by Paul Busson
As we went up the stairs, he asked me whether it was business had caused my visit, and when I told him I hoped to encounter a person here, to whom I had not been able to indicate any more convenient meeting-place, he was satisfied and bade me be his guest as long as I liked, for he was so richly provided with food and wine, he said, that it was a matter of indifference to him if there were others at table.
Then he opened the door of my room and hoped I would be in time for supper.
With a disconsolate heart I entered the large room where I was to live for an indefinite time, waiting for Evli. The old man’s ways were extremely distasteful to me, and the tone in which he offered me hospitality, by alluding to his plentiful supply of provisions, appeared to me so offensive, that I would rather have not unpacked my portmanteau at all...
The prospect of having the constant company of this heartless old man, whom age had by no means rendered more human, horrified
me, and it was quite unaccountable to me that Evli should have chosen this of all places to approach me. Racking doubts beset me and aroused the thought that I may have taken a wrong direction and missed the indicated place. But I had to be satisfied as it was. I could but hope that the Man from the East would find me here at last.
Some time elapsed before I thought of looking about the large room, and when I did it was dusk and I could not find a candle. So I washed myself in a metal basin that received water from a suspended dolphin, and went down into the dining-room.
This hall was a fair indication of the wretchedness of the whole building, in one comer of it some of the plaster had fallen and formed a rubbish heap which evidently no one had bothered to remove. The darkened ancestors’ portraits of the Counts von Treffenheid, to whom the coat of arms with the arrow-stricken Moor’s head belonged, looked down from the walls with lifeless eyes. In spite of the mild weather a gigantic fire of beech logs was blazing in a beautiful but badly kept fireplace.
At the table I sat next the Master of the Hounds. We were surrounded by the hounds themselves, who snapped at the pieces of meat and slices of tart that were thrown to them, and quarrelled over them. Quite at the other end of the table, like a grey shadow, sat the wretched Magister Hemmetschnur. Such was his name, and its oddness - literally it meant “shirt-string” - always evoked peals of laughter from old Heist, whenever he chanced to pronounce it, twisting and deforming it in every possible way. But the food was good, and though the wine in the tin goblets was rough, it prickled the tongue and gums pleasantly.
At the end of the meal, which passed quickly, the hounds were driven away, and the old man lighted one of many clay pipes, which were placed before him in a bowl. When he had smoked one, he threw it away, smashing it to pieces, and took the next one. We were soon enveloped in a cloud of blue smoke, and the continually coughing figure of the grey scribe was almost lost in the mist.
I was tired and sad, and exhausted by the terrible adventure at the “Bullet Mill.” But I was obliged to remain at table out of politeness and listen to the Master’s coarse jokes and jests which seemed to be without end. My idea of my father, with whom he appeared to have shared most of his feats, became even uglier and more disgusting than it had been before.
The old man drank without restraint, so that his tongue soon became heavy. When the clock struck eleven, he opened his mouth wide and began bellowing songs for all he was worth, in a false and rumbling voice - “A hare would go a-skulking,” and “Up, friend, and to the woods,” and so on without stopping, until at last his bald head fell on his breast with a jerk, and he began rattling and snoring. Two stout huntsmen and a boy came in, as if they had been lying somewhere in wait for this moment. They took him by the head, shoulders and feet and carried him away without more ado and without at all bothering about me or the silent Magister.
Although I was by no means tormented by curiosity I addressed a few questions to the man when we were left together. He seemed to me to be worth some regard, if only on account of his learning. He told me that every evening about the same time the old man got drunk and began singing. This was due to the fact that many years ago, between eleven and half-past, his wife had found her husband in the arms of a servant girl, and was so much affected that she was struck dead on the spot with apoplexy. Also, about the same hour the Duke of Wessenberg’s court poet, whom he had killed with his own hand, would sometimes appear to him.
This was the reason why the old man tried to bridge this space of time with drinking and making a noise If there was no one present, the old man sang alone; but it was the duty of Raub, the head huntsman, to appear just before eleven and to go on blowing his horn as loud as he could, until the Master fell asleep.
After this explanation Magister Hemmetschnur took a chandelier with five candles and begged to be allowed the honour of seeing me to my room.
We went through the house, now dead silent, to the upper floor. Outside the wind was moaning and the poplars were rustling. At the door the Magister handed me the chandelier, bowed humbly, and wished me a good-night.
“Will you tell me, Mr. Magister,” I asked him, “what you meant by speaking of this room being haunted?” At the same time I opened the door and begged him to step in.
He bowed again, and as he shut the door behind him a smile passed over his grim face.
“I cannot tell you anything precise,” he said, looking round, “but just consider all that must have taken place in this room during the innumerable years when the ius gladii and justice were centred at Krottenriede. There are stories enough about it.
“For instance, that about old Krippenveit. He was tortured to death here, and it is said that he sometimes opens the trap-door in the floor and looks round with a horrible expression. Then there is the Jew Aaron, the horse dealer - they wanted to tickle his money out of him - you sometimes see him standing in a dark comer, and crying out for mercy. He was also tortured here. He was over seventy, and as soon as he was suspended he fell into the unconsciousness of the tortured. So they put boiling hot eggs in his armpits and pressed his arms to get the secret out of him. But he died rather than to have had "emmes gedabert", as the expression is, in his language, for revealing the truth. You can still see the iron ring up there in the ceiling, through which the cord ran that suspended him.
“It was here also that Agnes, known as Honey-pot, was given to torture; she was ultimately burned alive, and buried in the carrion pit of St. Leodegar, together with a black cat and an old dog, who refused to forsake her. Then there was Eva Weinschrötter, a gentlewoman, who grew roses and lilies in winter by witchcraft; she was mercifully allowed to be beheaded. So you see, most worthy Baron, that human crudeness and stupidity have run riot in this room. The groans and tears of the wretches who fell into the hands of those brutes, and the horrid proceedings that took place here, must have left a shadow or an impression on these accursed walls, and persons disposed that way may still see things... That is what I meant.”
"I will take the risk,” I said.
“To you, a man with a noble heart, the room will have nothing dangerous, but yet...!” He stopped and bit his lips.
“But yet - what?” I urged him.
“Sir, I would rather not sleep here, and if there were any other place in the house where the roof did not leak, or the windows were not open to the wind, I would rather have chosen it than this accursed room! But, as it is, I wish you a peaceful night.”
He bent low and went away.
I was now alone. I took the candlestick and looked round me.
The large room had been decorated with rich leather hangings, but they hung limp and tattered everywhere. Displayed and repeated a hundred times was the Treffenheid coat of arms - a Moor’s head with an arrow-shaft in his eye. Beneath, on a scroll, was the motto: “One’s death - another’s life.” A double bed with twisted columns and angels’ heads stood in the corner next to the door. The gilt had fallen off.
Through the narrow windows I saw the pale moon go wandering past ragged cl
ouds. At times the withered broom-like top of a poplar beat against the clattering panes. A table and several chairs had been taken away to make room for me and their traces remained on the dusty floor.
My attention was particularly attracted by two large pictures. They hung on the wall, side by side, and between them there was a stretched-out human arm in a red sleeve, holding an executioner’s sword. I went up to the pictures, searching them with my candlestick. The first was full of small figures, and I had to look at it a long time by the shimmering light before I recognised on the darkened canvas a procession of people conducting with solemn gravity a criminal in a tumbril to the place of execution. Beneath the picture, on a white ground, was the legend:
If thou hast patience in thy suffering,
It will be most profitable for thee.
So deliver thyself willingly.
The unknown painter had succeeded in subtly giving Ins figures ail expression of stupid pomposity, thoughtlessness, malice, cruelty, indifference or stolid self-satisfaction. But terror cried out from the face of the man in the hangman’s tumbril; his staring eyes seemed to look with an almost yearning expression at Redmantle, who stood on the scaffold waiting for his prey.
The picture plunged me into the depths of a familiar presentiment. It spoke to me of something that had been or was to be, and from the inmost of my soul a voice said: “I know...” The roots of my hair burned. But my brain was incapable of mastering the elusive vision. It faded into darkness as suddenly as it had emerged. Turning away from the terrible picture. I bowed my head to pass under the threatening arm with the sword.
1 held up the candle to the other picture. Suddenly I reit as it were a stab in my heart.
This face in a small cap. gentle and childlike, with a delicate nose, arched eyebrows, and a small mouth, with the aspiring eyes, was -
"Aglaia!” I whispered, and the heavy candelabrum nearly fell out of my hand...
A sad darkening light seemed to pass over the lovely face. No, it was not Aglaia! It was Zephrvine. looking as if she were going to breathe... The slender hand peeping out of the lace cuff wore a silver ring in the form of two snakes twisted together with a fire-opal in it, and between her finger and thumb were held three purple roses and a snow-white lily. But the inscription beneath her bewildered me and led astray my visions, that were constantly evoking the beloved face.
I passed my hand over my eyes and read:
Counterfeit of Eva Weinschrötter,
Canoness at St. Leodegar’s,
Convicted of witchcraft and
Beheaded there
anno 1649.
I stood still for a long time, till the candles began sputtering and the wax ran. Where was imagination and where reality?
Chapter Thirty Five
The night passed quietly, except for the inevitable rustling and creaking in the darkness of an old building.
On the morrow all was dull and unattractive: the wind moaned, the rain pattered, and the walls rustled as with the scurrying of rats. The servant who brought me my breakfast informed me that the Master of the Hounds was attacked with a fit of gout and would not appear until evening. He advised me not to go into my host’s room without an invitation, for he kept a pistol at his side, loaded with salt and hogs’ bristles, and under the influence of his racking pains he was capable of discharging it at anyone - already he had done it once to Magister Hemmetschnur.
By the dim daylight I once again inspected my room. Its air of decay was now even more apparent than it had been in the candlelight. I discovered the trap-door in the floor, by which access could be gained to the vaults and dungeons underground. Wherever I moved the grey eyes of Eva Weinschrötter’s portrait were watching me.
I recalled my emotions of the previous night as I looked again fixedly and attentively at the rosy face under the golden coif, but now it looked back strange and distant. The likeness to Aglaia-Zephyrine faded even as I sought for it, and finally it disappeared completely.
During my wanderings up and down the spacious room I discovered a door that was carefully concealed in the tapestry, and easily overlooked. I pushed it open on grating hinges, and found myself in a small chamber with shelves concealed by green damask hangings, musty and saturated with dust. I drew them aside, and came upon several bundles of old documents and what looked like confiscated corpora delicti, such as iron bars, hatchets, rusty locks, and gipsies’ fishing-rods.
Each of them bore a label, carefully and conscientiously inscribed. On one label I read: “The knife Matz of Schellenleben stabbed Squinting Jorg with.” On another: “Springing and breaking bar, killed Red Moische. having belonged to Hendl of Poland.” I noticed a fat earthenware pot, glazed over with blue, and tightly fastened down with a hog’s bladder: attached to it was a slip of parchment, inscribed in a faded brown ink with the words: “Numerus 16. Flying or witches’ ointment, concealed in the ground, and discovered under the bed of the woman Holler.”
Such a relic of one of the women who had been brought to the house for examination, whetted my curiosity. I took the pot and hid it near my bed, intending later on to give it more attention.
At lunch the Magister Hemmetschnur appeared, and inquired politely how I had spent the night. He said that I was the first person whom the room had allowed to sleep in peace.
Despite the rain and wind, we went out for a walk after the meal, and I had a conversation with him. I was greatly impressed by the extent of his knowledge, especially his range of languages, and I could not refrain from asking him how had it come about that with all his learning he had found no better employment than this unworthy scribe’s work for the old Master of the Hounds, who seemed to take a particular pleasure in humiliating and bullying him, and precisely on account of his higher education.
The Magister gave a deep sigh and said that if he only had enough money to get to Paris, or even to Strasburg, “in the old German country that the French had stolen,” as he called it, he would become immediately much better off. He had friends there who would readily take an interest in him. But even if he continued to accumulate a sum sufficient for his journey, he had to be careful. The Master of the Hounds would not hesitate to charge him with embezzlement and see that he was punished for it (as he had threatened quite openly to do). And, poor and helpless as he was, unknown and without any claim on
Anyone, this educated servant had to resign himself.
I said nothing, but inwardly I resolved to help this tormented man as far as it lay in my power.
At supper Herr von Trolle und Heist was carried to the table in an armchair. His right foot was swathed up, and he sweated with pain. It was scarcely possible to carry on a conversation with him, and only the necessity of remaining his guest made me refrain from resenting certain of his incivilities, which were the outcome of his quarrelsome and excited mood. The Magister came off worse than I did; he had a meat-bone thrown at his head without giving the slightest provocation for it. The attending huntsmen also got their share of ill-treatment, the Master spitting wine at them and aiming blows towards them with his stick.
Before long he was befuddled, and about eleven o’clock he raised his howling song of fear. But for once the wine he took did not have its effect, and I saw his glaring eyes distended with panic and staring at the unplastered corner. He flung a heavy bowl in the direction of some apparition I could not see. and then, laughing hoarsely, he muttered something about a good-for-nothing rhymester and court poet. At last he fell into a drunken slumber and was lifted from his armchair and carried away.
“Hell! hell!” groaned Hemmetschnur, when his master had gone, and he drove his fingers into his untidy hair. “Oh, that I could get out of this!”
I bade him good-night sympathetically and went to my room. By the light of a burning candle I got out Holler’s pot and cut open with a knife the dried-up bladder, that had become as hard as stone. It contained a greenish-brown sediment, traversed in all directions by a network of cracks and fissures. It might ha
ve been an ointment once, but time had made it hard and brittle.
Perhaps, I thought, it could be warmed by the candle’s flame and thus recover its former consistence. Therefore I held the blue pot up to the candle. As the stuff melted it stank atrociously of old grease and pungent herbs, but by degrees I succeeded in softening the mixture to the point of being able to try the ointment and test its magic qualities.
I lighted more candles. Again I saw the grey eyes of Eva Weinschrötter; they seemed to smile at my crazy task.
“Ought I not to do it?” I asked, addressing the picture. But neither sign nor answer was vouchsafed me. The portrait was quite lifeless to-day, and yet it was only yesterday that it had produced such a strong impression on me with a beloved likeness since completely vanished.
Either the heat of the candles or the greasy vapours of the poisonous herbs affected me so strongly that I again felt the fleeting feverishness which had already assailed me that very day during my afternoon walk.
I began to undress: my limbs felt as heavy as lead. My blood went in sudden throbs, as if my temperature were rising.
And from sheer obstinacy, or because something spurred me on, I persisted in my plan of experimenting with the ointment. I took off my shirt, rubbed in some of the ointment on my chest, stomach, hands, feet and forehead; I repeated the witches’ formula, as it stands in the tales of terror which I had heard as a child from old Margaret: “Up away and no-whither,” Then I laughed at my own foolishness, put out the light, and lay down on my creaking bed.
The blood sounded in my ears, and a creepy feeling went through my limbs. The crescent of the moon appeared in the frame of the window which I had left open.
Slowly I rose from my bed, glided out from under the low canopy and hovered between the ceiling and floor, without thinking it at all strange. I had often flown in this way in my dreams, directing my flight with a few careless movements of my arms, or my feet. Blit this time as I flew I saw my own self lying in the bed under the blue moonlight, that showed two distinct wrinkles on my face - some evil experience had drawn them between the nostrils and the chin. I saw the extinguished candles and the shining candle-snuffers and on the chair my clothes and my open bag. I was surprised by nothing, nor was I alarmed when Eva Weinschrötter stepped out of her frame and floated out through the open window.