cause, nor can we often account for the peculiar sensations developed in
us by the inexplicable and mysterious incidents in our experience. Much
of the timidity of childhood may be traced to early training in the
nursery, and sometimes the moral effects of this weakness cannot be
eradicated through a lifetime of severe self-control and mental
suffering. The complicated disorders of the imagination which arise from
superstitious fears can frequently be accounted for only by inherited
characteristics, by peculiar sensitiveness to impressions, and by an
overpowering and perhaps abnormally active imagination. I am sure I am
confessing to no unusual characteristic when I say that I have felt
from childhood a certain sentiment or sensation in regard to material
things which I can trace to no early experience, to the influence of no
literature, and to no possible source, in fact, but that of inherited
disposition.
The sentiment I refer to is this: whatever has belonged to or has been
used by any person seems to me to have received some special quality,
which, though often invisible and still oftener indefinable, still
exists in a more or less strong degree, according to the amount of the
impressionable power, if I may call it so, which distinguished the
possessor. I am aware that this sentiment may be stigmatized as of the
school-girl order; that it is, indeed, of the same kind and class with
that which leads an otherwise honest person to steal a rag from a famous
battle flag, a leaf from an historical laurel wreath, or even to cut a
signature or a title-page from a precious volume; but with me the
feeling has never taken this turn, else I should not have confessed to
the possession of it. Whatever may be said or believed, however, I must
refer to it in more or less comprehensible terms, because it may
explain the conditions, although it will not unveil the causes, of the
incidents I am about to describe with all honesty and frankness.
Nearly twenty years ago I made my first visit to Rome, long before it
became the centre of the commercial and political activity of Italy, and
while it was yet unspoiled for the antiquarian, the student, the artist,
and the traveller. Never shall I forget the first few hours I spent
wandering aimlessly through the streets--so far as I then knew, a total
stranger in the city, with no distinct plan of remaining there, and with
only the slight and imperfect knowledge of the place that one gains from
the ordinary travellers’ descriptions. The streets, the houses, the
people, the strange sounds and stranger sights, the life so entirely
different from what I had hitherto seen--all this interested me greatly.
Far more powerful and far more vivid and lasting, however, was the
impression of an inconceivable number of presences--I hesitate to call
them spirits--not visible, of course, nor tangible, but still
oppressing me mentally and morally, exactly the same as my physical
self is often crushed and overpowered in a great assembly of people. I
walked about, visited the cafés and concert-halls, and tried in various
ways to shake off the uncomfortable feeling of ghostly company, but was
unsuccessful, and went to my lodgings much depressed and nervous. I took
my note-book, and wrote in it: “Rome has been too much lived in. Among
the multitude of the dead there is no room for the living.” It seemed
then a foolish memorandum to write, and now, as I look at the
half-effaced pencil lines, I wonder why I was not ashamed to write it.
Yet there it is before me, a witness to my sensations at the time, and
the scrawl has even now the power to bring up to me an unpleasantly
vivid memory of that first evening in Rome.
After a few days passed in visiting the galleries and the regular sights
of the town, I began to look for a studio and an apartment, and finally
found one in the upper story of a house on the Via di Ripetta. Before
moving into the studio, I met an old friend and fellow-artist, and, as
there was room enough for two, gladly took him in with me.
The studio, with apartment, in the Via di Ripetta was by no means
unattractive. It was large, well lighted, comfortably and abundantly
furnished. It was, as I have said, at the top of the house; the studio
overlooked the Tiber, and the sitting-room and double-bedded
sleeping-room fronted the street. The large studio window was placed
rather high up, so that the entrance door--a wide, heavy affair, with
large hinges and immense complicated lock and a “judas”--opened from the
obscurity of the hall directly under the large window into the full
light of the studio. The roof of the house slanted from back to front,
so that the two rooms were lower studded than the studio, and an empty
space or low attic opening into the studio above them was partly
concealed by an ample and ragged curtain. The fireplace was in the
middle of the left wall as you entered the studio; the door into the
sitting-room was in the farther right-hand corner, and the bedroom was
entered by a door on the right-hand wall of the sitting-room, so that
the bedroom formed a wing of the studio and sitting-room, and from the
former, looking through two doors, the bedroom window and part of the
street wall could be seen. Both the beds were hidden from sight of any
one in the studio, even when the doors were open.
The apartment was furnished in a way which denoted a certain amount of
liberality, but everything was faded and worn, though not actually
shabby or dirty. The carpets were threadbare, the damask-covered sofa
and chairs showed marks of the springs, and the gimp was fringed and
torn off in places. The beds were not mates; the basin and ewer were of
different patterns; the few pictures on the wall were, like everything
else in the place, curiously gray and dusty-looking, as if they had been
shut up in the darkened rooms for a generation. Beyond the fireplace in
the studio, the corner of the room was partitioned off by a dingy
screen, six feet high or more, fixed to the floor for the space of two
yards, with one wing which shut like a door, enclosing a small space
fitted up like a miniature scullery, with a curious and elaborate
collection of pots and pans and kitchen utensils, all hung in orderly
rows, but every article with marks of service on it, and more recent and
obtrusive traces of long disuse.
In one of the first days of my search for a studio I had found and
inspected this very place, but it had given me such a disagreeable
feeling--it had seemed so worn out, so full of relics of other
people--that I could not make up my mind to take it. After a thorough
search and diligent inquiry, however, I came to the conclusion that
there was absolutely no other place in Rome at that busy season where I
could set up my easel, and, after having the place recommended to me by
all the artists I called upon as a well-known and useful studio, and a
great find at the busy season of the year, I took a lease of the place
for four months.
My friend and I moved in at the same time, and I will not deny that I
planned to be supported by his presence at the moment of taking
possession. When we arrived and had our traps all deposited in the
middle of the studio, there came over the spirits of us both a strange
gloom, which the bustle and confusion of settling did not in the least
dispel. It was nearly dark that winter afternoon before we had finished
unpacking, and the street lights were burning before we reached the
little restaurant in the Via Quattro Fontane, where we proposed to take
our meals. There was a cheerful company of artists and architects
assembled there that evening, and we sat over our wine long after
dinner. When the jolly party at last dispersed, it was well past
midnight.
How gloomy the outer portal of the high building looked as we crossed
the dimly lighted street and pushed open the back door! A musty, damp
smell, like the atmosphere of the catacombs, met us as we entered. Our
footsteps echoed loud and hollow in the empty corridor, and the large
wax match I struck as we came in gave but a flickering light, which
dimly shadowed the outline of the stone stairway, and threw the rest of
the corridor into a deep and mysterious gloom. We tramped up the five
long flights of stone stairs without a word, the echo of our footsteps
sounding louder and louder, and the murky space behind us deepening into
the damp darkness of a cavern. At last, after what seemed an
interminable climb, we came to the studio entrance. I put the large key
in the lock, turned it, and pushed open the door. A strong draught, like
the lifeless breath from the mouth of a tunnel, extinguished the match
and left us in darkness. I hesitated an instant, instinctively dreading
to enter, and then went in, followed by my friend, who closed the door
behind us. The heavy hinges creaked, the door shut into the jambs with a
solid thud, the lock sprang into place with a sharp click, and a noise
like the clanging of a prison gate resounded and re-echoed through the
corridor and through the spacious studio. I felt as if we were shut in
from the whole world.
Lighting all the candles at hand and stirring up the fire, we endeavored
to make the studio look cheerful, and, neither of us being inclined to
go to bed, we sat for a long time talking and smoking. But even the
bright fire and the soothing tobacco smoke did not wholly dispel the
gloom of the place, and when we finally carried the candles into the
bedroom, I felt a vague sense of dismal anticipation and apprehension.
We left both doors open, so that the light from our room streamed across
the corner of the sitting-room, and threw a great square of strong
reflection on the studio carpet. While undressing, I found that I had
left my matchbox on the studio table, and thought I would return for it.
I remember now what a mental struggle I went through before I made up my
mind to go without a candle. I glanced at my friend’s face, partly to
see if he noticed any indication of nervousness in my expression, and
partly because I was conscious of a kind of psychological sympathy
between us. But fear of his ridicule made me effectually conceal my
feelings, and I went out of the room without speaking. As I walked
across the non-resonant, carpeted stone floor I had the most curious
set of sensations I have ever experienced. At nearly every step I took I
came into a different stratum or perpendicular layer of air. First it
was cool to my face, then warm, then chill again, and again warm.
Thinking to calm my nervous excitement, I stood still and looked around
me. The great window above my head dimly transmitted the sky reflection,
but threw little light into the studio. The folds of the curtain over
the open space above the sitting-room appeared to wave slightly in the
uncertain light, and the easels and lay figure stood gaunt and ghostly
along the further wall. I waited there and reasoned with myself, arguing
that there was no possible cause for fear, that a strong man ought to
control his nerves, that it was silly at my time of life to begin to be
afraid of the dark; but I could not get rid of the sensation. As I went
back to the bedroom I experienced the same succession of physical
shocks; but whether they followed each other in the same order or not I
was unable to determine.
It was some time before I could get to sleep, and I opened my eyes once
or twice before I lost consciousness. From the bedroom window there was
a dim, very dim, light on the lace curtains, but the window itself was
visible as a square mass, and did not appear to illuminate the room in
the least. Suddenly, after a dreamless sleep of some duration, I awoke
as completely as if I had been startled by a loud noise. The lace
curtains were now quite brilliantly lighted from somewhere, I could not
tell where, but the window itself seemed to be as little luminous as
when I went to sleep. Without moving my head, I turned my eyes in the
direction of the studio, and could see the open door as a dark patch in
the gray wall, but nothing more. Then, as I was looking again at the
curious illumination of the curtains, a moving mass came into the angle
of my vision out of the corner of the room near the head of the bed, and
passed slowly into full view between me and the curtain. It was
unmistakably the figure of a man, not unlike that of the better type of
Italian, and was dressed in the commonly worn soft hat and ample cloak.
His profile came out clearly against the light background of the lace
curtain, and showed him to be a man of considerable refinement of
feature. He did not make an actually solid black silhouette against the
light, neither was the figure translucent, but was rather like an object
seen through a vapor or through a sheet of thin ground glass.
I tried to raise my head, but my nerve force seemed suddenly to fail me,
and while I was wondering at my powerlessness, and reasoning at the same
time that it must be a nightmare, the figure had moved slowly across in
front of the window, and out through the open door into the studio.
I listened breathlessly, but not a sound did I hear from the next room.
I pinched myself, opened and shut my eyes, and noticed that the
breathing of my room-mate was irregular, and unlike that of a sleeping
man. I am unable to understand why I did not sit up or turn over or
speak to my friend to find out if he were awake. I was fully conscious
that I ought to do this, but something, I know not what, forced me to
lie perfectly motionless watching the window. I heard my room-mate
breathing, opened and shut my eyes, and was certain, indeed, that I was
really awake. As I reasoned on the phenomenon, and came naturally to the
unwilling conclusion that my hallucination was probably premonitory of
malaria, my nerves grew quiet, I began to think less intensely, and then
I fell asleep.
The next morning I awoke with a feeling of disagreeable anticipation. I
was loath to rise, even though the warm Italian sunlight was pouring
into the room and gilding the dingy interior with brilliant reflections.
In spite of this cheering glow of sunshine, the rooms still had the same
dead and uninhabited appearance, and the presence of my friend, a
vigorous and practical man, seemed to bring no recognizable vitality or
human element to counteract the oppressiveness of the place. Every
detail of my waking dream or hallucination of the night before was
perfectly fresh in my mind, and the sense of apprehension was still
strong upon me.
The distracting operations of settling the studio, and the frequent
excursions to neighboring shops to buy articles necessary to our meagre
housekeeping, did much towards taking my mind off the incident of the
night; but every time I entered the sitting-room or the bedroom it all
came up to me with a vividness that made my nerves quiver. We explored
all the corners and cupboards of the place. We even crawled up over the
sitting-room behind the dingy curtain, where a large quantity of disused
frames and old stretchers were packed away. We familiarized ourselves,
in fact, with every nook and cranny of each room; moved the furniture
about in a different order; hung up draperies and sketches; and in many
ways changed the character of the interior. The faded, weary-looking
widow from whom I had hired the place, and who took care of the rooms,
carried away to her own apartment many of the most obnoxious trifles
which encumbered the small tables, the étagère, and the wall spaces. She
sighed a great deal as we were making the rapid changes to suit our own
taste, but made no objection, and we naturally thought it was the
regular custom of every new occupant to turn the place upside down.
Late in the afternoon I was alone in the studio for an hour or more, and
sat by the fire trying to read. The daylight was not gone, and the
rumble of the busy street came plainly to my ears. I say “trying to
read,” for I found reading quite impossible. The moment I began to fix
my attention on the page, I had a very powerful feeling that some one
was looking over my shoulder. Do what I would, I could not conquer the
unreasonable sensation. Finally, after starting up and looking about me
a dozen times, I threw down the book and went out. When I returned,
after an hour in the open air, I found my friend walking up and down in
the studio with open doors, and two guttering candles alight.
“It’s a curious thing,” he said, “I can’t read this book. I have been
trying to put my mind on it a whole half-hour, and I can’t do it. I
always thought I could get interested in ‘Gaboriau’ in a moment under
any circumstances.”
“I went out to walk because I couldn’t manage to read,” I replied, and
the conversation ended.
We went to the theatre that evening, and afterwards to the Café Greco,
where we talked art in half a dozen languages until midnight, and then
came home. Our entrance to the house and the studio was much the same as
on the previous night, and we went to bed without a word. My mind
naturally reverted to the experience of the night before, and I lay
there for a long time with my eyes open, making a strong effort of the
imagination to account for the vision by the dim shapes of the
furniture, the lace curtains, and the suggestive and shadowy
perspective. But, although the interior was weird enough, by reason of
the dingy hangings and the diffused light, I was unable to trace the
origin of the illusion to any object within the range of my vision, or
to account for the strange illumination which had startled me. I went to
sleep thinking of other things, and with my nerves comparatively quiet.
Sometime in the early morning, about three o’clock, as near as I could
judge, I slowly awoke, and saw the lace curtains illuminated as before.
I found myself in an expectant frame of mind, neither calm nor excited,
but rather in that condition of philosophical quiet which best prepared
me for an investigation of the phenomenon which I confidently expected
to witness. Perhaps this is assuming too eagerly the position of a
philosopher, but I am certain no element of fear disturbed my reason,
that I was neither startled nor surprised at awakening as I did, and
that my mind was active and undoubtedly prepared for the investigation
of the mystery.
I was therefore not at all shocked to observe the same shape come first
into the angle of my eye, and then into the full range of my vision,
next appear as a silhouette against the curtains, and finally lose
itself in the darkness of the doorway. During the progress of the shape
across the room I noticed the size and general aspect of it with keen
attention to detail, and with satisfactory calmness of observation. It
was only after the figure had passed out of sight, and the light on the
window curtains grew dim again, much as an electric light loses its
brilliancy with the diminution of the strength of the current, that it
occurred to me to consider the fact that during the period of the
hallucination I had been utterly motionless. There was not the slightest
doubt of my being awake. My friend in the adjoining bed was breathing
regularly, the ticking of my watch was plainly audible, and I could feel
my heart beating with unusual rapidity and vigor.
The strange part of the whole incident was this incapacity of action;
and the more I reasoned about it the more I was mystified by the utter
failure of nerve force. Indeed, while the mind was actively at work on
this problem, the physical torpor continued, a languor not unlike the
incipient drowsiness of anæsthesia came gradually over me, and, though
mentally protesting against the helpless condition of the body, and
struggling to keep awake, I fell asleep, and did not stir till morning.
With the bright, clear winter’s day returned the doubts and
disappointments of the day before--doubts of the existence of the
phenomenon, disappointment at the failure of any solution of the
hallucination. A second day in the studio did little towards dispelling
the mental gloom which possessed us both, and at night my friend
confessed that he thought we must have stumbled into a malarial quarter.
At this distance of time it is absolutely incomprehensible to me how I
could have gone on as I did from day to day, or rather from night to
night--for the same hallucination was repeated nightly--without speaking
to my friend, or at least taking some energetic steps towards an
investigation of the mystery. But I had the same experience every night
for fully a week before I really began to plan serious means of
discovering whether it was an hallucination, a nightmare, or a
flesh-and-blood intruder. First, I had some curiosity each night to see
whether there would be a repetition of the incident. Second, I was eager
to note any physical or mental symptom which would serve as a clue to
the mystery. Pride, or some other equally authoritative sentiment,
continued to keep me from disclosing my secret to my friend, although I
was on the point of doing so on several occasions. My first plan was to
keep a candle burning all night, but I could invent no plausible excuse
to my comrade for this action. Next I proposed to shut the bedroom door,
and on speaking of it to my friend, he strongly objected on the ground
of the lack of ventilation, and was not willing to risk having the
window open on account of the malaria. After all, since this was an
entirely personal matter, it seemed to me the only thing to do was to
depend on my own strength of mind and moral courage to solve this
mystery unaided. I put my loaded revolver on the table by the bedside,
drew back the lace curtain before going to bed, and left the door only
half open, so I could not see into the studio. The night I made these
preparations I awoke as usual, saw the same figure, but, as before,
could not move a hand. After it had passed the window, I tried hard to
bring myself to take my revolver, and find out whether I had to deal
with a man or a simulacrum. But even while I was arguing with myself,
and trying to find out why I could not move, sleep came upon me before I
had carried out my purposed action.
The shock of the first appearance of the vision had been nearly
overbalanced by my eagerness to investigate, and my intense interest in
the novel condition of mind or body which made such an experience
possible. But after the utter failure of all my schemes and the collapse
of my theories as to evident causes of the phenomenon, I began to be
harassed and worried, almost unconsciously at first, by the ever-present
thought, the daily anticipation, and the increasing dread of the
hallucination. The self-confidence that first supported me in my nightly
encounter diminished on each occasion, and the curiosity which
stimulated me to the study of the phenomenon rapidly gave way to the
sentiment akin to terror, when I proved myself incapable of grappling
with the mystery.
The natural result of this preoccupation was inability to work and
little interest in recreation, and as the long weeks wore away I grew
morose, morbid, and hypochondriacal. The pride which kept me from
sharing my secret with my friend also held me at my post, and nerved me
to endure the torment in the rapidly diminishing hope of finally
exorcising the spectre or recovering my usual healthy tone of mind. The
difficulty of my position was increased by the fact that the apparition
failed to appear occasionally; and while I welcomed each failure as a
sign that the visits were to cease, they continued spasmodically for
weeks, and I was still as far away from the interpretation of the
problem as ever. Once I sought medical advice, but the doctor could
discover nothing wrong with me except what might be caused by tobacco,
and, following his advice, I left off smoking. He said I had no malaria;
that I needed more exercise, perhaps; but he could not account for my
insomnia, for I, like most patients, had concealed the vital facts in my
case, and had complained of insomnia as the cause of my anxiety about my
health.