Lucien. He turned from me in silence, and with an offended
expression took his hat and his proofs, and--humorist and skeptic
as he was ordinarily, he parted from me with the words, uttered in
a theatrical tone:
"'There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in
thy philosophy.'
"He turned on his heel and left the room.
"To be candid, I was unpleasantly affected by the little scene. I
could not for an instant doubt Lucien's honesty,--he was so pale,
so frightened almost--so touching in the alarm and excitement of
his soul. Of course the only explanation that I could see was that
he had written his novel in a sleep-walking state.
"For certainly no printer could set up type from a manuscript that
did not exist,--to say nothing of printing it and sending out
proofs.
"Several days passed, but Lucien did not come near me. I went to
his place once or twice, but the door was locked. Had the devil
carried him off bodily? Or had this strange and inexplicable
occurrence robbed him of his sanity, and robbed me of his
friendship and his excellent whisky?
"After three useless attempts to find him at home, and after
writing him a letter which he did not answer, I gave up Lucien
without any further attempt to understand his enigmatical behavior.
A short time after, I left for my home without having seen or heard
anything more of him.
. . . . .
"Months passed. I remained at home, and one evening when, during
the course of a gay party, the conversation came around to the
subject of mysticism and occult occurrences, I dished up my story
of the enigmatical manuscript. The Unknown, the Occult, was the
rage just then, and my story was received with great applause and
called forth numerous quotations as to 'more things in heaven and
earth.' I came to think so much of it myself that I wrote it out
and sent it to Professor Flammarion, who was just then making a
study of the Unknown, which he preserved in his later book
'L'Inconnu.'
"The occupying myself with the story brought my mind around again
to memories of Lucien. One day, I saw a notice in Le Figaro to the
effect that his book, 'The Force of the Wind,' had appeared in a
second large edition, and had aroused much attention, particularly
in spiritualistic circles. I seemed to see him again before me,
with his long nervous neck, which was so expressive. The vision of
this neck rose up before me whenever I drank the same sort of
whisky that I had drunk so often with him, and the longing to hear
something more of my lost friend came over me. I sat down one
evening when in a sentimental mood, and wrote to him, asking him to
tell me something of himself and to send me his book.
"A week later I received the little book and the following letter
which I have here in my pocket. It is somewhat crumpled, for I
have read it several times. But no matter. I will read it to you
now, if you will pardon my awkward translating of the French
original.
"Here it is:
"DEAR FRIEND:
"Many thanks for your letter. Here is the book. I have to thank
you also that you did not lay my behavior of your last days in
Paris up against me. It must have seemed strange to you. I will
try to explain it.
"I have been nervous from childhood. The fact that most of my
books have treated of fantastic subjects,--somewhat in the manner
of Edgar Allan Poe--has made me more susceptible for all that world
which lies beyond and about the world of every-day life. I have
sought after,--and yet feared--the mystical; cool and lucid as I
can be at times, I have always had an inclination for the
enigmatical, the Unknown.
"But the first thing that ever happened in my life that I could not
explain or understand was the affair of the manuscript. You
remember the day I stood in your room? I must have looked the
picture of misery. The affair had played more havoc with my nerves
than you can very well understand. Your mockery hurt me, and yet
under all I felt ashamed of my own thoughts concerning this foolish
occurrence. I could not explain the phenomenon, and I shivered at
the things that it suggested to me. In this condition, which
lasted several weeks, I could not bear to see you or anyone else,
and I was impolite enough even to leave your letter unanswered.
"The book appeared and made a hit, since that sort of thing was the
center of interest just then. But almost a month passed before I
could arouse myself from that condition of fear and--I had almost
said, softening of the brain--which prevented my enjoyment of my
success.
"Then the explanation came. Thanks to this occurrence I know now
that I shall never again be in danger of being 'haunted.'
"And I know now that Chance can bring about stranger happenings
than can any fancied visitations from the spirit world. Here you
have the story of this 'mystic' occurrence, which came near
endangering my sanity, and which turns out to be a chance
combination of a gust of wind, a sudden downpour of rain, and the
strange elements in the character of our little friend Adolphe the
printer's boy.
"You remember that funny little chap with the crafty eye, his
talent for gambling, and his admiration for the girl of 'La
Prunelle'? A queer little mixture this child who has himself alone
to look to for livelihood and care, the typical race of the Paris
streets, the modified gamin from 'Les Miserables.'
"About a month after the appearance of my book I lay on the divan
one day,--your favorite place, you remember?--and lost myself in
idle reasonings on the same old subject that never left my mind day
or night, when the bell rang and Adolphe appeared, to call for the
essay on 'Le Boulevarde.' There was an unusually nervous gleam in
his eyes that day. I gave him an anisette and tried to find out
what his trouble was. I did find it out, and I found out a good
deal more besides.
"Thanks to his good fortune as a gambler, Virginie came to look
upon him with favor. Pierre was quite out of the race and
Adolphe's affection was reciprocated as much as his heart could
desire. But with his good fortune in love came all the suffering,
all the torture, the suspicions that tear the hearts of us men when
we set our hopes upon a woman's truth. Young as he was he went
through them all, and now he was torturing himself with the thought
that she did not really love him and was only pretending, while she
gave her heart to another. Perhaps he was right--why not?
"I talked to Adolphe as man to man, and managed to bring back a
gleam of his usual jollity and sly humor. He took another glass of
anisette, and said suddenly:
"'M. Lucien--I did something--'
"'Did what?' I asked.
"'Something I should have told you long ago--it was wrong, and
you've always been so nice to me--'
"You remember the day, two months ago, when we had such a sudden
wind and rain storm, a regular cloud-burst? I was down here in
this neighborhood fetching manuscripts from M. Labouchere and M.
Laroy. I was to have come up here for copy from you, too. But
then--you'll understand after all I've been telling you,--I came
around past 'La Prunelle' and Virginie stood in the doorway, and
she'd promised to go out with me that evening. So I ran up to
speak to her. And then when I went on again, I saw a sheet with
your writing lying in the street. You know I know all the
gentlemen's writing, whose copy I fetch. Then I was frightened. I
thought to myself, 'The devil,' I thought, 'here I've lost M.
Lucien's manuscript.' I couldn't remember calling for it, but I
thought I must have done so before I got M. Laroy's. I can't
remember much except Virginie these days. I took up the sheet and
saw three others a little further on. And I saw a lot more shining
just behind the railing of the Luxembourg Garden. You know how
hard it rained. The water held the paper down, so the wind
couldn't carry it any further. I ran into the Garden and picked up
all the sheets, thirty-two of them. All of them, except the first
four I found in the street, had blown in behind the railing. And I
can tell you I was precious glad that I had them all together. I
ran back to the office, told them I had dropped the manuscript in
the street, but asked them not to say anything to you about it.
But the sheets were all there,--you always number them so clearly,
and 'handsome August,' the compositer, promised he wouldn't tell on
me. I knew if the foreman heard of it, he'd put me out, for he had
a grudge against me. So nobody knew anything about it. But I
thought I ought to tell you, 'cause you've been so nice to me.
Maybe you'll understand how one gets queer at times, when a girl
like Virginie tells you she likes you better than Pierre, and yet
you think she might deceive you for his sake--that big, stupid
animal-- But now I'll be going. Much obliged for your kindness,
M. Lucien, and for the anisette--' And he left me.
"There you have the explanation, the very simple and natural
explanation of the phenomenon that almost drove me crazy.
"The entire 'supernatural' occurrence was caused by a careless
boy's love affairs, by a gust of southwest wind, by a sudden heavy
rain, and by the chance that I had used English ink, the kind that
water cannot blur. All these simple natural things made me act so
foolishly toward a good friend, the sort of friend I have always
known you to be. Let me hear from you, and tell me what you people
up North think of my book. I give you my word that the 'Unknown
Powers' shall never again make me foolish enough to risk losing
your friendship!
"Yours
"LUCIEN."
"So this is my story. Yes, 'there are more things in heaven and
earth--' But the workings of Chance are the strangest of all. And
this whisky is really very good. Here's to you."
Bernhard Severin Ingemann
The Sealed Room
For many years there stood in a side street in Kiel an
unpretentious old frame house which had a forbidding, almost
sinister appearance, with its old-fashioned balcony and its
overhanging upper stories. For the last twenty years the house had
been occupied by a greatly respected widow, Madame Wolff, to whom
the dwelling had come by inheritance. She lived there quietly with
her one daughter, in somewhat straitened circumstances.
What gave the house a mysterious notoriety, augmenting the sinister
quality in its appearance, was the fact that one of its rooms, a
corner room on the main floor, had not been opened for generations.
The door was firmly fastened and sealed with plaster, as well as
the window looking out upon the street. Above the door was an old
inscription, dated 1603, which threatened sudden death and eternal
damnation to any human being who dared to open the door or efface
the inscription. Neither door nor window had been opened in the
two hundred years that had passed since the inscription was put up.
But for a generation back or more, the partition wall and the
sealed door had been covered with wall paper, and the inscription
had been almost forgotten.
The room adjoining the sealed chamber was a large hall, utilized
only for rare important events. Such an occasion arose with the
wedding of the only daughter of the house. For that evening the
great hall, as it was called, was brilliantly decorated and
illuminated for a ball. The building had deep cellars and the old
floors were elastic. Madame Wolff had in vain endeavored to avoid
using the great hall at all, for the foolish old legend of the
sealed chamber aroused a certain superstitious dread in her heart,
and she rarely if ever entered the hall herself. But merry Miss
Elizabeth, her pretty young daughter, was passionately fond of
dancing, and her mother had promised that she should have a ball on
her wedding day. Her betrothed, Secretary Winther, was also a good
dancer, and the two young people combated the mother's prejudice
against the hall and laughed at her fear of the sealed room. They
thought it would be wiser to appear to ignore the stupid legend
altogether, and thus to force the world to forget it. In spite of
secret misgivings Madame Wolff yielded to their arguments. And for
the first time in many years the merry strains of dance music were
heard in the great hall that lay next the mysterious sealed
chamber.
The bridal couple, as well as the wedding guests, were in the
gayest mood, and the ball was an undoubted success. The dancing
was interrupted for an hour while supper was served in an adjoining
room. After the repast the guests returned to the hall, and it was
several hours more before the last dance was called. The season
was early autumn and the weather still balmy. The windows had been
opened to freshen the air. But the walls retained their dampness
and suddenly the dancers noticed that the old wall paper which
covered the partition wall between the hall and the sealed chamber
had been loosened through the jarring of the building, and had
fallen away from the sealed door with its mysterious inscription.
The story of the sealed chamber had been almost forgotten by most
of those present, forgotten with many other old legends heard in
childhood. The inscription thus suddenly revealed naturally
aroused great interest, and there was a general curiosity to know
what the mysterious closed room might hide. Conjectures flew from
mouth to mouth. Some insisted that the closed door must hide the
traces of a hideous murder, or some other equally terrible crime.
Others suggested that perhaps the room had been used as a hiding
place for garments and other articles belonging to some person who
had died of a pestilence, and that the room had been sealed for
fear of spreading the disease. Still others thought that in the
sealed chamber there might be found a secret entrance from the
cellars, which had made the room available as a hiding place for
robbers or smugglers. The guests had quite forgotten their dancing
in the interest awakened by the sight of the mysterious door.
"For mercy's sake, don't let's go too near it!" exclaimed some of
the young ladies. But the majority thought it would be great fun
to see what was hidden there. Most of the men said that they
considered it foolish not to have opened the door long ago, and
examined the room. The young bridegroom did not join in this
opinion, however. He upheld the decision of his mother-in-law not
to allow any attempt to effect an entrance into the room. He knew
that there was a clause in the title deeds to the house which made
the express stipulation that no owner should ever permit the corner
room to be opened. There was discussion among the guests as to
whether such a clause in a title deed could be binding for several
hundred years, and many doubted its validity at any time. But most
of them understood why Madame Wolff did not wish any investigation,
even should any of those present have sufficient courage to dare
the curse and break open the door.
"Nonsense! What great courage is necessary for that?" exclaimed
Lieutenant Flemming Wolff, a cousin of the bride of the evening.
This gentleman had a reputation that was not of the best. He was
known to live mostly on debt and pawn tickets, and was of a most
quarrelsome disposition. As a duelist he was feared because of his
specialty. This was the ability, and the inclination, through a
trick in the use of the foils, to disfigure his opponent's face
badly, without at all endangering his life. In this manner he had
already sadly mutilated several brave officers and students, who
had had the bad luck to stand up against him. He himself was
anything but pleasant to look upon, his natural plainness having
been rendered repellent by a life of low debauchery. He cherished
a secret grudge against the bridegroom and bitter feelings toward
the bride, because the latter had so plainly shown her aversion for
him when he had ventured to pay suit to her.
The family had not desired any open break with this disagreeable
relative, and had therefore sent him an invitation to the wedding.
They had taken it for granted that, under the circumstances, he
would prefer to stay away. But he had appeared at the ball, and,
perhaps to conceal his resentment, he had been the most
indefatigable dancer of the evening. At supper he had partaken
freely of the strongest wines, and was plainly showing the effect
of them by this time. His eyes rolled wildly, and those who knew
him took care not to contradict him, or to have anything to say to
him at all.
With a boastful laugh he repeated his assertion that it didn't take
much courage to open a sealed door, especially when there might be
a fortune concealed behind it. In his opinion it was cowardly to
let oneself be frightened by a century-old legend. HE wouldn't let
that bother him if HE had influence enough in the family to win the
daughter and induce the mother to give a ball in the haunted hall.
With this last hit he hoped to arouse the young husband's ire. But
the latter merely shrugged his shoulders and turned away with a
smile of contempt.
Lieutenant Wolff fired up at this, and demanded to know whether the
other intended to call his, the lieutenant's, courage into question
by his behavior.
"Not in the slightest, when it is a matter of obtaining a loan, or
of mutilating an adversary with a trick at fencing," answered the
bridegroom angrily, taking care, however, that neither the bride
nor any of the other ladies should hear his words. Then he
continued in a whisper: "But I don't believe you'd have the courage
to remain here alone and in darkness, before this closed door, for
a single hour. If you wish to challenge me for this doubt, I am at
your disposal as soon as you have proven me in the wrong. But I
choose the weapons."
"They must be chosen by lot, sir cousin," replied the lieutenant,
his cheek pale and his jaws set. "I will expect you to breakfast
to-morrow morning at eight o'clock."
The bridegroom nodded, and took the other's cold dry hand for an
instant. The men who had overheard the short conversation looked
upon it as a meaningless incident, the memory of which would
disappear from the lieutenant's brain with the vanishing wine
fumes.
The ball was now over. The bride left the hall with her husband
and several of the guests who were to accompany the young couple to
their new home. The lights went out in the old house. The door of
the dancing hall had been locked from the outside. Lieutenant
Flemming Wolff remained alone in the room, having hidden himself in
a dark corner where he had not been seen by the servants, who had
extinguished the lights and locked the door. The night watchman
had just called out two o'clock when the solitary guest found
himself, still giddy from the heavy wine, alone in the great dark
hall in front of the mysterious door.
The windows were at only a slight elevation from the street, and a
spring would take him to safety should his desire to remain there,
or to solve the mystery of the sealed room, vanish. But next
morning all the windows in the great hall were found closed, just
as the servants had left them the night before. The night watchman
reported that he had heard a hollow-sounding crash in that
unoccupied part of the house during the night. But that was
nothing unusual, as there was a general belief in the neighborhood
that the house was haunted.
For hollow noises were often heard there, and sounds as of money
falling on the floor, and rattling and clinking as of a factory
machine. Enlightened people, it is true, explained these sounds as
echoes of the stamping and other natural noises from a large stable
just behind the old house. But in spite of these explanations and
their eminent feasibility, the dread of the unoccupied portion of
the house was so great that not even the most reckless man servant
could be persuaded to enter it alone after nightfall.
Next morning at eight o'clock Winther appeared at his mother-in-
law's door, saying that he had forgotten something of importance in
the great hall the night before. Madame Wolff had not yet arisen,
but the maid who let in the early visitor noticed with surprise
that he had a large pistol sticking out of one of his pockets.
Winther had been to his cousin's apartment and found it locked. He
now entered the great hall, and at first glance thought it empty.
To his alarm and astonishment, however, he saw that the sealed door
had been broken open. He approached it with anxiety, and found his
wife's cousin, the doughty duelist, lying pale and lifeless on the
threshold. Beside him lay a large stone which had struck his head
in falling and must have killed him at once. Over the door was a
hole in the wall, just the size of the stone. The latter had
evidently rested on the upper edge of the door, and must certainly
have fallen on its opening. The unfortunate man lay half in the
mysterious chamber and half in the hall, just as he must have
fallen when the stone struck him.
The formal investigation of the closed room was made in the
presence of the police authorities. It contained nothing but a
small safe which was built into the wall. When the safe had been
opened by force, an inner chamber, which had to be broken open by
itself, was found to contain a number of rolls of gold pieces, many
jewels and numerous notes and I. O. U.'s. The treasure was covered
by an old document. From this latter it was learned that the owner
of the house two hundred years ago had been a silk weaver by the
name of Flemming Ambrosius Wolff. He was said to have lent money
on security for many years, but had died apparently a poor man,
because he had so carefully hidden his riches that little of it was
found after his death.
With a niggardliness that bordered on madness, he had believed that
he could hide his treasure forever by shutting it up in the sealed
room. The curse over the door was to frighten away any venturesome
mortal, and further security was given by the clause in the title
deed.
The universally disliked Lieutenant Flemming Wolff must have had
many characteristics in common with this disagreeable old ancestor,
to whose treasure he would have fallen heir had he not lost his
life in the discovering of it. The old miser had not hidden his
wealth for all eternity, as he had hoped, but had only brought
about the inheriting of it by Madame Wolff, the owner of the house,
and the next of kin. The first use to which this lady put the
money was to tear down the uncanny old building and to erect in its
stead a beautiful new home for her daughter and son-in-law.
Steen Steensen Blicher
The Rector of Veilbye
These extracts from the diary of Erik Sorensen, District Judge,
followed by two written statements by the rector of Aalso, give a
complete picture of the terrible events that took place in the
parish of Veilbye during Judge Sorensen's first year of office.
Should anyone be inclined to doubt the authenticity of these
documents let him at least have no doubt about the story, which is,
alas! only too sadly true. The memory of these events is still
fresh in the district, and the events themselves have been the
direct cause of a change in the method of criminal trials. A
suspected murderer is now tried through all the courts before his
conviction can be determined. Readers versed in the history of law
will doubtless know by this during what epoch the story is laid.
I
[From the Diary of District Judge Erik Sorensen.]
Now am I, unworthy one, by the grace of God made judge over this
district. May the Great Judge above give me wisdom and uprightness
that I may fulfill my difficult task in all humility! From the
Lord alone cometh judgment.
It is not good that man should live alone. Now that I am able to
support a wife I will look about me for a helpmeet. I hear much
good said about the daughter of the Rector of Veilbye. Since her
mother's death she has been a wise and economical keeper of her
father's house. And as she and her brother the student are the
only children, she will inherit a tidy sum when the old man dies.
Morten Bruus of Ingvorstrup was here to-day and wanted to make me a
present of a fat calf. But I answered him in the words of Moses,
"Cursed be he who taketh gifts." He is of a very quarrelsome
nature, a sharp bargainer, and a boastful talker. I do not want to
have any dealings with him, except through my office as judge.
I have prayed to God for wisdom and I have consulted with my own
heart, and I believe that Mistress Mette Quist is the only woman
with whom I could live and die. But I will watch her for a time in
secret. Beauty is deceptive and charm is a dangerous thing. But I
must say that she is the most beautiful woman I have yet seen.