AN IMPERFECT CONFLAGRATION
by Ambrose Bierce
Early one June morning in 1872 I murdered my
father--an act which made a deep impression on
me at the time. This was before my marriage,
while I was living with my parents in Wisconsin.
My father and I were in the library of our home,
dividing the proceeds of a burglary which we
had committed that night. These consisted of
household goods mostly, and the task of equitable
division was difficult. We got on very well
with the napkins, towels and such things, and
the silverware was parted pretty nearly equally,
but you can see for yourself that when you try
to divide a single music-box by two without a
remainder you will have trouble. It was that
music-box which brought disaster and disgrace
upon our family. If we had left it my poor
father might now be alive.
It was a most exquisite and beautiful piece of
workmanship--inlaid with costly woods and carven
very curiously. It would not only play a great
variety of tunes, but would whistle like a quail,
bark like a dog, crow every morning at daylight
whether it was wound up or not, and break the
Ten Commandments. It was this last mentioned
accomplishment that won my father's heart and
caused him to commit the only dishonorable act
of his life, though possibly he would have
committed more if he had been spared: he tried
to conceal that music-box from me, and declared
upon his honor that he had not taken it, though
I know very well that, so far as he was concerned,
the burglary had been undertaken chiefly for the
purpose of obtaining it.
My father had the music-box hidden under his
cloak; we had worn cloaks by way of disguise.
He had solemnly assured me that he did not take
it. I knew that he did, and knew something of
which he was evidently ignorant; namely, that
the box would crow at daylight and betray him
if I could prolong the division of profits till
that time. All occurred as I wished: as the
gaslight began to pale in the library and the
shape of the windows was seen dimly behind the
curtains, a long cock-a-doodle-doo came from
beneath the old gentleman's cloak, followed by
a few bars of an aria from Tannhauser, ending
with a loud click. A small hand-axe, which we
had used to break into the unlucky house, lay
between us on the table; I picked it up. The
old man seeing that further concealment was
useless took the box from under his cloak and
set it on the table. "Cut it in two if you
prefer that plan," said he; "I tried to save
it from destruction."
He was a passionate lover of music and could
himself play the concertina with expression
and feeling.
I said: "I do not question the purity of your
motive: it would be presumptuous of me to sit
in judgment on my father. But business is
business, and with this axe I am going to
effect a dissolution of our partnership unless
you will consent in all future burglaries to
wear a bell-punch."
"No," he said, after some reflection, "no, I
could not do that; it would look like a
confession of dishonesty. People would say
that you distrusted me."
I could not help admiring his spirit and
sensitiveness; for a moment I was proud of
him and disposed to overlook his fault, but
a glance at the richly jeweled music-box
decided me, and, as I said, I removed the
old man from this vale of tears. Having done
so, I was a trifle uneasy. Not only was he
my father--the author of my being--but the
body would be certainly discovered. It was
now broad daylight and my mother was likely
to enter the library at any moment. Under
the circumstances, I thought it expedient
to remove her also, which I did. Then I
paid off all the servants and discharged
them.
That afternoon I went to the chief of police,
told him what I had done and asked his advice.
It would be very painful to me if the facts
became publicly known. My conduct would be
generally condemned; the newspapers would
bring it up against me if ever I should run
for office. The chief saw the force of these
considerations; he was himself an assassin
of wide experience. After consulting with the
presiding judge of the Court of Variable
Jurisdiction he advised me to conceal the
bodies in one of the bookcases, get a heavy
insurance on the house and burn it down.
This I proceeded to do.
In the library was a bookcase which my father
had recently purchased of some cranky inventor
and had not filled. It was in shape and size
something like the old-fashioned "ward-robes"
which one sees in bed-rooms without closets,
but opened all the way down, like a woman's
night-dress. It had glass doors. I had recently
laid out my parents and they were now rigid
enough to stand erect; so I stood them in this
book-case, from which I had removed the shelves.
I locked them in and tacked some curtains over
the glass doors. The inspector from the insurance
office passed a half-dozen times before the case
without suspicion.
That night, after getting my policy, I set fire
to the house and started through the woods to
town, two miles away, where I managed to be
found about the time the excitement was at its
height. With cries of apprehension for the fate
of my parents, I joined the rush and arrived at
the fire some two hours after I had kindled it.
The whole town was there as I dashed up. The
house was entirely consumed, but in one end of
the level bed of glowing embers, bolt upright
and uninjured, was that book-case! The curtains
had burned away, exposing the glass doors,
through which the fierce, red light illuminated
the interior. There stood my dear father "in his
habit as he lived," and at his side the partner
of his joys and sorrows. Not a hair of them was
singed, their clothing was intact. On their heads
and throats the injuries which in the accomplishment
of my designs I had been compelled to inflict
were conspicuous. As in the presence of a miracle,
the people were silent; awe and terror had stilled
every tongue. I was myself greatly affected.
Some three years later, when the events herein
related had nearly faded from my memory, I went
to New York to assist in passing some counterfeit
United States bonds. Carelessly looking into a
furniture store one day, I saw the exact counterpart
of that book-case. "I bought it for a trifle from
a reformed inventor," the dealer explained. "He
said it was fireproof, the pores of the wood being
filled with alum under hydraulic pressure and the
glass made of asbestos. I don't suppose it is really
fireproof--you can have it at the price of an
ordinary book-case."
"No," I said, "if you cannot warrant it fireproof
I won't take it"--and I bade him good morning.
I would not have had it at any price: it revived
memories that were exceedingly disagreeable.
~~~~~~~ THE END ~~~~~~~
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