It had snowed persistently all day, and now, at night, the wind had
risen and blew in furious gusts against the windows, a bleak December
gale.
The Professor tramped steadily up and down his floor, up and down his
floor, from wall to wall and back again. It was not a cheerful room;
with but one strip of carpet, a chair or two, a table and bedstead, and
one dim tallow candle, flickering in a vain struggle to give any thing
better than a sickly light, which was afflicted, at uncertain intervals,
with violent convulsions. No, it was not a pleasant place, for the
Professor was poor, and lived a lonely, hermit-like life in the heart of
the great German city.
He had no relations—no friends. He was not a popular man, though he had
once been well known, and the public had all applauded his great
scholarship. His books, one after another, as they came out, if they
brought him no money, had brought him some fame then; but the last one
had appeared years ago, and been commented upon, and conscientiously put
aside, and the public, never very much interested in the author
personally, had about forgotten him.
During these long years he had been living secluded, waging a perpetual
war with himself. Entangled in the meshes of the subtile German
infidelity, which was at variance with his earlier training, he found
himself encompassed about by unbelief—unbelief in the orthodox theology
of his youth, unbelief, also, in the philosophy of this metaphysical
land. A man of vast learning, and a close student, he discovered his
knowledge to be always conflicting; and thus the long debate within him
was no nearer a termination than at the moment when the first doubt had
asserted itself.
Preyed upon by this harassing mental anxiety, and by encroaching
poverty, he was seized by a nervous fever, which had gradually
undermined his health, and almost disordered his mind.
And now, this night, in a condition of exhaustion, weary of life and its
ceaseless struggle—without friends, without money, without hope—his
black despair, like the evil tempter, rose before him and suggested a
thought from which he had at first drawn back appalled. But it was only
for a moment. Why not put an end forever to all these troubles? Had he
not worked for years, and had he ever done the world any good, or had
the world ever done him any good? No! The world was retrograding daily.
The selfishness of humanity, instead of lessening, was constantly
growing worse. How had they repaid him for his long studies? He had shut
himself up and labored over heavy questions in metaphysics—sifting,
searching, reading, thinking—only for a few thankless ones, who had
glanced at his works, smiled a faint smile of praise, and straightway
left them and him to be lost again in obscurity!
The future was dark, the present a labyrinth of care and suffering, from
which there was but the one escape. Then why not accept it? So he had
been arguing with himself all the evening, and, in his growing
excitement, pacing the floor of his garret to and fro with a quick,
nervous tread. But there had another cause risen in his mind which he,
at first, would hardly acknowledge to himself.
A faint, undefined shadow, as it were, of his early faith stirred within
him, and before him the “oblivion” of death was peopled with a thousand
appalling fancies, illumined by the red flame of an eternal torment. In
vain he strove to dispel it by remembering the more rational doctrine of
reason, that death is but a dreamless sleep, lasting forever.
Suddenly, feeling conscious of the heinousness of the crime he was
meditating, and knowing that he was in an unnatural feverish condition,
he paused abruptly in his hurried tramp, stood a few moments utterly
motionless, then, dropping on his knees, he made a vow that he would
take twenty-four hours to consider the deed, and, if it were done, it
should not be done rashly. “Hear me, O Heaven!” Springing up, he cried;
“Heaven! Heaven!—There is no Heaven! Vow!—to whom did I vow? There is no
God!” Muttering a faint laugh, he said, after a moment: “I vowed to
myself; and the vow shall be kept. Not all the theories and philosophies
of Germany shall cheat me out of it.”
It seemed like the last struggle of his soul to assert itself. Almost
staggering with exhaustion, he fell upon the bed and slept.
A gentle breeze from the far past blew around him in his native land. He
saw the white cliff at whose base the sea-foam threw up its glittering
spray with a ceaseless strain of music. He saw the green meadows, where
the quiet, meek-eyed cattle found a pasture, stretching away to the
green hills, where flocks of sheep browsed in the pleasant shade beneath
the tall oak trees. He saw, far off on the highest summit of the wavy
ridge, the turrets of the great castle rear themselves above the foliage
like a crown—the royal diadem upon all these sun-bathed hills and
valleys. He stood within the cottage, the happy cottage under the
sheltering sycamores; and, brighter, clearer, more beautiful than all
these, he saw a face look down upon him with a calm and earnest smile.
It was the home of his childhood, it was the face of his mother, all
raised in the mirage of sleep—a radiant vision lifted from the heavy
gloom of forty years, years upon which Immanuel Kant, years upon which
the Transcendental school had crept with their baleful influence,
poisonous as the deadly nightshade.
He struggled to speak, and wakened. A dream, yes, all a dream! He
pressed his hands against his brow—A dream? Yes, childhood had been but
a dream. Life itself is but an unhappy dream!
The wild December wind still blew with a rattling noise against the
windows, and sometimes swept round the corner with a dreary,
half-smothered cry. The candle had burned down almost to the socket, and
was seized more frequently than before with its painful spasms, making
each gaunt shadow of the few pieces of furniture writhe in a weird,
silent dance on the wall. As the Professor sat on the bed, they appeared
to him like voiceless demons, performing some diabolical ceremony,
luring his soul to destruction. Then they seemed moving in fantastic
measure to a soundless dirge, which he strained his ears to hear, when
the candle burned steadily, and they paused in their dumb incantation.
A loud knock, which shook the door, made the Professor start up amazed,
and the shadows re-begin their uncanny pantomime. For a moment he stood
stupefied with surprise. It was far in the small hours of the night, and
visitors at any time were unknown. He had lived there for months an
utter stranger, and no footsteps but his own had ever crossed the floor.
An uncontrollable fit of trembling came upon him, and he lay down once
more, thinking it all the creation of his overwrought fancy. But the
knock was repeated louder than before, and the gaunt shadows again made
violent signals to each other in their speechless dialect, as though
their grim desires were just then upon the eve of accomplishment.
With an effort the Professor got up and said “Come!” but the word died
away in his throat, a faint whisper. He tried it a second time; then,
partially overruling the weakness that had seized upon him, crossed the
room and opened the door.
“Good gracious! What’s the matter with you?” said a voice from out of
the dark on the landing.
It was the son of the undertaker, who lived down stairs. They were not
acquainted, and had never spoken, but they had often passed each other
in the street—though, until that moment, the Professor was not aware
that he had ever even noticed him; but now he recognized him and drew
back. The young man, however, entered uninvited.
“I say, what the deuce is the matter with you?”
“Nothing! What do you want, sir?”
“Want? Why your face is as white as a sheet, and your eyes, your eyes
are—confound me if I want any thing!” he said, backing to the door in
alarm.
Indeed, the expression which rested on the features of the Professor was
hardly pleasant to look at alone, and in the night. But, having followed
his instinct, so far as to his bodily preservation, and having backed
into the hall so that the Professor could hardly distinguish the outline
of his figure, the young man’s courage got the better of his fright. He
came to a standstill, passed his hand nervously round his neck, cleared
his throat several times, and then, in a husky voice—caused, evidently,
by his recent alarm, and not by the message, singular as it was, that he
came to deliver—said,—
“We want you. It is Christmas—we want you for a corpse.”
It may have been a very ordinary thing to them, considering their
profession, to want people for corpses, either at Christmas or any other
time; but it was hardly an ordinary thing to the Professor to be wanted
for one; and the announcement was certainly somewhat startling, made in
a sepulchral tone from out the gloom. It was still stranger that the
young man himself appeared rather faint-hearted for one who entertained
so malevolent a desire, and had the boldness to make the assertion
outright. The Professor for a moment fairly thought him in league with
the shadows, for they were at work once more, beckoning and pointing
fiercely, as the wind swept up the staircase, to the indistinct figure
out in the dusk, that was the son of the undertaker, and who said
again,—
“We want you, sir, for a corpse—”
Here he paused abruptly, to clear his throat anew, as though he found
himself disagreeably embarrassed by the unfriendly appearance of his
host, whose face, if it had been pale at first, was of a gray, ashen
color now. He evidently could not see why his request should have been
taken in such ill part, and he stammered and stuttered, and was about
ready to begin again, when the Professor said,—
“You will likely get me.”
The peculiar expression that rested upon the Professor’s mouth as he
uttered these words, was hardly encouraging; but the young man—as though
every body would recognize that it was absolutely essential to them, in
order that they might celebrate the great gala-day with their family, to
have a corpse, just as other people have a tree—immediately brightened
up, and, advancing a step or two, said gratefully,—
“I am very glad, sir; I am very glad. It is Christmas, you know, and I
told them as how I thought you’d do, for you are spare, sir, and—”
Here he found another blockade in his throat, which, after a slight
struggle, he swallowed, and went on,—
“I told them as how I thought you’d do, sir, for you see we want
somebody that is small and thin, and will be light to carry after he is
all fixed up. Hans Blauroch did for us last time; but this year, instead
of parading Santa Claus up and down the street, we’ve concluded to bury
him. It will be something new this Christmas; and Hans is too heavy to
carry; and when I thought of you, sir, I just took the liberty of coming
right up; because it’s near daylight, and there ain’t no great while
left to get the funeral ready.”
So the blockhead had finally jerked out what he came for, which was not
so malevolent after all as he had at first made it appear. He deserved,
rather, to be praised for his persistency than censured for his
awkwardness, considering the difficulties under which he had labored.
The Professor did not show whether he felt relieved by this
_denouement_. He had listened without moving; and when the young man
finished speaking he hesitated a moment, then, with the same peculiar
expression visible about his mouth, said he would be glad to place
himself at their service; he would be with them directly; that he had
not been feeling well; indeed, he only an hour ago almost fainted, and
had not yet recovered when he heard the knock upon his door; but he was
feeling better, and would come down immediately.