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My Friend Paton
by
“What do you think of that?” he said, holding it out to me. “There’s a solution of continuity for you! Mind you don’t prick yourself! It’s poisoned up to the hilt!”
“What do you want of such a thing?” I asked.
“Well, killing began with Cain, and isn’t likely to go out of fashion in our day. I might find it convenient to give one of my friends–you, for instance–a reminder of his mortality some time. You’ll say murder is immoral. Bless you, man, we never could do without it! No man dies before his time, and some one dies every day that some one else may live.”
This was said in a jocose way, and, of course, Paton did not mean it. But it affected me unpleasantly nevertheless.
As I was washing my hands in my room, I happened to look out of my window, which commanded a view of the garden at the back of the house. It was an hour after sunset, and the garden was nearly dark; but I caught a movement of something below, and, looking more closely, I recognized the ugly figure of the portier. He seemed to be tying something to the end of a long slender pole, like a gigantic fishing- rod; and presently he advanced beneath my window, and raised the pole as high as it would go against the wall of the house. The point he touched was the sill of the window below mine–probably that of the bedroom of Herr Kragendorf. At this juncture the portier seemed to be startled at something–possibly he saw me at my window; at all events, he lowered his pole and disappeared in the house.
The next day Paton made an announcement that took me by surprise. He said he had made up his mind to quit Germany, and that very shortly. He mentioned having received letters from home, and declared he had got, or should soon have got, all he wanted out of this country. “I’m going to stop paying money for instruction,” he said, “and begin to earn it by work. I shall stay another week, but then I’m off. Too slow here for me! I want to be in the midst of things, using my time.”
I did not attempt to dissuade him; in fact, my first feeling was rather one of relief; and this Paton, with his quick preceptions, was probably aware of.
“Own up, old boy!” he said, laughing; “you’ll be able to endure my absence. And yet you needn’t think of me as worse than anybody else. If everybody were musicians and moralists, it would be nice, no doubt; but one might get tired of it in time, and then what would you do? You must give the scamps and adventurers their innings, after all! They may not do much good, but they give the other fellows occupation. I was born without my leave being asked, and I may act as suits me without asking anybody’s leave.”
This was said on a certain bright morning after our first fall of snow; the tiled roofs of the houses were whitened with it, it cushioned the window-sills, and spread a sparkling blankness over the garden. In the streets it was already melting, and people were slipping and splashing on the wet and glistening pavements. After gazing out at this scene for a while, in a mood of unwonted thoughtfulness, Paton yawned, stretched himself, and declared his intention of taking a stroll before dinner. Accordingly he lit a cigar and went forth. I watched him go down the street and turn the corner.
An hour afterward, just when dinner was on the table, I heard an unusual noise and shuffling on the stairs, and a heavy knock on the door. I opened it, and saw four men bearing on a pallet the form of my friend Paton. A police officer accompanied them. They brought Paton in, and laid him on his bed. The officer told me briefly what had happened, gave me certain directions, and, saying that a surgeon would arrive immediately, he departed with the four men tramping behind him.