relation to the above, but which Simson made great use of, as the human
agency which he was determined to find somehow. One Sunday afternoon
Simson found a little hole,--for it was more a hole than a
room,--entirely hidden under the ivy and ruins, in which there was a
quantity of straw laid in a corner, as if some one had made a bed there,
and some remains of crusts about the floor. Some one had lodged there,
and not very long before, he made out; and that this unknown being was
the author of all the mysterious sounds we heard he is convinced. "I was
puzzled myself,--I could not make it out,--but I always felt convinced
human agency was at the bottom of it. And here it is,--and a clever
fellow he must have been," the Doctor says. There is no argument with
men of this kind.
Bagley left my service as soon as he got well. He assured me it was no
want of respect, but he could not stand "them kind of things"; and the
man was so shaken and ghastly that I was glad to give him a present and
let him go. For my own part, I made a point of staying out the time--two
years--for which I had taken Brentwood; but I did not renew my tenancy.
By that time we had settled, and found for ourselves a pleasant home of
our own.
I must add, that when the Doctor defies me, I can always bring back
gravity to his countenance, and a pause in his railing, when I remind
him of the juniper-bush. To me that was a matter of little importance. I
could believe I was mistaken. I did not care about it one way or other;
but on his mind the effect was different. The miserable voice, the
spirit in pain, he could think of as the result of ventriloquism, or
reverberation, or--anything you please: an elaborate prolonged hoax,
executed somehow by the tramp that had found a lodging in the old tower;
but the juniper-bush staggered him. Things have effects so different on
the minds of different men.
THE DESERTED HOUSE
ERNEST THEODOR AMADEUS 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 neighbours, its roof was dilapidated, its windows patched
with paper, its discoloured 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 door-way 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 neighbouring 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 colour 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, grey 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, honoured neighbour," 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 honourable Sir Neighbour," 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."
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 discoloured 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
favour 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 odours, 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, grey 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 be-wigged 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 comfortable 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 fibre 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 endeavouring
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."