Markheim

by Robert Louis Stevenson

"Yes," said the dealer, "some customers are ignorant and then I benefit from my knowledge. Some are dishonest," and here he held up the candle, so that the light fell strongly on his visitor, "and in that case," he continued, "I benefit from my ignorance."

Markheim had only just entered from the daylight streets and his eyes were not yet used to the darkness in the shop. At these pointed words and before the flame, he blinked painfully and looked away.

The dealer chuckled. "You come to me on Christmas Day," he continued, "when you know that I am alone in my house and do no business. Well, you will have to pay for that. You’ll have to pay for my time, when I should be balancing my books. You will have to pay, as well, because you’re behaving strangely today. I ask no uncomfortable questions, but when a customer cannot look me in the eye, he has to pay for it." The dealer once more chuckled and then, changing to his usual business voice, "You can give, as usual, a clear account of how you got the object?" he continued. "Still your uncle's house? A remarkable collector, sir!"

And the little pale, round-shouldered dealer stood, looking over the top of his gold glasses with every sign of disbelief. Markheim returned his gaze with a touch of horror.

"This time," he said, "you’re wrong. I haven’t come to sell, but to buy. I have nothing to sell. My uncle's house is empty; but even if it were still full, I have done well on the Stock Exchange and would more likely add to it than sell anything. My errand today is simple. I’m looking for a Christmas present for a lady," he continued, becoming more comfortable as he started the speech he had prepared; "I am very sorry for disturbing you about something so small. But I neglected it yesterday and I must produce it at dinner. And, as you very well know, a rich marriage is not a thing to be neglected."

There followed a pause, during which the dealer seemed to consider this statement. The ticking of many clocks in the shop and the rushing of the cabs in a road nearby filled up the silence.

"Well, sir," said the dealer, "you are an old customer and if, as you say, you have the chance of a good marriage, far be it from me to get in your way. Here’s a nice thing for a lady now," he went on. "This hand mirror – fifteenth century, guaranteed – comes from a good collection, too. But I can’t tell you the name, in the interests of my customer, who was just like yourself, sir, the nephew and heir of a remarkable collector."

The dealer, while he continued talking in his dry voice, stooped to take the object from its place and, as he did so, a shock passed through Markheim. It passed as quickly as it came and left no sign except a trembling of his hand that now took the mirror.

"A mirror," he said, then paused, and repeated it more clearly. "A mirror? For Christmas? Surely not?"

"And why not?" cried the dealer."Why not a mirror?"

Markheim was looking at him. "You ask me why not?" he said. "Why, look here – look in it – look at yourself! Do you like what you see? No! Nobody does!"

The little man had jumped back when Markheim suddenly held the mirror in front of him but now, seeing that he was only joking, he chuckled. "Your future wife, sir, must be very unattractive," he said.

"I ask you," said Markheim, "for a Christmas present and you give me this, this reminder of years, sins and stupidities, this conscience! Tell me. It will be better for you if you do. Come, tell me about yourself. I guess that you are, in secret, a very charitable man."

The dealer looked closely at his customer. It was very strange. Markheim did not seem to be laughing. There was something in his face like hope, but not fun.

"What are you talking about?" the dealer asked.

"Not charitable?" answered Markheim, miserably. "Not charitable, unloving, unloved. A head to get money, a safe to keep it in. Is that all? Man, is that all?"

"I will tell you what it is," began the dealer, with annoyance, and then stopped again with a chuckle. "But I see you’ve been drinking the lady's health."

"Ah!" cried Markheim. "Ah, have you been in love? Tell me about that."

"Me!" shouted the dealer. "Me in love! I never had the time, nor have I the time today for all this nonsense. Will you take the mirror?"

"What’s the hurry?" answered Markheim. "It’s very pleasant to stand here talking and life’s so short that I wouldn’t hurry away from any pleasure – no, not even from a small pleasure like this one. We should hold on to the little happiness we can get, like a man on the edge of a mountain. So, it’s best to talk pleasantly. Let’s talk about each other. Why should we wear these masks? Let’s trust each other. Who knows? We might become friends."

"I have just one thing to say to you," said the dealer. "Either buy something or walk out of my shop."

"True, true," said Markheim. "Enough joking.To business. Show me something else."

The dealer stooped once more, this time to replace the mirror on the shelf, his thin blond hair falling over his eyes as he did so. Markheim moved a little nearer, with one hand in the pocket of his coat. He stood up straight and filled his lungs. At the same time, many different emotions showed on his face – terror, horror, decision and a physical repulsion.

"This, perhaps, may suit you," said the dealer. And then, as he began to get up, Markheim jumped on his victim. The long, thin knife moved fast and fell. The dealer struggled, hitting his head on the shelf, and then dropped to the floor.

Time passed: twenty or more small voices in that shop – some loud and slow, like their great age, others chatty and hurried. All these told the seconds in a chorus. Then a lad's feet, running in the street, broke in on these lighter sounds and made Markheim aware of his surroundings. He looked around him. The candle stood where it had been, its flame moving; and with that tiny movement the whole room seemed like a sea: the tall shadows dancing, the darkness growing and shrinking, the faces of the portraits changing like images in water. The inner door stood slightly open and a long line of daylight like a pointing finger entered that room of shadows.

From these frightened glances, Markheim's eyes returned to the body of his victim, much smaller than it was when alive. In these poor clothes, in that ugly attitude, the dealer lay like so much rubbish. Markheim had been afraid to see it, but it was nothing. And yet, as he gazed, the old clothes and the blood began to find eloquent voices. It must lie there till it was found. Found! Yes, and then? Then this corpse would cause a cry that would be heard all over England. Yes, dead or not, he was still the enemy. Time, now that the killing was done – time, which had stopped for the victim – had become of great importance for the killer.

This thought was still in his mind when, first one and then another of the clocks began to strike three.

He began to go to and fro with the candle, followed by many moving shadows. In rich mirrors, he saw his face repeated and repeated; his own eyes met and found himself again; and the sound of his own steps disturbed the quiet. And still, as he continued to fill his pockets, his mind accused him of the thousand mistakes in his plan. He should have chosen a quieter hour; he should have prepared an alibi; he should not have used a knife; he should have been more careful and only hit the dealer, and not killed him; he should have been braver and killed the servant too; he should have done everything differently. Trying to change what was unchangeable, to plan what was now useless, to be the architect of the past. Meanwhile, terror filled his brain with chaos; the police officer’s hand would fall heavily on his shoulder; he saw the prison, the gallows and the black coffin.

Terror of the people in the street filled him. Some rumour of the murder must have reached them and made them curious. Now, in all the neighbouring houses, he imagined them sitting motionless and listening – people living alone on memories of the past; happy family parties silenced around the table – all curious and listening and making the rope to hang him. Sometimes it seemed he could not move softly enough. Alarmed by the loudness of the ticking, he wanted to stop the clocks. And then, again, the very silence of the place seemed dangerous, something to attract the attention of passers-by; and he would search more bravely and noisily among the contents of the shop, and copy the movements of a busy man in his own house.

But he was now so disturbed by different fears that, while one part of his mind was alert, another trembled on the edge of madness. One hallucination in particular held his imagination. The neighbour listening with a white face beside his window, the passer-by stopped by a suspicion on the pavement – these could at worst suspect, they could not know; through the brick walls and locked windows only sounds could travel. But here, in the house, was he alone? He knew he was. He had watched the servant go out with her boyfriend, in her poor best clothes, 'out for the day' written in every smile. Yes, he was alone, of course, and yet, in the empty house above him, he could hear movement. He was aware, inexplicably aware of someone there. To every room in the house his imagination followed it; now it was a faceless thing but had eyes to see with; or it was a shadow of himself; and yet again it was the dead dealer, filled with cunning and hatred.

At times, with a strong effort, he would glance at the open door. The house was tall, the day blind with fog and the light that entered the ground floor was faint. But, in that strip of brightness, wasn’t there a shadow?

Suddenly, from the street outside, a gentleman began to hit the shop door with a stick, shouting the dealer’s name. Markheim, now turned to ice, glanced at the dead man. But he lay quite still; he was beneath seas of silence and his name had become an empty sound. And soon the gentleman stopped knocking and left.

Here was a reminder to hurry what he had to do, to leave this neighbourhood and to reach safety and innocence – his bed. One visitor had come. At any moment another might follow and be more persistent. To commit the crime and not get any profit would be a terrible failure. The money – that was now Markheim's concern and to get that, he needed the keys.

He glanced over his shoulder at the open door, where the shadow was still waiting, and fearfully, he went near the body of his victim. The human character had departed. But the thing disgusted him. He was worried about touching it. He took the body by the shoulders and turned it on its back. It was strangely light and flexible and the limbs, as if they had been broken, fell into the oddest shapes. The face had no expression, but it was pale and shockingly covered with blood.

Such a short while ago, that face had moved with every change of feeling, that pale mouth had spoken, that body had been on fire with energy and now, because of him, that piece of life had stopped. He looked on unmoved. At best, he felt pity for one who had never really lived and who was now dead. But regret, no!

With that, he found the keys and advanced towards the open door of the shop. Outside, it had begun to rain, and the sound of the shower on the roof chased silence away. The rooms of the house now had a constant echo, which filled his ears and mixed with the ticking of the clocks. And, as Markheim approached the door, he seemed to hear the steps of another foot going up the stairs. He opened the door.

The faint, foggy daylight glimmered on the bare floor and stairs. The sense that he was not alone grew on him to the edge of madness. On every side he was haunted by presences. He heard them moving in the rooms upstairs; from the shop, he heard the dead man getting to his feet; and as he began with a great effort to go upstairs, feet ran quietly in front of him and followed behind. His head turned continually. His eyes looked on every side, and on every side something nameless vanished before he could see what it was.

On that first floor, the doors stood ajar – three of them, like three ambushes, shaking his courage. He could never again, he felt, be safe from men; he wanted to be home, among the bedclothes and invisible to everybody but God. And at that thought, he remembered stories of other murderers and the fear they had of hell. It was not like that with him. He feared with superstitious terror, some evidence of his crime or a change in the laws of nature. The solid walls might become transparent; the floor might fall in under his feet. Yes, and there were more usual accidents that might ruin him. If, for instance, the house should fall and imprison him beside the body of his victim, or the house next door should catch fire and the firemen enter from all directions. These things he feared. But about God he was relaxed. His action was obviously exceptional, but so were his excuses, which God knew; it was there, and not among men, that he felt sure of justice.

When he had got safely into the living room and shut the door behind him, he felt more comfortable. The uncarpeted room was covered with cases and pieces of furniture; several huge mirrors, in which he saw himself at various angles, like an actor on a stage; many pictures, framed and unframed, standing, with their faces to the wall; and a big old bed. The windows opened to the floor; but luckily they were closed and this hid him from the neighbours. Here, then, Markheim searched for the keys. It was a long job, for there were many places to look; and it was also boring because, after all, there might be nothing in the cupboards and time was vital. But the need for him to pay attention calmed him down. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the door – even glanced at it from time to time directly. But in truth he was at peace. The rain falling in the street sounded natural and pleasant. After a short while, on the other side of the road, he heard the notes of a piano and the voices of many children. Markheim listened to it, smiling, as he sorted out the keys.

And as he sat, at the same time busy and absent-minded, he was surprised. A flash of ice, a flash of fire went over him and then he stood unmoving in the same spot. There was the noise of a slow step on the stairs and soon the lock clicked and the door opened.

Fear kept Markheim imprisoned. He did not know what to expect, the dead man walking or the police or a witness arriving to send him to the gallows. But when a face looked round the door, glanced round the room, looked at him, nodded and smiled as if it recognised him and then suddenly left again, and the door closed behind it, he screamed. At this sound, the visitor returned.

"Did you call me?" he asked, pleasantly, and with that he entered the room and closed the door behind him.

Markheim stood and gazed at him. Perhaps there was a problem with his sight, but the outlines of the newcomer seemed to change in the moving candle-light of the shop and, at times, he thought he knew him and, at others, he thought he looked like himself; but always, he believed this thing was not from the earth or from God.

And yet the creature looked strangely normal, as he stood looking at Markheim with a smile. And when he added, "You’re looking for the money, I believe?" it was with everyday politeness.

Markheim made no answer.

"I should warn you," resumed the other, "that the maid has left her boyfriend earlier than usual and will soon be here. If Mr. Markheim is found in this house, I don’t need to describe the consequences."

"You know me?" cried the murderer.

The visitor smiled. "You’ve long been a favourite of mine," he said; "and I have often tried to help you."

"What are you?" cried Markheim; "The devil?"

"What I may be," returned the other, "cannot affect what I offer you."

"It can," cried Markheim; "It does! Helped by you? No, never! Not by you! You do not know me yet. Thank God, you don’t know me!"

"I know you," replied the visitor, with polite certainty. "I know your soul."

"Know me!" cried Markheim. "Who can know me? I have lived a lie. All men do. If you could see their faces, they would be different, they would shine like heroes and saints! I’m worse than most. God knows my excuse. But, if I had the time, I could show myself."

"To me?" asked the visitor.

"To you most of all," returned the murderer. "I supposed you were intelligent. I thought – since you exist – you could read my heart. But you judge me by my acts! I was born and I have lived in a land of giants; giants have pulled me by the wrists since I was born – the giants of chance. And you’d judge me by my acts! But can’t you look inside? Can’t you understand that evil is hateful to me? Can’t you see the clear writing of my conscience? Can’t you read me as an unwilling sinner?"

"All this is very feelingly explained" was the reply, "but it does not concern me. I don’t care why you’ve been pulled away from your path, only that you’re carried in the right direction. But time flies. The servant delays, looking in the faces of the crowd, but she still keeps moving nearer. And remember, it is as if the gallows were walking towards you! Shall I help you – I, who know everything? Shall I tell you where to find the money?"

"For what price?" asked Markheim.

"Call it a gift for Christmas," answered the other.

Markheim could not help smiling with a kind of victory. "No," he said, "I’ll take nothing from you. If I were dying of thirst, and if it was your hand that put the water to my lips, I should find the courage to refuse. It may seem unbelievable, but I will do nothing evil."

"I have no objection to a deathbed repentance," said the visitor.

"Because you doubt that they work!" Markheim cried.

"I don’t say that," replied the other; "but I look on these things from a different point of view, and when life is over, my interest dies too. The man has lived to serve me, to spread black looks and evil actions, as you do. Now that he gets so near death, he can do me only one more service: to repent, to die smiling and build the confidence of my surviving followers. I’m not so hard a master. Try me. Accept my help. Please yourself in life as you have done till now. Please yourself more than you have done and, when night begins to fall, I tell you, for your greater comfort, that you will find it easy to make friends with your conscience and to make peace with God. I’ve just come from such a deathbed and the room was full of mourners, listening to the man's last words, and when I looked into that face, I found it smiling with hope."

"And do you suppose I’m like that?" asked Markheim. "Do you think I want to sin and sin and at last sneak into heaven? Is this, then, your experience of mankind? Or is it because you find me with bloody hands that you suppose I am so low?"

"Murder is nothing special to me," replied the other. "All sins are murder, just as all life is war. I look at your race like starving sailors on a shipwreck, feeding on each other's lives. I follow sins beyond the present. I find that the last consequence is death, and to my eyes, the pretty girls who lie to their mothers about dancing with boys are no better than a murderer like yourself. Did I say that I follow sins? I follow virtues too. They are not much different. Evil, which I live for, is not about actions but character. The bad man is dear to me, not the bad act. The consequences of a bad act, if we could follow them far enough through the ages, might be better than those of a truly good deed. And it is not because you have killed a dealer, but because you are Markheim, that I offer to help you escape."

"I will open my heart to you," answered Markheim. "This crime is my last. I’ve learnt many lessons. I was a slave to poverty. I lived for pleasure. But today I get both a warning and wealth. I become a free man. I am starting to see myself changed. These hands will do good, this heart will be at peace. That is my life. I have wandered a few years, but now I see my destination once more."

"You’re going to use this money on the Stock Exchange, I think?" commented the visitor. "If I’m not mistaken, you have already lost thousands of pounds there?"

"Ah," said Markheim, "but this time I have a sure thing."

"This time, again, you will lose," replied the visitor quietly.

"Ah, but I’m keeping half of it!" cried Markheim.

"You will lose that too," said the other.

Markheim started to sweat. "Say it’s lost, say I am poor again, will the worst part of me continue to beat the better until the end? Both evil and good are strong in me. I don’t love one thing; I love everything. Although I have murdered, I understand pity. I pity the poor. Who knows their problems better than I do? I pity and help them. I love honest laughter. There’s no good thing on earth that I don’t love."

But the visitor raised his finger. "For thirty-six years you have been in this world," he said, "I’ve watched you fall. Fifteen years ago you’d have been shocked at the idea of stealing. Three years ago, you’d have gone pale at the thought of murder. Is there any crime, is there any cruelty or evil, which you still refuse? Downward, downward, lies your way; nothing but death can stop you."

"It is true," Markheim said quietly, "I have to some extent played with evil. But it’s true of everyone."

"I’ll ask you one simple question," said the other; "and as you answer I’ll read to you your moral horoscope. You have grown more lax in many things; possibly you’re right to be so; it’s the same with all men. Be happy with what you are, for you’ll never change."

Markheim stood silent for a long while, and it was the visitor who spoke first. "As that’s the case," he said, "shall I show you the money?"

"I see my duty clearly now", said Markheim. "Thank-you for these lessons; my eyes are open and I see myself at last for what I am."

At that moment, the door-bell rang and the visitor, as though this were a signal he’d been waiting for, changed at once.

"The maid!" he cried. "She’s returned, as I warned you, and there is now one more difficult thing for you to do. Her master, you must say, is ill. You must let her in, with a serious look; no smiles, no overacting and I promise you success! When the girl is inside and the door closed, the same skill that has already got rid of the dealer will clear this last danger from your path. Then you have the whole evening – the whole night, if necessary – to search the house and to escape!" he cried; "Your life is in danger!"

Markheim looked at his advisor. "If I must do evil," he said, "there’s still one door open: I can stop. If my life is an evil thing, I can give it up. Though I am, as you say, the slave of every sin, I can still, by one decisive gesture, keep myself away from evil. I still have my hatred of evil and from that, to your disappointment, you’ll see that I can get both energy and courage."

The visitor’s face began to change: it brightened with victory and faded again. But Markheim didn’t pause to understand the change. He opened the door and went downstairs very slowly, thinking to himself. He considered his past; he saw it as it was, ugly – a scene of defeat. Life, as he looked back on it, interested him no longer. He paused in the hall and looked into the shop, where the candle still burnt by the dead body. It was strangely silent. Thoughts of the dealer rushed into his mind, as he stood looking. And then the bell rang once again.

He met the maid at the door with something like a smile.

"You'd better go for the police," he said. "I’ve killed your employer."