A jug of sirup
This narrative begins with the death of its hero. Silas Deemer died
on the 16th day of July, 1863, and two days later his remains were
buried. As he had been personally known to every man, woman and
well-grown child in the village, the funeral, as the local newspaper
phrased it, "was largely attended." In accordance with a custom of
the time and place, the coffin was opened at the graveside and the
entire assembly of friends and neighbors filed past, taking a last
look at the face of the dead. And then, before the eyes of all,
Silas Deemer was put into the ground. Some of the eyes were a trifle
dim, but in a general way it may be said that at that interment there
was lack of neither observance nor observation; Silas was indubitably
dead, and none could have pointed out any ritual delinquency that
would have justified him in coming back from the grave. Yet if human
testimony is good for anything (and certainly it once put an end to
witchcraft in and about Salem) he came back.
I forgot to state that the death and burial of Silas Deemer occurred
in the little village of Hillbrook, where he had lived for thirty-one
years. He had been what is known in some parts of the Union (which
is admittedly a free country) as a "merchant"; that is to say, he
kept a retail shop for the sale of such things as are commonly sold
in shops of that character. His honesty had never been questioned,
so far as is known, and he was held in high esteem by all. The only
thing that could be urged against him by the most censorious was a
too close attention to business. It was not urged against him,
though many another, who manifested it in no greater degree, was less
leniently judged. The business to which Silas was devoted was mostly
his own--that, possibly, may have made a difference.
At the time of Deemer's death nobody could recollect a single day,
Sundays excepted, that he had not passed in his "store," since he had
opened it more than a quarter-century before. His health having been
perfect during all that time, he had been unable to discern any
validity in whatever may or might have been urged to lure him astray
from his counter and it is related that once when he was summoned to
the county seat as a witness in an important law case and did not
attend, the lawyer who had the hardihood to move that he be
"admonished" was solemnly informed that the Court regarded the
proposal with "surprise." Judicial surprise being an emotion that
attorneys are not commonly ambitious to arouse, the motion was
hastily withdrawn and an agreement with the other side effected as to
what Mr. Deemer would have said if he had been there--the other side
pushing its advantage to the extreme and making the supposititious
testimony distinctly damaging to the interests of its proponents. In
brief, it was the general feeling in all that region that Silas
Deemer was the one immobile verity of Hillbrook, and that his
translation in space would precipitate some dismal public ill or
strenuous calamity.
Mrs. Deemer and two grown daughters occupied the upper rooms of the
building, but Silas had never been known to sleep elsewhere than on a
cot behind the counter of the store. And there, quite by accident,
he was found one night, dying, and passed away just before the time
for taking down the shutters. Though speechless, he appeared
conscious, and it was thought by those who knew him best that if the
end had unfortunately been delayed beyond the usual hour for opening
the store the effect upon him would have been deplorable.
Such had been Silas Deemer--such the fixity and invariety of his life
and habit, that the village humorist (who had once attended college)
was moved to bestow upon him the sobriquet of "Old Ibidem," and, in
the first issue of the local newspaper after the death, to explain
without offence that Silas had taken "a day off." It was more than a
day, but from the record it appears that well within a month Mr.
Deemer made it plain that he had not the leisure to be dead.
One of Hillbrook's most respected citizens was Alvan Creede, a
banker. He lived in the finest house in town, kept a carriage and
was a most estimable man variously. He knew something of the
advantages of travel, too, having been frequently in Boston, and
once, it was thought, in New York, though he modestly disclaimed that
glittering distinction. The matter is mentioned here merely as a
contribution to an understanding of Mr. Creede's worth, for either
way it is creditable to him--to his intelligence if he had put
himself, even temporarily, into contact with metropolitan culture; to
his candor if he had not.
One pleasant summer evening at about the hour of ten Mr. Creede,
entering at his garden gate, passed up the gravel walk, which looked
very white in the moonlight, mounted the stone steps of his fine
house and pausing a moment inserted his latchkey in the door. As he
pushed this open he met his wife, who was crossing the passage from
the parlor to the library. She greeted him pleasantly and pulling
the door further back held it for him to enter. Instead he turned
and, looking about his feet in front of the threshold, uttered an
exclamation of surprise.
"Why!--what the devil," he said, "has become of that jug?"
"What jug, Alvan?" his wife inquired, not very sympathetically.
"A jug of maple sirup--I brought it along from the store and set it
down here to open the door. What the--"
"There, there, Alvan, please don't swear again," said the lady,
interrupting. Hillbrook, by the way, is not the only place in
Christendom where a vestigial polytheism forbids the taking in vain
of the Evil One's name.
The jug of maple sirup which the easy ways of village life had
permitted Hillbrook's foremost citizen to carry home from the store
was not there.
"Are you quite sure, Alvan?"
"My dear, do you suppose a man does not know when he is carrying a
jug? I bought that sirup at Deemer's as I was passing. Deemer
himself drew it and lent me the jug, and I--"
The sentence remains to this day unfinished. Mr. Creede staggered
into the house, entered the parlor and dropped into an armchair,
trembling in every limb. He had suddenly remembered that Silas
Deemer was three weeks dead.
Mrs. Creede stood by her husband, regarding him with surprise and
anxiety.
"For Heaven's sake," she said, "what ails you?"
Mr. Creede's ailment having no obvious relation to the interests of
the better land he did not apparently deem it necessary to expound it
on that demand; he said nothing--merely stared. There were long
moments of silence broken by nothing but the measured ticking of the
clock, which seemed somewhat slower than usual, as if it were civilly
granting them an extension of time in which to recover their wits.
"Jane, I have gone mad--that is it." He spoke thickly and hurriedly.
"You should have told me; you must have observed my symptoms before
they became so pronounced that I have observed them myself. I
thought I was passing Deemer's store; it was open and lit up--that is
what I thought; of course it is never open now. Silas Deemer stood
at his desk behind the counter. My God, Jane, I saw him as
distinctly as I see you. Remembering that you had said you wanted
some maple sirup, I went in and bought some--that is all--I bought
two quarts of maple sirup from Silas Deemer, who is dead and
underground, but nevertheless drew that sirup from a cask and handed
it to me in a jug. He talked with me, too, rather gravely, I
remember, even more so than was his way, but not a word of what he
said can I now recall. But I saw him--good Lord, I saw and talked
with him--and he is dead! So I thought, but I'm mad, Jane, I'm as
crazy as a beetle; and you have kept it from me."
This monologue gave the woman time to collect what faculties she had.
"Alvan," she said, "you have given no evidence of insanity, believe
me. This was undoubtedly an illusion--how should it be anything
else? That would be too terrible! But there is no insanity; you are
working too hard at the bank. You should not have attended the
meeting of directors this evening; any one could see that you were
ill; I knew something would occur."
It may have seemed to him that the prophecy had lagged a bit,
awaiting the event, but he said nothing of that, being concerned with
his own condition. He was calm now, and could think coherently.
"Doubtless the phenomenon was subjective," he said, with a somewhat
ludicrous transition to the slang of science. "Granting the
possibility of spiritual apparition and even materialization, yet the
apparition and materialization of a half-gallon brown clay jug--a
piece of coarse, heavy pottery evolved from nothing--that is hardly
thinkable."
As he finished speaking, a child ran into the room--his little
daughter. She was clad in a bedgown. Hastening to her father she
threw her arms about his neck, saying: "You naughty papa, you forgot
to come in and kiss me. We heard you open the gate and got up and
looked out. And, papa dear, Eddy says mayn't he have the little jug
when it is empty?"
As the full import of that revelation imparted itself to Alvan
Creede's understanding he visibly shuddered. For the child could not
have heard a word of the conversation.
The estate of Silas Deemer being in the hands of an administrator who
had thought it best to dispose of the "business" the store had been
closed ever since the owner's death, the goods having been removed by
another "merchant" who had purchased them en bloc. The rooms above
were vacant as well, for the widow and daughters had gone to another
town.
On the evening immediately after Alvan Creede's adventure (which had
somehow "got out") a crowd of men, women and children thronged the
sidewalk opposite the store. That the place was haunted by the
spirit of the late Silas Deemer was now well known to every resident
of Hillbrook, though many affected disbelief. Of these the hardiest,
and in a general way the youngest, threw stones against the front of
the building, the only part accessible, but carefully missed the
unshuttered windows. Incredulity had not grown to malice. A few
venturesome souls crossed the street and rattled the door in its
frame; struck matches and held them near the window; attempted to
view the black interior. Some of the spectators invited attention to
their wit by shouting and groaning and challenging the ghost to a
footrace.
After a considerable time had elapsed without any manifestation, and
many of the crowd had gone away, all those remaining began to observe
that the interior of the store was suffused with a dim, yellow light.
At this all demonstrations ceased; the intrepid souls about the door
and windows fell back to the opposite side of the street and were
merged in the crowd; the small boys ceased throwing stones. Nobody
spoke above his breath; all whispered excitedly and pointed to the
now steadily growing light. How long a time had passed since the
first faint glow had been observed none could have guessed, but
eventually the illumination was bright enough to reveal the whole
interior of the store; and there, standing at his desk behind the
counter, Silas Deemer was distinctly visible!
The effect upon the crowd was marvelous. It began rapidly to melt
away at both flanks, as the timid left the place. Many ran as fast
as their legs would let them; others moved off with greater dignity,
turning occasionally to look backward over the shoulder. At last a
score or more, mostly men, remained where they were, speechless,
staring, excited. The apparition inside gave them no attention; it
was apparently occupied with a book of accounts.
Presently three men left the crowd on the sidewalk as if by a common
impulse and crossed the street. One of them, a heavy man, was about
to set his shoulder against the door when it opened, apparently
without human agency, and the courageous investigators passed in. No
sooner had they crossed the threshold than they were seen by the awed
observers outside to be acting in the most unaccountable way. They
thrust out their hands before them, pursued devious courses, came
into violent collision with the counter, with boxes and barrels on
the floor, and with one another. They turned awkwardly hither and
thither and seemed trying to escape, but unable to retrace their
steps. Their voices were heard in exclamations and curses. But in
no way did the apparition of Silas Deemer manifest an interest in
what was going on.
By what impulse the crowd was moved none ever recollected, but the
entire mass--men, women, children, dogs--made a simultaneous and
tumultuous rush for the entrance. They congested the doorway,
pushing for precedence--resolving themselves at length into a line
and moving up step by step. By some subtle spiritual or physical
alchemy observation had been transmuted into action--the sightseers
had become participants in the spectacle--the audience had usurped
the stage.
To the only spectator remaining on the other side of the street--
Alvan Creede, the banker--the interior of the store with its
inpouring crowd continued in full illumination; all the strange
things going on there were clearly visible. To those inside all was
black darkness. It was as if each person as he was thrust in at the
door had been stricken blind, and was maddened by the mischance.
They groped with aimless imprecision, tried to force their way out
against the current, pushed and elbowed, struck at random, fell and
were trampled, rose and trampled in their turn. They seized one
another by the garments, the hair, the beard--fought like animals,
cursed, shouted, called one another opprobrious and obscene names.
When, finally, Alvan Creede had seen the last person of the line pass
into that awful tumult the light that had illuminated it was suddenly
quenched and all was as black to him as to those within. He turned
away and left the place.
In the early morning a curious crowd had gathered about "Deemer's."
It was composed partly of those who had run away the night before,
but now had the courage of sunshine, partly of honest folk going to
their daily toil. The door of the store stood open; the place was
vacant, but on the walls, the floor, the furniture, were shreds of
clothing and tangles of hair. Hillbrook militant had managed somehow
to pull itself out and had gone home to medicine its hurts and swear
that it had been all night in bed. On the dusty desk, behind the
counter, was the sales-book. The entries in it, in Deemer's
handwriting, had ceased on the 16th day of July, the last of his
life. There was no record of a later sale to Alvan Creede.
That is the entire story--except that men's passions having subsided
and reason having resumed its immemorial sway, it was confessed in
Hillbrook that, considering the harmless and honorable character of
his first commercial transaction under the new conditions, Silas
Deemer, deceased, might properly have been suffered to resume
business at the old stand without mobbing. In that judgment the
local historian from whose unpublished work these facts are compiled
had the thoughtfulness to signify his concurrence.
-THE END-
Ambrose Bierce's short story: A jug of sirup
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