sought out my old, venerable Bonze, Tamoora Hideyeri, I now implored
him to take me without an hour’s delay, to the Yamabooshi, the innocent
cause of my daily tortures. His answer but placed the last, the supreme
seal on my doom and tenfold intensified my despair. The Yamabooshi had
left the country for lands unknown! He had departed one fine morning
into the interior, on a pilgrimage, and according to custom, would be
absent, unless natural death shortened the period, for no less than
seven years!...
In this mischance, I applied for help and protection to other learned
Yamabooshis; and though well aware how useless it was in my case to
seek efficient cure from any other “adept,” my excellent old friend
did everything he could to help me in my misfortune. But it was to
no purpose, and the canker-worm of my life’s despair could not be
thoroughly extricated. I found from them that not one of these learned
men could promise to relieve me entirely from the demon of clairvoyant
obsession. It was he who raised certain Daij-Dzins, calling on them to
show futurity, or things that had already come to pass, who alone had
full control over them. With kind sympathy, which I had now learned
to appreciate, the holy men invited me to join the group of their
disciples, and learn from them what I could do for myself. “Will alone,
faith in your own soul powers, can help you now,” they said. “But it
may take several years to undo even a part of the great mischief;”
they added. “A Daij-Dzin is easily dislodged in the beginning; if left
alone, he takes possession of a man’s nature, and it becomes almost
impossible to uproot the fiend without killing his victim.”
Persuaded that there was nothing but this left for me to do, I
gratefully assented, doing my best to believe in all that these holy
men believed in, and yet ever failing to do so in my heart. The demon
of unbelief and all-denial seemed rooted in me more firmly even than
the Daij-Dzin. Still I did all I could do, decided as I was not to
lose my last chance of salvation. Therefore, I proceeded without delay
to free myself from the world and my commercial obligations, in order
to live for several years an independent life. I settled my accounts
with my Hamburg partners and severed my connection with the firm.
Notwithstanding considerable financial losses resulting from such a
precipitate liquidation, I found myself, after closing the accounts,
a far richer man than I had thought I was. But wealth had no longer
any attraction for me, now that I had no one to share it with, no one
to work for. Life had become a burden; and such was my indifference to
my future, that while giving away all my fortune to my nephew—in case
he should return alive from his sea voyage—I should have neglected
entirely even a small provision for myself, had not my native partner
interfered and insisted upon my making it. I now recognized with
Lao-tze, that Knowledge was the only firm hold for a man to trust to,
as it is the only one that cannot be shaken by any tempest. Wealth
is a weak anchor in days of sorrow, and self-conceit the most fatal
counsellor. Hence I followed the advice of my friends, and laid aside
for myself a modest sum, which would be sufficient to assure me a small
income for life, or if I ever left my new friends and instructors.
Having settled my earthly accounts and disposed of my belongings at
Kioto, I joined the “Masters of the Long Vision,” who took me to their
mysterious abode. There I remained for several years, studying very
earnestly and in the most complete solitude, seeing no one but a few of
the members of our religious community.
Many are the mysteries of nature that I have fathomed since then, and
many a secret folio from the library of Tzion-ene have I devoured,
obtaining thereby mastery over several kinds of invisible beings
of a lower order. But the great secret of power over the terrible
Daij-Dzin I could not get. It remains in the possession of a very
limited number of the highest Initiates of Lao-tze, the great
majority of the Yamabooshis themselves being ignorant how to obtain
such mastery over the dangerous Elemental. One who would reach such
power of control would have to become entirely identified with the
Yamabooshis, to accept their views and beliefs, and to attain the
highest degree of Initiation. Very naturally, I was found unfit to
join the Fraternity, owing to many insurmountable reasons besides my
congenital and ineradicable scepticism, though I tried hard to believe.
Thus, partially relieved of my affliction and taught how to conjure the
unwelcome visions away, I still remained, and do remain to this day,
helpless to prevent their forced appearance before me now and then.
It was after assuring myself of my unfitness for the exalted position
of an independent Seer and Adept that I reluctantly gave up any further
trial. Nothing had been heard of the holy man, the first innocent cause
of my misfortune; and the old Bonze himself, who occasionally visited
me in my retreat, either could not, or would not, inform me of the
whereabouts of the Yamabooshi. When, therefore, I had to give up all
hope of his ever relieving me entirely from my fatal gift, I resolved
to return to Europe, to settle in solitude for the rest of my life.
With this object in view, I purchased through my late partners the
Swiss _châlet_ in which my hapless sister and I were born, where I had
grown up under her care, and selected it for my future hermitage.
When bidding me farewell for ever on the steamer which took me back
to my fatherland, the good old Bonze tried to console me for my
disappointments. “My son,” he said, “regard all that happened to you
as your _Karma_—a just retribution. No one who has subjected himself
willingly to the power of a Daij-Dzin can ever hope to become a _Rahat_
(an Adept), a high-souléd Yamabooshi—unless immediately purified.
At best, as in your case, he may become fitted to oppose and to
successfully fight off the fiend. _Like a scar left after a poisonous
wound, the trace of a Daij-Dzin can never be effaced from the Soul
until purified by a new rebirth._ Withal, feel not dejected, but be of
good cheer in your affliction, since it has led you to acquire true
knowledge, and to accept many a truth you would have otherwise rejected
with contempt. And of this priceless knowledge, acquired through
suffering and personal efforts—no Daij-Dzin can ever deprive you.
Fare thee well, then, and may the Mother of Mercy, the great Queen of
Heaven, afford you comfort and protection.”
We parted, and since then I have led the life of an anchorite, in
constant solitude and study. Though still occasionally afflicted,
I do not regret the years I have passed under the instruction of
the Yamabooshis, but feel gratified for the knowledge received. Of
the priest Tamoora Hideyeri I think always with sincere affection
and respect. I corresponded regularly with him to the day of his
death; an event which, with all its to me painful details, I had the
unthanked-for privilege of witnessing across the seas, at the very hour
in which it occurred.
THE CAVE OF THE ECHOES
A STRANGE BUT TRUE STORY[2]
[2] This story is given from the narrative of an eye-witness,
a Russian gentleman, very pious, and fully trustworthy.
Moreover, the facts are copied from the police records of P——.
The eyewitness in question attributes it, of course, partly to
divine interference and partly to the Evil One.—H. P. B.
In one of the distant governments of the Russian empire, in a small
town on the borders of Siberia, a mysterious tragedy occurred more
than thirty years ago. About six versts from the little town of P——,
famous for the wild beauty of its scenery, and for the wealth of its
inhabitants—generally proprietors of mines and of iron foundries—stood
an aristocratic mansion. Its household consisted of the master, a rich
old bachelor and his brother, who was a widower and the father of
two sons and three daughters. It was known that the proprietor, Mr.
Izvertzoff, had adopted his brother’s children, and, having formed an
especial attachment for his eldest nephew, Nicolas, he had made him the
sole heir of his numerous estates.
Time rolled on. The uncle was getting old, the nephew was coming of
age. Days and years had passed in monotonous serenity, when, on the
hitherto clear horizon of the quiet family, appeared a cloud. On an
unlucky day one of the nieces took it into her head to study the
zither. The instrument being of purely Teutonic origin, and no teacher
of it residing in the neighborhood, the indulgent uncle sent to St.
Petersburg for both. After diligent search only one Professor could be
found willing to trust himself in such close proximity to Siberia. It
was an old German artist, who, sharing his affections equally between
his instrument and a pretty blonde daughter, would part with neither.
And thus it came to pass that one fine morning the old Professor
arrived at the mansion, with his music box under one arm and his fair
Munchen leaning on the other.
From that day the little cloud began growing rapidly; for every
vibration of the melodious instrument found a responsive echo in the
old bachelor’s heart. Music awakens love, they say, and the work begun
by the zither was completed by Munchen’s blue eyes. At the expiration
of six months the niece had become an expert zither player, and the
uncle was desperately in love.
One morning, gathering his adopted family around him, he embraced them
all very tenderly, promised to remember them in his will, and wound up
by declaring his unalterable resolution to marry the blue-eyed Munchen.
After this he fell upon their necks and wept in silent rapture. The
family, understanding that they were cheated out of the inheritance,
also wept; but it was for another cause. Having thus wept, they
consoled themselves and tried to rejoice, for the old gentleman was
sincerely beloved by all. Not all of them rejoiced, though. Nicolas,
who had himself been smitten to the heart by the pretty German, and
who found himself defrauded at once of his belle and of his uncle’s
money, neither rejoiced nor consoled himself, but disappeared for a
whole day.
Meanwhile, Mr. Izvertzoff had given orders to prepare his traveling
carriage on the following day, and it was whispered that he was going
to the chief town of the district, at some distance from his home,
with the intention of altering his will. Though very wealthy, he had
no superintendent on his estate, but kept his books himself. The same
evening after supper, he was heard in his room, angrily scolding his
servant, who had been in his service for over thirty years. This man,
Ivan, was a native of northern Asia, from Kamschatka; he had been
brought up by the family in the Christian religion, and was thought to
be very much attached to his master. A few days later, when the first
tragic circumstance I am about to relate had brought all the police
force to the spot, it was remembered that on that night Ivan was drunk;
that his master, who had a horror of this vice had paternally thrashed
him, and turned him out of his room, and that Ivan had been seen
reeling out of the door, and had been heard to mutter threats.
On the vast domain of Mr. Izvertzoff there was a curious cavern, which
excited the curiosity of all who visited it. It exists to this day, and
is well known to every inhabitant of P——. A pine forest, commencing
a few feet from the garden gate, climbs in steep terraces up a long
range of rocky hills, which it covers with a broad belt of impenetrable
vegetation. The grotto leading into the cavern, which is known as the
“Cave of the Echoes,” is situated about half a mile from the site
of the mansion, from which it appears as a small excavation in the
hill-side, almost hidden by luxuriant plants, but not so completely
as to prevent any person entering it from being readily seen from the
terrace in front of the house. Entering the Grotto, the explorer finds
at the rear a narrow cleft; having passed through which he emerges into
a lofty cavern, feebly lighted through fissures in the vaulted roof,
fifty feet from the ground. The cavern itself is immense, and would
easily hold between two and three thousand people. A part of it, in the
days of Mr. Izvertzoff, was paved with flagstones, and was often used
in the summer as a ball-room by picnic parties. Of an irregular oval,
it gradually narrows into a broad corridor, which runs for several
miles underground, opening here and there into other chambers, as large
and lofty as the ball-room, but, unlike this, impassable otherwise than
in a boat, as they are always full of water. These natural basins have
the reputation of being unfathomable.
On the margin of the first of these is a small platform, with several
mossy rustic seats arranged on it, and it is from this spot that the
phenomenal echoes, which give the cavern its name, are heard in all
their weirdness. A word pronounced in a whisper, or even a sigh, is
caught up by endless mocking voices, and instead of diminishing in
volume, as honest echoes do, the sound grows louder and louder at
every successive repetition, until at last it bursts forth like the
repercussion of a pistol shot, and recedes in a plaintive wail down the
corridor.
On the day in question, Mr. Izvertzoff had mentioned his intention of
having a dancing party in this cave on his wedding day, which he had
fixed for an early date. On the following morning, while preparing for
his drive, he was seen by his family entering the grotto, accompanied
only by his Siberian servant. Half-an-hour later, Ivan returned to the
mansion for a snuff-box, which his master had forgotten in his room,
and went back with it to the cave. An hour later the whole house was
startled by his loud cries. Pale and dripping with water, Ivan rushed
in like a madman, and declared that Mr. Izvertzoff was nowhere to be
found in the cave. Thinking he had fallen into the lake, he had dived
into the first basin in search of him and was nearly drowned himself.
The day passed in vain attempts to find the body. The police filled the
house, and louder than the rest in his despair was Nicolas, the nephew,
who had returned home only to meet the sad tidings.
A dark suspicion fell upon Ivan, the Siberian. He had been struck by
his master the night before, and had been heard to swear revenge. He
had accompanied him alone to the cave, and when his room was searched,
a box full of rich family jewelry, known to have been carefully kept
in Mr. Izvertzoff’s apartment, was found under Ivan’s bedding. Vainly
did the serf call God to witness that the box had been given to him
in charge by his master himself, just before they proceeded to the
cave; that it was the latter’s purpose to have the jewelry reset, as
he intended it for a wedding present to his bride; and that he, Ivan,
would willingly give his own life to recall that of his master, if
he knew him to be dead. No heed was paid to him, however, and he was
arrested and thrown into prison upon a charge of murder. There he was
left, for under the Russian law a criminal cannot—at any rate, he could
not in those days—be sentenced for a crime, however conclusive the
circumstantial evidence, unless he confessed his guilt.
After a week had passed in useless search, the family arrayed
themselves in deep mourning; and, as the will as originally drawn
remained without a codicil, the whole of the property passed into the
hands of the nephew. The old teacher and his daughter bore this sudden
reverse of fortune with true Germanic phlegm, and prepared to depart.
Taking again his zither under one arm, the old man was about to lead
away his Munchen by the other, when the nephew stopped him by offering
himself as the fair damsel’s husband in the place of his departed
uncle. The change was found to be an agreeable one, and, without much
ado, the young people were married.
* * * * *
Ten years rolled away, and we meet the happy family once more at the
beginning of 1859. The fair Munchen had grown fat and vulgar. From
the day of the old man’s disappearance, Nicolas had become morose and
retired in his habits, and many wondered at the change in him, for now
he was never seen to smile. It seemed as if his only aim in life were
to find out his uncle’s murderer, or rather to bring Ivan to confess
his guilt. But the man still persisted that he was innocent.
An only son had been born to the young couple, and a strange child
it was. Small, delicate, and ever ailing, his frail life seemed to
hang by a thread. When his features were in repose, his resemblance
to his uncle was so striking that the members of the family often
shrank from him in terror. It was the pale shriveled face of a man
of sixty upon the shoulders of a child nine years old. He was never
seen either to laugh or to play, but, perched in his high chair, would
gravely sit there, folding his arms in a way peculiar to the late Mr.
Izvertzoff; and thus he would remain for hours, drowsy and motionless.
His nurses were often seen furtively crossing themselves at night, upon
approaching him, and not one of them would consent to sleep alone with
him in the nursery. His father’s behavior towards him was still more
strange. He seemed to love him passionately, and at the same time to
hate him bitterly. He seldom embraced or caressed the child, but, with
livid cheek and staring eye, he would pass long hours watching him, as
the child sat quietly in his corner, in his goblin-like, old-fashioned
way.
The child had never left the estate, and few outside the family knew of
his existence.
About the middle of July, a tall Hungarian traveler, preceded by a
great reputation for eccentricity, wealth and mysterious powers,
arrived at the town of P—— from the North, where, it was said, he had
resided for many years. He settled in the little town, in company
with a Shaman or South Siberian magician, on whom he was said to make
mesmeric experiments. He gave dinners and parties, and invariably
exhibited his Shaman, of whom he felt very proud, for the amusement of
his guests. One day the notables of P—— made an unexpected invasion of
the domains of Nicolas Izvertzoff, and requested the loan of his cave
for an evening entertainment. Nicolas consented with great reluctance,
and only after still greater hesitancy was he prevailed upon to join
the party.
The first cavern and the platform beside the bottomless lake glittered
with lights. Hundreds of flickering candles and torches, stuck in
the clefts of the rocks, illuminated the place and drove the shadows
from the mossy nooks and corners, where they had crouched undisturbed
for many years. The stalactites on the walls sparkled brightly, and
the sleeping echoes were suddenly awakened by a joyous confusion of
laughter and conversation. The Shaman, who was never lost sight of by
his friend and patron, sat in a corner, entranced as usual. Crouched
on a projecting rock, about midway between the entrance and the water,
with his lemon-yellow, wrinkled face, flat nose, and thin beard, he
looked more like an ugly stone idol than a human being. Many of the
company pressed around him and received correct answers to their
questions, the Hungarian cheerfully submitting his mesmerized “subject”
to cross-examination.
Suddenly one of the party, a lady, remarked that it was in that very
cave that old Mr. Izvertzoff had so unaccountably disappeared ten years
before. The foreigner appeared interested, and desired to learn more of
the circumstances, so Nicolas was sought amid the crowd and led before
the eager group. He was the host and he found it impossible to refuse
the demanded narrative. He repeated the sad tale in a trembling voice,
with a pallid cheek, and tears were seen glittering in his feverish
eyes. The company were greatly affected, and encomiums upon the
behavior of the loving nephew in honoring the memory of his uncle and
benefactor were freely circulating in whispers, when suddenly the voice
of Nicolas became choked, his eyes started from their sockets, and with
a suppressed groan, he staggered back. Every eye in the crowd followed
with curiosity his haggard look, as it fell and remained riveted upon a
weazened little face, that peeped from behind the back of the Hungarian.
“Where do you come from? Who brought you here, child?” gasped out
Nicolas, as pale as death.
“I was in bed, papa; this man came to me, and brought me here in his
arms,” answered the boy simply, pointing to the Shaman, beside whom
he stood upon the rock, and who, with his eyes closed, kept swaying
himself to and fro like a living pendulum.
“That is very strange,” remarked one of the guests, “for the man has
never moved from his place.”
“Good God! what an extraordinary resemblance!” muttered an old resident
of the town, a friend of the lost man.
“You lie, child!” fiercely exclaimed the father. “Go to bed; this is no
place for you.”
“Come, come,” interposed the Hungarian, with a strange expression on
his face, and encircling with his arm the slender childish figure; “the
little fellow has seen the double of my Shaman, which roams sometimes
far away from his body, and has mistaken the phantom for the man
himself. Let him remain with us for a while.”
At these strange words the guests stared at each other in mute
surprise, while some piously made the sign of the cross, spitting
aside, presumably at the devil and all his works.
“By-the-bye,” continued the Hungarian with a peculiar firmness of
accent, and addressing the company rather than any one in particular;
“why should we not try, with the help of my Shaman, to unravel the
mystery hanging over the tragedy? Is the suspected party still lying
in prison? What? he has not confessed up to now? This is surely very
strange. But now we will learn the truth in a few minutes! Let all keep
silent!”
He then approached the Tehuktchene, and immediately began his
performance without so much as asking the consent of the master of
the place. The latter stood rooted to the spot, as if petrified with
horror, and unable to articulate a word. The suggestion met with
general approbation, save from him; and the police inspector, Col. S——,
especially approved of the idea.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the mesmerizer in soft tones, “allow
me for this once to proceed otherwise than in my general fashion. I
will employ the method of native magic. It is more appropriate to this
wild place, and far more effective as you will find, than our European
method of mesmerization.”
Without waiting for an answer, he drew from a bag that never left his
person, first a small drum, and then two little phials—one full of
fluid, the other empty. With the contents of the former he sprinkled
the Shaman, who fell to trembling and nodding more violently than ever.
The air was filled with the perfume of spicy odors, and the atmosphere
itself seemed to become clearer. Then, to the horror of those present,
he approached the Tibetan, and taking a miniature stiletto from his
pocket, he plunged the sharp steel into the man’s forearm, and drew
blood from it, which he caught in the empty phial. When it was half
filled, he pressed the orifice of the wound with his thumb, and stopped
the flow of blood as easily as if he had corked a bottle, after which
he sprinkled the blood over the little boy’s head. He then suspended
the drum from his neck, and, with two ivory drum-sticks, which were
covered with magic signs and letters, he began beating a sort of
_réveille_, to drum up the spirits, as he said.
The bystanders, half-shocked and half-terrified by these extraordinary
proceedings, eagerly crowded round him, and for a few moments a dead
silence reigned throughout the lofty cavern. Nicolas, with his face
livid and corpse-like, stood speechless as before. The mesmerizer had
placed himself between the Shaman and the platform, when he began
slowly drumming. The first notes were muffled, and vibrated so softly
in the air that they awakened no echo, but the Shaman quickened his
pendulum-like motion and the child became restless. The drummer then
began a slow chant, low, impressive and solemn.