"Yes; she has been ill for more than a year now. It is very sad for so fine a creature to have such a terrible malady. She was better for some weeks lately, but within the last few days the same attacks have returned, apparently accompanied with more suffering than ever. It is altogether an inexplicable story."
"Is there a story connected with her illness?"
"I have only heard imperfect reports of it; but it is said that she gave offence some eighteen months ago to an old woman who had held an office of trust in the family, and who, after some incoherent threats, disappeared. This peculiar affection followed soon after. But the strangest part of the story is its association with the loss of an antique mirror, which stood in her dressing-room, and of which she constantly made use."
Here the speaker's voice sank to a whisper; and Cosmo, although his very soul sat listening in his ears, could hear no more. He trembled too much to dare to address the ladies, even if it had been advisable to expose himself to their curiosity. The name of the Princess was well known to him, but he had never seen her; except indeed it was she, which now he hardly doubted, who had knelt before him on that dreadful night. Fearful of attracting attention, for, from the weak state of his health, he could not recover an appearance of calmness, he made his way to the open air, and reached his lodgings; glad in this, that he at least knew where she lived, although he never dreamed of approaching her openly, even if he should be happy enough to free her from her hateful bondage. He hoped, too, that as he had unexpectedly learned so much, the other and far more important part might be revealed to him ere long.
"Have you seen Steinwald lately?"
"No, I have not seen him for some time. He is almost a match for me at the rapier, and I suppose he thinks he needs no more lessons."
"I wonder what has become of him. I want to see him very much. Let me see; the last time I saw him he was coming out of that old broker's den, to which, if you remember, you accompanied me once, to look at some armour. That is fully three weeks ago."
This hint was enough for Cosmo. Von Steinwald was a man of influence in the court, well known for his reckless habits and fierce passions. The very possibility that the mirror should be in his possession was hell itself to Cosmo. But violent or hasty measures of any sort were most unlikely to succeed. All that he wanted was an opportunity of breaking the fatal glass; and to obtain this he must bide his time. He revolved many plans in his mind, but without being able to fix upon any.
At length, one evening, as he was passing the house of Von Steinwald, he saw the windows more than usually brilliant. He watched for a while, and seeing that company began to arrive, hastened home, and dressed as richly as he could, in the hope of mingling with the guests unquestioned: in effecting which, there could be no difficulty for a man of his carriage.
In a lofty , silent chamber, in another part of the city, lay a form more like marble than a living woman. The loveliness of death seemed frozen upon her face, for her lips were rigid, and her eye-lids closed. Her long white hands were crossed over her breast, and no breathing disturbed their repose. Beside the dead, men speak in whispers, as if the deepest rest of all could be broken by the sound of a living voice. Just so, though the soul was evidently beyond the reach of all intimations from the senses, the two ladies, who sat beside her, spoke in the gentlest tones of subdued sorrow.
"She has lain so for an hour."
"This cannot last long, I fear."
"How much thinner she has grown within the last few weeks! If she would only speak, and explain what she suffers, it would be better for her. I think she has visions in her trances, but nothing can induce her to refer to them when she is awake."
"Does she ever speak in these trances?"
"I have never heard her; but they say she walks sometimes, and once put the whole household in a terrible fright by disappearing for a whole hour, and returning drenched with rain, and almost dead with exhaustion and fright. But even then she would give no account of what had happened."
A scarce audible murmur from the yet motionless lips of the lady here startled her attendants. After several ineffectual attempts at articulation, the word "Cosmo! " burst from her. Then she lay still as before; but only for a moment. With a wild cry, she sprang from the couch erect on the floor, flung her arms above her head, with clasped and straining hands, and, her wide eyes flashing with light, called aloud, with a voice exultant as that of a spirit bursting from a sepulchre, "I am free! I am free! I thank thee!" Then she flung herself on the couch, and sobbed; then rose, and paced wildly up and down the room, with gestures of mingled delight and anxiety. Then turning to her motionless attendants - "Quick, Lisa, my cloak and hood!" Then lower - "I must go to him. Make haste, Lisa! You may come with me, if you will."
In another moment they were in the street, hurrying along towards one of the bridges over the Moldau. The moon was near the zenith, and the streets were almost empty. The Princess soon outstripped her attendant, and was half-way over the bridge, before the other reached it.
"Are you free, lady? The mirror is broken: are you free?"
The words were spoken close beside her, as she hurried on. She turned; and there, leaning on the parapet in a recess of the bridge, stood Cosmo, in a splendid dress, but with a white and quivering face.
"Cosmo! - I am free - and thy servant for ever. I was coming to you now."
"And I to you, for Death made me bold; but I could get no further. Have I atoned at all? Do I love you a little - truly?"
"Ah, I know now that you love me, my Cosmo; but what do you say about death?"
He did not reply. His hand was pressed against his side. She looked more closely: the blood was welling from between the fingers. She flung her arms around him with a faint bitter wail.
When Lisa came up, she found her mistress kneeling above a wan dead face, which smiled on in the spectral moonbeams.
CHRISTINA ROSSETTI (1830-1894) was the younger sister of the pre-Raphaelite rakehell Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882); their mother was the sister of John Polidori, who had produced the most important precursor of modern vampire stories in The Vampyre (1819) before committing suicide in 1821. She conformed more closely to the expectations of the age than these relatives, however; like her elder sister (who eventually became a nun) she became a conscientiously devout Puritan, rigorously ascetic and selfdenying. She suffered perpetual ill-health and was always physically frail; she refused various offers of marriage and probably died a virgin. Her moralistic verse parable "Goblin Market" (written in 1859 and first published in book form in Goblin Market and Other Poems, 1862) presumably seemed to her to be a straightforward parable of the power and responsibility which the good allegedly have to work for the redemption of their weaker brethren, but modern readers cannot help but see other implications in it. The double entendres which leap out at the modern eye can easily be interpreted in such a way as to make it one of the most vividly erotic pieces of writing to have surfaced in England during the entirety of Victoria's reign. The basic pattern of symbolism is certainly the product of calculated artifice, but the author was presumably blissfully ignorant of the lesbian undertones contained in the speeches and actions of the two sisters.
By Christina Rossetti
WILLIAM GILBERT (1804-1890) was a medical man whose interest in abnormal psychology is elaborately displayed in his collections of imaginary case-studies Shirley Hall Asylum; or, The Memoirs of a Monomaniac (1863) and Dr. Austin's Guests (1866). His horror and fantasy stories are similarly embedded in two collections, each of which has a linking frame-narrative. The Magic Mirror (1866), from which the story below is taken, features a mirror which grants the wishes of those who look into it; The Wizard of the Mountain (1867) describes the fates of various visitors who come to beg favours from the mysterious Innominato, and are served according to their desserts. His novels - as is commonly the case with the authors included in this anthology - are much more earnest, devoid of supernatural intrusions, and quite forgotten.
&
nbsp; Gilbert was the father of William Schwenck Gilbert (1836-1911) of Gilbert & Sullivan fame; the younger Gilbert also published a collection of stories including several absurd fantasies, Foggerty's Fairy and Other Stories (1890), but the ironic impact of the stories tends to be weakened by an over- extravagant silliness which he certainly did not inherit from his father.
By William Gilbert
Master Walter de Courcey, although an indefatigable man of business, was extremely punctual in his religious observances, and he made a point, both in winter and summer, of attending early mass in his parish church, St Botolph's, Bishopsgate. It has already been stated that his departure for Windsor was very sudden, in fact hardly any one out of his own house was aware that he had left London. The officiating priest at the church was therefore much surprised at his non-appearance two days running; and as Master Walter did not appear on the third, nor in fact for a week, he began to fear he might be indisposed, and one morning, as soon as mass was over, he directed the sacristan to call at the merchant's house and inquire after his health. The sacristan was a certain Geoffrey Cole, a very tall thin man with a low forehead, deep sunk eyes, harsh features, and very large hands and feet. Although something of a miser, intensely selfish, and most uncharitable, both in the matter of giving alms, and in his feelings towards his neighbours, he was extremely punctilious in all the external forms and ceremonies of the Church, and he flattered himself he was not only very religious, but even a model of piety. The more he studied the subject, the more certain of his blissful state he became, till at last he believed himself to be so good that the saints alone were his equals. He would frequently draw comparisons between his life and some of the inferior saints, and he generally concluded he could compare with them most advantageously. On the morning when he was directed to call on Master Walter this train of thought especially occupied his mind, and by the time he had arrived at the house he was certain that in the whole city of London there was not another individual so good as himself.
The person who received him was an old woman half imbecile from age, who had formerly been Master Walter's nurse, and with her the sacristan had frequently conversed on matters of what he called religion. When he had received from her an explanation of the merchant's absence from church, the pair commenced talking on subjects connected with Church affairs, which consisted in fact of the sacristan's explaining to her what a good and pious man he was, and her complimenting him thereon. Before he left the house the nurse asked him if he would like to see the mirror, as she would have much pleasure in showing it to him. He accepted the offer at once, at the same time saying that vanities of the kind had but few attractions for him.
The nurse led the way to the chamber, and when they had arrived there, in spite of his mock ascetic manner, there was no difficulty in perceiving he admired the mirror greatly. Fearing, however, the real state of his mind might be detected by the old woman, he began to speak of it in terms of great disparagement, not indeed finding fault with its form and beauty, but dwelling on the absurdity of mortals setting their minds on such trifles, and neglecting subjects of far greater importance which concerned the welfare of their souls.
"But everybody cannot be so good as you are, Master Geoffrey," said the old woman; "and you ought to have a little feeling for those who are not."
"I do not see that," said the sacristan, taking the compliment without the slightest hesitation. "I condemn all trifles of the kind. What would the blessed St Anthony have said to a vanity of this sort?"
"Ah!" said the old woman; "but it would not be possible in the present day to find so good a man as he was."
"It would be very difficult, I admit," said the sacristan; "but I am not sure it would be impossible. Do not think for a moment that I would attempt to compare myself with him; but I thought, while reflecting on his life as I came here this morning, that I should very much like to be subjected to the same temptations, to see if I could not resist them."
"You surely do not mean that?" said the nurse; "why, they were dreadful."
"Indeed, I do," said the sacristan, looking at himself in the mirror, "I should like immensely to be subjected to them for a month, and then I could form an idea whether I was as good as I ought to be."
"Well," said the nurse, leaving the room with him, "I trust you will never be subjected to anything of the kind." After a little conversation of the same description the sacristan left the house.
After he had delivered his message to the priest and the functions of the day were over, he sought his own home in the rural district of Little Moorfields. He lived in a room on the top floor of a house occupied by a man and his wife who were employed at a merchant's house in the City. As the merchant and his family were absent, Geoffrey's landlord and his wife were requested to sleep at the house of business, and thus he had for the time the whole abode to himself.
His room, which was comfortably furnished, was the very picture of neatness and cleanliness, for he was very particular in his domestic arrangements; and his landlady, during her temporary absence at the house of business, called every day to put his room in order, and place his supper on the table.
Arrived at home he requested a neighbour's wife to light his lamp and fire for him, and that being done she left him. He then bolted the street door, went up to his own room, and after having a very comfortable and abundant meal went to bed, having, however, left ample food on the table for his breakfast the next morning. He was generally a very sound sleeper, and his slumbers that night formed no exception to the general rule; but, somehow or other, as morning advanced they were by no means so profound. He grew very restless, with a sense of oppression, and occasionally he heard a sound like the tinkling of a bell, which continued till daybreak, when the annoyance became intolerable. At last, when it was fully day, he aroused himself and sat up in his bed. What was his surprise and terror when he saw, stretched across the foot of it, outside the clothes, a large fat pig with a bell fastened round its neck with a leathern strap. His first attempt was to push the brute from the bed, but the only effect produced was that it placed itself in a still more comfortable position directly on his legs, and then went to sleep again. Enraged and in great pain, he immediately began to pommel the pig with his fist on the neck and head, but without other result than a few surly grunts. His passion increased to such an extent that he struck it still harder blows, when suddenly his attention was arrested by a loud peal of laughter, and he saw, sitting on his stool by the fireplace, an imp so intensely ugly that he was almost frightened to look at it. Somewhat recovering himself, he said, "Who are you, and what are you doing here?"
"No matter who I am," said the imp; 'but as to what I am doing, I am simply laughing at your ungrateful and absurd behaviour."
"In what way," said the sacristan, "is my behaviour absurd?"
"In attacking in that violent manner your friend and pig.11
"My pig?" said the sacristan; "I have no pig. It is none of mine."
"0 you ungrateful man," said the imp. "Did you not yesterday say you wished you could meet with some temptations similar to those tradition tells us annoyed St. Anthony? And now, when you have a pig, and a very handsome one too, for your protection and society, the first thing you do is to pommel it as if you would kill it."
"I did not know it was a pig of that description," said the sacristan, with much solemnity of tone, "or I should have treated it with the respect it deserves."
"Well, then, do so now," said the imp. "To all appearance it will give you ample opportunity for a trial of patience."
"But I cannot remain here all day," said the sacristan, "I must go to my duties; I shall be scolded as it is for being late."
Then scratching the pig lovingly on the poll, he addressed it with much sweetness of tone and manner: "If it is not asking you too great a favour, would you oblige me by getting off my bed? I am really very sorry to trouble you, but you are rather heavy, and I suffer from corns."
But the pig took no further not
ice of these blandishments than closing its eyes more fast than ever, and falling into a sounder sleep.
"What am I to do?" said the poor sacristan, in a despairing tone.
"Exercise your patience," said the imp. "He is affording you capital practice."
The sacristan was now silent, and for some time the imp said nothing, contenting himself with a quiet chuckle. Presently, however, he said to the sacristan,
"Come, I will assist you if I can. What do you want me to do?"
"To get this accurs.... I mean blessed pig off my bed if you can."
"I can do it easily enough," said the imp; "but you mortals are so ungrateful, it is ten to one you will be angry with me if I do."
"On the contrary," said Geoffrey, "I shall be most grateful to you, I promise you on my word of honour. That is to say," he continued, "if it do not put the dear creature to much pain."
"I promise you that it shall, on the contrary, be much pleased."
"Pray proceed then."
The imp immediately leaped off the stool, and going to the table took from it the food the sacristan had set aside for his breakfast, and placing it on the ground called out, "Pig, pig."
The pig lazily opened its eyes and looked on the ground. No sooner, however, did it see the food than its sleepy fit left it, and it jumped from the bed and commenced a furious attack on the sacristan's breakfast.
Master Geoffrey, in spite of his promise, was now dreadfully angry. He leaped on the floor, and rushing to the pig attempted in vain to push it away from the food, the imp laughing lustily the while.
"Upon my word," he said, "I never saw in my life a man worse adapted for an anchorite than you are. Why, you ought to be delighted to see your pig enjoy itself so heartily."
Master Geoffrey immediately left the pig and cast a very proper look of intense hatred at the imp, who seemed more delighted with it than ever.
The Dedalus Book of British Fantasy: 19th Century (European Literary Fantasy Anthologies) Page 23
