The Yellow Sign, by Robert W. Chambers VINTAGE

When casually looking out his window in Washington Square, Scott sees a cadaverous figure that gives him the impression of a plump white grave worm. And Scott cannot unsee it. Robert W. Chambers, today on the Classic Tales Podcast.

Welcome to this vintage episode of the Classic Tales podcast, where an audiobook format gives you an immersive experience in classic literature. I'm your host, BJ Harrison. I'm glad you could join us.

With the audiobook library card, you gain access to the entire Classic Tales library that I've been working on for 19 years, hundreds of titles, and thousands of hours of classic audiobooks in tons of genres. These are the same titles found on Audible, Spotify, Barnes & Noble, etc.

They already have thousands of 5-star ratings, many have won awards, and you can download all you want, no limits. Stop counting credits or waiting for Libby and get your audiobook library card for only $9.99 a month.

It's the best deal on the internet. You're going to love it. Go to audiobooklibrarycard.com and choose the plan that's right for you. And now, The Yellow Sign by Robert W. Chambers.

1. But the red dawn surmise what we shall do, when this blue starlight dies and all is through. There are so many things which are impossible to explain. Why should certain chords in music make me think of the brown and golden tints of autumn

foliage? Why should the mass of Saint-Saint-Céil send my thoughts wandering among caverns whose whose walls blaze with ragged masses of virgin silver. What was it in the roar and turmoil of Broadway at six o'clock,

that flashed before my eyes the picture of a still-brettened forest, where sunlight filtered through spring foliage and Sylvia bent, half curiously, half tenderly, over a small green lizard, murmuring, to think that this also is a little ward of God.

When I first saw the Watchman, his back was toward me. I looked at him indifferently until he went into the church. I paid no more attention to him than I had to any other man who lounged through Washington Square that morning, and when I shut my window and turned back into my studio, I had forgotten him. Late in the afternoon, the day being warm, I

raised the window again and leaned out to get a sniff of air. A man was standing in the courtyard of the church, and I noticed him again, as with little interest as I had that morning. I looked across the square to where the fountain was playing, and then with my mind filled with vague impressions of trees, asphalt drives, and the morning groups of nursemaids and holiday

makers, I started to walk back to my easel. As I turned to my listless glance included the man below in the churchyard, his face was toward me now, and with a perfectly involuntary movement I bent to see it. At the same moment he raised his head and looked at me. Instantly I thought of a coffin worm. Whatever it was about the man that repelled me, I did not know,

but the impression of a plump white grave worm was so intense and nauseating that I must have shown it in my expression, for he turned his puffy face away with a movement which made me think of a disturbed grub in a chestnut. I went back to my easel and motioned the model to resume her pose. After working

a while I was satisfied that I was spoiling what I had done as rapidly as possible, and I took up a palette knife and scraped the colour out again. The flush tones were sallow and unhealthy, and I did not understand how I could have painted such sickly colour into a study which before that had glowed with healthy tones. I looked at Tessie. She had

not changed, and the clear flush of health died her neck and cheeks as I frowned. Is it something I've done?" she said. No, I've made a mess of this arm, and for the life of me I can't see how I came to paint such mud as that into the canvas," I replied.

Don't I pose well? she insisted. Of course, perfectly. Then it's not my fault? No, it's my own.

I'm very sorry," she said. I told her she could rest while I applied rag and turpentine to the plague spot on my canvas. She went off to smoke a cigarette and look over the illustrations in the courier français.

I do not know whether it was something in the turpentine or a defect in the canvas, but the more I scrubbed, the more that gangrene seemed to spread. I worked like a beaver to get it out, and yet the disease appeared to creep from limb to limb of the study before me. Alarmed I strove to arrest it, but now the color on the

breast changed, and the whole figure seemed to absorb the infection as a sponge soaks up water. Vigorously I applied palette knife, turpentine, and scraper, thinking all the time what a séance I should hold with Duval who had sold me the canvas. But soon Then I noticed that it was not the canvas which was defective, nor yet the colours of

Edward. It must be the turpentine, I thought angrily, or else my eyes have become so blurred and confused by the afternoon light that I can't see straight. I called Tessie the model.

She came and leaned over my chair, blowing rings of smoke into the air. What have you been doing to it? She exclaimed. Nothing, I growled.

It must be this turpentine. What a horrible color it is now," she continued. Do you think my flesh resembles green cheese? No, I don't," I said angrily.

Did you ever know me to paint like that before? No indeed. Well, then, it must be the turpentine or something, she admitted. She slipped on a Japanese robe and walked to the window.

I scraped and rubbed until I was tired, and finally picked up my brushes and hurled them through the canvas with a forcible expression, the tone alone of which reached Tessie's ears. Nevertheless, she promptly began, That's it! Swear and act silly and ruin your brushes. You have been three weeks on that study, and now look! What's the good of ripping

the canvas? What creatures, artists are! I felt about as much ashamed as I usually did after such an outbreak, and I turned the ruined canvas to the wall. Tessie helped me clean my brushes and then danced away to dress.