Manhattan, New York City, Sept 19, 1909
To J.L. Harrison; in Princeton, N.J. -

MR. HARRISON, – What a pleasant surprise I had opening the post
the other day! Seeing your letter amongst the daily humdrum of
invoices was a joy. I made sure that I had a cup of my favorite
earl grey tea and was sitting comfortably in my study before
opening it. After reading the article in the Times and seeing your
smart looking portrait there I had been meaning to write you,
though life has its curious way of delaying the things that are
truly the most important and we end up struggling against the
daily slings and arrows instead of focusing our attention on what
matters for our spiritual well-being.

I’m still managing the bank and now my eldest son, Reginald, has
begun taking over many of the duties that I performed. The
accident has made it difficult to move about and in my condition
the long hours are too much of a strain. His youth and
determination more than make up for my loss of capacity. If you
come back to New York you must meet him.

The mustache! I had pleasantly forgotten that ridiculous feature
of my upper lip, but no, I leave the sharp fashions for the
younger generations. I am very fond of my, now very grey, beard
which seems to be the mark of older, wiser individuals whom I
would like to be associated with, even if merely by appearance.
Have I always been so vain? We can curse the toll the years take
upon our faces but in the end we must accept them. No amount of
scolding or gnashing will smooth our countenances. Though, if
I’m to believe my doctor, thinking younger thoughts reverses
some of the trends of aging. Have you heard such nonsense, my
friend? I think I need a new doctor!

My disability brings me to the library quite often to set my mind
free amongst the writings of Chaucer, Poe, and James. I have also
gotten to know one of the librarians well enough to get
unsupervised access to their rare books collection. Let me tell
you, Harrison, you would be in Heaven here, leafing through the
old tomes and first editions; the smell of decaying paper somehow
breathes life into my soul. The restricted section is still barred
to me, though I would hate to revisit that room and relive the
memories.

Five days, you say? It pains me to tell you of his passing then.
Charles was found dead in his home early on the 6th of this month,
but the constabulary have refused to tell anyone how he died. If
it was anything ordinary I’m sure they would have said. I’ve
included a clipping from the Tribune of his obituary. The funeral
was held at his home with his family and a few members from his
lodge. It was a nice service. Morbid as it sounds, curiosity got
the better of me and I took a long look at Charles in the open
casket, covertly lifting up his collar and checking his hands
while the rest of the attendants mingled around the refreshments,
but didn’t notice anything irregular except that his clothes
smelled faintly of incense. Harrison, I don’t think I need to
tell you what the scent was because you know it well. We burned so
much of it when we were all together in the old days. It was a
cold shock to smell it again and it sent shivers to my toes and
stood my hairs on end but I thought it nothing more than
coincidence or a strange trick of my nose. That is, until I
received your letter.

Webster and I had begun speaking again only a few years ago and
we’ve had lunch a number of times since. How was he when you
spoke with him? He was always a paranoid but what we did scarred
him and my guilt has only been slightly assuaged by helping his
wife with a modest monthly stipend. She’s told me that poor
Charles had never been able to keep a job and his seizures and
hallucinations drove all away; it causes such a strain on Gail. I
feel we were responsible, in a way, for his condition pushing him
further than he was comfortable and when we were done he was a
shell. During our last lunch, he stopped mid-sentence, the blood
drained from his face, and his expression screwed into a
manifestation of sheer terror. Then looking off into the distance
as if he were witnessing some unearthly horror rise up over my
shoulder he began to chant, softly at first growing steadily in
intensity and urgency. His hand, still clutching his fork, began
to shake making a rattling undercurrent to his verbal madness. The
chanting drew the frightened stares of the other restaurant
clientele and if that was the first time I had seen Charles do
this I would have been up in arms and yelling for a doctor. Sadly
this was normal. I turned and reassured the other patrons that
this was just a mental episode and it would pass and to please
continue their conversations as if everything were normal. My back
was to Charles and I could see the maître d’ rapidly approach
our table when Charles yelled out, “Aufwachen! Aufwachen! Seine
Augen sind auf uns!“ and he abruptly fell silent; his fork
hitting the floor was the only sound in the stunned parlor. That
was the last line in one of the diary entries I made. What right
did we have in pursuing this madness? How irresponsible we were in
our youth and still have not yet truly faced what we have done? We
should have stopped our research when Charles wanted out. And when
his sanity began to fade we should not have trusted him to burn
the diary. I do not know what he had done with it these past
decades or how it ended up in your mother’s village, but from
the smell of his old suit he must have still been using it. I fear
that others might have seen its contents and since reading your
letter that thought keeps my nights restless and my days frought
with worry. May God have mercy on us and on poor Charles.

I tried to begin this letter with a happy heart but it sank
quickly as I wrote. If only our renewed correspondence started
before this tragedy we’d have much lighter and frivolous things
to write. Jefferson, please do not read the diary. Do not reopen
the wounds that we caused so long ago. I implore you… burn it
and scatter the ashes over water and let the vile secrets we
discovered vanish in smoke and wave. Then we can only hope that no
one else dares follow the same dark path we did.

Warm Regards, H.H. Alberts

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