[adapted]

by
Edgar Allan Poe

This great problem, of not being able to be alone.
La Bruyère.

It was well said of a certain German book that it does not allow itself to be read. There are some secrets which do not allow themselves to be told. Men die every night in their beds, squeezing the hands of ghost-like priests, and looking them sadly in the eyes—die with no hope in the heart and with a choking in the throat, because of the terrible mysteries which will not allow themselves to be shown. Now and then, sadly, the conscience of man takes up a burden so heavy with horror that it can be put down only into the grave. And thus the secret of all crime is not told.

Not long ago, near the end of an autumn evening, I sat at the large curved window of the D—— Coffee-House in London. For some months I had been sick, but was now getting better, and, as my strength came back, found myself in one of those happy moods which are exactly the opposite of boredom—moods of the strongest desire, when the cloud from the mind goes away—and the mind, excited, surpasses as greatly its everyday state, as the clear yet honest reason of Leibnitz surpasses the wild and weak talk of Gorgias. Merely to breathe was enjoyment; and I got real pleasure even from many of the usual causes of pain. I felt a calm but curious interest in everything. With a cigar in my mouth and a newspaper on my lap, I had been amusing myself for most of the afternoon, now by reading closely the advertisements, now by watching the mixed company in the room, and now by looking closely through the smoky window panes into the street.

This one is one of the main streets of the city, and had been very crowded during the whole day. But, as it became dark, the crowd grew every moment; and, by the time the lamps were well lit, two thick and never-ending streams of people were rushing past the door. At this time of the evening I had never before been in a similar situation, and the wild sea of human heads filled me, so, with a sweet new feeling. I gave up, at last, all care of things inside the hotel, and became lost in looking at the scene outside.

At first my watching was general and not about details. I looked at the passengers in large groups, and thought of them all together. Soon, however, I went to details, and looked with very close interest at the many kinds of body, dress, way, walk, face, and expression of face.

By far most of the people who went by had a happy, serious manner, and seemed to be thinking only of making their way through the crowd. Their eyebrows were pulled together, and their eyes moved quickly; when pushed by other walkers they showed no sign of impatience, but straightened their clothes and hurried on. Others, still a large group, were restless in their movements, had red faces, and talked and made hand movements to themselves, as if feeling alone because the crowd around them was very thick. When blocked in their progress, these people suddenly stopped muttering, but made even more hand movements, and waited, with an empty and too big smile on their lips, for the movement of the people blocking them.

If pushed, they bowed a lot to the people who pushed them, and seemed very confused.—There was nothing very special about these two large groups beyond what I have said. Their clothes were of the kind people clearly call decent. They were surely lords, traders, lawyers, workers, stock traders—the nobles and the ordinary people of society—men with free time and men busy with their own business—doing business for themselves. They did not interest me much.

The group of clerks was an obvious one; and here I noticed two clear groups. There were the junior clerks from flashy places—young gentlemen with tight coats, shiny boots, well-oiled hair, and proud lips. Putting aside a certain neatness in the way they moved, which may be called deskism for lack of a better word, the manner of these people seemed to be an exact copy of what had been the perfect high fashion about twelve or eighteen months before. They wore the leftover manners of the rich people;—and this, I believe, gives the best definition of the class.

It was not possible to mistake the group of top clerks of strong firms, or of the “steady old fellows.” These were known by their coats and trousers of black or brown, made to fit comfortably, with white ties and vests, wide strong-looking shoes, and thick socks or leggings.—They all had slightly bald heads, from which the right ears, long used to holding pens, had a strange habit of sticking out. I noticed that they always took off or fixed their hats with both hands, and wore watches, with short gold chains of a strong and very old style. Theirs was the pretense of being respectable;—if indeed there be a pretense so honorable.

There were many people with a smart look, who I easily understood as belonging to the group of fancy pickpockets, which are in all big cities. I watched these people with much curiosity, and found it hard to imagine how they could ever be mistaken for gentlemen by gentlemen themselves. Their big wristbands, with a look of too much openness, should give them away at once.

The gamblers, of whom I saw many, were even easier to recognize. They wore every kind of dress, from that of the desperate trick-game cheat, with velvet vest, fancy scarf, gold chains, and decorated buttons, to that of the very plain clergyman, than which nothing could be less likely to cause suspicion. Still all were marked by a kind of dull dark skin, a cloudy dimness of the eyes, and paleness and tightness of the lips.

There were two other signs, also, by which I could always know them: a careful low tone in talk, and a more than usual stretching of the thumb, sticking out straight from the fingers. Very often, together with these cheats, I saw a kind of men a bit different in habits, but still birds of the same sort. They may be called the gentlemen who live by their cleverness. They seem to take advantage of the public in two groups—that of the fashionable men and that of the military men. Of the first group the main signs are long hair and smiles; of the second, decorated coats and frowns.

Going down in the level of what is called good society, I found darker and deeper things to think about. I saw Jewish peddlers, with sharp eyes flashing from faces whose every other feature showed only a very humble look; strong professional street beggars frowning at beggars of a better sort, whom only despair had driven out into the night to ask for help; weak and very pale sick people, who were near death, and who shuffled and wobbled through the crowd, looking at everyone in the face, begging, as if looking for some small comfort, some lost hope; shy young girls returning from long and late work to a sad home, and shrinking more with tears than with anger from the looks of bad men, whose direct touch, even, could not be avoided;

women of the town of all kinds and of all ages—the clearly beautiful woman in the best time of her womanhood, making one think of the statue in Lucian, with the surface like Parian marble, and the inside filled with dirt—the disgusting and completely lost leper in rags—the wrinkled, covered with jewels, and paint-smeared old woman, making a last try at youth—the very young child with a body not yet grown, yet, from being around it for a long time, skilled in the terrible flirting tricks of her trade, and burning with a wild desire to be seen as equal to her elders in vice;

countless and hard to describe drunk people—some in rags and patches, staggering, unable to speak clearly, with bruised face and dull eyes—some in whole although dirty clothes, with a slightly unsteady walk, thick, soft lips, and healthy-looking red faces—others dressed in clothes which had once been good, and which even now were very carefully brushed—men who walked with a more than naturally really firm and springy step, but whose faces were terribly pale, and whose eyes were horribly wild and red, and who grabbed with shaking fingers, as they walked with long steps through the crowd, at every object that came within their reach; beside these, pie sellers, carriers, coal carriers, chimney sweeps; organ players, people who showed monkeys, and song sellers, those who sold with those who sang; ragged artisans and tired workers of every kind, and all full of a noisy and excessive liveliness which sounded harsh to the ear, and made the eyes ache.

As the night grew darker, so my interest in the scene also grew; for not only did the general character of the crowd change a lot (its gentler features going away as the more orderly part of the people slowly left, and its harsher ones standing out more clearly, as the late hour brought out every kind of crime from its hiding place,) but the rays of the gas-lamps, weak at first as they fought with the fading day, had now at last won, and threw over every thing a flickering and harsh light. All was dark yet beautiful—as that black wood to which people have compared the style of Tertullian.

The strange effects of the light kept me looking at each face; and although the speed with which the world of light moved past the window prevented me from giving more than a quick look at each face, still it seemed that, in my strange mood then, I could often read, even in that short moment of a look, the story of many years.

With my forehead to the window, I was busy carefully looking at the crowd, when suddenly there appeared a face (that of a very old, weak man, some sixty-five or seventy years of age,)—a face which at once caught and held all my attention, because of the very unusual look on it. I had never seen anything even a little like that look before. I remember well that my first thought, when I saw it, was that Retszch, if he had seen it, would have liked it much more than his own drawn pictures of the devil.

As I tried, during the brief minute of my first look, to understand the meaning, there came, in a mixed and strange way, into my mind, the ideas of great mental power, of care, of meanness with money, of greed, of calmness, of evil, of wanting to kill, of victory, of joy, of great fear, of deep—of greatest hopelessness. I felt strangely excited, shocked, very interested. “How wild a history,” I said to myself, “is written within that heart!” Then came a strong desire to keep the man in sight—to know more about him. Quickly putting on my coat, and taking my hat and cane, I went into the street, and pushed through the crowd in the direction I had seen him go; for he had already gone out of sight. With some small difficulty I at last came within sight of him, came near, and followed him closely, yet carefully, so as not to draw his attention.

I had now a good chance of looking at him. He was short in height, very thin, and seemed very weak. His clothes, generally, were very dirty and torn; but as he came, now and then, into the bright light of a lamp, I saw that his shirt, although dirty, was of fine quality; and I might have been mistaken, or, through a tear in a tightly buttoned and clearly second-hand cloak which covered him, I saw for a moment both a diamond and a dagger. These observations made me more curious, and I decided to follow the stranger wherever he would go.

It was now fully night, and a thick wet fog hung over the city, soon ending in a steady and heavy rain. This change of weather had a strange effect upon the crowd, the whole of which was at once put into new movement, and covered by a world of umbrellas. The shaking, the pushing, and the hum increased ten times. For my part I did not much mind the rain—the hiding of an old fever in my body making the wetness somewhat too dangerously pleasant. Tying a handkerchief around my mouth, I kept on. For half an hour the old man kept going with difficulty along the great main street; and here I walked close at his elbow because I was afraid of losing sight of him.

He never turned his head to look back, and he did not see me. Soon he went into a side street, which, although very full of people, was not as crowded as the main one he had left. Here a change in how he acted became clear. He walked more slowly and with less reason than before—more unsure. He crossed and crossed back the street again and again without a clear purpose; and the crowd was still so thick that, at every such move, I had to follow him closely. The street was narrow and long, and he stayed in it for nearly an hour, during which the people on the street had slowly become fewer, to about the number usually seen at noon on Broadway near the park—so great is the difference between a London crowd and that of the busiest American city.

A second turn brought us into a square, brightly lit, and full of life. The old way of the stranger came back. His chin fell on his chest, while his eyes rolled wildly from under his frowning brows, in every direction, at those who crowded around him. He pushed his way steadily and did not give up. I was surprised, however, to find, after he had gone all around the square, that he turned and went back the same way. I was even more surprised to see him repeat the same walk several times—once almost noticing me as he came around with a sudden move.

In this activity he spent another hour, by the end of which we had far fewer people getting in our way than at first. The rain fell fast, the air grew cool; and the people were going to their homes. With an impatient movement, the man went into a side street that was almost empty. Down this, about a quarter of a mile long, he ran with an energy I could not have imagined in someone so old, and it gave me much trouble to follow. A few minutes brought us to a large and busy market, and the stranger seemed to know its places well, and his earlier behavior again became clear, as he pushed his way back and forth, without purpose, among the crowd of buyers and sellers.

During the hour and a half, or about that, which we spent in this place, it needed much care on my part to keep him near without him noticing. Luckily I wore a pair of rubber over-shoes, and could move around in perfect silence. At no time did he see that I watched him. He entered shop after shop, did not ask any prices, said nothing, and looked at all objects with a wild and empty look. I was now very surprised at his behavior, and firmly decided that we would not part until I had learned something about him.

A loud clock rang eleven, and the people were quickly leaving the market. A shopkeeper, while putting up a shutter, bumped the old man, and at once I saw him shake strongly. He hurried into the street, looked around him with worry for a moment, and then ran very fast through many crooked and empty lanes, until we came out again on the great main street where we had started—the street of the D—— Hotel. It no longer had, however, the same look. It was still bright with gas lamps; but the rain fell hard, and there were few people to be seen. The stranger grew pale.

He walked sadly a few steps up the once busy street, then, with a deep sigh, turned in the direction of the river, and, going through many winding streets, came out, at last, in view of one of the main theaters. It was about to close, and the audience were crowding out of the doors. I saw the old man gasp for air as he pushed himself into the crowd; but I thought that the strong pain on his face had, in some way, lessened. His head again fell on his chest; he appeared as I had seen him at first. I saw that he now took the way most of the audience had gone—but, on the whole, I could not understand his strange actions.

As he went on, the people around him grew more spread out, and his old worry and doubt returned. For some time he followed closely a group of about ten or twelve noisy men; but from this number, one by one, they left, until only three stayed together, in a narrow and dark lane that few people used.

The stranger paused, and, for a moment, seemed to be thinking; then, showing every sign of worry, quickly followed a path that brought us to the edge of the city, through areas very different from those we had traveled through before. It was the dirtiest part of London, where everything showed the worst signs of the worst poverty, and of the most terrible crime. By the dim light of a stray lamp, tall, old, worm-eaten, wooden houses were seen shaking and about to fall, in so many and random directions that hardly even the shape of a passage could be seen between them. The paving stones lay at random, pushed from their places by the thick, fast-growing grass. Horrible dirt rotted in the blocked-up gutters. The whole air was filled with ruin and sadness.

Yet, as we went on, the sounds of human life came back little by little, and at last large groups of the worst people in London were seen stumbling to and fro. The old man’s energy rose again, like a lamp that is about to go out. Once more he walked on with a light step. Suddenly we turned a corner, a sudden bright light hit our eyes, and we stood before one of the huge temples of drunkenness on the edge of the city—one of the palaces of the devil, Gin.

It was now almost daybreak; but a number of poor drunk people still pushed in and out of the bright entrance. With a small cry of joy the old man forced his way inside, at once took back his old way of acting, and walked back and forth, with no clear purpose, among the crowd. He had not been doing this long, however, before a rush to the doors showed that the owner was closing them for the night. It was something even stronger than hopelessness that I then saw on the face of the strange person whom I had watched so closely. Yet he did not stop in his path, but, with a wild energy, went back at once to the heart of great London. Long and quickly he ran, while I followed him in the greatest surprise, decided not to give up a close watch in which I now felt an interest that took all my attention.

The sun rose while we kept going, and, when we had once again reached that most crowded market of the busy town, the street of the D—— Hotel, it looked full of people and activity, almost as much as I had seen on the evening before. And here, for a long time, amid the confusion that grew every moment, I kept on following the stranger. But, as usual, he walked back and forth, and during the day did not leave the noise and crowd of that street. And, as the shadows of the second evening came, I grew tired to death, and, stopping right in front of the wanderer, looked at him steadily in the face. He did not notice me, but continued his serious walk, while I, after I stopped following, stayed deep in thought.

“The old man,” I said at last, “is the example and the master of deep crime. He refuses to be alone. He is the man of the crowd. It will be useless to follow; for I will learn no more about him, or about his actions. The worst heart of the world is a rougher book than the ‘Hortulus Animæ,’ (The “Hortulus Animæ cum Oratiunculis Aliquibus Superadditis” of Grünninger) and perhaps it is only one of the great mercies of God that ‘it does not allow itself to be read.’”

THE END