物語

解説

付記

死んだ牛の伝記 ある晩、ニューヨークのルドルフ・ブロック氏は、批評家として名高いパーシヴァル・ポラード氏と夕食を共にした。 「ポラードさん、」と彼は言った。 「私の本『死んだ牛の伝記』は匿名で出版しましたが、著者が誰かをご存じないはずがないでしょう。 ところがあなたは、書評でそれを『世紀の馬鹿の作』と書いた。あれは公正な批評ですか？」 「申し訳ない、」と批評家は穏やかに答えた。 「ただ、あなたが本当に著者を知られたくないとは思いもしませんでしたので。」 ゴースト作家と記者 カリフォルニア州サンノゼに住んでいたW.C.モロウ氏は、読者の背筋を氷のトカゲが駆け上り、髪に潜り込むような恐怖譚を書く癖があった。 当時サンノゼは、絞首刑にされた悪名高き盗賊バスケスの霊が出没すると信じられており、町は暗く、夜に出歩くのを嫌がった。 ある暗夜、二人の紳士が町外れを大声で話しながら歩いていたとき、記者J.J.オーウェンに出会った。 「オーウェン、こんな夜更けにここで何を？　ここはバスケスの出没する場所じゃないか。あなたは信じているのだろう？　恐ろしくないのか？」 「友よ、」とオーウェンは枯れ葉を運ぶ風の呻きのように答えた。 「私は“中にいる”のが怖いのだ。ポケットにモロウの怪談を一つ持っていて、明かりの下で読む勇気などないのだから。」 幻の楽隊 ワシントンの平和記念碑のそばで、シュリー提督と下院議員チャールズ・F・ジョイは「成功とは失敗か」を議論していた。 突然ジョイが叫んだ。 「おや、この楽隊の音を聞いたことがある。サントルマン隊だな。」 「私は何も聞こえないが、」と提督。 「いや、私も聞こえない、」とジョイ。 「だがほら、マイルズ将軍が通ってくる。彼の姿はいつも私に楽隊の音を聞かせるのだ。人は自分の印象を吟味しなければ、由来を誤る。」 やがてマイルズ将軍が堂々と行進し、眩い威容に二人は一時的に目を奪われた。 「彼は楽しんでいるな、」と提督。 「ええ、」とジョイは思案顔で頷いた。 「彼が心底楽しむものは、他には半分もない。」 チャンプ・クラークの騾馬 ミズーリ州の政治家チャンプ・クラーク氏は、愛馬の騾馬に乗って町に出た。酷暑の日、酒場の前に繋ぎ、自らは断酒家として中に入り、酒の害を説いた。 やがて隣人が入ってきて言った。 「チャンプ、あの騾馬を日に晒しておくのは良くない。焼け死んでしまう――煙を上げていたぞ。」 「大丈夫、」とクラークは軽く言った。 「彼は筋金入りのスモーカーだからな。」 だがそれは悪戯だった。昨夜の火事で焼けた仔馬の死体と入れ替えられていたのだ。 別の男が「頼むからあの騾馬をどけろ、臭いぞ」と言った時も、クラークは「ミズーリ一の鼻の持ち主だ、気にすることはない」と返した。 外に出た彼の前にあったのは、焼け縮んだ遺骸だった。だが彼は無表情のまま去り、夜、月明かりの下で本物の騾馬が静かに立っているのを見て、叫び声をあげて町へ逃げ帰った。 将軍と猿 陸軍大学校長ウォザーズプーン将軍は、珍しい鼻を持つヒヒを飼っていた。名は「アダム」。知性に富むが見た目は不恰好だった。 ある夜帰宅すると、アダムは将軍の礼服を着込み、部屋で待っていた。 「この忌まわしい祖先め！」と将軍は怒鳴った。 「寝る時間に何をしている！　しかも私の服を着て！」 アダムは四つん這いになり、名刺を差し出した。そこには「バリー将軍ご来訪」の文字。部屋にはシャンパンの瓶と葉巻の吸殻。アダムは客をもてなしていたのだ。 翌日、バリー将軍は言った。 「昨夜の葉巻は絶品だった。どこで手に入れた？」 ウォザーズプーンは答えず立ち去った。 「失礼、冗談ですよ。十五分であなたでないと分かりましたから。」

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Original

A narrative, commonly untrue. The truth of the stories here following has, however, not been successfully impeached.

Additional notes

One evening Mr. Rudolph Block, of New York, found himself seated at dinner alongside Mr. Percival Pollard, the distinguished critic. Mr. Pollard, said he, "my book, The Biography of a Dead Cow, is published anonymously, but you can hardly be ignorant of its authorship. Yet in reviewing it you speak of it as the work of the Idiot of the Century. Do you think that fair criticism?" I am very sorry, sir, replied the critic, amiably, "but it did not occur to me that you really might not wish the public to know who wrote it." Mr. W.C. Morrow, who used to live in San Jose, California, was addicted to writing ghost stories which made the reader feel as if a stream of lizards, fresh from the ice, were streaking it up his back and hiding in his hair. San Jose was at that time believed to be haunted by the visible spirit of a noted bandit named Vasquez, who had been hanged there. The town was not very well lighted, and it is putting it mildly to say that San Jose was reluctant to be out o' nights. One particularly dark night two gentlemen were abroad in the loneliest spot within the city limits, talking loudly to keep up their courage, when they came upon Mr. J.J. Owen, a well-known journalist. Why, Owen, said one, "what brings you here on such a night as this? You told me that this is one of Vasquez' favorite haunts! And you are a believer. Aren't you afraid to be out?" My dear fellow, the journalist replied with a drear autumnal cadence in his speech, like the moan of a leaf-laden wind, "I am afraid to be in. I have one of Will Morrow's stories in my pocket and I don't dare to go where there is light enough to read it." Rear-Admiral Schley and Representative Charles F. Joy were standing near the Peace Monument, in Washington, discussing the question, Is success a failure? Mr. Joy suddenly broke off in the middle of an eloquent sentence, exclaiming: "Hello! I've heard that band before. Santlemann's, I think." I don't hear any band, said Schley. Come to think, I don't either, said Joy; "but I see General Miles coming down the avenue, and that pageant always affects me in the same way as a brass band. One has to scrutinize one's impressions pretty closely, or one will mistake their origin." While the Admiral was digesting this hasty meal of philosophy General Miles passed in review, a spectacle of impressive dignity. When the tail of the seeming procession had passed and the two observers had recovered from the transient blindness caused by its effulgence— He seems to be enjoying himself, said the Admiral. There is nothing, assented Joy, thoughtfully, "that he enjoys one-half so well." The illustrious statesman, Champ Clark, once lived about a mile from the village of Jebigue, in Missouri. One day he rode into town on a favorite mule, and, hitching the beast on the sunny side of a street, in front of a saloon, he went inside in his character of teetotaler, to apprise the barkeeper that wine is a mocker. It was a dreadfully hot day. Pretty soon a neighbor came in and seeing Clark, said: Champ, it is not right to leave that mule out there in the sun. He'll roast, sure!—he was smoking as I passed him. O, he's all right, said Clark, lightly; "he's an inveterate smoker." The neighbor took a lemonade, but shook his head and repeated that it was not right. He was a conspirator. There had been a fire the night before: a stable just around the corner had burned and a number of horses had put on their immortality, among them a young colt, which was roasted to a rich nut-brown. Some of the boys had turned Mr. Clark's mule loose and substituted the mortal part of the colt. Presently another man entered the saloon. For mercy's sake! he said, taking it with sugar, "do remove that mule, barkeeper: it smells." Yes, interposed Clark, "that animal has the best nose in Missouri. But if he doesn't mind, you shouldn't." In the course of human events Mr. Clark went out, and there, apparently, lay the incinerated and shrunken remains of his charger. The boys did not have any fun out of Mr. Clarke, who looked at the body and, with the non-committal expression to which he owes so much of his political preferment, went away. But walking home late that night he saw his mule standing silent and solemn by the wayside in the misty moonlight. Mentioning the name of Helen Blazes with uncommon emphasis, Mr. Clark took the back track as hard as ever he could hook it, and passed the night in town. General H.H. Wotherspoon, president of the Army War College, has a pet rib-nosed baboon, an animal of uncommon intelligence but imperfectly beautiful. Returning to his apartment one evening, the General was surprised and pained to find Adam (for so the creature is named, the general being a Darwinian) sitting up for him and wearing his master's best uniform coat, epaulettes and all. You confounded remote ancestor! thundered the great strategist, "what do you mean by being out of bed after naps?—and with my coat on!" Adam rose and with a reproachful look got down on all fours in the manner of his kind and, scuffling across the room to a table, returned with a visiting-card: General Barry had called and, judging by an empty champagne bottle and several cigar-stumps, had been hospitably entertained while waiting. The general apologized to his faithful progenitor and retired. The next day he met General Barry, who said: Spoon, old man, when leaving you last evening I forgot to ask you about those excellent cigars. Where did you get them? General Wotherspoon did not deign to reply, but walked away. Pardon me, please, said Barry, moving after him; "I was joking of course. Why, I knew it was not you before I had been in the room fifteen minutes."