by David Miller
Campuzano had scarcely said this, when the licenciate got up and said, “This is where I must part company with you, Mr Campuzano; for up to now I’ve been hesitating whether or not to believe all that you had told me about your marriage; and what you are now telling me about hearing the dogs speak makes me declare that I don’t believe any of it. For heaven’s sake, Ensign, don’t tell this rubbish to anyone except a close friend like me.”
“Don’t think I’m so ignorant,” replied Campuzano, “that I don’t realize that it’s only by a miracle that animals can speak. I’m well aware that if thrushes, magpies and parrots talk, it’s only the words that they learn and get by heart, and because these creatures have tongues which are made in such a way that they can pronounce them. This doesn’t mean that they can speak and answer back with reasoned speech as these dogs were doing; and so, many times since I have heard them, I have been unwilling to believe myself, and have preferred to take as something I dreamed what in fact wide awake and with all my five senses as God was pleased to give them to me, I heard, listened to, noted and finally wrote down all in due order, without omitting a word. From this you may have sufficient proof to convince and persuade you to believe the truth of what I say. The things they discussed were many and varied, and more suitable for discussion by wise men than to be in the mouths of dogs; so that, since I could not have invented them off my own bat, in spite of myself and against my better judgement I have come to believe that I was not dreaming and that the dogs were talking.”
“Good heavens,” said the licenciate, “we’re back to the time of Methuselah, when pumpkins talked; or Aesop’s days when the cock conversed with the fox and animals talked to each other.”
“I should be one of them, and the biggest beast of the lot,” replied the ensign, “if I believed that those times had returned, and I should be an animal too if I didn’t believe what I heard, and what I saw, and what I shall dare to swear with an oath which will bind and compel the most incredulous person to believe it. But although I may be wrong, and what I think is true is a dream and to persist in it were nonsense, won’t it interest you, Mr Peralta, to see written down in the form of a colloquy the things that these dogs, or whatever they were, had to say?”
“Provided you don’t weary yourself further in persuading me that you heard the dogs speaking,” replied the licenciate, “I shall be very happy to listen to this colloquy, which as it was written down from the notes of your ingenious self, Ensign, I already adjudge to be good.”
“Well, there’s another point,” said the ensign. “Since I was listening so attentively, my mind was in a delicate state, and my memory was also delicate, sharp and free of other concerns, thanks to the great quantity of raisins and almonds I had eaten, I learnt it off by heart and wrote it down the next day in almost the same words in which I had heard it, without looking for rhetorical colours to adorn it, nor adding or substracting anything to make it pleasing. The conversation did not take place all on one night, but on two consecutive nights, although I’ve recorded only one, when Berganza told his life story. I intend to write down his companion Scipio’s, which was related on the second night, if I find that this one is credit-worthy or at least not deserving of scorn. I’ve got the colloquy tucked away in my shirt-front; I put it in the form of a colloquy to avoid the ‘Scipio said’, ‘Berganza replied’, which stretches out the narrative.”
And saying this he took out a notebook and put it into the hands of the licenciate, who took it, laughing and apparently making a joke of all that he had heard and of what he was expecting to read.
“I shall recline in this chair,” said the ensign, “while you so kindly read these dreams or absurdities, whose only virtue is that you can leave them alone when they annoy you.”
“Take your ease,” said Peralta, “for I shall soon get through my reading.”
The ensign lay back, the licenciate opened the notebook, and saw that it began with this title:
“Tale and Colloquy that took place between ‘Scipio’ and ‘Berganza’, dogs belonging to the hospital of the Resurrection, which is in the city of Valladolid, outside the Puerta del Campo, and commonly known as the dogs of Mahudes.”
* * *
1 Trionfo d’amore, Chapter 1.
THE CHILDREN OF HAMELN
Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm
Jacob (1785–1863) and Wilhelm (1786–1859), The Brothers Grimm, were born in Hanau and studied law and linguistics, working both together and separately. They collaborated on a German dictionary as well as a book of German legends and, with their fairy tales, had as much of an impact on the German imagination and language as Martin Luther’s translation of the Bible.
In the year 1284 a mysterious man appeared in Hameln. He was wearing a coat of many colored, bright cloth, for which reason he was called the Pied Piper. He claimed to be a ratcatcher, and he promised that for a certain sum that he would rid the city of all mice and rats. The citizens struck a deal, promising him a certain price. The ratcatcher then took a small fife from his pocket and began to blow on it. Rats and mice immediately came from every house and gathered around him. When he thought that he had them all he led them to the River Weser where he pulled up his clothes and walked into the water. The animals all followed him, fell in, and drowned.
Now that the citizens had been freed of their plague, they regreted having promised so much money, and, using all kinds of excuses, they refused to pay him. Finally he went away, bitter and angry. He returned on June 26, Saint John’s and Saint Paul’s Day, early in the morning at seven o’clock (others say it was at noon), now dressed in a hunter’s costume, with a dreadful look on his face and wearing a strange red hat. He sounded his fife in the streets, but this time it wasn’t rats and mice that came to him, but rather children: a great number of boys and girls from their fourth year on. Among them was the mayor’s grown daughter. The swarm followed him, and he led them into a mountain, where he disappeared with them.
All this was seen by a babysitter who, carrying a child in her arms, had followed them from a distance, but had then turned around and carried the news back to the town. The anxious parents ran in droves to the town gates seeking their children. The mothers cried out and sobbed pitifully. Within the hour messengers were sent everywhere by water and by land inquiring if the children – or any of them – had been seen, but it was all for naught.
In total, one hundred thirty were lost. Two, as some say, had lagged behind and came back. One of them was blind and the other mute. The blind one was not able to point out the place, but was able to tell how they had followed the piper. The mute one was able to point out the place, although he [or she] had heard nothing. One little boy in shirtsleeves had gone along with the others, but had turned back to fetch his jacket and thus escaped the tragedy, for when he returned, the others had already disappeared into a cave within a hill. This cave is still shown.
Until the middle of the eighteenth century, and probably still today, the street through which the children were led out to the town gate was called the bunge-lose (drumless, soundless, quiet) street, because no dancing or music was allowed there. Indeed, when a bridal procession on its way to church crossed this street, the musicians would have to stop playing. The mountain near Hameln where the the children disappeared is called Poppenberg. Two stone monuments in the form of crosses have been erected there, one on the left side and one on the right. Some say that the children were led into a cave, and that they came out again in Transylvania.
The citizens of Hameln recorded this event in their town register, and they came to date all their proclamations according to the years and days since the loss of their children.
According to Seyfried the 22nd rather than the 26th of June was entered into the town register.
The following lines were inscribed on the town hall:
In the year 1284 after the birth of Christ
From Hameln were led away
One hundred thirty children, born at this place
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br /> Led away by a piper into a mountain.
And on the new gate was inscribed: Centum ter denos cum magus ab urbe puellos duxerat ante annos CCLXXII condita porta fuit.
[This gate was built 272 years after the magician led the 130 children from the city.]
In the year 1572 the mayor had the story portrayed in the church windows. The accompanying inscription has become largely illegible. In addition, a coin was minted in memory of the event.
THE TELL-TALE HEART
Edgar Allan Poe
Edgar Allan Poe (1809–1849) wrote poetry, novels and criticism, and is seen as one of the earliest practitioners of the short story, working in all genres, including mystery and science fiction. He tried to make a life from writing, which was not always entirely successful, although he was determined that writing “Literature is the most noble of professions. In fact, it is about the only one fit for a man. For my own part, there is no seducing me from the path.” He died in Baltimore aged forty, days after having been found delirious in the street.
TRUE! – nervous – very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses – not destroyed – not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily – how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture – a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees – very gradually – I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.
Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded – with what caution – with what foresight – with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it – oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly – very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man’s sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this, And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously-oh, so cautiously – cautiously (for the hinges creaked) – I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights – every night just at midnight – but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.
Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch’s minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers – of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back – but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.
I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out – “Who’s there?”
I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening; – just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.
Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief – oh, no! – it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself – “It is nothing but the wind in the chimney – it is only a mouse crossing the floor,” or “It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp.” Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel – although he neither saw nor heard – to feel the presence of my head within the room.
When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little – a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it – you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily – until, at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye.
It was open – wide, wide open – and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness – all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man’s face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.
And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense? – now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man’s heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.
But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man’s terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! – do you mark me well I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me – the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man’s hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once – once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eve would trouble me no more.
If still you think me mad, you wil
l think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.
I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye – not even his – could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out – no stain of any kind – no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all – ha! ha!
When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o’clock – still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, – for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.
I smiled, – for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search – search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.