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Title: Famous mystery stories
Editor: J. Walker McSpadden
Release date: May 25, 2026 [eBook #78750]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Thomas Y. Crowell Company, 1922
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES ***
FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES
_The “Mystery” Library_
EDITED BY
J. WALKER McSPADDEN
FAMOUS GHOST STORIES
FAMOUS PSYCHIC STORIES
FAMOUS DETECTIVE STORIES
FAMOUS MYSTERY STORIES
A Library of quite unusual tales culled from the most powerful writers,
chiefly American, English, and French. Each book contains special
introduction.
THOMAS Y. CROWELL CO., NEW YORK
FAMOUS
MYSTERY STORIES
EDITED BY
J. WALKER McSPADDEN
Editor of “Famous Ghost Stories,” “Famous
Psychic Stories,” “Famous Detective
Stories,” etc.
NEW YORK
THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1922,
BY THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON _Richard Harris Barham_ 1
THE MYSTERIOUS SKETCH _Erckmann-Chatrian_ 34
THE DESERTED HOUSE _Ernest T. W. Hoffmann_ 58
THE ADELANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES _Washington Irving_ 86
THE PIPE _Anonymous_ 110
THE UPPER BERTH _F. Marion Crawford_ 139
THE DIAMOND LENS _Fitz-James O’Brien_ 172
THE HORLA _Guy de Maupassant_ 210
THE MUMMY’S FOOT _Théophile Gautier_ 248
THE THIEF _Anna Katharine Green_ 266
INTRODUCTION
“Famous Mystery Stories” completes a tetralogy begun a few years ago
with “Ghost Stories” and continued with “Detective” and “Psychic
Stories.” The responsive chord that each successive volume has struck
has emboldened the editor to continue a line of research which has
revealed many fascinating channels. A mass of enticing material has
been brought to light, which would fill many books of the present size;
and the problem has been one of selection and elimination. The group of
four books now complete under the title of the “The Mystery Library,”
while in no sense an anthology of the subject, will be found to contain
many typical examples of the bizarre and unusual, culled from the
ablest pens of America and Europe.
It is interesting to note the different methods of approach to your
true mystery story. Every such tale conceals a definite problem which
may or may not be solved; and when tested in the crucible of widely
divergent minds, the result is of value from more than one aspect.
In the present volume the reader will find representative stories
from American, English, Irish, French and German writers. Aside
from the individual merit of each tale, they afford a striking
study in contrasts, both in style and method of approach. By way of
illustration, no two stories could be more dissimilar in treatment
than the French and German examples herewith included. “The Mysterious
Sketch” by Erckmann-Chatrian, like its successor, “The Deserted House,”
by Hoffmann, is an excellent type of pure mystery tale, with the
mystery unexplained; but there the resemblance ends. The French joint
authors are concerned only with a hypothetical case. An artist draws a
fanciful sketch which proves to be the depiction of an actual tragedy.
Its effect upon the artist himself, rather than the how and why of the
drawing, is the concern of the story. Hoffmann’s tale also presents a
definite problem which is only half explained. It is a fantasy with
a touch of psychology, and affords its own raison d’être. “Hoffmann
preferred to remain a riddle to himself,” wrote a friend, “a riddle
which he always dreaded to have solved.”
Three stories involving a vein of humor are “The Spectre of
Tappington,” that delightful skit from “The Ingoldsby Legends”;
Irving’s tale of the Adelantado who sought the lost cities of the
Spanish Main; and “The Pipe.” Each may be commended as an after-dinner
solace, “The Pipe” providing a pleasant “smoke” although not altogether
harmless in its effects. It is by our old friend, Anonymous, who
has given us some of the best examples of literature in every age.
Irving on his part is always like a draught of ruddy wine; and in the
adventures of the misguided Adelantado we are reminded of our old
friend Rip Van Winkle. The author himself is not concerned with a
mystery per se, but is indulging in a characteristic flight of fancy
tinged with a quiet, ironical humor.
By way of contrast come a grisly tale of the sea from the masterly pen
of F. Marion Crawford. In “The Upper Berth” he weaves a mystery of
horror and haunting fear. It is redolent of stagnant seawater and slimy
sea-weeds. He is a hardened reader indeed who can read a yarn such as
this without a shudder. And yet the reader is led deliberately on to
the final climax. Unlike other mysteries it does not depend for its
power upon the unexpected. The narrator says in effect, “Gentlemen,
prepare for a shock!”--and his audience are shocked nevertheless.
“The Diamond Lens,” by Fitz-James O’Brien, is a classic of imagination
raised to the _nth_ degree. Through the manufacture of a microscope of
incalculable power, its possessor is enabled to discover worlds far
beyond the ken of man, and to find therein lovely beings. The height of
the fantastic is reached when the scientist falls in love with the tiny
animalcule--truly a hopeless passion! On re-reading this story one is
struck by the fact that even murder itself can be held subordinate to
other elements in a piece of fiction.
De Maupassant’s strange tale, “The Horla,” carries with it more than
a literary interest. It has a certain autobiographical flavor. De
Maupassant wielded one of the most powerful and versatile pens in
France of the last half century, and yet had a morbid, haunting fear of
going mad--a fear which was actually realized. “The Horla” is one of
the first vivid presentiments of a sinister personality overshadowing
his own. In another story, “Lui,” not here included, he also reveals
evidences of this overmastering terror. “I am afraid of the walls,
of the furniture, of the familiar objects which seem to me to assume
a kind of animal life. Above all I fear the horrible confusion of my
thought, of my reason escaping, entangled and scattered by an invisible
and mysterious anguish.”
A mystery story of more conventional type is that one by Anna Katharine
Green, one of America’s most prolific writers in this vein. In “The
Thief,” we have an example of circumstantial evidence, which wellnigh
brings its victim to social and spiritual ruin. He is saved only by the
faith of those who believe in him despite appearances.
“The Mummy’s Foot,” by Gautier, is a delightful example of Gallic
humor. Nothing could be more fanciful than the picture of the long-dead
Egyptian princess coming to reclaim her foot, which was being used as
a paper weight, and the assumption of its owner that he was thereby
entitled to claim her hand.
In the preparation of this work the editor has been constantly indebted
to publishers and writers for the use of special material. Thanks are
particularly due to The Macmillan Company and the heirs of F. Marion
Crawford for permission to use his work; and to Dodd, Mead & Company
and Anna Katharine Green, for the use of her story.
J. W. McS.
MONTCLAIR, N. J.
March 1, 1922.
THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON
By RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
[Attribution: From “The Ingoldsby Legends, by Thomas Ingoldsby Esq.”]
“It is very odd, though; what can have become of them?” said Charles
Seaforth, as he peeped under the valance of an old-fashioned
bedstead, in an old-fashioned apartment of a still more old-fashioned
manor-house; “’tis confoundedly odd, and I can’t make it out at all.
Why, Barney, where are they?--and where the devil are you?”
No answer was returned to this appeal; and the lieutenant, who was, in
the main, a reasonable person--at least as reasonable a person as any
young gentleman of twenty-two in “the service” can fairly be expected
to be--cooled when he reflected that his servant could scarcely reply
extempore to a summons which it was impossible he should hear.
An application to the bell was the considerate result; and the
footsteps of as tight a lad as ever put pipe-clay to belt, sounded
along the gallery.
“Come in!” said his master. An ineffectual attempt upon the door
reminded Mr. Seaforth that he had locked himself in. “By Heaven!
this is the oddest thing of all,” said he, as he turned the key and
admitted Mr. Maguire into his dormitory.
“Barney, where are my pantaloons?”
“Is it the breeches?” asked the valet, casting an inquiring eye round
the apartment--“is it the breeches, sir?”
“Yes; what have you done with them?”
“Sure then your honor had them on when you went to bed, and it’s
hereabout they’ll be, I’ll be bail;” and Barney lifted a fashionable
tunic from a cane-backed arm-chair, proceeding in his examination.
But the search was vain: there was the tunic aforesaid; there was a
smart-looking kerseymere waistcoat; but the most important article of
all in a gentleman’s wardrobe was still wanting.
“Where can they be?” asked the master, with a strong accent on the
auxiliary verb.
“Sorrow a know I knows,” said the man.
“It must have been the devil, then, after all, who has been here and
carried them off!” cried Seaforth, staring full into Barney’s face.
Mr. Maguire was not devoid of the superstition of his countrymen, still
he looked as if he did not quite subscribe to the _sequitur_.
His master read incredulity in his countenance. “Why, I tell you,
Barney, I put them there, on that arm-chair, when I got into bed; and,
by heaven! I distinctly saw the ghost of the old fellow they told me
of, come in at midnight, put on my pantaloons, and walk away with them.”
“May be so,” was the cautious reply.
“I thought, of course, it was a dream; but then--where the devil are
the breeches?”
The question was more easily asked than answered. Barney renewed his
search, while the lieutenant folded his arms, and, leaning against the
toilet, sank into a reverie.
“After all, it must be some trick of my laughter-loving cousins,” said
Seaforth.
“Ah! then, the ladies!” chimed in Mr. Maguire, though the observation
was not addressed to him; “and will it be Miss Caroline or Miss Fanny,
that’s stole your honor’s things?”
“I hardly know what to think of it,” pursued the bereaved lieutenant,
still speaking in soliloquy, with his eye resting dubiously on the
chamber-door. “I locked myself in, that’s certain; and--but there must
be some other entrance to the room--pooh! I remember--the private
staircase; how could I be such a fool?” and he crossed the chamber to
where a low oaken doorcase was dimly visible in a distant corner. He
paused before it. Nothing now interfered to screen it from observation;
but it bore tokens of having been at some earlier period concealed by
tapestry, remains of which yet clothed the walls on either side of the
portal.
“This way they must have come,” said Seaforth; “I wish with all my
heart I had caught them!”
“Och! the kittens!” sighed Mr. Barney Maguire.
But the mystery was yet as far from being solved as before. True, there
_was_ the “other door”; but then that, too, on examination, was even
more firmly secured than the one which opened on the gallery--two
heavy bolts on the inside effectually prevented any coup de main on the
lieutenant’s bivouac from that quarter. He was more puzzled than ever;
nor did the minutest inspection of the walls and floor throw any light
upon the subject; one thing only was clear--the breeches were gone! “It
is _very_ singular,” said the lieutenant.
* * * * *
Tappington (generally called Tapton) Everard is an antiquated but
commodious manor-house in the eastern division of the county of Kent. A
former proprietor had been high-sheriff in the days of Elizabeth, and
many a dark and dismal tradition was yet extant of the licentiousness
of his life, and the enormity of his offenses. The Glen, which the
keeper’s daughter was seen to enter, but never known to quit, still
frowns darkly as of yore; while an ineradicable bloodstain on the oaken
stair yet bids defiance to the united energies of soap and sand. But it
is with one particular apartment that a deed of more especial atrocity
is said to be connected. A stranger guest--so runs the legend--arrived
unexpectedly at the mansion of the “bad Sir Giles.” They met in
apparent friendship; but the ill-concealed scowl on their master’s brow
told the domestics that the visit was not a welcome one; the banquet,
however, was not spared; the wine cup circulated freely--too freely,
perhaps, for sounds of discord at length reached the ears of even the
excluded serving-men, as they were doing their best to imitate their
betters in the lower hall. Alarmed, some of them ventured to approach
the parlor; one an old and favored retainer of the house, went so far
as to break in upon his master’s privacy. Sir Giles, already high in
oath, fiercely enjoined his absence, and he retired; not, however,
before he had distinctly heard from the stranger’s lips a menace that
“there was that within his pockets which could disprove the knight’s
right to issue that or any other command within the walls of Tapton.”
The intrusion, though momentary, seemed to have produced a beneficial
effect; the voices of the disputants fell, and the conversation was
carried on thenceforth in a more subdued tone, till, as evening closed
in, the domestics, when summoned to attend with lights, found not only
cordiality restored, but that a still deeper carouse was meditated.
Fresh stoups, and from the choicest bins, were produced; nor was it
till at a late, or rather early hour, that the revelers sought their
chambers.
The one allotted to the stranger occupied the first floor of the
eastern angle of the building, and had once been the favorite apartment
of Sir Giles himself. Scandal ascribed this preference to the facility
which a private staircase, communicating with the grounds, had afforded
him, in the old knight’s time, of following his wicked courses
unchecked by parental observation; a consideration which ceased to be
of weight when the death of his father left him uncontrolled master
of his estate and actions. From that period Sir Giles had established
himself in what were called the “state apartments,” and the “oaken
chamber” was rarely tenated, save on occasions of extraordinary
festivity, or when the yule log drew an unusually large accession of
guests around the Christmas hearth.
On this eventful night it was prepared for the unknown visitor, who
sought his couch heated and inflamed from his midnight orgies, and
in the morning was found in his bed a swollen and blackened corpse.
No marks of violence appeared upon the body; but the livid hue
of the lips, and certain dark-colored spots visible on the skin,
aroused suspicions which those who entertained them were too timid to
express. Apoplexy, induced by the excesses of the preceding night, Sir
Giles’s confidential leech pronounced to be the cause of his sudden
dissolution. The body was buried in peace; and though some shook their
heads as they witnessed the haste with which the funeral rites were
hurried on, none ventured to murmur. Other events arose to distract the
attention of the retainers; men’s minds became occupied by the stirring
politics of the day; while the near approach of that formidable
armada, so vainly arrogating to itself a title which the very elements
joined with human valor to disprove, soon interfered to weaken, if
not obliterate, all remembrance of the nameless stranger who had died
within the walls of Tapton Everard.
Years rolled on: the “bad Sir Giles” had himself long since gone to his
account, the last, as it was believed, of his immediate line; though
a few of the older tenants were sometimes heard to speak of an elder
brother, who had disappeared in early life, and never inherited the
estate. Rumors, too, of his having left a son in foreign lands, were at
one time rife; but they died away, nothing occurring to support them;
the property passed unchallenged to a collateral branch of the family,
and the secret, if secret there were, was buried in Denton churchyard,
in the lonely grave of the mysterious stranger. One circumstance
alone occurred, after a long-intervening period, to revive the memory
of these transactions. Some workmen employed in grubbing an old
plantation, for the purpose of raising on its site a modern shrubbery,
dug up, in the execution of their task, the mildewed remnants of what
seemed to have been once a garment. On more minute inspection, enough
remained of silken slashes and a coarse embroidery, to identify the
relics as having once formed part of a pair of trunk hose; while a few
papers which fell from them, altogether illegible from damp and age,
were by the unlearned rustics conveyed to the then owner of the estate.
Whether the squire was more successful in deciphering them was never
known; he certainly never alluded to their contents; and little would
have been thought of the matter but for the inconvenient memory of
an old woman, who declared she heard her grandfather say, that when
the “stranger guest” was poisoned, though all the rest of his clothes
were there, his breeches, the supposed repository of the supposed
documents, could never be found. The master of Tapton Everard smiled
when he heard Dame Jones’s hint of deeds which might impeach the
validity of his own title in favor of some unknown descendant of some
unknown heir; and the story was rarely alluded to, save by one or
two miracle-mongers, who had heard that others had seen the ghost of
Old Sir Giles, in his night-cap, issue from the postern, enter the
adjoining copse, and wring his shadowy hands in agony, as he seemed to
search vainly for something hidden among the evergreens. The stranger’s
deathroom had, of course, been occasionally haunted from the time of
his decease; but the periods of visitation had latterly become very
rare--even Mrs. Botherby, the housekeeper, being forced to admit that
during her long sojourn at the manor, she had never “met with anything
worse than herself”; though, as the old lady afterwards added upon more
mature reflection, “I must say I think I saw the devil once.”
Such was the legend attached to Tapton Everard, and such the story
which the lively Caroline Ingoldsby detailed to her equally mercurial
cousin, Charles Seaforth, lieutenant in the Hon. East India Company’s
second regiment of Bombay Fencibles, as arm-in-arm they promenaded a
gallery decked with some dozen grim-looking ancestral portraits, and,
among others, with that of the redoubted Sir Giles himself. The gallant
commander had that very morning paid his first visit to the house of
his maternal uncle, after an absence of several years passed with his
regiment on the arid plains of Hindoostan, whence he was now returned
on a three years’ furlough. He had gone out a boy--he returned a man;
but the impression made upon his youthful fancy by his favorite cousin
remained unimpaired, and to Tapton he directed his steps, even before
he sought the home of his widowed mother--comforting himself in this
breach of filial decorum by the reflection that, as the manor was so
little out of his way, it would be unkind to pass, as it were, the door
of his relatives, without just looking in for a few hours.
But he found his uncle as hospitable, and his cousin more charming
than ever; and the looks of one, and the requests of the other, soon
precluded the possibility of refusing to lengthen the “few hours” into
a few days, though the house was at the moment full of visitors.
The Peterses were there from Ramsgate; and Mr., Mrs., and the two Miss
Simpkinsons, from Bath, had come to pass a month with the family;
and Tom Ingoldsby had brought down his college friend, the Honorable
Augustus Sucklethumbkin, with his groom and pointers, to take a
fortnight’s shooting. And then there was Mrs. Ogleton, the rich young
widow, with her large black eyes, who, people did say, was setting
her cap at the young squire, though Mrs. Botherby did not believe
it; and, above all, there was Mademoiselle Pauline, her femme de
chambre, who “mon Dieu’d” everything and everybody, and cried “Quelle
horreur!” at Mrs. Botherby’s cap. In short, to use the last-named and
much-respected lady’s own expression, the house was “choke-full” to
the very attics--all save the “oaken chamber,” which, as the lieutenant
expressed a most magnanimous disregard of ghosts, was forthwith
appropriated to his particular accommodation. Mr. Maguire meanwhile
was fain to share the apartment of Oliver Dobbs, the squire’s own man;
a jocular proposal of joint occupancy having been first indignantly
rejected by “Mademoiselle,” though preferred with the “laste taste in
life” of Mr. Barney’s most insinuating brogue.
* * * * *
“Come, Charles, the urn is absolutely getting cold; your breakfast
will be quite spoiled; what can have made you so idle?” Such was the
morning salutation of Miss Ingoldsby to the militaire as he entered the
breakfast-room half-an-hour after the latest of the party.
“A pretty gentleman, truly, to make an appointment with,” chimed
in Miss Frances. “What is become of our ramble to the rocks before
breakfast?”
“Oh! the young men never think of keeping a promise now,” said Mrs.
Peters, a little ferret-faced woman with underdone eyes.
“When I was a young man,” said Mr. Peters, “I remember I always made a
point of----”
“Pray, how long ago was that?” asked Mr. Simpkinson from Bath.
“Why, sir, when I married Mrs. Peters, I was--let me see--I was----”
“Do pray hold your tongue, P., and eat your breakfast!” interrupted
his better half, who had a mortal horror of chronological references;
“it’s very rude to tease people with your family affairs.”
The lieutenant had by this time taken his seat in silence--a
good-humored nod, and a glance, half-smiling, half-inquisitive, being
the extent of his salutation. Smitten as he was, and in the immediate
presence of her who had made so large a hole in his heart, his manner
was evidently distrait, which the fair Caroline in her secret soul
attributed to his being solely occupied by her agrémens: how would she
have bridled had she known that they only shared his meditations with a
pair of breeches!
Charles drank his coffee and spiked some half-dozen eggs, darting
occasionally a penetrating glance at the ladies, in hope of detecting
the supposed waggery by the evidence of some furtive smile or conscious
look. But in vain; not a dimple moved indicative of roguery, nor did
the slightest elevation of eyebrow rise confirmative of his suspicions.
Hints and insinuations passed unheeded--more particular inquiries were
out of the question--the subject was unapproachable.
In the meantime, “patent cords” were just the thing for a morning’s
ride; and, breakfast ended, away cantered the party over the downs,
till, every faculty absorbed by the beauties, animate and inanimate,
which surrounded him, Lieutenant Seaforth of the Bombay Fencibles
bestowed no more thought upon his breeches than if he had been born on
the top of Ben Lomond.
Another night had passed away; the sun rose brilliantly, forming with
his level beams a splendid rainbow in the far-off west, whither the
heavy cloud, which for the last two hours had been pouring its waters
on the earth, was now flying before him.
“Ah! then, and it’s little good it’ll be the claning of ye,”
apostrophized Mr. Barney Maguire, as he deposited, in front of his
master’s toilet, a pair of “bran new” jockey boots, one of Hoby’s
primest fits, which the lieutenant had purchased in his way through
town. On that very morning had they come for the first time under the
valet’s depurating hand, so little soiled, indeed, from the turfy ride
of the preceding day, that a less scrupulous domestic might perhaps
have considered the application of “Warren’s Matchless,” or oxalic
acid, altogether superfluous. Not so, Barney: with the nicest care had
he removed the slightest impurity from each polished surface, and there
they stood, rejoicing in their sable radiance. No wonder a pang shot
across Mr. Maguire’s breast, as he thought on the work now cut out for
them, so different from the light labors of the day before; no wonder
he murmured with a sigh, as the scarce dried window-panes disclosed
a road now inch deep in mud. “Ah! then, it’s little good the claning
of ye!”--for well had he learned in the hall below that eight miles
of a stiff clay soil lay between the manor and Bolsover Abbey, whose
picturesque ruins, “Like ancient Rome, majestic in decay,” the party
had determined to explore. The master had already commenced dressing,
and the man was fitting straps upon a light pair of crane-necked spurs,
when his hand was arrested by the old question--“Barney, where are the
breeches?”
They were nowhere to be found!
Mr. Seaforth descended that morning, whip in hand, and equipped in
a handsome green riding-frock, but no “breeches and boots to match”
were there; loose jean trousers, surmounting a pair of diminutive
Wellingtons, embraced, somewhat incongruously, his nether man, vice the
“patent cords,” returned, like yesterday’s pantaloons, absent without
leave. The “top-boots” had a holiday.
“A fine morning after the rain,” said Mr. Simpkinson from Bath.
“Just the thing for the ’ops,” said Mr. Peters. “I remember when I was
a boy--”
“Do hold your tongue, P.,” said Mrs. Peters--advice which that
exemplary matron was in the constant habit of administering to “her
P.,” as she called him, whenever he prepared to vent his reminiscences.
Her precise reason for this it would be difficult to determine, unless
indeed, the story be true which a little bird had whispered into Mrs.
Botherby’s ear--Mr. Peters, though now a wealthy man, had received a
liberal education at a charity school, and was apt to recur to the days
of his muffin-cap and leathers. As usual, he took his wife’s hint in
good part, and “paused in his reply.”
“A glorious day for the ruins!” said young Ingoldsby. “But Charles,
what the deuce are you about? you don’t mean to ride through our lanes
in such toggery as that?”
“Lassy me!” said Miss Julia Simpkinson, “won’t you be very wet?”
“You had better take Tom’s cab,” quoth the squire.
But this proposition was at once overruled; Mrs. Ogleton had already
nailed the cab, a vehicle of all others the best adapted for a snug
flirtation.
“Or drive Miss Julia in the phaeton?” No; that was the post of Mr.
Peters, who, indifferent as an equestrian, had acquired some fame as
a whip while travelling through the midland countries for the firm of
Bagshaw, Snivelby, and Grimes.
“Thank you, I shall ride with my cousins,” said Charles, with as much
nonchalance as he could assume--and he did so; Mr. Ingoldsby, Mrs.
Peters, Mr. Simpkinson from Bath, and his eldest daughter with her
album, following in the family coach. The gentleman-commoner “voted the
affair d--d slow,” and declined the party altogether in favor of the
gamekeeper and a cigar. “There was ‘no fun’ in looking at old houses!”
Mrs. Simpkinson preferred a short séjour in the still-room with Mrs.
Botherby, who had promised to initiate her in that grand arcanum, the
transmutation of gooseberry jam into Guava jelly.
* * * * *
But what had become of Seaforth and his fair Caroline all this while?
Why, it so happened that they had been simultaneously stricken with
the picturesque appearance of one of those high and pointed arches,
which that eminent antiquary, Mr. Horseley Curties, has described in
his “Ancient records,” as “a Gothic window of the Saxon order”; and
then the ivy clustered so thickly and so beautifully on the other side,
that they went round to look at that; and then their proximity deprived
it of half its effect, and so they walked across to a little knoll, a
hundred yards off, and in crossing a small ravine, they came to what
in Ireland they call “a bad step,” and Charles had to carry his cousin
over it; and then when they had to come back, she would not give him
the trouble again for the world, so they followed a better but more
circuitous route, and there were hedges and ditches in the way, and
stiles to get over and gates to get through, so that an hour or more
had elapsed before they were able to rejoin the party.
“Lassy me!” said Miss Julia Simpkinson, “how long you have been gone!”
And so they had. The remark was a very just as well as a very natural
one. They were gone a long while, and a nice cosy chat they had; and
what do you think it was about, my dear miss?
“O, lassy me! love no doubt, and the moon, and eyes, and nightingales,
and----”
Stay, stay, my sweet young lady; do not let the fervor of your feelings
run away with you! I do not pretend to say, indeed, that one or more
of these pretty subjects might not have been introduced; but the
most important and leading topic of the conference was--Lieutenant
Seaforth’s breeches.
“Caroline,” said Charles, “I have had some very odd dreams since I have
been at Tappington.”
“Dreams, have you?” smiled the young lady, arching her taper neck like
a swan in pluming. “Dreams, have you?”
“Ay, dreams--or dream, perhaps, I should say; for, though repeated, it
was still the same. And what do you imagine was its subject?”
“It is impossible for me to divine,” said the tongue:--“I have not the
least difficulty in guessing,” said the eye, as plainly as ever eye
spoke.
“I dreamt--of your great-grandfather.”
There was a change in the glance--“My great-grandfather?”
“Yes, the old Sir Giles, or Sir John, you told me about the other day:
he walked into my bedroom in his short cloak of murrey-colored velvet,
his long rapier, and his Raleigh-looking hat and feather, just as the
picture represents him; but with one exception.”
“And what was that?”
“Why, his lower extremities, which were visible, were those of a
skeleton.”
“Well?”
“Well, after taking a turn or two about the room, and looking round him
with a wistful air, he came to the bed’s foot, stared at me in a manner
impossible to describe--and then he--he laid hold of my pantaloons;
whipped his long, bony legs into them in a twinkling; and, strutting
up to the glass, seemed to view himself in it with great complacency.
I tried to speak, but in vain. The effort, however, seemed to excite
his attention; for, wheeling about, he showed me the grimmest-looking
death’s head you can well imagine, and with an indescribable grin
strutted out of the room.”
“Absurd! Charles. How can you talk such nonsense?”
“But, Caroline--the breeches are really gone.”
* * * * *
On the following morning, contrary to his usual custom, Seaforth
was the first person in the breakfast parlor. A serious, not to say
anxious, expression was visible upon his good-humored countenance, and
his mouth was fast buttoning itself up for an incipient whistle, when
little Flo, a tiny spaniel of the Blenheim breed--the pet object of
Miss Julia Simpkinson’s affections--bounced out from beneath a sofa,
and began to bark at--his pantaloons.
They were cleverly “built” of a light-gray mixture, a broad stripe
of the most vivid scarlet traversing each seam in a perpendicular
direction from hip to ankle--in short, the regimental costume of the
Royal Bombay Fencibles. The animal, educated in the country, had
never seen such a pair of breeches in her life--Omne ignotum pro
magnifico! The scarlet streak, inflamed as it was by the reflection of
the fire, seemed to act on Flora’s nerves as the same color does on
those of bulls and turkeys; she advanced at the pas de charge, and her
vociferation, like her amazement, was unbounded. A sound kick from the
disgusted officer changed its character, and induced a retreat at the
very moment when the mistress of the pugnacious quadruped entered to
the rescue.
“Lassy me! Flo, what _is_ the matter?” cried the sympathizing lady,
with a scrutinizing glance levelled at the gentleman.
It might as well have lighted on a feather bed. His air of
imperturbable unconsciousness defied examination; and as he would not,
and Flora could not, expound, that injured individual was compelled
to pocket up her wrongs. Others of the household soon dropped in, and
clustered round the board dedicated to the most sociable of meals;
the urn was paraded “hissing hot,” and the cups which “cheer, but not
inebriate,” steamed redolent of hyson and pekoe; muffins and marmalade,
newspapers and finnan haddies, left little room for observation on
the character of Charles’s warlike “turn-out.” At length a look from
Caroline, followed by a smile that nearly ripened to a titter, caused
him to turn abruptly and address his neighbor. It was Miss Simpkinson,
who, was deeply engaged in sipping her tea and turning over her album.
The entreaties of the company were of course urgent. Mr. Peters, “who
liked verses,” was especially persevering, and Sappho, at length
compliant. After a preparatory hem, and a glance at the mirror to
ascertain that her look was sufficiently sentimental, the poetess
began:--
“There is a calm, a holy feeling,
Vulgar minds can never know,
O’er the bosom softly stealing,--
Chasten’d grief, delicious woe!
Oh! how sweet at eve regaining
Yon lone tower’s sequester’d shade--
Sadly mute and uncomplaining----”
--“Yow!--yeough!--yeough!--yow!--yow!” yelled a hapless sufferer from
underneath the table. It was an unlucky hour for quadrupeds; and if
“every dog will have his day,” he could not have selected a more
unpropitious one than this. Mrs. Ogleton, too, had a pet--a favorite
pug--whose squab figure, black muzzle, and tortuosity of tail, that
curled like a head of celery in a salad-bowl, bespoke his Dutch
extraction. Yow! yow! yow! continued the brute--a chorus in which Flo
instantly joined. Sooth to say, pug had more reason to express his
dissatisfaction than was given him by the muse of Simpkinson; the other
only barked for company. Scarcely had the poetess got through her first
stanza, when Tom Ingoldsby, in the enthusiasm of the moment, became so
lost in the material world, that, in his abstraction, he unwarily laid
his hand on the cock of the urn. Quivering with emotion, he gave it
such an unlucky twist, that the full stream of its scalding contents
descended on the gingerbread hide of the unlucky Cupid. The confusion
was complete; the whole economy of the table disarranged--the company
broke up in the most admired disorder--and “vulgar minds will never
know” anything more of Miss Simpkinson’s ode till they peruse it in
some forthcoming Annual.
Seaforth profited by the confusion to take the delinquent who had
caused this “stramash” by the arm, and to lead him to the lawn, where
he had a word or two for his private ear. The conference between the
young gentlemen was neither brief in its duration nor unimportant
in its results. The subject was what the lawyers call tripartite,
embracing the information that Charles Seaforth was over head and
ears in love with Tom Ingoldsby’s sister; secondly, that the lady
had referred him to “papa” for his sanction; thirdly and lastly, his
nightly visitations, and consequent bereavement. At the two first items
Tom smiled auspiciously; at the last he burst out into an absolute
guffaw.
“Steal your breeches! Miss Bailey over again, by Jove,” shouted
Ingoldsby. “But a gentleman, you say--and Sir Giles too. I am not sure,
Charles, whether I ought not to call you out for aspersing the honor of
the family.”
“Laugh as you will, Tom--be as incredulous as you please. One fact is
incontestable--the breeches are gone! Look here--I am reduced to my
regimentals; and if these go, to-morrow I must borrow of you!”
Rochefoucault says, there is something in the misfortunes of our very
best friends that does not displease us; assuredly we can, most of us,
laugh at their petty inconveniences, till called upon to supply them.
Tom composed his feature on the instant, and replied with more gravity,
as well as with an expletive, which, if my Lord Mayor had been within
hearing, might have cost him five shillings.
“There is something very queer in this, after all. The clothes, you
say, have positively disappeared. Somebody is playing you a trick;
and, ten to one, your servant has a hand in it. By the way, I heard
something yesterday of his kicking up a bobbery in the kitchen, and
seeing a ghost, or something of that kind, himself. Depend upon it,
Barney is in the plot.”
It now struck the lieutenant at once, that the usually buoyant spirits
of his attendant had of late been materially sobered down, his
loquacity obviously circumscribed, and that he, the said lieutenant,
had actually rung his bell three several times that very morning before
he could procure his attendance. Mr. Maguire was forthwith summoned,
and underwent a close examination. The “bobbery” was easily explained.
Mr. Barney had seen a ghost.
“A what? you blockhead!” asked Tom Ingoldsby.
“Sure then, and it’s meself will tell your honor the rights of it,”
said the ghost-seer. “Meself and Miss Pauline, sir,--or Miss Pauline
and meself, for the ladies comes first anyhow,--we got tired of the
hobstroppylous scrimmaging among the ould servants, that didn’t know a
joke when they seen one; and we went out to look at the comet--that’s
the rorybory-alehouse, they calls him in this country--and we walked
upon the lawn--and divil of any alehouse there was there at all;
and Miss Pauline said it was bekase of the shrubbery maybe, and why
wouldn’t we see it better beyonst the trees? and so we went to the
trees, but sorrow a comet did meself see there, barring a big ghost
instead of it.”
“A ghost? And what sort of a ghost, Barney?”
“Och, then, divil a lie I’ll tell your honor. A tall ould gentlemen
he was, all in white, with a shovel on the shoulder of him, and a big
torch in his fist--though what he wanted with that it’s meself can’t
tell, for his eyes like gig-lamps, let alone the moon and the comet,
which wasn’t there at all--and ‘Barney,’ says he to me--’cause why he
knew me--‘Barney,’ says he, ‘what is it you’re doing with the colleen
there, Barney?’--Divil a word did I say. Miss Pauline screeched, and
cried murther in French, and ran off with herself; and of course
meself was in a mighty hurry after the lady, and had no time to stop
palavering with him any way: so I dispersed at once, and the ghost
vanished in a flame of fire!”
Mr. Maguire’s account was received with avowed incredulity by both
gentlemen; but Barney stuck to his text with unflinching pertinacity.
A reference to Mademoiselle was suggested, but abandoned, as neither
party had a taste for delicate investigations.
“I’ll tell you what, Seaforth,” said Ingoldsby, after Barney had
received his dismissal, “that there is a trick here, is evident; and
Barney’s vision may possibly be a part of it. Whether he is most knave
or fool, you best know. At all events, I will sit up with you to-night,
and see if I can convert my ancestor into a visiting acquaintance.
Meanwhile your finger on your lip!”
* * * * *
Gladly would I grace my tale with recent horror, and therefore I do
beseech the “gentle reader” to believe, that if all the details to
this mysterious narrative are not in strict keeping, he will ascribe
it only to the disgraceful innovations of modern degeneracy upon the
sober and dignified habits of our ancestors. I can introduce him, it is
true, into an old and high-roofed chamber, its walls covered on three
sides with black oak wainscoting, adorned with carvings of fruit and
flowers long anterior to those of Grinling Gibbons; the fourth side
is clothed with a curious remnant of dingy tapestry, once elucidatory
of some Scriptural history, but of which not even Mrs. Botherby could
determine. Mr. Simpkinson, who had examined it carefully, inclined to
believe the principal figure to be either Bathsheba, or Daniel in the
lion’s den; while Tom Ingoldsby decided in favor of the King of Bashan.
All, however, was conjecture, tradition being silent on the subject. A
lofty arched portal led into, and a little arched portal led out of,
this apartment; they were opposite each other, and each possessed the
security of massy bolts on its interior. The bedstead, too, was not one
of yesterday, but manifestly coeval with days ere Seddons was, and when
a good four-post “article” was deemed worthy of being a royal bequest.
The bed itself, with all the appurtenances of palliasse, mattresses,
etc., was of far later date, and looked most incongruously comfortable;
the casements, too, with their little diamond-shaped panes and iron
binding, had given way to the modern heterodoxy of the sash-window. Nor
was this all that conspired to ruin the costume, and render the room a
meet haunt for such “mixed spirits” only as could condescend to don at
the same time an Elizabethan doublet and Bond-Street inexpressibles.
With their green morocco slippers on a modern fender, in front of
a disgracefully modern grate, sat two young gentlemen, clad in
“shawl-pattern” dressing-gowns and black silk stocks, much at variance
with the high cane-backed chairs which supported them. A bunch of
abomination, called a cigar, reeked in the left-hand corner of the
mouth of one, and in the right-hand corner of the mouth of the
other--an arrangement happily adapted for the escape of the noxious
fumes up the chimney, without that unmerciful “funking” each other
which a less scientific disposition of the weed would have induced.
A small pembroke table filled up the intervening space between them,
sustaining, at each extremity, an elbow and a glass of toddy--thus in
“lonely pensive contemplation” were the two worthies occupied, when the
“iron tongue of midnight had tolled twelve.”
“Ghost-time’s come!” said Ingoldsby, taking from his waistcoat pocket a
watch like a gold half-crown, and consulting it as though he suspected
the turret-clock over the stables of mendacity.
“Hush!” said Charles; “did I not hear a footstep?”
There was a pause--there was a footstep--it sounded distinctly--it
reached the door--it hesitated, stopped, and--passed on.
Tom darted across the room, threw open the door, and became aware of
Mrs. Botherby toddling to her chamber, at the other end of the gallery,
after dosing one of the housemaids with an approved julep from the
Countess of Kent’s _Choice Manual_.
“Good-night, sir!” said Mrs. Botherby.
“Go to the devil!” said the disappointed ghost-hunter.
An hour--two--rolled on, and still no spectral visitation; nor did
aught intervene to make night hideous; and when the turret-clock
sounded at length the hour of three, Ingoldsby, whose patience and grog
were alike exhausted, sprang from his chair, saying--
“This is all infernal nonsense, my good fellow. Deuce of any ghost
shall we see to-night; it’s long past the canonical hour. I’m off to
bed; and as to your breeches, I’ll insure them for the next twenty-four
hours at least, at the price of the buckram.”
“Certainly.--Oh! thank’ee--to be sure!” stammered Charles, rousing
himself from a reverie, which had degenerated into an absolute snooze.
“Good-night, my boy! Bolt the door behind me; and defy the Pope, the
Devil, and the Pretender!”
Seaforth followed his friend’s advice, and the next morning came down
to breakfast dressed in the habiliments of the preceding day. The charm
was broken, the demon defeated; the light grays with the red stripe
down the seams were yet in rerum naturâ, and adorned the person of
their lawful proprietor.
Tom felicitated himself and his partner of the watch on the result of
their vigilance; but there is a rustic adage, which warns us against
self-gratulation before we are quite “out of the wood.”--Seaforth was
yet within its verge.
A rap at Tom Ingoldsby’s door the following morning startled him as he
was shaving--he cut his chin.
“Come in and be damned to you!” said the martyr, pressing his thumb on
the sacrificed epidermis. The door opened, and exhibited Mr. Barney
Maguire.
“Well, Barney, what is it?” quoth the sufferer, adopting the vernacular
of his visitant.
“The master, sir--”
“Well, what does he want?”
“The loanst of a breeches, plase your honor.”
“Why, you don’t mean to tell me----By Heaven, this is too good!”
shouted Tom, bursting into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. “Why,
Barney, you don’t mean to say the ghost has got them again?”
Mr. Maguire did not respond to the young squire’s risibility; the cast
of his countenance was decidedly serious.
“Faith, then, it’s gone they are, sure enough! Hasn’t meself been
looking over the bed, and under the bed, and _in_ the bed, for the
matter of that, and divil a ha’p’orth of breeches is there to the fore
at all:--I’m bothered entirely!”
“Hark’ee! Mr. Barney,” said Tom, incautiously removing his thumb, and
letting a crimson stream “incarnadine the multitudinous” lather that
plastered his throat,--“this may be all very well with your master, but
you don’t humbug _me_, sir:--tell me instantly what have you done with
the clothes?”
This abrupt transition from “lively to severe” certainly took Maguire
by surprise, and he seemed for an instant as much disconcerted as it is
possible to disconcert an Irish gentleman’s gentleman.
“Me? is it meself, then, that’s the ghost to your honor’s thinking?”
said he after a moment’s pause, and with a slight shade of indignation
in his tones: “is it I would stale the master’s things--and what would
I do with them?”
“That you best know:--what your purpose is I can’t guess, for I
don’t think you mean to ‘stale’ them, as you call it; but that you
are concerned in their disappearance, I am satisfied. Confound this
blood!--give me a towel, Barney.”
Maguire acquitted himself of the commission. “As I’ve a sowl, your
honor,” said he, solemnly, “little is it meself knows of the matter;
and after what I seen----”
“What you’ve seen! Why, what _have_ you seen?--Barney, I don’t want to
inquire into your flirtations; but don’t suppose you can palm off your
saucer eyes and gig-lamps upon me!”
“Then, as sure as your honor’s standing there, I saw him: and why
wouldn’t I, when Miss Pauline was to the fore as well as meself,
and----”
“Get along with your nonsense; leave the room, sir!”
“But the master?” said Barney, imploringly; “and without a
breeches?--sure he’ll be catching cowld!----”
“Take that, rascal!” replied Ingoldsby, throwing a pair of pantaloons
at, rather than to, him: “but don’t suppose, sir, you shall carry on
your tricks here with impunity; recollect there is such a thing as a
treadmill, and that my father is a county magistrate.”
Barney’s eye flashed fire; he stood erect, and was about to speak; but,
mastering himself, not without an effort, he took up the garment, and
left the room as perpendicular as a Quaker.
“Ingoldsby,” said Charles Seaforth, after breakfast, “this is now past
a joke; to-day is the last of my stay; for, notwithstanding the ties
which detain me, common decency obliges me to visit home after so long
an absence. I shall come to an immediate explanation with your father
on the subject nearest my heart, and depart while I have a change of
dress left. On his answer will my return depend! In the meantime tell
me candidly,--I ask it in all seriousness, and as a friend,--am I not
a dupe to your well-known propensity to hoaxing? have you not a hand
in----”
“No, by heaven, Seaforth; I see what you mean: on my honor, I am as
much mystified as yourself; and if your servant----”
“Not he:--if there be a trick, he at least is not privy to it.”
“If there be a trick? why, Charles, do you think----”
“I know not what to think, Tom. As surely as you are a living man, so
surely did that spectral anatomy visit my room again last night, grin
in my face, and walk away with my trousers: nor was I able to spring
from my bed, or break the chain which seemed to bind me to my pillow.”
“Seaforth!” said Ingoldsby, after a short pause, “I will----But hush!
here are the girls and my father.--I will carry off the females, and
leave you a clear field with the governor: carry your point with him,
and we will talk about your breeches afterwards.”
Tom’s diversion was successful; he carried off the ladies en masse
while Seaforth marched boldly up to the encounter, and carried “the
governor’s” outworks by a coup de main.
Seaforth was in the seventh heaven; he retired to his room that night
as happy as if no such thing as a goblin had ever been heard of, and
personal chattels were as well fenced in by law as real property. Not
so Tom Ingoldsby: the mystery, for mystery there evidently was,--had
not only piqued his curiosity, but ruffled his temper. The watch of
the previous night had been unsuccessful, probably because it was
undisguised. To-night he would “ensconce himself,” not indeed “behind
the arras,”--for the little that remained was, as we have seen, nailed
to the wall,--but in a small closet which opened from one corner of
the room, and by leaving the door ajar, would give to its occupant a
view of all that might pass in the apartment. Here did the young ghost
hunter take up a position, with a good stout sapling under his arm,
a full half-hour before Seaforth retired for the night. Not even his
friend did he let into his confidence, fully determined that if his
plan did not succeed, the failure should be attributed to himself alone.
At the usual hour of separation for the night, Tom saw, from his
concealment, the lieutenant enter his room, and after taking a few
turns in it, with an expression so joyous as to betoken that his
thoughts were mainly occupied by his approaching happiness, proceed
slowly to disrobe himself. The coat, the waistcoat, happiness,
the black silk stock, were gradually discarded; the green morocco
slippers were kicked off, and then--ay, and then--his countenance grew
grave; it seemed to occur to him all at once that this was his last
stake,--nay, that the very breeches he had on were not his own,--that
to-morrow morning was his last, and that if he lost them----A glance
showed that his mind was made up; he replaced the single button he
had just subducted, and threw himself upon the bed in a state of
transition,--half chrysalis, half grub.
Wearily did Tom Ingoldsby watch the sleeper by the flickering light of
the night-lamp, till, the clock striking one, induced him to increase
the narrow opening which he had left for the purpose of observation.
The motion, slight as it was, seemed to attract Charles’s attention;
for he raised himself suddenly to a sitting posture, listened for a
moment, and then stood upright upon the floor. Ingoldsby was on the
point of discovering himself, when, the light flashing full upon his
friend’s countenance, he perceived that, though his eyes were open,
“their sense was shut,”--that he was yet under the influence of sleep.
Seaforth advanced slowly to the toilet, lit his candle at the lamp that
stood on it, then, going back to the bed’s foot, appeared to search
eagerly for something which he could not find. For a few moments he
seemed restless and uneasy, walking round the apartment and examining
the chairs, till, coming fully in front of a large swing glass that
flanked the dressing-table, he paused as if contemplating his figure
in it. He now returned towards the bed; put on his slippers, and with
cautious and stealthy steps, proceeded towards the little arched
doorway that opened on the private staircase.
As he drew the bolt, Tom Ingoldsby emerged from his hiding-place;
but the sleep-walker heard him not; he proceeded softly downstairs,
followed at a due distance by his friend; opened the door which led
out upon the gardens; and stood at once among the thickest of the
shrubs, which there clustered round the base of a corner turret, and
screened the postern from common observation. At this moment Ingoldsby
had nearly spoiled all by making a false step: the sound attracted
Seaforth’s attention,--he paused and turned; and, as the full moon shed
her light directly upon his pale and troubled features, Tom marked,
almost with dismay, the fixed and rayless appearance of his eyes.
The perfect stillness preserved by his follower seemed to reassure
him; he turned aside; and from the midst of a thicket laurustinus
drew forth a gardener’s spade, shouldering which he proceeded with
greater rapidity into the midst of the shrubbery. Arrived at a certain
point where the earth seemed to have been recently disturbed, he
set himself heartily to the task of digging, till, having thrown up
several shovelfuls of mould, he stopped, flung down his tool, and very
composedly began to disencumber himself of his pantaloons.
Up to this moment Tom had watched him with a wary eye: he now advanced
cautiously, and, as his friend was busily engaged in disentangling
himself from his garment, made himself master of the spade. Seaforth,
meanwhile, had accomplished his purpose: he stood for a moment with
“his streamers waving in the wind,” occupied in carefully rolling up
the small-clothes into as compact a form as possible, and all heedless
of the breath of heaven, which might certainly be supposed at such a
moment, and in such a plight, to “visit his frame too roughly.”
He was in the act of stooping low to deposit the pantaloons in the
grave which he had been digging for them, when Tom Ingoldsby came close
behind him, and with the flat side of the spade----
The shock was effectual--never again was Lieutenant Seaforth known
to act the part of a somnambulist. One by one, his breeches,--his
trousers,--his pantaloons,--his silk-net tights,--his patent
cords,--his showy grays with the broad red stripe of the Bombay
Fencibles were brought to light,--rescued from the grave in which they
had been buried, like the strata of a Christmas pie; and after having
been well aired by Mrs. Botherby, became once again effective.
The family, the ladies especially, laughed--the Peterses laughed--the
Simpkinsons laughed--Barney Maguire cried “Botheration!” and Ma’mselle
Pauline, “Mon Dieu!”
Charles Seaforth, unable to face the quizzing which awaited him on all
sides, started off two hours earlier than he had proposed:--he soon
returned, however; and having, at his father-in-law’s request, given up
the occupation of Rajah-hunting and shooting Nabobs, led his blushing
bride to the altar.
THE MYSTERIOUS SKETCH
By ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN
I
Opposite the chapel of Saint Sebalt in Nuremberg, at the corner of
Trabaus Street, there stands a little tavern, tall and narrow, with
a toothed gable and dusty windows, whose roof is surmounted by a
plaster Virgin. It was there that I spent the unhappiest days of my
life. I had gone to Nuremberg to study the old German masters; but in
default of ready money, I had to paint portraits--and such portraits!
Fat old women with their cats on their laps, big-wigged aldermen,
burgomasters in three-cornered hats--all horribly bright with ochre and
vermilion. From portraits I descended to sketches, and from sketches to
silhouettes.
Nothing is more annoying than to have your landlord come to you every
day with pinched lips, shrill voice, and impudent manner to say: “Well,
sir, how soon are you going to pay me? Do you know how much your bill
is? No; that doesn’t worry you! You eat, drink, and sleep calmly
enough. God feeds the sparrows. Your bill now amounts to two hundred
florins and ten kreutzers--it is not worth talking about.”
Those who have not heard any one talk in this way can form no idea
of it; love of art, imagination, and the sacred enthusiasm for the
beautiful are blasted by the breath of such an attack. You become
awkward and timid; all your energy evaporates, as well as your feeling
of personal dignity, and you bow respectfully at a distance to the
burgomaster Schneegans.
One night, not having a sou, as usual, and threatened with imprisonment
by this worthy Mister Rap, I determined to make him a bankrupt by
cutting my throat. Seated on my narrow bed, opposite the window, in
this agreeable mood, I gave myself up to a thousand philosophical
reflections, more or less comforting.
“What is man?” I asked myself. “An omnivorous animal; his jaws,
provided with canines, incisors, and molars, prove it. The canines
are made to tear meat; the incisors to bite fruits; and the molars
to masticate, grind, and triturate animal and vegetable substances
that are pleasant to smell and to taste. But when he has nothing to
masticate, this being is an absurdity in Nature, a superfluity, a fifth
wheel to the coach.”
Such were my reflections. I dared not open my razor for fear that the
invincible force of my logic would inspire me with the courage to make
an end of it all. After having argued so finely, I blew out my candle,
postponing the sequel till the morrow.
That abominable Rap had completely stupefied me. I could do nothing but
silhouettes, and my sole desire was to have some money to rid myself
of his odious presence. But on this night a singular change came over
my mind. I awoke about one o’clock--I lit my lamp, and, enveloping
myself in my grey gabardine, I drew upon the paper a rapid sketch after
the Dutch school--something strange and bizarre, which had not the
slightest resemblance to my ordinary conceptions.
Imagine a dreary courtyard enclosed by high dilapidated walls. These
walls are furnished with hooks, seven or eight feet from the ground.
You see, at a glance, that it is a butchery.
On the left, there extends a lattice structure; you perceive through
it a quartered beef suspended from the roof by enormous pulleys. Great
pools of blood run over the flagstones and unite in a ditch full of
refuse.
The light falls above, between the chimneys where the weathercocks
stand out from a bit of the sky the size of your hand, and the roofs of
the neighboring houses throw bold shadows from story to story.
At the back of this place is a shed, beneath the shed a pile of wood,
and upon the pile of wood some ladders, a few bundles of straw, some
coils of rope, a chicken-coop, and an old dilapidated rabbit-hutch.
How did these heterogeneous details suggest themselves to my
imagination? I don’t know; I had no reminiscences, and yet every stroke
of the pencil seemed the result of observation, and strange because it
was all so true. Nothing was lacking.
But on the right, one corner of the sketch remained a blank. I did not
know what to put there.... Something suddenly seemed to writhe there,
to move. Then I saw a foot, the sole of a foot. Notwithstanding this
improbable position, I followed my inspiration without reference to my
own criticism. This foot was joined to a leg--over this leg, stretched
out with effort, there soon floated the skirt of a dress. In short,
there appeared by degrees an old woman, pale, dishevelled, and wasted,
thrown down at the side of a well, and struggling to free herself from
a hand that clutched her throat.
It was a murder scene that I was drawing. The pencil fell from my hand.
This woman, in the boldest attitude, with her thighs bent on the curb
of the well, her face contracted by terror, and her two hands grasping
the murderer’s arm, frightened me. I could not look at her. But the
man--he, the person to whom that arm belonged--I could not see him. It
was impossible for me to finish the sketch.
“I am tired,” I said, my forehead dripping with perspiration; “there
is only this figure to do; I will finish it tomorrow. It will be easy
then.”
And again I went to bed, thoroughly frightened by my vision.
The next morning, I got up very early. I was dressing in order to
resume my interrupted work, when two little knocks were heard on my
door.
“Come in!”
The door opened. An old man, tall, thin, and dressed in black, appeared
on the threshold. This man’s face, his eyes set close together and
his large nose like the beak of an eagle, surmounted by a high bony
forehead, had something severe about it. He bowed to me gravely.
“Mister Christian Vénius, the painter?” said he.
“That is my name, sir.”
He bowed again, adding:
“The Baron Frederick Van Spreckdal.”
The appearance of the rich amateur, Van Spreckdal, judge of the
criminal court, in my poor lodging, greatly disturbed me. I could not
help throwing a stealthy glance at my old worm-eaten furniture, my damp
hangings and my dusty floor. I felt humiliated by such dilapidation;
but Van Spreckdal did not seem to take any account of these details;
and sitting down at my little table:
“Mister Vénius,” he resumed, “I come----” But at this instant his
glance fell upon the unfinished sketch--he did not finish his phrase.
I was sitting on the edge of my little bed; and the sudden attention
that this personage bestowed upon one of my productions made my heart
beat with an indefinable apprehension.
At the end of a minute, Van Spreckdal lifted his head:
“Are you the author of that sketch?” he asked me with an intent look.
“Yes, sir.”
“What is the price of it?”
“I never sell my sketches. It is the plan for a picture.”
“Ah!” said he, picking up the paper with the tips of his long yellow
fingers.
He took a lens from his waistcoat pocket and began to study the design
in silence.
The sun was now shining obliquely into the garret. Van Spreckdal never
said a word; the hook of his immense nose increased, his heavy eyebrows
contracted, and his long pointed chin took a turn upward, making a
thousand little wrinkles in his long, thin cheeks. The silence was so
profound that I could distinctly hear the plaintive buzzing of a fly
that had been caught in a spider’s web.
“And the dimensions of this picture, Mister Vénius?” he said without
looking at me.
“Three feet by four.”
“The price?”
“Fifty ducats.”
Van Spreckdal laid the sketch on the table, and drew from his pockets
a large purse of green silk shaped like a pear; he drew the rings of
it----
“Fifty ducats,” said he, “here they are.”
I was simply dazzled.
The Baron rose and bowed to me, and I heard his big ivory-headed cane
resounding on each step until he reached the bottom of the stairs.
Then recovering from my stupor, I suddenly remembered that I had not
thanked him, and I flew down the five flights like lightning; but when
I reached the bottom, I looked to the right and left; the street was
deserted.
“Well,” I said, “this is strange.”
And I went upstairs again all out of breath.
II
The surprising way in which Van Spreckdal had appeared to me threw me
into deep wonderment. “Yesterday,” I said to myself, as I contemplated
the pile of ducats glittering in the sun, “yesterday I formed the
wicked intention of cutting my throat, all for the want of a few
miserable florins, and now today Fortune has showered them from the
clouds. Indeed it was fortunate that I did not open my razor; and, if
the same intention ever comes to me again, I will take care to wait
until the morrow.”
After making these judicious reflections, I sat down to finish the
sketch; four strokes of the pencil and it would be finished. But here
an incomprehensible difficulty awaited me. It was impossible for me
to take those four sweeps of the pencil; I had lost the thread of my
inspiration, and the mysterious personage no longer stood out in my
brain. I tried in vain to evoke him, to sketch him, and to recover him;
he no more accorded with the surroundings than with a figure by Raphael
in a Teniers inn-kitchen. I broke out into a profuse perspiration.
At this moment, Rap opened the door without knocking, according to his
praiseworthy custom. His eyes fell upon my pile of ducats and in a
shrill voice he cried:
“Eh! eh! so I catch. Will you persist in telling me, Mr. Painter, that
you have no money?”
And his hooked fingers advanced with that nervous trembling that the
sight of gold always produces in a miser.
For a few seconds I was stupefied.
The memory of all the indignities that this individual had inflicted
upon me, his covetous look, and his impudent smile exasperated me. With
a single bound, I caught hold of him, and pushed him out of the room,
slamming the door in his face.
This was done with the crack and rapidity of a spring snuff-box.
But from outside the old usurer screamed like an eagle:
“My money, you thief, my money!”
The lodgers came out of their rooms, asking:
“What is the matter? What has happened?”
I opened the door suddenly and quickly gave Mister Rap a kick in the
spine that sent him rolling down more than twenty steps.
“That’s what’s the matter!” I cried quite beside myself. Then I shut
the door and bolted it, while bursts of laughter from the neighbors
greeted Mister Rap in the passage.
I was satisfied with myself; I rubbed my hands together. This adventure
had put new life into me; I resumed my work, and was about to finish
the sketch when I heard an unusual noise.
Butts of muskets were grounded on the pavement. I looked out of my
window and saw three soldiers in full uniform with grounded arms in
front of my door.
I said to myself in my terror: “Can it be that that scoundrel of a Rap
has had any bones broken?”
And here is the strange peculiarity of the human mind: I, who the
night before had wanted to cut my own throat, shook from head to foot,
thinking that I might well be hanged if Rap were dead.
The stairway was filled with confused noises. It was an ascending flood
of heavy footsteps, clanking arms, and short syllables.
Suddenly somebody tried to open my door. It was shut.
Then there was a general clamor.
“In the name of the law--open!”
I arose trembling, and weak in the knees.
“Open!” the same voice repeated.
I thought to escape over the roofs; but I had hardly put my head out
of the little snuff-box window, when I drew back, seized with vertigo.
I saw in a flash all the windows below with their shining panes, their
flowerpots, their bird-cages, and their gratings. Lower, the balcony;
still lower, the street-lamp; still lower again, the sign of the “Red
Cask” framed in iron-work; and, finally three glittering bayonets,
only awaiting my fall to run me through the body from the sole of my
foot to the crown of my head. On the roof of the opposite house a
tortoise-shell cat was crouching behind a chimney, watching a band of
sparrows fighting and scolding in the gutter.
One cannot imagine to what clearness, intensity, and rapidity the human
eye acquires when stimulated by fear.
At the third summons I heard:
“Open, or we shall force it!”
Seeing that flight was impossible, I staggered to the door and drew the
bolt.
Two hands immediately fell upon my collar. A dumpy little man, smelling
of wine, said:
“I arrest you!”
He wore a bottle-green redingote, buttoned to the chin, and a stovepipe
hat. He had large brown whiskers, rings on every finger, and was named
Passauf.
He was the chief of police.
Five bull-dogs with flat caps, noses like pistols, and lower jaws
turning upward, observed me from outside.
“What do you want?” I asked Passauf.
“Come downstairs,” he cried roughly, as he gave a sign to one of his
men to seize me.
This man took hold of me, more dead than alive, while several other men
turned my room upside down.
I went downstairs supported by the arms like a person in the last
stages of consumption--with hair dishevelled and stumbling at every
step.
They thrust me into a cab between two strong fellows, who charitably
let me see the ends of their clubs, held to their wrists by a leather
string--and then the carriage started off.
I heard behind us the feet of all the urchins of the town.
“What have I done?” I asked one of my keepers.
He looked at the other with a strange smile and said:
“Hans--he asks what he has done!”
That smile froze my blood.
Soon a deep shadow enveloped the carriage; the horses’ hoofs resounded
under an archway. We were entering the Raspelhaus. Of this place one
might say:
“Dans cet antre,
Je vois fort bien comme l’on entre,
Et ne vois point comme on en sort.”
All is not rose-colored in this world; from the claws of Rap I fell
into a dungeon, from which very few poor devils have a chance to escape.
Large dark courtyards and rows of windows like a hospital, and
furnished with gratings; not a sprig of verdure, not a festoon of ivy,
not even a weathercock in perspective--such was my new lodging. It was
enough to make one tear his hair out by the roots.
The police officers, accompanied by the jailer, took me temporarily to
a lock-up.
The jailer, if I remember rightly, was named Kasper Schlüssel; with his
grey woollen cap, his pipe between his teeth, and his bunch of keys at
his belt, he reminded me of the Owl-God of the Caribs. He had the same
golden yellow eyes, that see in the dark, a nose like a comma, and a
neck that was sunk between the shoulders.
Schlüssel shut me up as calmly as one locks up his socks in a cupboard,
while thinking of something else. As for me, I stood for more than ten
minutes with my hands behind my back and my head bowed. At the end of
that time I made the following reflection: “When falling, Rap cried
out, ‘I am assassinated,’ but he did not say by whom. I will say it was
my neighbor, the old merchant with the spectacles: he will be hanged in
my place.”
This idea comforted my heart, and I drew a long breath. Then I looked
about my prison. It seemed to have been newly whitewashed, and the
walls were bare of designs, except in one corner, where a gallows had
been crudely sketched by my predecessor. The light was admitted through
a bull’s-eye about nine or ten feet from the floor; the furniture
consisted of a bundle of straw and a tub.
I sat down upon the straw with my hands around my knees in deep
despondency. It was with great difficulty that I could think clearly;
but suddenly imagining that Rap, before dying, had denounced me, my
legs began to tingle, and I jumped up coughing, as if the hempen cord
were already tightening around my neck.
At the same moment, I heard Schlüssel walking down the corridor;
he opened the lock-up, and told me to follow him. He was still
accompanied by the two officers, so I fell into step resolutely.
We walked down long galleries, lighted at intervals by small windows
from within. Behind a grating I saw the famous Jic-Jack, who was going
to be executed on the morrow. He had on a strait-jacket and sang out in
a raucous voice:
“Je suis le roi de ces montagnes.”
Seeing me, he called out:
“Eh! comrade! I’ll keep a place for you at my right.”
The two police officers and the Owl-God looked at each other and
smiled, while I felt the goose-flesh creep down the whole length of my
back.
III
Schlüssel shoved me into a large and very dreary hall, with benches
arranged in a semicircle. The appearance of this deserted hall, with
its two high grated windows, and its Christ carved in old brown oak
with His arms extended and His head sorrowfully inclined upon His
shoulder, inspired me with I do not know what kind of religious fear
that accorded with my actual situation.
All my ideas of false accusation disappeared, and my lips trembling
murmured a prayer.
I had not prayed for a long time; but misfortune always brings us to
thoughts of submission. Man is so little in himself!
Opposite me, on an elevated seat, two men were sitting with their backs
to the light, and consequently their faces were in shadow. However, I
recognized Van Spreckdal by his aquiline profile, illuminated by an
oblique reflection from the window. The other person was fat, he had
round, chubby cheeks and short hands, and he wore a robe, like Van
Spreckdal.
Below was the clerk of the court, Conrad; he was writing at a low table
and was tickling the tip of his ear with the feather-end of his pen.
When I entered, he stopped to look at me curiously.
They made me sit down, and Van Spreckdal, raising his voice, said to me:
“Christian Vénius, where did you get this sketch?”
He showed me the nocturnal sketch which was then in his possession. It
was handed to me. After having examined it, I replied:
“I am the author of it.”
A long silence followed; the clerk of the court, Conrad, wrote down my
reply. I heard his pen scratch over the paper, and I thought: “Why did
they ask me that question? That has nothing to do with the kick I gave
Rap in the back.”
“You are the author of it?” asked Van Spreckdal. “What is the subject?”
“It is a subject of pure fancy.”
“You have not copied the details from some spot?”
“No, sir; I imagined it all.”
“Accused Christian,” said the judge in a severe tone, “I ask you to
reflect. Do not lie.”
“I have spoken the truth.”
“Write that down, clerk,” said Van Spreckdal.
The pen scratched again.
“And this woman,” continued the judge--“this woman who is being
murdered at the side of the well--did you imagine her also?”
“Certainly.”
“You have never seen her?”
“Never.”
Van Spreckdal rose indignantly; then, sitting down again, he seemed to
consult his companion in a low voice.
These two dark profiles silhouetted against the brightness of the
window, and the three men standing behind me, the silence in the
hall--everything made me shiver.
“What do you want with me? What have I done?” I murmured.
Suddenly Van Spreckdal said to my guardians:
“You can take the prisoner back to the carriage; we will go to
Metzerstrasse.”
Then, addressing me:
“Christian Vénius,” he cried, “you are in a deplorable situation.
Collect your thoughts and remember that if the law of man is
inflexible, there still remains for you the mercy of God. This you can
merit by confessing your crime.”
These words stunned me like a blow from a hammer. I fell back with
extended arms, crying:
“Ah! what a terrible dream!”
And I fainted.
When I regained consciousness, the carriage was rolling slowly down
the street; another one preceded us. The two officers were always with
me. One of them on the way offered a pinch of snuff to his companion;
mechanically I reached out my hand toward the snuff-box, but he
withdrew it quickly.
My cheeks reddened with shame, and I turned away my head to conceal my
emotion.
“If you look outside,” said the man with the snuff-box, “we shall be
obliged to put handcuffs on you.”
“May the devil strangle you, you infernal scoundrel!” I said to myself.
And as the carriage now stopped, one of them got out, while the other
held me by the collar; then, seeing that his comrade was ready to
receive me, he pushed me rudely to him.
These infinite precautions to hold possession of my person boded no
good; but I was far from predicting the seriousness of the accusation
that hung over my head until an alarming circumstance opened my eyes
and threw me into despair.
They pushed me along a low alley, the pavement of which was unequal and
broken; along the wall there ran a yellowish ooze, exhaling a fetid
odor. I walked down this dark place with the two men behind me. A
little further there appeared the chiaroscuro of an interior courtyard.
I grew more and more terror-stricken as I advanced. It was no natural
feeling: it was a poignant anxiety, outside of nature--like a
nightmare. I recoiled instinctively at each step.
“Go on!” cried one of the policemen, laying his hand on my shoulder;
“go on!”
But what was my astonishment when, at the end of the passage, I saw the
courtyard that I had drawn the night before, with its walls furnished
with hooks, its rubbish-heap of old iron, its chicken-coops, and its
rabbit-hutch. Not a dormer window, high or low, not a broken pane, not
the slightest detail had been omitted.
I was thunderstruck by this strange revelation.
Near the well were the two judges, Van Spreckdal and Richter. At their
feet lay the old woman extended on her back, her long, thin, gray hair,
her blue face, her eyes wide open, and her tongue between her teeth.
It was a horrible spectacle!
“Well,” said Van Spreckdal, with solemn accents, “what have you to say?”
I did not reply.
“Do you remember having thrown this woman, Theresa Becker, into this
well, after having strangled her to rob her of her money?”
“No,” I cried, “no! I do not know this woman; I never saw her before.
May God help me!”
“That will do,” he replied in a dry voice. And without saying another
word he went out with his companion.
The officers now believed that they had best put handcuffs on me. They
took me back to the Raspelhaus, in a state of profound stupidity. I did
not know what to think; my conscience itself troubled me; I even asked
myself if I really had murdered the old woman!
In the eyes of the officers I was condemned.
I will not tell you of my emotions that night in the Raspelhaus, when,
seated on my straw bed with the window opposite me and the gallows in
perspective, I heard the watchmen cry in the silence of the night:
“Sleep, people of Nuremberg; the Lord watches over you. One o’clock!
Two o’clock! Three o’clock!”
Every one may form his own idea of such a night. There is a fine saying
that it is better to be hanged innocent than guilty. For the soul,
yes; but for the body, it makes no difference; on the contrary, it
kicks, it curses its lot, it tries to escape, knowing well enough that
its rôle ends with the rope. Add to this, that it repents not having
sufficiently enjoyed life and at having listened to the soul when it
preached abstinence.
“Ah! if I had only known!” it cried, “you would not have led me
around by a string with your big words, your beautiful phrases, and
your magnificent sentences! You would not have allured me with your
fine promises. I should have had many happy moments that are now lost
forever. Everything is over! You said to me: ‘Control your passions.’
Very well! I did control them. Here I am now. They are going to hang
me, and you--later they will speak of you as a sublime soul, a stoical
soul, a martyr to the errors of Justice. They will never think about
me!”
Such were the sad reflections of my poor body.
Day broke; at first, dull and undecided, it threw an uncertain light
on my bull’s-eye window with its crossbars; then it blazed against
the wall at the back. Outside the street became lively. This was a
market-day; it was Friday. I heard the vegetable wagons pass and also
the country people with their baskets. Some chickens cackled in their
coops in passing and some butter sellers chattered together. The market
opposite opened, and they began to arrange the stalls.
Finally it was broad daylight and the vast murmur of the increasing
crowd, housekeepers who assembled with baskets on their arms, coming
and going, discussing and marketing, told me that it was eight o’clock.
With the light, my heart gained a little courage. Some of my black
thoughts disappeared. I desired to see what was going on outside.
Other prisoners before me had managed to climb up to the bull’s-eye;
they had dug some holes in the wall to mount more easily. I climbed
in my turn, and, when seated in the oval edge of the window, with my
legs bent and my head bowed, I could see the crowd, and all the life
and movement. Tears ran freely down my cheeks. I thought no longer of
suicide--I experienced a need to live and breathe, which was really
extraordinary.
“Ah!” I said, “to live what happiness! Let them harness me to a
wheelbarrow--let them put a ball and chain around my leg--nothing
matters if I may only live!”
The old market, with its roof shaped like an extinguisher, supported
on heavy pillars, made a superb picture: old women seated before their
panniers of vegetables, their cages of poultry and their baskets of
eggs; behind them the Jews, dealers in old clothes, their faces the
color of old boxwood; butchers with bare arms, cutting up meat on their
stalls; countrymen, with large hats on the backs of their heads, calm
and grave with their hands behind their backs and resting on their
sticks of hollywood, and tranquilly smoking their pipes. Then the
tumult and noise of the crowd--those screaming, shrill, grave, high,
and short words--those expressive gestures--those sudden attitudes that
show from a distance the progress of a discussion and depict so well
the character of the individual--in short, all this captivated my mind,
and notwithstanding my sad condition, I felt happy to be still of the
world.
Now, while I looked about in this manner, a man--a butcher--passed,
inclining forward and carrying an enormous quarter of beef on his
shoulders; his arms were bare, his elbows were raised upward and his
head was bent under them. His long hair, like that of Salvator’s
Sicambrian, hid his face from me; and yet, at the first glance, I
trembled.
“It is he!” I said.
All the blood in my body rushed to my heart. I got down from the window
trembling to the ends of my fingers, feeling my cheeks quiver, and the
pallor spread over my face, stammering in a choked voice:
“It is he! he is there--there--and I, I have to die to expiate his
crime. Oh, God! what shall I do? What shall I do?”
A sudden idea, an inspiration from Heaven, flashed across my mind. I
put my hand in the pocket of my coat--my box of crayons was there!
Then rushing to the wall, I began to trace the scene of the murder with
superhuman energy. No uncertainty, no hesitation! I knew the man! I had
seen him! He was there before me!
At ten o’clock the jailer came to my cell. His owl-like impassibility
gave place to admiration.
“Is it possible?” he cried, standing at the threshold.
“Go, bring me my judges,” I said to him, pursuing my work with an
increasing exultation.
Schlüssel answered:
“They are waiting for you in the trial-room.”
“I wish to make a revelation,” I cried, as I put the finishing touches
to the mysterious personage.
He lived; he was frightful to see. His full-faced figure, foreshortened
upon the wall, stood out from the white background with an astonishing
vitality.
The jailer went away.
A few minutes afterward the two judges appeared. They were stupefied.
I, trembling, with extended hand, said to them:
“There is the murderer!”
After a few minutes of silence, Van Spreckdal asked me:
“What is his name?”
“I don’t know; but he is at this moment in the market; he is cutting up
meat in the third stall to the left as you enter from Trabaus Street.”
“What do you think?” said he, leaning toward his colleague.
“Send for the man,” he replied in a grave tone.
Several officers retained in the corridor obeyed this order. The judges
stood, examining the sketch. As for me, I had dropped on my bed of
straw, my head between my knees, perfectly exhausted.
Soon steps were heard echoing under the archway. Those who have never
awaited the hour of deliverance and counted the minutes, which seem
like centuries--those who have never experienced the sharp emotions of
outrage, terror, hope, and doubt--can have no conception of the inward
chills that I experienced at that moment. I should have distinguished
the step of the murderer, walking between the guards, among a thousand
others. They approached. The judges themselves seemed moved. I raised
up my head, my heart feeling as if an iron hand had clutched it, and
I fixed my eyes upon the closed door. It opened. The man entered. His
cheeks were red and swollen, the muscles in his large contracted jaws
twitched as far as his ears, and his little restless eyes, yellow like
a wolf’s, gleamed beneath his heavy yellowish red eyebrows.
Van Spreckdal showed him the sketch in silence.
Then that murderous man, with the large shoulders, having looked, grew
pale--then, giving a roar which thrilled us all with terror, he waved
his enormous arms, and jumped backward to overthrow the guards. There
was a terrible struggle in the corridor; you could hear nothing but the
panting breath of the butcher, his muttered imprecations, and the short
words and the shuffling feet of the guard, upon the flagstones.
This lasted only about a minute.
Finally the assassin re-entered, with his head hanging down, his eyes
bloodshot, and his hands fastened behind his back. He looked again at
the picture of the murderer; he seemed to reflect, and then, in a low
voice, as if talking to himself:
“Who could have seen me,” he said, “at midnight?”
I was saved!
* * * * *
Many years have passed since that terrible adventure. Thank Heaven! I
make silhouettes no longer, nor portraits of burgomasters. Through hard
work and perseverance, I have conquered my place in the world, and I
earn my living honorably by painting works of art--the sole end, in my
opinion, to which a true artist should aspire. But the memory of that
nocturnal sketch has always remained in my mind. Sometimes, in the
midst of work, the thought of it recurs. Then I lay down my palette and
dream for hours.
How could a crime committed by a man that I did not know--at a place
that I had never seen--have been reproduced by my pencil, in all its
smallest details?
Was it chance? No! And moreover, what is chance but the effect of a
cause of which we are ignorant?
Was Schiller right when he said: “The immortal soul does not
participate in the weaknesses of matter; during the sleep of the body,
it spreads its radiant wings and travels, God knows where! What it then
does, no one can say, but inspiration sometimes betrays the secret of
its nocturnal wanderings.”
Who knows? Nature is more audacious in her realities than man in his
most fantastic imagining.
THE DESERTED HOUSE
By ERNEST T. W. HOFFMANN
You know already that I spent the greater part of last summer in
X----, began Theodore. The many old friends and acquaintances I found
there, the free, jovial life, the manifold artistic and intellectual
interests--all these combined to keep me in that city. I was happy
as never before, and found rich nourishment for my old fondness for
wandering alone through the streets, stopping to enjoy every picture
in the shop windows, every placard on the walls, or watching the
passers-by and choosing some one or the other of them to cast his
horoscope secretly to myself.
There is one broad avenue leading to the ---- Gate and lined with
handsome buildings of all descriptions, which is the meeting place
of the rich and fashionable world. The shops which occupy the ground
floor of the tall palaces are devoted to the trade in articles of
luxury, and the apartments above are the dwellings of people of wealth
and position. The aristocratic hotels are to be found in this avenue,
the palaces of the foreign ambassadors are there, and you can easily
imagine that such a street would be the centre of the city’s life and
gaiety.
I had wandered through the avenue several times, when one day my
attention was caught by a house which contrasted strangely with the
others surrounding it. Picture to yourselves a low building but four
windows broad, crowded in between two tall, handsome structures. Its
one upper story was a little higher than the tops of the ground-floor
windows of its neighbors, its roof was dilapidated, its windows patched
with paper, its discolored walls spoke of years of neglect. You can
imagine how strange such a house must have looked in this street of
wealth and fashion. Looking at it more attentively I perceived that
the windows of the upper story were tightly closed and curtained, and
that a wall had been built to hide the windows of the ground floor. The
entrance gate, a little to one side, served also as a doorway for the
building, but I could find no sign of latch, lock, or even a bell on
this gate. I was convinced that the house must be unoccupied, for at
whatever hour of the day I happened to be passing I had never seen the
faintest signs of life about it.
You all, the good comrades of my youth, know that I have been prone to
consider myself a sort of clairvoyant, claiming to have glimpses of
a strange world of wonders, a world which you, with your hard common
sense, would attempt to deny or laugh away. I confess that I have often
lost myself in mysteries which after all turned out to be no mysteries
at all. And it looked at first as if this was to happen to me in the
matter of the deserted house, that strange house which drew my steps
and my thoughts to itself with a power that surprised me. But the
point of my story will prove to you that I am right in asserting that I
know more than you do. Listen now to what I am about to tell you.
One day, at the hour in which the fashionable world is accustomed to
promenade up and down the avenue, I stood as usual before the deserted
house, lost in thought. Suddenly I felt, without looking up, that some
one had stopped beside me, fixing his eyes on me. It was Count P----,
who told me that the old house contained nothing more mysterious than a
cake bakery belonging to the pastry cook whose handsome shop adjoined
the old structure. The windows of the ground floor were walled up to
give protection to the ovens, and the heavy curtains of the upper story
were to keep the sunlight from the wares laid out there. When the
Count informed me of this I felt as if a bucket of cold water had been
suddenly thrown over me. But I could not believe in this story of the
cake and candy factory. Through some strange freak of the imagination I
felt as a child feels when some fairy tale has been told it to conceal
the truth it suspects. I scolded myself for a silly fool; the house
remained unaltered in its appearance, and the visions faded in my
brain, until one day a chance incident woke them to life again.
I was wandering through the avenue as usual, and as I passed the
deserted house I could not resist a hasty glance at its close-curtained
upper windows. But as I looked at it, the curtain on the last window
near the pastry shop began to move. A hand, an arm, came out from
between its folds. I took my opera glass from my pocket and saw a
beautifully formed woman’s hand, on the little finger of which a large
diamond sparkled in unusual brilliancy; a rich bracelet glittered on
the white, rounded arm. The hand set a tall, oddly-formed crystal
bottle on the window ledge and disappeared again behind the curtain.
I stopped as if frozen to stone; a weirdly pleasurable sensation,
mingled with awe, streamed through my being with the warmth of an
electric current. I stared up at the mysterious window and a sigh
of longing arose from the very depths of my heart. When I came to
myself again, I was angered to find that I was surrounded by a crowd
which stood gazing up at the window with curious faces. I stole away
inconspicuously, and the demon of all things prosaic whispered to me
that what I had just seen was the rich pastry cook’s wife, in her
Sunday adornment, placing an empty bottle, used for rose-water or the
like, on the window sill. Nothing very weird about this.
Suddenly a most sensible thought came to me. I turned and entered the
shining, mirror-walled shop of the pastry cook. Blowing the steaming
foam from my cup of chocolate, I remarked: “You have a very useful
addition to your establishment next door.” The man leaned over his
counter and looked at me with a questioning smile, as if he did not
understand me. I repeated that in my opinion he had been very clever
to set his bakery in the neighboring house, although the deserted
appearance of the building was a strange sight in its contrasting
surroundings. “Why, sir,” began the pastry cook, “who told you that the
house next door belongs to us? Unfortunately every attempt on our part
to acquire it has been in vain, and I fancy it is all the better so,
for there is something queer about the place.”
You can imagine, dear friends, how interested I became upon hearing
these words, and that I begged the man to tell me more about the house.
“I do not know anything very definite, sir,” he said. “All that we
know for a certainty is that the house belongs to the Countess S----,
who lives on her estates and has not been to the city for years. This
house, so they tell me, stood in its present shape before any of the
handsome buildings were raised which are now the pride of our avenue,
and in all these years there has been nothing done to it except to keep
it from actual decay. Two living creatures alone dwell there, an aged
misanthrope of a steward and his melancholy dog, which occasionally
howls at the moon from the back courtyard. According to the general
story the deserted house is haunted. In very truth my brother, who is
the owner of this shop, and myself have often, when our business kept
us awake during the silence of the night, heard strange sounds from
the other side of the walls. There was a rumbling and a scraping that
frightened us both. And not very long ago we heard one night a strange
singing which I could not describe to you. It was evidently the voice
of an old woman, but the tones were so sharp and clear, and ran up to
the top of the scale in cadences and long trills, the like of which I
have never heard before, although I have heard many singers in many
lands. It seemed to be a French song, but I am not quite sure of that,
for I could not listen long to the mad, ghostly singing, it made the
hair stand erect on my head. And at times, after the street noises are
quiet, we can hear deep sighs, and sometimes a mad laugh, which seem
to come out of the earth. But if you lay your ear to the wall in our
back room, you can hear that the noises come from the house next door.”
He led me into the back room and pointed through the window. “And do
you see that iron chimney coming out of the wall there? It smokes so
heavily sometimes, even in summer when there are no fires used, that
my brother has often quarrelled with the old steward about it, fearing
danger. But the old man excuses himself by saying that he was cooking
his food. Heaven knows what the queer creature may eat, for often, when
the pipe is smoking heavily, a strange and queer smell can be smelled
all over the house.”
The glass doors of the shop creaked in opening. The pastry cook hurried
into the front room, and when he had nodded to the figure now entering
he threw a meaning glance at me. I understood him perfectly. Who else
could this strange guest be, but the steward who had charge of the
mysterious house! Imagine a thin little man with a face the color of
a mummy, with a sharp nose, tight-set lips, green cat’s eyes, and a
crazy smile; his hair dressed in the old-fashioned style with a high
toupet and a bag at the back, and heavily powdered. He wore a faded
old brown coat which was carefully brushed, gray stockings, and broad,
flat-toed shoes with buckles. And imagine further, that in spite of
his meagreness this little person is robustly built, with huge fists
and long, strong fingers, and that he walks to the shop counter with
a strong, firm step, smiling his imbecile smile, and whining out: “A
couple of candied oranges--a couple of macaroons--a couple of sugared
chestnuts----”
The pastry cook smiled at me and then spoke to the old man. “You do
not seem to be quite well. Yes, yes, old age, old age! It takes the
strength from our limbs.” The old man’s expression did not change,
but his voice went up: “Old age?--Old age?--Lose strength?--Grow
weak?--Oho!” And with this he clapped his hands together until the
joints cracked, and sprang high up into the air until the entire shop
trembled and the glass vessels on the walls and counters rattled and
shook. But in the same moment a hideous screaming was heard; the old
man had stepped on his black dog, which, creeping in behind him, had
laid itself at his feet on the floor. “Devilish beast--dog of hell!”
groaned the old man in his former miserable tone, opening his bag and
giving the dog a large macaroon. The dog, which had burst out into a
cry of distress that was truly human, was quiet at once, sat down on
its haunches, and gnawed at the macaroon like a squirrel. When it
had finished its tidbit, the old man had also finished the packing up
and putting away of his purchases. “Good night, honored neighbor,” he
spoke, taking the hand of the pastry cook and pressing it until the
latter cried aloud in pain. “The weak old man wishes you a good night,
most honorable Sir Neighbor,” he repeated, and then walked from the
shop, followed closely by his black dog. The old man did not seem to
have noticed me at all. I was quite dumbfounded in my astonishment.
“There, you see,” began the pastry cook. “This is the way he acts
when he comes in here, two or three times a month, it is. But I can
get nothing out of him except the fact that he was a former valet of
Count S----, that he is now in charge of this house here, and that
every day--for many years now--he expects the arrival of his master’s
family.” The hour was now come when fashion demanded that the elegant
world of the city should assemble in this attractive shop. The doors
opened incessantly, the place was thronged, and I could ask no further
questions.
This much I knew, that Count P----’s information about the ownership
and the use of the house were not correct; also, that the old steward,
in spite of his denial, was not living alone there, and that some
mystery was hidden behind its discolored walls. How could I combine
the story of the strange and gruesome singing with the appearance
of the beautiful arm at the window? That arm could not be part of
the wrinkled body of an old woman; the singing, according to the
pastry cook’s story, could not come from the throat of a blooming
and youthful maiden. I decided in favor of the arm, as it was easy
to explain to myself that some trick of acoustics had made the voice
sound sharp and old, or that it had appeared so only in the pastry
cook’s fear-distorted imagination. Then I thought of the smoke, the
strange odors, the oddly-formed crystal bottle that I had seen, and
soon the vision of a beautiful creature held enthralled by fatal magic
stood as if alive before my mental vision. The old man became a wizard
who, perhaps quite independently of the family he served, had set up
his devil’s kitchen in the deserted house. My imagination had begun
to work, and in my dreams that night I saw clearly the hand with the
sparkling diamond on its finger, the arm with the shining bracelet.
From out thin, gray mists there appeared a sweet face with sadly
imploring blue eyes, then the entire exquisite figure of a beautiful
girl. And I saw that what I had thought was mist was the fine steam
flowing out in circles from a crystal bottle held in the hands of the
vision.
“Oh, fairest creature of my dreams,” I cried in rapture, “reveal to me
where thou art, what it is that enthralls thee. Ah, I know it! It is
black magic that holds thee captive--thou art the unhappy slave of that
malicious devil who wanders about brown-clad and bewigged in pastry
shops, scattering their wares with his unholy springing and feeding his
demon dog on macaroons, after they have howled out a Satanic measure in
five-eighth time. Oh, I know it all, thou fair and charming vision.
The diamond is the reflection of the fire of thy heart. But that
bracelet about thine arm is a link of the chain which the brown-clad
one says is a magnetic chain. Do not believe it, O glorious one! See
how it shines in the blue fire from the retort. One moment more and
thou art free. And now, O maiden, open thy rosebud mouth and tell
me----” In this moment a gnarled fist leaped over my shoulder and
clutched at the crystal bottle, which sprang into a thousand pieces in
the air. With a faint, sad moan, the charming vision faded into the
blackness of the night.
When morning came to put an end to my dreaming I hurried through
the avenue, seeking the deserted house as usual and I saw something
glistening in the last window of the upper story. Coming nearer I
noticed that the outer blind had been quite drawn up and the inner
curtain slightly opened. The sparkle of a diamond met my eye. O kind
Heaven! The face of my dream looked at me, gently imploring, from above
the rounded arm on which her head was resting. But how was it possible
to stand still in the moving crowd without attracting attention?
Suddenly I caught sight of the benches placed in the gravel walk in the
centre of the avenue, and I saw that one of them was directly opposite
the house. I sprang over to it, and leaning over its back, I could
stare up at the mysterious window undisturbed. Yes, it was she, the
charming maiden of my dream! But her eye did not seem to seek me as I
had at first thought; her glance was cold and unfocused, and had it
not been for an occasional motion of the hand and arm, I might have
thought that I was looking at a cleverly painted picture.
I was so lost in my adoration of the mysterious being in the window,
so aroused and excited throughout all my nerve centres, that I did
not hear the shrill voice of an Italian street hawker, who had been
offering me his wares for some time. Finally he touched me on the arm;
I turned hastily and commanded him to let me alone. But he did not
cease his entreaties, asserting that he had earned nothing today, and
begging me to buy some small trifle from him. Full of impatience to get
rid of him I put my hand in my pocket. With the words: “I have more
beautiful things here,” he opened the under drawer of his box and held
out to me a little, round pocket mirror. In it, as he held it up before
my face, I could see the deserted house behind me, the window, and the
sweet face of my vision there.
I bought the little mirror at once, for I saw that it would make it
possible for me to sit comfortably and inconspicuously, and yet watch
the window. The longer I looked at the reflection in the glass, the
more I fell captive to a weird and quite indescribable sensation, which
I might almost call a waking dream. It was as if a lethargy had lamed
my eyes, holding them fastened on the glass beyond my power to loosen
them. And now at last the beautiful eyes of the fair vision looked at
me, her glance sought mine and shone deep down into my heart.
“You have a pretty little mirror there,” said a voice beside me. I
awoke from my dream, and was not a little confused when I saw smiling
faces looking at me from either side. Several persons had sat down upon
the bench, and it was quite certain that my staring into the window,
and my probably strange expression, had afforded them great cause for
amusement.
“You have a pretty little mirror there,” repeated the man, as I did not
answer him. His glance said more, and asked without words the reason
of my staring so oddly into the little glass. He was an elderly man,
neatly dressed, and his voice and eyes were so full of good nature
that I could not refuse him my confidence. I told him that I had been
looking in the mirror at the picture of a beautiful maiden who was
sitting at a window of the deserted house. I went even farther; I asked
the old man if he had not seen the fair face himself. “Over there? In
the old house--in the last window?” He repeated my questions in a tone
of surprise.
“Yes, yes,” I exclaimed.
The old man smiled and answered: “Well, well, that was a strange
delusion. My old eyes--thank Heaven for my old eyes! Yes, yes, sir. I
saw a pretty face in the window there, with my own eyes; but it seemed
to me to be an excellently well-painted oil portrait.”
I turned quickly and looked toward the window; there was no one there,
and the blind had been pulled down. “Yes,” continued the old man, “yes,
sir. Now it is too late to make sure of the matter, for just now the
servant, who, as I know, lives there alone in the house of the Countess
S----, took the picture away from the window after he had dusted it,
and let down the blinds.”
“Was it, then, surely a picture?” I asked again, in bewilderment.
“You can trust my eyes,” replied the old man. “The optical delusion
was strengthened by your seeing only the reflection in the mirror. And
when I was in your years it was easy enough for my fancy to call up the
picture of a beautiful maiden.”
“But the hand and arm moved,” I exclaimed. “Oh, yes, they moved, indeed
they moved,” said the old man smiling, as he patted me on the shoulder.
Then he arose to go, and bowing politely, closed his remarks with the
words, “Beware of mirrors which can lie so vividly. Your obedient
servant, sir.”
You can imagine how I felt when I saw that he looked upon me as a
foolish fantast. I hurried home full of anger and disgust, and promised
myself that I would not think of the mysterious house. But I placed
the mirror on my dressing-table that I might bind my cravat before it,
and thus it happened one day, when I was about to utilize it for this
important business, that its glass seemed dull, and that I took it up
and breathed on it to rub it bright again. My heart seemed to stand
still, every fiber in me trembled in delightful awe. Yes, that is all
the name I can find for the feeling that came over me, when, as my
breath clouded the little mirror, I saw the beautiful face of my dreams
arise and smile at me through blue mists. You laugh at me? You look
upon me as an incorrigible dreamer? Think what you will about it--the
fair face looked at me from out of the mirror! But as soon as the
clouding vanished, and face vanished in the brightened glass.
I will not weary you with a detailed recital of my sensations the next
few days. I will only say that I repeated again the experiments with
the mirror, sometimes with success, sometimes without. When I had not
been able to call up the vision, I would run to the deserted house
and stare up at the windows; but I saw no human being anywhere about
the building. I lived only in thoughts of my vision; everything else
seemed indifferent to me. I neglected my friends and my studies. The
tortures in my soul passed over into, or rather mingled with, physical
sensations which frightened me, and which at last made me fear for my
reason. One day, after an unusually severe attack, I put my little
mirror in my pocket and hurried to the home of Dr. K----, who was noted
for his treatment of those diseases of the mind out of which physical
diseases so often grow. I told him my story; I did not conceal the
slightest incident from him, and I implored him to save me from the
terrible fate which seemed to threaten me. He listened to me quietly,
but I read astonishment in his glance. Then he said: “The danger is
not as near as you believe, and I think that I may say that it can be
easily prevented. You are undergoing an unusual psychical disturbance,
beyond a doubt. But the fact that you understand that some evil
principle seems to be trying to influence you, gives you a weapon by
which you can combat it. Leave your little mirror here with me, and
force yourself to take up with some work which will afford scope for
all your mental energy. Do not go to the avenue; work all day, from
early to late, then take a long walk, and spend your evenings in the
company of your friends. Eat heartily, and drink heavy, nourishing
wines. You see I am endeavoring to combat your fixed idea of the face
in the window of the deserted house and in the mirror, by diverting
your mind to other things, and by strengthening your body. You yourself
must help me in this.”
I was very reluctant to part with my mirror. The physician, who had
already taken it, seemed to notice my hesitation. He breathed upon the
glass and holding it up to me, he asked: “Do you see anything?”
“Nothing at all,” I answered, for so it was.
“Now breathe on the glass yourself,” said the physician, laying the
mirror in my hands.
I did as he requested. There was the vision even more clearly than ever
before.
“There she is!” I cried aloud.
The physician looked into the glass, and then said: “I cannot see
anything. But I will confess to you that when I looked into this glass,
a queer shiver overcame me, passing away almost at once. Now do it once
more.”
I breathed upon the glass again and the physician laid his hand upon
the back of my neck. The face appeared again, and the physician,
looking into the mirror over my shoulder, turned pale. Then he took
the little glass from my hands, looked at it attentively, and locked it
into his desk, returning to me after a few moments’ silent thought.
“Follow my instructions strictly,” he said. “I must confess to you that
I do not yet understand those moments of your vision. But I hope to be
able to tell you more about it very soon.”
Difficult as it was to me, I forced myself to live absolutely according
to the doctor’s orders. I soon felt the benefit of the steady work
and the nourishing diet, and yet I was not free from those terrible
attacks, which would come either at noon, or, more intensely still,
at midnight. Even in the midst of a merry company, in the enjoyment
of wine and song, glowing daggers seemed to pierce my heart, and all
the strength of my intellect was powerless to resist their might
over me. I was obliged to retire, and could not return to my friends
until I had recovered from my condition of lethargy. It was in one of
these attacks, an unusually strong one, that such an irresistible,
mad longing for the picture of my dreams came over me, that I hurried
out into the street and ran toward the mysterious house. While still
at a distance from it, I seemed to see lights shining out through
the fast-closed blinds, but when I came nearer I saw that all was
dark. Crazy with my desire I rushed to the door; it fell back before
the pressure of my hand. I stood in the dimly lighted vestibule,
enveloped in a heavy, close atmosphere. My heart beat in strange fear
and impatience. Then suddenly a long, sharp tone, as from a woman’s
throat, shrilled through the house. I know not how it happened that I
found myself suddenly in a great hall brilliantly lighted and furnished
in old-fashioned magnificence of golden chairs and strange Japanese
ornaments. Strongly perfumed incense arose in blue clouds about me.
“Welcome--welcome, sweet bridegroom! the hour has come, our bridal
hour!” I heard these words in a woman’s voice, and as little as I
can tell, how I came into the room, just so little do I know how it
happened that suddenly a tall, youthful figure, richly dressed, seemed
to arise from the blue mists. With the repeated shrill cry: “Welcome,
sweet bridegroom!” she came toward me with outstretched arms--and a
yellow face, distorted with age and madness, stared into mine! I fell
back in terror, but the fiery, piercing glance of her eyes, like the
eyes of a snake, seemed to hold me spellbound. I did not seem able to
turn my eyes from this terrible old woman, I could not move another
step. She came still nearer, and it seemed to me suddenly as if her
hideous face were only a thin mask, beneath which I saw the features
of the beautiful maiden of my vision. Already I felt the touch of her
hands, when suddenly she fell at my feet with a loud scream, and a
voice behind me cried:
“Oho, is the devil playing his tricks with your grace again? To bed, to
bed, your grace. Else there will be blows, mighty blows!”
I turned quickly and saw the old steward in his night clothes, swinging
a whip above his head. He was about to strike the screaming figure at
my feet when I caught at his arm. But he shook me from him, exclaiming:
“The devil, sir! That old Satan would have murdered you if I had not
come to your aid. Get away from here at once!”
I rushed from the hall, and sought in vain in the darkness for the
door of the house. Behind me I heard the hissing blows of the whip and
the old woman’s screams. I drew breath to call aloud for help, when
suddenly the ground gave way under my feet; I fell down a short flight
of stairs, bringing up with such force against a door at the bottom
that it sprang open, and I measured my length on the floor of a small
room. From the hastily vacated bed, and from the familiar brown coat
hanging over a chair, I saw that I was in the bedchamber of the old
steward. There was a trampling on the stair, and the old man himself
entered hastily, throwing himself at my feet. “By all the saints, sir,”
he entreated with folded hands, “whoever you may be, and however her
grace, that old Satan of a witch has managed to entice you to this
house, do not speak to anyone of what has happened here. It will cost
me my position. Her crazy excellency has been punished, and is bound
fast in her bed. Sleep well, good sir, sleep softly and sweetly. It is
a warm and beautiful July night. There is no moon, but the stars shine
brightly. A quiet good night to you.” While talking, the old man had
taken up a lamp, had led me out of the basement, pushed me out of the
house door, and locked it behind me. I hurried home quite bewildered,
and you can imagine that I was too much confused by the gruesome secret
to be able to form any explanation of it in my own mind for the first
few days. Only this much was certain, that I was now free from the evil
spell that had held me captive so long. All my longing for the magic
vision in the mirror had disappeared, and the memory of the scene in
the deserted house was like the recollection of an unexpected visit
to a madhouse. It was evident beyond a doubt that the steward was the
tyrannical guardian of a crazy woman of noble birth, whose condition
was to be hidden from the world. But the mirror? and all the other
magic? Listen, and I will tell you more about it.
Some few days later I came upon Count P---- at an evening
entertainment. He drew me to one side and said, with a smile, “Do
you know that the secrets of our deserted house are beginning to be
revealed?” I listened with interest; but before the Count could say
more the doors of the dining-room were thrown open, and the company
proceeded to the table. Quite lost in thought at the words I had
just heard, I had given a young lady my arm, and had taken my place
mechanically in the ceremonious procession. I led my companion to the
seats arranged for us, and then turned to look at her for the first
time. The vision of my mirror stood before me, feature for feature,
there was no deception possible! I trembled to my innermost heart, as
you can imagine; but I discovered that there was not the slightest
echo even, in my heart, of the mad desire which had ruled me so
entirely when my breath drew out the magic picture from the glass. My
astonishment, or rather my terror, must have been apparent in my eyes.
The girl looked at me in such surprise that I endeavored to control
myself sufficiently to remark that I must have met her somewhere
before. Her short answer, to the effect that this could hardly be
possible, as she had come to the city only yesterday for the first time
in her life, bewildered me still more and threw me into an awkward
silence. The sweet glance from her gentle eyes brought back my courage,
and I began a tentative exploring of this new companion’s mind. I found
that I had before me a sweet and delicate being, suffering from some
psychic trouble. At a particularly merry turn of the conversation,
when I would throw in a daring word like a dash of pepper, she would
smile, but her smile was pained, as if a wound had been touched. “You
are not very merry to-night, Countess. Was it the visit this morning?”
An officer sitting near us had spoken these words to my companion,
but before he could finish his remarks his neighbor had grasped him
by the arm and whispered something in his ear, while a lady at the
other side of the table, with glowing cheeks and angry eyes, began to
talk loudly of the opera she had heard last evening. Tears came to the
eyes of the girl sitting beside me. “Am I not foolish?” She turned to
me. A few moments before she had complained of headache. “Merely the
usual evidences of a nervous headache,” I answered in an easy tone,
“and there is nothing better for it than the merry spirit which
bubbles in the foam of this poet’s nectar.” With these words I filled
her champagne glass, and she sipped at it as she threw me a look of
gratitude. Her mood brightened, and all would have been well had I not
touched a glass before me with unexpected strength, arousing from it a
shrill, high tone. My companion grew deadly pale, and I myself felt a
sudden shiver, for the sound had exactly the tone of the mad woman’s
voice in the deserted house.
While we were drinking coffee I made an opportunity to get to the side
of Count P----. He understood the reason for my movement. “Do you know
that your neighbor is Countess Edwina S----? And do you know also that
it is her mother’s sister who lives in the deserted house, incurably
mad for many years? This morning both mother and daughter went to see
the unfortunate woman. The old steward, the only person who is able to
control the Countess in her outbreaks, is seriously ill, and they say
that the sister has finally revealed the secret to Dr. K----.”
Dr. K---- was the physician to whom I had turned in my own anxiety, and
you can well imagine that I hurried to him as soon as I was free, and
told him all that had happened to me in the last days. I asked him to
tell me as much as he could about the mad woman, for my own peace of
mind; and this is what I learned from him under promise of secrecy.
“Angelica, Countess Z----,” thus the doctor began, “had already passed
her thirtieth year, but was still in full possession of great beauty,
when Count S----, although much younger than she, became so fascinated
by her charm that he wooed her with ardent devotion and followed her
to her father’s home to try his luck there. But scarcely had the Count
entered the house, scarcely had he caught sight of Angelica’s younger
sister, Gabrielle, when he awoke as from a dream. The elder sister
appeared faded and colorless beside Gabrielle, whose beauty and charm
so enthralled the Count that he begged her hand of her father. Count
Z---- gave his consent easily, as there was no doubt of Gabrielle’s
feelings toward her suitor. Angelica did not show the slightest anger
at her lover’s faithlessness. “He believes that he has forsaken me,
the foolish boy! He does not perceive that he was but my toy, a toy
of which I had tired.” Thus she spoke in proud scorn, and not a look
or an action on her part belied her words. But after the ceremonious
betrothal of Gabrielle to Count S----, Angelica was seldom seen by
the members of her family. She did not appear at the dinner table,
and it was said that she spent most of her time walking alone in the
neighboring wood.
“A strange occurrence disturbed the monotonous quiet of life in the
castle. The hunters of Count Z----, assisted by peasants from the
village, had captured a band of gypsies who were accused of several
robberies and murders which had happened recently in the neighborhood.
The men were brought to the castle court-yard, fettered together on
a long chain, while the women and children were packed on a cart.
Noticeable among the last was a tall, haggard old woman of terrifying
aspect, wrapped from head to foot in a red shawl. She stood upright in
the cart, and in an imperious tone demanded that she should be allowed
to descend. The guards were so awed by her manner and appearance that
they obeyed her at once.
“Count Z---- came down to the courtyard and commanded that the gang
should be placed in the prisons under the castle. Suddenly Countess
Angelica rushed out of the door, her hair all loose, fear and anxiety
in her pale face. Throwing herself on her knees, she cried in a
piercing voice, ‘Let these people go! Let these people go! They are
innocent! Father, let these people go! If you shed one drop of their
blood I will pierce my heart with this knife!’ The Countess swung a
shining knife in the air and then sank swooning to the ground. ‘Yes, my
beautiful darling--my golden child--I knew you would not let them hurt
us,’ shrilled the old woman in red. She cowered beside the Countess
and pressed disgusting kisses to her face and breast, murmuring crazy
words. She took from out the recesses of her shawl a little vial in
which a tiny goldfish seemed to swim in some silver-clear liquid.
She held the vial to the Countess’s heart. The latter regained
consciousness immediately. When her eyes fell on the gypsy woman, she
sprang up, clasped the old creature ardently in her arms, and hurried
with her into the castle.
“Count Z----, Gabrielle, and her lover, who had come out during this
scene, watched it in astonished awe. The gypsies appeared quite
indifferent. They were loosed from their chains and taken separately to
the prisons. Next morning Count Z---- called the villagers together.
The gypsies were led before them and the Count announced that he had
found them to be innocent of the crimes of which they were accused,
and that he would grant them free passage through his domains. To the
astonishment of all present, their fetters were struck off and they
were set at liberty. The red-shawled woman was not among them. It
was whispered that the gypsy captain, recognizable from the golden
chain about his neck and the red feather in his high Spanish hat, had
paid a secret visit to the Count’s room the night before. But it was
discovered a short time after the release of the gypsies, that they
were indeed guiltless of the robberies and murders that had disturbed
the district.
“The date set for Gabrielle’s wedding approached. One day, to her great
astonishment, she saw several large wagons in the courtyard being
packed high with furniture, clothing, linen, with everything necessary
for a complete household outfit. The wagons were driven away, and the
following day Count Z---- explained that, for many reasons, he had
thought it best to grant Angelica’s odd request that she be allowed to
set up her own establishment in his house in X----. He had given the
house to her, and had promised her that no member of the family, not
even he himself, should enter it without her express permission. He
added also, that, at her urgent request, he had permitted his own valet
to accompany her, to take charge of her household.
“When the wedding festivities were over, Count S---- and his bride
departed for their home, where they spent a year in cloudless
happiness. Then the Count’s health failed mysteriously. It was as
if some secret sorrow gnawed at his vitals, robbing him of joy and
strength. All efforts of his young wife to discover the source of
his trouble were fruitless. At last, when the constantly recurring
fainting spells threatened to endanger his very life, he yielded to the
entreaties of his physicians and left his home, ostensibly for Pisa.
His young wife was prevented from accompanying him by the delicate
condition of her own health.
“And now,” said the doctor, “the information given me by Countess S----
became, from this point on, so rhapsodical that a keen observer only
could guess at the true coherence of the story. Her baby, a daughter,
born during her husband’s absence, was spirited away from the house,
and all search for it was fruitless. Her grief at this loss deepened to
despair, when she received a message from her father stating that her
husband, whom all believed to be in Pisa, had been found dying of heart
trouble in Angelica’s home in X----, and that Angelica herself had
become a dangerous maniac. The old Count added that all this horror had
so shaken his own nerves that he feared he would not long survive it.
“As soon as Gabrielle was able to leave her bed, she hurried to her
father’s castle. One night, prevented from sleeping by visions of the
loved ones she had lost, she seemed to hear a faint crying, like that
of an infant, before the door of her chamber. Lighting her candle she
opened the door. Great Heaven! there cowered the old gypsy woman,
wrapped in her red shawl, staring up at her with eyes that seemed
already glazing in death. In her arms she held a little child, whose
crying had aroused the Countess. Gabrielle’s heart beat high with
joy--it was her child--her lost daughter! She snatched the infant from
the gypsy’s arms, just as the woman fell at her feet lifeless. The
Countess’ screams awoke the house, but the gypsy was quite dead and no
effort to revive her met with success.
“The old Count hurried to X---- to endeavor to discover something that
would throw light upon the mysterious disappearance and reappearance
of the child. Angelica’s madness had frightened away all her female
servants; the valet alone remained with her. She appeared at first to
have become quite calm and sensible. But when the Count told her the
story of Gabrielle’s child she clapped her hands and laughed aloud,
crying: ‘Did the little darling arrive? You buried her, you say? How
the feathers of the gold pheasant shine in the sun! Have you seen the
green lion with the fiery blue eyes?’ Horrified the Count perceived
that Angelica’s mind was gone beyond a doubt, and he resolved to take
her back with him to his estates, in spite of the warnings of his old
valet. At the mere suggestion of removing her from the house Angelica’s
ravings increased to such an extent as to endanger her own life and
that of the others.
“When a lucid interval came again Angelica entreated her father, with
many tears, to let her live and die in the house she had chosen.
Touched by her terrible trouble, he granted her request, although he
believed the confession which slipped from her lips during this scene
to be a fantasy of her madness. She told him that Count S---- had
returned to her arms, and that the child which the gipsy had taken
to her father’s house was the fruit of their love. The rumor went
abroad in the city that Count Z---- had taken the unfortunate woman to
his home; but the truth was that she remained hidden in the deserted
house under the care of the valet. Count Z---- died a short time ago,
and Countess Gabrielle came here with her daughter Edwina to arrange
some family affairs. It was not possible for her to avoid seeing her
unfortunate sister. Strange things must have happened during this
visit, but the Countess has not confided anything to me, saying merely
that she had found it necessary to take the mad woman away from the
old valet. It had been discovered that he had controlled her outbreaks
by means of force and physical cruelty; and that also, allured by
Angelica’s assertions that she could make gold, he had allowed himself
to assist her in her weird operations.
“I would be quite unnecessary,” thus the physician ended his story,
“to say anything more to you about the deeper inward relationship of
all these strange things. It is clear to my mind that it was you who
brought about the catastrophe, a catastrophe which will mean recovery
or speedy death for the sick woman. And now I will confess to you that
I was not a little alarmed, horrified, even, to discover that--when I
had set myself in magnetic communication with you by placing my hand on
your neck--I could see the picture in the mirror with my own eyes. We
both know now that the reflection in the glass was the face of Countess
Edwina.”
I repeat Dr. K----’s words in saying that, to my mind also, there is
no further comment that can be made on all these facts. I consider it
equally unnecessary to discuss at any further length with you now the
mysterious relationship between Angelica, Edwina, the old valet, and
myself--a relationship which seemed the work of a malicious demon who
was playing his tricks with us. I will add only that I left the city
soon after all these events, driven from the place by an oppression I
could not shake off. The uncanny sensation left me suddenly a month or
so later, giving way to a feeling of intense relief that flowed through
all my veins with the warmth of an electric current. I am convinced
that this change within me came about in the moment when the mad woman
died.
THE ADELANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES
[Attribution: From “Wolfert’s Roost.”]
A LEGEND OF ST. BRANDAN, THE PHANTOM ISLE
By WASHINGTON IRVING
In the early part of the fifteenth century, when Prince Henry of
Portugal was pushing the career of discovery along the western coast
of Africa, and the world was resounding with reports of golden regions
on the mainland, and new-found islands in the ocean, there arrived at
Lisbon an old bewildered pilot of the seas, who had been driven by
tempests, he knew not whither, and raved about an island far in the
deep, upon which he had landed, and which he had found peopled with
Christians and adorned with noble cities.
The inhabitants, he said, having never before been visited by a ship,
gathered round, and regarded him with surprise. They told him they were
descendants of a band of Christians, who fled from Spain when that
country was conquered by the Moslems. They were curious about the state
of their fatherland, and grieved to hear that the Moslems still held
possession of the kingdom of Granada. They would have taken the old
navigator to church, to convince him of their orthodoxy; but, either
through lack of devotion, or lack of faith in their words, he declined
their invitation, and preferred to return on board of his ship. He was
properly punished. A furious storm arose, drove him from his anchorage,
hurried him out to sea, and he saw no more of the unknown island.
This strange story caused great marvel in Lisbon and elsewhere. Those
versed in history remembered to have read, in an ancient chronicle,
that, at the time of the conquest of Spain, in the eighth century, when
the blessed cross was cast down and the crescent erected in its place,
and when Christian churches were turned into Moslem mosques, seven
bishops, at the head of seven bands of pious exiles, had fled from the
peninsula, and embarked in quest of some ocean island, or distant land,
where they might found seven Christian cities, and enjoy their faith
unmolested.
The fate of these saints errant had hitherto remained a mystery,
and their story had faded from memory; the report of the old
tempest-tossed pilot, however, revived this long-forgotten theme; and
it was determined by the pious and enthusiastic that the island thus
accidentally discovered was the identical place of refuge whither the
wandering bishops had been guided by a protecting Providence, and where
they had folded their flocks.
This most excitable of worlds has always some darling object of
chimerical enterprise; the “Island of the Seven Cities” now awakened as
much interest and longing among zealous Christians as has the renowned
city of Timbuctoo among adventurous travelers, or the Northeast passage
among hardy navigators; and it was a frequent prayer of the devout,
that these scattered and lost portions of the Christian family might be
discovered and reunited to the great body of Christendom.
No one, however, entered into the matter with half the zeal of Don
Fernando de Ulmo, a young cavalier of high standing in the Portuguese
court, and of most sanguine and romantic temperament. He had recently
come to his estate, and had run the round of all kinds of pleasures and
excitements when this new theme of popular talk and wonder presented
itself. The Island of the Seven Cities became now the constant subject
of his thoughts by day and his dreams by night; it even rivaled his
passion for a beautiful girl, one of the greatest belles of Lisbon, to
whom he was betrothed. At length his imagination became so inflamed on
the subject, that he determined to fit out an expedition, at his own
expense, and set sail in quest of this sainted island. It could not
be a cruise of any great extent; for, according to the calculations
of the tempest-tossed pilot, it must be somewhere in the latitude
of the Canaries; which at that time, when the new world was as yet
undiscovered, formed the frontier of ocean enterprise. Don Fernando
applied to the crown for countenance and protection. As he was a
favorite at court, the usual patronage was readily extended to him;
that is to say, he received a commission from the king, Don Ioam II.,
constituting him Adelantado, or military governor, of any country he
might discover, with the single proviso, that he should bear all the
expenses of the discovery, and pay a tenth of the profits to the crown.
Don Fernando now set to work in the true spirit of a projector. He sold
acre after acre of solid land, and invested the proceeds in ships,
guns, ammunition, and sea-stores. Even his old family mansion in Lisbon
was mortgaged without scruple, for he looked forward to a palace in one
of the Seven Cities, of which he was to be Adelantado. This was the
age of nautical romance, when the thoughts of all speculative dreamers
were turned to the ocean. The scheme of Don Fernando, therefore, drew
adventurers of every kind.
One person alone regarded the whole project with sovereign contempt
and growing hostility. This was Don Ramiro Alvarez, the father of the
beautiful Serafina, to whom Don Fernando was betrothed. He was one
of those perverse, matter-of-fact old men, who are prone to oppose
everything speculative and romantic. He had no faith in the Island of
the Seven Cities; regarded the projected cruise as a crack-brained
freak; looked with angry eye and internal heart-burning on the conduct
of his intended son-in-law, chaffering away solid lands for lands in
the moon; and scoffingly dubbed him Adelantado of Cloud Land. In fact,
he had never really relished the intended match, to which his consent
had been slowly extorted by the tears and entreaties of his daughter.
It is true he could have no reasonable objections to the youth, for Don
Fernando was the very flower of Portuguese chivalry. No one could excel
him at the tilting match, or the riding at the ring; none was more bold
and dexterous in the bull fight; none composed more gallant madrigals
in praise of his lady’s charms, or sang them with sweeter tones to the
accompaniment of her guitar; nor could any one handle the castanets
and dance the bolero with more captivating grace. All these admirable
qualities and endowments, however, though they had been sufficient to
win the heart of Serafina, were nothing in the eyes of her unreasonable
father.
The engagement to Serafina had threatened at first to throw an obstacle
in the way of the expedition of Don Fernando, and for a time perplexed
him in the extreme. He was passionately attached to the young lady;
but he was also passionately bent on this romantic enterprise. How
should he reconcile the two passionate inclinations? A simple and
obvious arrangement at length presented itself,--marry Serafina, enjoy
a portion of the honeymoon at once, and defer the rest until his return
from the discovery of the Seven Cities!
He hastened to make known this most excellent arrangement to Don
Ramiro, when the long smothered wrath of the old cavalier burst forth.
He reproached him with being the dupe of wandering vagabonds and wild
schemers, and with squandering all his real possession, in pursuit of
empty bubbles. Don Fernando was too sanguine a projector, and too young
a man, to listen tamely to such language. A high quarrel ensued; Don
Ramiro pronounced him a madman, and forbade all farther intercourse
with his daughter until he should give proof of returning sanity by
abandoning this madcap enterprise; while Don Fernando flung out of
the house, more bent than ever on the expedition, from the idea of
triumphing over the incredulity of the graybeard, when he should return
successful. Don Ramiro’s heart misgave him. Who knows, thought he, but
this crack-brained visionary may persuade my daughter to elope with
him, and share his throne in this unknown paradise of fools? If I could
only keep her safe until his ships are fairly out at sea!
He repaired to her apartment, represented to her the sanguine, unsteady
character of her lover and the chimerical value of his schemes, and
urged the propriety of suspending all intercourse with him until he
should recover from his present hallucination. She bowed her head
as if in filial acquiescence, whereupon he folded her to his bosom
with parental fondness and kissed away a tear that was stealing over
her cheek, but as he left the chamber quietly turned the key in the
lock; for though he was a fond father and had a high opinion of the
submissive temper of his child, he had a still higher opinion of the
conservative virtues of lock and key, and determined to trust to them
until the caravels should sail. Whether the damsel had been in anywise
shaken in her faith as to the schemes of her father’s eloquence,
tradition does not say; but certain it is, that, the moment she heard
the key turn in the lock, she became a firm believer in the Island of
the Seven Cities.
The door was locked; but her will was unconfined. A window of the
chamber opened into one of those stone balconies, secured by iron bars,
which project like huge cages from Portuguese and Spanish houses.
Within this balcony the beautiful Serafina had her birds and flowers,
and here she was accustomed to sit on moonlight nights as in a bower,
and touch her guitar and sing like a wakeful nightingale. From this
balcony an intercourse was now maintained between the lovers, against
which the lock and key of Don Ramiro were of no avail. All day would
Fernando be occupied hurrying the equipments of his ships, but evening
found him in sweet discourse beneath his lady’s window.
At length the preparations were completed. Two gallant caravels lay at
anchor in the Tagus ready to sail at sunrise. Late at night by the pale
light of a waning moon the lover had his last interview. The beautiful
Serafina was sad at heart and full of dark forebodings; her lover full
of hope and confidence. “A few short months,” said he, “and I shall
return in triumph. Thy father will then blush at his incredulity, and
hasten to welcome to his house the Adelantado of the Seven Cities.”
The gentle lady shook her head. It was not on this point she felt
distrust. She was a thorough believer in the Island of the Seven
Cities, and so sure of the success of the enterprise that she might
have been tempted to join it had not the balcony been high and the
grating strong. Other considerations induced that dubious shaking
of the head. She had heard of the inconstancy of the seas, and the
inconstancy of those who roam them. Might not Fernando meet with other
loves in foreign ports? Might not some peerless beauty in one or other
of those Seven Cities efface the image of Serafina from his mind?
She ventured to express her doubt, but he spurned at the very idea.
“What! be false to Serafina! He bow at the shrine of another beauty?
Never! Never!” Repeatedly did he bend his knee, and smite his breast,
and call upon the silver moon to witness his sincerity and truth.
He retorted the doubt, “Might not Serafina herself forget her plighted
faith? Might not some wealthier rival present himself while he was
tossing on the sea; and, backed by her father’s wishes, win the
treasure of her hand!”
The beautiful Serafina raised her white arms between the iron bars
of the balcony, and, like her lover, invoked the moon to testify her
vows. Alas! how little did Fernando know her heart. The more her father
should oppose, the more would she be fixed in faith. Though years
should intervene, Fernando on his return would find her true. Even
should the salt sea swallow him up, never would she be the wife of
another! Never, _never_, NEVER! She drew from her finger a ring gemmed
with a ruby heart, and dropped it from the balcony, a parting pledge
of constancy.
With the morning dawn the caravels dropped down the Tagus, and put
to sea. They steered for the Canaries, in those days the regions
of nautical discovery and romance, and the outposts of the known
world, for as yet Columbus had not steered his daring barks across
the ocean. Scarce had they reached those latitudes when they were
separated by a violent tempest. For many days was the caravel of Don
Fernando driven about at the mercy of the elements; all seamanship was
baffled, destruction seemed inevitable and the crew were in despair.
All at once the storm subsided; the ocean sank into a calm; the clouds
which had veiled the face of heaven were suddenly withdrawn, and the
tempest-tossed mariners beheld a fair and mountainous island, emerging
as if by enchantment from the murky gloom. They rubbed their eyes and
gazed for a time almost incredulously, yet there lay the island spread
out in lovely landscapes, with the late stormy sea laving its shores
with peaceful billows.
The pilot of the caravel consulted his maps and charts; no island like
the one before him was laid down as existing in those parts; it is true
he had lost his reckoning in the late storm, but, according to his
calculations, he could not be far from the Canaries; and this was not
one of that group of islands. The caravel now lay perfectly becalmed
off the mouth of a river, on the banks of which, about a league from
the sea, was descried a noble city, with lofty walls and towers, and a
protecting castle.
After a time, a stately barge with sixteen oars was seen emerging from
the river, and approaching the caravel. It was quaintly carved and
gilt; the oarsmen were clad in antique garb, their oars painted of a
bright crimson, and they came slowly and solemnly, keeping time as they
rowed to the cadence of an old Spanish ditty. Under a silken canopy in
the stern, sat a cavalier richly clad, and over his head was a banner
bearing the sacred emblem of the cross.
When the barge reached the caravel, the cavalier stepped on board. He
was tall and gaunt; with a long Spanish visage, moustaches that curled
up to his eyes, and a forked beard. He wore gauntlets reaching to his
elbows, a Toledo blade strutting out behind, with a basket hilt, in
which he carried his handkerchief. His air was lofty and precise, and
bespoke indisputably the hidalgo. Thrusting out a long spindle leg, he
took off a huge sombrero, and swaying it until the feather swept the
ground, accosted Don Fernando in the old Castilian language, and with
the old Castilian courtesy, welcoming him to the Island of the Seven
Cities.
Don Fernando was overwhelmed with astonishment. Could this be true? Had
he really been tempest-driven to the very land of which he was in quest?
It was even so. That very day the inhabitants were holding high
festival in commemoration of the escape of their ancestors from the
Moors. The arrival of the caravel at such a juncture was considered
a good omen, the accomplishment of an ancient prophecy through which
the island was to be restored to the great community of Christendom.
The cavalier before him was grand chamberlain, sent by the alcayde to
invite him to the festivities of the capital.
Don Fernando could scarce believe that this was not all a dream. He
had known his name and the object of his voyage. The grand chamberlain
declared that all was in perfect accordance with the ancient prophecy,
and that the moment his credentials were presented, he would be
acknowledged as the Adelantado of the Seven Cities. In the meantime
the day was waning; the barge was ready to convey him to the land, and
would as assuredly bring him back.
Don Fernando’s pilot, a veteran of the seas, drew him aside and
expostulated against his venturing, on the mere word of a stranger, to
land in a strange barge on an unknown shore. “Who knows, Señor, what
land this is, or what people inhabit it?”
Don Fernando was not to be dissuaded. Had he not believed in this
island when all the world doubted? Had he not sought it in defiance
of storm and tempest, and was he now to shrink from its shores when
they lay before him in calm weather? In a word, was not faith the very
corner-stone of his enterprise?
Having arrayed himself, therefore, in gala dress befitting the
occasion, he took his seat in the barge. The grand chamberlain seated
himself opposite. The rowers plied their oars, and renewed the
mournful old ditty, and the gorgeous but unwieldly barge moved slowly
through the water.
The night closed in before they entered the river, and swept along past
rock and promontory, each guarded by its tower. At every post they were
challenged by the sentinel.
“Who goes there?”
“The Adelantado of the Seven Cities.”
“Welcome, Señor Adelantado. Pass on.”
Entering the harbor they rowed close by an armed galley of ancient
form. Soldiers with crossbows patroled the deck.
“Who goes there?”
“The Adelantado of the Seven Cities.”
“Welcome, Señor Adelantado. Pass on.”
They landed at a broad flight of stone steps, leading up between two
massive towers, and knocked at the water-gate. A sentinel, in ancient
steel casque, looked from the barbican.
“Who is there?”
“The Adelantado of the Seven Cities.”
“Welcome, Señor Adelantado.”
The gate swung open, grating upon rusty hinges. They entered between
two rows of warriors in Gothic armor, with crossbows, maces,
battle-axes, and faces old-fashioned as their armor. There were
processions through the streets, in commemoration of the landing of the
seven bishops and their followers, and bonfires at which effigies of
Moors expiated their invasion of Christendom by a kind of auto-da-fé.
The groups round the fires, uncouth in their attire, looked like the
fantastic figures that roam the streets in carnival time. Even the
dames who gazed down from Gothic balconies hung with antique tapestry,
resembled effigies dressed up in Christmas mummeries. Everything, in
short, bore the stamp of former ages, as if the world had suddenly
rolled back for several centuries. Nor was this to be wondered at.
Had not the Island of the Seven Cities been cut off from the rest of
the world for several hundred years; and were not these the modes and
customs of Gothic Spain before it was conquered by the Moors?
Arrived at the palace of the alcayde, the grand chamberlain knocked at
the portal. The porter looked through a wicket, and demanded who was
there.
“The Adelantado of the Seven Cities.”
The portal was thrown wide open. The grand chamberlain led the way up
a vast, heavily molded, marble staircase, and into a hall of ceremony,
where was the alcayde with several of the principal dignitaries of the
city, who had a marvelous resemblance, in form and feature, to the
quaint figures in old illuminated manuscripts.
The grand chamberlain stepped forward and announced the name and title
of the stranger guest, and the extraordinary nature of his mission. The
announcement appeared to create no extraordinary emotion or surprise,
but to be received as the anticipated fulfilment of a prophecy.
The reception of Don Fernando, however, was profoundly gracious, though
in the same style of stately courtesy which everywhere prevailed. He
would have produced his credentials, but this was courteously declined.
The evening was devoted to high festivity; the following day, when he
should enter the port with his caravel, would be devoted to business,
when the credentials would be received in due form, and he inducted
into office as Adelantado of the Seven Cities.
Don Fernando was now conducted through one of those interminable suites
of apartments, the pride of Spanish palaces, all furnished in a style
of obsolete magnificence. In a vast saloon, blazing with tapers, was
assembled all the aristocracy and fashion of the city,--stately dames
and cavaliers, the very counterpart of the figures in the tapestry
which decorated the walls. Fernando gazed in silent marvel. It was a
reflex of the proud aristocracy of Spain in the time of Roderick the
Goth.
The festivities of the evening were all in the style of solemn and
antiquated ceremonial. There was a dance, but it was as if the old
tapestry were put in motion, and all the figures moving in stately
measure about the floor. There was one exception, and one that
told powerfully upon the susceptible Adalantado. The alcayde’s
daughter--such a ripe, melting beauty! Her dress, it is true, like
the dresses of her neighbors, might have been worn before the flood,
but she had the black Andalusian eye, a glance of which, through its
long dark lashes, is irresistible. Her voice, too, her manner, her
undulating movements, all smacked of Andalusia, and showed how female
charms may be transmitted from age to age, and clime to clime, without
ever going out of fashion.
Don Fernando sat beside her at the banquet! such an old-world feast!
such obsolete dainties! At the head of the table the peacock, that
bird of state and ceremony, was served up in full plumage on a golden
dish. As Don Fernando cast his eyes down the glittering board, what a
vista presented itself of odd heads and head-dresses; of formal bearded
dignitaries, and stately dames, with castellated locks and towering
plumes! Is it to be wondered at that he should turn with delight from
these antiquated figures to the alcayde’s daughter, all smiles and
dimples, and melting looks and melting accents? Besides, he was in a
particularly excitable mood from the novelty of the scene before him,
from this realization of all his hopes and fancies, and from frequent
draughts of the wine-cup, presented to him at every moment by officious
pages during the banquet.
In a word--there is no concealing the matter--before the evening was
over, Don Fernando was making love outright to the alcayde’s daughter.
They had wandered together to a moon-lit balcony of the palace, and he
was charming her ear with one of those love-ditties with which, in a
like balcony, he had serenaded the beautiful Serafina.
The damsel hung her head coyly. “Ah! Señor, these are flattering words;
but you cavaliers, who roam the seas, are unsteady as its waves.
To-morrow you will be throned in state, Adelantado of the Seven
Cities; and will think no more of the alcayde’s daughter.”
Don Fernando in the intoxication of the moment called the moon to
witness his sincerity. As he raised his hand in adjuration, the chaste
moon cast a ray upon the ring that sparkled on his finger. It caught
the damsel’s eye. “Signor Adelantado,” said she archly, “I have no
great faith in the moon, but give me that ring upon your finger in
pledge of the truth of what you profess.”
The gallant Adelantado was taken by surprise; there was no parrying
this sudden appeal; before he had time to reflect, the ring of the
beautiful Serafina glittered on the finger of the alcayde’s daughter.
At this eventful moment the chamberlain approached with lofty demeanor,
and announced that the barge was waiting to bear him back to the
caravel. I forbear to relate the ceremonious partings with the alcayde
and his dignitaries, and the tender farewell of the alcayde’s daughter.
He took his seat in the barge opposite the grand chamberlain. The
rowers plied their crimson oars in the same slow and stately manner,
to the cadence of the same mournful old ditty. His brain was in a
whirl with all that he had seen, and his heart now and then gave him
a twinge as he thought of his temporary infidelity to the beautiful
Serafina. The barge sallied out into the sea, but no caravel was to be
seen; doubtless she had been carried to a distance by the current of
the river. The oarsmen rowed on; their monotonous chant had a lulling
effect. A drowsy influence crept over Don Fernando. Objects swam before
his eyes. The oarsmen assumed odd shapes as in a dream. The grand
chamberlain grew larger and larger, and taller and taller. He took off
his huge sombrero, and held it over the head of Don Fernando, like an
extinguisher over a candle. The latter cowered beneath it; he felt
himself sinking in the socket.
“Good night! Señor Adelantado of the Seven Cities!” said the grand
chamberlain.
The sombrero slowly descended--Don Fernando was extinguished!
How long he remained extinct no mortal man can tell. When he returned
to consciousness, he found himself in a strange cabin, surrounded by
strangers. He rubbed his eyes, and looked round him wildly. Where
was he?--On board a Portuguese ship, bound to Lisbon. How came he
there?--He had been taken senseless from a wreck drifting about the
ocean.
Don Fernando was more and more confounded and perplexed. He recalled,
one by one, everything that had happened to him in the Island of the
Seven Cities, until he had been extinguished by the sombrero of the
grand chamberlain. But what had happened to him since? What had become
of his caravel? Was it the wreck of her on which he had been found
floating?
The people about him could give no information on the subject. He
entreated them to take him to the Island of the Seven Cities, which
could not be far off; told them all that had befallen him there; that
he had but to land to be received as Adelantado; when he would reward
them magnificently for their services.
They regarded his words as the ravings of delirium, and in their honest
solicitude for the restoration of his reason, administered such rough
remedies that he was fain to drop the subject and observe a cautious
taciturnity.
At length they arrived in the Tagus, and anchored before the famous
city of Lisbon. Don Fernando sprang joyfully on shore, and hastened
to his ancestral mansion. A strange porter opened the door, who knew
nothing of him or his family; no people of the name had inhabited the
house for many a year.
He sought the mansion of Don Ramiro. He approached the balcony beneath
which he had bidden farewell to Serafina. Did his eyes deceive him? No!
There was Serafina herself among the flowers in the balcony. He raised
his arms toward her with an exclamation of rapture. She cast upon him a
look of indignation, and hastily retiring, closed the casement with a
slam that testified her displeasure.
Could she have heard of his flirtation with the alcayde’s daughter? But
that was mere transient gallantry. A moment’s interview would dispel
every doubt of his constancy.
He rang at the door; as it was opened by the porter he rushed
up-stairs; sought the well-known chamber, and threw himself at the feet
of Serafina. She started back with affright, and took refuge in the
arms of a youthful cavalier.
“What mean you, Señor,” cried the latter, “by this intrusion?”
“What right have you to ask the question?” demanded Don Fernando
fiercely.
“The right of an affianced suitor!”
Don Fernando started and turned pale. “Oh, Serafina! Serafina!” cried
he, in a tone of agony; “is this thy plighted constancy?”
“Serafina? What mean you by Serafina, Señor? If this be the lady you
intend, her name is Maria.”
“May I not believe my senses? May I not believe my heart?” cried Don
Fernando. “Is not this Serafina Alvarez, the original of yon portrait,
which, less fickle than herself, still smiles on me from the wall?”
“Holy Virgin!” cried the young lady, casting her eyes upon the
portrait. “He is talking of my great-grand-mother!”
An explanation ensued, if that could be called an explanation which
plunged the unfortunate Fernando into tenfold perplexity. If he might
believe his eyes, he saw before him his beloved Serafina; if he might
believe his ears, it was merely her hereditary form and features,
perpetuated in the person of her great-granddaughter.
His brain began to spin. He sought the office of the Minister of
Marine, and made a report of his expedition, and of the Island of the
Seven Cities, which he had so fortunately discovered. Nobody knew
anything of such an expedition, or such an island. He declared that he
had undertaken the enterprise under a formal contract with the crown,
and had received a regular commission, constituting him Adelantado.
This must be matter of record, and he insisted loudly that the books
of the department should be consulted. The wordy strife at length
attracted the attention of an old gray-headed clerk, who sat perched
on a high stool, at a high desk, with iron-rimmed spectacles on the
top of a thin, pinched nose, copying records into an enormous folio.
He had wintered and summered in the department for a great part of a
century, until he had almost grown to be a piece of the desk at which
he sat; his memory was a mere index of official facts and documents,
and his brain was little better than red tape and parchment. After
peering down for a time from his lofty perch, and ascertaining the
matter in controversy, he put his pen behind his ear, and descended.
He remembered to have heard something from his predecessor about an
expedition of the kind in question, but then it had sailed during the
reign of Don Ioam II., and he had been dead at least a hundred years.
To put the matter beyond dispute, however, the archives of the Tore
do Tombo, that sepulchre of old Portuguese documents, were diligently
searched, and a record was found of a contract between the crown and
one Fernando de Ulmo, for the discovery of the Island of the Seven
Cities, and of a commission secured to him as Adelantado of the country
he might discover.
“There!” cried Don Fernando, triumphantly, “there you have proof,
before your own eyes, of what I have said. I am the Fernando de Ulmo
specified in that record. I have discovered the Island of the Seven
Cities, and am entitled to be Adelantado, according to contract.”
The story of Don Fernando had certainly, what is pronounced the best
of historical foundation, documentary evidence; but when a man, in the
bloom of youth, talked of events that had taken place above a century
previously, as having happened to himself, it is no wonder that he was
set down for a madman.
The old clerk looked at him from above and below his spectacles,
shrugged his shoulders, stroked his chin, reascended his lofty
stool, took the pen from behind his ears, and resumed his daily and
eternal task, copying records into the fiftieth volume of a series of
gigantic folios. The other clerks winked, at each other shrewdly, and
dispersed to their several places, and poor Don Fernando, thus left to
himself, flung out of the office, almost driven wild by these repeated
perplexities.
In the confusion of his mind, he instinctively repaired to the mansion
of Alvarez, but it was barred against him. To break the delusion under
which the youth apparently labored, and to convince him that the
Serafina about whom he raved was really dead, he was conducted to her
tomb. There she lay, a stately matron, cut out in alabaster; and there
lay her husband beside her, a portly cavalier, in armor; and there
knelt on each side, the effigies of a numerous progeny. Even the very
monument gave evidence of the lapse of time; the hands of her husband,
folded as if in prayer, had lost their fingers, and the face of the
once lovely Serafina was without a nose.
Don Fernando felt a transient glow of indignation at beholding this
monumental proof of the inconstancy of his mistress; but who could
expect a mistress to remain constant during a whole century of absence?
And what right had he to rail about constancy, after what had passed
between himself and the alcayde’s daughter? The unfortunate cavalier
performed one pious act of tender devotion; he had the alabaster nose
of Serafina restored by a skillful statuary, and then tore himself from
the tomb.
He could now no longer doubt the fact that, somehow or other, he had
skipped over a whole century, during the night he had spent at the
Island of the Seven Cities; and he was now as complete a stranger in
his native city, as if he had never been there. A thousand times did he
wish himself back to that wonderful island, with its antiquated banquet
halls, where he had been so courteously received; and now that the
once young and beautiful Serafina was nothing but a great-grandmother
in marble, with generations of descendants, a thousand times would he
recall the melting black eyes of the alcayde’s daughter, who doubtless,
like himself, was still flourishing in fresh juvenility, and breathe a
secret wish that he was seated by her side.
He would at once have set on foot another expedition, at his own
expense, to cruise in search of the sainted island, but his means
were exhausted. He endeavored to rouse others to the enterprise,
setting forth the certainty of profitable results, of which his own
experience furnished such unquestionable proof. Alas! no one would
give faith to his tale; but looked upon it as the feverish dream of
a shipwrecked man. He persisted in his efforts; holding forth in all
places and all companies, until he became an object of jest and jeer
to the light-minded, who mistook his earnest enthusiasm for a proof of
insanity; and the very children in the streets bantered him with the
title of “The Adelantado of the Seven Cities.”
Finding all efforts in vain, in his native city of Lisbon, he took
shipping for the Canaries, as being nearer the latitude of his former
cruise, and inhabited by people given to nautical adventure. Here he
found ready listeners to his story; for the old pilots and mariners of
those parts were notorious island-hunters, and devout believers in all
the wonders of the seas. Indeed, one and all treated his adventure as a
common occurrence, and turning to each other, with a sagacious nod of
the head, observed, “He has been at the island of St. Brandan.”
They then went on to inform him of that great marvel and enigma of the
ocean; of its repeated appearance to the inhabitants of their islands;
and of the many but ineffectual expeditions that had been made in
search of it. They took him to a promontory of the island of Palma,
whence the shadowy St. Brandan had oftenest been descried, and they
pointed out the very tract in the west where its mountains had been
seen.
Don Fernando listened with rapt attention. He had no longer a doubt
that this mysterious and fugacious island must be the same with that of
the Seven Cities; and that some supernatural influence connected with
it had operated upon himself, and made the events of a night occupy the
space of a century.
He endeavored, but in vain, to rouse the islanders to another
attempt at discovery; they had given up the phantom island as indeed
inaccessible. Fernando, however, was not to be discouraged. The
idea wore itself deeper and deeper in his mind, until it became the
engrossing subject of his thoughts and object of his being. Every
morning he would repair to the promontory of Palma, and sit there
throughout the livelong day, in hopes of seeing the fairy mountains of
St. Brandan peering above the horizon; every evening he returned to his
home, a disappointed man, but ready to resume his post on the following
morning.
His assiduity was all in vain. He grew gray in his ineffectual attempt;
and was at length found dead at his post. His grave is still shown in
the island of Palma, and a cross is erected on the spot where he used
to sit and look out upon the sea, in hopes of the reappearance of the
phantom island.
THE PIPE
ANONYMOUS
I
“RANDOLPH CRESCENT, N. W.
“MY DEAR PUGH--I hope you will like the pipe which I send with this.
It is rather a curious example of a certain school of Indian carving.
And is a present from
“Yours truly, JOSEPH TRESS.”
It was really very handsome of Tress--very handsome! The more
especially as I was aware that to give presents was not exactly in
Tress’s line. The truth is that when I saw what manner of pipe it
was, I was amazed. It was contained in a sandalwood box, which was
itself illustrated with some remarkable specimens of carving. I use
the word “remarkable” advisedly, because, although the workmanship was
undoubtedly, in its way, artistic, the result could not be described
as beautiful. The carver had thought proper to ornament the box with
some of the ugliest figures I remember to have seen. They appeared to
me to be devils. Or perhaps they were intended to represent deities
appertaining to some mythological system with which, thank goodness,
I am unacquainted. The pipe itself was worthy of the case in which it
was contained. It was of meerschaum, with an amber mouthpiece. It was
rather too large for ordinary smoking. But then, of course, one doesn’t
smoke a pipe like that. There are pipes in my collection which I should
as soon think of smoking as I should of eating. Ask a china maniac to
let you have afternoon tea out of his Old Chelsea, and you will learn
some home truths as to the durability of human friendships. The glory
of the pipe, as Tress had suggested, lay in its carving. Not that I
claim that it was beautiful, any more than I make such a claim for the
carving on the box, but, as Tress said in his note, it was curious.
The stem and the bowl were quite plain, but on the edge of the bowl was
perched some kind of lizard. I told myself it was an octopus when I
first saw it, but I have since had reason to believe that it was some
almost unique member of the lizard tribe. The creature was represented
as climbing over the edge of the bowl down toward the stem, and its
legs, or feelers, or tentacula, or whatever the things are called,
were, if I may use a vulgarism, sprawling about “all over the place.”
For instance, two or three of them were twined about the bowl, two or
three of them were twisted round the stem, and one, a particularly
horrible one, was uplifted in the air, so that if you put the pipe in
your mouth the thing was pointing straight at your nose.
Not the least agreeable feature about the creature was that it was
hideously lifelike. It appeared to have been carved in amber, but
some coloring matter must have been introduced, for inside the amber
the creature was of a peculiarly ghastly green. The more I examined
the pipe the more amazed I was at Tress’s generosity. He and I are
rival collectors. I am not going to say, in so many words, that his
collection of pipes contains nothing but rubbish, because, as a matter
of fact, he has two or three rather decent specimens. But to compare
his collection to mine would be absurd. Tress is conscious of this,
and he resents it to such an extent that he has been known, at least
on one occasion, to declare that one single pipe of his--I believe he
alluded to the Brummagem relic preposterously attributed to Sir Walter
Raleigh--was worth the whole of my collection put together. Although
I have forgiven this, as I hope I always shall forgive remarks made
when envious passions get the better of our nobler nature, even of a
Joseph Tress, it is not to be supposed that I have forgotten it. He
was, therefore, not at all the sort of person from whom I expected to
receive a present. And such a present! I do not believe that he himself
had a finer pipe in his collection. And to have given it to me! I had
misjudged the man. I wondered where he had got it from. I had seen his
pipes; I knew them off by heart--and some nice trumpery he has among
them, too! but I had never seen _that_ pipe before. The more I looked
at it, the more my amazement grew. The beast perched upon the edge of
the bowl was so lifelike. Its two bead-like eyes seemed to gleam at me
with positively human intelligence. The pipe fascinated me to such an
extent that I actually resolved to--smoke it!
I filled it with Perique. Ordinarily I use Birdseye, but on those
very rare occasions on which I use a specimen I smoke Perique. I lit
up with quite a small sensation of excitement. As I did so I kept my
eyes perforce fixed upon the beast. The beast pointed its upraised
tentacle directly at me. As I inhaled the pungent tobacco that
tentacle impressed me with a feeling of actual uncanniness. It was
broad daylight, and I was smoking in front of the window, yet to such
an extent was I affected that it seemed to me that the tentacle was
not only vibrating, which, owing to the peculiarity of its position,
was quite within the range of probability, but actually moving,
elongating--stretching forward, that is, farther toward me, and toward
the tip of my nose. So impressed was I by this idea that I took the
pipe out of my mouth and minutely examined the beast. Really, the
delusion was excusable. So cunningly had the artist wrought that he
succeeded in producing a creature which, such was its uncanniness, I
could only hope had no original in nature.
Replacing the pipe between my lips I took several whiffs. Never had
smoking had such an effect on me before. Either the pipe, or the
creature on it, exercised some singular fascination. I seemed, without
an instant’s warning, to be passing into some land of dreams. I saw the
beast, which was perched upon the bowl, writhe and twist. I saw it lift
itself bodily from the meerschaum.
II
“Feeling better now?”
I looked up. Joseph Tress was speaking.
“What’s the matter? Have I been ill?”
“You appear to have been in some kind of swoon.”
Tress’s tone was peculiar, even a little dry.
“Swoon! I never was guilty of such a thing in my life.”
“Nor was I, until I smoked that pipe.”
I sat up. The act of sitting up made me conscious of the fact that I
had been lying down. Conscious, too, that I was feeling more than a
little dazed. It seemed as though I was waking out of some strange,
lethargic sleep--a kind of feeling which I have read of and heard
about, but never before experienced.
“Where am I?”
“You’re on the couch in your own room. You _were_ on the floor; but
I thought it would be better to pick you up and place you on the
couch--though no one performed the same kind office to me when I was on
the floor.”
Again Tress’s tone was distinctly dry.
“How came _you_ here?”
“Ah, that’s the question.” He rubbed his chin--a habit of his which has
annoyed me more than once before. “Do you think you’re sufficiently
recovered to enable you to understand a little simple explanation?” I
stared at him, amazed. He went on stroking his chin. “The truth is
that when I sent you the pipe I made a slight omission.”
“An omission?”
“I omitted to advise you not to smoke it.”
“And why?”
“Because--well, I’ve reason to believe the thing is drugged.”
“Drugged!”
“Or poisoned.”
“Poisoned!” I was wide awake enough then. I jumped off the couch with a
celerity which proved it.
“It is this way. I became its owner in rather a singular manner.” He
paused, as if for me to make a remark; but I was silent. “It is not
often that I smoke a specimen, but, for some reason, I did smoke this.
I commenced to smoke it, that is. How long I continued to smoke it is
more than I can say. It had on me the same peculiar effect which it
appears to have had on you. When I recovered consciousness I was lying
on the floor.”
“On the floor?”
“On the floor. In about as uncomfortable a position as you can easily
conceive. I was lying face downward, with my legs bent under me. I was
never so surprised in my life as I was when I found myself _where_ I
was. At first I supposed that I had had a stroke. But by degrees it
dawned upon me that I didn’t _feel_ as though I had had a stroke.”
Tress, by the way, has been an army surgeon. “I was conscious of
distinct nausea. Looking about, I saw the pipe. With me it had fallen
on to the floor. I took it for granted, considering the delicacy of the
carving, that the fall had broken it. But when I picked it up I found
it quite uninjured. While I was examining it a thought flashed to my
brain. Might it not be answerable for what had happened to me? Suppose,
for instance, it was drugged? I had heard of such things. Besides, in
my case were present all the symptoms of drug poisoning, though what
drug had been used I couldn’t in the least conceive. I resolved that I
would give the pipe another trial.”
“On yourself? or on another party, meaning me?”
“On myself, my dear Pugh--on myself! At that point of my investigations
I had not begun to think of you. I lit up and had another smoke.”
“With what result?”
“Well, that depends on the standpoint from which you regard the thing.
From one point of view the result was wholly satisfactory--I proved
that the thing was drugged, and more.”
“Did you have another fall?”
“I did. And something else besides.”
“On that account, I presume, you resolved to pass the treasure on to
me?”
“Partly on that account, and partly on another.”
“On my word, I appreciate your generosity. You might have labeled the
thing as poison.”
“Exactly. But then you must remember how often you have told me that
you _never_ smoke your specimens.”
“That was no reason why you shouldn’t have given me a hint that the
thing was more dangerous than dynamite.”
“That did occur to me afterwards. Therefore I called to supply the
slight omission.”
“_Slight_ omission, you call it! I wonder what you would have called it
if you had found me dead.”
“If I had known that you _intended_ smoking it I should not have been
at all surprised if I had.”
“Really, Tress, I appreciate your kindness more and more! And where
is this example of your splendid benevolence? Have you pocketed it,
regretting your lapse into the unaccustomed paths of generosity? Or is
it smashed to atoms?”
“Neither the one nor the other. You will find the pipe upon the table.
I neither desire its restoration nor is it in any way injured. It
is merely an expression of personal opinion when I say that I don’t
believe that it _could_ be injured. Of course, having discovered its
deleterious properties, you will not want to smoke it again. You will
therefore be able to enjoy the consciousness of being the possessor of
what I honestly believe to be the most remarkable pipe in existence.
Good day, Pugh.”
He was gone before I could say a word. I immediately concluded, from
the precipitancy of his flight, that the pipe _was_ injured. But when I
subjected it to close examination I could discover no signs of damage.
While I was still eyeing it with jealous scrutiny the door reopened,
and Tress came in again.
“By the way, Pugh, there is one thing I might mention, especially as I
know it won’t make any difference to you.”
“That depends on what it is. If you have changed your mind, and want
the pipe back again, I tell you frankly that it won’t. In my opinion, a
thing once given is given for good.”
“Quite so; I don’t want it back again. You may make your mind easy on
that point. I merely wanted to tell you _why_ I gave it you.”
“You have told me that already.”
“Only partly, my dear Pugh--only partly. You don’t suppose I should
have given you such a pipe as that merely because it happened to be
drugged? Scarcely! I gave it you because I discovered from indisputable
evidence, and to my cost, that it was haunted.”
“Haunted?”
“Yes, haunted. Good day.”
He was gone again. I ran out of the room, and shouted after him down
the stairs. He was already at the bottom of the flight.
“Tress! Come back! What do you mean by talking such nonsense?”
“Of course it’s only nonsense. We know that that sort of thing always
is nonsense. But if you should have reason to suppose that there is
something in it besides nonsense, you may think it worth your while
to make inquiries of me. But I won’t have that pipe back again in my
possession on any terms--mind that!”
The bang of the front door told me that he had gone out into the
street. I let him go. I laughed to myself as I reëntered the room.
Haunted! That was not a bad idea of his. I saw the whole position at a
glance. The truth of the matter was that he did regret his generosity,
and he was ready to go any lengths if he could only succeed in cajoling
me into restoring his gift. He was aware that I have views upon certain
matters which are not wholly in accordance with those which are
popularly supposed to be the views of the day, and particularly that
on the question of what are commonly called supernatural visitations I
have a standpoint of my own. Therefore, it was not a bad move on his
part to try to make me believe that about the pipe on which he knew I
had set my heart there was something which could not be accounted for
by ordinary laws. Yet, as his own sense would have told him it would
do, if he had only allowed himself to reflect for a moment, the move
failed. Because I am not yet so far gone as to suppose that a pipe, a
thing of meerschaum and of amber, in the sense in which I understand
the word, _could_ be haunted--a pipe, a mere pipe.
“Hollo! I thought the creature’s legs were twined right round the bowl!”
I was holding the pipe in my hand, regarding it with the affectionate
eyes with which a connoisseur does regard a curio, when I was induced
to make this exclamation. I was certainly under the impression that,
when I first took the pipe out of the box, two, if not three of the
feelers had been twined about the bowl--twined _tightly_, so that
you could not see daylight between them and it. Now they were almost
entirely detached, only the tips touching the meerschaum, and those
particular feelers were gathered up as though the creature were in the
act of taking a spring. Of course I was under a misapprehension: the
feelers _couldn’t_ have been twined; a moment before I should have
been ready to bet a thousand to one that they were. Still, one does
make mistakes, and very egregious mistakes, at times. At the same
time, I confess that when I saw that dreadful-looking animal poised
on the extreme edge of the bowl, for all the world as though it were
just going to spring at me, I was a little startled. I remembered
that when I was smoking the pipe I did think I saw the uplifted
tentacle moving, as though it were reaching out to me. And I had a
clear recollection that just as I had been sinking into that strange
state of unconsciousness, I had been under the impression that the
creature was writhing and twisting, as though it had suddenly become
instinct with life. Under the circumstances, these reflections were not
pleasant. I wished Tress had not talked that nonsense about the thing
being haunted. It was surely sufficient to know that it was drugged and
poisonous, without anything else.
I replaced it in the sandalwood box. I locked the box in a cabinet.
Quite apart from the question as to whether that pipe was or was not
haunted, I know it haunted me. It was with me in a figurative--which
was worse than actual--sense all the day. Still worse, it was with me
all the night. It was with me in my dreams. Such dreams! Possibly I
had not yet wholly recovered from the effects of that insidious drug,
but, whether or no, it was very wrong of Tress to set my thoughts
into such a channel. He knows that I am of a highly imaginative
temperament, and that it is easier to get morbid thoughts into my
mind than to get them out again. Before that night was through I
wished very heartily that I had never seen the pipe! I woke from one
nightmare to fall into another. One dreadful dream was with me all
the time--of a hideous, green reptile which advanced toward me out
of some awful darkness, slowly, inch by inch, until it clutched me
round the neck, and, gluing its lips to mine, sucked the life’s blood
out of my veins as it embraced me with a slimy kiss. Such dreams are
not restful. I woke anything but refreshed when the morning came. And
when I got up and dressed I felt that, on the whole, it would perhaps
have been better if I never had gone to bed. My nerves were unstrung,
and I had that generally tremulous feeling which is, I believe, an
inseparable companion of the more advanced stages of dipsomania. I ate
no breakfast. I am no breakfast eater as a rule, but that morning I ate
absolutely nothing.
“If this sort of thing is to continue, I will let Tress have his pipe
again. He may have the laugh of me, but anything is better than this.”
It was with almost funereal forebodings that I went to the cabinet in
which I had placed the sandalwood box. But when I opened it my feelings
of gloom partially vanished. Of what phantasies had I been guilty! It
must have been an entire delusion on my part to have supposed that
those tentacula had ever been twined about the bowl. The creature was
in exactly the same position in which I had left it the day before--as,
of course, I knew it would be--poised, as if about to spring. I was
telling myself how foolish I had been to allow myself to dwell for a
moment on Tress’s words, when Martin Brasher was shown in.
Brasher is an old friend of mine. We have a common ground--ghosts.
Only we approach them from different points of view. He takes the
scientific--psychological--inquiry side. He is always anxious to hear
of a ghost, so that he may have an opportunity of “showing it up.”
“I’ve something in your line here,” I observed, as he came in.
“In my line? How so? _I’m_ not pipe mad.”
“No; but you’re ghost mad. And this is a haunted pipe.”
“A haunted pipe! I think you’re rather more mad about ghosts, my dear
Pugh, than I am.”
Then I told him all about it. He was deeply interested, especially
when I told him that the pipe was drugged. But when I repeated Tress’s
words about its being haunted, and mentioned my own delusion about the
creature moving, he took a more serious view of the case than I had
expected he would do.
“I propose that we act on Tress’s suggestion, and go and make inquiries
of him.”
“But you don’t really think that there is anything in it?”
“On these subjects I never allow myself to think at all. There are
Tress’s words, and there is your story. It is agreed on all hands
that the pipe has peculiar properties. It seems to me that there is a
sufficient case here to merit inquiry.”
He persuaded me. I went with him. The pipe, in the sandalwood box, went
too. Tress received us with a grin--a grin which was accentuated when I
placed the sandalwood box on the table.
“You understand,” he said, “that a gift is a gift. On no terms will I
consent to receive that pipe back in my possession.”
I was rather nettled by his tone.
“You need be under no alarm. I have no intention of suggesting anything
of the kind.”
“Our business here,” began Brasher--I must own that his manner is a
little ponderous--“is of a scientific, I may say also, and at the same
time, of a judicial nature. Our object is the Pursuit of Truth and the
Advancement of Inquiry.”
“Have you been trying another smoke?” inquired Tress, nodding his head
toward me.
Before I had time to answer, Brasher went droning on:
“Our friend here tells me that you say this pipe is haunted.”
“I say it is haunted because it _is_ haunted.”
I looked at Tress. I half suspected that he was poking fun at us. But
he appeared to be serious enough.
“In these matters,” remarked Brasher, as though he were giving
utterance to a new and important truth, “there is a scientific and
nonscientific method of inquiry. The scientific method is to begin at
the beginning. May I ask how this pipe came into your possession?”
Tress paused before he answered.
“You may ask.” He paused again. “Oh, you certainly may ask. But it
doesn’t follow that I shall tell you.”
“Surely your object, like ours, can be but the Spreading About of the
Truth?”
“I don’t see it at all. It is possible to imagine a case in which the
spreading about of the truth might make me look a little awkward.”
“Indeed!” Brasher pursed up his lips. “Your words would almost lead one
to suppose that there was something about your method of acquiring the
pipe which you have good and weighty reasons for concealing.”
“I don’t know why I should conceal the thing from you. I don’t suppose
either of you is any better than I am. I don’t mind telling you how I
got the pipe. I stole it.”
“Stole it!”
Brasher seemed both amazed and shocked. But I, who had previous
experience of Tress’s methods of adding to his collection, was not at
all surprised. Some of the pipes which he calls his, if only the whole
truth about them were publicly known, would send him to jail.
“That’s nothing!” he continued. “All collectors steal! The eighth
commandment was not intended to apply to them. Why, Pugh there has
‘conveyed’ three-fourths of the pipes which he flatters himself are
his.”
I was so dumbfounded by the charge that it took my breath away. I sat
in astounded silence. Tress went raving on:
“I was so shy of this particular pipe when I had obtained it, that I
put it away for quite three months. When I took it out to have a look
at it something about the thing so tickled me that I resolved to smoke
it. Owing to peculiar circumstances attending the manner in which the
thing came into my possession, and on which I need not dwell--you don’t
like to dwell on those sort of things, do you, Pugh?--I knew really
nothing about the pipe. As was the case with Pugh, one peculiarity I
learned from actual experience. It was also from actual experience that
I learned that the thing was--well, I said haunted, but you may use any
other word you like.”
“Tell us, as briefly as possible, what it was you really did discover.”
“Take the pipe out of the box!” Brasher took the pipe out of the box
and held it in his hand. “You see that creature on it. Well, when I
first had it, it was underneath the pipe.”
“How do you mean that it was underneath the pipe?”
“It was bunched together underneath the stem, just at the end of the
mouthpiece, in the same way in which a fly might be suspended from the
ceiling. When I began to smoke the pipe I saw the creature move.”
“But I thought that unconsciousness immediately followed.”
“It did follow, but not before I saw that the thing was moving. It
was because I thought that I had been, in a way, a victim of delirium
that I tried the second smoke. Suspecting that the thing was drugged I
swallowed what I believed would prove a powerful antidote. It enabled
me to resist the influence of the narcotic much longer than before, and
while I still retained my senses I saw the creature crawl along under
the stem and over the bowl. It was that sight, I believe, as much as
anything else, which sent me silly. When I came to, I then and there
decided to present the pipe to Pugh. There is one more thing I would
remark. When the pipe left me the creature’s legs were twined about the
bowl. Now they are withdrawn. Possibly you, Pugh, are able to cap my
story with a little one which is all your own.”
“I certainly did imagine that I saw the creature move. But I supposed
that while I was under the influence of the drug imagination had played
me a trick.”
“Not a bit of it! Depend upon it, the beast is bewitched. Even to my
eye it looks as though it were, and to a trained eye like yours, Pugh!
You’ve been looking for the devil a long time, and you’ve got him at
last.”
“I--I wish you wouldn’t make those remarks, Tress. They jar on me.”
“I confess,” interpolated Brasher--I noticed that he had put the pipe
down on the table as though he were tired of holding it--“that, to _my_
thinking, such remarks are not appropriate. At the same time what you
have told us is, I am bound to allow, a little curious. But of course
what I require is ocular demonstration. I haven’t seen the movement
myself.”
“No, but you very soon will do so, if you care to have a pull at the
pipe on your own account. Do, Brasher, to oblige me! There’s a dear!”
“It appears, then, that the movement is only observable when the pipe
is smoked. We have at least arrived at step No. 1.”
“Here’s a match, Brasher! Light up, and we shall have arrived at step
No. 2.”
Tress lit a match and held it out to Brasher. Brasher retreated from
its neighborhood.
“Thank you, Mr. Tress, I am no smoker, as you are aware. And I have no
desire to acquire the art of smoking by means of a poisoned pipe.”
Tress laughed. He blew out the match and threw it into the grate.
“Then I tell you what I’ll do--I’ll have up Bob.”
“Bob--why Bob?”
“Bob”--whose real name was Robert Haines, though I should think he must
have forgotten the fact, so seldom was he addressed by it--was Tress’s
servant. He had been an old soldier, and had accompanied his master
when he left the service. He was as depraved a character as Tress
himself. I am not sure even that he was not worse than his master. I
shall never forget how he once behaved toward myself. He actually had
the assurance to accuse me of attempting to steal the Wardour Street
relic which Tress fondly deludes himself was once the property of Sir
Walter Raleigh. The truth is that I had slipped it with my handkerchief
into my pocket in a fit of absence of mind. A man who could accuse _me_
of such a thing would be guilty of anything. I was therefore quite at
one with Brasher when he asked what Bob could possibly be wanted for.
Tress explained.
“I’ll get him to smoke the pipe,” he said.
Brasher and I exchanged glances, but we refrained from speech.
“It won’t do him any harm,” said Tress.
“What--not a poisoned pipe?” asked Brasher.
“It’s not poisoned--it’s only drugged.”
“_Only_ drugged!”
“Nothing hurts Bob. He is like an ostrich. He has digestive organs
which are peculiarly his own. It will only serve him as it served
me--and Pugh--it will knock him over. It is all done in the Pursuit of
Truth and for the Advancement of Inquiry.”
I could see that Brasher did not altogether like the tone in which
Tress repeated his words. As for me, it was not to be supposed that
I should put myself out in a matter which in no way concerned me. If
Tress chose to poison the man, it was his affair, not mine. He went to
the door and shouted:
“Bob! Come here, you scoundrel!”
That is the way in which he speaks to him. No really decent servant
would stand it. I shouldn’t care to address Nalder, my servant, in
such a way. He would give me notice on the spot. Bob came in. He is a
great hulking fellow who is always on the grin. Tress had a decanter of
brandy in his hand. He filled a tumbler with the neat spirit.
“Bob, what would you say to a glassful of brandy--the real thing--my
boy?”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And what would you say to a pull at a pipe when the brandy is drunk!”
“A pipe?” The fellow is sharp enough when he likes. I saw him look
at the pipe upon the table, and then at us, and then a gleam of
intelligence came into his eyes. “I’d do it for a dollar, sir.”
“A dollar, you thief?”
“I meant ten shillings, sir.”
“Ten shillings, you brazen vagabond?”
“I should have said a pound.”
“A pound! Was ever the like of that! Do I understand you to ask a pound
for taking a pull at your master’s pipe?”
“I’m thinking that I’ll have to make it two.”
“The deuce you are! Here, Pugh, lend me a pound.”
“I’m afraid I’ve left my purse behind.”
“Then lend me ten shillings--Ananias!”
“I doubt if I have more than five.”
“Then give me the five. And, Brasher, lend me the other fifteen.”
Brasher lent him the fifteen. I doubt if we shall either of us ever see
our money again. He handed the pound to Bob.
“Here’s the brandy--drink it up!” Bob drank it without a word, draining
the glass of every drop. “And here’s the pipe.”
“Is it poisoned, sir?”
“Poisoned, you villain! What do you mean?”
“It isn’t the first time I’ve seen your tricks, sir--is it now? And
you’re not the one to give a pound for nothing at all. If it kills me
you’ll send my body to my mother--she’d like to know that I was dead.”
“Send your body to your grandmother! You idiot, sit down and smoke!”
Bob sat down. Tress had filled the pipe, and handed it, with a lighted
match, to Bob. The fellow declined the match. He handled the pipe very
gingerly, turning it over and over, eying it with all his eyes.
“Thank you, sir--I’ll light up myself if it’s the same to you. I carry
matches of my own. It’s a beautiful pipe, entirely. I never see the
like of it for ugliness. And what’s the slimy-looking varmint that
looks as though it would like to have my life? Is it living, or is it
dead?”
“Come, we don’t want to sit here all day, my man!”
“Well, sir, the look of this here pipe has quite upset my stomach. I’d
like another drop of liquor, if it’s the same to you.”
“Another drop! Why, you’ve had a tumblerful already! Here’s another
tumblerful to put on top of that. You won’t want the pipe to kill
you--you’ll be killed before you get to it.”
“And isn’t it better to die a natural death?”
Bob emptied the second tumbler of brandy as though it were water. I
believe he would empty a hogshead without turning a hair! Then he gave
another look at the pipe. Then, taking a match from his waistcoat
pocket, he drew a long breath, as though he were resigning himself to
fate. Striking the match on the seat of his trousers, while, shaded by
his hand, the flame was gathering strength, he looked at each of us in
turn. When he looked at Tress I distinctly saw him wink his eye. What
my feelings would have been if a servant of mine had winked his eye at
me I am unable to imagine! The match was applied to the tobacco, a puff
of smoke came through his lips--the pipe was alight!
During this process of lighting the pipe we had sat--I do not wish to
use exaggerated language, but we had sat and watched that alcoholic
scamp’s proceedings as though we were witnessing an action which would
leave its mark upon the age. When we saw the pipe was lighted we gave a
simultaneous start. Brasher put his hands under his coat tails and gave
a kind of hop. I raised myself a good six inches from my chair, and
Tress rubbed his palms together with a chuckle. Bob alone was calm.
“Now,” cried Tress, “you’ll see the devil moving.”
Bob took the pipe from between his lips.
“See what?” he said.
“Bob, you rascal, put that pipe back into your mouth, and smoke it for
your life!”
Bob was eyeing the pipe askance.
“I dare say, but what I want to know is whether this here varmint’s
dead or whether he ain’t. I don’t want to have him flying at my
nose--and he looks vicious enough for anything.”
“Give me back that pound, you thief, and get out of my house, and
bundle.”
“I ain’t going to give you back no pound.”
“Then smoke that pipe!”
“I am smoking it, ain’t I?”
With the utmost deliberation Bob returned the pipe to his mouth. He
emitted another whiff or two of smoke.
“Now--now!” cried Tress, all excitement, and wagging his hand in the
air.
We gathered round. As we did so Bob again withdrew the pipe.
“What is the meaning of all this here? I ain’t going to have you
playing none of your larks on me. I know there’s something up, but I
ain’t going to throw my life away for twenty shillings--not quite I
ain’t.”
Tress, whose temper is not at any time one of the best, was seized with
quite a spasm of rage.
“As I live, my lad, if you try to cheat me by taking that pipe from
between your lips until I tell you, you leave this room that instant,
never again to be a servant of mine.”
I presume the fellow knew from long experience when his master meant
what he said, and when he didn’t. Without an attempt at remonstrance he
replaced the pipe. He continued stolidly to puff away. Tress caught me
by the arm.
“What did I tell you? There--there! That tentacle is moving.”
The uplifted tentacle _was_ moving. It was doing what I had seen it do,
as I supposed, in my distorted imagination--it was reaching forward.
Undoubtedly Bob saw what it was doing; but, whether in obedience to his
master’s commands, or whether because the drug was already beginning
to take effect, he made no movement to withdraw the pipe. He watched
the slowly advancing tentacle, coming closer and closer toward his
nose, with an expression of such intense horror on his countenance that
it became quite shocking. Farther and farther the creature reached
forward, until on a sudden, with a sort of jerk, the movement assumed a
downward direction, and the tentacle was slowly lowered until the tip
rested on the stem of the pipe. For a moment the creature remained
motionless. I was quieting my nerves with the reflection that this
thing was but some trick of the carver’s art, and that what we had seen
we had seen in a sort of nightmare, when the whole hideous reptile was
seized with what seemed to be a fit of convulsive shuddering. It seemed
to be in agony. It trembled so violently that I expected to see it
loosen its hold of the stem and fall to the ground. I was sufficiently
master of myself to steal a glance at Bob. We had had an inkling of
what might happen. He was wholly unprepared. As he saw that dreadful,
human-looking creature, coming to life, as it seemed, within an inch or
two of his nose, his eyes dilated to twice their usual size. I hoped,
for his sake, that unconsciousness would supervene, through the action
of the drug, before through sheer fright his senses left him. Perhaps
mechanically he puffed steadily on.
The creature’s shuddering became more violent. It appeared to swell
before our eyes. Then, just as suddenly as it began, the shuddering
ceased. There was another instant of quiescence. Then the creature
began to crawl along the stem of the pipe! It moved with marvelous
caution, the merest fraction of an inch at a time. But still it moved!
Our eyes were riveted on it with a fascination which was absolutely
nauseous. I am unpleasantly affected even as I think of it now. My
dreams of the night before had been nothing to this.
Slowly, slowly, it went, nearer and nearer to the smoker’s nose. Its
mode of progression was in the highest degree unsightly. It glided,
never, so far as I could see, removing its tentacles from the stem of
the pipe. It slipped its hind-most feelers onward until they came up
to those which were in advance. Then, in their turn, it advanced those
which were in front. It seemed, too, to move with the utmost labor,
shuddering as though it were in pain.
We were all, for our parts, speechless. I was momentarily hoping that
the drug would take effect on Bob. Either his constitution enabled him
to offer a strong resistance to narcotics, or else the large quantity
of neat spirit which he had drunk acted--as Tress had malevolently
intended that it should--as an antidote. It seemed to me that he would
_never_ succumb. On went the creature--on, and on, in its infinitesimal
progression. I was spellbound. I would have given the world to scream,
to have been able to utter a sound. I could do nothing else but watch.
The creature had reached the end of the stem. It had gained the amber
mouthpiece. It was within an inch of the smoker’s nose. Still on it
went. It seemed to move with greater freedom on the amber. It increased
its rate of progress. It was actually touching the foremost feature
on the smoker’s countenance. I expected to see it grip the wretched
Bob, when it began to oscillate from side to side. Its oscillations
increased in violence. It fell to the floor. That same instant the
narcotic prevailed. Bob slipped sideways from the chair, the pipe still
held tightly between his rigid jaws.
We were silent. There lay Bob. Close beside him lay the creature. A few
more inches to the left, and he would have fallen on and squashed it
flat. It had fallen on its back. Its feelers were extended upward. They
were writhing and twisting and turning in the air.
Tress was the first to speak.
“I think a little brandy won’t be amiss.” Emptying the remainder of the
brandy into the glass, he swallowed it at a draught. “Now for a closer
examination of our friend.” Taking a pair of tongs from the grate he
nipped the creature between them. He deposited it upon the table. “I
rather fancy that this is a case for dissection.”
He took a penknife from his waistcoat pocket. Opening the large
blade, he thrust its point into the object on the table. Little or no
resistance seemed to be offered to the passage of the blade, but as it
was inserted the tentacula simultaneously began to writhe and twist.
Tress withdrew the knife.
“I thought so!” He held the blade out for our inspection. The point was
covered with some viscid-looking matter. “That’s blood! The thing’s
alive!”
“Alive!”
“Alive! That’s the secret of the whole performance!”
“But----”
“But me no buts, my Pugh! The mystery’s exploded! One more ghost is
lost to the world! The person from whom I _obtained_ that pipe was an
Indian juggler--up to many tricks of the trade. He, or some one for
him, got hold of this sweet thing in reptiles--and a sweeter thing
would, I imagine, be hard to find--and covered it with some preparation
of, possible, gum arabic. He allowed this to harden. Then he stuck
the thing--still living, for that sort of gentry are hard to kill--to
the pipe. The consequence was that when anyone lit up, the warmth was
communicated to the adhesive agent--again some preparation of gum, no
doubt--it moistened it, and the creature, with infinite difficulty, was
able to move. But I am open to lay odds with any gentleman of sporting
taste that _this_ time the creature’s traveling days _are_ done. It
has given me rather a larger taste of the horrors than is good for my
digestion.”
With the aid of the tongs he removed the creature from the table. He
placed it on the hearth. Before Brasher or I had a notion of what it
was he intended to do, he covered it with a heavy marble paper weight.
Then he stood upon the weight, and between the marble and heart he
ground the creature flat.
While the execution was still proceeding, Bob sat up upon the floor.
“Hollo!” he asked, “what’s happened?”
“We’ve emptied the bottle, Bob,” said Tress. “But there’s another where
that came from. Perhaps you could drink another tumblerful, my boy?”
Bob drank it!
FOOTNOTE
“Those gentry are hard to kill.” Here is fact, not fantasy. Lizard
yarns no less sensational than this Mystery Story can be found between
the covers of solemn, zoölogical textbooks.
Reptiles, indeed, are far from finicky in the matters of air, space,
and especially warmth. Frogs and other such sluggish-blooded creatures
have lived after being frozen fast in ice. Their blood is little warmer
than air or water, enjoying no extra casing of fur or feathers.
Air and food seem held in light esteem by lizards. Their blood need
not be highly oxygenated; it nourishes just as well when impure. In
temperate climes lizards lie torpid and buried all winter; some species
of the tropic deserts sleep peacefully all summer. Their anatomy
includes no means for the continuous introduction and expulsion of
air; reptilian lungs are little more than closed sacs, without cell
structure.
If any further zoölogical fact were needed to verify the dénouement of
“The Pipe,” it might be the general statement that lizards are abnormal
brutes anyhow. Consider the chameleons of unsettled hue. And what is
one to think of an animal which, when captured by the tail, is able to
make its escape by willfully shuffling off that appendage?--EDITOR.
THE UPPER BERTH
By F. MARION CRAWFORD
[Attribution: Reprinted by permission of the publishers (in England,
T. Fisher Unwin, and in America, The Macmillan Company) from F. Marion
Crawford’s “Wandering Ghosts,” copyright, 1911.]
I
Somebody asked for the cigars. We had talked so long, and the
conversation was beginning to languish, the tobacco smoke had got into
the heavy curtains, the wine had got into those brains which were
liable to become heavy, and it was already perfectly evident, unless
somebody did something to rouse our oppressed spirits, the meeting
would soon come to its natural conclusion, and we, the guests, would
speedily go home to bed, and most certainly to sleep. No one had
said anything very remarkable, it may be no one had anything to say.
Jones had given us every particular of his last hunting adventure in
Yorkshire. Mr. Tompkins, of Boston, had explained at elaborate length
those working principles by the due and careful maintenance of which
the Atchison, Topeka, and Sante Fe Railroad not only extended its
territory, increased its departmental influence, and transported live
stock without starving them to death before the day of actual delivery,
but also, had for years succeeded in deceiving those passengers who
bought its tickets into the fallacious belief that the corporation
aforesaid was really able to transport human life without destroying
it. Signor Tombola had endeavored to persuade us, by arguments which
we took no trouble to oppose, that the unity of his country in no way
resembled the average modern torpedo, carefully planned, constructed
with all the skill of the greatest European arsenals, but, when
constructed, destined to be directed by feeble hands into a region
where it must undoubtedly explode, unseen, unfeared, and unheard, into
the illimitable wastes of political chaos.
It is unnecessary to go into further details. The conversation had
assumed proportions which would have bored Prometheus on his rock,
which would have driven Tantalus to distraction, and which would
have impelled Ixion to seek relaxation in the simple but instructive
dialogues of Herr Ollendorf, rather than submit to the greater evil of
listening to our talk. We had sat at a table for hours; we were bored,
we were tired, and nobody showed signs of moving.
Somebody called for cigars. We all instinctively looked toward the
speaker. Brisbane was a man of five-and-thirty-years of age, and
remarkable for those gifts which chiefly attract the attention of men.
He was a strong man. The external proportions of his figure presented
nothing extraordinary to the common eye, though his size was above the
average. He was a little over six feet in height, and moderately broad
in the shoulder; he did not appear to be stout, but, on the other hand
he was certainly not thin; his small head was supported by a strong and
sinewy neck; his broad, muscular hands seemed to possess a peculiar
skill in breaking walnuts without the assistance of the ordinary
cracker, and, seeing him in profile, one could not help remarking the
extraordinary breadth of his sleeves and the unusual thickness of his
chest. He was one of those men who are commonly spoken of among men as
deceptive; that is to say, that though he looked exceedingly strong,
he was in reality very much stronger than he looked. Of his features
I need say little. His head is small, his hair is thin, his eyes are
blue, his nose is large, he has a small mustache and a square jaw.
Everybody knows Brisbane, and when he asked for a cigar everybody
looked at him.
“It is a very singular thing,” said Brisbane.
Everybody stopped talking. Brisbane’s voice was not loud, but possessed
a peculiar quality of penetrating general conversation and cutting
it like a knife. Everybody listened. Brisbane perceiving that he
had attracted their general attention, lighted his cigar with equal
equanimity.
“It is very singular,” he continued, “that thing about ghosts. People
are always asking whether anybody has seen a ghost. I have.”
“Bosh! What, you? You don’t mean to say so, Brisbane? Well, for a man
of his intelligence!”
A chorus of exclamations greeted Brisbane’s remarkable statement.
Everybody called for cigars, and Stubbs, the butler, suddenly appeared
from the depths of nowhere with a fresh bottle of dry champagne. The
situation was saved; Brisbane was going to tell a story.
“I am an old sailor,” said Brisbane, “and as I have to cross the
Atlantic pretty often, I have my favorites. Most men have their
favorites. I have seen a man wait in a Broadway bar for three-quarters
of an hour for a particular car which he liked. I believe the barkeeper
made at least one-third of his living by that man’s preference. I have
a habit of waiting for certain ships when I am obliged to cross that
duckpond. It may be a prejudice, but I was never cheated out of a good
passage but once in my life. I remember it very well; it was a warm
morning in June, and the custom house officials, who were hanging about
waiting for a steamer already on her way up from quarantine, presented
a peculiarly hazy and thoughtful appearance. I had not much luggage--I
never have. I mingled with the crowd of passengers, porters, and
officious individuals in blue coats and brass buttons, who seemed to
spring up like mushrooms from the deck of a moored steamer to obtrude
their unnecessary services upon the independent passengers. I have
often noticed with a certain interest the spontaneous evolution of
these fellows. They are not there when you arrive; five minutes after
the pilot has called ‘Go ahead!’ they, or at least their blue coats and
brass buttons, have disappeared from deck and gangway as completely
as though they had been consigned to that locker which tradition
unanimously ascribes to Davy Jones. But, at the moment of starting,
they are there, clean-shaved, blue-coated, and ravenous for fees. I
hastened on board. The ‘Kamtschatka’ was one of my favorite ships. I
say was, because she emphatically no longer is. I cannot conceive of
any inducement which could entice me to make another voyage in her.
Yes, I know what you are going to say. She is uncommonly clean in the
run aft, she has enough bluffing off in the bows to keep her dry,
and the lower berths are the most of them double. She has a lot of
advantages, but I won’t cross in her again. Excuse the digression. I
got on board. I hailed the steward, whose red nose and redder whiskers
are equally familiar to me.
“‘One hundred and five, lower berth,’ said I, in the business-like tone
peculiar to men who think no more of crossing the Atlantic than taking
a whiskey cocktail at downtown Delmonico’s.
“The steward took my portmanteau, great coat, and rug. I shall never
forget the expression on his face. Not that he turned pale. It is
maintained by the most eminent divines that even miracles cannot change
the course of nature. I have no hesitation in saying that he did not
turn pale; but, from his expression, I judged that he was either about
to shed tears, to sneeze, or to drop my portmanteau. As the latter
contained two bottles of particularly fine old sherry, presented to
me for my voyage by my old friend Snigginson van Pickyns, I felt
extremely nervous. But the steward did none of these things.
“‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ said he in a low voice, and led the way.
“I supposed my Hermes, as he led me to the lower regions, had had a
little grog, but I said nothing, and followed him. One hundred and five
was on the port side, well aft. There was nothing remarkable about the
stateroom. The lower berth, like most of those upon the ‘Kamtschatka,’
was double. There was plenty of room; there was the usual washing
apparatus, calculated to convey an idea of luxury to the mind of a
North American Indian; there were the usual inefficient racks of brown
wood, in which it is more easy to hang a large-sized umbrella than the
common toothbrush of commerce. Upon the uninviting mattresses were
carefully folded together those blankets which a great modern humorist
has aptly compared to cold buckwheat cakes. The question of towels
was left entirely to the imagination. The glass decanters were filled
with a transparent liquid faintly tinged with brown, but from which
an odor less faint, but not more pleasing, ascended to the nostrils,
like a far-off seasick reminiscence of oily machinery. Sad-colored
curtains half closed the upper berth. The hazy June daylight shed a
faint illumination upon the desolate little scene. Ugh! How I hate that
stateroom!
“The steward deposited my traps and looked at me as though he wanted to
get away--probably in search of more passengers and more fees. It is
always a good plan to start in favor with those functionaries, and I
accordingly gave him certain coins there and then.
“‘I’ll try and make yer comfortable all I can,’ he remarked, as he put
the coins in his pocket. Nevertheless, there was a doubtful intonation
in his voice which surprised me. Possibly his scale of fees had gone
up, and he was not satisfied; but on the whole I was inclined to think
that, as he himself would have expressed it, he was ‘the better for a
glass.’ I was wrong, however, and did the man injustice.
II
“Nothing especially noteworthy of mention occurred during the day. We
left the pier punctually, and it was very pleasant to be fairly under
way, for the weather was warm and sultry, and the motion of the steamer
produced a refreshing breeze.
“Everybody knows what the first day at sea is like. People pace the
decks and stare at each other, and occasionally meet acquaintances
whom they did not know to be on board. There is the usual uncertainty
as to whether the food will be good, bad, or indifferent, until the
first two meals have put the matter beyond a doubt, there is the usual
uncertainty about the weather, until the ship is fairly off Fire
Island. The tables are crowded at first, and then suddenly thinned.
Pale-faced people spring from their seats and precipitate themselves
toward the door, and each old sailor breathes more freely as his
seasick neighbor rushes from his side, leaving him plenty of elbow room
and an unlimited command over the mustard.
“One passage across the Atlantic is very much like another, and we who
cross very often do not make the voyage for the sake of novelty. Whales
and icebergs are indeed always objects of interest, but, after all, one
whale is very much like another whale, and one rarely sees an iceberg
at close quarters. To the majority of us, the most delightful moment of
the day on board an ocean steamer is when we have taken our last turn
on deck, have smoked our last cigar, and having succeeded in tiring
ourselves, feel at liberty to turn in with a clear conscience. On that
first night of the voyage I felt particularly lazy, and went to bed
in one hundred and five rather earlier than I usually do. As I turned
in, I was amazed to see that I was to have a companion. A portmanteau,
very like my own, lay in the opposite corner, and in the upper berth
had been deposited a neatly folded rug with a stick and umbrella. I
had hoped to be alone, and I was disappointed; but I wondered who my
roommate was to be, and I determined to have a look at him.
“Before I had been long in bed he entered. He was, as far as I
could see, a very tall man, very thin, very pale, with sandy hair
and whiskers, and colorless gray eyes. He had about him, I thought,
an air of rather dubious fashion; the sort of man you might see in
Wall Street, without being able precisely to say what he was doing
there--the sort of man who frequents the Café Anglais, who always
seems to be alone, and who drinks champagne; you might meet him on
a race-course, but he would never appear to be doing anything there
either. A little overdressed--a little odd. There are three or four of
his kind on every ocean steamer. I made up my mind that I did not care
to make his acquaintance, and I went to sleep saying to myself that I
would study his habits in order to avoid him. If he rose early, I would
rise late; if he went to bed late, I would go to bed early. I did not
care to know him. If you once know people of that kind they are always
turning up. Poor fellow! I need not have taken the trouble to come to
so many decisions about him, for I never saw him again after that first
night in one hundred and five.
“I was sleeping soundly when I was suddenly waked by a loud noise. To
judge from the sound, my roommate must have sprung with a single leap
from the upper berth to the floor. I heard him fumbling with the latch
and bolt of the door, which opened almost immediately, and then I heard
his footsteps as he ran at full speed down the passage, leaving the
door open behind him. The ship was rolling a little, and I expected to
hear him stumble or fall, but he ran as though he were running for his
life. The door swung on its hinges with the motion of the vessel, and
the sound annoyed me. I got up and shut it, and groped my way back to
my berth in the darkness. I went to sleep again; but I have no idea
how long I slept.
“When I awoke it was still quite dark, but I felt a disagreeable
sensation of cold, and it seemed to me that the air was damp. You
know the peculiar smell of a cabin which has been wet with sea water.
I covered myself up as well as I could and dozed off again, framing
compliments to be made the next day, and selecting the most powerful
epithets in language. I could hear my roommate turn over in the upper
berth. He had probably returned while I was asleep. Once I thought I
heard him groan, and I argued that he was seasick. That is particularly
unpleasant when one is below. Nevertheless I dozed off and slept till
early daylight.
“The ship was rolling heavily, much more than on the previous evening,
and the gray light which came in through the porthole changed in tint
with every movement according as the angle of the vessel’s side turned
the glasses seaward or skyward. It was very cold--unaccountably so for
the month of June. I turned my head and looked at the porthole, and
saw to my surprise that it was wide open and hooked back. I believe I
swore audibly. Then I got up and shut it. As I turned back I glanced at
the upper berth. The curtains were drawn close together; my companion
had probably felt as cold as I. It struck me that I had slept enough.
The stateroom was uncomfortable, though, strange to say, I could not
smell the dampness which had annoyed me in the night. My roommate was
still asleep--excellent opportunity for avoiding him, so I dressed at
once and went on deck. The day was warm and cloudy, with an oily smell
on the water. It was seven o’clock as I came out--much later than I
had imagined. I came across the doctor, who was taking his first sniff
of the morning air. He was a young man from the West of Ireland--a
tremendous fellow, with black hair and blue eyes, already inclined to
be stout; he had a happy-go-lucky, healthy look about him which was
rather attractive.
“‘Fine mornin’,’ I remarked by way of introduction.
“‘Well,’ said he, eyeing me with an air of ready interest, ‘it’s a
fine morning and it’s not a fine morning. I don’t think it’s much of a
morning.’
“‘Well, no--it is not so very fine,’ said I.
“‘It’s just what I call fuggly weather,’ replied the doctor.
“‘It was very cold last night, I thought,’ I remarked. ‘However, when
I looked about, I found that the porthole was wide open. I had not
noticed it when I went to bed. And the stateroom was damp, too.’
“‘Damp!’ said he. ‘Whereabouts are you?’
“‘One hundred and five--’
“To my surprise the doctor started visibly, and stared at me.
“‘What is the matter?’ I asked.
“‘Oh--nothing,’ he answered; ‘only everybody has complained of that
stateroom for the last three trips.’
“‘I shall complain, too,’ I said. ‘It has certainly not been properly
aired. It is a shame!’
“‘I don’t believe it can be helped,’ answered the doctor. ‘I believe
there is something--well, it is not my business to frighten passengers.’
“‘You need not be afraid of frightening me,’ I replied. ‘I can stand
any amount of damp. If I should get a bad cold I will come to you.’
“I offered the doctor a cigar, which he took and examined very
critically.
“‘It is not so much the damp,’ he remarked. ‘However, I dare say you
will get on very well. Have you a roommate?’
“‘Yes; a deuce of a fellow, who bolts out in the middle of the night
and leaves the door open.’
“Again the doctor glanced curiously at me. Then he lighted the cigar
and looked grave.
“‘Did he come back?’ he asked presently.
“‘Yes. I was asleep, but I waked up and heard him moving. Then I felt
cold and went to sleep again. This morning I found the porthole open.’
“‘Look here,’ said the doctor, quietly, ‘I don’t care much for this
ship. I don’t care a rap for her reputation. I tell you what I will do.
I have a good-sized place up here. I will share it with you, though I
don’t know you from Adam.’
“I was very much surprised at the proposition. I could not imagine
why he should take such a sudden interest in my welfare. However, his
manner as he spoke of the ship was peculiar.
“‘You are very good, Doctor,’ I said. ‘But really, I believe even now
the cabin could be aired, or cleaned out, or something. Why do you not
care for the ship?’
“‘We are not superstitious in our profession, sir,’ replied the doctor.
‘But the sea makes people so. I don’t want to prejudice you, and I
don’t want to frighten you, but if you will take my advice you will
move in here. I would as soon see you overboard,’ he added, ‘as know
that you or any other man was to sleep in one hundred and five.’
“‘Good gracious! Why?’ I asked.
“‘Just because on the last three trips the people who have slept there
actually have gone overboard,’ he answered gravely.
“The intelligence was startling and exceedingly unpleasant, I confess.
I looked hard at the doctor to see whether he was making game of me,
but he looked perfectly serious. I thanked him warmly for his offer,
but told him I intended to be the exception to the rule by which
everyone who slept in that particular stateroom went overboard. He did
not say much, but looked as grave as ever, and hinted that before we
got across, I should probably reconsider his proposal. In the course
of time we went to breakfast, at which only an inconsiderable number
of passengers assembled. I noticed that one or two of the officers
who breakfasted with us looked grave. After breakfast I went into my
stateroom in order to get a book. The curtains of the upper berth
were still closely drawn. Not a word was to be heard. My roommate was
probably still asleep.
“As I came out I met the steward whose business it was to look after
me. He whispered that the captain wanted to see me, and then scuttled
away down the passage as if very anxious to avoid any questions. I went
toward the captain’s cabin, and found him waiting for me.
“‘Sir,’ said he, ‘I want to ask a favor of you.’
“I answered that I would do anything to oblige him.
“‘Your roommate has disappeared,’ he said. ‘He is known to have turned
in early last night. Did you notice anything extraordinary in his
manner?’
“The question coming, as it did, in exact confirmation of the fears the
doctor had expressed half an hour earlier, staggered me.
“‘You don’t mean to say that he has gone overboard?’ I asked.
“‘I fear he has,’ answered the captain.
“‘This is the most extraordinary thing--’ I began.
“‘Why?’ he asked.
“‘He is the fourth, then?’ I explained. In answer to another question
from the captain, I explained, without mentioning the doctor, that I
had heard the story concerning one hundred and five. He seemed very
much annoyed at hearing that I knew of it. I told him what had occurred
in the night.
“‘What you say,’ he replied, ‘coincides almost exactly with what was
told me by the roommates of two of the other three. They bolt out of
bed and run down the passage. Two of them were seen to go overboard
by the watch, we stopped, and lowered boats, but they were not found.
Nobody, however, saw or heard the man who was lost last night--if he
is really lost. The steward, who is a superstitious fellow, perhaps,
and expected something to go wrong, went to look for him this morning,
and found his berth empty, but his clothes lying about, just as he had
left them. The steward was the only man on board who knew him by sight,
and he has been searching everywhere for him. He has disappeared! Now,
sir, I want to beg you not to mention the circumstance to any of the
passengers; I don’t want the ship to get a bad name, and nothing hangs
about an ocean-goer like stories of suicides. You shall have your
choice of any one of the officers’ cabins you like, including my own,
for the rest of the passage. Is that a fair bargain?’
“‘Very,’ I said; ‘and I am much obliged to you. But since I am alone,
and have the stateroom to myself, I would rather not move. If the
steward will take out that unfortunate man’s things, I would as lief
stay where I am. I will not say anything about the matter, and I think
I can promise you that I will not follow my roommate.’
“The captain tried to dissuade me from my intention, but I preferred
having a stateroom alone to being the chum of any officer on board. I
do not know whether I acted foolishly, but if I had taken his advice
I should have had nothing more to tell. There would have remained the
disagreeable coincidence of several suicides occurring among men who
had slept in the same cabin, but that would have been all.
“That was not the end of the matter, however, by any means. I
obstinately made up my mind that I would not be disturbed by such
tales, and I even went so far as to argue the question with the
captain. There was something wrong about the stateroom, I said. It was
rather damp. The porthole had been left open last night. My roommate
might have been ill when he came on board, and he might have become
delirious after he went to bed. He might even now be hiding somewhere
on board, and might be found later. The place ought to be aired and the
fastening of the port looked to. If the captain would give me leave, I
would see that what I thought necessary was done immediately.
“‘Of course you have a right to stay where you are if you please,’ he
replied, rather petulantly; ‘but I wish you would turn out and let me
lock the place up, and be done with it.’
“I did not see it in the same light, and left the captain, after
promising to be silent concerning the disappearance of my companion.
The latter had had no acquaintances on board, and was not missed in the
course of the day. Toward evening I met the doctor again, and he asked
me whether I had changed my mind. I told him I had not.
“‘Then you will before long,’ he said, very gravely.
III
“We played whist in the evening, and I went to bed late. I will confess
now that I felt a disagreeable sensation when I entered my stateroom.
I could not help thinking of the tall man I had seen on the previous
night, who was now dead, drowned, tossing about in the long swell, two
or three hundred miles astern. His face rose very distinctly before me
as I undressed, and I even went so far as to draw back the curtains
of the upper berth, as though to persuade myself that he was actually
gone. I also bolted the door of the stateroom. Suddenly I became aware
that the porthole was open and fastened back. This was more than I
could stand. I hastily threw on my dressing-gown, and went in search of
Robert, the steward of my passage. I was very angry, I remember, and
when I found him I dragged him roughly to the door of one hundred and
five, and pushed him toward the open porthole.
“‘What the deuce do you mean, you scoundrel, by leaving that port open
every night? Don’t you know it is against the regulations? Don’t you
know that if the ship heeled and the water began to come in, ten men
could not shut it? I will report you to the captain, you blackguard,
for endangering the ship!’
“I was exceedingly wroth. The man trembled and turned pale, and then
began to shut the round glass plate with the heavy brass fittings.
“‘Why don’t you answer me?’ I said roughly.
“‘If you please, sir,’ faltered Robert, ‘there’s nobody on board as
can keep this ‘ere port shut at night. You can try it yourself, sir.
I ain’t a-going to stop hany longer on board o’ this vessel, sir; I
ain’t, indeed. But if I was you, sir, I’d just clear out and go and
sleep with the surgeon, or something, I would. Look ’ere, sir, is that
fastened what you may call securely, or not, sir? Try it, sir, see if
it will move a hinch.’
“I tried the port, and found it perfectly tight.
“‘Well, sir,’ continued Robert, triumphantly; ‘I wager my reputation
as an A 1 steward, that in arf an hour it will be open again; fastened
back, too, sir, that’s the horful thing--fastened back!’
“I examined the great screw and the looped nut that ran on it.
“‘If I find it open in the night, Robert, I will give you a sovereign.
It is not possible. You may go.’
“Soverin, did you say, sir? Very good, sir. Thank ye, sir. Good-night,
sir. Pleasant reepose, sir, and all manner of hinchantin’ dreams, sir.’
“Robert scuttled away, delighted at being released. Of course, I
thought he was trying to account for his negligence by a silly story,
intended to frighten me, and I disbelieved him. The consequence was
that he got his sovereign, and I spent a very peculiarly unpleasant
night.
“I went to bed, and five minutes after I had rolled myself up in my
blankets the inexorable Robert extinguished the light that burned
steadily behind the ground-glass pane near the door. I lay quite still
in the dark trying to go to sleep, but I soon found that impossible.
It had been some satisfaction to be angry with the steward, and the
diversion had vanished that unpleasant sensation I had at first
experienced when I thought of the drowned man who had been my chum; but
I was no longer sleepy, and I lay awake for some time, occasionally
glancing at the porthole, which I could just see from where I lay,
and which, in the darkness, looked like a faintly luminous soup-plate
suspended in blackness. I believe I must have lain there for an hour,
and, as I remember, I was just dozing into sleep, when I was roused by
a draught of cold air, and by distinctly feeling the spray of the sea
blown upon my face. I started to my feet, and not having allowed in
the dark for the motion of the ship, I was instantly thrown violently
across the stateroom upon the couch which was placed beneath the
porthole. I recovered myself immediately, however, and climbed upon my
knees. The porthole was again wide open and fastened back!
“Now these things are facts. I was wide awake when I got up, and
I should certainly have been waked by the fall had I been dozing.
Moreover, I bruised my elbows and knees badly, and the bruises were
there on the following morning to testify to the fact, if I myself had
doubted it. The porthole was wide open and fastened back--a thing so
unaccountable, that I remember very well feeling astonishment rather
than fear when I discovered it. I at once closed the plate again, and
screwed down the loop nut with all my strength. It was very dark in
the stateroom. I reflected that the port had certainly been opened
within an hour after Robert had at first shut it in my presence, and
I determined to watch it and see whether it would open again. Those
brass fittings are very heavy and by no means easy to move; I could not
believe that the clamp had been turned by the shaking of the screw. I
stood peering out through the thick glass at the alternate white and
gray streaks of the sea that foamed beneath the ship’s side. I must
have remained there a quarter of an hour.
“Suddenly, as I stood, I distinctly heard something moving behind
me in one of the berths, and a moment afterward, just as I turned
instinctively to look--though I could, of course, see nothing in the
darkness--I heard a very faint groan. I sprang across the stateroom,
and tore the curtains of the upper berth aside, thrusting in my hands
to discover if there were any one there. There was some one.
“I remember that the sensation as I put my hands forward was as though
I were plunging them into the air of a damp cellar, and from behind the
curtain came a gust of wind that smelled horribly of stagnant seawater.
I laid hold of something that had the shape of a man’s arm, but was
smooth, and wet, and icy cold. But suddenly, as I pulled, the creature
sprang violently forward against me, a clammy, oozy mass, as it seemed
to me, heavy and wet, yet endowed with a sort of supernatural strength.
I reeled across the stateroom, and in an instant the door opened and
the thing rushed out. I had not had time to be frightened, and quickly
recovering myself, I sprang through the door and gave chase at the top
of my speed, but I was too late. Ten yards before me I could see--I
am sure I saw it--a dark shadow moving in the dimly lighted passage,
quickly as the shadow of a fast horse thrown before a dog-cart by the
lamp on a dark night. But in a moment it had disappeared, and I found
myself holding on to the polished rail that ran along the bulkhead
where the passage turned toward the companion. My hair stood on end,
and the cold perspiration rolled down my face. I am not ashamed of it
in the least: I was very badly frightened.
“Still I doubted my senses, and pulled myself together. It was absurd,
I thought. The Welsh rarebit I had eaten had disagreed with me. I had
been in a nightmare. I made my way back to my stateroom, and entered
it with an effort. The whole place smelled of stagnant seawater, as it
had when I had waked on the previous evening. It required my utmost
strength to go in and grope among my things for a box of wax lights.
As I lighted a railway reading-lantern which I always carry in case I
want to read after the lamps are out, I perceived that the porthole was
again open, and a sort of creeping horror began to take possession of
me which I never felt before, nor wish to feel again. But I got a light
and proceeded to examine the upper berth, expecting to find it drenched
with seawater.
But I was disappointed. The bed had been slept in, and the smell of
the sea was strong, but the bedding was as dry as a bone. I fancied
that Robert had not had the courage to make the bed after the accident
of the previous night--it had all been a hideous dream. I drew the
curtains back as far as I could, and examined the place very carefully.
It was perfectly dry. But the porthole was open again. With a sort
of dull bewilderment of horror, I closed it and screwed it down, and
thrusting my heavy stick through the brass loop, wrenched it with all
my might, till the thick metal began to bend with the pressure. Then I
hooked my reading-lantern into the red velvet at the head of the couch,
and sat down to recover my senses if I could. I sat there all night,
unable to think of rest--hardly able to think at all. But the porthole
remained closed, and I did not believe it would now open again without
the application of a considerable force.
“The morning dawned at last, and I dressed myself slowly, thinking
over all that had happened in the night. It was a beautiful day and
I went on deck, glad to get out in the early pure sunshine, and to
smell the breeze from the blue water, so different from the noisome,
stagnant odor from my stateroom. Instinctively I turned aft, toward the
surgeon’s cabin. There he stood with a pipe in his mouth, taking his
morning airing precisely as on the preceding day.
“‘Good-morning,’ said he quietly, but looking at me with evident
curiosity.
“‘Doctor, you were quite right,’ said I. ‘There is something wrong
about that place.’
“‘I thought you would change your mind,’ he answered, rather
triumphantly. ‘You have had a bad night, eh? Shall I make you a
pick-me-up? I have a capital recipe.’
“‘No, thanks,’ I cried. ‘But I would like to tell you what happened.’
“I then tried to explain as clearly as possible precisely what had
occurred, not omitting to state that I had been scared as I had never
been scared in my whole life before. I dwelt particularly on the
phenomenon of the porthole, which was a fact to which I could testify,
even if the rest had been an illusion. I had closed it twice in the
night, and the second time I had actually bent the brass in wrenching
it with my stick. I believe I insisted a good deal on this point.
“‘You seem to think I am likely to doubt the story,’ said the doctor,
smiling at the detailed account of the state of the porthole. ‘I do not
doubt it in the least. I renew my invitation to you. Bring your traps
here, and take half my cabin.’
“‘Come and take mine for half of one night,’ I said. ‘Help me to get at
the bottom of this thing.’
“‘You will get at the bottom of something else if you try,’ answered
the doctor.
“‘What?’ I asked.
“‘The bottom of the sea. I am going to leave the ship. It is not canny.’
“‘Then you will not help me to find out--’
“‘Not I,’ said the doctor quickly. ‘It is my business to keep my wits
about me--not to go fiddling about with ghosts and things.’
“‘Do you really believe it is a ghost?’ I inquired, rather
contemptuously. But as I spoke, I remembered very well the horrible
sensation of the supernatural which had got possession of me during the
night. The doctor turned sharply on me:
“‘Have you any reasonable explanation of these things to offer?’ he
asked. ‘No, you have not. Well, you say you will find an explanation. I
say that you won’t, sir, simply because there is not any.’
“‘But, my dear sir,’ I retorted, ‘do you, a man of science, mean to
tell me that such things can not be explained?’
“‘I do,’ he answered, stoutly. ‘And if they could, I would not be
concerned in the explanation.’
“I did not care to spend another night alone in the stateroom, and yet
I was obstinately determined to get at the root of the disturbances.
I do not believe there are many men who would have slept there
alone, after passing two such nights. But I made up my mind to try
it, if I could not get any one to share a watch with me. The doctor
was evidently not inclined for such an experiment. He said he was
a surgeon, and that in case any accident occurred on board, he
must always be in readiness. He could not afford to have his nerve
unsettled. Perhaps he was quite right, but I am inclined to think
that this precaution was prompted by his inclination. On inquiry, he
informed me that there was no one on board who would be likely to join
me in my investigations, and after a little more conversation I left
him. A little later I met the captain, and told him my story. I said
that if no one would spend the night with me, I would ask leave to have
the light burning all night, and would try it alone.
“‘Look here,’ said he, ‘I will tell you what I will do. I will share
your watch myself, and we will see what happens. It is my belief that
we can find out between us. There may be some fellow skulking on board
who steals a passage by frightening the passengers. It is just possible
that there may be something queer in the carpentering of that berth.’
“I suggested taking the ship’s carpenter below and examining the place;
but I was overjoyed at the captain’s offer to spend the night with me.
He accordingly sent for the workman and ordered him to do anything I
required. We went below at once. I had all the bedding cleared out of
the upper berth, and we examined the place thoroughly to see if there
was a board loose anywhere, or a panel which could be opened or pushed
aside. We tried the planks everywhere, tapped the flooring, unscrewed
the fittings of the lower berth and took it to pieces--in short, there
was not a square inch of the stateroom which was not searched and
tested. Everything was in perfect order, and we put everything back in
its place. As we were finishing our work, Robert came to the door, and
looked in.
“‘Well, sir--find anything, sir?’ he asked with a ghastly grin.
“‘You were right about the porthole, Robert,’ I said, and I gave
him the promised sovereign. The carpenter did his work silently and
skilfully, following my directions. When he had done he spoke.
“‘I’m a plain man, sir,’ he said. ‘But it’s my belief you had better
just turn out your things and let me run half a dozen four-inch screws
through the door of this cabin. There’s no good never came o’ this
cabin yet, sir, and that’s all about it. There’s been four lives lost
out o’ here to my own remembrance, and that in four trips. Better give
it up, sir--better give it up!’
“‘I will try it for one night more,’ I said.
“‘Better give it up, sir--better give it up! It’s a precious bad job,’
repeated the workman, putting his tools in his bag and leaving the
cabin.
“But my spirits had risen considerably at the prospect of having the
captain’s company, and I made up my mind not to be prevented from going
to the end of the strange business. I abstained from Welsh rarebits
and grog that evening, and did not even join in the customary game of
whist. I wanted to be quite sure of my nerves, and my vanity made me
anxious to make a good figure in the captain’s eyes.
IV
“The captain was one of those splendidly tough and cheerful specimens
of seafaring humanity, whose combined courage, hardihood, and calmness
in difficulty leads them naturally into high positions of trust. He
was not the man to be led away by an idle tale, and the mere fact
that he was willing to join me in the investigation was proof that
he thought there was something seriously wrong, which could not be
accounted for on ordinary theories, nor laughed down as a common
superstition. To some extent, too, his reputation was at stake, as well
as the reputation of the ship. It is no light thing to lose passengers
overboard, and he knew it.
“About ten o’clock that evening, as I was smoking a last cigar, he came
up to me and drew me aside from the beat of the other passengers who
were patrolling the deck in the warm darkness.
“‘This is a serious matter, Mr. Brisbane,’ he said. ‘We must make up
our minds either way--to be disappointed or to have a pretty rough time
of it. You see, I cannot afford to laugh at the affair, and I will ask
you to sign your name to a statement of whatever occurs. If nothing
happens to-night, we will try it again to-morrow and next day. Are you
ready?’
“So we went below and entered the stateroom. As we went in I could
see Robert, the steward, who stood a little further down the passage,
watching us, with his usual grin, as though certain that something
dreadful was about to happen. The captain closed the door behind us and
bolted it.
“‘Suppose we put your portmanteau before the door,’ he suggested. ‘One
of us can sit on it. Nothing can get out then. Is the port screwed
down?’
“I found it as I had left it in the morning. Indeed, without using
a lever, as I had done, no one could have opened it. I drew back the
curtains of the upper berth so that I could see well into it. By the
captain’s advice, I lighted my reading-lantern, and placed it so that
it shone upon the white sheets above. He insisted upon sitting on the
portmanteau, declaring that he wished to be able to swear that he had
sat before the door.
“Then he requested me to search the stateroom thoroughly, an operation
very soon accomplished, as it consisted merely in looking beneath the
lower berth and under the couch below the porthole. The spaces were
quite empty.
“‘It is impossible for any human being to get in,’ I said, ’or for any
human being to open the port.’
“‘Very good,’ said the captain, calmly. ‘If we see anything now, it
must be either imagination or something supernatural.’
“I sat down on the edge of the lower berth.
“‘The first time it happened,’ said the captain, crossing his legs and
leaning back against the door, ‘was in March. The passenger who slept
here, in the upper berth, turned out to have been a lunatic--at all
events, he was known to have been a little touched, and he had taken
his passage without the knowledge of his friends. He rushed out in the
middle of the night, and threw himself overboard, before the officer
who had the watch could stop him. We stopped and lowered a boat, it was
a quiet night, just before that heavy weather came on; but we could not
find him. Of course his suicide was afterward accounted for on the
ground of his insanity.’
“‘I suppose that often happens?’ I remarked, rather absently.
“‘Not often--no,’ said the captain; ‘never before in my experience,
though I have heard of it happening on board of other ships. Well, as I
was saying, that occurred in March. On the very next trip--What are you
looking at?’ he asked, stopping suddenly in his narration.
“I believe I gave no answer. My eyes were riveted upon the porthole.
It seemed to me that the brass loop-nut was beginning to turn very
slowly upon the screw--so slowly, however, that I was not sure it moved
at all. I watched it intently, fixing its position in my mind, and
trying to ascertain whether it changed. Seeing where I was looking, the
captain looked too.
“‘It moves!’ he exclaimed, in a tone of conviction. ‘No, it does not,’
he added, after a minute.
“‘If it were the jarring of the screw,’ said I, ‘it would have opened
during the day; but I found it this evening jammed tight as I left it
this morning.’
“I rose and tried the nut. It was certainly loosened, for by an effort
I could move it with my hands.
“‘The queer thing,’ said the captain, ‘is that the second man who was
lost is supposed to have got through that very port. We had a terrible
time over it. It was in the middle of the night, and the weather was
very heavy; there was an alarm that one of the ports was open and the
sea running in. I came below and found everything flooded, the water
pouring in every time she rolled, and the whole port swinging from the
top bolts--not the porthole in the middle. Well, we managed to shut
it, but the water did some damage. Ever since that the place smells
of seawater from time to time. We supposed the passenger had thrown
himself out, though the Lord only knows how he did it. The steward
kept telling me that he could not keep anything shut here. Upon my
word--I can smell it now, cannot you?’ he inquired, sniffing the air
suspiciously.
“‘Yes--distinctly,’ I said, and I shuddered as that same odor of
stagnant seawater grew stronger in the cabin. ‘Now, to smell like this,
the place must be damp,’ I continued, ‘and yet when I examined it with
the carpenter this morning, everything was perfectly dry. It is most
extraordinary--hallo!’
“My reading-lantern, which had been placed in the upper berth, was
suddenly extinguished. There was still a good deal of light from the
pane of ground-glass near the door, behind which loomed the regulation
lamp. The ship rolled heavily, and the curtain of the upper berth swung
far out into the stateroom and back again. I rose quickly from my seat
on the edge of the bed, and the captain at the same moment started to
his feet with a loud cry of surprise. I had turned with the intention
of taking down the lantern to examine it, when I heard his exclamation,
and immediately afterward his call for help. I sprang toward him. He
was wrestling with all his might with the brass loop of the port. It
seemed to turn against his hands in spite of all his efforts. I caught
up my cane, a heavy oak stick I always used to carry, and thrust it
through the ring and bore on it with all my strength. But the strong
wood snapped suddenly, and I fell upon the couch. When I rose again the
port was wide open, and the captain was standing with his back against
the door pale to the lips.
“‘There is something in that berth!’ he cried, in a strange voice, his
eyes almost starting from his head. ‘Hold the door, while I look--it
shall not escape us, whatever it is!’
“But instead of taking his place, I sprang upon the lower bed and
seized something which lay in the upper berth.
“It was something ghostly, horrible beyond words, and it moved in my
grip. It was like the body of a man long drowned, and yet it moved
and had the strength of ten men living; but I gripped it with all my
might--the slippery, oozy, horrible thing. The dead white eyes seemed
to stare at me out of the dusk; the putrid odor of rank seawater was
about it, and its shiny hair hung in foul wet curls over its dead face.
I wrestled with the dead thing; it thrust itself upon me and forced
me back and nearly broke my arms; it wound its corpse’s arms about my
neck, the living death, and overpowered me, so that I, at last, cried
aloud and fell and left my hold.
“As I fell, the thing sprang across me and seemed to throw itself upon
the captain. When I last saw him on his feet, his face was white and
his lips set. It seemed to me that he struck a violent blow at the
dead being, and then he, too, fell forward upon his face, with an
inarticulate cry of horror.
“The thing paused an instant, seeming to hover over his prostrate
body, and I could have screamed again for very fright, but I had no
voice left. The thing vanished suddenly, and it seemed to my disturbed
senses that it made its exit through the open port, though how that
was possible, considering the smallness of the aperture, is more than
any one can tell. I lay a long time upon the floor, and the captain
lay beside me. At last I partially recovered my senses and moved, and
I instantly knew that my arm was broken--the small bone of the left
forearm near the wrist.
“I got upon my feet somehow, and with my remaining hand I tried to
raise the captain. He groaned and moved, and at last came to himself.
He was not hurt, but he seemed badly stunned.
“Well, do you want to hear any more? There is nothing more. That is the
end of my story. The carpenter carried out his scheme of running half a
dozen four-inch screws through the door of one hundred and five, and if
ever you take a passage in the ‘Kamtschatka,’ you may ask for a berth
in that stateroom. You will be told that it is engaged--yes--it is
engaged by that dead thing.
“I finished the trip in the surgeon’s cabin. He doctored my broken arm,
and advised me not to ‘fiddle about with ghosts and things’ any more.
The captain was very silent, and never sailed again in that ship,
though it is still running. And I will not sail in her either. It was
a very disagreeable experience, and I was very badly frightened, which
is a thing I do not like. That is all. That is how I saw a ghost--if it
was a ghost. It was dead, anyhow.”
THE DIAMOND LENS
By FITZ-JAMES O’BRIEN
[Attribution From “The Diamond Lens, and Other Stories,” edited by
William Winter, 1885.]
I
THE BENDING OF THE TWIG
From a very early period of my life the entire bent of my inclinations
had been towards microscopic investigations. When I was not more than
ten years old, a distant relative of our family, hoping to astonish
my inexperience, constructed a simple microscope for me, by drilling
in a disk of copper a small hole, in which a drop of pure water was
sustained by capillary attraction. This very primitive apparatus,
magnifying some fifty diameters, presented, it is true, only indistinct
and imperfect forms, but still sufficiently wonderful to work up my
imagination to a preternatural state of excitement.
Seeing me so interested in this rude instrument, my cousin explained
to me all that he knew about the principles of the microscope, related
to me a few of the wonders which had been accomplished through its
agency, and ended by promising to send me one regularly constructed,
immediately on his return to the city. I counted the days, the hours,
the minutes, that intervened between that promise and his departure.
Meantime I was not idle. Every transparent substance that bore the
remotest resemblance to a lens I eagerly seized upon, and employed
in vain attempts to realize that instrument, the theory of whose
construction I as yet only vaguely comprehended. All panes of
glass containing those oblate spheroidal knots familiarly known as
“bull’s-eyes” were ruthlessly destroyed, in the hope of obtaining
lenses of marvellous power. I even went so far as to extract the
crystalline humor from the eyes of fishes and animals, and endeavored
to press it into the microscopic service. I plead guilty to having
stolen the glasses from my Aunt Agatha’s spectacles, with a dim idea of
grinding them into lenses of wondrous magnifying properties,--in which
attempt it is scarcely necessary to say that I totally failed.
At last the promised instrument came. It was of that order known
as Field’s simple microscope, and had cost perhaps about fifteen
dollars. As far as educational purposes went, a better apparatus could
not have been selected. Accompanying it was a small treatise on the
microscope,--its history, uses, and discoveries. I comprehended then
for the first time the “Arabian Nights’ Entertainments.” The dull
veil of ordinary existence that hung across the world seemed suddenly
to roll away, and to lay bare a land of enchantments. I felt towards
my companions as the seer might feel towards the ordinary masses of
men. I held conversations with nature in a tongue which they could not
understand. I was in daily communication with living wonders, such as
they never imagined in their wildest visions. I penetrated beyond the
external portal of things, and roamed through the sanctuaries. Where
they beheld only a drop of rain slowly rolling down the window-glass,
I saw a universe of beings animated with all the passions common to
physical life, and convulsing their minute sphere with struggles as
fierce and protracted as those of men. In the common spots of mold,
which my mother, good housekeeper that she was, fiercely scooped away
from her jam pots, there abode for me, under the name of mildew,
enchanted gardens, filled with dells and avenues of the densest foliage
and most astonishing verdure, while from the fantastic boughs of these
microscopic forests, hung strange fruits glittering with green, and
silver, and gold.
It was no scientific thirst that at this time filled my mind. It was
the pure enjoyment of a poet to whom a world of wonders has been
disclosed. I talked of my solitary pleasures to none. Alone with my
microscope, I dimmed my sight, day after day and night after night,
poring over the marvels which it unfolded to me. I was like one who,
having discovered the ancient Eden still existing in all its primitive
glory, should resolve to enjoy it in solitude, and never betray to
mortal the secret of its locality. The rod of my life was bent at this
moment. I destined myself to be a microscopist.
Of course, like every novice, I fancied myself a discoverer. I was
ignorant at the time of the thousands of acute intellects engaged in
the same pursuit as myself, and with the advantage of instruments a
thousand times more powerful than mine. The names of Leeuwenhoek,
Williamson, Spencer, Ehrenberg, Schultz, Dujardin, Schact, and
Schleiden were then entirely unknown to me, or if known, I was ignorant
of their patient and wonderful researches. In every fresh specimen of
cryptogamia which I placed beneath my instrument I believed that I
discovered wonders of which the world was as yet ignorant. I remember
well the thrill of delight and admiration that shot through me the
first time that I discovered the common wheel animalcule (_Rotifera
vulgaris_) expanding and contracting its flexible spokes, and seemingly
rotating through the water. Alas! as I grew older, and obtained some
works treating of my favorite study, I found that I was only on the
threshold of a science to the investigation of which some of the
greatest men of the age were devoting their lives and intellects.
As I grew up, my parents, who saw but little likelihood of anything
practical resulting from the examination of bits of moss and drops of
water through a brass tube and a piece of glass, were anxious that I
should choose a profession. It was their desire that I should enter the
counting-house of my uncle, Ethan Blake, a prosperous merchant, who
carried on business in New York. This suggestion I decisively combated.
I had no taste for trade; I should only make a failure; in short, I
refused to become a merchant.
But it was necessary for me to select some pursuit. My parents were
staid New England people, who insisted on the necessity of labor; and
therefore, although, thanks to the bequest of my poor Aunt Agatha, I
should, on coming of age, inherit a small fortune sufficient to place
me above want, it was decided that, instead of waiting for this,
I should act the nobler part, and employ the intervening years in
rendering myself independent.
After much cogitation I complied with the wishes of my family, and
selected a profession. I determined to study medicine at the New York
Academy. This disposition of my future suited me. A removal from my
relatives would enable me to dispose of my time as I pleased without
fear of detection. As long as I paid my Academy fees, I might shirk
attending the lectures if I chose; and, as I never had the remotest
intention of standing an examination, there was no danger of my being
“plucked.” Besides, a metropolis was the place for me. There I could
obtain excellent instruments, the newest publications, intimacy with
men of pursuits kindred with my own,--in short, all things necessary
to insure a profitable devotion of my life to my beloved science. I
had an abundance of money, few desires that were not bounded by my
illuminating mirror on one side and my object-glass on the other; what,
therefore, was to prevent my becoming an illustrious investigator of
the veiled worlds? It was with the most buoyant hope that I left my New
England home and established myself in New York.
II
THE LONGING OF A MAN OF SCIENCE
My first step, of course, was to find suitable apartments. These I
obtained, after a couple of days’ search, in Fourth Avenue; a very
pretty second-floor unfurnished, containing sitting-room, bedroom,
and a smaller apartment which I intended to fit up as a laboratory.
I furnished my lodgings simply, but rather elegantly, and then
devoted all my energies to the adornment of the temple of my worship.
I visited Pike, the celebrated optician, and passed in review his
splendid collection of microscopes,--Field’s Compound, Hingham’s,
Spencer’s, Nachet’s Binocular (that founded on the principles of the
stereoscope), and at length fixed upon that form known as Spencer’s
Trunnion Microscope, as combining the greatest number of improvements
with an almost perfect freedom from tremor. Along with this I purchased
every possible accessory,--draw-tubes, micrometers, a _camera-lucida_,
lever-stage, achromatic condensers, white cloud illuminators, prisms,
parabolic condensers, polarizing apparatus, forceps, aquatic boxes,
fishing-tubes, with a host of other articles, all of which would have
been useful in the hands of an experienced microscopist, but, as I
afterwards discovered, were not of the slightest present value to me.
It takes years of practice to know how to use a complicated microscope.
The optician looked suspiciously at me as I made these wholesale
purchases. He evidently was uncertain whether to set me down as some
scientific celebrity or a madman. I think he inclined to the latter
belief. I suppose I was mad. Every great genius is mad upon the subject
in which he is greatest. The unsuccessful madman is disgraced and
called a lunatic.
Mad or not, I set myself to work with a zeal which few scientific
students have ever equalled. I had everything to learn relative to the
delicate study upon which I had embarked,--a study involving the most
earnest patience, the most rigid analytic powers, the steadiest hand,
the most untiring eyes, the most refined and subtile manipulation.
For a long time half my apparatus lay inactively on the shelves of my
laboratory, which was now most amply furnished with every possible
contrivance for facilitating my investigations. The fact was that
I did not know how to use some of my scientific implements,--never
having been taught microscopics,--and those whose use I understood
theoretically were of little avail, until by practice I could attain
the necessary delicacy of handling. Still, such was the fury of my
ambition, such the untiring perseverance of my experiments, that,
difficult of credit as it may be, in the course of one year I became
theoretically and practically an accomplished microscopist.
During this period of my labors, in which I submitted specimens of
every substance that came under my observation to the action of my
lenses, I became a discover--in a small way, it is true, for I was
very young, but still a discover. It was I who destroyed Ehrenberg’s
theory that the _Volvox globator_ was an animal, and proved that his
“nomads” with stomachs and eyes were merely phases of the formation
of a vegetable cell, and were, when they reached their mature state,
incapable of the act of conjugation, or any true generative act,
without which no organism rising to any stage of life higher than
vegetable can be said to be complete. It was I who resolved the
singular problem of rotation in the cells and hairs of plants into
ciliary attraction, in spite of the assertions of Mr. Wenham and
others, that my explanation was the result of an optical illusion.
But notwithstanding these discoveries, laboriously and painfully made
as they were, I felt horribly dissatisfied. At every step I found
myself stopped by the imperfections of my instruments. Like all active
microscopists, I gave my imagination full play. Indeed, it is a common
complaint against many such, that they supply the defects of their
instruments with the creations of their brains. I imagined depths
beyond depths in nature which the limited power of my lenses prohibited
me from exploring. I lay awake at night constructing imaginary
microscopes of immeasurable power, with which I seemed to pierce
through the envelopes of matter down to its original atom. How I cursed
those imperfect mediums which necessity through ignorance compelled me
to use! How I longed to discover the secret of some perfect lens, whose
magnifying power should be limited only by the resolvability of the
object, and which at the same time should be free from spherical and
chromatic aberrations, in short from all the obstacles over which the
poor microscopist finds himself continually stumbling! I felt convinced
that the simple microscope, composed of a single lens of such vast
yet perfect power was possible of construction. To attempt to bring
the compound microscope up to such a pitch would have been commencing
at the wrong end; this latter being simply a partially successful
endeavor to remedy those very defects of the simple instrument which,
if conquered, would leave nothing to be desired.
It was in this mood of mind that I became a constructive microscopist.
After another year passed in this new pursuit, experimenting on every
imaginable substance,--glass, gems, flints, crystals, artificial
crystals formed of the alloy of various vitreous materials,--in short,
having constructed as many varieties of lenses as Argus had eyes, I
found myself precisely where I started, with nothing gained save an
extensive knowledge of glass-making. I was almost dead with despair. My
parents were surprised at my apparent want of progress in my medical
studies (I had not attended one lecture since my arrival in the city),
and the expenses of my mad pursuit had been so great as to embarrass me
very seriously.
I was in this frame of mind one day, experimenting in my laboratory
on a small diamond,--that stone, from its great refracting power,
having always occupied my attention more than any other,--when a young
Frenchman, who lived on the floor above me, and who was in the habit of
occasionally visiting me, entered the room.
I think that Jules Simon was a Jew. He had many traits of the Hebrew
character: a love of jewelry, of dress, and of good living. There was
something mysterious about him. He always had something to sell, and
yet went into excellent society. When I say sell, I should perhaps have
said peddle; for his operations were generally confined to the disposal
of single articles,--a picture, for instance, or a rare carving in
ivory, or a pair of duelling-pistols, or the dress of a Mexican
_caballero_. When I was first furnishing my rooms, he paid me a visit,
which ended in my purchasing an antique silver lamp, which he assured
me was a Cellini,--it was handsome enough even for that,--and some
other knick-knacks for my sitting-room. Why Simon should pursue this
petty trade I never could imagine. He apparently had plenty of money,
and had the _entrée_ of the best houses in the city,--taking care,
however, I suppose, to drive no bargains within the enchanted circle of
the Upper Ten. I came at length to the conclusion that this peddling
was but a mask to cover some greater object, and even went so far as
to believe my young acquaintance to be implicated in the slave-trade.
That, however, was none of my affair.
On the present occasion, Simon entered my room in a state of
considerable excitement.
“_Ah! mon ami!_” he cried, before I could even offer him the ordinary
salutation, “it has occurred to me to be the witness of the most
astonishing things in the world. I promenade myself to the house of
Madame--how does the little animal--_le renard_--name himself in the
Latin?”
“Vulpes,” I answered.
“Ah! yes,--Vulpes. I promenade myself to the house of Madame Vulpes.”
“The spirit medium?”
“Yes, the great medium. Great heavens! what a woman! I write on a slip
of paper many of questions concerning affairs the most secret,--affairs
that conceal themselves in the abysses of my heart the most profound;
and behold! by example! what occurs? This devil of a woman makes me
replies the most truthful to all of them. She talks to me of things
that I do not love to talk of to myself. What am I to think? I am fixed
to the earth!”
“Am I to understand you, M. Simon, that this Mrs. Vulpes replied to
questions secretly written by you, which questions related to events
known only to yourself?”
“Ah! more than that, more than that,” he answered, with an air of some
alarm. “She related to me things--But,” he added, after a pause, and
suddenly changing his manner, “why occupy ourselves with these follies?
It was all the biology, without doubt. It goes without saying that it
has not my credence-- But why are we here, _mon ami_? It has occurred
to me to discover the most beautiful thing as you can imagine,--a vase
with green lizards on it, composed by the great Bernard Palissy. It is
in my apartment; let us mount. I go to show it to you.”
I followed Simon mechanically; but my thoughts were far from Palissy
and his enamelled ware, although I, like him, was seeking in the dark
a great discovery. This casual mention of the spiritualist, Madame
Vulpes, set me on a new track. What if this spiritualism should be
really a great fact? What if, through communication with more subtile
organisms than my own, I could reach at a single bound the goal, which
perhaps a life of agonizing mental toil would never enable me to attain?
While purchasing the Palissy vase from my friend Simon, I was mentally
arranging a visit to Madame Vulpes.
III
THE SPIRIT OF LEEUWENHOEK
Two evenings after this, thanks to an arrangement by letter and the
promise of an ample fee, I found Madame Vulpes awaiting me at her
residence alone. She was a coarse-featured woman, with keen and rather
cruel dark eyes, and an exceedingly sensual expression about her mouth
and under jaw. She received me in perfect silence, in an apartment on
the ground floor, very sparely furnished. In the centre of the room,
close to where Mrs. Vulpes sat, there was a common round mahogany
table. If I had come for the purpose of sweeping her chimney, the woman
could not have looked more indifferent to my appearance. There was
no attempt to inspire the visitor with awe. Everything bore a simple
and practical aspect. This intercourse with the spiritual world was
evidently as familiar an occupation with Mrs. Vulpes as eating her
dinner or riding in an omnibus.
“You come for a communication, Mr. Linley?” said the medium, in a dry,
business-like tone of voice.
“By appointment,--yes.”
“What sort of communication do you want--a written one?”
“Yes--I wish for a written one.”
“From any particular spirit?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever known this spirit on this earth?”
“Never. He died long before I was born. I wish merely to obtain from
him some information which he ought to be able to give better than any
other.”
“Will you seat yourself at the table, Mr. Linley,” said the medium,
“and place your hands upon it?”
I obeyed,--Mrs. Vulpes being seated opposite to me, with her hands also
on the table. We remained thus for about a minute and a half, when a
violent succession of raps came on the table, on the back of my chair,
on the floor immediately under my feet, and even on the window-panes.
Mrs. Vulpes smiled composedly.
“They are very strong to-night,” she remarked. “You are fortunate.” She
then continued, “Will the spirits communicate with this gentleman?”
Vigorous affirmative.
“Will the particular spirit he desires to speak with communicate?”
A very confused rapping followed this question.
“I know what they mean,” said Mrs. Vulpes, addressing herself to me;
“they wish you to write down the name of the particular spirit that
you desire to converse with. Is that so?” she added, speaking to her
invisible guests.
That it was so was evident from the numerous affirmatory responses.
While this was going on, I tore a slip from my pocket-book, and
scribbled a name, under the table.
“Will this spirit communicate in writing with this gentleman?” asked
the medium once more.
After a moment’s pause, her hand seemed to be seized with a violent
tremor, shaking so forcibly that the table vibrated. She said that a
spirit had seized her hand and would write. I handed her some sheets
of paper that were on the table, and a pencil. The latter she held
loosely in her hand, which presently began to move over the paper with
a singular and seemingly involuntary motion. After a few moments had
elapsed, she handed me the paper, on which I found written, in a large,
uncultivated hand, the words, “He is not here, but has been sent for.”
A pause of a minute or so now ensued, during which Mrs. Vulpes remained
perfectly silent, but the raps continued at regular intervals. When the
short period I mention had elapsed, the hand of the medium was again
seized with its convulsive tremor, and she wrote, under this strange
influence, a few words on the paper, which she handed to me. They were
as follows:--
“I am here. Question me. Leeuwenhoek.”
I was astounded. The name was identical with that I had written beneath
the table, and carefully kept concealed. Neither was it at all probable
that an uncultivated woman like Mrs. Vulpes should know even the name
of the great father of microscopics. It may have been biology; but
this theory was soon doomed to be destroyed. I wrote on my slip--still
concealing it from Mrs. Vulpes--a series of questions, which, to avoid
tediousness, I shall place with the responses, in the order in which
they occurred:--
I.--Can the microscope be brought to perfection?
Spirit.--Yes.
I.--Am I destined to accomplish this great task?
Spirit.--You are.
I.--I wish to know how to proceed to attain this end. For the love
which you bear to science, help me!
Spirit.--A diamond of one hundred and forty carats, submitted to
electro-magnetic currents for a long period, will experience a
rearrangement of its atoms _inter se_, and from that stone you will
form the universal lens.
I.--Will great discoveries result from the use of such a lens?
Spirit.--So great that all that has gone before is as nothing.
I.--But the refractive power of the diamond is so immense, that the
image will be formed within the lens. How is that difficulty to be
surmounted?
Spirit.--Pierce the lens through its axis, and the difficulty is
obviated. The image will be formed in the pierced space, which will
itself serve as a tube to look through. Now I am called. Good-night.
I cannot at all describe the effect that these extraordinary
communications had upon me. I felt completely bewildered. No biological
theory could account for the _discovery_ of the lens. The medium might,
by means of biological _rapport_ with my mind, have gone so far as to
read my questions, and reply to them coherently. But biology could
not enable her to discover that magnetic currents would so alter the
crystals of the diamond as to remedy its previous defects, and admit
of its being polished into a perfect lens. Some such theory may have
passed through my head, it is true; but if so, I had forgotten it. In
my excited condition of mind there was no course left but to become a
convert, and it was in a state of the most painful nervous exaltation
that I left the medium’s house that evening. She accompanied me to
the door, hoping that I was satisfied. The raps followed us as we went
through the hall, sounding on the balusters, the flooring, and even
the lintels of the door. I hastily expressed my satisfaction, and
escaped hurriedly into the cool night air. I walked home with but one
thought possessing me,--how to obtain a diamond of the immense size
required. My entire means multiplied a hundred times over would have
been inadequate to its purchase. Besides, such stones are rare, and
become historical. I could find such only in the regalia of Eastern or
European monarchs.
IV
THE EYE OF MORNING
There was a light in Simon’s room as I entered my house. A vague
impulse urged me to visit him. As I opened the door of his sitting-room
unannounced, he was bending, with his back toward me, over a carcel
lamp, apparently engaged in minutely examining some object which he
held in his hands. As I entered, he started suddenly thrust his hand
into his breast pocket, and turned to me with a face crimson with
confusion.
“What!” I cried, “poring over the miniature of some fair lady? Well,
don’t blush so much; I won’t ask to see it.”
Simon laughed awkwardly enough, but made none of the negative
protestations usual on such occasions. He asked me to take a seat.
“Simon,” said I, “I have just come from Madame Vulpes.”
This time Simon turned as white as a sheet, and seemed stupefied, as
if a sudden electric shock had smitten him. He babbled some incoherent
words, and went hastily to a small closet where he usually kept his
liquors. Although astonished at his emotion, I was too preoccupied with
my own idea to pay much attention to anything else.
“You say truly when you call Madame Vulpes a devil of a woman,” I
continued. “Simon, she told me wonderful things to-night, or rather was
the means of telling me wonderful things. Ah! if I could only get a
diamond that weighed one hundred and forty carats!”
Scarcely had the sigh with which I uttered this desire died upon
my lips, when Simon, with the aspect of a wild beast, glared at me
savagely, and, rushing to the mantelpiece, where some foreign weapons
hung on the wall, caught up a Malay creese, and brandished it furiously
before him.
“No!” he cried in French, into which he always broke when excited. “No!
you shall not have it! You are perfidious! You have consulted with that
demon, and desire my treasure! But I will die first! Me! I am brave!
You cannot make me fear!”
All this, uttered in a loud voice trembling with excitement, astounded
me. I saw at a glance that I had accidentally trodden upon the edges of
Simon’s secret, whatever it was. It was necessary to reassure him.
“My dear Simon,” I said, “I am entirely at a loss to know what you
mean. I went to Madame Vulpes to consult with her on a scientific
problem, to the solution of which I discovered that a diamond of the
size I just mentioned was necessary. You were never alluded to during
the evening, nor, so far as I was concerned, even thought of. What
can be the meaning of this outburst? If you happen to have a set of
valuable diamonds in your possession, you need fear nothing from me.
The diamond which I require you could not possess; or, if you did
possess it, you would not be living here.”
Something in my tone must have completely reassured him; for his
expression immediately changed to a sort of constrained merriment,
combined, however, with a certain suspicious attention to my movements.
He laughed, and said that I must bear with him; that he was at certain
moments subject to a species of vertigo, which betrayed itself in
incoherent speeches, and that the attacks passed off as rapidly as
they came. He put his weapon aside while making this explanation, and
endeavored, with some success, to assume a more cheerful air.
All this did not impose on me in the least. I was too much accustomed
to analytical labors to be baffled by so flimsy a veil. I determined to
probe the mystery to the bottom.
“Simon,” I said, gayly, “let us forget all this over a bottle of
Burgundy. I have a case of Lausseure’s _Clos Vougeot_ downstairs,
fragrant with the odors and ruddy with the sunlight of the Côte d’Or.
Let us have up a couple of bottles. What say you?”
“With all my heart,” answered Simon, smilingly.
I produced the wine and we seated ourselves to drink. It was of
a famous vintage, that of 1848, a year when war and wine throve
together,--and its pure but powerful juice seemed to impart renewed
vitality to the system. By the time we had half finished the second
bottle, Simon’s head, which I knew was a weak one, had begun to yield,
while I remained calm as ever, only that every draught seemed to send a
flush of vigor through my limbs. Simon’s utterance became more and more
indistinct. He took to singing French _chansons_ of a not very moral
tendency. I rose suddenly from the table just at the conclusion of one
of those incoherent verses, and fixing my eyes on him with a quiet
smile, said: “Simon, I have deceived you. I learned your secret this
evening. You may as well be frank with me. Mrs. Vulpes, or rather one
of her spirits, told me all.”
He started with horror. His intoxication seemed for the moment to fade
away, and he made a movement towards the weapon that he had a short
time before laid down. I stopped him with my hand.
“Monster!” he cried, passionately, “I am ruined! What shall I do? You
shall never have it! I swear by my mother!”
“I don’t want it,” I said; “rest secure, but be frank with me. Tell me
all about it.”
The drunkenness began to return. He protested with maudlin earnestness
that I was entirely mistaken,--that I was intoxicated; then asked me to
swear eternal secrecy, and promised to disclose the mystery to me. I
pledged myself, of course, to all. With an uneasy look in his eyes, and
hands unsteady with drink and nervousness, he drew a small case from
his breast and opened it. Heavens! How the mild lamplight was shivered
into a thousand prismatic arrows, as it fell upon a vast rose-diamond
that glittered in the case! I was no judge of diamonds, but I saw at a
glance that this was a gem of rare size and purity. I looked at Simon
with wonder, and--must I confess it?--with envy. How could he have
obtained this treasure? In reply to my questions, I could just gather
from his drunken statements (of which, I fancy, half the incoherence
was affected) that he had been superintending a gang of slaves engaged
in diamond-washing in Brazil; that he had seen one of them secrete a
diamond, but, instead of informing his employers, had quietly watched
the negro until he saw him bury his treasure; that he had dug it up
and fled with it, but that as yet he was afraid to attempt to dispose
of it publicly,--so valuable a gem being almost certain to attract too
much attention to its owner’s antecedents,--and he had not been able
to discover any of those obscure channels by which such matters are
conveyed away safely. He added, that, in accordance with oriental
practice, he had named his diamond with the fanciful title of “The Eye
of Morning.”
While Simon was relating this to me, I regarded the great diamond
attentively. Never had I beheld anything so beautiful. All the glories
of light, ever imagined or described, seemed to pulsate in its
crystalline chambers. Its weight, as I learned from Simon, was exactly
one hundred and forty carats. Here was an amazing coincidence. The
hand of destiny seemed in it. On the very evening when the spirit of
Leeuwenhoek communicates to me the great secret of the microscope, the
priceless means which he directs me to employ start up within my easy
reach! I determined, with the most perfect deliberation, to possess
myself of Simon’s diamond.
I sat opposite to him while he nodded over his glass, and calmly
revolved the whole affair. I did not for an instant contemplate so
foolish an act as a common theft, which would of course be discovered
or at least necessitate flight and concealment, all of which must
interfere with my scientific plans. There was but one step to be
taken,--to kill Simon. After all, what was the life of a little
peddling Jew, in comparison with the interests of science? Human beings
are taken every day from the condemned prisons to be experimented on
by surgeons. This man, Simon, was by his own confession a criminal, a
robber, and I believed on my soul a murderer. He deserved death quite
as much as any felon condemned by the laws: why should I not, like
government, contrive that his punishment should contribute to the
progress of human knowledge?
The means for accomplishing everything I desired lay within my reach.
There stood upon the mantelpiece a bottle half full of French laudanum.
Simon was so occupied with his diamond, which I had just restored to
him, that it was an affair of no difficulty to drug his glass. In a
quarter of an hour he was in a profound sleep.
I now opened his waistcoat, took the diamond from the inner pocket in
which he had placed it, and removed him to the bed, on which I laid him
so that his feet hung down over the edge. I had possessed myself of
the Malay creese, which I held in my right hand, while with the other
I discovered as accurately as I could by pulsation the exact locality
of the heart. It was essential that all the aspects of his death should
lead to the surmise of self-murder. I calculated the exact angle at
which it was probable that the weapon, if levelled by Simon’s own hand,
would enter his breast; then with one powerful blow I thrust it up to
the hilt in the very spot which I desired to penetrate. A convulsive
thrill ran through Simon’s limbs. I heard a smothered sound issue from
his throat, precisely like the bursting of a larger air-bubble, sent up
by a diver, when it reaches the surface of the water; he turned half
round on his side, and, as if to assist my plans more effectually, his
right hand, moved by some mere spasmodic impulse, clasped the handle
of the creese, which it remained holding with extraordinary muscular
tenacity. Beyond this there was no apparent struggle. The laudanum,
I presume, paralyzed the usual nervous action. He must have died
instantly.
There was yet something to be done. To make it certain that all
suspicion of the act should be diverted from any inhabitant of the
house to Simon himself, it was necessary that the door should be found
in the morning _locked on the inside_. How to do this, and afterwards
escape myself? Not by the window; that was a physical impossibility.
Besides, I was determined that the windows _also_ should be found
bolted. The solution was simple enough. I descended softly to my own
room for a peculiar instrument which I had used for holding small
slippery substances, such as minute spheres of glass, etc. This
instrument was nothing more than a long slender hand-vise, with a very
powerful grip, and a considerable leverage, which last was accidentally
owing to the shape of the handle. Nothing was simpler than, when the
key was in the lock, to seize the end of its stem in this vise, through
the keyhole, from the outside, and lock the door. Previously, however,
to doing this, I burned a number of papers on Simon’s hearth. Suicides
almost always burn papers before they destroy themselves. I also
emptied some more laudanum into Simon’s glass,--having first removed
from it all traces of wine--cleaned the other wine-glass, and brought
the bottles away with me. If traces of two persons drinking had been
found in the room, the question naturally would have arisen, Who was
the second? Besides, the wine-bottles might have been identified as
belonging to me. The laudanum I poured out to account for its presence
in his stomach, in case of a post-mortem examination. The theory
naturally would be, that he first intended to poison himself, but,
after swallowing a little of the drug, was either disgusted with its
taste, or changed his mind from other motives, and chose the dagger.
These arrangements made, I walked out, leaving the gas burning, locked
the door with my vise, and went to bed.
Simon’s death was not discovered until nearly three in the afternoon.
The servant, astonished at seeing the gas burning,--the light streaming
on the dark landing from under the door,--peeped through the keyhole
and saw Simon on the bed. She gave the alarm. The door was burst open,
and the neighborhood was in a fever of excitement.
Everyone in the house was arrested, myself included. There was an
inquest; but no clew to his death beyond that of suicide could be
obtained. Curiously enough, he had made several speeches to his friends
the preceding week, that seemed to point to self-destruction. One
gentleman swore that Simon had said in his presence that “he was tired
of life.” His landlord affirmed that Simon, when paying him his last
month’s rent, remarked that “he should not pay him rent much longer.”
All the other evidence corresponded,--the door locked inside, the
position of the corpse, the burnt papers. As I anticipated, no one
knew of the possession of the diamond by Simon, so that no motive was
suggested for his murder. The jury, after a prolonged examination,
brought in the usual verdict, and the neigborhood once more settled
down into its accustomed quiet.
V
ANIMULA
The three months succeeding Simon’s catastrophe I devoted night and
day to my diamond lens. I had constructed a vast galvanic battery,
composed of nearly two thousand pairs of plates,--a higher power I
dared not use, lest the diamond should be calcined. By means of this
enormous engine I was enabled to send a powerful current of electricity
continually through my great diamond, which it seemed to me gained in
lustre every day. At the expiration of a month I commenced the grinding
and polishing of the lens, a work of intense toil and exquisite
delicacy. The great density of the stone, and the care required to be
taken with the curvatures of the surfaces of the lens, rendered the
labor the severest and most harassing that I had yet undergone.
At last the eventful moment came; the lens was completed. I stood
trembling on the threshold of new worlds. I had the realization of
Alexander’s famous wish before me. The lens lay on the table, ready
to be placed upon its platform. My hand fairly shook as I enveloped a
drop of water with a thin coating of oil of turpentine, preparatory to
its examination,--a process necessary in order to prevent the rapid
evaporation of the water. I now placed the drop on a thin slip of glass
under the lens, and throwing upon it, by the combined aid of a prism
and a mirror, a powerful stream of light, I approached my eye to the
minute hole drilled through the axis of the lens. For an instant I saw
nothing save what seemed to be an illuminated chaos, a vast luminous
abyss. A pure white light, cloudless and serene, and seemingly as
limitless as space itself, was my first impression. Gently, and with
the greatest care, I depressed the lens a few hair’s-breadths. The
wondrous illumination still continued, but as the lens approached the
object a scene of indescribable beauty was unfolded to my view.
I seemed to gaze upon a vast space, the limits of which extended far
beyond my vision. An atmosphere of magical luminousness permeated the
entire field of view. I was amazed to see no trace of animalculous
life. Not a living thing, apparently, inhabited that dazzling expanse.
I comprehended instantly that, by the wondrous power of my lens, I had
penetrated beyond the grosser particles of aqueous matter, beyond the
realms of infusoria and protozoa, down to the original gaseous globule,
into whose luminous interior I was gazing, as into an almost boundless
dome filled with a supernatural radiance.
It was, however, no brilliant void into which I looked. On every side
I beheld beautiful inorganic forms, of unknown texture, and colored
with the most enchanting hues. These forms presented the appearance of
what might be called, for want of a more specific definition, foliated
clouds of the highest rarity; that is, they undulated and broke into
vegetable formations, and were tinged with splendors compared with
which the gilding of our autumn woodlands is as dross compared with
gold. Far away into the illimitable distance stretched long avenues of
these gaseous forests, dimly transparent, and painted with prismatic
hues of unimaginable brilliancy. The pendent branches waved along the
fluid glades until every vista seemed to break through half-lucent
ranks of many-colored drooping silken pennons. What seemed to be either
fruits or flowers, pied with a thousand hues lustrous and ever varying,
bubbled from the crowns of this fairy foliage. No hills, no lakes, no
rivers, no forms animate or inanimate, were to be seen, save those vast
auroral copses that floated serenely in the luminous stillness, with
leaves and fruits and flowers gleaming with unknown fires, unrealizable
by mere imagination.
How strange, I thought, that this sphere should be thus condemned
to solitude! I had hoped, at least, to discover some new form of
animal life--perhaps of a lower class than any with which we are at
present acquainted, but still, some living organism. I found my newly
discovered world, if I may so speak, a beautiful chromatic desert.
While I was speculating on the singular arrangements of the internal
economy of Nature, with which she so frequently splinters into atoms
our most compact theories, I thought I beheld a form moving slowly
through the glades of one of the prismatic forests. I looked more
attentively, and found that I was not mistaken. Words cannot depict the
anxiety with which I awaited the nearer approach of this mysterious
object. Was it merely some inanimate substance, held in suspense in the
attenuated atmosphere of the globule, or was it an animal endowed with
vitality and motion? It approached, flitting behind the gauzy, colored
veils of cloud-foliage, for seconds dimly revealed, then vanishing. At
last the violet pennons that trailed nearest to me vibrated; they were
gently pushed aside, and the form floated out into the broad light.
It was a female human shape. When I say human, I mean it possessed the
outlines of humanity,--but there the analogy ends. Its adorable beauty
lifted it illimitable heights beyond the loveliest daughter of Adam.
I cannot, I dare not, attempt to inventory the charms of this divine
revelation of perfect beauty. Those eyes of mystic violet, dewy and
serene, evade my words. Her long, lustrous hair following her glorious
head in a golden wake, like the track sown in heaven by a falling star,
seems to quench my most burning phrases with its splendors. If all the
bees of Hybla nestled upon my lips, they would still sing but hoarsely
the wondrous harmonies of outline that enclosed her form.
She swept out from between the rainbow-curtains of the cloud-trees
into the broad sea of light that lay beyond. Her motions were those
of some graceful naiad, cleaving, by a mere effort of her will, the
clear, unruffled waters that fill the chambers of the sea. She floated
forth with the serene grace of a frail bubble ascending through the
still atmosphere of a June day. The perfect roundness of her limbs
formed suave and enchanting curves. It was like listening to the most
spiritual symphony of Beethoven the divine, to watch the harmonious
flow of lines. This, indeed, was a pleasure cheaply purchased at any
price. What cared I if I had waded to the portal of this wonder through
another’s blood? I would have given my own to enjoy one such moment of
intoxication and delight.
Breathless with gazing on this lovely wonder, and forgetful for an
instant of everything save her presence, I withdrew my eye from the
microscope eagerly,--alas! As my gaze fell on the thin slide that lay
beneath my instrument, the bright light from mirror and from prism
sparkled on a colorless drop of water! There, in that tiny bead of dew,
this beautiful being was forever imprisoned. The planet Neptune was not
more distant from me than she. I hastened once more to apply my eye to
the microscope.
Animula (let me now call her by that dear name which I subsequently
bestowed on her) had changed her position. She had again approached
the wondrous forest, and was gazing earnestly upwards. Presently one
of the trees--as I must call them--unfolded a long ciliary process,
with which it seized one of the gleaming fruits that glittered on its
summit, and, sweeping slowly down, held it within reach of Animula. The
sylph took it in her delicate hand and began to eat. My attention was
so entirely absorbed by her, that I could not apply myself to the task
of determining whether this singular plant was or was not instinct with
volition.
I watched her, as she made her repast, with the most profound
attention. The suppleness of her motions sent a thrill of delight
through my frame; my heart beat madly as she turned her beautiful
eyes in the direction of the spot in which I stood. What would I not
have given to have had the power to precipitate myself into that
luminous ocean, and float with her through those groves of purple and
gold! While I was thus breathlessly following her every movement, she
suddenly started, seemed to listen for a moment, and then cleaving
the brilliant ether in which she was floating, like a flash of light,
pierced through the opaline forest, and disappeared.
Instantly a series of the most singular sensations attacked me. It
seemed as if I had suddenly gone blind. The luminous sphere was
still before me, but my daylight had vanished. What caused this
sudden disappearance? Had she a lover or a husband? Yes, that was the
solution! Some signal from a happy fellow-being had vibrated through
the avenues of the forest, and she had obeyed the summons.
The agony of my sensations, as I arrived at this conclusion, startled
me. I tried to reject the conviction that my reason forced upon me. I
battled against the fatal conclusion,--but in vain. It was so. I had no
escape from it. I loved an animalcule!
It is true that, thanks to the marvellous power of my microscope, she
appeared of human proportions. Instead of presenting the revolting
aspect of the coarser creatures, that live and struggle and die, in the
more easily resolvable portions of the water-drop, she was fair and
delicate and of surpassing beauty. But of what account was all that?
Every time that my eyes was withdrawn from the instrument, it fell on a
miserable drop of water, within which, I must be content to know, dwelt
all that could make my life lovely.
Could she but see me once! Could I for one moment pierce the mystical
walls that so inexorably rose to separate us, and whisper all that
filled my soul, I might consent to be satisfied for the rest of my
life with the knowledge of her remote sympathy. It would be something
to have established even the faintest personal link to bind us
together,--to know that at times, when roaming through those enchanted
glades, she might think of the wonderful stranger, who had broken the
monotony of her life with his presence, and left a gentle memory in her
heart!
But it could not be. No invention of which human intellect was capable
could break down the barriers that nature had erected. I might feast
my soul upon the wondrous beauty, yet she must always remain ignorant
of the adoring eyes that day and night gazed upon her, and, even when
closed, beheld her in dreams. With a bitter cry of anguish I fled from
the room, and, flinging myself on my bed, sobbed myself to sleep like a
child.
VI
THE SPILLING OF THE CUP
I arose the next morning almost at daybreak, and rushed to my
microscope. I trembled as I sought the luminous world in miniature
that contained my all. Animula was there. I had left the gas-lamp,
surrounded by its moderators, burning when I went to bed the night
before. I found the sylph bathing, as it were, with an expression
of pleasure animating her features, in the brilliant light which
surrounded her. She tossed her lustrous golden hair over her shoulders
with innocent coquetry. She lay at full length in the transparent
medium, in which she supported herself with ease, and gambolled with
the enchanting grace that the nymph Salmacis might have exhibited when
she sought to conquer the modest Hermaphroditus. I tried an experiment
to satisfy myself if her powers of reflection were developed. I
lessened the lamplight considerably. By the dim light that remained,
I could see an expression of pain flit across her face. She looked
upward suddenly, and her brows contracted. I flooded the stage of the
microscope again with a full stream of light, and her whole expression
changed. She sprang forward like some substance deprived of all weight.
Her eyes sparkled and her lips moved. Ah! if science had only the
means of conducting and reduplicating sounds, as it does the rays of
light, what carols of happiness would then have entranced my ears! what
jubilant hymns to Adonais would have thrilled the illumined air!
I now comprehend how it was that the Count de Gabalis peopled his
mystic world with sylphs,--beautiful beings whose breath of life was
lambent fire, and who sported forever in regions of purest ether and
purest light. The Rosicrucian had anticipated the wonder that I had
practically realized.
How long this worship of my strange divinity went on thus I scarcely
know. I lost all note of time. All day from early dawn, and far into
the night, I was to be found peering through that wonderful lens. I saw
no one, went nowhere, and scarce allowed myself sufficient time for my
meals. My whole life was absorbed in contemplation as rapt as that of
any of the Romish saints. Every hour that I gazed upon the divine form
strengthened my passion,--a passion that was always overshadowed by the
maddening conviction that, although I could gaze on her at will, she
never, never could behold me!
At length I grew so pale and emaciated from want of rest and continual
brooding over my insane love and its cruel conditions, that I
determined to make some effort to wean myself from it. “Come,” I said,
“this is at best but a fantasy. Your imagination has bestowed on
Animula charms which in reality she does not possess. Seclusion from
female society has produced this morbid condition of mind. Compare her
with the beautiful women of your own world, and this false enchantment
will vanish.”
I looked over the newspapers by chance. There I beheld the
advertisement of a celebrated _danseuse_ who appeared nightly at
Niblo’s. The Signorina Caradolce had the reputation of being the most
beautiful as well as the most graceful woman in the world. I instantly
dressed and went to the theatre.
The curtain drew up. The usual semicircle of fairies in white muslin
were standing on the right toe around the enamelled flower-bank, of
green canvas, on which the belated prince was sleeping. Suddenly a
flute is heard. The fairies start. The trees open, the fairies all
stand on the left toe, and the queen enters. It was the Signorina. She
bounded forward amid thunders of applause, and, lighting on one foot,
remained poised in air. Heavens! was this the great enchantress that
had drawn monarchs at her chariot-wheels? Those heavy muscular limbs,
those thick ankles, those cavernous eyes, that stereotyped smile, those
crudely painted cheeks! Where were the vermeil blooms, the liquid
expressive eyes, the harmonious limbs of Animula?
The Signorina danced. What gross, discordant movements! The play of her
limbs was all false and artificial. Her bounds were painful athletic
efforts; her poses were angular and distressed the eye. I could bear
it no longer; with an exclamation of disgust that drew every eye
upon me, I rose from my seat in the very middle of the Signorina’s
_pas-de-fascination_, and abruptly quitted the house.
I hastened home to feast my eyes once more on the lovely form of
my sylph. I felt that henceforth to combat this passion would be
impossible. I applied my eye to the lens. Animula was there,--but
what could have happened? Some terrible change seemed to have taken
place during my absence. Some secret grief seemed to cloud the lovely
features of her I gazed upon. Her face had grown thin and haggard;
her limbs trailed heavily; the wondrous lustre of her golden hair had
faded. She was ill!--ill, and I could not assist her! I believe at that
moment I would have gladly forfeited all claims to my human birthright,
if I could only have been dwarfed to the size of an animalcule, and
permitted to console her from whom fate had forever divided me.
I racked my brain for the solution of this mystery. What was it that
afflicted the sylph? She seemed to suffer intense pain. Her features
contracted, and she even writhed, as if with some internal agony. The
wondrous forests appeared also to have lost half their beauty. Their
hues were dim and in some places faded away altogether. I watched
Animula for hours with a breaking heart, and she seemed absolutely to
wither away under my very eye. Suddenly I remembered that I had not
looked at the water-drop for several days. In fact, I hated to see it;
for it reminded me of the natural barrier between Animula and myself.
I hurriedly looked down on the stage of the microscope. The slide was
still there,--but, great heavens! the water-drop had vanished! The
awful truth burst upon me; it had evaporated; until it had become so
minute as to be invisible to the naked eye; I had been gazing on its
last atom, the one that contained Animula,--and she was dying!
I rushed again to the front of the lens, and looked through. Alas! the
last agony had seized her. The rainbow-hued forests had all melted
away, and Animula lay struggling feebly in what seemed to be a spot
of dim light. Ah! the sight was horrible; the limbs once so round and
lovely shrivelling up into nothings; the eyes,--those eyes that shone
like heaven--being quenched into black dust; the lustrous golden hair
now lank and discolored. The last throe came. I beheld that final
struggle of the blackening form--and I fainted.
When I awoke out of a trance of many hours, I found myself lying amid
the wreck of my instrument, myself as shattered in mind and body as it.
I crawled feebly to my bed, from which I did not rise for months.
They say now that I am mad; but they are mistaken. I am poor, for I
have neither the heart nor the will to work; all my money is spent, and
I live on charity. Young men’s associations that love a joke invite me
to lecture on Optics before them, for which they pay me and laugh at me
while I lecture. “Linley, the mad microscopist,” is the name I go by. I
suppose that I talk incoherently while I lecture. Who could talk sense
when his brain is haunted by such ghastly memories, while ever and anon
among the shapes of death I behold the radiant form of my lost Animula!
THE HORLA
By GUY DE MAUPASSANT
May 8th. What a lovely day! I have spent all the morning lying in the
grass in front of my house, under the enormous plantain tree which
covers it, and shades and shelters the whole of it. I like this part of
the country and I am fond of living here because I am attached to it by
deep roots, profound and delicate roots which attach a man to the soil
on which his ancestors were born and died, which attach him to what
people think and what they eat, to the usages as well as to the food,
local expression, the peculiar language of the peasants, to the smell
of the soil, of the villages and of the atmosphere itself.
I love my house in which I grew up. From my windows I can see the Seine
which flows by the side of my garden, on the other side of the road,
almost through my grounds, the great and wide Seine which goes to Rouen
and Havre, and which is covered with boats passing to and fro.
On the left, down yonder, lies Rouen, that large town with its blue
roofs, under its pointed Gothic towers. They are innumerable, delicate
or broad, dominated by the spire of the cathedral, and full of bells
which sound through the blue air on fine mornings, sending their sweet
and distant iron clang to me; their metallic sound which the breeze
wafts in my direction, now stronger and now weaker, according as the
wind is stronger or lighter.
What a delicious morning it was!
About eleven o’clock, a long line of boats drawn by a steam tug, as big
as a fly, and which scarcely puffed while emitting its thick smoke,
passed my gate.
After two English schooners, whose red flag fluttered toward the sky,
there came a magnificent Brazilian three-master; it was perfectly white
and wonderfully clean and shining. I saluted it, I hardly know why,
except that the sight of the vessel gave me great pleasure.
_May 12th._ I have had a slight feverish attack for the last few days,
and I feel ill, or rather I feel low-spirited.
Whence do these mysterious influences come, which change our happiness
into discouragement, and our self-confidence into diffidence? One might
almost say that the air, the invisible air, is full of unknowable
Forces, whose mysterious presence we have to endure. I wake up in the
best spirits, with an inclination to sing in my throat. Why? I go down
by the side of the water, and suddenly, after walking a short distance,
I return home wretched, as if some misfortune were awaiting me there.
Why? Is it a cold shiver which, passing over my skin, has upset my
nerves and given me low spirits? Is it the form of the clouds, or the
color of the sky, or the color of the surrounding objects which is so
changeable, which have troubled my thoughts as they passed before my
eyes? Who can tell? Everything that surrounds us, everything that we
see without looking at it, everything that we touch without knowing it,
everything that we handle without feeling it, all that we meet without
clearly distinguishing it, has a rapid, surprising and inexplicable
effect upon us and upon our organs, and through them on our ideas and
on our heart itself.
How profound that mystery of the Invisible is! We cannot fathom it
with our miserable senses, with our eyes which are unable to perceive
what is either too small or too great, too near to, or too far from
us; neither the inhabitants of a star nor of a drop of water ... with
our ears that deceive us, for they transmit to us the vibrations of
the air in sonorous notes. They are fairies who work the miracle of
changing that movement into noise, and by that metamorphosis give birth
to music, which makes the mute agitation of nature musical ... with our
sense of smell which is smaller than that of a dog ... with our sense
of taste which can scarcely distinguish the age of a wine!
Oh! If we only had other organs which would work other miracles in our
favor, what a number of fresh things we might discover around us!
_May 16th._ I am ill, decidedly! I was so well last month! I am
feverish, horribly feverish, or rather I am in a state of feverish
enervation, which makes my mind suffer as much as my body. I have
without ceasing that horrible sensation of some danger threatening me,
that apprehension of some coming misfortune or of approaching death,
that presentiment which is, no doubt, an attack of some illness which
is still unknown, which germinates in the flesh and in the blood.
_May 18th._ I have just come from consulting my medical man, for I
could no longer get any sleep. He found that my pulse was high, my eyes
dilated, my nerves highly strung, but no alarming symptoms. I must have
a course of shower-baths and of bromide of potassium.
_May 25th._ No change! My state is really very peculiar. As the evening
comes on, an incomprehensible feeling of disquietude seizes me, just as
if night concealed some terrible menace toward me. I dine quickly, and
then try to read, but I do not understand the words, and can scarcely
distinguish the letters. Then I walk up and down my drawing-room,
oppressed by a feeling of confused and irresistible fear, the fear of
sleep and fear of my bed.
About ten o’clock I go up to my room. As soon as I have got in I double
lock, and bolt it: I am frightened--of what? Up till the present time
I have been frightened of nothing--I open my cupboards, and look under
my bed; I listen--I listen--to what? How strange it is that a simple
feeling of discomfort, impeded or heightened circulation, perhaps
the irritation of a nervous thread, a slight congestion, a small
disturbance in the imperfect and delicate functions of our living
machinery, can turn the most lighthearted of men into a melancholy one,
and make a coward of the bravest! Then, I go to bed, and I wait for
sleep as a man might wait for the executioner. I wait for its coming
with dread, and my heart beats and my legs tremble, while my whole
body shivers beneath the warmth of the bedclothes, until the moment
when I suddenly fall asleep, as one would throw oneself into a pool of
stagnant water in order to drown oneself. I do not feel coming over me,
as I used to do formerly, this perfidious sleep which is close to me
and watching me, which is going to seize me by the head, to close my
eyes and annihilate me.
I sleep--a long time--two or three hours perhaps--then a dream--no--a
nightmare lays hold on me. I feel that I am in bed and asleep--I
feel it and I know it--and I feel also that somebody is coming close
to me, is looking at me, touching me, is getting on to my bed, is
kneeling on my chest, is taking my neck between his hands and squeezing
it--squeezing it with all his might in order to strangle me.
I struggle, bound by that terrible powerlessness which paralyzes us in
our dreams; I try to cry out--but I cannot; I want to move--I cannot; I
try, with the most violent efforts and out of breath, to turn over and
throw off this being which is crushing and suffocating me--I cannot!
And then, suddenly, I wake up, shaken and bathed in perspiration; I
light a candle and find that I am alone, and after that crisis, which
occurs every night, I at length fall asleep and slumber tranquilly
till morning.
_June 2d._ My state has grown worse. What is the matter with me? The
bromide does me no good, and the shower-baths have no effect whatever.
Sometimes, in order to tire myself out, though I am fatigued enough
already, I go for a walk in the forest of Roumare. I used to think at
first that the fresh light and soft air, impregnated with the odor of
herbs and leaves, would instill new blood into my veins and impart
fresh energy to my heart. I turned into a broad ride in the wood, and
then I turned toward La Bouille, through a narrow path, between two
rows of exceedingly tall trees, which placed a thick, green, almost
black roof between the sky and me.
A sudden shiver ran through me, not a cold shiver, but a shiver of
agony, and so I hastened my steps, uneasy at being alone in the wood,
frightened stupidly and without reason, at the profound solitude.
Suddenly it seemed to me as if I were being followed, that somebody was
walking at my heels, close, quite close to me, near enough to touch me.
I turned round suddenly, but I was alone. I saw nothing behind me
except the straight, broad ride, empty and bordered by high trees,
horribly empty; on the other side it also extended until it was lost in
the distance, and looked just the same, terrible.
I closed my eyes. Why? And then I began to turn round on one heel very
quickly, just like a top. I nearly fell down, and opened my eyes; the
trees were dancing round me and the earth heaved; I was obliged to sit
down. Then, ah! I no longer remembered how I had come! What a strange
idea! What a strange, strange idea! I did not the least know. I started
off to the right, and got back into the avenue which had led me into
the middle of the forest.
_June 3d._ I have had a terrible night. I shall go away for a few
weeks, for no doubt a journey will set me up again.
_July 2d._ I have come back, quite cured, and have had a most
delightful trip into the bargain. I have been to Mont Saint-Michel,
which I had not seen before.
What a sight, when one arrives as I did, at Avranches toward the end
of the day! The town stands on a hill, and I was taken into the public
garden at the extremity of the town. I uttered a cry of astonishment.
An extraordinary large bay lay extended before me, as far as my eyes
could reach, between two hills which were lost to sight in the mist;
and in the middle of this immense yellow bay, under a clear, golden
sky, a peculiar hill rose up, sombre and pointed in the midst of the
sand. The sun had just disappeared, and under the still flaming sky the
outline of that fantastic rock stood out, which bears on its summit a
fantastic monument.
At daybreak I went to it. The tide was low as it had been the night
before, and I saw that wonderful abbey rise up before me as I
approached it. After several hours’ walking, I reached the enormous
mass of rocks which supports the little town, dominated by the great
church. Having climbed the steep and narrow street, I entered the most
wonderful Gothic building that has ever been built to God on earth, as
large as a town, full of low rooms which seem buried beneath vaulted
roofs, and lofty galleries supported by delicate columns.
I entered this gigantic granite jewel which is as light as a bit of
lace, covered with towers, with slender belfries to which spiral
staircases ascend, and which raise their strange heads that bristle
with chimeras, with devils, with fantastic animals, with monstrous
flowers, and which are joined together by finely carved arches, to the
blue sky by day, and to the black sky by night.
When I had reached the summit, I said to the monk who accompanied me:
“Father, how happy you must be here!” And he replied: “It is very
windy, Monsieur”; and so we began to talk while watching the rising
tide, which ran over the sand and covered it with a steel cuirass.
And then the monk told me stories, all the old stories belonging to the
place, legends, nothing but legends.
One of them struck me forcibly. The country people, those belonging
to the Mornet, declare that at night one can hear talking going on in
the sand, and then that one hears two goats bleat, one with a strong,
the other with a weak voice. Incredulous people declare that it is
nothing but the cry of the sea birds, which occasionally resembles
bleatings, and occasionally human lamentations; but belated fishermen
swear that they have met an old shepherd, whose head, which is covered
by his cloak, they can never see, wandering on the downs, between two
tides, round the little town placed so far out of the world, and who
is guiding and walking before them, a he-goat with a man’s face, and
a she-goat with a woman’s face, and both of them with white hair;
and talking incessantly, quarrelling in a strange language, and then
suddenly ceasing to talk in order to bleat with all their might.
“Do you believe it?” I asked the monk. “I scarcely know,” he replied,
and I continued: “If there are other beings besides ourselves on this
earth, how comes it that we have not known it for so long a time, or
why have you not seen them? How is it that I have not seen them?” He
replied: “Do we see the hundred thousandth part of what exists? Look
here; there is the wind, which is the strongest force in nature, which
knocks down men, and blows down buildings, uproots trees, raises the
sea into mountains of water; destroys cliffs and casts great ships onto
the breakers; the wind which kills, which whistles, which sighs, which
roars--have you ever seen it, and can you see it? It exists for all
that, however.”
I was silent before this simple reasoning. The man was a philosopher,
or perhaps a fool; I could not say which exactly, so I held my tongue.
What he had said, had often been in my own thoughts.
_July 3d._ I have slept badly; certainly there is some feverish
influence here, for my coachman is suffering in the same way as I am.
When I went back home yesterday, I noticed his singular paleness, and I
asked him: “What is the matter with you, Jean?” “The matter is that I
never get any rest, and my nights devour my days. Since your departure,
monsieur, there has been a spell over me.”
However, the other servants are all well, but I am very frightened of
having another attack, myself.
_July 4th._ I am decidedly taken again; for my old nightmares have
returned. Last night I felt somebody leaning on me who was sucking my
life from between my lips with his mouth. Yes, he was sucking it out of
my neck, like a leech would have done. Then he got up, satiated, and I
woke up, so beaten, crushed and annihilated that I could not move. If
this continues for a few days, I shall certainly go away again.
_July 5th._ Have I lost my reason? What has happened? What I saw last
night is so strange that my head wanders when I think of it!
As I do now every evening, I had locked my door, and then, being
thirsty, I drank half a glass of water, and I accidentally noticed that
the water bottle was full up to the cut-glass stopper.
Then I went to bed and fell into one of my terrible sleeps, from which
I was aroused in about two hours by a still more terrible shock.
Picture to yourself a sleeping man who is being murdered and who wakes
up with a knife in his chest, and who is rattling in his throat,
covered with blood, and who can no longer breathe, and is going to die,
and does not understand anything at all about it--there it is.
Having recovered my senses, I was thirsty again, so I lit a candle
and went to the table on which my water bottle was. I lifted it up
and tilted it over my glass, but nothing came out. It was empty! It
was completely empty! At first I could not understand it at all, and
then suddenly I was seized by such a terrible feeling that I had to
sit down, or rather I fell into a chair! Then I sprang up with a bound
to look about me, and then I sat down again, overcome by astonishment
and fear, in front of the transparent crystal bottle! I looked at it
with fixed eyes, trying to conjecture, and my hands trembled! Somebody
had drunk the water, but who? I? I without any doubt. It could surely
only be I? In that case I was a somnambulist, I lived, without knowing
it, that double mysterious life which makes us doubt whether there are
not two beings in us, or whether a strange, unknowable and invisible
being does not at such moments, when our soul is in a state of torpor,
animate our captive body which obeys this other being, as it does us
ourselves, and more than it does ourselves.
Oh! Who will understand my horrible agony? Who will understand the
emotion of a man who is sound in mind, wide awake, full of sound sense,
and who looks in horror at the remains of a little water that has
disappeared while he was asleep, through the glass of a water bottle?
And I remained there until it was daylight, without venturing to go to
bed again.
_July 6th._ I am going mad. Again all the contents of my water bottle
have been drunk during the night--or rather, I have drunk it!
But is it I? Is it I? Who could it be? Who? Oh! God! Am I going mad?
Who will save me?
_July 10th._ I have just been through some surprising ordeals.
Decidedly I am mad! And yet!--
On July 6th, before going to bed, I put some wine, milk, water,
bread and strawberries on my table. Somebody drank--I drank--all the
water and a little of the milk, but neither the wine, bread nor the
strawberries were touched.
On the seventh of July I renewed the same experiment, with the same
results, and on July 8th, I left out the water and the milk and nothing
was touched.
Lastly, on July 9th I put only water and milk on my table, taking care
to wrap up the bottles in white muslin and to tie down the stoppers.
Then I rubbed my lips, my beard and my hands with pencil lead, and went
to bed.
Irresistible sleep seized me, which was soon followed by a terrible
awakening. I had not moved, and my sheets were not marked. I rushed to
the table. The muslin round the bottles remained intact; I undid the
string, trembling with fear. All the water had been drunk, and so had
the milk! Ah! Great God!--
I must start for Paris immediately.
_July 12th._ Paris. I must have lost my head during the last few days!
I must be the plaything of my enervated imagination, unless I am really
a somnambulist, or that I have been brought under the power of one
of those influences which have been proved to exist, but which have
hitherto been inexplicable, which are called suggestions. In any case,
my mental state bordered on madness, and twenty-four hours of Paris
sufficed to restore me to my equilibrium.
Yesterday after doing some business and paying some visits which
instilled fresh and invigorating mental air into me, I wound up my
evening at the _Théâtre Français_. A play by Alexandre Dumas the
Younger was being acted, and his active and powerful mind completed my
cure. Certainly solitude is dangerous for active minds. We require men
who can think and can talk, around us. When we are alone for a long
time we people space with phantoms.
I returned along the boulevards to my hotel in excellent spirits. Amid
the jostling of the crowd I thought, not without irony, of my terrors
and surmises of the previous week, because I believed, yes, I believed,
that an invisible being lived beneath my roof. How weak our head is,
and how quickly it is terrified and goes astray, as soon as we are
struck by a small, incomprehensible fact.
Instead of concluding with these simple words: “I do not understand
because the cause escapes me,” we immediately imagine terrible
mysteries and supernatural powers.
_July 14th._ Fête of the Republic. I walked through the streets, and
the crackers and flags amused me like a child. Still it is very foolish
to be merry on a fixed date, by a Government decree. The populace is
an imbecile flock of sheep, now steadily patient, and now in ferocious
revolt. Say to it: “Amuse yourself,” and it amuses itself. Say to it:
“Go and fight with your neighbor,” and it goes and fights. Say to it:
“Vote for the Emperor,” and it votes for the Emperor, and then say to
it: “Vote for the Republic,” and it votes for the Republic.
Those who direct it are also stupid; but instead of obeying men they
obey principles, which can only be stupid, sterile, and false, for the
very reason that they are principles, that is to say, ideas which are
considered as certain and unchangeable, in this world where one is
certain of nothing, since light is an illusion and noise is an illusion.
_July 16th._ I saw some things yesterday that troubled me very much.
I was dining at my cousin’s Madame Sablé, whose husband is colonel of
the 76th Chasseurs at Limoges. There were two young women there, one of
whom had married a medical man, Dr. Parent, who devotes himself a great
deal to nervous diseases and the extraordinary manifestations to which
at this moment experiments in hypnotism and suggestion give rise.
He related to us at some length, the enormous results obtained by
English scientists and the doctors of the medical school at Nancy, and
the facts which he adduced appeared to me so strange, that I declared
that I was altogether incredulous.
“We are,” he declared, “on the point of discovering one of the most
important secrets of nature, I mean to say, one of its most important
secrets on this earth, for there are certainly some which are of a
different kind of importance up in the stars, yonder. Ever since man
has thought, since he has been able to express and write down his
thoughts, he has felt himself close to a mystery which is impenetrable
to his coarse and imperfect senses, and he endeavors to supplement the
want of power of his organs by the efforts of his intellect. As long as
that intellect still remained in its elementary stage, this intercourse
with invisible spirits assumed forms which were commonplace though
terrifying. Thence sprang the popular belief in the supernatural, the
legends of wandering spirits, of fairies, of gnomes, ghosts, I might
even say the legend of God, for our conceptions of the workman-creator,
from whatever religion they may have come down to us, are certainly the
most mediocre, the stupidest and the most unacceptable inventions that
ever sprang from the frightened brain of any human creatures. Nothing
is truer than what Voltaire says: ‘God made man in His own image, but
man has certainly paid Him back again.’
“But for rather more than a century, men seem to have had a
presentiment of something new. Mesmer and some others have put us on an
unexpected track, and especially within the last two or three years, we
have arrived at really surprising results.”
My cousin, who is also very incredulous, smiled, and Dr. Parent said to
her: “Would you like me to try and send you to sleep, Madame?” “Yes,
certainly.”
She sat down in an easy-chair, and he began to look at her fixedly, so
as to fascinate her. I suddenly felt myself somewhat uncomfortable,
with a beating heart and a choking feeling in my throat. I saw that
Madame Sablé’s eyes were growing heavy, her mouth twitched and her
bosom heaved, and at the end of ten minutes she was asleep.
“Stand behind her,” the doctor said to me, and so I took a seat behind
her. He put a visiting card into her hands, and said to her: “This is
a looking-glass; what do you see in it?” And she replied: “I see my
cousin.” “What is he doing?” “He is twisting his moustache.” “And now?”
“He is taking a photograph out of his pocket.” “Whose photograph is
it?” “His own.”
That was true, and that photograph had been given me that same evening
at the hotel.
“What is his attitude in this portrait?” “He is standing up with his
hat in his hand.”
So she saw on that card, on that piece of white pasteboard, as if she
had seen it in a looking-glass.
The young women were frightened, and exclaimed: “That is quite enough!
Quite, quite enough!”
But the doctor said to her authoritatively: “You will get up at eight
o’clock to-morrow morning; then you will go and call on your cousin
at his hotel and ask him to lend you five thousand francs which your
husband demands of you, and which he will ask for when he sets out on
his coming journey.”
Then he woke her up.
On returning to my hotel, I thought over this curious _séance_ and I
was assailed by doubts, not as to my cousin’s absolute and undoubted
good faith, for I had known her as well as if she had been my own
sister ever since she was a child, but as to a possible trick on the
doctor’s part. Had not he, perhaps, kept a glass hidden in his hand,
which he showed to the young woman in her sleep, at the same time as
he did the card? Professional conjurers do things which are just as
singular.
So I went home and to bed, and this morning, at about half past eight,
I was awakened by my footman, who said to me: “Madame Sablé has asked
to see you immediately, Monsieur,” so I dressed hastily and went to her.
She sat down in some agitation, with her eyes on the floor, and without
raising her veil she said to me: “My dear cousin, I am going to ask a
great favor of you.” “What is it, cousin?” “I do not like to tell you,
and yet I must. I am in absolute want of five thousand francs.” “What,
you?” “Yes, I, or rather my husband, who has asked me to procure them
for him.”
I was so stupefied that I stammered out my answers. I asked myself
whether she had not really been making fun of me with Doctor Parent,
if it were not merely a very well-acted farce which had been got
up beforehand. On looking at her attentively, however, my doubts
disappeared. She was trembling with grief, so painful was this step to
her, and I was sure that her throat was full of sobs.
I knew that she was very rich and so I continued: “What! Has not your
husband five thousand francs at his disposal! Come, think. Are you sure
that he commissioned you to ask me for them?”
She hesitated for a few seconds, as if she were making a great effort
to search her memory, and then she replied: “Yes ... yes, I am quite
sure of it.” “He has written to you?”
She hesitated again and reflected, and I guessed the torture of her
thoughts. She did not know. She only knew that she was to borrow five
thousand francs of me for her husband. So she told a lie. “Yes, he has
written to me.” “When, pray? You did not mention it to me yesterday.”
“I received his letter this morning.” “Can you show it me?” “No; no
... no ... it contained private matters ... things too personal to
ourselves.... I burnt it.” “So your husband runs into debt?”
She hesitated again, and then murmured: “I do not know.” Thereupon I
said bluntly: “I have not five thousand francs at my disposal at this
moment, my dear cousin.”
She uttered a kind of cry as if she were in pain and said: “Oh! oh! I
beseech you, I beseech you to get them for me....”
She got excited and clasped her hands as if she were praying to me! I
heard her voice change its tone; she wept and stammered, harassed and
dominated by the irresistible order that she had received.
“Oh! oh! I beg you to ... if you knew what I am suffering.... I want
them to-day.”
I had pity on her: “You shall have them by and by, I swear to you.”
“Oh! thank you! thank you! How kind you are!”
I continued: “Do you remember what took place at your house last
night?” “Yes.” “Do you remember that Doctor Parent sent you to sleep?”
“Yes.” “Oh! Very well then; he ordered you to come to me this morning
to borrow five thousand francs, and at this moment you are obeying that
suggestion.”
She considered for a few moments, and then replied: “But as it is my
husband who wants them....”
For a whole hour I tried to convince her, but could not succeed, and
when she had gone I went to the doctor. He was just going out, and he
listened to me with a smile, and said: “Do you believe now?” “Yes, I
cannot help it.” “Let us go to your cousin’s.”
She was already dozing on a couch, overcome with fatigue. The doctor
felt her pulse, looked at her for some time with one hand raised toward
her eyes which she closed by degrees under the irresistible power of
this influence, and when she was asleep, he said:
“Your husband does not require the five thousand francs any longer! You
must, therefore, forget that you asked your cousin to lend them to you,
and, if he speaks to you about it, you will not understand him.”
Then he woke her up, and I took out a pocketbook and said: “Here is
what you asked me for this morning, my dear cousin.” But she was so
surprised that I did not venture to persist; nevertheless, I tried to
recall the circumstance to her, but she denied it vigorously, thought
that I was making fun of her, and in the end very nearly lost her
temper.
* * * * *
There! I have just come back, and I have not been able to eat my lunch,
for this experiment has altogether upset me.
_July 19th._ Many people to whom I have told the adventure have laughed
at me. I no longer know what to think. The wise man says: Perhaps?
_July 21st._ I dined at Bougival, and then I spent the evening at a
boatmen’s ball. Decidedly everything depends on place and surroundings.
It would be the height of folly to believe in the supernatural on the
_île de la Grenouillière_[1] ... but on the top of Mont Saint-Michel?
... and in India? We are terribly under the influence of our
surroundings. I shall return home next week.
[1] Frog Island.
_July 30th._ I came back to my own house yesterday. Everything is going
on well.
_August 2d._ Nothing fresh; it is splendid weather, and I spend my days
in watching the Seine flow past.
_August 4th._ Quarrels among my servants. They declare that the glasses
are broken in the cupboards at night. The footman accuses the cook, who
accuses the needlewoman, who accuses the other two. Who is the culprit?
A clever person, to be able to tell.
_August 6th._ This time I am not mad. I have seen ... I have seen ... I
have seen!... I can doubt no longer ... I have seen it!...
I was walking at two o’clock among my rose trees, in the full sunlight
... in the walk bordered by autumn roses which are beginning to fall.
As I stopped to look at a _Géant de Bataille_, which had three splendid
blooms, I distinctly saw the stalks of one of the roses bend, close to
me, as if an invisible hand had bent it, and then break, as if that
hand had picked it! Then the flower raised itself, following the curve
a hand would have described in carrying it toward the mouth, and it
remained suspended in the transparent air, all alone and motionless, a
terrible red spot, three yards from my eyes. In desperation I rushed
at it to take it! I found nothing; it had disappeared. Then I was
seized with furious rage against myself, for it is not allowable for a
reasonable and serious man to have such hallucinations.
But what is an hallucination? I turned round to look for the stalk,
and I found it immediately under the bush, freshly broken, between two
other roses which remained on the branch, and I returned home then,
with a much disturbed mind; for I am certain now, as certain as I am
of the alternation of day and night, that there exists close to me
an invisible being that lives on milk and on water, which can touch
objects, take them and change their places; which is, consequently,
endowed with a material nature, although it is impossible to our
senses, and which lives as I do, under my roof....
_August 7th._ I slept tranquilly. He drank the water out of my
decanter, but did not disturb my sleep.
I ask myself whether I am mad. As I was walking just now in the sun
by the riverside, doubts as to my own sanity arose in me; not vague
doubts such as I have had hitherto, but precise and absolute doubts.
I have seen mad people, and I have known some who have been quite
intelligent, lucid, even clear-sighted in every concern of life, except
on one point. They spoke clearly, readily, profoundly, on everything,
when suddenly their thoughts struck upon the breakers of their madness
and broke to pieces there, and were dispersed and foundered in that
furious and terrible sea, full of bounding waves, fogs and squalls,
which is called _madness_.
I certainly should think that I was mad, absolutely mad, if I were
not conscious, did not perfectly know my state, if I did fathom it
by analyzing it with the most complete lucidity. I should, in fact,
be a reasonable man who was laboring under an hallucination. Some
unknown disturbance must have been excited in my brain, one of those
disturbances which physiologists of the present day try to note and fix
precisely, and that disturbance must have caused a profound gulf in my
mind and in the order and logic of my ideas. Similar phenomena occur
in the dreams which lead us through the most unlikely phantasmagoria,
without causing us any surprise, because our verifying apparatus and
our sense of control have gone to sleep, while our imaginative faculty
wakes and works. Is it not possible that one of the imperceptible keys
of the cerebral finger-board has been paralyzed in me? Some men lose
the recollection of proper names, or of verbs, or of numbers, or merely
of dates, in consequence of the accident. The localization of all the
particles of thought have been proved nowadays; what then would there
be surprising in the fact that my faculty controlling the uncertain
reality of my hallucinations should be destroyed for the time being!
I thought of all this as I walked by the side of the water. The sun
was shining brightly on the river and made earth delightful, while it
filled my looks with love for life, for the swallows, whose agility is
always delightful in my eyes, for the plants by the riverside, whose
rustling is a pleasure to my ears.
By degrees, however, an inexplicable feeling of discomfort seized me.
It seemed to me as if some unknown force were numbing and stopping me,
were preventing me from going farther and were calling me back. I felt
that painful wish to return which oppresses you when you have left a
beloved invalid at home, and when you are seized by a presentiment that
he is worse.
I, therefore, returned in spite of myself, feeling certain that I
should find some bad news awaiting me, a letter or a telegram. There
was nothing, however, and I was more surprised and uneasy than if I had
had another fantastic vision.
_August 8th._ I spent a terrible evening yesterday. He does not show
himself any more, but I feel that he is near me, watching me, looking
at me, penetrating me, dominating me, and more redoubtable when he
hides himself thus than if he were to manifest his constant and
invisible presence by supernatural phenomena. However, I slept.
_August 9th._ Nothing; but I am afraid.
_August 10th._ Nothing; what will happen tomorrow?
_August 11th._ Still nothing; I cannot stop at home with this fear
hanging over me and these thoughts in my mind; I shall go away.
_August 12th._ Ten o’clock at night. All day long I have been trying to
get away, and have not been able. I wished to accomplish this simple
and easy act of liberty--go out--get into my carriage in order to go to
Rouen--and I have not been able to do it. What is the reason?
_August 13th._ When one is attacked by certain maladies, all the
springs of our physical being appear to be broken, all our energies
destroyed, all our muscles relaxed, our bones to have become as soft as
our flesh, and our blood as liquid as water. I am experiencing that in
my moral being in a strange and distressing manner. I have no longer
any strength, any courage, any self-control, nor even any power to set
my own will in motion. I have no power left to _will_ anything, but
someone does it for me and I obey.
_August 14th._ I am lost! Somebody possesses my soul and governs it!
Somebody orders all my acts, all my movements, all my thoughts. I am
no longer anything in myself, nothing except an enslaved and terrified
spectator of all the things which I do. I wish to go out; I cannot. He
does not wish to, and so I remain, trembling and distracted, in the
armchair in which he keeps me sitting. I merely wish to get up and
to rouse myself, so as to think that I am still master of myself: I
cannot! I am riveted to my chair, and my chair adheres to the ground in
such a manner that no force could move us.
Then suddenly, I must, I must go to the bottom of my garden to pick
some strawberries and eat them, and I go there. I pick the strawberries
and I eat them! Oh! my God! my God! Is there a God? If there be one,
deliver me! save me! succor me! Pardon! Pity! Mercy! Save me! Oh! what
sufferings! what torture! what horror!
_August 15th._ Certainly this is the way in which my poor cousin was
possessed and swayed, when she came to borrow five thousand francs of
me. She was under the power of a strange will which had entered into
her, like another soul, like another parasitic and ruling soul. Is the
world coming to an end?
But who is he, this invisible being that rules me? This unknowable
being, this rover of a supernatural race?
Invisible beings exist, then! How is it then that since the beginning
of the world they have never manifested themselves in such a manner
precisely as they do to me? I have never read anything which resembles
what goes on in my house. Oh! If I could only leave it, if I could
only go away and flee, so as never to return, I should be saved; but I
cannot.
_August 16th._ I managed to escape to-day for two hours, like a
prisoner who finds the door of his dungeon accidentally open. I
suddenly felt that I was free and that he was far away, and so I gave
orders to put the horses in as quickly as possible, and I drove to
Rouen. Oh! How delightful to be able to say to a man who obeyed you:
“Go to Rouen!”
I made him pull up before the library, and I begged them to lend me
Dr. Herrmann Herestauss’s treatise on the unknown inhabitants of the
ancient and modern world.
Then, as I was getting into my carriage, I intended to say: “To the
railway station!” but instead of this I shouted--I did not say, but I
shouted--in such a loud voice that all the passers-by turned round:
“Home!” and I fell back onto the cushion of my carriage, overcome by
mental agony. He had found me out and regained possession of me.
_August 17th._ Oh! What a night! what a night! And yet it seems to
me that I ought to rejoice. I read until one o’clock in the morning!
Herestauss, Doctor of Philosophy and Theogony, wrote the history and
the manifestation of all those invisible beings which hover around man,
or of whom he dreams. He describes their origin, their domains, their
power; but none of them resembles the one which haunts me. One might
say that man, ever since he has thought, has had a foreboding of, and
feared a new being, stronger than himself, his successor in this world,
and that, feeling him near, and not being able to foretell the nature
of that master, he has, in his terror, created the whole race of hidden
beings, of vague phantoms born of fear.
Having, therefore, read until one o’clock in the morning, I went and
sat down at the open window, in order to cool my forehead and my
thoughts, in the calm night air. It was very pleasant and warm! How I
should have enjoyed such a night formerly!
There was no moon, but the stars darted out their rays in the dark
heavens. Who inhabits those worlds? What forms, what living beings,
what animals are there yonder? What do those who are thinkers in those
distant worlds know more than we do? What can they do more than we
can? What do they see which we do not know? Will not one of them, some
day or other, traversing space, appear on our earth to conquer it, just
as the Norsemen formerly crossed the sea in order to subjugate nations
more feeble than themselves?
We are so weak, so unarmed, so ignorant, so small, we who live on this
particle of mud which turns round in a drop of water.
I fell asleep, dreaming this in the cool night air, and then, having
slept for about three quarters of an hour, I opened my eyes without
moving, awakened by I know not what confused and strange sensation.
At first I saw nothing, and then suddenly it appeared to me as if a
page of a book which had remained open on my table, turned over of
its own accord. Not a breath of air had come in at my window, and I
was surprised and waited. In about four minutes, I saw, I saw, yes
I saw with my own eyes another page lift itself up and fall down on
the others, as if a finger had turned it over. My armchair was empty,
appeared empty, but I knew that he was there, he, and sitting in my
place, and that he was reading. With a furious bound, the bound of an
enraged wild beast that wishes to disembowel its tamer, I crossed my
room to seize him, to strangle him, to kill him!... But before I could
reach it, my chair fell over as if somebody had run away from me ...
my table rocked, my lamp fell and went out, and my window closed as
if some thief had been surprised and had fled out into the night,
shutting it behind him.
So he had run away: he had been afraid; he, afraid of me!
So ... so ... to-morrow ... or later ... some day or other ... I should
be able to hold him in my clutches and crush him against the ground! Do
not dogs occasionally bite and strangle their masters?
_August 18th._ I have been thinking the whole day long. Oh! yes, I will
obey him, follow his impulses, fulfill all his wishes, show myself
humble, submissive, a coward. He is the stronger; but an hour will
come....
_August 19th._ I know, ... I know ... I know all! I have just read the
following in the _Revue de Monde Scientifique_: “A curious piece of
news comes to us from Rio de Janeiro. Madness, an epidemic of madness,
which may be compared to that contagious madness which attacked the
people of Europe in the Middle Ages, is at this moment raging in the
Province of San-Paulo. The frightened inhabitants are leaving their
houses, deserting their villages, abandoning their land, saying that
they are pursued, possessed, governed like human cattle by invisible,
though tangible beings, a species of vampire, which feed on their life
while they are asleep, and who, besides, drink water and milk without
appearing to touch any other nourishment.
“Professor Dom Pedro Henriques, accompanied by several medical savants,
has gone to the Province of San-Paulo, in order to study the origin
and the manifestations of this surprising madness on the spot, and to
propose such measures to the Emperor as may appear to him to be most
fitted to restore the mad population to reason.”
Ah! Ah! I remember now that fine Brazilian three-master which passed in
front of my windows as it was going up the Seine, on the 8th of last
May! I thought it looked so pretty, so white and bright! That Being was
on board of her, coming from there, where its race sprang from. And it
saw me! It saw my house which was also white, and it sprang from the
ship onto the land. Oh! Good heavens!
Now I know, I can divine. The reign of man is over, and he has come.
He whom disquieted priests exorcised, whom sorcerers evoked on dark
nights, without yet seeing him appear, to whom the presentiments of the
transient masters of the world lent all the monstrous or graceful forms
of gnomes, spirits, genii, fairies, and familiar spirits. After the
coarse conceptions of primitive fear, more clear-sighted men foresaw
it more clearly. Mesmer divined him, and ten years ago physicians
accurately discovered the nature of his power, even before he exercised
it himself. They played with that weapon of their new Lord, the sway of
a mysterious will over the human soul, which had become enslaved. They
called it magnetism, hypnotism, suggestion ... what do I know? I have
seen them amusing themselves like impudent children with this horrible
power! Woe to us! Woe to man! He has come, the ... the ... what does
he call himself ... the ... I fancy that he is shouting out his name
to me and I do not hear him ... the ... yes ... he is shouting it out
... I am listening ... I cannot ... repeat ... it ... Horla ... I have
heard ... the Horla ... it is he ... the Horla ... he has come!...
Ah! the vulture has eaten the pigeon, the wolf has eaten the lamb; the
lion has devoured the buffalo with sharp horns; man has killed the lion
with an arrow, with a sword, with gunpowder; but the Horla will make
of man what we have made of the horse and of the ox: his chattel, his
slave and his food, by the mere power of his will. Woe to us!
But, nevertheless, the animal sometimes revolts and kills the man who
has subjugated it.... I should also like ... I shall be able to ... but
I must know him, touch him, see him! Learned men say that beasts’ eyes,
as they differ from ours, do not distinguish like ours do.... And my
eye cannot distinguish this newcomer who is oppressing me.
Why? Oh! Now I remember the words of the monk at Mont Saint-Michel:
“Can we see the hundred-thousandth part of what exists? Look here;
there is the wind which is the strongest force in nature, which knocks
down men, and blows down buildings, uproots trees, raises the sea into
mountains of water, destroys cliffs and casts great ships onto the
breakers; the wind which kills, which whistles, which sighs, which
roars--have you ever seen it, and can you see it? It exists for all
that, however!”
And I went on thinking: my eyes are so weak, so imperfect, that they
do not even distinguish hard bodies, if they are as transparent as
glass!... If a glass without tinfoil behind it were to bar my way, I
should run into it, just as a bird which has flown into a room breaks
its head against the window panes. A thousand things, moreover, deceive
him and lead him astray. How should it then be surprising that he
cannot perceive a fresh body which is traversed by the light?
A new being! Why not? It was assuredly bound to come! Why should we be
the last? We do not distinguish it, like all the others created before
us. The reason is, that its nature is more perfect, its body finer and
more finished than ours, that ours is so weak, so awkwardly conceived,
encumbered with organs that are always tired, always on the strain like
locks that are too complicated, which lives like a plant and like a
beast, nourishing itself with difficulty on air, herbs and flesh, an
animal machine which is a prey to maladies, to malformations, to decay;
broken-winded, badly regulated, simple and eccentric, ingeniously and
badly made, a coarse and a delicate work, the outline of a being which
might become intelligent and grand.
We are only a few, so few in this world, from the oyster up to man. Why
should there not be one more, when once that period is accomplished
which separates the successive apparitions from all the different
species?
Why not one more? Why not, also, other trees with immense, splendid
flowers, perfuming whole regions? Why not other elements besides
fire, air, earth and water? There are four, only four, those nursing
fathers of various beings! What a pity! Why are they not forty, four
hundred, four thousand! How poor everything is, how mean and wretched!
grudgingly given, dryly invented, clumsily made! Ah! the elephant and
the hippopotamus, what grace! And the camel, what elegance!
But, the butterfly you will say, a flying flower! I dream of one that
should be as large as a hundred worlds, with wings whose shape, beauty,
colors, and motion I cannot even express. But I see it ... it flutters
from star to star, refreshing them and perfuming them with the light
and harmonious breath of its flight!... And the people up there look at
it as it passes in an ecstasy of delight!...
What is the matter with me? It is he, the Horla who haunts me, and who
makes me think of these foolish things! He is within me, he is becoming
my soul; I shall kill him!
_August 19th._ I shall kill him. I have seen him! Yesterday I sat down
at my table and pretended to write very assiduously. I knew quite well
that he would come prowling round me, quite close to me, so close that
I might perhaps be able to touch him, to seize him. And then! ... then
I should have the strength of desperation; I should have my hands, my
knees, my chest, my forehead, my teeth to strangle him, to crush him,
to bite him, to tear him to pieces. And I watched for him with all my
over-excited organs.
I had lighted my two lamps and the eight wax candles on my mantelpiece,
as if by this light I could have discovered him.
My bed, my old oak bed with its columns, was opposite to me; on my
right was the fireplace; on my left the door which was carefully
closed, after I had left it open for some time, in order to attract
him; behind me was a very high wardrobe with a looking-glass in it,
which served me to make my toilet every day, and in which I was in the
habit of looking at myself from head to foot every time I passed it.
So I pretended to be writing in order to deceive him, for he also was
watching me, and suddenly I felt, I was certain that he was reading
over my shoulder, that he was there, almost touching my ear.
I got up so quickly, with my hands extended, that I almost fell. Eh!
well?... It was as bright as at midday, but I did not see myself in
the glass!... It was empty, clear, profound, full of light! But my
figure was not reflected in it ... and I, I was opposite to it! I saw
the large, clear glass from top to bottom, and I looked at it with
unsteady eyes; and I did not dare to advance; I did not venture to make
a movement, nevertheless, feeling perfectly that he was there, but that
he would escape me again, he whose imperceptible body had absorbed my
reflection.
How frightened I was! And then suddenly I began to see myself through a
mist in the depths of the looking-glass, in a mist as it were through
a sheet of water; and it seemed to me as if this water were flowing
slowly from left to right, and making my figure clearer every moment.
It was like the end of an eclipse. Whatever it was that hid me, did not
appear to possess any clearly defined outlines, but a sort of opaque
transparency, which gradually grew clearer.
At last I was able to distinguish myself completely, as I do every day
when I looked at myself.
I had seen it! And the horror of it remained with me and makes me
shudder even now.
_August 20th._ How could I kill it, as I could not get hold of it?
Poison? But it would see me mix it with the water; and then, would our
poisons have any effect on its impalpable body? No ... no ... no doubt
about the matter.... Then?... then?...
_August 21st._ I sent for a blacksmith from Rouen, and ordered iron
shutters of him for my room, such as some private hotels in Paris have
on the ground floor, for fear of thieves, and he is going to make me a
similar door as well. I have made myself out as a coward, but I do not
care about that!...
_September 10th._ Rouen, Hotel Continental. It is done; ... it is done
... but is he dead? My mind is thoroughly upset by what I have seen.
Well, then, yesterday the locksmith having put on the iron shutters and
door, I left everything open until midnight, although it was getting
cold.
Suddenly I felt that he was there, and joy, mad joy, took possession of
me. I got up softly, and I walked to the right and left for some time,
so that he might not guess anything; then I took off my boots and put
on my slippers carelessly; then I fastened the iron shutters and going
back to the door quickly I double-locked it with a padlock, putting the
key into my pocket.
Suddenly I noticed that he was moving restlessly round me, that in his
turn he was frightened and was ordering me to let him out. I nearly
yielded, though I did not yet, but putting my back to the door I half
opened it, just enough to allow me to go out backward, and as I am very
tall, my head touched the lintel. I was sure that he had not been able
to escape, and I shut him up quite alone, quite alone. What happiness!
I had him fast. Then I ran downstairs; in the drawing-room, which was
under my bedroom, I took the two lamps and I poured all the oil onto
the carpet, the furniture, everywhere; then I set fire to it and made
my escape, after having carefully double-locked the door.
I went and hid myself at the bottom of the garden in a clump of laurel
bushes. How long it was! how long it was! Everything was dark, silent,
motionless, not a breath of air and not a star, but heavy banks of
clouds which one could not see, but which weighed, oh! so heavily on my
soul.
I looked at my house and waited. How long it was! I already began to
think that the fire had gone out of its own accord, or that he had
extinguished it, when one of the lower windows gave way under the
violence of the flames, and a long, soft, caressing sheet of red flame
mounted up the white wall and kissed it as high as the roof. The light
fell onto the trees, the branches, and the leaves, and a shiver of
fear pervaded them also! The birds awoke; a dog began to howl, and it
seemed to me as if the day were breaking! Almost immediately two other
windows flew into fragments, and I saw that the whole of the lower part
of my house was nothing but a terrible furnace. But a cry, a horrible,
shrill, heartrending cry, a woman’s cry, sounded through the night, and
two garret windows were opened! I had forgotten the servants! I saw the
terrorstruck faces, and their frantically waving arms!...
Then, overwhelmed with horror, I set off to run to the village,
shouting: “Help! help! fire! fire!” I met some people who were already
coming onto the scene, and I went back with them to see!
By this time the house was nothing but a horrible and magnificent
funeral pile, a monstrous funeral pile which lit up the whole country,
a funeral pile where men were burning, and where he was burning also,
He, He, my prisoner, that new Being, the new master, the Horla!
Suddenly the whole roof fell in between the walls, and a volcano of
flames darted up to the sky. Through all the windows which opened onto
that furnace I saw the flames darting, and I thought that he was there,
in that kiln, dead.
Dead? perhaps?... His body? Was not his body, which was transparent,
indestructible by such means as would kill ours?
If he was not dead?... Perhaps time alone has power over that Invisible
and Redoubtable Being. Why this transparent, unrecognizable body, this
body belonging to a spirit, if it also had to fear ills, infirmities
and premature destruction?
Premature destruction? All human terror springs from that! After man
the Horla. After him who can die every day, at any hour, at any moment,
by any accident, he came who was only to die at his own proper hour and
minute, because he had touched the limits of his existence!
No ... no ... without any doubt ... he is not dead. Then ... then ... I
suppose I must kill myself!
[EDITOR’S NOTE. Students of this great genius among short story
writers contend that there is an autobiographical touch to “The
Horla.” De Maupassant had a haunting presentiment of going mad.]
THE MUMMY’S FOOT
By THÉOPHILE GAUTIER
I had entered, in an idle mood, the shop of one of those curiosity
venders who are called _marchands de bric-à-brac_ in that Parisian
_argot_ which is so perfectly unintelligble elsewhere in France.
You have doubtless glanced occasionally through the windows of some of
these shops, which have become so numerous now that it is fashionable
to buy antiquated furniture, and that every petty stock broker thinks
he must have his _chambre au moyen âge_.
There is one thing there which clings alike to the shop of the dealer
in old iron, the ware-room of the tapestry maker, the laboratory of
the chemist, and the studio of the painter: in all those gloomy dens
where a furtive daylight filters in through the window-shutters the
most manifestly ancient thing is dust. The cobwebs are more authentic
than the guimp laces, and the old pear-tree furniture on exhibition is
actually younger than the mahogany which arrived but yesterday from
America.
The warehouse of my bric-à-brac dealer was a veritable Capharnaum.
All ages and all nations seemed to have made their rendezvous there.
An Etruscan lamp of red clay stood upon a Boule cabinet, with ebony
panels, brightly striped by lines of inlaid brass; a duchess of the
court of Louis XV. nonchalantly extended her fawn-like feet under a
massive table of the time of Louis XIII., with heavy spiral supports of
oak, and carven designs of chimeras and foliage intermingled.
Upon the denticulated shelves of several sideboards glittered immense
Japanese dishes with red and blue designs relieved by gilded hatching,
side by side with enamelled works by Bernard Palissy, representing
serpents, frogs, and lizards in relief.
From disembowelled cabinets escaped cascades of silver-lustrous Chinese
silks and waves of tinsels which an oblique sunbeam shot through with
luminous beads; while portraits of every era, in frames more or less
tarnished, smiled through their yellow varnish.
The striped breastplate of a damascened suit of Milanese armor
glittered in one corner; loves and nymphs of porcelain, Chinese
grotesques, vases of _céladon_ and crackle-ware, Saxon and old Sèvres
cups encumbered the shelves and nooks of the apartment.
The dealer followed me closely through the tortuous way contrived
between the piles of furniture, warding off with his hand the hazardous
sweep of my coat-skirts, watching my elbows with the uneasy attention
of an antiquarian and a usurer.
It was a singular face, that of the merchant; an immense skull,
polished like a knee, and surrounded by a thin aureole of white hair,
which brought out the clear salmon tint of his complexion all the
more strikingly, lent him a false aspect of patriarchal _bonhomie_,
counteracted, however, by the scintillation of two little yellow eyes
which trembled in their orbits like two louis d’or upon quicksilver.
The curve of his nose presented an aquiline silhouette, which suggested
the Oriental or Jewish type. His hands--thin, slender, full of nerves
which projected like strings upon the finger-board of a violin, and
armed with claws like those on the terminations of bats’ wings--shook
with senile trembling; but those convulsively agitated hands became
firmer than steel pincers or lobsters’ claws when they lifted any
precious article--an onyx cup, a Venetian glass, or a dish of Bohemian
crystal. This strange old man had an aspect so thoroughly rabbinical
and cabalistic that he would have been burnt on the mere testimony of
his face three centuries ago.
“Will you not buy something from me to-day, sir? Here is a Malay kreese
with a blade undulating like flame. Look at those grooves contrived
for the blood to run along, those teeth set backward so as to tear
out the entrails in withdrawing the weapon. It is a fine character of
ferocious arm, and will look well in your collection. This two-handed
sword is very beautiful. It is the work of Josepe de la Hera; and this
_colichemarde_, with its fenestrated guard--what a superb specimen of
handicraft!”
“No; I have quite enough weapons and instruments of carnage. I want a
small figure, something which will suit me as a paper-weight, for I
cannot endure those trumpery bronzes which the stationers sell, and
which may be found on everybody’s desk.”
The old gnome foraged among his ancient wares, and finally arranged
before me some antique bronzes, so-called at least; fragments of
malachite, little Hindoo or Chinese idols, a kind of poussah-toys in
jade-stone, representing the incarnations of Brahma or Vishnoo, and
wonderfully appropriate to the very undivine office of holding papers
and letters in place.
I was hesitating between a porcelain dragon, all constellated with
warts, its mouth formidable with bristling tusks and ranges of
teeth, and an abominable little Mexican fetich, representing the god
Vitziliputzili _au naturel_, when I caught sight of a charming foot,
which I at first took for a fragment of some antique Venus.
It had those beautiful ruddy and tawny tints that lend to Florentine
bronze that warm living look so much preferable to the gray-green
aspect of common bronzes, which might easily be mistaken for statues in
a state of putrefaction. Satiny gleams played over its rounded forms,
doubtless polished by the amorous kisses of twenty centuries, for it
seemed a Corinthian bronze, a work of the best era of art, perhaps
molded by Lysippus himself.
“That foot will be my choice,” I said to the merchant, who regarded me
with an ironical and saturnine air, and held out the object desired
that I might examine it more fully.
I was surprised at its lightness. It was not a foot of metal, but in
sooth a foot of flesh, an embalmed foot, a mummy’s foot. On examining
it still more closely the very grain of the skin, and the almost
imperceptible lines impressed upon it by the texture of the bandages,
became perceptible. The toes were slender and delicate, and terminated
by perfectly formed nails, pure and transparent as agates. The great
toe, slightly separated from the rest, afforded a happy contrast, in
the antique style, to the position of the other toes, and lent it
an aërial lightness--the grace of a bird’s foot. The sole, scarcely
streaked by a few almost imperceptible cross lines, afforded evidence
that it had never touched the bare ground, and had only come in contact
with the finest matting of Nile rushes and the softest carpets of
panther skin.
“Ha, ha, you want the foot of the Princess Hermonthis!” exclaimed the
merchant, with a strange giggle, fixing his owlish eyes upon me. “Ha,
ha, ha! For a paper-weight! An original idea!--an artistic idea! Old
Pharaoh would certainly have been surprised had some one told him
that the foot of his adored daughter would be used for a paper-weight
after he had had a mountain of granite hollowed out as a receptacle
for the triple coffin, painted and gilded, covered with hieroglyphics
and beautiful paintings of the Judgment of Souls,” continued the queer
little merchant, half audibly, as though talking to himself.
“How much will you charge me for this mummy fragment?”
“Ah, the highest price I can get, for it is a superb piece. If I had
the match of it you could not have it for less than five hundred
francs. The daughter of a Pharaoh! Nothing is more rare.”
“Assuredly that is not a common article, but still, how much do you
want? In the first place let me warn you that all my wealth consists of
just five louis. I can buy anything that costs five louis, but nothing
dearer. You might search my vest pockets and most secret drawers
without even finding one poor five-franc piece more.”
“Five louis for the foot of the Princess Hermonthis! That is very
little, very little indeed. ’Tis an authentic foot,” muttered the
merchant, shaking his head, and imparting a peculiar rotary motion to
his eyes. “Well, take it, and I will give you the bandages into the
bargain,” he added, wrapping the foot in an ancient damask rag. “Very
fine! Real damask--Indian damask which has never been re-dyed. It is
strong, and yet it is soft,” he mumbled, stroking the frayed tissue
with his fingers, through the trade-acquired habit which moved him to
praise even an object of such little value that he himself deemed it
only worth the giving away.
He poured the gold coins into a sort of mediæval alms-purse hanging at
his belt, repeating:
“The foot of the Princess Hermonthis to be used for a paper-weight!”
Then turning his phosphorescent eyes upon me, he exclaimed in a voice
strident as the crying of a cat which has swallowed a fish-bone:
“Old Pharaoh will not be well pleased. He loved his daughter, the dear
man!”
“You speak as if you were a contemporary of his. You are old enough,
goodness knows! but you do not date back to the Pyramids of Egypt,” I
answered, laughingly, from the threshold.
I went home, delighted with my acquisition.
With the idea of putting it to profitable use as soon as possible, I
placed the foot of the divine Princess Hermonthis upon a heap of papers
scribbled over with verses, in themselves an undecipherable mosaic work
of erasures; articles freshly begun; letters forgotten, and posted
in the table drawer in stead of the letter-box, an error to which
absent-minded people are peculiarly liable. The effect was charming,
_bizarre_, and romantic.
Well satisfied with this embellishment, I went out with the gravity
and pride becoming one who feels that he has the ineffable advantage
over all the passers-by whom he elbows, of possessing a piece of the
Princess Hermonthis, daughter of Pharaoh.
I looked upon all who did not possess, like myself, a paper-weight so
authentically Egyptian as very ridiculous people, and it seemed to me
that the proper occupation of every sensible man should consist in the
mere fact of having a mummy’s foot upon his desk.
Happily I met some friends, whose presence distracted me in my
infatuation with this new acquisition. I went to dinner with them, for
I could not very well have dined with myself.
When I came back that evening, with my brain slightly confused by a
few glasses of wine, a vague whiff of Oriental perfume delicately
titillated my olfactory nerves. The heat of the room had warmed the
natron, bitumen, and myrrh in which the _paraschistes_, who cut open
the bodies of the dead, had bathed the corpse of the princess. It was
a perfume at once sweet and penetrating, a perfume that four thousand
years had not been able to dissipate.
The Dream of Egypt was Eternity. Her odors have the solidity of granite
and endure as long.
I soon drank deeply from the black cup of sleep. For a few hours all
remained opaque to me. Oblivion and nothingness inundated me with their
sombre waves.
Yet light gradually dawned upon the darkness of my mind. Dreams
commenced to touch me softly in their silent flight.
The eyes of my soul were opened, and I beheld my chamber as it actually
was. I might have believed myself awake but for a vague consciousness
which assured me that I slept, and that something fantastic was about
to take place.
The odor of the myrrh had augmented in intensity, and I felt a slight
headache, which I very naturally attributed to several glasses of
champagne that we had drunk to the unknown gods and our future
fortunes. I peered through my room with a feeling of expectation which
I saw nothing to justify. Every article of furniture was in its proper
place. The lamp, softly shaded by its globe of ground crystal, burned
upon its bracket; the water-color sketches shone under their Bohemian
glass; the curtains hung down languidly; everything wore an aspect of
tranquil slumber.
After a few moments, however, all this calm interior appeared to
become disturbed. The woodwork cracked stealthily, the ash-covered log
suddenly emitted a jet of blue flame, and the disks of the pateras
seemed like great metallic eyes, watching, like myself, for the things
which were about to happen.
My eyes accidentally fell upon the desk where I had placed the foot of
the Princess Hermonthis.
Instead of remaining quiet, as behooved a foot which had been embalmed
for four thousand years, it commenced to act in a nervous manner,
contracted itself, and leaped over the papers like a startled frog. One
would have imagined that it had suddenly been brought into contact with
a galvanic battery. I could distinctly hear the dry sound made by its
little heel, hard as the hoof of a gazelle.
I became rather discontented with my acquisition, inasmuch as I wished
my paper-weights to be of a sedentary disposition, and thought it very
unnatural that feet should walk about without legs, then I commenced to
experience a feeling closely akin to fear.
Suddenly I saw the folds of my bed-curtain stir, and heard a bumping
sound, like that caused by some person hopping on one foot across the
floor. I must confess I became alternately hot and cold, that I felt a
strange wind chill my back, and that my suddenly rising hair caused my
night-cap to execute a leap of several yards.
The bed-curtains opened and I beheld the strangest figure imaginable
before me.
It was a young girl of a very deep coffee-brown complexion, like the
bayadere Amani, and possessing the purest Egyptian type of perfect
beauty. Her eyes were almond-shaped and oblique, with eyebrows so black
that they seemed blue; her nose was exquisitely chiselled, almost Greek
in its delicacy of outline; and she might indeed have been taken for a
Corinthian statue of bronze but for the prominence of her cheek-bones
and the slightly African fulness of her lips, which compelled one to
recognize her as belonging beyond all doubt to the hieroglyphic race
which dwelt upon the banks of the Nile.
Her arms, slender and spindle-shaped like those of very young girls,
were encircled by a peculiar kind of metal bands and bracelets of
glass beads; her hair was all twisted into little cords, and she wore
upon her bosom a little idol-figure of green paste, bearing a whip
with seven lashes, which proved it to be an image of Isis; her brow
was adorned with a shining plate of gold, and a few traces of paint
relieved the coppery tint of her cheeks.
As for her costume, it was very odd indeed.
Fancy a _pagne_, or skirt, all formed of little strips of material
bedizened with red and black hieroglyphics, stiffened with bitumen, and
apparently belonging to a freshly unbandaged mummy.
In one of those sudden flights of thought so common in dreams I
heard the hoarse falsetto of the bric-à-brac dealer, repeating like
a monotonous refrain the phrase he had uttered in his shop with so
enigmatical an intonation:
“Old Pharaoh will not be well pleased. He loved his daughter, the dear
man!”
One strange circumstance, which was not at all calculated to restore
my equanimity, was that the apparition had but one foot; the other was
broken off at the ankle!
She approached the table where the foot lay, starting and fidgetting
about more than ever, and there supported herself upon the edge of the
desk. I saw her eyes fill with pearly gleaming tears.
Although she had not as yet spoken, I fully comprehended the thoughts
which agitated her. She looked at her foot--for it was indeed her
own--with an exquisitely graceful expression of coquettish sadness, but
the foot leaped and ran hither and thither, as though impelled on steel
springs.
Twice or thrice she extended her hand to seize it, but could not
succeed.
Then commenced between the Princess Hermonthis and her foot--which
appeared to be endowed with a special life of its own--a very fantastic
dialogue in a most ancient Coptic tongue, such as might have been
spoken thirty centuries ago by the sphinxes of the land of Ser.
Luckily I understood Coptic perfectly well that night.
The Princess Hermonthis cried, in a voice sweet and vibrant as the
tones of a crystal bell:
“Well, my dear little foot, you always flee from me, yet I always
took good care of you. I bathed you with perfumed water in a bowl of
alabaster; I smoothed your heel with pumice-stone mixed with palm
oil; your nails were cut with golden scissors and polished with a
hippopotamus tooth; I was careful to select _tatbebs_ for you, painted
and embroidered and turned up at the toes, which were the envy of all
the young girls in Egypt. You wore on your great toe rings bearing the
device of the sacred Scarabæus, and you supported one of the lightest
bodies that a lazy foot could sustain.”
The foot replied in a pouting and chagrined tone:
“You know well that I do not belong to myself any longer. I have been
bought and paid for. The old merchant knew what he was about. He bore
you a grudge for having refused to espouse him. This is an ill turn
which he has done you. The Arab who violated your royal coffin in the
subterranean pits of the necropolis of Thebes was sent thither by him.
He desired to prevent you from being present at the reunion of the
shadowy nations in the cities below. Have you five pieces of gold for
my ransom?”
“Alas, no! My jewels, my rings, my purses of gold and silver were all
stolen from me,” answered the Princess Hermonthis, with a sob.
“Princess,” I then exclaimed, “I never retained anybody’s foot
unjustly. Even though you have not got the five louis which it cost me,
I present it to you gladly. I should feel unutterably wretched to think
that I were the cause of so amiable a person as the Princess Hermonthis
being lame.”
I delivered this discourse in a royally gallant, troubadour tone which
must have astonished the beautiful Egyptian girl.
She turned a look of deepest gratitude upon me, and her eyes shone with
bluish gleams of light.
She took her foot, which surrendered itself willingly this time, like a
woman about to put on her little shoe, and adjusted it to her leg with
much skill.
This operation over, she took a few steps about the room, as though to
assure herself that she was really no longer lame.
“Ah, how pleased my father will be! He who was so unhappy because of my
mutilation, and who from the moment of my birth set a whole nation at
work to hollow me out a tomb so deep that he might preserve me intact
until that last day, when souls must be weighed in the balance of
Amenthi! Come with me to my father. He will receive you kindly, for you
have given me back my foot.”
I thought this proposition natural enough. I arrayed myself in a
dressing-gown of large-flowered pattern, which lent me a very Pharaonic
aspect, hurriedly put on a pair of Turkish slippers, and informed the
Princess Hermonthis that I was ready to follow her.
Before starting, Hermonthis took from her neck the little idol of
green paste, and laid it on the scattered sheets of paper which covered
the table.
“It is only fair,” she observed, smilingly, “that I should replace your
paper-weight.”
She gave me her hand, which felt soft and cold, like the skin of a
serpent, and we departed.
We passed for some time with the velocity of an arrow through a fluid
and grayish expanse, in which half-formed silhouettes flitted swiftly
by us, to right and left.
For an instant we saw only sky and sea.
A few moments later obelisks commenced to tower in the distance; pylons
and vast flights of steps guarded by sphinxes became clearly outlined
against the horizon.
We had reached our destination.
The princess conducted me to a mountain of rose-colored granite, in the
face of which appeared an opening so narrow and low that it would have
been difficult to distinguish it from the fissures in the rock, had not
its location been marked by two stelæ wrought with sculptures.
Hermonthis kindled a torch and led the way before me.
We traversed corridors hewn through the living rock. These walls
covered with hieroglyphics and paintings of allegorical processions,
might well have occupied thousands of arms for thousands of years in
their formation. These corridors of interminable length opened into
square chambers, in the midst of which pits had been contrived, through
which we descended by cramp-irons or spiral stairways. These pits
again conducted us into other chambers, opening into other corridors,
likewise decorated with painted sparrow-hawks, serpents coiled in
circles, the symbols of the _tau_ and _pedum_--prodigious works of art
which no living eye can ever examine--interminable legends of granite
which only the dead have time to read through all eternity.
At last we found ourselves in a hall so vast, so enormous, so
immeasurable, that the eye could not reach its limits. Files of
monstrous columns stretched far out of sight on every side, between
which twinkled livid stars of yellowish flame; points of light which
revealed further depths incalculable in the darkness beyond.
The Princess Hermonthis still held my hand, and graciously saluted the
mummies of her acquaintance.
My eyes became accustomed to the dim twilight, and objects became
discernible.
I beheld the kings of the subterranean races seated upon thrones--grand
old men, though dry, withered, wrinkled like parchment, and blackened
with naphtha and bitumen--all wearing _pshents_ of gold, and
breast-plates and gorgets glittering with precious stones, their eyes
immovably fixed like the eyes of sphinxes, and their long beards
whitened by the snow of centuries. Behind them stood their peoples,
in the stiff and constrained posture enjoined by Egyptian art, all
eternally preserving the attitude prescribed by the hieratic code.
Behind these nations, the cats, ibixes, and crocodiles, contemporary
with them--rendered monstrous of aspect by their swathing bands--mewed,
flapped their wings, or extended their jaws in a saurian giggle.
All the Pharaohs were there--Cheops, Chephrenes, Psammetichus,
Sesostris, Amenotaph--all the dark rulers of the pyramids and sphinxes.
On yet higher thrones sat Chronos and Xixouthros, who was contemporary
with the deluge, and Tubal Cain, who reigned before it.
The beard of King Xixouthros had grown seven times around the granite
table, upon which he leaned, lost in deep reverie, and buried in dreams.
Farther back, through a dusty cloud, I beheld dimly the seventy-two
pre-adamite kings, with their seventy-two peoples, forever passed away.
After permitting me to gaze upon this bewildering spectacle a few
moments, the Princess Hermonthis presented me to her father Pharaoh,
who favored me with a most gracious nod.
“I have found my foot again! I have found my foot!” cried the princess,
clapping her little hands together with every sign of frantic joy. “It
was this gentleman who restored it to me.”
The races of Kemi, the races of Nahasi--all the black, bronzed, and
copper-colored nations repeated in chorus:
“The Princess Hermonthis has found her foot again!”
Even Xixouthros himself was visibly affected.
He raised his heavy eyelids, stroked his moustache with his fingers,
and turned upon me a glance weighty with centuries.
“By Oms, the dog of Hell, and Tmei, daughter of the Sun and of Truth,
this is a brave and worthy lad!” exclaimed Pharaoh, pointing to me with
his sceptre, which was terminated with a lotus-flower. “What recompense
do you desire?”
Filled with that daring inspired by dreams in which nothing seems
impossible, I asked him for the hand of the Princess Hermonthis. The
hand seemed to me a very proper antithetic recompense for the foot.
Pharaoh opened wide his great eyes of glass in astonishment at my witty
request.
“What country do you come from, what is your age?”
“I am a Frenchman, and I am twenty-seven years old, venerable Pharaoh.”
“Twenty-seven years old, and he wishes to espouse the Princess
Hermonthis who is thirty centuries old!” cried out at once all the
Thrones and all the Circles of Nations.
Only Hermonthis herself did not seem to think my request unreasonable.
“If you were even two thousand years old,” replied the ancient king,
“I would willingly give you the princess, but the disproportion is too
great; and, besides, we must give our daughters husbands who will last
well. You do not know how to preserve yourselves any longer. Even those
who died only fifteen centuries ago are already no more than a handful
of dust. Behold, my flesh is solid as basalt, my bones are bones of
steel!
“I will be present on the last day of the world with the same body
and the same features which I had during my lifetime. My daughter
Hermonthis will last longer than a statue of bronze.
“Then the last particles of your dust will have been scattered abroad
by the winds, and even Isis herself, who was able to find the atoms of
Osiris, would scarce be able to recompense your being.
“See how vigorous I yet remain, and how mighty is my grasp,” he added,
shaking my hand in the English fashion with a strength that buried my
rings in the flesh of my fingers.
He squeezed me so hard that I awoke, and found my friend Alfred shaking
me by the arm to make me get up.
“Oh, you everlasting sleeper! Must I have you carried out into the
middle of the street, and fireworks exploded in your ears? It is
afternoon. Don’t you recollect your promise to take me with you to see
M. Aguado’s Spanish pictures?”
“God! I forgot all, all about it,” I answered, dressing myself
hurriedly. “We will go there at once. I have the permit lying there on
my desk.”
I started to find it, but fancy my astonishment when I beheld, instead
of the mummy’s foot I had purchased the evening before, the little
green paste idol left in its place by the Princess Hermonthis!
THE THIEF
By ANNA KATHARINE GREEN
[Attribution By permission of the author. From “Masterpieces of
Mystery,” by Anna Katharine Green, copyright 1913, by Dodd, Mead & Co.]
“And now, if you have all seen the coin and sufficiently admired it,
you may pass it back. I make a point of never leaving it off the shelf
for more than fifteen minutes.”
The half-dozen or more guests seated about the board of the genial
speaker, glanced casually at each other as though expecting to see the
object mentioned immediately produced.
But no coin appeared.
“I have other amusements waiting,” suggested their host, with a smile
in which even his wife could detect no signs of impatience. “Now let
Robert put it back into the cabinet.”
Robert was the butler.
Blank looks, negative gestures, but still no coin.
“Perhaps it is in somebody’s lap,” timidly ventured one of the younger
women. “It doesn’t seem to be on the table.”
Immediately all the ladies began lifting their napkins and shaking
out the gloves which lay under them, in an effort to relieve their own
embarrassment and that of the gentlemen who had not even so simple a
resource as this at their command.
“It can’t be lost,” protested Mr. Sedgwick, with an air of perfect
confidence. “I saw it but a minute ago in somebody’s hand. Darrow, you
had it; what did you do with it?”
“Passed it along.”
“Well, well, it must be under somebody’s plate or doily.” And he began
to move about his own and such dishes as were within reach of his hand.
Each guest imitated him, lifting glasses and turning over spoons till
Mr. Sedgwick himself bade them desist. “It’s slipped to the floor,” he
nonchalantly concluded. “A toast to the ladies, and we will give Robert
the chance of looking for it.”
As they drank this toast, his apparently careless, but quietly astute,
glance took in each countenance about him. The coin was very valuable
and its loss would be keenly felt by him. Had it slipped from the table
some one’s eye would have perceived it, some hand would have followed
it. Only a minute or two before, the attention of the whole party had
been concentrated upon it. Darrow had held it up for all to see, while
he discoursed upon its history. He would take Darrow aside at the
first opportunity and ask him--But--ah! how could he do that? These
were his intimate friends. He knew them well, more than well, with one
exception, and he--Well, he was the handsomest of the lot and the most
debonair and agreeable. A little more gay than usual to-night, possibly
a trifle too gay, considering that a man of Mr. Blake’s social weight
and business standing sat at the board; but not to be suspected, no,
not to be suspected, even if he was the next man after Darrow and had
betrayed something like confusion when the eyes of the whole table
turned his way at the former’s simple statement of “I passed it on.”
Robert would find the coin; he was a fool to doubt it; and if Robert
did not, why, he would simply have to pocket his chagrin, and not let a
triviality like this throw a shadow over his hospitality.
All this, while he genially lifted his glass and proposed the health of
the ladies. The constraint of the preceding moment was removed by his
manner, and a dozen jests caused as many merry laughs. Then he pushed
back his chair.
“And now, some music!” he cheerfully cried, as with lingering glances
and some further pokings about of the table furniture, the various
guests left their places and followed him into the adjoining room.
But the ladies were too nervous and the gentlemen not sufficiently
sure of their voices to undertake the entertainment of the rest at a
moment of such acknowledged suspense; and notwithstanding the exertions
of their host and his quiet but much discomfited wife, it soon became
apparent that but one thought engrossed them all, and that any attempt
at conversation must prove futile so long as the curtains between the
two rooms remained open and they could see Robert on his hands and
knees searching the floor and shoving aside the rugs.
Darrow, who was Mr. Sedgwick’s brother-in-law and almost as much at
home in the house as Sedgwick himself, made a move to draw these
curtains, but something in his relative’s face stopped him and he
desisted with some laughing remark which did not attract enough
attention, even, to elicit any response.
“I hope his eyesight is good,” murmured one of the young girls, edging
a trifle forward. “Mayn’t I help him look? They say at home that I am
the only one in the house who can find anything.”
Mr. Sedgwick smiled indulgently at the speaker (a round-faced,
round-eyed, merry-hearted girl whom in days gone by he had dandled on
his knees) but answered quite quickly for him:
“Robert will find it if it is there.” Then, distressed at this
involuntary disclosure of his thought, added in his wholehearted way:
“It’s such a little thing, and the room is so big, and a round object
rolls unexpectedly far, you know. Well, have you got it?” he eagerly
demanded, as the butler finally showed himself in the door.
“No, sir; and it’s not in the dining-room. I have cleared the table and
thoroughly searched the floor.”
Mr. Sedgwick knew that he had. He had no doubts about Robert. Robert
had been in his employ for years and had often handled his coins and,
at his order, sometimes shown them.
“Very well,” said he, “we’ll not bother about it any more to-night; you
may draw the curtains.”
But here the clear, almost strident voice of the youngest man of the
party interposed.
“Wait a minute,” said he. “This especial coin is the great treasure
of Mr. Sedgwick’s valuable collection. It is unique in this country,
and not only worth a great deal of money, but cannot be duplicated at
any cost. There are only three of its stamp in the world. Shall we
let the matter pass, then, as though it were of small importance? I
feel that we cannot; that we are, in a measure, responsible for its
disappearance. Mr. Sedgwick handed it to us to look at, and while it
was going through our hands it vanished. What must he think? What has
he every right to think? I need not put it into words; you know what
you would think, what you could not help but think, if the object
were yours and it was lost in this way. Gentlemen--I leave the ladies
entirely out of this--I do not propose that he shall have further
opportunity to associate me with this very natural doubt. I demand the
privilege of emptying my pockets here and now, before any of us have
left his presence. I am a connoisseur in coins myself and consequently
find it imperative to take the initiative in this matter. As I propose
to spare the ladies, let us step back into the dining-room. Mr.
Sedgwick, pray don’t deny me; I’m thoroughly in earnest, I assure you.”
The astonishment created by this audacious proposition was so great,
and the feeling it occasioned so intense, that for an instant all
stood speechless. Young Hammersley was a millionaire himself, and
generous to a fault, as all knew. Under no circumstances would any one
even suspect him of appropriating anything, great or small, to which he
had not a perfect right. Nor was he likely to imagine for a moment that
any one would. That he could make such a proposition then, based upon
any such plea, argued a definite suspicion in some other quarter, which
could not pass unrecognized. In vain Mr. Sedgwick raised his voice in
frank and decided protest, two of the gentlemen had already made a
quick move toward Robert, who still stood, stupefied by the situation,
with his hand on the cord which controlled the curtains.
“He is quite right,” remarked one of these, as he passed into the
dining-room. “I shouldn’t sleep a wink to-night if this question
remained unsettled.” The other, the oldest man present, the financier
of whose standing and highly esteemed character I have already spoken,
said nothing, but followed in a way to show that his mind was equally
made up.
The position in which Mr. Sedgwick found himself placed was far from
enviable. With a glance at the two remaining gentlemen, he turned
towards the ladies now standing in a close group at the other end of
the room. One of them was his wife, and he quivered internally as he
noted the deep red of her distressed countenance. But it was the other
he addressed, singling out, with the rare courtesy which was his by
nature, the one comparative stranger, Darrow’s niece, a Rochester
girl, who could not be finding this, her first party in Boston, very
amusing.
“I hope you will appreciate the dilemma in which I have been placed by
these gentlemen,” he began, “and will pardon--”
But here he noticed that she was not in the least attending; her eyes
were on the handsome figure of Hugh Clifford, her uncle’s neighbor
at table, who in company with Mr. Hammersley was still hesitating
in the doorway. As Mr. Sedgwick stopped his useless talk, the two
passed in and the sound of her fluttering breath as she finally turned
a listening ear his way, caused him to falter as he repeated his
assurances and begged her indulgence.
She answered with some conventional phrase which he forgot while
crossing the room. But the remembrance of her slight satin-robed
figure, drawn up in an attitude whose carelessness was totally belied
by the anxiety of her half-averted glance, followed him into the
presence of the four men awaiting him. Four? I should say five, for
Robert was still there, though in a corner by himself, ready, no
doubt, to share any attempt which the others might make to prove their
innocence.
“The ladies will await us in the music-room,” announced the host
on entering; and then paused, disconcerted by the picture suddenly
disclosed to his eye. On one side stood the two who had entered first,
with their eyes fixed in open sternness on young Clifford, who, quite
alone on the rug, faced them with a countenance of such pronounced
pallor that there seemed to be nothing else in the room. As his
features were singularly regular and his almost perfect mouth was
accentuated by a smile as set as his figure was immobile, the effect
was so startling that not only Mr. Sedgwick, but every other person
present, no doubt, wished that the plow had never turned the furrow
which had brought this wretched coin to light.
However, the affair had gone too far now for retreat, as was shown by
Mr. Blake, the elderly financier whom all were ready to recognize as
the chief guest there. With an apologetic glance at Mr. Hammersley, the
impetuous young millionaire who had first proposed this embarrassing
procedure, he advanced to an empty side-table and began, in a quiet,
business-like way, to lay on it the contents of his various pockets.
As the pile rose, the silence grew, the act in itself was so simple,
the motive actuating it so serious and out of accord with the standing
of the company and the nature of the occasion. When all was done, he
stepped up to Mr. Sedgwick, with his arms raised and held out from his
body.
“Now accommodate me,” said he, “by running your hands up and down my
chest. I have a secret pocket there which should be empty at this time.”
Mr. Sedgwick, fascinated by his look, did as he was bid, reporting
shortly:
“You are quite correct. I find nothing there.”
Mr. Blake stepped back. As he did so, every eye, suddenly released
from his imposing figure, flashed towards the immovable Clifford, to
find him still absorbed by the action and attitude of the man who
had just undergone what to him doubtless appeared a degrading ordeal.
Pale before, he was absolutely livid now, though otherwise unchanged.
To break the force of what appeared to be an open, if involuntary,
self-betrayal, another guest stepped forward; but no sooner had he
raised his hand to his vest-pocket than Clifford moved, and in a high,
strident voice totally unlike his usual tones remarked:
“This is all--all--very interesting and commendable, no doubt. But
for such a procedure to be of any real value it should be entered
into by all. Gentlemen”--his rigidity was all gone now and so was his
pallor--“I am unwilling to submit myself to what, in my eyes, is an act
of unnecessary humiliation. Our word should be enough. I have not the
coin--” Stopped by the absolute silence, he cast a distressed look into
the faces about him, till it reached that of Mr. Sedgwick, where it
lingered, in an appeal to which that gentleman, out of his great heart,
instantly responded.
“One _should_ take the word of the gentleman he invites to his house.
We will excuse you, and excuse all the others from the unnecessary
ceremony which Mr. Blake has been good enough to initiate.”
But this show of favor was not to the mind of the last-mentioned
gentleman, and met with instant reproof.
“Not so fast, Sedgwick. I am the oldest man here and I did not feel it
was enough simply to state that this coin was not on my person. As to
the question of humiliation, it strikes me that humiliation would lie,
in this instance, in a refusal for which no better excuse can be given
than the purely egotistical one of personal pride.”
At this attack, the fine head of Clifford rose, and Darrow, remembering
the girl within, felt instinctively grateful that she was not here to
note the effect it gave to his person.
“I regret to differ,” said he. “To me no humiliation could equal that
of demonstrating in this open manner the fact of one’s not being a
thief.”
Mr. Blake gravely surveyed him. For some reason the issue seemed no
longer to lie between Clifford and the actual loser of the coin, but
between him and his fellow guest, this uncompromising banker.
“A thief!” repeated the young man, in an indescribable tone full of
bitterness and scorn.
Mr. Blake remained unmoved; he was a just man but strict, hard to
himself, hard to others. But he was not entirely without heart.
Suddenly his expression lightened. A certain possible explanation of
the other’s attitude had entered his mind.
“Young men sometimes have reasons for their susceptibilities which the
old forget. If you have such--if you carry a photograph, believe that
we have no interest in pictures of any sort to-night and certainly
would fail to recognize them.”
A smile of disdain flickered across the young man’s lip. Evidently it
was no discovery of this kind that he feared.
“I carry no photographs,” said he; and, bowing low to his host, he
added in a measured tone which but poorly hid his profound agitation,
“I regret to have interfered in the slightest way with the pleasure
of the evening. If you will be so good as to make my excuses to the
ladies, I will withdraw from a presence upon which I have made so poor
an impression.”
Mr. Sedgwick prized his coin and despised deceit, but he could not let
a guest leave him in this manner. Instinctively he held out his hand.
Proudly young Clifford dropped his own into it; but the lack of mutual
confidence was felt and the contact was a cold one. Half regretting his
impulsive attempt at courtesy, Mr. Sedgwick drew back, and Clifford
was already at the door leading into the hall, when Hammersley, who by
his indiscreet proposition had made all this trouble for him, sprang
forward and caught him by the arm.
“Don’t go,” he whispered. “You’re done for if you leave like this.
I--I was a brute to propose such an asinine thing, but having done so
I am bound to see you out of the difficulty. Come into the adjoining
room--there is nobody there at present--and we will empty our pockets
together and find this lost article if we can. I may have pocketed it
myself, in a fit of abstraction.”
Did the other hesitate? Some thought so; but, if he did, it was but
momentarily.
“I cannot,” he muttered; “think what you will of me, but let me go.”
And dashing open the door he disappeared from their sight just as light
steps and the rustle of skirts were heard again in the adjoining room.
“There are the ladies. What shall we say to them?” queried Sedgwick,
stepping slowly towards the intervening curtains.
“Tell them the truth,” enjoined Mr. Blake, as he hastily repocketed his
own belongings. “Why should a handsome devil like that be treated with
any more consideration than another? He has a secret if he hasn’t a
coin. Let them know this. It may save some one a future heartache.”
The last sentence was muttered, but Mr. Sedgwick heard it. Perhaps that
was why his first movement on entering the adjoining room was to cross
over to the cabinet and shut and lock the heavily paneled door which
had been left standing open. At all events, the action drew general
attention and caused an instant silence, broken the next minute by an
ardent cry:
“So your search was futile?”
It came from the lady least known, the interesting young stranger whose
personality had made so vivid an impression upon him.
“Quite so,” he answered, hastily facing her with an attempted smile.
“The gentlemen decided not to carry matters to the length first
proposed. The object was not worth it. I approved their decision.
This was meant for a joyous occasion. Why mar it by unnecessary
unpleasantness?”
She had given him her full attention while he was speaking, but her eye
wandered away the moment he had finished and rested searchingly on the
other gentlemen. Evidently she missed a face she had expected to find
there, for her color changed and she drew back behind the other ladies
with the light, unmusical laugh women sometimes use to hide a secret
emotion.
It brought Mr. Darrow forward.
“Some were not willing to subject themselves to what they considered an
unnecessary humiliation”, he curtly remarked. “Mr. Clifford--”
“There! let us drop it,” put in his brother-in-law. “I’ve lost my coin
and that’s the end of it. I don’t intend to have the evening spoiled
for a thing like that. Music! ladies, music and a jolly air! No more
dumps.” And with as hearty a laugh as he could command in face of the
somber looks he encountered on every side, he led the way back into the
music-room.
Once there the women seemed to recover their spirits; that is, such as
remained. One had disappeared. A door opened from this room into the
main hall and through this a certain young lady had vanished before the
others had had time to group themselves about the piano. We know who
this lady was; possibly, we know, too, why her hostess did not follow
her.
Meanwhile, Mr. Clifford had gone upstairs for his coat, and was
lingering there, the prey of some very bitter reflections. Though he
had encountered nobody on the stairs, and neither heard nor saw any
one in the halls, he felt confident that he was not unwatched. He
remembered the look on the butler’s face as he tore himself away from
Hammersley’s restraining hand, and he knew what that fellow thought
and also was quite able to guess what that fellow would do, if his
suspicions were farther awakened. This conviction brought an odd and
not very open smile to his face, as he finally turned to descend the
one flight which separated him from the front door he was so ardently
desirous of closing behind him for ever.
A moment and he would be down; but the steps were many and seemed to
multiply indefinitely as he sped below. Should his departure be noted,
and some one advance to detain him! He fancied he heard a rustle in
the open space under the stairs. Were any one to step forth, Robert
or-- With a start, he paused and clutched the banister. Some one had
stepped forth; a woman! The swish of her skirts was unmistakable. He
felt the chill of a new dread. Never in his short but triumphant career
had he met coldness or disapproval in the eye of a woman. Was he to
encounter it now? If so, it would go hard with him. He trembled as he
turned his head to see which of the four it was. If it should prove to
be his hostess-- But it was not she; it was Darrow’s young friend, the
pretty inconsequent girl he had chatted with at the dinner-table, and
afterwards completely forgotten in the events which had centered all
his thoughts upon himself. And she was standing there, waiting for him!
He would have to pass her,--notice her,--speak.
But when the encounter occurred and their eyes met, he failed to
find in hers any sign of the disapproval he feared, but instead a
gentlewomanly interest which he might interpret deeply, or otherwise,
according to the measure of his need.
That need seemed to be a deep one at this instant, for his countenance
softened perceptibly as he took her quietly extended hand.
“Good-night,” she said; “I am just going myself,” and with an
entrancing smile of perfect friendliness, she fluttered past him up the
stairs.
It was the one and only greeting which his sick heart could have
sustained without flinching. Just this friendly farewell of one
acquaintance to another, as though no change had taken place in his
relations to society and the world. And she was a woman and not a
thoughtless girl! Staring after her slight, elegant figure, slowly
ascending the stair, he forgot to return her cordial greeting. What
delicacy, and yet what character there was in the poise of her spirited
head! He felt his breath fail him, in his anxiety for another glance
from her eye, for some sign, however small, that she had carried the
thought of him up those few, quickly mounted steps. Would he get it?
She is at the bend of the stair; she pauses--turns, a nod--and she is
gone.
With an impetuous gesture, he dashed from the house.
In the drawing-room the noise of the closing door was heard, and
a change at once took place in the attitude and expression of
all present. The young millionaire approached Mr. Sedgwick and
confidentially remarked:
“There goes your precious coin. I’m sure of it. I even think I can
tell the exact place in which it is hidden. His hand went to his left
coat-pocket once too often.”
“That’s right. I noticed the action also,” chimed in Mr. Darrow, who
had stepped up, unobserved. “And I noticed something else. His whole
appearance altered from the moment this coin came on the scene. An
indefinable half-eager, half-furtive look crept into his eye as he saw
it passed from hand to hand. I remember it now, though it didn’t make
much impression upon me at the time.”
“And I remember another thing,” supplemented Hammersley in his anxiety
to set himself straight with these men of whose entire approval he was
not quite sure. “He raised his napkin to his mouth very frequently
during the meal and held it there longer than is usual, too. Once he
caught me looking at him, and for a moment he flushed scarlet, then
he broke out with one of his witty remarks and I had to laugh like
everybody else. If I am not mistaken, his napkin was up and his right
hand working behind it, about the time Mr. Sedgwick requested the
return of his coin.”
“The idiot! Hadn’t he sense enough to know that such a loss wouldn’t
pass unquestioned? The gem of the collection; known all over the
country, and he’s not even a connoisseur.”
“No; I’ve never even heard him mention numismatics.”
“Mr. Darrow spoke of its value. Perhaps that was what tempted him. I
know that Clifford’s been rather down on his luck lately.”
“He? Well, he don’t look it. There isn’t one of us so well set up.
Pardon me, Mr. Hammersley, you understand what I mean. He perhaps
relies a little bit too much on his fine clothes.”
“He needn’t. His face is his fortune--all the one he’s got, I heard
it said. He had a pretty income from Consolidated Silver, but that’s
gone up and left him in what you call difficulties. If he has debts
besides--”
But here Mr. Darrow was called off. His niece wanted to see him for
one minute in the hall. When he came back it was to make his adieu
and hers. She had been taken suddenly indisposed and his duty was to
see her immediately home. This broke up the party, and amid general
protestations the various guests were taking their leave when the whole
action was stopped by a smothered cry from the dining-room, and the
precipitate entrance of Robert, asking for Mr. Sedgwick.
“What’s up? What’s happened?” demanded that gentleman, hurriedly
advancing towards the agitated butler.
“Found!” he exclaimed, holding up the coin between his thumb and
forefinger. “It was standing straight up between two leaves of the
table. It tumbled and fell to the floor as Luke and I were taking them
out.”
Silence which could be felt for a moment. Then each man turned and
surveyed his neighbor, while the women’s voices rose in little cries
that were almost hysterical.
“I knew that it would be found, and found here,” came from the hallway
in rich, resonant tones. “Uncle, do not hurry; I am feeling better,”
followed in unconscious näiveté, as the young girl stepped in, showing
a countenance in which were small signs of indisposition or even of
depressed spirits.
Mr. Darrow, with a smile of sympathetic understanding, joined the
others now crowding about the butler.
“I noticed the crack between these two leaves when I pushed about the
plates and dishes,” he was saying. “But I never thought of looking in
it for the missing coin. I’m sure I’m very sorry that I didn’t.”
Mr. Darrow, to whom these words had recalled a circumstance he had
otherwise completely forgotten, anxiously remarked: “That must have
happened shortly after it left my hand. I recall now that the lady
sitting between me and Clifford gave it a twirl which sent it spinning
over the bare tabletop. I don’t think she realized the action. She was
listening--we all were--to a flow of bright repartee going on below us,
and failed to follow the movements of the coin. Otherwise, she would
have spoken. But what a marvel that it should have reached that crack
in just the position to fall in!”
“It wouldn’t happen again, not if we spun it there for a month of
Sundays.”
“But Mr. Clifford!” put in an agitated voice.
“Yes, it has been rather hard on him. But he shouldn’t have such keen
sensibilities. If he had emptied out his pockets cheerfully and at the
first intimation, none of this unpleasantness would have happened.
Mr. Sedgwick, I congratulate you upon the recovery of this valuable
coin, and am quite ready to offer my services if you wish to make Mr.
Clifford immediately acquainted with Robert’s discovery.”
“Thank you, but I will perform that duty myself,” was Mr. Sedgwick’s
quiet rejoinder, as he unlocked the door of his cabinet and carefully
restored the coin to its proper place.
When he faced back, he found his guests on the point of leaving. Only
one gave signs of any intention of lingering. This was the elderly
financier who had shown such stern resolve in his treatment of Mr.
Clifford’s so-called sensibilities. He had confided his wife to the
care of Mr. Darrow, and now met Mr. Sedgwick with this remark:
“I’m going to ask a favor of you. If, as you have intimated, it is your
intention to visit Mr. Clifford to-night, I should like to go with
you. I don’t understand this young man and his unaccountable attitude
in this matter, and it is very important that I should. Have you any
objection to my company? My motor is at the door, and we can settle
the affair in twenty-minutes.”
“None,” returned his host, a little surprised, however, at the
request. “His pride does seem a little out of place, but he was among
comparative strangers, and seemed to feel his honor greatly impugned by
Hammersley’s unfortunate proposition. I’m sorry way down to the ground
for what has occurred, and cannot carry him our apologies too soon.”
“No, you cannot,” retorted the other shortly. And so seriously did he
utter this that no time was lost by Mr. Sedgwick, and as soon as they
could get into their coats, they were in the motor and on their way to
the young man’s apartment.
Their experience began at the door. A man was lolling there who told
them that Mr. Clifford had changed his quarters; where he did not know.
But upon the production of a five-dollar bill, he remembered enough
about it to give them a number and street where possibly they might
find him. In a rush, they hastened there; only to hear the same story
from the sleepy elevator boy anticipating his last trip up for the
night.
“Mr. Clifford left a week ago; he didn’t tell me where he was going.”
Nevertheless the boy knew; that they saw, and another but smaller bill
came into requisition and awoke his sleepy memory.
The street and number which he gave made the two well-to-do men
stare. But they said nothing, though the looks they cast back at the
second-rate quarters they were leaving, so far below the elegant
apartment house they had visited first, were sufficiently expressive.
The scale of descent from luxury to positive discomfort was proving a
rapid one and prepared them for the dismal, ill-cared-for, altogether
repulsive doorway before which they halted next. No attendant waited
here; not even an elevator boy; the latter for the good reason that
there was no elevator. An uninviting flight of stairs was before them!
and on one the few doors within sight a simple card showed the name of
the occupant.
Mr. Sedgwick glanced at his companion.
“Shall we go up?” he asked.
Mr. Blake nodded. “We’ll find him,” said he, “if it takes all night.”
“Surely he cannot have sunk lower than this.”
“Remembering his get-up, I do not think so. Yet who knows? Some mystery
lies back of his whole conduct. Dining in your home, with this to come
back to! I don’t wonder--”
But here a thought struck him. Pausing with his foot on the stair, he
turned a flushed countenance towards Mr. Sedgwick. “I’ve an idea,” said
he. “Perhaps--” He whispered the rest.
Mr. Sedgwick stared and shook his shoulders. “Possibly,” said he,
flushing slightly in his turn. Then, as they proceeded up, “I feel like
a brute, anyway. A sorry night’s business all through, unless the end
proves better than the beginning.”
“We’ll start from the top. Something tells me that we shall find him
close under the roof. Can you read the names by such a light?”
“Barely; but I have matches.”
And now there might have been witnessed by any chance home-comer the
curious sight of two extremely well-dressed men pottering through the
attic hall of this decaying old domicile, reading the cards on the
doors by means of a lighted match.
And vainly. On none of the cards could be seen the name they sought.
“We’re on the wrong track,” protested Mr. Blake. “No use keeping this
up,” but found himself stopped, when about to turn away, by a gesture
of Sedgwick’s.
“There’s a light under the door you see there untagged,” said he. “I’m
going to knock.”
He did so. There was a sound within and then utter silence.
He knocked again. A man’s step was heard approaching the door, then
again the silence.
Mr. Sedgwick made a third essay, and then the door was suddenly
pulled inward and in the gap they saw the handsome face and graceful
figure of the young man they had so lately encountered amid palatial
surroundings. But how changed! how openly miserable! and when he saw
who his guests were, how proudly defiant of their opinion and presence.
“You have found the coin,” he quietly remarked. “I appreciate your
courtesy in coming here to inform me of it. Will not that answer,
without further conversation? I am on the point of retiring and--and--”
Even the hardihood of a very visible despair gave way for an instant as
he met Mr. Sedgwick’s eye. In the break which followed, the older man
spoke.
“Pardon us, but we have come thus far with a double purpose. First,
to tender our apologies, which you have been good enough to accept;
secondly, to ask, in no spirit of curiosity, I assure you, a question
that I seem to see answered, but which I should be glad to hear
confirmed by your lips. May we not come in?”
The question was put with a rare smile such as sometimes was seen on
this hard-grained handler of millions, and the young man, seeing it,
faltered back, leaving the way open for them to enter. The next minute
he seemed to regret the impulse, for backing against a miserable table
they saw there, he drew himself up with an air as nearly hostile as one
of his nature could assume.
“I know of no question,” said he, “which I feel at this very late hour
inclined to answer. A man who has been tracked as I must have been for
you to find me here, is hardly in a mood to explain his poverty or
the mad desire for former luxuries which took him to the house of one
friendly enough, he thought, to accept his presence without inquiry as
to the place he lived in or the nature or number of the reverses which
had brought him to such a place as this.”
“I do not--believe me--” faltered Mr. Sedgwick, greatly embarrassed
and distressed. In spite of the young man’s attempt to hide the
contents of the table, he had seen the two objects lying there--a piece
of bread or roll, and a half-cocked revolver.
Mr. Blake had seen them, too, and at once took the word out of his
companion’s mouth.
“You mistake us,” he said coldly, “as well as the nature of our errand.
We are here from no motive of curiosity, as I have before said, nor
from any other which might offend or distress you. We--or rather
I--am here on business. I have a position to offer to an intelligent,
upright, enterprising young man. Your name has been given me. It was
given me before this dinner, to which I went--if Mr. Sedgwick will
pardon my plain speaking--chiefly for the purpose of making your
acquaintance. The result was what you know, and possibly now you can
understand my anxiety to see you exonerate yourself from the doubts
you yourself raised by your attitude of resistance to the proposition
made by that headlong, but well-meaning, young man of many millions,
Mr. Hammersley. I wanted to find in you the honorable characteristics
necessary to the man who is to draw an eight thousand dollars a year
salary under my eye. I still want to do this. If then you are willing
to make this whole thing plain to me--for it is not plain--not wholly
plain, Mr. Clifford--then you will find in me a friend such as few
young fellows can boast of, for I like you--I will say that--and where
I like--”
The gesture with which he ended the sentence was almost superfluous, in
face of the change which had taken place in the aspect of the man he
addressed. Wonder, doubt, hope, and again incredulity were lost at last
in a recognition of the other’s kindly intentions toward himself, and
the prospects which they opened out before him. With a shamefaced look,
and yet with a manly acceptance of his own humiliation that was not
displeasing to his visitors, he turned about and pointing to the morsel
of bread lying on the table before them, he said to Mr. Sedgwick:
“Do you recognize that? It is from your table, and--and--it is not the
only piece I had hidden in my pockets. I had not eaten in twenty-four
hours when I sat down to dinner this evening. I had no prospect of
another morsel for to-morrow and--and--I was afraid of eating my
fill--there were ladies--and so--and so--”
They did not let him finish. In a flash they had both taken in the
room. Not an article which could be spared was anywhere visible. His
dress-suit was all that remained to him of former ease and luxury. That
he had retained, possibly for just such opportunities as had given
him a dinner to-night. Mr. Blake understood at last, and his iron lip
trembled.
“Have you no friends?” he asked. “Was it necessary to go hungry?”
“Could I ask alms or borrow what I could not pay? It was a position
I was after, and positions do not come at call. Sometimes they come
without it,” he smiled with the dawning of his old-time grace on his
handsome face, “but I find that one can see his resources go, dollar
by dollar, and finally, cent by cent, in the search for employment no
one considers necessary to a man like me. Perhaps if I had had less
pride, had been willing to take you or any one else into my confidence,
I might not have sunk to these depths of humiliation; but I had not the
confidence in men which this last half hour has given me, and I went
blundering on, hiding my needs and hoping against hope for some sort
of result to my efforts. This pistol is not mine. I did borrow this,
but I did not mean to use it, unless nature reached the point where it
could stand no more. I thought the time had come to-night when I left
your house, Mr. Sedgwick, suspected of theft. It seemed the last straw;
but--but--a woman’s look has held me back. I hesitated and--now you
know the whole,” said he; “that is, if you can understand why it was
more possible for me to brave the contumely of such a suspicion than to
open my pockets and disclose the crusts I had hidden there.”
“I can understand,” said Mr. Sedgwick; “but the opportunity you have
given us for doing so must not be shared by others. We will undertake
your justification, but it must be made in our own way and after the
most careful consideration; eh, Mr. Blake?”
“Most assuredly; and if Mr. Clifford will present himself at my office
early in the morning, we will first breakfast and then talk business.”
Young Clifford could only hold out his hand, but when, his two friends
gone, he sat in contemplation of his changed prospects, one word and
one only left his lips, uttered in every inflection of tenderness,
hope, and joy. “Edith! Edith! Edith!”
It was the name of the sweet young girl who had shown her faith in him
at the moment when his heart was lowest and despair at its culmination.
Transcriber's Notes:
Italics are shown thus: _sloping_.
Variations in spelling and hyphenation are retained.
Perceived typographical errors have been changed.
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