by Mike Ashley
“Now for a surprise. We’re lucky, for the wind is the right way. You see that crag in front? You hear the silence? Now prepare to be deafened. It’s fuller than ever this year.”
A crag plumed with firs blocked the way perhaps two hundred yards in front with a steep fall downward. We climbed round it cautiously, for it was a place for a slip and a nasty accident and the difficulty absorbed me. In the next moment my ears were filled with the thundering roar of a terrible dance of water over maddening rocks, plunging for life, for safety, for escape from hell, as it were, down an awful precipice to the unseen lake, in a world too far below to be its own. Never before had I seen it like this.
Vain to speak. Thunder and spray and foam filled the world, deafened, half blinded me. This was the Geierstein Fall. I stood staring at it in silence, and suddenly I saw a sight entirely new to me.
About a hundred feet below at the left side jutted out into the water a jut of the forest darkened with pines. The extraordinary thing was that I could not remember having seen this promontory before. It was as strange to me as the rest was familiar and I stared in astonishment. At first I thought it was an optical illusion caused by the shimmer and slide and spray of the water. It appeared to change and flicker. I rubbed my eyes. I would have called Biedermann’s attention to it with words, but the noise was thunderous. I pointed and he laughed and nodded. Finally he put his mouth to my ear and shouted:
“There’s a little hut about a quarter of an hour on where I go and read a psalm or two with an old cowherd. Will you wait or come?”
I shouted, “Wait,” and he went off, climbing with hands as well as feet round the bluff. I was glad to be alone in the wild and terrible place and stood looking at the water, meditating on the unfamiliarity of the promontory.
I could imagine how a weak brain might feel the fascination of the long pale green slide of water glittering in sunlight, and dream of plunging with it down through airy space in quest of life—more life—to be sought through that marvelous smooth motion. The names of more than one of my patients flashed through my mind whom I would not willingly have trusted for a moment to stand by the ever and never changing phenomenon.
I looked downward to where the strange promontory with its trees shimmered and danced through spray. It was like a mirage I had once seen in Egypt, quivering at first then settling down into what seemed to be reality. Suddenly something slipped through the gloom of trees. What in the name of God!—a woman—a girl, mother-naked. It—she appeared to lay a hand on the rough bark of one of the pine trees, and she stood staring at the plunge. I saw her clear as ivory on ebony. The trees still shimmered through driving spray. Presently she left them and advanced out on the jut as if to meet the full rush of water, going confidently. My first thought was the medical one—Was I going to see a case of suicide before my eyes and do nothing?
I put my hands to my mouth and shouted, yelled—I don’t know what—that she might know she was watched, guarded. My puny voice shattered in the enormous vibrations about me and was tossed to bits. She stood bending forward unconscious of my presence. Suddenly she looked up, laughing and waving her hand. I turned, more by instinct than reason, and began to make my way back round the great bluff of cliff that we had circled to reach the waterfall. In the hurry I slipped, fell, picked myself up again and scrambled on with the blind conviction that I should find some way to the rescue in the wood beyond.
Presently I regained the breathless quiet of the trees where we had first entered and began casting about for a trail to the lower level. My brain was clearer now that the all-stunning noise had ceased, and I hunted with purpose and direction. It must be a madwoman, but life is life in the maddest brain, and life attempts its salvation. I found what I thought was a foot-track going directly downward and began the descent, using my alpenstock for the pine-needles made it slippery as glass. Cursing my delays I slipped and fell and struggled down and down to a point where the trees ceased and bare rock began.
A shout above. A great cry. Biedermann’s voice.
“Come back. BACK! Have you gone mad? No way there—Come back. Back this minute!”
It broke some tension in my brain. I drove the alpenstock deep into the earth and yelled. “A woman down there. Must get on. Wait!”
He was not far above me as distance goes, and I saw some shock strike him right in the center. He shot out an arm, waving frantically. I remember the thought struck me that the quiet, self-contained Biedermann had gone right off his head.
“Come back, I tell you. Danger! Come!”
It caught me. He knew some better way. I dragged at the alpenstock and scrambled up, reaching the boles of the pines ascending like a stairway, gained his level and leaned against one of them, gasping with the effort. I could not speak for a moment.
“In the name of God”—his voice had the solemnity of an invocation—“where were you going? What did you see?”
“A naked woman—down there!” I got out in a series of gasps. “I saw her from above. I thought—suicide. I was going down.”
He said low as if to himself: “Thank God I came in time!”
Then after a moment:
“Rest—get steadied, and we’ll make for home. There’s nothing you can do. Nothing!”
I yielded in deep perplexity—I had had a shock far deeper than anything my scramble up and down could account for. Something that struck me deep in the heart of my consciousness, and that by no means the consciousness of the average man, for mine had been trained beyond the common by experience and discipline. I noted how if my eye turned for a moment to the downward way, Biedermann’s grip tightened on his stick. I had the feeling that he would have attacked me sooner than see me attempt it. Once or twice he looked up apprehensively as the shadows darkened. It was not sunset, but the sun had dropped below a tremendous peak and the chill of nearing night was perceptible.
Presently I got up. “Ready now. Let’s go. Queer experience!”
He led the way along the track I have already mentioned and said not a word until we had reached the road running upward to Donnerstein and downward to Geierstein, then halted a second, and we both looked back to the wood—black in advancing shadows.
“I want you to make me a promise,” he said.
I laughed uneasily. “No blank checks for me! Give me the reason and I’ll give you the promise—if they click.”
He said, “That’s reasonable,” and was silent again, leading the way.
At that moment I heard a light step on the road above us as if of some woman coming down from Donnerstein. I turned instinctively to look. Nothing there. Let me say that during the whole time of our descent that step went with us until a point which I shall mark. I did not like it. I did not know at the time whether Biedermann was conscious of it or no, and hesitated unaccountably in asking.
“You heard something?” he asked.
“Nothing of consequence. What were you going to tell me?”
“First tell me what woman you saw? And where?”
I described the lower pinewood. The trees falling back from the mighty rush of the waterfall. He turned his head over his shoulder and looked at me fixedly. Then the naked girl:
“And the queer thing is I never noticed that promontory before. I made a scramble for it. I was as sure as I walk here that she was going to fling herself straight in. I’d been thinking it was the very spot for a crack-brained man or woman. However, if she’s done it, she’s in the lake by this time and has got through the Great Experience. Now for your story, Biedermann.”
He looked unlike himself—a queer constrained look—and what gave the lie to my assumption of ease was that those footsteps kept us steady company a few yards behind on my left. I could not rid myself of the notion that someone who wanted to hear was keeping up with us and might draw nearer.
“I hate the subject but I see I must speak. First, there’s no such jut into the fall as you speak of. Cragsmen who have climbed down beyond where you attempted to go des
cribe a huge and terrible crevice—a crack or fault in the mountain that goes down to—heaven knows what. Just beyond where you were is a smooth face of rock; a slip—and you’d have glissaded down and nothing could have saved you.”
There was that in his face which made it impossible to doubt he was in earnest. I said what naturally occurred to me:
“Then how did she get down—why did I see it? There’s another way?”
“I tell you there’s no such place. That phantom you saw doesn’t exist.”
I halted for an incredulous second. The footsteps halted too.
“But I tell you I saw it. I would have said it only for the infernal row of the water. There was a dazzle of spray on the jut, but I saw it. Let’s go back and—”
He dragged me by the arm. “Come on. I never dreamed you’d see it.”
“Hasn’t anyone else?”
“Yes, two men and—”
“And you say it isn’t there. It’s some change in the rocks.” But for the echoing footsteps I could have laughed aloud. If either of the two of us was going dotty it was not I.
“If you will have it!” he said, and halted. Then went on quickly: “A young fellow, Lili Schneiderling’s brother, Arnold Schneiderling, saw it. His companion didn’t. Then he lost it. The wooded plane was gone. He saw it no more than his friend. There’s a sheer plunge there, straight as the side of a funicular. Two days after, Arnold and another man were going along the track you and I took. Suddenly he left the other and clambered like mad down the way you went, shouting. A yell and Untermeyer going down after him as far as he dared saw a frightful crevice and saved himself just in time. Arnold was never heard of again.”
I reflected. “I should like to cross-examine Untermeyer.”
“I’ve done it,” Biedermann said. I noticed that his step and therefore mine had fallen into the rhythm of the footsteps behind. Was it conscious or unconscious?
“Helfman saw it next. The carpenter’s son. There were three young men there at the time. The others saw nothing. He saw the wooded promontory and the naked girl. He said she looked up and laughed and waved. They had to rope him to prevent him going down. They thought he was mad and so got him home. Two days after, he was seen going up into the wood, running. He was never seen from that day to this.”
I reflected. I could have done it more clearly but for the echoing footsteps. Then I said:
“The thing is perfectly clear. It’s a mirage from the spray and whirl of the water. I can hardly believe the promontory isn’t there, but, granting that, the woman is not difficult to account for. The dazzle and flash and smooth plunge of the water act as an intoxicant. It would affect some brains and not others. But I’m surprised it should affect me. I’m as hard as nails.”
“That’s a legitimate explanation,” said Biedermann, “but it scarcely covers all the facts. That girl you saw on the way up—Lili Schneiderling—has never been to the waterfall, but nevertheless she gets curious attacks of—shall I call it trance?—what I described to you—in which she speaks of the woman.”
“How could you expect otherwise when all the village is chattering?” I asked. “When did these things happen?”
“Within the last four months.”
We walked some way in silence.
“Is there an old story about the place?”
“Yes. Four hundred years ago—you remember the little old castle on the lake?—the Baron von Falkenwald fell in love with a girl of foreign blood. Nothing is known of her but that she jilted him cruelly and he leaped into the waterfall, the first, as far as we know, of a long series of suicides there. A woman is said to have been seen with him, pointing with glee to the water.”
Again I reflected. “Is that story known in the village?”
“No. I discovered it by accident when I was searching the archives at Einsiedeln in connection with a property claim. As pastor I judged it right to keep it to myself. The place has a bad enough reputation. After the happenings this year the more superstitious folk talk of a water-spirit; the wiser, of mirage, as you did.”
“And you yourself?”
“I have had some reason to think there is more than meets the eye in life. I suspend judgment.”
We walked a little way in silence. Suddenly I said: “Can you hear light footsteps following us?”
We stopped to listen. The footsteps also stopped instantly, and he shook his head. We went on. They did the same. I had a horrid notion that something unseen and evil was overshadowing all our talk. I should rather say I knew this, and with anger that it or they should attempt to frighten me like a beginner.
“I hear nothing,” said Biedermann, striding on.
The rest of our walk was nearly silent. But as we reached Geierstein and were passing the garden gate of the old Parson-House the footsteps suddenly stopped. Immediately, Biedermann spoke:
“I have given you reasons. Now for the promise. Will you promise me never to go up alone into the Falkenwald?”
“Don’t ask it. Can’t you see that all this has made me doubly eager to get to the bottom of the thing? Remember my profession. If there’s danger, surely it’s my duty to investigate it. In your calling and mine can we show the white flag in any risks, bodily or psychic?” He agreed seriously. We went on and nothing was said in my hearing to Frau Biedermann of what had happened.
Next morning a note was brought to me from Mrs. Saumarez. It had the same effect upon me as her appearance. That of dull, secret persistence. I am sensitive to atmospheres and even those given off by letters and personal objects.
Dear Dr. Livingstone:
I should be glad to consult you on a private matter of importance. It is desirable that no one should know a consultation has taken place and I shall be in my garden at 5 P.M. today and if you could pass as it were accidentally the meeting need not seem to be arranged. I shall be obliged if you will not mention the matter. Your friendship with my husband will excuse this unusual request. No answer is needed.
Sincerely yours,
ANNETTE SAUMAREZ
Friendship! I thought that assumption cool after my slight admission and her grudging reply. I knew she must have been put to it before she would use that plea. My impulse was to send a polite refusal, but a doctor cannot estimate needs nor decline a duty. I sent no answer and at five o’clock was walking up the mountain road feeling strange premonitions. Sorceries were closing about me and I could not tell whence. I neared her garden.
A profusion of roses—a hard-faced woman among them in a wide-brimmed hat. The milkwoman of the village stopped to see. She would be able to report that Mrs. Saumarez looked up quite casually, went quite casually to the garden gate and made a polite remark to which I replied politely. That I then strolled in and she pointed out one or two garden triumphs. Now in a position to satisfy the unslaked hunger of Geierstein for events, the milkwoman went slowly on, and instantly (we were invisible from the house windows) Mrs. Saumarez turned to me and the mask dropped.
I saw straight black brows drawn across a forehead where the sharp downward line dividing them spoke to experience of angry temper. Hard glittering eyes in a handsome tight-lipped face. Such gentleness as one might expect from a steel trap waiting to snap on an unwary animal wandering nearer and nearer. She spoke abruptly:
“I want to consult you about my daughter. I have heard in London that you make a specialty of nervous troubles, and I believe she is in a serious state. Will you keep the matter utterly private?”
I thought the tone offensive and replied coolly:
“Your husband was a doctor. You should know the medical rule of secrecy. But if you prefer to take her elsewhere—”
“I don’t prefer. You must excuse me if anxiety makes me abrupt. If—oh, if I could make you understand!”
“Is the patient ready for a visit?”
“The patient? My God! She’s not to know I have seen you. She’s away up the mountain. That was my chance.”
“Then may I beg particulars?�
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She did the most unexpected thing—laid her hand for a pleading second on my coat-sleeve. The action revised my whole conception of her and rebuked me as I have been rebuked a hundred times before for the cruelty of rash judgment. Now I saw that what I had thought temper was the iron strain of self-control imposed on wincing nature too weak for it. The hardness was the despairing clutch on strength out of reach. The face was a mask of endurance that must ask no sympathy in its griefs. A most miserable woman stood before me. I said instantly and with acute shame:
“I beg your pardon. I misunderstood. Shall we sit down?”
“Thank you. Not here!” she said hurriedly. “You see she would come in this way. We’ll sit at the back in the arbor.”
A tiny green bower with a rustic table. She looked nervously round for listeners and plunged straight into an extraordinary revelation.
“Dr. Livingstone, did you ever think my husband mad?”
No question could have caught me more unprepared. I stared in astonishment, and answered with some constraint:
“I knew him so little, that really—”
She flashed in before I finished.
“Not in the ordinary way. Listen! He was crazy over psychological experiments. He dissected the mind as coldly as doctors dissect bodies. He believed people could be used as slaves if you find the right strings to pull. He was a bad man. Did you know that?”
Now I began to remember dimly that I had heard some doctor speak of him as a man who was making daring experiments in what my students persist in calling “psykes” when any mental and nervous states are under discussion. He laughed about it, called him an empiric, a charlatan, and so forth. I imagined he had not achieved the success of renown or wealth, but really the whole thing interested me so little that in the press of my own work it went clean out of my head and never recurred.
“Hypnotism and so forth?” I asked.
“Partly, but much more. He believed people could be taught to project their thought-forms visibly as they do now by chance through death-bed apparitions and in other ways. He thought telepathy could be brought under scientific law and could always be accompanied with visible presence.”