Princeton, Oct 15, 1909
To H. H. Alberts; in New York City:
DEAR HENDRIK, — I am torn asunder. This business with Price, our
loss of Webster and his wife’s recent letter, and now the
reappearance of Eliza—after all this time; I am utterly lost. I
implore your help—
Je suis désolé, mon amie. When I received your first letters I
was more taken by the novelty of the diary’s appearance and the
haunting presence of the past returned. It becomes clear to me now
that time is not fickle, peppering us with moments gone. Time,
Chronos, Moloch; he comes to eat those children we once were. He
is a devourer, Alberts, and He is insatiable. She warned us in her
way. Do you recall when we began with Wharton? Our eyes were open,
we said, and she warned us—“Wake up!” she called. It was the
last time we were all together, before she left us.
Now that most ephemeral presence has returned to haunt me. I
should have known when I saw Webster that there was more come back
into my days than an old friend long lost. How can one memory be
dragged from the ether without disturbing them all. Now that great
beast which soaked in the blood of our misspent youth comes with
maw agape; hungry for time and loss and fear; eager with
retribution for sins which God, in his infinite wisdom, saw fit to
leave upon our breast in wait.
Eliza has returned. Those dull bells are ringing again, my friend.
I hear them resonant and pure, if flat of key. With each beat I
see Wharton convulse again. The eyes of our trusted friend are
crying out in silent terror still. I see the betrayal in them. His
eyes are still upon me, upon us both.
Alberts, I must hold strong and cling to what I know as tightly as
I hold this pen. You have shown such character in all things
since—I must now trust to your judgement again. You say to burn
the diary, to burn the papers of these masons, to let all be blown
asunder by wind. I take your advice now.
As this letter is sealed, so to is the fate of these cursed
creations. My brazier already kindles with Greek left unexamined.
The book remains closed. I cannot understand what fate has done to
bring it to me again, but it will not last this night.
Your memory of the Penning affair creates such utter dissonance
with my own, but which should be trusted? My own mind revolves
around lost children and mislaid dreams; the artifice of
intellectual solipsism. I see clearly the face of a girl for whom
I would cut my palms and lay them upon the darkest fragments of my
soul. I see clearly the face of a boy who arrogance sought to cure
and ignorance brought to ruin. Your mind is clear, Hendrik, and so
I trust your memory over my own. You say you helped me up the
stairs to our room that night, and began your preparations for New
York. In the milky quartz of wanting recollection I spent that
night in the company not of Webster and yourself, but of a very
grateful Miss Penning. How I wish that my memory of that night
were the true one! But how could such a thing be in the face of
your incorruptible remembrance.
Tonight I act, drawing power from your will where I find my own
lacking. The diary will be destroyed once and for all. In this I
am—
Your faithful servant, Harrison
P.S. — I cannot be sure, but the name Wesselhoeft reminds me of
a story of one of those modern doctors you detest. A relative
perhaps?
