Chapter 21 Rectangular Box (1850) Translated by Kang Hua

Several years ago, I booked a ferry from Charleston, South Carolina, to New York.It was a luxury cruise ship called Independence.The captain's name was Hardy.If the weather permits, we will depart on the 15th of that month (June), so on the 14th, I boarded the ship and sorted out the private rooms I booked. I found that there were many passengers, and an unusually large number of women.Some of my acquaintances were on the passenger list, and among them, I was delighted, was Cornelius.Mr. Wyatt's name.He was a young artist and we had a warm friendship. He was a classmate of mine at the University of Carolina.We are always inseparable.He has all the endowments that a genius has, aloof, sensitive and fanatical.In addition, there is the warmest and most sincere heart in the world beating in his chest.

I noticed that there were three special cabins with his name on the key cards; I checked the passenger list and found that he had booked them for himself, his wife, and his two sisters.Staterooms are quite spacious, each with two bunks, bunk beds.Of course, the bunks are narrow enough for only one person, and even so, I still can't figure out why the four of us would book three staterooms.At that moment, my mind happened to be in an unreasonable state, and I was unusually curious about trivial matters.I admit, with all my shame, that at the time I did make all sorts of wild and poor speculations about the extra cabin.Of course, it's none of my business, but I'm still focused on solving the mystery.Eventually I came to a conclusion - I wonder why I didn't think of it sooner. "Of course a servant," I said. "I'm a fool for not thinking of such an obvious answer!"

However, when I went back to check the passenger list again, I clearly saw that the family had no servants, although they planned to have one—because the words "and servants" were first written there on the list, and then crossed out. "Oh, it must be extra luggage," I said to myself, "that's something he doesn't want in the cargo hold, but in plain sight—ha, I get it—it's probably a painting or something —the picture for which he has been haggling with that Italian Jew, Nicole Reno." The idea satisfies me.I temporarily dismissed my curiosity. I knew Mr. Wyatt's two older sisters very well, and they were very kind and intelligent girls.And his newest wife I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting.He has spoken of her many times in my presence with his customary fervor.He described her extraordinary beauty, her extraordinary intelligence and achievements.And I was therefore very eager to make her acquaintance.

On the day I embarked (the 14th) the Wyatts were also coming--so the captain informed me--but I lingered an extra hour expecting to see the bride, but instead It's an apology. "Mrs. Wyatt is a little unwell. He will not be on board tomorrow when we sail." Next day, on my way from the hotel to the pier, I met Captain Hardy, who said that because of "some circumstances" (a silly but convenient excuse), he did not think the Independence would set sail for a day or two, when When everything is ready, he will send a notification.This made me feel unbelievable, because the strong south wind was blowing at that time; but since he refused to disclose what the "some circumstances" were, it was meaningless for me to ask more stubbornly, so I had no choice but to go home and idle away time.

Almost a week passed, and the captain still had not delivered the letter.At last, however, the wait came, and I caught up with the boat at once. The ship was full of passengers, and there was chaos and noise before departure.The Wyatts arrived about ten minutes after me.The two sisters, the bride, and the painter arrived—the painter, as always, aloof.I was so familiar with it that I didn't take it to heart.He didn't even introduce me to his wife—the courtesy fell naturally to his sister Marianne—who was a sweet and intelligent girl, and the bride and I got to know each other in a few words.

When Mrs. Wyatt, tightly veiled, lifted it and bowed to me, I confess that I was deeply shocked.Years of experience have taught me that I can't fully believe the enthusiastic praise of women from painter friends, otherwise I will be even more shocked.Once the topic involves "beauty", I know very well that he always easily enters the ideal state of pure perfection. The truth is, I have to say, Mrs. Wyatt is definitely just a plain looking woman.Even if it wasn't terribly ugly, I thought it would be about the same.She was, however, well dressed and of good taste—and I was sure that she must have won my friend's heart by the enduring charm of mind and soul.She said very little, and soon entered the cabin with Mr. Wyatt.

My original curiosity came back to my mind.No servants—that's for sure.So, I checked to see if there was any extra luggage.After a while, a carriage came up on the pier, carrying a rectangular pine box, which seemed to be what everyone was waiting for.As soon as the box arrived we set sail and quickly crossed the sandbar safely and headed out to sea. The box, as I said, was oblong, about six feet long and two and a half feet wide; and I looked at it as precisely as I could.The shape of the box was peculiar, and as soon as I saw it I was delighted with the accuracy of my guess.You may recall that I said that my painter friend's extra baggage should be paintings, or at least one painting.I know that he has been talking with Nicoleino for several weeks—this box can only contain Da from the outside.A reproduction of Fincher's The Last Supper.

As far as I know, this "Last Supper" was imitated by Roubini the Younger in Florence and was once owned by Nicole Reno.In my opinion, the doubt about the box is solved.I snigger at the thought of how sharp and intelligent I am.It was the first time Wyatt had kept his artistic secrets from me.He was evidently trying to surprise me by smuggling a good painting from under my nose to New York and expecting me to know nothing about it.I decided to give him a good sarcasm, so that he would have a better memory from now on. However, there is one thing that bothers me.The box was not sent to the extra private room, but was placed in Wyatt's own room.It took up almost the entire floor—no doubt uncomfortable for the artist and his wife, especially since the box was lavishly painted with tar or paint in capital letters, giving off a pungent, in my A particularly disgusting smell in the sensation.The lid was painted with the following words—"Adelaide. Mrs. Curtis, Albany, New York. Cornelius. Mr. Wyatt consigned. This side up, handle with care."

I understand, this Adelaide of Albany.Mrs. Curtis was the painter's mother-in-law—but I took that address as a deliberate mystery created by the painter to keep it from me.Of course, I decided that the box and its contents would never travel north again after reaching my lonely friend's studio in Chambers Street, New York. For the first three or four days the weather was pretty good, only against the wind, as we turned due north as soon as the coast was out of sight.Due to the fine weather, the travelers were in high spirits and enjoyed mingling with one another.I have to leave out Wyatt and his sisters though.Their manner was rigid, and I could not help feeling that they were being rude to their fellow passengers.I don't take Wyatt's actions seriously.He was even more gloomy than usual—in fact, he was more withdrawn—but I was used to it.But the same is true of his two younger sisters, which really confuses me.They shut themselves up in private cabins for the greater part of the voyage, and in spite of my urging they adamantly refused to have any dealings with anyone on board.

Mrs. Wyatt was much more agreeable.I mean, she's quite a gossiper; a gossip is highly recommended at sea. She gets along with most women; and, to my surprise, she flirts with men in no uncertain terms.She was always 'amusing' us.I said 'amused' - not sure how to express what I meant.The truth is, I soon discovered that Mrs. Wyatt was laughed at far more often than everyone laughed with her.The gentlemen said little to her, while the ladies were quick to assert that she was "a well-meaning fellow, but mediocre, terribly ignorant and rude".The most puzzling thing was how Mr. Wyatt could have matched her, had fallen into a trap.Usually it's about money--but I know that's not the case at all; because Wyatt told me she brought him nothing, and couldn't expect to get any favors from other sources.He said that he married for love, only for love, and his bride was very worthy of his love.When I think of these confessions from my friends, I candidly admit that I am beyond words.Could he have lost his senses?What else can I think?He is so elegant, smart, so picky, so sensitive to flaws, and so crazy about beauty!

Admittedly, the lady seemed to like him - especially when he was not there - and she repeatedly quoted her "beloved husband, Mr. Wyatt".It made her look particularly ridiculous. The word "husband" seems to be forever - to use a phrase of her own - forever "on the tip of her tongue".At the same time, it was obvious to all on board that he avoided her in the most obvious way, shutting himself up in the cabin most of the time.In fact, it could be said that he shut himself up in it all day, with one wife free and happy to have fun among the passengers in the main cabin. From what I have seen and heard, I have come to the conclusion that by some inexplicable capricious fate, or by a whim, governed by wild and queer passions, the artist was bewitched into marrying a mate of the slightest degree. Not on his people.The ensuing result, of course, is rapid and complete disgust.I sympathized with him from the bottom of my heart - but I couldn't quite forgive him for keeping the "Last Supper" thing under wraps.I made up my mind to take revenge. One day, he came to the deck, and I took his arm as usual, walking up and down.His melancholy doesn't seem to have subsided at all (which I think is natural in his situation).He spoke very little, and even when he managed to squeeze out a few words, he was terribly depressed.I ventured a joke or two, and he tried to smile, but it was uglier than crying.poor guy! —Thinking of his wife, I wondered how he was in the mood to force a smile.I decided to start a series of cynicism and insinuations about the rectangular box, so that he would gradually understand that I was not fooled by his little mystery.The first step is to unmask and reveal the tip of the iceberg.I said something like "the peculiar shape of that box..." with a knowing smile on my face, blinked, and lightly poked his ribs with my fingers. Wyatt's reaction to my innocuous joke convinced me immediately that he was crazy.At first he stared at me as if he couldn't understand my one-liners; then the meaning seemed to creep into his brain, and his eyes gradually widened until they almost popped out of their sockets.He flushed—then frighteningly pale—and then, as if amused by something I suggested, he burst out laughing, to my amazement, more and more violently, for more than ten minutes.Finally, he "boomed" He fell flat on the deck.When I ran to help him up, I found that he was no different from a dead man. I hurriedly called for help, and everyone managed to wake him up.After waking up, he kept talking incoherently for a while.Finally, we bled him and put him to bed.He was fully recovered the next day, and that's just talking about his body, of course I have nothing to say about his spirit.I took the captain's advice and avoided seeing him for the rest of the trip. The captain shared my opinion that he was insane, but he warned me not to speak of it to the others on board. After this incident, several other events happened in the immediate aftermath, which deepened my original curiosity.One of them went like this: I was nervous - drank too much strong tea and slept badly at night - in fact, two nights I literally couldn't sleep.Now, like the other single men's cabins on board, my door faced the main cabin, which was the dining room.Wyatt's three cabins were in the back cabin, separated from the main cabin by a small sliding door, which was not locked even at night.As the wind was always blowing, and it was not too small, the boat was very heeled to leeward.Whenever the starboard side leans to leeward, the sliding door between the two cabins slides open automatically.Then it just stays on and no one bothers to get up and shut it off.But my berth is very coincidental, when my cabin door and sliding door are open at the same time (because of the heat, my own door is always open), I can clearly see the rear cabin, and the part I see is exactly the Mr. Wyatt's staterooms.During two nights (not consecutive) that I was awake, I distinctly saw Mrs. Wyatt sneaking out of Mr. Wyatt's room every night at eleven o'clock, into the vacant special box, and Stayed until dawn, and didn't go back until her husband came to call her.Apparently, they were practically separated.They had their own cabins—no doubt planning a divorce, forever; I'd always wondered about that spare stateroom, its secret. There is one more situation that interests me.During those two sleepless nights, as soon as Mrs. Wyatt disappeared into the special compartment, there was a most discreet, muffled noise from her husband's room.This caught my attention.After listening carefully for a while, I finally succeeded in comprehending the meaning of that voice.The painter is groping to open the rectangular box with tools like a chisel or a mallet—the sound of the mallet is muffled, and the head of the hammer is obviously covered with something soft like cotton wool. Listening this way, I think I can tell exactly when he pries the cover off—and hear when he removes it and puts it on the bunk below.A bit behind this, from hearing the slight "click" of the box lid hitting the edge of the wooden bed He heard it from the sound - he put it very carefully, there was nowhere to put it on the floor.There was a dead silence after this, and I heard nothing more until dawn.Unless I can say I hear a low sob or a murmured whisper, but muffled and barely audible - of course, or maybe that's just my imagination.I say it's like a sob or a sigh - but, of course, it could be neither.I'd rather think it was my tinnitus.There can be no doubt that Mr. Wyatt was simply indulging his inclinations according to old habits--that is, a sudden indulging in his passion for art.He opened the rectangular box in order to have a full view of the precious painting inside.Yet there was nothing in it to make him sob.So, again, it must be my own fancy, good Captain Hardy's green tea that's got me wrong.On the two nights I have mentioned, just before daybreak, I distinctly heard Mr. Wyatt put the lid back on again, and hammer in the nails as they had been, with the cloth-covered mallet.Having done this, he went out of the room fully dressed, and went to Mrs. Wyatt's room to call her out. We had been at sea for seven days, and when we left Cape Hatteras a violent southwesterly wind blew up.But we were prepared for it, because the weather had been threatening us for a while.Everything on and off the boat was in order to protect it from the wind and cold.As the wind blew harder and harder, we were at last unable to go any further, and the mizzen and foresails were furled. In this way we sailed safely for forty-eight hours--a ship which proved itself in many respects to be a fine sea-ship indeed, and was never submerged.But then the breeze had become a hurricane, and our mizzensail was torn strip by strip, leaving us on the cusp of a swell, with several swells battering it.In this accident, three people were swept into the sea with the galley, and almost the entire port bulwark was lost.Before we could wake up, the foresail was torn to pieces again.We put up the staysails to hold back the storm, and the boat cut through the sea for a few hours, a little more steadily than before. Yet the wind continued to blow, showing no signs of abating.We found the ship's rigging to be unsuitable, and too taut; and on the third day of the gale, about five o'clock in the afternoon, the mizzenmast gave a great heel to the wind, and went over the side. We spent over an hour trying to clear it, as the ship was shaking violently, but in vain.Before this was done, the shipwright came rushing up the stern, shouting that there was four feet of water in the cabin.To add insult to injury, the water pump was clogged and could barely be used anymore. At the moment, everything is chaotic and hopeless—we try to lighten the ship, throw any cargo we touch into the sea, and chop off the two remaining masts.We were finally done with that--but still couldn't fix the pump; and meanwhile, the leaking water was closing in on us at breakneck speed. At sunset, the raging winds visibly subsided, the sea calmed down, and we still had the faint hope of saving ourselves in a lifeboat.At eight o'clock in the evening, the clouds parted with the wind to reveal a full moon—a very good sign, and our languid spirits were lifted. After much effort, we finally successfully lowered the big lifeboat, and all the crew and most of the passengers were squeezed into it.The party set off at once, and after many hardships, finally arrived safely in the port of Ocracoke on the third day of the wreck. The captain and his fourteen passengers remained on board, determined to tie their fate to the stern boat.We got it down with little effort, but it was a miracle we didn't get sunk in the water when we launched.In the boat were the captain and his wife, Mr. Wyatt and his party, a Mexican official, his wife and four children, me and a black manservant. Of course, there wasn't much room in the boat to store things other than some absolutely necessary gear, food, and body clothing.No one thought of rescuing anything else.After paddling a few fathoms, the most astonishing thing happened, Mr. Wyatt rose from his seat in the stern, and coldly asked Captain Hardy to row the boat back, and he wanted to take his long square. Box! "Sit down, Mr. Wyatt," said the captain, somewhat sternly. "You'll capsize the boat if you don't sit down. The side is almost in the water now." "The box!" cried Mr. Wyatt, standing there. "The box, I say! Captain Hardy, you can't, you won't refuse me. It's nothing—nothing—not at all." Nothing. For the sake of the mother who bore you—for the love of God—for the salvation of your soul, I beseech you, put the boat back for that box!" For a moment the captain seemed moved by the painter's earnest entreaties, but he resumed his stern and composed demeanor, and simply said: "Mr. Wyatt, you are mad. I cannot listen to you. Sit down, hear me, Or you'll capsize the boat. Hold on—hold him—catch him!—he's going to jump! See—I knew—he jumped!" While the captain was speaking, Mr. Wyatt had actually thrown himself into the sea.Since we were still on the sheltered side of the wreck, he grabbed with superhuman strength a rope hanging from the forward sling.After a while, he had climbed onto the deck and rushed down the cabin like crazy. At that moment we were blown astern, far out of shelter, at the mercy of rough seas.We tried to row back, but the boat was like a feather in a storm.We can see at a glance that the unfortunate painter's doom has come. Soon, we were getting farther and farther away from the wrecked ship.The lunatic (that's all we can think of him) appeared on the elevator and hauled the rectangular box up with astonishing strength all by himself.Shocked, we stared at him as he quickly wrapped a three-inch rope around the box and then around himself.In an instant, both he and the box were in the sea—and vanished instantly, never to be seen again. Sadly we ceased to row, and gazed long and long at the place where he sank.Finally, we left.The silence lasted for an hour, and at last I couldn't help but start talking. "Captain, did you notice how they sank all at once? Isn't that unusual? Frankly, when I saw him jumping into the sea with the box tied to him, I thought he was a little bit off the hook." hope." "Of course they will sink," replied the captain, "and at once. They will rise again soon—but not until the salt has melted." "Salt!" I yelled. "Quiet!" said the captain, pointing to the dead man's wife and sister. "We'll talk about these things when we have the right time." We've been through all kinds of hardships, we've come close to death, but God has blessed us, as it protects our companions in the big lifeboat.After four days of agonizing struggle, we finally landed, half dead, on the beach opposite Roanoke Island.We stayed for a week. The people who salvage the wreck don't treat us badly.Then we took a boat to New York. About a month after the Independence wreck, I ran into Captain Hardy on Broadway.Our conversation turned naturally to the shipwreck, and especially to the sad fate of poor Wyatt.I have thus been informed of the following details. The artist booked cabins for himself, his wife, two sisters and a servant.His wife, as has been said, is a very lovely and accomplished woman.On the morning of June 14th (the day I first boarded the ship), the lady suddenly fell ill and passed away.The young husband was nearly mad with grief—but the urgency of the situation prevented him from postponing his trip to New York.He had to take the body of his beloved wife to her mother, and on the other hand, the prejudices of the world did not allow him to do so openly.Nine out of ten passengers would rather abandon the ship than sail with a dead body. In this dilemma, Captain Hardy arranged for the body parts to be embalmed with sesame oil, packed together with a large amount of salt in boxes of suitable size, and carried on board the ship as cargo.The lady's death was not mentioned.Since it was known that Mr. Wyatt had booked his wife, someone must have been impersonating her on the journey.The late lady's maid was easily persuaded to do it.The special room had been reserved for the girl at first, while the hostess was alive, and it had since been left vacant.Of course, every night, the fake wife slept in that room.During the day, she played her mistress to the best of her ability—it had been carefully checked in advance that none of the passengers on board had ever seen the true face of the mistress. My mistakes were naturally due to too much carelessness, meddling, and impulsive temper.Lately though, I've rarely been able to sleep soundly at night.No matter how I turned it over and over again, there was always a face shaking in front of my eyes, and there was always a series of hysterical laughter echoing in my ears, which lasted for a long time.