“I have spoken with him. I shall now travel with him to Italy, and remain in your company.”
“Excellent! It does me good, to have one more German face near me. The Italians, as I have heard, are bad birds. Now, with the exception of our possessed Countess, you will be pleased with all our company. As you now belong to us, I can speak more openly of our affairs. The Count would be a good man, if he could only smile. I believe he is not pleased when one laughs. All that surrounds him has the aspect of the last day. The old lady is also right good, but is easily vexed, if one does not immediately fly here and there, according to her motions. I believe she goes to Italy merely on account of the pure burnt water, as she sometimes loves a glass of liquor. The Countess, also, would not be bad, if she had not, besides her pride, an army of devils in her body. Whoever wishes to be in her good graces, must creep on all fours. Bow yourself diligently before her. Dr. Walter would be the best of us all, if he only knew how to exorcise the devils. My comrade, Thomas, is therefore—” At this moment, the host, full of horror, rushed into the room, and cried to his people, “Help! help! there is fire.”
“Where is the fire?” asked I, alarmed.
“Upstairs, in a chamber: I saw the bright flames outside the window.”
He ran out; the house was filled with cries and confusion. I was following, when, Sebald, white as a corpse, held me by both arms: “Jesu Maria, what has happened?” I told him in German to get water, as the house was on fire.
“Another piece of devilry!” sighed he, and hurried into the kitchen.
The people ran up and down stairs. It was said that the room was fastened, and they sought instruments to break open the door. Sebald was up stairs even as soon as myself, with a bucket of water. As he perceived the door, towards which all pressed, he cried, “Jesu Maria! that is the chamber of the old lady.”
“Burst it open,” cried the Count Hormegg, in extreme agony. “Burst it open—Mrs. Montlue sleeps there, and she will be suffocated.”
A man soon came with an axe, but it was not without difficulty that he could break the strong well mortised oaken door. All pressed in, but shuddering, bounded back.
The room was dark. Only in the background, near the window, a yellow flame played on the floor, which soon went out. An indescribably sharp stench, blew towards us as we opened the door. Sebald made the sign of the cross, and sprang headlong down stairs; some of the maids followed his example. The Count called for a light. It was brought. I went through the room in order to open the window. The Count directed us to the bed. It was empty and undisturbed, and no where any smoke. Near the window the stench was so great that it made me sick.
The Count called the name of Mrs. Montlue. As he came nearer with the burning candle, I saw at my feet—imagine my horror!—a large black spot of ashes, and near by a burnt head, we could not recognize; one arm with the hand; in another place, three fingers with gold rings, and the foot of a lady, partly charred.
“Great God,” cried the Count, turning pale—“what is that?” He observed, shuddering, the remains of a human figure. He saw the fingers with the rings, and sprang with a loud shriek to meet the Doctor, who was entering. “Mrs. Montlue is burnt, yet no fire, no smoke! Incomprehensible!”
He tottered back, in order once more to convince himself of the reality of his discovery. He then gave up the candle, folded his hands, looked fixedly before him, and turning deadly pale, left the room.
I stood petrified, by so horrible and unheard of a spectacle. All that had happened during this day, the wonders that had been told, had so stupified me, that I stood, without feeling, gazing at the black dust, the coals and the disgusting remains of a human form at my feet. The room was soon filled with the men and women belonging to the inn. I heard their whispers and their stealthy steps. It seemed to me, that I was in the midst of spectres. The nursery tales of my childhood were ripened to reality.
When I came to myself, I withdrew from the chamber, intending to go down into the public room. At that moment, a door at the side opened; a young lady, dressed in a light night dress, came out, supported by two maids, each of whom carried a lighted candle. I remained standing, as if blinded by this new apparition. So much nobleness in figure, movement and features I had never seen in reality, nor even found in the creations of the painter or statuary. The horrors of the preceding moments were almost forgotten. I was only eyes and admiration. The young beauty tottered towards the chamber, where the frightful event had occurred. When she perceived the men and women, she stood still, and cried out in the German language, and with a commanding voice, “Drive away this crowd from me.” Immediately, one of the Count’s servants executed her commands. He did it with such uncourtly violence, that he forced them all, and me with them, from the gallery to the stairs.
“If there ever has been a fairy, this is one,” thought I.
Sebald was sitting, quite pale, in the public room, near the wine. “Did I not say so?” cried he. “One of us must go. The possessed, or rather that malicious Satan, so willed it. The one must break his bones and neck—the other, a living body, be burnt. Your obedient servant, I take my leave tomorrow, lest the next turn comes to my insignificant self. Whoever is as prudent as I am, will not travel with them to hell. In Italy, even the mountains spit fire. God keep me from going too near. I should certainly be the first roast of Moloch, since I am much too pious, and, nevertheless, at all hours, not a saint.”
I told him of the young lady.
“That was she,” said he; “that was the Countess. God be near unto us! She has probably desired to snuff up the burnt mess. Go with me tomorrow; let us make our escape. Your bright young life raises my sincere compassion.”
“Even the Countess Hortensia?”
“Who else? She is handsome, therefore the chief of the devils has himself bewitched her; but—”
At this time Sebald was called by the Count; he went, or rather staggered, sighing deeply. The accident had filled the whole house with noise. I sat on my chair, amidst all these wonders, estranged from myself. Long after midnight, the host showed me a small room where there was a bed.
ANTIPATHY.
After the fatigues of the past day, I slept soundly till near mid-day. As I awoke, the events of yesterday appeared like a feverish phantom, or the illusions of intoxication. I could neither convince myself of their truth, nor yet doubt them. I considered every thing now with greater composure of mind. I no longer hesitated to remain with the Count. I rather followed him with pleasure and curiosity, so entirely new and wonderful did my destiny appear. Then also, what had I to lose in Germany? What even in life? What could I risk in following the Count? At last, it only depended upon myself to break the thread of the romance as soon as its length became disagreeable to me. When I entered the public room, I found it filled with the overseers of the place, police officers, Capuchins and peasants of the neighboring country, who had been drawn thither either from motives of curiosity or by their official duties. Not one of them doubted but that the burning of the lady was the work of the devil. The Count, indeed, had the remains of the unfortunate woman buried by his own people. But it was thought proper that the whole house should be consecrated and blessed by the reverend Capuchin fathers, in order that it might be purified from the evil spirit. This was a considerable expense. There was a question, whether we should be arrested and given to justice; but it was disputed whether we should be delivered to the civil or ecclesiastical authority. The majority were in favor of our being taken to Undine and brought before the archbishops.
The Count, not being master of the Italian language, was glad when he saw me. He had in vain offered a large sum of money to defray the expenses occasioned by the extraordinary circumstances. He entreated me, to finish the business with the people in his name.
I immediately drew near the priests and police officers, and declared to them, that until now, I had had as little connection with the Count as themselves, and offered two things for their consideration; eith
er the misfortune of the burning had happened naturally, or at least without the participation of the Count, in which case they would bring much trouble on themselves by the arrest of so high a nobleman; or he was truly in league with bad spirits, in which case, he could out of revenge play some bad tricks on them, their cloister and their village. Their wisest course was to take the Count’s money and let him go; they would then have no responsibility or resentment to fear, and in any case would be the gainers. My reasons were obvious. The money was paid. Our horses were given us—we mounted and rode on. The prospect cleared up.
The Countess with the women and other servants, had gone some hours before; the Count, with only one servant, having remained behind. On the way, he began to speak of the frightful event of the past evening. He said his daughter had been very much overcome by it. She had suffered, for some hours, with cramps and convulsions, after which she had a quiet sleep. She appeared tranquil on awaking, but desired to leave the unfortunate house immediately.
Probably in order to prepare me for my future situation, he added—” I am obliged to pardon and yield much to my sick child. She is of unconquerable obstinacy. From her extraordinary irritability, the least contradiction moves her to anger, and a slight vexation is sufficient to cause many days of suffering. I have announced your arrival to her: she heard it with indifference. I asked if I might introduce you to her. Her answer was, “Do you think I have so much curiosity? It will be time enough when we are in Venice.” I think, however, we shall have sufficient opportunities on the way. Do not allow the humors of my daughter to vex you, my dear Faust. She is a sick, unfortunate creature, whom we must treat with tenderness, lest we destroy her. She is my only treasure, my last joy on earth. The loss of Mrs. Montlue does not appear to be painful to her, as she had lately, I know not from what cause, taken an aversion to her. Perhaps the slight, certainly not violent, inclination of that person to strong drink, was disgusting to her. Dr. Walter affirms, also, that this habit was the cause of her spontaneous combustion. Formerly, she was a very good woman, and much attached to my daughter and myself. I lament her loss very deeply. Dr. Walter related to me other instances, which must be extremely rare, of the spontaneous combustion of the human body, by which it is in a few moments reduced to ashes. He endeavored to account for the phenomenon on very natural grounds, but I cannot comprehend it. Only this much I know, this burning-door of death is one of the most frightful.”
Thus spoke the Count, and this formed the subject of our conversation to Venice. For the young Countess had now the humor, notwithstanding her bodily weakness and the objections of her father and physician, to make the journey by long day’s rides, and with no other delay than the nightly rest demanded. I had not, therefore, the honor of an introduction. Nay, I must even keep at a distance, since, alas! I had not the good fortune to please her.
She was carried in a sedan chair—servants ran near her on foot. The women rode, and the Count likewise in his own carriage. The Doctor and myself rode on horseback.
As the Countess one morning came out of the inn to mount her sedan, she perceived me, and said to Dr. Walter, “Who is that man, that forever and eternally follows us?”
“Mr. Faust, my lady.”
“A disagreeable fellow—send him back.”
“You yourself have wished for him; it was on his account that the journey was undertaken. Consider him as the medicine which you have ordered for yourself.”
“He has the disgusting qualities common to all drugs.”
I was near enough to hear this not very flattering speech, and know not what countenance I put on, though I well recollect that I was almost vexed, and should immediately have left the whimsical Venus, had not the Count been so kind. I could not affirm that I was a handsome man, but I knew that generally I did not displease the women. But now only to be endured as disgusting medicine, was too severe on the vanity of a young man, especially for one who, had he been a Prince or Count, would not have hesitated to have joined himself to the adorers of the charming Hortensia.
In the meanwhile I continued with them. The Countess reached Venice without any particular accident, and her medicine followed obediently after. A magnificent palace was hired, in which I had an apartment, and also servants, particularly appropriated to my service. The Count lived in great style, as it is called. He had many friends amongst the Venitian nobility.
THE TRANCE.
We had been about four days in Venice, when one afternoon I was hastily sent for by the Count. He received me with an unusually cheerful countenance.
“My daughter,” said he, “has inquired for you. Indeed, no day has passed without her speaking of you: she has done so already today; but now is the first time that she has desired your presence. Enter her room with me, but very gently; the least noise throws her into dangerous cramps.”
“But,” asked I, with secret horror, “what does she wish me to do?”
“Who can answer?” replied the Count. “Wait for the future. May God direct all.”
We entered a large state chamber, hung round with green silk hangings. Two female servants were leaning, silent and anxious, near the window—the Doctor sat on a sofa, watching the invalid. She stood upright, with closed eyes, in the middle of the room—one of her beautiful arms was hanging down, the other, half raised, stiff and immovable as a statue. Only the movement of her bosom betrayed breath. The solemn silence which reigned, the goddess-like figure of Hortensia, upon whom all eyes were fixed, filled me with involuntary yet pleasing horror.
As soon as I entered this silent sanctuary, the Countess, without opening her eyes, or changing her position, said, with an indescribable sweet voice, “At last, Emanuel! Why dost thou keep so far off? O come hither, and bless her, that she may be cured of her sufferings.”
I probably looked rather foolish at this speech, being uncertain whether or not it regarded me. The Count and Doctor motioned me to draw nearer, and gave me a sign that I should, like a priest, make the sign of the cross towards, or else, as blessing her, lay my hands on her.
I approached, and raised my hands over her wonderfully beautiful head. But from extreme respect, had not courage to touch her. I let my hands sink slowly down again. Hortensia’s countenance seemed to betray discontent. I again raised my hands, and held them stretched out towards her, uncertain what I was to do. Her countenance cleared, which induced me to remain in that position. My embarrassment, however, increased as the Countess said, “Emanuel, thou hast not yet the will to relieve her. O, only give thy will—thy will. Thou art all powerful. Thy will can do all.”
“Gracious Countess,” said I, “doubt all, but not my will to assist you.” I said this truly, with the greatest earnestness. For had she commanded me to throw myself into the sea for her, I should with joy have done so. To me it was as if I stood before a divinity. The soft symmetry of her form, and her countenance, which seemed to belong to the unearthly, had likewise disembodied my soul. Never had I seen grace and sublimity so united. Hortensia’s face was, as I had before seen it, it is true, only transiently or from a distance, pale, suffering and gloomy; now it was quite different. An uncommon delicate color was spread over it, like the reflection from the rose. In all her features swam a light, such as a human countenance, under ordinary circumstances, could never obtain, either by nature or art. The expression of the whole was a solemn smile, and yet no smile, but rather an inward delight. This extraordinary state was justly called transfiguration by her companions, but such a transfiguration, no painter in his moments of inspiration, ever saw or imagined. Let one, therefore, figure to himself the statue-like position, the marble stillness of the features, with the eyes closed as in sleep. Never before had I felt such fearful delight.
“O, Emanuel,” said she, after a time, “now is thy will sincere. Now knows she, that through thee she will be cured. Thy hair flows in golden flames; from thy fingers flow silver rays of light; thou floatest in heaven’s clear azure. How eagerly her whole being imbibes this br
illiancy—this health-bringing flood of light.”
At this somewhat poetical form of speech, the drugs, with which I had the melancholy honor of being compared to a few days before, involuntarily recurred to me, and I continued silent, taking no notice of the gold and silver rays.
“Be not angry with her in thy thoughts, Emanuel,” said Hortensia. “Be not angry that her weakness and distempered wit compared thee with bitter remedies. Be more generous than the thoughtless one, by suffering misled, and often by earthly weaknesses given up to frenzy.”
At these words the Doctor threw a smiling look on me—I also towards the Doctor, but with a gesture of astonishment, not because the proud beauty humbled herself to an apology, but that she appeared to have guessed my thoughts.
“Oh! distract not thy attention, Emanuel!” said the transfigured quickly. “Thou speakest with the Doctor. On her alone turn thy thoughts, and on her safety. It distresses her when thy thoughts for one moment leave her. Continue in the firm desire to penetrate her half dissolved being with the beneficial power of thy light. Seest thou how powerful thy will is? The stiffened fibres relax and melt like the winter’s frost in the sun’s rays.”
Whilst she spoke, her raised arm sank. Motion and life animated her figure. She asked for a seat. The Doctor brought her one which stood in the chamber, with richly embroidered green silk cushions.
“Not that kind,” said she. After a while, she continued: “The arm chair, with a striped linen cover, which stands in Emanuel’s chamber, before his writing table. Bring it here, and leave it forever!”
I had, truly, but the moment before left the arm chair standing before the table. But the Countess had never seen my room. As I reached the key of the room to one of the women, Hortensia said, “Is that the key? I did not understand those dark spots. Thou hast in the left pocket of thy vest, yet another key—put it away from thee.” I did so. It was the key of my press.
The Second Macabre Megapack Page 17