The Gold-Bug

Many years ago, I became friends with a Mr. William Legrand. He came from an old French Protestant family and had once been wealthy, but a series of misfortunes had left him poor. To escape the shame of his ruin, he left New Orleans, where his family had lived, and moved to Sullivan's Island, near Charleston, South Carolina.

This island is a strange place. It is made up almost entirely of sea sand and is about three miles long, never more than a quarter of a mile wide. A narrow creek, hardly noticeable, separates it from the mainland, winding through reeds and mud—a favorite spot for marsh hens. The plants are sparse and stunted. There are no big trees. Near the western end, where Fort Moultrie stands, there are a few shabby wooden houses where people come in the summer to escape the heat and fevers of Charleston. There, you can find the bristly palmetto. But the rest of the island, except for a strip of hard white beach, is covered with a dense growth of sweet myrtle, a shrub much loved by English gardeners. It often grows fifteen or twenty feet high and forms an almost impenetrable thicket, filling the air with its fragrance.

Deep in this thicket, not far from the eastern end of the island, Legrand had built himself a small hut. I met him by chance, and we soon became friends, for there was much about the recluse that interested me. I found him well educated, with remarkable intelligence, but he was a misanthrope and subject to strange moods, swinging between great enthusiasm and deep gloom. He had many books with him, but he rarely read them. His main enjoyments were hunting and fishing, or strolling along the beach and through the myrtles, looking for shells or insects. His collection of beetles would have been the envy of a naturalist like Swammerdam. He was usually accompanied by an old Negro servant named Jupiter, who had been freed before the family's misfortunes but refused to leave his young master, whom he called 'Massa Will.' Threats and promises were useless; he insisted on following him.

It's likely that Legrand's relatives, thinking he was a bit unstable, had encouraged Jupiter's stubbornness so that he could keep an eye on the wanderer.

The winters on Sullivan's Island are usually mild, and in the fall a fire is rarely needed. But about the middle of October, 18—, there came a day that was unusually chilly. Just before sunset, I made my way through the evergreens to my friend's hut. I hadn't visited him for several weeks, since I lived in Charleston, nine miles away, and travel was not easy in those days. When I reached the hut, I knocked as I usually did, but there was no answer. I found the key where I knew it was hidden, unlocked the door, and went in. A fine fire blazed on the hearth. That was a pleasant surprise. I took off my overcoat, sat down in an armchair by the crackling logs, and waited patiently for my hosts.

Soon after dark, they arrived and gave me a warm welcome. Jupiter, grinning from ear to ear, bustled about to prepare some marsh hens for supper. Legrand was in one of his fits of enthusiasm. He had found an unknown bivalve, a new kind of clam, and more than that, with Jupiter's help, he had caught a beetle that he believed was completely new to science. He wanted my opinion on it the next day.

"And why not tonight?" I asked, rubbing my hands over the fire, secretly wishing all beetles at the devil.

"Ah, if I had known you were here!" said Legrand. "But it's been so long since I saw you, and how could I expect you tonight of all nights? On my way home, I met Lieutenant G—— from the fort, and foolishly lent him the bug. So you can't see it until morning. Stay here tonight, and I'll send Jup down at sunrise to get it. It's the loveliest thing in creation!"

"What!—sunrise?"

"Nonsense! No! The bug. It is a brilliant gold color, about the size of a large hickory nut, with two black spots near one end of its back, and another, a bit longer, at the other. The antennae are—"

"Dey ain't no tin in him, Massa Will, I keep a tellin' on you," interrupted Jupiter. "De bug is a goole-bug, solid, ebery bit of him, inside and all, 'sep him wing—neber feel half so hebby a bug in my life."

"Well, suppose it is, Jup," replied Legrand, a little more seriously than the matter seemed to warrant. "Is that any reason for letting the birds burn? The color," he turned to me, "is almost enough to justify Jupiter's idea. You never saw such a brilliant metallic luster as the scales give off. But you can't judge until tomorrow. Meanwhile, I can give you an idea of its shape." Saying this, he sat at a small table where there were a pen and ink, but no paper. He looked for some in a drawer but found none.

"Never mind," he said at last, "this will do." He drew from his waistcoat pocket a scrap of what I thought was very dirty paper, and made a rough drawing on it with the pen. While he did this, I stayed by the fire, for I was still chilly. When the drawing was finished, he handed it to me without getting up. As I took it, a loud growl was heard, followed by a scratching at the door. Jupiter opened it, and a large Newfoundland dog, belonging to Legrand, rushed in, jumped on my shoulders, and covered me with caresses, for I had petted him on previous visits. When his play was over, I looked at the paper, and to tell the truth, I was puzzled by what my friend had drawn.

"Well!" I said, after looking at it for some minutes. "This is a strange beetle, I must admit. It's new to me; I never saw anything like it before—unless it were a skull or a death's-head, which it resembles more than anything else I've ever seen."

"A death's-head!" echoed Legrand. "Oh—yes—well, it does have that appearance on paper, no doubt. The two upper black spots look like eyes, eh? And the longer one at the bottom like a mouth—and then the whole shape is oval."

"Perhaps so," said I, "but, Legrand, I fear you are no artist. I must wait until I see the beetle itself, if I am to form any idea of its appearance."

"Well, I don't know," he said, a little nettled. "I draw tolerably—I should, at least; I've had good masters, and I flatter myself that I'm not quite a blockhead."

"But, my dear fellow, you are joking, then," said I. "This is a very passable skull—indeed, I may say it is an excellent skull, according to the common notions about such things—and your beetle must be the queerest beetle in the world if it resembles this. Why, we could start a very thrilling superstition on this hint. I presume you'll call the bug scarabaeus caput hominis, or something like that; there are many similar names in natural histories. But where are the antennae you spoke of?"

"The antennae!" said Legrand, who seemed to be getting unaccountably annoyed. "I'm sure you must see the antennae. I made them as distinct as they are in the original insect, and I presume that is sufficient."

"Well, well," I said, "perhaps you have; still, I don't see them." And I handed him the paper without further comment, not wanting to upset him. But I was surprised at how things had turned; his bad humor puzzled me. As for the drawing of the beetle, there were positively no antennae visible, and the whole thing did look very much like a death's-head.

He took the paper back peevishly and was about to crumple it and throw it into the fire, when a casual glance at the design suddenly seemed to catch his attention. In an instant, his face grew violently red, then just as pale. For some minutes he sat staring at the drawing, examining it closely. At last he got up, took a candle from the table, and went to sit on a sea chest in the farthest corner of the room. There he examined the paper again, turning it in all directions. He said nothing, and his behavior astonished me. But I thought it wise not to make any comment that might make his mood worse. Soon he took a wallet from his coat pocket, placed the paper carefully inside, and put both in a writing desk, which he locked. He became calmer, but his original enthusiasm had disappeared. He seemed not so much sulky as lost in thought.

As the evening wore on, he became more and more absorbed in his thoughts, and I couldn't rouse him with any talk. I had planned to stay the night at the hut, as I often did, but seeing my host in such a mood, I thought it best to leave. He didn't press me to stay, but as I left, he shook my hand with even more than his usual friendliness.

About a month later, during which time I had seen nothing of Legrand, I received a visit in Charleston from his servant Jupiter. I had never seen the good old Negro look so downcast, and I feared something serious had happened to my friend.

"Well, Jup," said I, "what's the matter now? How is your master?"

"Why, to speak de troof, massa, him not so berry well as mought be."

"Not well! I'm truly sorry to hear it. What does he complain of?"

"Dar! dat's it!—him nebber 'plain of notin'—but him berry sick for all dat."

"Very sick, Jupiter! Why didn't you say so at once? Is he confined to bed?"

"No, dat he ain't! He ain't 'find nowhar—dat's just whar de shoe pinch—my mind is got to be berry hebby 'bout poor Massa Will."

"Jupiter, I should like to understand what you're talking about. You say your master is sick. Hasn't he told you what ails him?"

"Why, massa, 'tain't worf while for to git mad 'bout de matter—Massa Will say noffin' at all ain't de matter wid him—but den what make him go about looking dis here way, wid he head down and he soldiers up, and as white as a gose? And den he keep a syphon all de time—"

"Keeps a what, Jupiter?"

"Keeps a syphon wid de figgurs on de slate—de queerest figgurs I ebber did see. Ise gittin' to be skeered, I tell you. Hab for to keep mighty tight eye pon him noovers. Todder day he gib me slip fore de sun up, and was gone de whole ob de blessed day. I had a big stick ready cut for to gib him d—d good beating when he did come—but Ise sich a fool dat I hadn't de heart after all—he look so berry poorly."

"Eh?—what? Ah, yes!—upon the whole, I think you had better not be too severe with the poor fellow. Don't flog him, Jupiter, he can't very well stand it. But can you form an idea of what has caused this illness, or rather this change of conduct? Has anything unpleasant happened since I saw you?"

"No, massa, dey ain't bin noffin' onpleasant since den—'twas 'fore den, I'm feared—'twas de berry day you was dare."

"How? What do you mean?"

"Why, massa, I mean de bug—dare now."

"The what?"

"De bug—I'm berry sartain dat Massa Will bin bit somewhere 'bout de head by dat goole-bug."

"And what cause have you, Jupiter, for such a supposition?"

"Claws enuff, massa, and mouff, too. I nebber did see sich a d—d bug—he kick and he bite ebery ting what cum near him. Massa Will cotch him fuss, but had for to let him go 'gin mighty quick, I tell you—den was de time he must ha' got de bite. I didn't like de look ob de bug mouff, myself, nohow, so I wouldn't take hold ob him wid my finger, but I cotch him wid a piece ob paper dat I found. I wrap him up in de paper and stuff piece ob it in he mouff—dat was de way."

"And you think, then, that your master was really bitten by the beetle, and that the bite made him sick?"

"I don't t'ink noffin' 'bout it—I nose it. What make him dream 'bout de goole so much, if 'tain't cause he bit by de goole-bug? Ise heerd 'bout dem goole-bugs 'fore dis."

"But how do you know he dreams about gold?"

"How I know? Why, 'cause he talk about it in he sleep—dat's how I nose."

"Well, Jup, perhaps you are right. But to what fortunate circumstances am I to attribute the honor of a visit from you today?"

"What de matter, massa?"

"Did you bring any message from Mr. Legrand?"

"No, massa, I bring dis here 'pissel;" and Jupiter handed me a note, which read:

My dear ——:

Why have I not seen you for so long? I hope you have not been so foolish as to take offense at any little brusquerie of mine; but no, that is improbable.

Since I saw you, I have had great cause for anxiety. I have something to tell you, yet scarcely know how to tell it, or whether I should tell it at all.

I have not been quite well for some days past, and poor old Jup annoys me, almost beyond endurance, by his well-meant attentions. Would you believe it?—he had prepared a huge stick, the other day, with which to chastise me for giving him the slip and spending the day, solus, among the hills on the mainland. I verily believe that my ill looks alone saved me a flogging.

I have made no addition to my cabinet since we met.

If you can, in any way, make it convenient, come over with Jupiter. Do come. I wish to see you tonight, upon business of importance. I assure you that it is of the highest importance.

Ever yours,

William Legrand.

There was something in the tone of this note that made me uneasy. Its style was completely different from Legrand's usual manner. What could he be dreaming of? What new whim had seized his excitable mind? What 'business of the highest importance' could he possibly have? Jupiter's account of him boded no good. I was afraid that continued misfortune had finally unsettled my friend's reason. So without a moment's hesitation, I prepared to go with the Negro.

When we reached the wharf, I noticed a scythe and three spades, all apparently new, lying in the bottom of the boat we were to take.

"What's the meaning of all this, Jup?" I asked.

"Him syfe, massa, and spade."

"Very true; but what are they doing here?"

"Him de syfe and de spade what Massa Will 'sis' 'pon my buying for him in de town, and de debbil's own lot of money I had to gib for 'em."

"But what, in the name of all that is mysterious, is your 'Massa Will' going to do with scythes and spades?"

"Dat's more dan I know, and debbil take me if I don't b'lieve 'tis more dan he know, too. But it's all come ob de bug."

Finding that I could get no satisfaction from Jupiter, whose whole mind seemed taken up with "de bug," I stepped into the boat and we set sail. With a fair and strong breeze, we soon reached the little cove north of Fort Moultrie, and a walk of some two miles brought us to the hut. It was about three in the afternoon when we arrived. Legrand had been waiting for us in eager expectation. He grasped my hand with a nervous eagerness that alarmed me and increased my suspicions. His face was pale, almost ghastly, and his deep-set eyes glared with unnatural brightness. After asking about his health, I asked, not knowing what else to say, if he had yet gotten the beetle from Lieutenant G——.

"Oh, yes," he replied, coloring violently. "I got it from him the next morning. Nothing could make me part with that beetle. Do you know Jupiter is quite right about it?"

"In what way?" I asked, with a sad foreboding at heart.

"In supposing it to be a bug of real gold." He said this with an air of profound seriousness, and I felt inexpressibly shocked.

"This bug is to make my fortune," he continued, with a triumphant smile, "and restore me to my family possessions. Is it any wonder, then, that I prize it? Since Fortune has thought fit to bestow it upon me, I have only to use it properly and I shall arrive at the gold of which it is the index. Jupiter, bring me that beetle!"

"What! De bug, massa? I'd rudder not go fer trubble dat bug—you mus' git him for your own self." Hereupon Legrand rose, with a grave and stately air, and brought me the beetle from a glass case in which it was kept. It was a beautiful beetle, and at that time unknown to naturalists—of course, a great prize from a scientific point of view. There were two round black spots near one end of the back, and a long one near the other. The scales were extremely hard and glossy, with the appearance of burnished gold. The insect was remarkably heavy, and considering everything, I could hardly blame Jupiter for his opinion about it. But what to make of Legrand's agreement with that opinion, I couldn't for the life of me tell.

"I sent for you," he said, in a grand, flowery tone when I had finished examining the beetle, "that I might have your counsel and assistance in furthering the views of Fate and the bug."

"My dear Legrand," I cried, interrupting him, "you are certainly unwell, and had better take some precautions. You shall go to bed, and I will stay with you a few days until you get over this. You are feverish and—"

"Feel my pulse," said he.

I felt it, and to tell the truth, found no sign of fever.

"But you may be ill and still have no fever. Allow me this once to prescribe for you. In the first place, go to bed. In the next—"

"You are mistaken," he broke in. "I am as well as I can expect to be under the excitement I suffer. If you really wish me well, you will relieve this excitement."

"And how is that to be done?"