“So perishes the flesh in revolt—so triumphs the immortal soul!”
And I had scarcely reached the bottom of the pit, bruised and stunned, when the heavy door was closed fifteen feet above me, intercepting from my sight the gray light from the garret.
My consternation at falling to the bottom of the pit, and feeling myself taken like a rat in a trap, was such, that I rose up without uttering a single complaint.
“Kaspar,” said I to myself, with strange calmness, ‘the question now is to devour the old woman or be devoured by her. Choose! As to try to escape from this den it is time lost. Wolfgang holds you under his claws and he will not let you escape—the walls are of flint and the flooring of oak as hard as stone. None of your acquaintances saw you enter the Tanner’s quarter—no one knows you in this part of the city—no one will ever have an idea of searching for you here. It is all up, Kaspar, it is all up. Your last resource is this poor Catherine Wogel—or rather, you are the last resource of each other!”
All this passed through my mind like a flash of lightning. I was seized with a trembling which did not leave me for three years, and when, at the same moment, the pale face of Wolfgang, with his little lamp in his hand, appeared at the vent-hole, and when, with my hands joined together by terror, I wished to supplicate him—I perceived that I stammered in an atrocious manner—not a word issued from my trembling lips. When he saw me thus, he smiled, and I heard him murmur:
“The coward!—he prays to me!”
This was my coup de grace. I fell with my face against the ground, and I would have fainted—if the fear of being attacked by the old woman had not brought me to myself. Still she had not yet moved. Wolfgang’s face had disappeared. I heard the maniac walk across his garret, move back the table and clear his throat with a short, dry cough. My hearing was so acute that the slightest sound reached me and made me shiver. I heard the old woman yawn, and turning round, I perceived, for the first time, her eyes glittering in the darkness. At the same time I heard Wolfgang descend the ladder; I counted the steps one by one until the sound was lost in the distance. Where had the wretch gone? But during the whole of that day and the following night he did not appear. It was only the next day, about eight o’clock in the evening, at the moment that the old woman and myself were howling loud enough to make the very walls tremble, that he returned.
I had not closed my eyes. I no longer felt fear or rage. I suffered from hunger—devouring hunger—and I knew that it would increase.
The moment I heard a slight sound in the garret I ceased my cries and raised my eyes. The vent-hole was lighted up. Wolfgang had lighted his lamp. He was, doubtless, coming to look at me. In this hope I prepared a touching speech, but the lamp was extinguished—no one came!
It was perhaps the most frightful moment of my torture. I thought to myself that Wolfgang, knowing that I was not sufficiently reduced, would not deign even to cast a glance on me, that in his eyes I was only an interesting subject, who would not be ripe for science until two or three days had elapsed, when I was between life and death. It seemed to me that I felt my hair slowly whiten on my head. And it was true—it began to turn gray from that moment. At last my terror became so great that I lost my consciousness.
Towards midnight I was awakened by the contact of a body with my own. I bounded from my place with disgust. The old woman had approached me, attracted by hunger. She had hooked her hands onto my clothes; at the same moment the cry of a cat filled the pit and froze me with fear.
I expected a terrible combat, but the poor unfortunate woman could do nothing. She had been there five days.
It was then that Wolfgang’s words returned to my memory—“Once the animal soul is extinct the vegetable soul will manifest itself—the hair and the nails grow in the grave, and a green moss takes root in the interstices of the skull.” I fancied the old woman reduced to this condition—her skull covered with moldy lichen and I lying beside her, our souls spreading out the humid vegetation side by side in the silence!
This picture so acted upon my mind that I no longer felt the pangs of hunger. Extended against the wall with my eyes wide open, I looked before me without seeing anything.
And while I was thus more dead than alive, a vague gleam was infiltrated through the darkness. I raised my eyes. Wolfgang’s pale face appeared at the vent-hole. He did not smile; he appeared to experience neither joy, satisfaction nor remorse—he observed me.
Oh, that face made me fear! If he had smiled, if he had rejoiced over his revenge—I should have hoped to have been able to move him—but he simply observed!
We remained thus, our eyes fixed on each other. I, struck with terror; he, cold, calm, and attentive, like the face of an inert object. The insect pierced by a needle, which we observe through a microscope, if it thinks—if it comprehends the eye of man, must view it in this light.
It was necessary that I should die to satisfy the curiosity of a monster. I felt certain that prayers would be useless, so I said nothing.
After having observed me in this way, the maniac, doubtless satisfied with his observations, turned his head to look at the old woman. I followed mechanically the direction of his eyes. There are no terms that I can use that can explain what I saw—a face haggard and emaciated, limbs shrunk up and so sharp that they seemed ready to pierce the rags that covered them. Something shapeless, horrible, the head of a skeleton, the hair disheveled round the skull like dried herbs, and in the midst of all this two burning eyes and two long yellow teeth.
Fearful tiding! I could already distinguish two snails on the skeleton. When I saw this I closed my eyes with a convulsive moment, and said to myself, “In five days I shall be like that!”
When I opened my eyes again the lamp had been withdrawn.
“Wolfgang,” I cried, “God is above you! God sees you! Woe to monsters!”
I passed the rest of the night in a delirium of fear.
Having dreamed again, in the delirium of fever, of the chances I had of escape and finding none, I suddenly made up my mind to die, and this resolution procured me some moments of relief. I reviewed in my mind Hasenkopf’s arguments relative to the immortality of the soul, and for the first time I found that they had invincible strength.
“Yes,” I cried, “the passage through this world is only a time of trial, injustice and cupidity, and baleful passions rule the heart of man. The weak are crushed by the strong, the poor by the rich. Virtue is only a word on the earth; but all is restored to order after death. God sees the injustice of which I am the victim. He gives me credit for the sufferings that I endure. He will forgive me for my ill-regulated appetites—my excessive love of good cheer. Before admitting me into His kingdom He wished to purify me by a vigorous fast. I offer my sufferings to the Lord!”
And yet I must confess that in spite of my deep contrition, my regrets for good cheer, for the society of my joyous companions, for that life which glides away in the midst of songs and good wine, made me heave many sighs. I fancied I heard soup bubbling in the pot, wine gurgling from bottles, the clinking of glasses, and my stomach groaned as if it were a living person. It seemed to be a kind of being apart from my own being, and protested against the philosophical arguments of Hasenkopf.
The greatest of my sufferings was thirst. It became so intolerable that I licked the saltpeter on the walls to give me relief.
When vague and uncertain gleams of daylight shone through the vent-hole I became furious.
“The wretch is there,” I said to myself; “he has bread, a pitcher of water—he is drinking.”
Then I fancied I saw him with the pitcher to his lips—I seemed to see torrents of water passing slowly down his throat. Anger, despair, and indignation took possession of me, and I ran round the pit, screaming out to the top of my voice:
“Water! water! water!”
And the old woman, reanimated, repeated after me like a maniac:
“Water! water! water!”
She crawled on her hands and knees
after me. Pandemonium could have nothing more horrible.
In the midst of this scene, Wolfgang’s pale face appeared for the third time at the vent-hole. It was about eight o’clock. Stopping, I exclaimed:
“Wolfgang, listen to me. Give me one drink from your pitcher, and you may leave me to die of hunger. I will not reproach you!”
And I wept.
“You are acting too barbarously towards me,” I continued. “Your immortal soul will have to answer for it before God. With respect to this old woman, it is as you say judicious to experiment in anima vili. But I have studied, and I find your system splendid. I am worthy to understand it. I admire you! Let me only take one drink of water. What is that to you? There was never a more sublime conception than yours. It is certain that the three souls exist. Yes, I will proclaim it to the world. I will be your most firm adherent. Will you not let me take one single drink of water?”
Without making any reply, he retired.
My exasperation knew no bounds. I threw myself against the wall with the utmost violence; I apostrophized the wretch in the most bitter terms.
In the midst of this fury I suddenly perceived that the old woman had fallen senseless all her length on the ground. The idea came to me to drink her blood. Man’s necessities carry him to excesses which are enough to make one tremble; it is then that the ferocious beast is awakened in him; and that all sentiments of justice and benevolence are effaced by the instinct of self-preservation.
“Of what use is her blood to her?” I said to myself. “She must soon perish. If I delay all her blood will be dried up.”
Red flames passed before my eyes; fortunately when I bent over the poor old woman my strength forsook me, and I fainted away by her side with my face in her rags.
How long did I remain in this state of unconsciousness? I do not know, but I was awakened from it by a curious circumstance, the recollection of which will for ever remain imprinted on my brain. I was aroused by the plaintive howling of a dog; this howling was so feeble, so pitiable, so poignant, that it was even more touching than the lamentations of human beings, and no one could hear it without being affected by it. I rose up, my face bathed in tears, without knowing from whence came these cries, so much in harmony with my own grief. I listened attentively, and judge of my stupor, that it was I myself who groaned in this manner without being aware of it.
From this moment all recollection was effaced from my memory. It is certain, however, that I remained two days longer in the pit under the eye of the maniac, whose enthusiasm at seeing his idea triumph was so great that he did not hesitate to convoke the presence of several of our philosophers, that he might enjoy their admiration.
* * * *
Six weeks afterwards I came to consciousness in my little room in the Rue Plat d’Etaw, surrounded by my comrades, who congratulated me for having escaped from this lesson in transcendental philosophy.
It was a pathetic moment when Ludwig Bremer brought me a mirror. When I saw myself thinner than Lazarus when he was raised from the dead, I could not help shedding tears.
Poor Catherine Wogel had died in the pit.
With respect to myself I was threatened with chronic gastritis for the rest of my days; but thanks to my good constitution, and thanks especially to the care of Dr. Aloius Killian, I recovered my former good health.
It is almost needless to add that the wretch Wolfgang was brought to justice; but instead of being hung as he deserved, after a delay of six months he was brought in by the jury as insane, and was confined in the Klingenmuster, the insane asylum of Rhenish Bavaria, where visitors could hear him expatiate in a peremptory manner of the three souls. He accused humanity of injustice, and pretended that he ought to have a statue raised to his memory for his magnificent discovery.
THE DEATH WATCH, by Luise Muhlback
(PSEUD. CLARA MUNDT)
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY JOHN OXENFORD
(1847)
Count Manfred knelt, deeply affected, by the bed of his poor friend—now destined to be his death-bed. Silence and gloom were in the narrow room, which was only dimly lighted by a night-lamp. The moon shone, large and cold, through the one window, illuminating the wretched couch of the invalid. Soon loud groaning alone interrupted the melancholy stiffness. Manfred felt a chill shudder in all his limbs, a sensation of horror overcame him, and the bed of his slowly expiring friend, and he felt as if he must perforce go out among mankind, hear the breath of a living person instead of this death-rattle, and press a warm hand instead of the cold damp one of the dying man. He softly raised himself from his knees, and crept to the chimney to stir the almost extinct fire, that something bright and cheering might surround him. But the sick man raised himself up, and looked at him with fixed glassy eyes, while his heart rose higher and quicker with a breathless groaning.
The flame crackled and flew upwards, casting a harsh gleam through the room. Suddenly a coal flew out with a loud noise, and fell into the middle of the apartment upon the wooden floor. At the same time a terribly piercing cry arose from the bed, and Manfred, who looked towards it with alarm, saw that the invalid was sitting up, and with eyes widely opened and outstretched arms, was staring at the spot where the coal was lying. It was a frightful spectacle, that of the dying man, who seemed to be struggling with a deep feeling of horror; on whose features death had already imprinted its seal; and whose short nightgown was insufficient to conceal the dry and earth-gray arms and legs, which had already assumed a deathlike hue. Frightful was the loud rattle that proceeded from the heart of one who could scarcely be called alive or dead, and dull as from the grave sounded the isolated words from which he uttered, still gazing upon the coal on the floor. “Away—away with thee! why wilt thou remain there, spectre? Leave me, I say.”
Manfred stood overpowered with horror, his trembling feet refused to support him, and he leaned against the wall contemplating the actions of his friend, the sight of whom created the deepest terror. The voice of the invalid became louder and more shrill. “Away with thee, I say! why dost thou cleave so fast to my heart? I say, leave me!”
Then striking out with his arms he sprung out of the bed with unnatural force, and darting to the spot where the coal was lying, stooped down, grasped it in his hand, and flung it back upon the hearth. He then burst into a loud, wild laugh, which made poor Manfred’s heart quail within him, and returned back to the bed.
But the coal had burned its very dross into the floor, and had left a black mark.
The room was again quiet. Manfred now breathed freely, and calmly crept to the couch of his friend, whose quiet, regular breathing and closed eyes showed that he had fallen into a reposing sleep. Thus passed one hour, the slow progress of which Manfred observed on his friend’s large watch, which lay upon the bed, and the regular ticking of which was the only interruption of the stillness of the night, except the still, quiet breathing of his friend.
The steeple clock in the vicinity announced by its striking that another hour had passed. Manfred counted the strokes—it was twelve o’clock—midnight. He involuntarily shuddered, the thoughts of the legends and tales of his childhood darted through him like lightning, and he owned to himself that he had always felt a mysterious terror at the midnight hour. At the same moment, his friend opened his eyes, and softly pronounced his name.
Manfred leant down to him. “Here I am, Karl.”
“I thank you,” said the sick man, in a faint voice, “for remaining by me thus faithfully. I am dying, Manfred.”
“Do not speak so,” replied the other, affectionately grasping the hand of his friend.
“I cease to see you,” said Karl, more and more faintly and slowly; “dark clouds are before my eyes.”
Suddenly he raised himself, took the watch which was lying by him, and placed it in Manfred’s hand. “I thank you,” he said, “for all the love you have shown me; for all your kindness and consolation. Take this watch; it is the only thing which now belongs to me. Wear it in remembrance of me
. If it is permitted me, by this watch I will give you warning when I am near. Farewell!”
He sunk back—his breath stopped—he was no more.
Manfred bent over him, called his name, laid his hand upon his forehead, which was covered with perspiration; he felt it grow colder and colder. Tears of the deepest sympathy filled his eyes, and dropped upon the pale face of the dead man.
“Sleep softly,” whispered Manfred, “and may the grave afford you that repose which you sought in vain upon earth!”
Once more he pressed to his bosom the hand of his deceased friend, wrapped himself in his cloak, put up the watch which Karl had bequeathed him, and retired to his residence.
The sun was already high when he awoke from an uneasy sleep. With feelings of pain he thought of the past night, and of his departed friend. In remembrance of him he drew out the watch, which pointed to the half hour, and held it to his ear. It had stopped; he tried to wind it up, but in vain—it had not run down.
“Is it possible,” murmured Manfred to himself, “that there was really some spiritual connection between the deceased and this, his favorite watch, which he constantly carried?”
He sunk down upon a chair, and strange thoughts and forebodings passed through his excited mind.
“What is time?” he asked himself; “what is an hour? A machine artificially produced by human hands determines it, regulates it, and gives to life its significance, and to the mind its warnings. The awe which accompanies the midnight hour does not affect us if the hand of the watch goes wrong. The clock is the despot of man; regulating the actions both of king and beggars. Nay, it is the ruler of time, which has subjected itself to its authority. The clock determines the very thoughts as well as the actions of man; it is the propelling wheel of the human species. The maiden who reposes delighted in the arms of her lover trembles when the ruthless clock strikes the hour which tears him from her. Her grief, her entreaties are all in vain. He must away, for the clock has ordered it. The murderer trembles in the full enjoyment of his fortune, for his eye falls on the hands of the clock, and they denote the hour when the already broken eye of the man he murdered looked upon him for the last time. In vain he endeavored to smile; it is beyond his power; for the clock has spoken, and his conscience awakes when he thinks of the horror of that hour. Shuddering with the feverish chill of mental anguish, the condemned culprit looks upon the clock, the hand of which, slowly moving, brings nearer and nearer the hour of his death. It is not the rising and setting of the sun, it is not the light of day, that determines destruction; but the clock. When the hand, with cruel indifference, moves on and touches the figure of the hour which the judge has appointed for his death, the doors of the dungeon open, and he has ceased to live. As long as we live we are governed by the hour, and death alone frees us from the hour and the clock! Perhaps the whole of eternity, with its bliss, is nothing but an hour-less, clock-less existence; eternal, because without measure; blissful, because not bound to a measured time.”
The Macabre Megapack Page 25
