Ricardo looked up dreamily, as if he had quite forgotten that part
of the subject.
“Have I not told you?” he inquired; “do you not understand?”
“Indeed I do not! I am quite in the dark about it! You have related to
me the painful story of your poor wife’s death, with which I fully
sympathise, but I do not trace any connection between that and your
interest in Mysticism.”
“How strange! How very strange!” replied Ricardo, shaking himself
together. “Why! to me they are one. My one object in life now is to
learn the truth--to hear if I were only the rightful agent to avenge a
great wrong, or if my mad jealousy prompted me to commit a murder. It
is for this reason alone that I have studied, as far as I am able, the
Art of Magic, and pored over my books and my experiments half the
nights through, in order to gain an answer.”
“But how can that avail you, Signor? Do you expect the Spirits of Evil
to aid you in this matter?”
“No! no! Leonora herself! It is for Leonora only that I sit up night
after night, listening for a sign, a whisper--straining my eyes for a
glance, a shadow--but it seems all in vain. I must have help, and in
this house, surrounded as I am by curious eyes, I know not how to
obtain what I require.”
“And do you really believe that your dead wife will be able by the aid
of Magic to return to you in bodily shape and satisfy your curiosity
on this subject?” questioned the Doctor, almost amused at the idea--so
impossible did it appear to him.
“Why not? Why not?” inquired Ricardo, impatiently. “Others have come,
and why not my beautiful Leonora? Surely, you do not disbelieve in the
possibility of the spirit’s return to earth? It has happened in all
ages! Why not in this?”
“I know too little of the matter to be able to give you a sensible
answer,” said the Doctor, “but if possible, it seems most undesirable
to me. These things will all be cleared up for us by and by, in the
Hereafter, if there be an Hereafter. Meanwhile, cannot you persuade
yourself to wait patiently until you join your wife in the Great
Beyond? If you committed an unfortunate error and she was innocent,
why disturb her in the rest she must have gained?--and if, on the
contrary, she really deceived you, may you not be doing yourself an
injury by drawing back to earth a malevolent spirit, who may still be
harbouring thoughts of revenge against you?”
“No! no!” said the Professor, shaking his head, “you will not convince
me I am doing wrong, or rob me of my one unceasing hope to see and
speak with her again. It is the awful doubt, the suspense, that has
turned my hair grey before its time, and made my voice quaver like
that of an old man. If I could only raise her from the dead for one
little moment--hear her say, ‘I am innocent, and I forgive you!’ I
should ask no more--I should live contentedly and die happy!”
“And what means do you take to this end?” demanded Karl Steinberg, who
could not help feeling a certain amount of interest in the matter,
since his friend appeared so earnest over it.
Ricardo looked round the room as though to assure himself that he had
no listeners--then rising, went to the door, and having locked it,
turned to Steinberg, and said,
“Come with me and see my séance room!”
He stepped towards the door of the third room, which constituted him
such a Mystery to his landlady, and which opened from the one in which
they sat, and turned the key. Steinberg followed him curiously, but
all he saw was, that the small apartment was hung round the walls and
over the window and floor, with black stuff, and that it contained no
furniture, unless a couple of cushions thrown on the ground can be
called so.
“No air and no light!” exclaimed the Doctor. “And what do you do
here?”
“When the household have gone to bed,” said Ricardo, mysteriously,
“and I am sure of not being disturbed, I shut myself in and burn the
different incenses recommended in the books of Magic, and after a
while the spirits come, and sit down on the floor beside me.”
“Do you mean me to believe that?” exclaimed Steinberg, staring at
Ricardo as though he were insane, as indeed, at that moment, he
believed him to be.
“You can believe it, or not,” replied the Professor, “but it is true.”
“Impossible!” cried the Doctor, “you let your imagination run away
with you. You work so hard all day and permit this morbid fancy to
occupy your tired brain by night, until it has become in a measure,
diseased. I know you think you see and feel these things, but it is a
species of delirium or mental intoxication, bred of your intense
longing to accomplish what is unaccomplishable.”
“Very good,” said Ricardo, quietly, “if you believe that, you must
believe it! But what would convince you of the truth?”
“Nothing but the evidence of my own senses, whilst they were in the
calm condition they are at present.”
“If that is so, my friend, stay here and sit with me to-night. Then
your own senses shall convince you.”
This proposition took Steinberg by surprise. He was not entirely free
from the universal dread of anything like communication with the
Unseen World, although he had expressed his disbelief in the
possibility, but his fear was mingled with curiosity, and the result
was that he assented to Ricardo’s proposal.
“I will, Professor,” he said, “if only to try and show you that your
supposed spirits are merely shadows cast upon the wall.”
“A wall which has no light wherewith to cast shadows,” remarked
Ricardo, sarcastically.
“Well! well! that they are shadows thrown on the retina of your eye by
reflections from your brain,” replied the young Doctor, somewhat
testily, for he did not like to be refuted on his own ground, “any way
that the spirits of the dead have nothing to do with anything that you
may see, or hear, whilst shut up in this little room.”
“We are not arguing on what I may see or hear, Steinberg, but on what
may strike your senses. Neither did I affirm that the living things
that visit me, are spirits of the dead. My studies have taught me that
there is a class of secondary spirits called Elementals, that have had
nothing to do with this earth, but who yet can and do come to the aid
of those mortals who solicit their assistance. The vapoury forms that
appear to me may be only Elementals, but they come, all the same.”
“If they come, they must be worth the trouble of investigation, if
only in the interests of Science,” remarked Steinberg, thoughtfully,
“but after all, will it not resolve itself into the same old truth
that we have been brought up to believe, _i.e._, that we are
surrounded by evil spirits always ready to whisper bad thoughts into
our ears, and stimulate our worst inclinations?”
“But if evil spirits, then also good,” interposed the Professor
eagerly, “you surely would not deny the same power to all those
departed this earth. If devils, then also my Leonora, to speak with
whom I have been promised over and over again, and feel I only want
more power to accomplish.”
“Well! at all events I will sit with you this evening, Professor, and
try to see as you do. But I hear footsteps on the stairs. Had you not
better close the door of your sanctum, and turn the conversation to
some lighter subject?”
Ricardo locked the door carefully, putting the key in his pocket, and
by the time Mrs. Battleby appeared with the supper tray, the two
friends were talking gaily of a new drama that had just created some
sensation in the town.
“I wish you would come out with me sometimes, Professor,” the Doctor
was saying, “it would do you good to see some of these novelties and
listen to the discussions over them.”
“Ah! that it would, Sir,” said Mrs. Battleby, who was never backward
in joining in the conversation, “it would do the Sig-nor all the good
in the world, instead of poring over them nasty, musty vollums of his,
as must be enough to make any gentleman’s ’ead ache.”
“No! no! no!” exclaimed Ricardo, waving their suggestions away with
his hand, “I cannot! It is impossible! I have other things to do.”
“Or if you would ’ave your friends here more of an evening, Sir,”
continued the landlady, “nice, light-’arted young people, as could
play the banjo to you and sing a bit, I’m sure it would cheer you up,
and dissolve you from your studies.”
“Nonsense! you don’t know what you’re talking about,” exclaimed the
Professor, impatiently. “Put down the tray, Mrs. Battleby, like a good
creature, and leave the Doctor and me to ourselves. We have some
important matters to discuss.”
“Certainly, Sir,” said Mrs. Battleby, as she bounced the tray down on
the table with an energy that proved her wounded feelings, “and I ’ope
as when you rings the bell, you won’t mind my gal Hannah coming up to
clear, as I’ve got a little marketing to do, and I knows you don’t
like the things lying about too long.”
“O! dear no,” said Ricardo, “let Hannah clear the table by all means,
and tell her to be quick about it, Mrs. Battleby, as my friend and I
have business to attend to.”
“Very good, Sir!” replied the landlady, as she left them to
themselves.
Steinberg and Ricardo soon dispatched the simple meal set before them,
and then the former, drawing out his watch, remarked that if he was to
get home that night, he thought they had better set to work in their
search after the Invisible World.
The Professor accordingly rang the bell, which was answered by a young
woman whom he had never seen before, all the waiting in his room being
usually performed by Mrs. Battleby. The stranger was about eighteen
years of age, and looked as if she had just been transported from a
stack-yard, or a cow-house, and set down in Soho. She was not at all
attractive to the sight. She had a thick, ungainly figure, with a
waist like a tar-barrel, and huge hands and feet. Her bosom was
unusually developed for so young a girl--her face was broad and
flat--her mouth wide--her nose short and turned-up, and her colour
coarse and high. But to counteract all these failings, Hannah
possessed a wonderful pair of grey eyes, set wide apart in a low
forehead--eyes that looked you through and through, and yet had a
far-away dreamy gaze that was very provoking to Mrs. Battleby who
declared the girl was always more than half asleep. Hannah also
rejoiced in a thick mass of light brown hair, which made her head seem
much too large for her body. Taken altogether, she was uncouth, but
there was an innocence and simplicity in her gaze which was very
attractive when one had the time to discover it. As she stood silent
on the threshold of the Professor’s room, the men both thought she was
one of the stupidest, most countrified lasses they had ever come
across.
“Are you Hannah?” asked Ricardo, and on receiving an answer in the
affirmative, he added,
“Well! your mistress said you were to clear away my supper tray, and
when you have done that, you can bring me up a jug of hot water, and
then you must not disturb us again to-night. Do you understand?”
For the girl was looking at him so stolidly, that it seemed doubtful
if she had even heard what he said to her.
“Yes, Sir!” she answered, in a dull, low voice, as she piled all the
plates and dishes on the top of one another, preparatory to making a
grand smash if she should happen to slip going downstairs again.
“What a lout!” was Steinberg’s observation, as Hannah disappeared.
“Just so,” said Ricardo, “a simple piece of clay--a heifer newly
driven from pasture--an animal with all her senses undeveloped--but
not without a soul! Did you remark her eyes? They are unfathomable! I
should be curious, had I the time, to find out what lies beneath
them.”
“Holloa!” cried Steinberg, with a laugh, “take care of yourself,
Professor! Finding out what lies beneath women’s eyes, is dangerous
work! You might even animate this clod in your researches.”
Ricardo regarded him reproachfully.
“Do you know me so little, as to jest on such a subject?” he said. “I,
whose whole soul is bent on one object only. Steinberg, will you
believe me when I say, that since Leonora died beneath my hand, I have
never looked at another woman with even a semblance of the same
feelings? I was only thirty when I drove her soul from me, but I have
been widowed ever since, and shall remain so to my grave!”
“It’s a mistake to take these things too seriously,” replied his
friend, “it is better to have lived as I have, caring for no one and
regretting no one--for you see when a gap occurs I am able to fill it
up without delay or compunction.”
“Ah! I could not live like that!” said the Professor with a sigh.
“With me it must be all, or nothing! Leonora was my All. I could kill
her, but I could not replace her. Well! are you ready?”
“Certainly, when you are.”
Ricardo rose, and (Hannah having re-appeared with the hot water)
produced various pungent spices and gums, and with dried herbs and
other mysterious preparations from a drawer, commenced to separate
them into measured portions and to crumble them into a bowl.
“What is all this about?” demanded Steinberg, who having lit his pipe
and got a tumbler of hot grog by his side, was disposed to view his
friend’s doings from a humorous point of view.
“It would take too long to explain a mixture to you, which it has
taken me years to collect and assimilate,” said Ricardo, “but it is
the only potion that I have found really effectual--the only one that
has brought the spirits round me. Some of these essences and oils came
from India. An old friend of mine out there, took the trouble to
collect and preserve them for me, and others I have paid far more than
I can afford, for, but the result has been worth it all, as you shall
judge for yourself!”
“But how, in the name of all that’s wonderful, can a few scents,
however potent, have the power to attract, or cause to be visible,
spirits of air?” demanded the Doctor.
“You must tell me first what those spirits are composed of,” replied
the Professor. “You, as a medical man, know that our bodies are
composed of chemicals--it stands to reason therefore, that our
spiritual bodies are composed of the same, though varying from the
earthly ones, as they themselves do. When you can give me a list of
the chemicals, or essences, composing the spiritual part of ourselves,
I may be able to find out why certain decoctions attract them hither
and enable them to become visible to mortal sight. The fact is,
Steinberg, it is all a great Mystery, which perhaps we are not
intended to solve. But what is not a Mystery? Can you tell me that?
What are Birth and Death, but unfathomable Mysteries, that we shall
never know the meaning of, in this world? We accept them as ordinary
things, because we see them happen every day, but we know no more
about them--how they happen or how they are to be prevented--than you
know of this mixture, which is now ready to be set alight to.”
“Come on, old friend, then,” replied the Doctor, as he led the way
into the séance chamber.
Ricardo carried a lighted taper, and matches, which he was careful to
secure in his pocket, for it was like a vault they entered. The sombre
hangings which enveloped the apartment, shutting out both light and
air, and the musty smell which came from them, mingled with the stale
scent of the incense, made the place feel uncanny. Ricardo walked up
to the cushions on the floor, and told Steinberg to seat himself on
one of them. Having deposited himself beside him, and set alight to
the incense, he blew out the candle, and the wreathing smoke which
ascended from the bowl was the only illumination in the room.
Steinberg began to feel uneasy, notwithstanding his vaunted
incredulity. The German nation is famous for its many tales and
legends of ghostly lore, and however our reason may seem to disprove
their authenticity, our faith is prone to cling to the truths which
have been instilled into our minds during childhood.
As he watched the smoke curling up towards the ceiling, Steinberg felt
unusually cold--the little room seemed to fill with a chilly wind
which blew upon his face and hands--and the silence which his
companion maintained served to increase the gloom.
“May we not talk?” he whispered, presently, to Ricardo.
“Certainly, if you feel so inclined,” returned the Professor, “but for
myself, the occasion always seems so solemn, that I can only hold
commune with my own thoughts and think of--her!”
“And you are not in the least alarmed?” inquired the Doctor, who had
felt his companion leaning very hard against his shoulder, as if for
confidence and support.
“Not in the slightest. I am awed--but not frightened,” was the reply.
“Why, then, do you lean so hard against me?” said Steinberg.
“I am not touching you,” replied Ricardo, “I am too far away! I am not
seated on the cushion now, but in the centre of the room.”
“Not seated on the cushion?” repeated Steinberg. “Then--in God’s
Name!--_who is?_”
“How can I tell? I have already said that I am not near you! Doubtless
one of the spirits who visit me, is anxious to convince you of his
identity. Speak to him, Steinberg! As yet, I have been unable to make
them speak to me! You may be more successful.”
But the Doctor had already rolled off the cushion towards the door.
“Let me out!” he cried, “I will not stay here a moment longer! I told
you when you first made this infamous proposal to me, that it was
diabolical!--that none but evil spirits could be induced to hold
communication with men. And this must have been a devil, I am sure of
it, else he would have had the decency to give me some warning, before
sitting down beside me. Open the door, Professor! I have been brought
up a Lutheran, and my Church forbids all such practices as these. I
refuse to stay in this room any longer!”
“All right! It is all right!” said the Professor, as he drew the key
from his pocket and unlocked the door, “you are frightened, that is
all. I thought you would not be so brave when you came to see and feel
them. But how about it’s being all my imagination, eh, Doctor?”
Karl Steinberg, restored to the light, felt that he cut rather a sorry
figure. His cheeks were blanched with terror, and his limbs shook from
the same cause. But he tried to laugh it off.
“Now, confess, Professor, that you have been playing me a trick,” he
said, “it was you who came up and leant so hard against me, wasn’t it?
You thought you’d catch me tripping, you know, and put me in a blue
funk. But you haven’t succeeded, I’m as cool as a cucumber!”
Ricardo looked at him reproachfully.
“You are wrong,” he replied, “and you know you are wrong! If it were
I, and you knew it, why didn’t you throw your arms round me? Why did
you insist upon leaving the room? And why do you look so blue about
the mouth and chin? Ah! no, my friend, you know it was not I, as well
as I do! And such a pity too! They were coming so beautifully. They
have never come so quickly before. You are just the man to help me.
Come now, come back for a little, and I will promise to sit close to
you all the while!”
And he laid his hand on that of the Doctor, as he spoke. But Steinberg
pulled his vehemently away.
“No! no! not for all the world,” he ejaculated, “I will not play with
the Devil any longer! You must conduct your diabolical practices by
yourself.”
“But you will acknowledge they are not fraud then--that there is
something to be frightened at?”
“I will acknowledge nothing! I am not in a fit state to argue the
matter to-night. To-morrow, perhaps, I may be able to judge more
calmly. All that I can say is, that I refuse to enter that room
again.”
“If I could only persuade you,” continued the Professor, “if you had
only waited a little while and watched the smoke from the bowl, you
would have seen such beautiful forms shaping themselves amongst it!
Women and little children like cherubs--sometimes I have sat up all
night unable to tear myself away from so beautiful a sight!”
“All emissaries of the Evil One,” replied Steinberg, who was still
shaking from the scare he had received, “sent perhaps to lure you to
your destruction. Take care what you are about, Ricardo! Some morning
you may be found missing--dragged down to the Infernal Regions by
these demons, who assume the appearance of Angels of Light in order to
deceive you.”
“_The Infernal Regions!_” exclaimed the other, excitedly, “and what
would they signify to me, if I am never to see, nor speak, with my
Leonora more. Ah! Steinberg, I forget! You know nothing but the name
of this Love, which could turn Heaven into Hell without the presence
of the Beloved One, and vice vêrsa. Had you loved and lost as I have,
you would sit in that room, not a night, but every night, till you
heard some news of her who made your world.”
“Perhaps,” replied Steinberg, stolidly, “but you see, I haven’t.”
“But you will try again, will you not? You will come when this first
alarm has subsided, and see if you cannot stand it better? I, too,
felt fear when first I sat alone and watched the spirits rise from the
incense I had lighted, with my own hands. But that has all gone! I am
as calm now as the dead themselves! And so will you be, if you will
only try again!”
“_Never!_ Not for all the wealth of the Indies would I enter that
accursed room of my own free will, again. I am going, Ricardo! I don’t
feel well! I think the smell of the incense has upset me! Forgive me
for leaving you so soon, but I shall be better at home. Good-night!”
He ran hastily down the stairs as he spoke, and the Professor,
ruminating on the little trust there is to be put in one’s friends in
time of need, retired sadly to his bed.