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from The lock and key library: German
stories (1909, 1913 ed)
The Reviews of Reviews Co., New York
Edited by Louis E. Van Norman
THEY were all agreed in the belief
that the actual facts of life are often far more wonderful
than the invention of even the liveliest imagination can be.
"It seems to me," spoke Lelio, "that history
gives proof sufficient of this. And that is why the
so-called historical romances seem so repulsive and
tasteless to us, those stories wherein the author mingles
the foolish fancies of his meager brain with the deeds of
the great powers of the universe."
Franz took the word. "It is the deep reality
of the inscrutable secrets surrounding us that oppresses us
with a might wherein we recognize the Spirit that rules, the
Spirit out of which our being springs."
"Alas," said Lelio, "it is the most terrible
result of the fall of man, that we have lost the power of
recognizing the eternal verities."
"Many are called, but few are chosen," broke
in Franz. "Do you not believe that an understanding of the
wonders of our existence is given to some of us in the form
of another sense? But if you would allow me to drag the
conversation up from these dark regions where we are in
danger of losing our path altogether up into the brightness
of light-hearted merriment, I would like to make the
scurrilous suggestion that those mortals to whom this gift
of seeing the Unseen has been given remind me of bats. You
know the learned anatomist Spallanzani has discovered a
sixth sense in these little animals which can do not only
the entire work of the other senses, but work of its own
besides."
"Oho," laughed Edward, "according to that,
the bats would be the only natural-born clairvoyants. But I
know one who possesses that gift of insight, of which you
were speaking, in a remarkable degree. Because of it he will
often follow for days some unknown person who has happened
to attract his attention by an oddity in manner, appearance,
or garb; he will ponder to melancholy over some trifling
incident, some lightly told story; he will combine the
antipodes and raise up relationships in his imagination
which are unknown to everyone else."
"Wait a bit," cried Lelio. "It is our
Theodore of whom you are speaking now. And it looks to me as
if he were having some weird vision at this very moment. See
how strangely he gazes out into the distance."
Theodore had been sitting in silence up to
this moment. Now he spoke: "If my glances are strange it is
because they reflect the strange things that were called up
before my mental vision by your conversation, the memories
of a most remarkable adventure----"
"Oh, tell it to us," interrupted his friends.
"Gladly," continued Theodore. "But first, let
me set right a slight confusion in your ideas on the subject
of the mysterious. You appear to confound what is merely odd
and unusual with what is really mysterious or marvelous,
that which surpasses comprehension or belief. The odd and
the unusual, it is true, spring often from the truly
marvelous, and the twigs and flowers hide the parent stem
from our eyes. Both the odd and the unusual and the truly
marvelous are mingled in the adventure which I am about to
narrate to you, mingled in a manner which is striking and
even awesome." With these words Theodore drew from his
pocket a notebook in which, as his friends knew, he had
written down the impressions of his late journeyings.
Refreshing his memory by a look at its pages now and then,
he narrated the following story.
You know already that I spent the greater
part of last summer in X----. 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 center of the city's life and gayety.
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 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. An unoccupied house in this
avenue was indeed an odd sight. But I explained the
phenomenon to myself by saying that the owner was doubtless
absent upon a long journey, or living upon his country
estates, and that he perhaps did not wish to sell or rent
the property, preferring to keep it for his own use in the
eventuality of a visit to the city.
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.,
whom I had found much in sympathy with many of my
imaginings, and I knew that he also must have been deeply
interested in the mystery of this house. It surprised me not
a little, therefore, that he should smile ironically when I
spoke of the strange impression that this deserted dwelling,
here in the gay heart of the town, had made upon me. But I
soon discovered the reason for his irony. Count P. had gone
much farther than myself in his imaginings concerning the
house. He had constructed for himself a complete history of
the old building, a story weird enough to have been born in
the fancy of a true poet. It would give me great pleasure to
relate this story to you, but the events which happened to
me in this connection are so interesting that I feel I must
proceed with the narration of them at once.
When the count had completed his story to his
own satisfaction, imagine his feelings on learning one day
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. The demon who is the enemy of all poets
caught the dreamer by the nose and tweaked him painfully.
And yet, in spite of this prosaic
explanation, I could not resist stopping before the deserted
house whenever I passed it, and gentle tremors rippled
through my veins as vague visions arose of what might be
hidden there. 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 up 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 wall. 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 quarreled 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 meagerness 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--" Picture all this to yourself and judge whether
I had not sufficient cause to imagine a mystery here.
The pastry cook gathered up the wares the old
man had demanded. "Weigh it out, weigh it out, honored
neighbor," moaned the strange man, as he drew out a little
leathern bag and sought in it for his money. I noticed that
he paid for his purchase in worn old coins, some of which
were no longer in use. He seemed very unhappy and murmured:
"Sweet--sweet--it must all be sweet! Well, let it be! The
devil has pure honey for his bride--pure honey!"
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 dumfoundered 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. My brother spoke to him one day about the
strange noises at night; but he answered calmly, 'Yes,
people say the ghosts walk about in the house. 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 grewsome 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-eight 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 to the avenue and placed myself before
the deserted house. Heavy blinds were drawn before the upper
windows. The street was still quite empty, and I stepped
close to the windows of the ground floor and listened and
listened; but I heard no sound. The house was as quiet as
the grave. The business of the day began, the passers-by
became more numerous, and I was obliged to go on. I will not
weary you with the recital of how for many days I crept
about the house at that hour, but without discovering
anything of interest. None of my questionings could reveal
anything to me, and the beautiful picture of my vision began
finally to pale and fade away.
At last as I passed, late one evening, I saw
that the door of the deserted house was half open and the
brown-clad old man was peeping out. I stepped quickly to his
side with a sudden idea. "Does not Councilor Binder live in
this house?" Thus I asked the old man, pushing him before me
as I entered the dimly lighted vestibule. The guardian of
the old house looked at me with his piercing eyes, and
answered in gentle, slow tones: "No, he does not live here,
he never has lived here, he never will live here, he does
not live anywhere on this avenue. But people say the ghosts
walk about in this house. Yet I can assure you that it is
not true. It is a quiet, a pretty house, and to-morrow the
gracious Countess S. will move into it. Good night, dear
gentleman." With these words the old man maneuvered me out
of the house and locked the gate behind me. I heard his feet
drag across the floor, I heard his coughing and the rattling
of his bunch of keys, and I heard him descend some steps.
Then all was silent. During the short time that I had been
in the house I had noticed that the corridor was hung with
old tapestries and furnished like a drawing-room with large,
heavy chairs in red damask.
And now, as if called into life by my
entrance into the mysterious house, my adventures began. The
following day, as I walked through the avenue in the noon
hour, and my eyes sought the deserted house as usual, 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 center 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 centers, 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 to-day, 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. Through my mind there rushed the
memory of an old nurse's tale of my earliest childhood. When
my nurse was taking me off to bed, and I showed an
inclination to stand peering into the great mirror in my
father's room, she would tell me that when children looked
into mirrors in the night time they would see a strange,
hideous face there, and their eyes would be frozen so that
they could not move them again. The thought struck awe to my
soul, but I could not resist a peep at the mirror, I was so
curious to see the strange face. Once I did believe that I
saw two hideous glowing eyes shining out of the mirror. I
screamed and fell down in a swoon.
All these foolish memories of my early
childhood came trooping back to me. My blood ran cold
through my veins. I would have thrown the mirror from me,
but I could not. 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. The terror I had felt left me,
giving way to the pleasurable pain of sweetest longing.
"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 my 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 began to be convinced
that the old man was right, and that it was only my absurd
imagination which insisted on raising up mysteries about the
deserted house.
I hurried home full of anger and disgust, and
promised myself that I would not think of the mysterious
house, and would not even walk through the avenue for
several days. I kept my vow, spending my days working at my
desk, and my evenings in the company of jovial friends,
leaving myself no time to think of the mysteries which so
enthralled me. And yet, it was just in these days that I
would start up out of my sleep as if awakened by a touch,
only to find that all that had aroused me was merely the
thought of that mysterious being whom I had seen in my
vision and in the window of the deserted house. Even during
my work, or in the midst of a lively conversation with my
friends, I felt the same thought shoot through me like an
electric current. I condemned the little mirror in which I
had seen the charming picture to a prosaic daily use. I
placed it 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, the 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 eves 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 grewsome 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 remark 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. This eminent physician will
endeavor to cure the patient, or if this is not possible, at
least to prevent her terrible outbreaks of mania. This is
all that I know yet."
Others joined us and we were obliged to
change the subject. 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 courtyard, 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's 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 gypsy 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.
"It 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.
Thus did Theodore end his narrative. His
friends had much to say about his strange adventure, and
they agreed with him that the odd and unusual, and the truly
marvelous as well, were mingled in a strange and grewsome
manner in his story. When they parted for the night, Franz
shook Theodore's hand gently, as he said with a smile: "Good
night, you Spallanzani bat, you."
(End.)