oil. With feverish haste I threw my clothes off, blew out the
light and sprang into bed as if to smother my fears.
But once alone in the darkness the fears grew worse than ever.
They grew into dreams and visions. It seemed to me as if I were
out in the graveyard again, and heard the screaming of the rusty
weather vane as the wind turned it. Then I was in the mill again;
the wheels were turning and stretching out ghostly hands to draw me
into the yawning maw of the machine. Then again, I found myself in
a long, low, pitch-black corridor, followed by Something I could
not see--Something that drove me to the mouth of a bottomless
abyss. I would start up out of my half sleep, listen and look
about me, then fall back again into an uneasy slumber.
Suddenly something fell from the ceiling onto the bed, and "buzz--
buzz--buzz" sounded about my head. It was a huge fly which had
been sleeping in a corner of my room and had been roused by the
heat of the stove. It flew about in great circles, now around the
bed, now in all four corners of the chamber--"buzz--buzz--buzz"--it
was unendurable! At last I heard it creep into a bag of sugar
which had been left on the window sill. I sprang up and closed the
bag tight. The fly buzzed worse than ever, but I went back to bed
and attempted to sleep again, feeling that I had conquered the
enemy.
I began to count: I counted slowly to one hundred, two hundred,
finally up to one thousand, and then at last I experienced that
pleasant weakness which is the forerunner of true sleep. I seemed
to be in a beautiful garden, bright with many flowers and odorous
with all the perfumes of spring. At my side walked a beautiful
young girl. I seemed to know her well, and yet it was not possible
for me to remember her name, or even to know how we came to be
wandering there together. As we walked slowly through the paths
she would stop to pick a flower or to admire a brilliant butterfly
swaying in the air. Suddenly a cold wind blew through the garden.
The young girl trembled and her cheeks grew pale. "I am cold," she
said to me, "do you not see? It is Death who is approaching us."
I would have answered, but in the same moment another stronger and
still more icy gust roared through the garden. The leaves turned
pale on the trees, the flowerets bent their heads, and the bees and
butterflies fell lifeless to the earth. "That is Death," whispered
my companion, trembling.
A third icy gust blew the last leaves from the bushes, white
crosses and gravestones appeared between the bare twigs--and I was
in the churchyard again and heard the screaming of the rusty
weather vane. Beside me stood a heavy brass-bound coffin with a
metal plate on the cover. I bent down to read the inscription, the
cover rolled off suddenly, and from out the coffin rose the form of
the young girl who had been with me in the garden. I stretched out
my arms to clasp her to my breast--then, oh horror! I saw the
greenish-gleaming, empty eye sockets of the skull. I felt bony
arms around me, dragging me back into the coffin. I screamed aloud
for help and woke up.
My room seemed unusually light; but I remembered that it was a
moonlight night and thought no more of it. I tried to explain the
visions of my dream with various natural noises about me. The
imprisoned fly buzzed as loudly as a whole swarm of bees; one half
of my window had blown open, and the cold night air rushed in gusts
into my room.
I sprang up to close the window, and then I saw that the strong
white light that filled my room did not come from the moon, but
seemed to shine out from the church opposite. I heard the chiming
of the bells, soft at first, as if in far distance, then stronger
and stronger until, mingled with the rolling notes of the organ, a
mighty rush of sound struck against my windows. I stared out into
the street and could scarcely believe my eyes. The houses in the
market place just beyond were all little one-story buildings with
bow windows and wooden eave troughs ending in carved dragon heads.
Most of them had balconies of carved woodwork, and high stone
stoops with gleaming brass rails.
But it was the church most of all that aroused my astonishment.
Its position was completely changed. Its front turned toward our
house where usually the side had stood. The church was brilliantly
lighted, and now I perceived that it was this light which filled my
room. I stood speechless amid the chiming of the bells and the
roaring of the organ, and I saw a long wedding procession moving
slowly up the center aisle of the church toward the altar. The
light was so brilliant that I could distinguish each one of the
figures. They were all in strange old-time costumes; the ladies in
brocades and satins with strings of pearls in their powdered hair,
the gentlemen in uniform with knee breeches, swords, and cocked
hats held under their arms. But it was the bride who drew my
attention most strongly. She was clothed in white satin, and a
faded myrtle wreath was twisted through the powdered locks beneath
her sweeping veil. The bridegroom at her side wore a red uniform
and many decorations. Slowly they approached the altar, where an
old man in black vestments and a heavy white wig was awaiting them.
They stood before him, and I could see that he was reading the
ritual from a gold-lettered book.
One of the train stepped forward and unbuckled the bridegroom's
sword, that his right hand might be free to take that of the bride.
She seemed about to raise her own hand to his, when she suddenly
sank fainting at his feet. The guests hurried toward the altar,
the lights went out, the music stopped, and the figures floated
together like pale white mists.
But outside in the square it was still brighter than before, and I
suddenly saw the side portal of the church burst open and the
wedding procession move out across the market place.
I turned as if to flee, but could not move a muscle. Quiet, as if
turned to stone, I stood and watched the ghostly figures that came
nearer and nearer. The clergyman led the train, then came the
bridegroom and the bride, and as the latter raised her eyes to me I
saw that it was the young girl of the garden. Her eyes were so
full of pain, so full of sad entreaty that I could scarce endure
them; but how shall I explain the feeling that shot through me as I
suddenly discovered that the right sleeve of her white satin gown
hung empty at her side? The train disappeared, and the tone of the
church bells changed to a strange, dry, creaking sound, and the
gate below me complained as it turned on its rusty hinges. I faced
toward my own door. I knew that it was shut and locked, but I knew
that the ghostly procession were coming to call me to account, and
I felt that no walls could keep them out. My door flew open, there
was a rustling as of silken gowns, but the figures seemed to float
in in the changing forms of swaying white mists. Closer and closer
they gathered around me, robbing me of breath, robbing me of the
power to move. There was a silence as of the grave--and then I saw
before me the old priest with his gold-lettered book. He raised
his hand and spoke with a soft, deep voice: "The grave is sacred!
Let no one dare to disturb the peace of the dead."
"The grave is sacred!" an echo rolled through the room as the
swaying figures moved like reeds in the wind.
"What do you want? What do you demand?" I gasped in the grip of a
deathly fear.
"Give back to the grave that which belongs to it," said the deep
voice again.
"Give back to the grave that which belongs to it," repeated the
echo as the swaying forms pressed closer to me.
"But it's impossible--I can't--I have sold it--sold it at auction!"
I screamed in despair. "It was buried and found in the earth--and
sold for five marks eight shillings--"
A hideous scream came from the ghostly ranks. They threw
themselves upon me as the white fog rolls in from the sea, they
pressed upon me until I could no longer breathe. Beside myself, I
threw open the window and attempted to spring out, screaming aloud:
"Help! help! murder! they are murdering me!"
The sound of my own voice awoke me. I found myself in my night
clothes on the window sill, one leg already out of the window and
both hands clutching at the center post. On the street below me
stood the night watchman, staring up at me in astonishment, while
faint white clouds of mist rolled out of my window like smoke. All
around outside lay the November fog, gray and moist, and as the
fresh air of the early dawn blew cool on my face I felt my senses
returning to me. I looked down at the night watch man--God bless
him! He was a big, strong, comfortably fat fellow made of real
flesh and blood, and no ghost shape of the night. I looked at the
round tower of the church--how massive and venerable it stood
there, gray in the gray of the morning mists. I looked over at the
market place. There was a light in the baker shop and a farmer
stood before it, tying his horse to a post. Back in my own room
everything was in its usual place. Even the little paper bag with
the sugar lay there on the window sill, and the imprisoned fly
buzzed louder than ever. I knew that I was really awake and that
the day was coming. I sprang back hastily from the window and was
about to jump into bed, when my foot touched something hard and
sharp.
I stooped to see what it was, felt about on the floor in the half
light, and touched a long, dry, skeleton arm which held a tiny roll
of paper in its bony fingers. I felt about again, and found still
another arm, also holding a roll of paper. Then I began to think
that my reason must be going. What I had seen thus far was only an
unusually vivid dream--a vision of my heated imagination. But I
knew that I was awake now, and yet here lay two-no, three (for
there was still another arm)--hard, undeniable, material proofs
that what I had thought was hallucination, might have been reality.
Trembling in the thought that madness was threatening me, I tore
open the first roll of paper. On it was written the name:
"Solling." I caught at the second and opened it. There stood the
word: "Nansen." I had just strength enough left to catch the third
paper and open it--there was my own name: "Simsen."
Then I sank fainting to the floor.
When I came to myself again, Niels Daae stood beside me with an
empty water bottle, the contents of which were dripping off my
person and off the sofa upon which I was lying. "Here, drink
this," he said in a soothing tone. "It will make you feel better."
I looked about me wildly, as I sipped at the glass of brandy which
put new life into me once more. "What has happened?" I asked
weakly.
"Oh, nothing of importance," answered Niels. "You were just about
to commit suicide by means of charcoal gas. Those are mighty bad
ventilators on your old stove there. The wind must have blown them
shut, unless you were fool enough to close them yourself before you
went to bed. If you had not opened the window, you would have
already been too far along the path to Paradise to be called back
by a glass of brandy. Take another."
"How did you get up here?" I asked, sitting upright on the sofa.
"Through the door in the usual simple manner," answered Niels Daae.
"I was on watch last night in the hospital; but Mathiesen's punch
is heavy and my watching was more like sleeping, so I thought it
better to come away in the early morning. As I passed your
barracks here, I saw you sitting in the window in your nightshirt
and calling down to the night watchman that some one was murdering
you. I managed to wake up Jansen down below you, and got into the
house through his window. Do you usually sleep on the bare floor?"
"But where did the arms come from?" I asked, still half bewildered.
"Oh, the devil take those arms," cried Niels. "Just see if you can
stand up all right now. Oh, those arms there? Why, those are the
arms I cut off your skeletons. Clever idea, wasn't it? You know
how grumpy Solling gets if anything interferes with his tutoring.
You see, I'd had the geese sent me, and I wanted you to all come
with me to Mathiesen's place. I knew you were going to read the
osteology of the arm, so I went up into Solling's room, opened it
with his own keys and took the arms from his skeleton. I did the
same here while you were downstairs in the reading room. Have you
been stupid enough to take them down off their frames, and take
away their tickets? I had marked them so carefully, that each man
should get his own again."
I dressed hastily and went out with Niels into the fresh, cool
morning air. A few minutes later we separated, and I turned toward
the street where Solling lived. Without heeding the protest of his
old landlady, I entered the room where he still slept the sleep of
the just. The arm, still wrapped in newspaper, lay on his desk. I
took it up, put the mark piece in its place and hastened with all
speed to the churchyard.
How different it looked in the early dawn! The fog had risen and
shining frost pearls hung in the bare twigs of the tall trees where
the sparrows were already twittering their morning song. There was
no one to be seen. The churchyard lay quiet and peaceful. I
stepped over the heaps of bones to where the heavy oaken coffin lay
under a tree. Cautiously I pushed the arm back into its interior,
and hammered the rusty nails into their places again, just as the
first rays of the pale November sun touched a gleam of light from
the metal plate on the cover.--Then the weight was lifted from my
soul.
Otto Larssen
The Manuscript
Two gentlemen sat chatting together one evening.
Their daily business was to occupy themselves with literature. At
the present moment they were engaged in drinking whisky,--an
occupation both agreeable and useful,--and in chatting about books,
the theater, women and many other things. Finally they came around
to that inexhaustible subject for conversation, the mysterious life
of the soul, the hidden things, the Unknown, that theme for which
Shakespeare has given us an oft-quoted and oft-abused device, which
one of the men, Mr. X., now used to point his remarks. Raising his
glass, he looked at himself meditatively in a mirror opposite, and,
in a good imitation of the manner of his favorite actor, he quoted:
"There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in
thy philosophy, Horatio."
Mr. Y. arranged a fresh glass for himself, and answered:
"I believe it. I believe also that it is given but to a few chosen
ones to see these things. It never fell to my lot, I know.
Fortunately for me, perhaps. For,--at least so it appears to me,--
these chosen ones appear on closer investigation to be individuals
of an abnormal condition of brain. As far as I personally am
concerned, I know of nothing more strange than the usual logical
and natural sequence of events on our globe. I confess things do
sometimes happen outside of this orderly sequence; but for the
cold-blooded and thoughtful person the Strange, the apparently
Inexplicable, usually turns out to be a sum of Chance, that Chance
we will never be quite clever enough to fully take into our
calculations.
"As an instance I would like to tell you the story of what happened
several years back to a friend of mine, a young French writer. He
had a good, sincere mind, but he had also a strong leaning toward
which was just then in danger of becoming as much of a fashion in
France as it is here now. The event of which I am about to tell
you threw him into what was almost a delirium, which came near to
robbing him of his normal intelligence, and therefore came near to
robbing French readers of a few excellent books.
"This was the way it happened:
"It was about ten years back, and I was spending the spring and
summer in Paris. I had a room with the family of a concierge on
the left bank, rue de Vaugirard, near the Luxembourg Gardens.
"A few steps from my modest domicile lived my friend Lucien F. We
had become acquainted through a chain of circumstances which do not
belong to this story, but these circumstances had made firm friends
of us, a friendship which was a source of great pleasure and also
of assistance to me in my study of Paris conditions. This
friendship also enabled me to enjoy better and cheaper whisky than
one can usually meet with in the city by the Seine, a real good
'Jameson Highland.'
"Lucien F. had already published several books which had aroused
attention through the oddity of their themes, and their gratifying
success had made it possible for him to establish himself in a
comfortably furnished bachelor apartment on the corner of the rue
de Vaugirard and the rue de Conde.
"The apartment had a corridor and three rooms; a dining room, a
bedroom and a charming study with an inclosed balcony, the three
windows of which,--a large one in the center and two smaller ones
at the side,--sent a flood of light in over the great writing table
which filled nearly the entire balcony. Inside the room, near the
balcony, stood a divan covered with a bearskin rug. Upon this
divan I spent many of my hours in Paris, occupied in the smoking of
my friend's excellent cigars, and the sampling of his superlatively
good whisky. At the same time I could lie staring up at the tops
of the trees in the Luxembourg Gardens, while Lucien worked at his
desk. For, unlike most writers, he could work best when he was not
alone.
"If I remained away several days, he would invariably ring my bell
early some morning, and drag me out of bed with the remark: 'The
whisky is ready. I can't write if you are not there.'
"During the particular days of which I shall tell you, he was
engaged in the writing of a fantastic novelette, 'The Force of the
Wind,' a work which interested him greatly, and which he would
interrupt unwillingly at intervals to furnish copy for the well-
known newspaper that numbered him among the members of its staff.
His books were printed by the same house that did the printing for
the paper.
"Often, as I lay in my favorite position on the divan, the bell
would ring and we would he honored by a visit from the printer's
boy Adolphe, a little fellow in a blue blouse, the true type of
Paris gamin. Adolphe rejoiced in a broken nose, a pair of crafty
eyes, and had his fists always full of manuscripts which he treated
with a carelessness that would have driven a literary novice to
despair. The long rolls of yellow paper would hang out of his
trousers pockets as if ready to fall apart at his next movement.
And the disrespectful manner in which he crammed my friend Lucien's
scarcely dried essay into the breast of his blouse would have
certainly called forth remarks from a journalist of more self-
conceit.
"But his eyes were so full of sly cunning, and there was such an
atmosphere of Paris about the stocky little fourteen-year-old chap,
that we would often keep him longer with us, and treat him to a
glass of anisette to hear his opinion of the writers whose work he
handled. He was an amusing cross between a tricky little Paris
gamin and a real child, and he hit off the characteristics of the
various writers with as keen a touch of actuality as he could put
into his stories of how many centimes he had won that morning at
'craps' from his friend Pierre. Pierre was another employee of the
printing house, Adolphe's comrade in his study of the mysteries of
Paris streets, and now his rival. They were both in love with the
same girl, the fifteen-year-old daughter of the keeper of 'La
Prunelle' Cafe, and her favor was often the prize of the morning's
game.
"Now and then this rivalry between the two young Parisians would
drop into a hand-to-hand fight. I myself was witness to such a
skirmish one day, in front of 'La Prunelle.' The rivals pulled
each other's hair mightily while the manuscripts flew about over
the pavement, and Virginie, in her short skirts, stood at the door
of the cafe and laughed until she seemed about to shake to pieces.
"Pierre was the strongest, and Adolphe came off with a bloody nose.
He gathered up his manuscripts in grim silence and left the
battlefield and the still laughing Virginie with an expression of
deep anger on his wounded face.
"The following day, when I teased him a little because of his
defeat, he smiled a sly smile and remarked:
"'Yes, but I won a franc from him, the big stupid animal. And so
it was I, after all, who took Virginie out that evening. We went
to the Cafe "Neant," where I let them put me in the coffin and
pretend to be decaying, to amuse her. She thought it was lots of
fun.'
"One morning Lucien had come for me as usual, put me on the divan,
and seated himself at his writing table. He was just putting the
last words to his novel, and the table was entirely covered with
the scattered leaves, closely written. I could just see his neck
as he sat there, a thin-sinewed, expressive neck. He bent over his
work, blind and deaf for anything else. I lay there and gazed out
over the tops of the trees in the park up into the blue summer sky.
The window on the left side of the desk stood wide open, for it was
a warm and sultry day. I sipped my whisky slowly. The air was
heavy, and thunder threatened in the distance. After a little
while the clouds gathered together, heavy, low-hanging, copper-
hued, real thunder clouds, and the trees in the park rustled
softly. The air was stifling, and lay heavy as lead on my breast.
"'Lucien!'
"Lucien did not hear or see anything, his pen flew over the paper.
"I fell hack lazily on my divan.
"Then, suddenly, there was a mighty tumult. A strong gust of wind
swept through the street, bending the trees in the gardens quite
out of my horizon. With a crash the right-hand window in the
balcony flew wide open, and like a cyclone, the wind swept through,
clearing the table in an instant of all the loose sheets of paper
that had lain scattered about it.
"'The devil! Why don't you shut the window!' I cried, springing up
from the sofa.
"'Spare your energy, it's too late,' said Lucien with a gentle
mockery in his soft voice. 'Look there!'--he pointed out into the
street, where his sheets of paper went swirling about in the heavy
air like white doves.
"A second later came the rain, a veritable cloud-burst. We shut
the windows and gave ourselves up to melancholy thoughts about the
lost manuscript, the recovery of which now seemed utterly hopeless.
"'That's one thousand francs, at least, that the wind has robbed me
of,' sighed Lucien. 'Well, enfin, that doesn't matter so much.
But do you know anything more tiresome than to work over the same
subject a second time? I can't think of doing it. It would fairly
make me sick to try it.'
"We were in a sad mood that morning. When we went out to breakfast
at about two o'clock, we looked about for some traces of the lost
manuscript.
"There was nothing to be seen. It had vanished completely, whirled
off to all four corners of the earth probably, this manuscript from
which Lucien had expected so much. Truly it was 'The Force of the
Wind.'
. . . . .
"Now comes the strange part of the story. One morning, two weeks
later, Lucien stood in the door of my little room, pale as a ghost.
He had a bundle of printer's proofs in his hand, and held them out
to me without a word.
"I looked at it and read:
"'"The Force of the Wind," by Lucien F.'
"It was a good bundle of proofs, the entire first proofs of
Lucien's novel, that novel the manuscript of which we had seen
blown out of the balcony window and whirled away by the winds.
"'My dear man,' I exclaimed, as I handed him back the proofs. 'You
HAVE been industrious indeed, to write your entire novel over again
in so short a time--and to have proofs already--'
"Lucien did not answer. He stood silent, staring at me with a
weird look in his otherwise so sensible eyes. After a moment he
stammered:
"'I did not write the novel over again. I have not touched a pen
since the day the manuscript blew out of the window.'
"'Are you a sleep-walker, Lucien?'
"'Why do you ask?'
"'Why, that would be the only natural explanation. They say we can
do a great many things in sleep, of which we know nothing when we
wake. I've heard queer stories of that. Men have committed
murders in their sleep. It happens quite often that sleep-walkers
write letters in a handwriting they do not recognize when awake.'
"'I have never been a sleep-walker,' answered Lucien.
"'Oh, you never can tell,' I remarked. 'Would you rather explain
it as magic? Or as the work of fairies? Or do you believe in
ghosts? Your muse has fascinated you, you mystic!' And I laughed
and trilled a line from 'The Mascot,' which we had seen the evening
before at the Lyric.