breath,” he said, turning to an old man on his left. This old man had sores in the corners of his mouth.
“Are you a doctor?” he asked, coming nearer.
“I am not a doctor. Every schoolboy knows this sort of thing. Soda-water is water charged with carbon dioxide. You breathe carbon dioxide. Trees and flowers take in carbon dioxide and give out oxygen. This is a fact, I give you my word of honour, an incontrovertible fact. If you pass CO 2 through a tube of red-hot coke, you get CO, carbon monoxide, which is deadly poison. But CO 2 , I can tell you for a fact, is inert. It is not poisonous, it suffocates. It puts out fire.”
“I once put out a fire with a soda-water syphon,” said the barman.
“Water puts out fire,” said the old man on the left.
“Water is a product of fire,” said Pym. “If you take oxygen, by means of which everything lives, and then … excuse me if I put it unscientifically … mix it up with hydrogen and put a match to it, there is a terrible explosion (you could blow this place to smithereens with it) and the result, I give you my word of honour, is water. Again, electrolyse water by the process known as electrolysis, and you break water back into oxygen on the one side and hydrogen on the other. Mix these two together again and …”
Pym looked at the bubbling half-inch of soda-water in his glass. In that water he saw fire. He saw the flicker of flames in a grate, and gagged at the mixed odours of an old lady in flames. “Look!” Pym struck a match and dropped it into the soda water, where it hissed and became black. “Fire is water, water is fire, everything is fire,” he shouted.
“Why don’t you pick up the rest of your change and get along home?” said the barman.
“Fire is water, water is fire!” said Pym, striking the bar with a fist.
“You pick up that change and go home,” the barman said.
*
Pym will never forget that night. It left a scar in his memory. The wound cicatrised, skinned over, and paled … but only the worms could take it away. Like a scratch from a lion’s claw, which would not let itself be forgotten, and ached abominably in bad weather. He cannot remember everything that happened: nothing but the skeleton of the night hangs in the cupboard of recollection. He never will know what happened to the flesh and the entrails: he hates to speculate. He remembers buying double gins-and-lime for a hideous woman with orange-coloured hair, who developed a high regard for him because he became maudlin over her dog—an aged, stinking, vixenish, flea-bitten bitch. Yes, Pym clearly remembers embracing the animal, covering it with tender kisses, and buying it a roast-beef sandwich and some sweet biscuits. The raw head and bloody bones of that night are sharply defined enough! The woman said: “What I like about you is, you’re kind. I like a person to be kind. I bet you wouldn’t raise your hand to strike a lady.” Pym said, with tears in his eyes, that he would cut his right hand off and swallow it rather than use it for anything but caressing her. She said: “I wish you meant it,” and Pym swore with frightful vehemence that he did mean it. In demonstration he took her left hand (when he thinks of that he thinks of a plate of thick hot porridge into which some slut has let fall a thick gold wedding-ring and a few dirty finger-nails). He scooped up this hand, rose unsteadily, and bowed low to kiss it, knocking over his double brandy. At this the orange-headed lady turned to a man, who seemed to materialise out of the smoky air, and said: “You see, Joe? That’s a gentleman. Catch you doing that! … Catch him doing that,” she said to Pym; “this is more his line.” Then she lifted her upper lip with both thumbs and curled a little finger to point to a space where one of her teeth had recently been. The man told her to shut up. Pym flew into a rage:
“You dare to speak to my friend in that tone of voice! To Woman, suffering, persecuted Woman?
“Are you a doctor?” he asked, coming nearer.
“I am not a doctor. Every schoolboy knows this sort of thing. Soda-water is water charged with carbon dioxide. You breathe carbon dioxide. Trees and flowers take in carbon dioxide and give out oxygen. This is a fact, I give you my word of honour, an incontrovertible fact. If you pass CO 2 through a tube of red-hot coke, you get CO, carbon monoxide, which is deadly poison. But CO 2 , I can tell you for a fact, is inert. It is not poisonous, it suffocates. It puts out fire.”
“I once put out a fire with a soda-water syphon,” said the barman.
“Water puts out fire,” said the old man on the left.
“Water is a product of fire,” said Pym. “If you take oxygen, by means of which everything lives, and then … excuse me if I put it unscientifically … mix it up with hydrogen and put a match to it, there is a terrible explosion (you could blow this place to smithereens with it) and the result, I give you my word of honour, is water. Again, electrolyse water by the process known as electrolysis, and you break water back into oxygen on the one side and hydrogen on the other. Mix these two together again and …”
Pym looked at the bubbling half-inch of soda-water in his glass. In that water he saw fire. He saw the flicker of flames in a grate, and gagged at the mixed odours of an old lady in flames. “Look!” Pym struck a match and dropped it into the soda water, where it hissed and became black. “Fire is water, water is fire, everything is fire,” he shouted.
“Why don’t you pick up the rest of your change and get along home?” said the barman.
“Fire is water, water is fire!” said Pym, striking the bar with a fist.
“You pick up that change and go home,” the barman said.
*
Pym will never forget that night. It left a scar in his memory. The wound cicatrised, skinned over, and paled … but only the worms could take it away. Like a scratch from a lion’s claw, which would not let itself be forgotten, and ached abominably in bad weather. He cannot remember everything that happened: nothing but the skeleton of the night hangs in the cupboard of recollection. He never will know what happened to the flesh and the entrails: he hates to speculate. He remembers buying double gins-and-lime for a hideous woman with orange-coloured hair, who developed a high regard for him because he became maudlin over her dog—an aged, stinking, vixenish, flea-bitten bitch. Yes, Pym clearly remembers embracing the animal, covering it with tender kisses, and buying it a roast-beef sandwich and some sweet biscuits. The raw head and bloody bones of that night are sharply defined enough! The woman said: “What I like about you is, you’re kind. I like a person to be kind. I bet you wouldn’t raise your hand to strike a lady.” Pym said, with tears in his eyes, that he would cut his right hand off and swallow it rather than use it for anything but caressing her. She said: “I wish you meant it,” and Pym swore with frightful vehemence that he did mean it. In demonstration he took her left hand (when he thinks of that he thinks of a plate of thick hot porridge into which some slut has let fall a thick gold wedding-ring and a few dirty finger-nails). He scooped up this hand, rose unsteadily, and bowed low to kiss it, knocking over his double brandy. At this the orange-headed lady turned to a man, who seemed to materialise out of the smoky air, and said: “You see, Joe? That’s a gentleman. Catch you doing that! … Catch him doing that,” she said to Pym; “this is more his line.” Then she lifted her upper lip with both thumbs and curled a little finger to point to a space where one of her teeth had recently been. The man told her to shut up. Pym flew into a rage:
“You dare to speak to my friend in that tone of voice! To Woman, suffering, persecuted Woman?
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