no time was
to be lost. A staircase offered an escape but an open win-
dow was nearer; out jumped Mr. Lector just in time,
not into the street, as he hoped, or even into a garden,
but into a small back-yard with high walls in one of
which was a heavy-looking door with bars. But Mr.
Poeta was after him, and he disregarded the door in
favour of a barrel at the opposite end of the yard; on
this he jumped and flung himself over the wall. He was
now in a stable yard whose big gates had a bar thrust
across them, but the front door of what was evidently
a coachman’s house stood open and in he rushed and
upstairs, while his pursuer’s feet sounded behind him.
He darted to the very top of the house and, finding a
door open, flung himself into the room and slammed
the door after him, holding it with his foot.
AFEWminutes later,since he had not heard any
sound of feet on the stairs, he recovered his cour-
age and decided to reconnoitre; but he found
that by slamming the door he had locked it, and he was a
prisoner. He struck a match. The room was a boxroom
only lit by a skylight at a good height from the ground.
It contained a cistern, a small trunk, a hatbox and some
18
wallpaper in a roll. Mr. Lector tried to get out through
the skylight by standing the trunk on end, putting the
hatbox on it, and climbing on top, but he could not
reach the skylight even by jumping. Next he opened
the trunk in the hope of finding some weapon of defence
in case the maniac discovered his retreat, but there was
nothing.
WOODCUT BY HERBERT PALLISER
^T^HE long and short of it was that he remained
a prisoner for three days and nights, living on
11. water from the cistern with some malted milk
tablets which he found loose in a pocket of the trunk,
and wrapping himself at night in wallpaper to keep out
the cold. He spent his time alternately shoutingfor help,
attempting to break the lock of the door, and reading
ciently to apologise for the absence of his landlady and
the simplicity of the meal, excused the shakiness of his
hands as due to a touch of malaria,andbegan a desultory
and nervous conversation on generallines rapidly devel-
oping into a discussion of murders and homicidal mania.
Mr. Lector at first mystified, then embarrassed, soon be-
came definitely concerned for his own safety, especially
when he was aware of his host’s eyes fixed in an eager
stare on something apparently hanging above his own
head. He involuntarily followed their direction, and
saw on the wall behind him what he had not seen be-
fore, a grcat Oriental scimitar in a tarnished scabbard
hanging on a nail above the chimneypiece. As he turned
his head again with a look of some alarm, Mr. Poeta
gave a bellow of rage, leapt across the table and began
to wrench the scimitarfrom the scabbard, which, hap-
pily, held it somewhat stiffly. Mr. Lector, having no
weapon to his hand of any sort, for the table was too
massive to pick up and the mugs of beer were too small
to be of service, instantly fled from the room. The front
door was shut and he could not find the trick to open it;
an ominous hiss and a shout suggested that the maniac
had succeeded in drawing the weapon, and no time was
to be lost. A staircase offered an escape but an open win-
dow was nearer; out jumped Mr. Lector just in time,
not into the street, as he hoped, or even into a garden,
but into a small back-yard with high walls in one of
which was a heavy-looking door with bars. But Mr.
Poeta was after him, and he disregarded the door in
favour of a barrel at the opposite end of the yard; on
this he jumped and flung himself over the wall. He was
now in a stable yard whose big gates had a bar thrust
across them, but the front door of what was evidently
a coachman’s house stood open and in he rushed and
upstairs, while his pursuer’s feet sounded behind him.
He darted to the very top of the house and, finding a
door open, flung himself into the room and slammed
the door after him, holding it with his foot.
AFEWminutes later,since he had not heard any
sound of feet on the stairs, he recovered his cour-
age and decided to reconnoitre; but he found
that by slamming the door he had locked it, and he was a
prisoner. He struck a match. The room was a boxroom
only lit by a skylight at a good height from the ground.
It contained a cistern, a small trunk, a hatbox and some
18
wallpaper in a roll. Mr. Lector tried to get out through
the skylight by standing the trunk on end, putting the
hatbox on it, and climbing on top, but he could not
reach the skylight even by jumping. Next he opened
the trunk in the hope of finding some weapon of defence
in case the maniac discovered his retreat, but there was
nothing.
WOODCUT BY HERBERT PALLISER
^T^HE long and short of it was that he remained
a prisoner for three days and nights, living on
11. water from the cistern with some malted milk
tablets which he found loose in a pocket of the trunk,
and wrapping himself at night in wallpaper to keep out
the cold. He spent his time alternately shoutingfor help,
attempting to break the lock of the door, and reading