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Updated: May 1, 2025
He felt its thin ribs, its soft, paper-like material, and his fingers chilled as they closed on the two outermost spokes. They were of metal, whether steel or iron he could not determine. A queer fan this, far too heavy to stir the air, and Effinghame held the fan up to the light. He had perceived a shadowy figure in a corner.
"My Samurai fan!" he exclaimed, in his accustomed frank tones; "how did you discover it so soon?" "You've kept me here an hour. I had to do something," answered the other, sulkily. "There, there, I apologize. Sit down, old man. I had a very sick patient to-night, and I feel worn out. I'll ring for champagne." They talked about trifling personal matters, when suddenly Effinghame asked:
Compelled to leave his two swords behind a screen, he could close this fighting machine and parry the attack of his hospitable enemy until he reached his swords. Just try it and see what a formidable weapon it would prove." He took up the fan, shut it, and swung it over his head. "Look out for the bottles!" cried Effinghame. "Never fear, old chap. And did you notice the head?"
Not a noteworthy example of Japanese art, thought Effinghame, as he glanced without marked curiosity at its neutral tinting, though he could not help wondering why the cunning artificers of the East had failed to adorn the wedge-shaped surfaces of this fan with their accustomed bold and exquisite arabesques. He impatiently paced the floor.
"But that other body found in the blasted field of Aceldama!" demanded the agitated Effinghame. Dr. Arn did not answer. After a lugubrious pause, he whispered: "There's more to follow. You haven't heard the worst." "What more! I thought your damnable old Bonze died in the odour of sanctity over there in his Yellow Kingdom." "True. He died. But before he died he recorded a vision he had.
I, Moâ the Bonze, tell you this ere it be too late to repent your sins and forswear your false gods. The Galilean is our master.... "Farceur! Do you know what I would do with that accursed fan? I'd destroy it, sell it, get rid of it somehow. Or else " Effinghame scrutinized the doctor, whose eyes were closed "or else I would return to the pious practices of my old religion."
It resolved itself into a man's head bearded, scowling, crowned with thorns or sunbeams. It was probably a Krishna. But how came such a face on a Japanese fan? The type was Oriental, though not Mongolian, rather Semitic. It vaguely recalled to Effinghame a head and face he had seen in a famous painting. But where and by whom?
But I do know that this fan contains on one side of it the most extraordinary revelation ever vouchsafed mankind, particularly Christian mankind." Excited by his own words, Arn arose. "Effinghame, my dear fellow, I know you have read Renan. If Renan had seen the communication on this iron fan, he would have never written his life of the Messiah." His eyes blazed. "Why, what do you mean?"
That head, as you must have noticed, is not Japanese. It's Jewish. Do you recall the head of Judas painted by Da Vinci in his Last Supper? Now isn't this old scoundrel's the exact duplicate well, if not exact, there is a very strong resemblance." Effinghame looked and nodded. "And what the devil is it doing on a fan of the Samurai? It's not caprice.
No Japanese artist ever painted in that style or ever expressed that type. I thought the thing out and came to the conclusion " "Yes yes! What conclusion?" eagerly interrupted his listener. "To the conclusion that I could never unravel such a knotty question alone." Effinghame was disappointed. "So I had recourse to an ally to the fan itself," blandly added Arn, as he poured out more wine.
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