The Rabbi ventured to look out.
By means of a livid obscurity he distinguished, first of all, a half-circle of earthy walls, pierced by spiral stairways, and, opposite to him, five or six stone steps, dominated by a sort of black porch, giving access to a vast corridor, of which he could only see, from below, the nearest arches.
Stretching himself along, he crawled to the level of this threshold. Yes, it was indeed a corridor, but of boundless length. A faint light—a sort of dream-light—was cast over it; lamps suspended to the arched roof, turned, by intervals, the wan air blue; the far distance was lost in shadow. Not a door visible along all this length! On one side only, to the left, small holes, covered with a network of bars, let a feeble twilight through the depths of the wall—the light of sunset apparently, for red gleams fell at long intervals on the flagstones. And how fearful a silence!. . . Yet there—there in the depths of the dim distance—the way might lead to liberty! The wavering hope of the Jew was dogged, for it was the last.
Without hesitation he ventured forth, keeping close to the side of the light-holes, hoping to render himself indistinguishable from the darksome color of the long walls. He advanced slowly, dragging himself along the ground, forcing himself not to cry out when one of his wounds, recently opened, sent a sharp pang through him.
All of a sudden, the beat of a sandal, coming in his direction, echoed along the stone passage. A trembling fit seized him, he choked with anguish, his sight grew dim. So this, no doubt, was to be the end! He squeezed himself, doubled up on his hands and knees, into a recess, and, half dead with terror, waited.
It was a familiar, hurrying along. He passed rapidly, carrying an instrument for tearing out the muscles, his cowl lowered; he disappeared. The violent shock which the Rabbi had received had half suspended the functions of life; he remained for nearly an hour unable to make a single movement. In the fear of an increase of torments if he were caught, the idea came to him of returning to his cell. But the old hope chirped in his soul—the divine “Perhaps,” the comforter in the worst of distresses. A miracle had taken place! There was no more room for doubt. He began again to crawl towards the possible escape. Worn out with suffering and with hunger, trembling with anguish, he advanced. And he, never ceasing his slow advance, gazed forward through the darkness, on, on, where there must be an outlet that would save him.
But, oh! steps sounding again; steps, this time, slower, more sombre. The forms of two Inquisitors, robed in black and white, and wearing their large hats with rounded brims, emerged into the faint light. They talked in low voices, and seemed to be in controversy on some important point, for their hands gesticulated.
At this sight Rabbi Aser Abarbanel closed his eyes, his heart beat as if it would kill him, his rags were drenched with the cold sweat of agony; motionless, gasping, he lay stretched along the wall, under the light of one of the lamps—motionless, imploring the God of David.
As they came opposite to him the two Inquisitors stopped under the light of the lamp, through a mere chance, no doubt, in their discussion. One of them, listening to his interlocutor, looked straight at the Rabbi. Under this gaze—of which he did not at first notice the vacant expression—the wretched man seemed to feel the hot pincers biting into his poor flesh; so he was again to become a living wound, a living woe! Fainting, scarce able to breathe, his eyelids quivering, he shuddered as the robe grazed him. But—strange at once and natural—the eyes of the Inquisitor were evidently the eyes of a man profoundly preoccupied with what he was going to say in reply, absorbed by what he was listening to; they were fixed, and seemed to be looking at the Jew without seeing him.
And indeed, in a few minutes, the two sinister talkers went on their way, slowly, still speaking in low voices, in the direction from which the prisoner had come. They had not seen him! And it was so, that, in the horrible disarray of his sensations, his brain was traversed by this thought: “Am I already dead, so that no one sees me?” A hideous impression drew him from his lethargy. On gazing at the wall, exactly opposite to his face, he fancied he saw, over against his, two ferocious eyes observing him! He flung back his head in a blind and sudden terror; the hair started upright upon his head. But no, no. He put out his hand, and felt along the stones. What he saw was the reflection of the eyes of the Inquisitor still left upon his pupils, and which he had refracted upon two spots of the wall.
Forward! He must hasten towards that end that he imagined (fondly no doubt) to mean deliverance; towards those shadows from which he was no more than thirty paces, or so, distant. He started once more—crawling on hands and knees and stomach—upon his dolorous way, and he was soon within the dark part of the fearful corridor.
All at once the wretched man felt the sensation of cold upon his hands that he placed on the flagstones; it was a strong current which came from under a little door at the end of the passage. O God, if this door opened on the outer world! The whole being of the poor prisoner was overcome by a sort of vertigo of hope. He examined the door from top to bottom without being able to distinguish it completely on account of the dimness around him. He felt over it. No lock, not a bolt! A latch! He rose to his feet: the latch yielded beneath his finger; the silent door opened before him.
“Hallelujah!” murmured the Rabbi, in an immense sigh, as he gazed at what stood revealed to him from the threshold.
The door opened upon gardens, under a night of stars—upon spring, liberty, life! The gardens gave access to the neighboring country that stretched away to the sierras, whose sinuous white lines stood out in profile on the horizon. There lay liberty! Oh, to fly! He would run all night under those woods of citrons, whose perfume intoxicated him. Once among the mountains, he would be saved. He breathed the dear, holy air; the wind reanimated him, his lungs found free play. He heard, in his expanding heart, the “Lazarus, come forth!” And, to give thanks to God, who had granted him this mercy, he stretched forth his arms before him, lifting his eyes to the firmament in an ecstasy.
And then he seemed to see the shadow of his arms returning upon himself; he seemed to feel those shadow-arms surround, enlace him, and himself pressed tenderly against some breast. A tall figure, indeed, was opposite to him. Confidently he lowered his eyes upon this figure, and remained gasping, stupefied, with staring eyes and mouth driveling with fright.
Horror! He was in the arms of the Grand Inquisitor himself, the venerable Pedro Arbuez d’Espila, who gazed at him with eyes full of tears, like a good shepherd who has found the lost sheep.
The sombre priest clasped the wretched Jew against his heart with so fervent a transport of charity that the points of the monacol hair-cloth rasped against the chest of the Dominican. And, while the Rabbi Aser Abarbanel, his eyes convulsed beneath his eyelids, choked with anguish between the arms of the ascetic Dom Arbuez, realizing confusedly that all the phases of the false evening had only been a calculated torture, that of Hope! the Grand Inquisitor, with a look of distress, an accent of poignant reproach, murmured in his ear, with the burning breath of much fasting:—“What! my child! on the eve, perhaps, of salvation. . . you would then leave us?”
THE BLACK CUPID, by Lafcadio Hearn
(1880)
There was a small picture hanging in the room; and I took the light to examine it. I do not know why I could not sleep. Perhaps it was the excitement of travel.
The gilded frame, massive and richly molded, enclosed one of the strangest paintings I had ever seen, a woman’s head lying on a velvet pillow, one arm raised and one bare shoulder with part of a beautiful bosom relieved against a dark background. As I said, the painting was small. The young woman was evidently reclining upon her right side; but only her head, elevated upon the velvet pillow, her white throat, one beautiful arm and part of the bosom was visible.
With consummate art the painter had contrived that the spectator feel as though leaning over the edge of the couch—not visible in the picture—so as to bring his face close to the beautiful face on the pillow. It was one of t
he most charming heads a human being ever dreamed;—such a delicate bloom on the cheeks;—such a soft, humid light in the half-closed eyes;—such sun-bright hair;—such carnation lips;—such an oval outline! And all this relieved against a deep black background. In the lobe of the left ear I noticed a curious earring—a tiny Cupid wrought in black jet, suspending itself by his bow, which he held by each end, as if trying to pull it away from the tiny gold chain which fettered it to the beautiful ear, delicate and faintly rosy as a seashell. What a strange earring it was! I wondered if the black Cupid presided over unlawful loves, unblest amours!
But the most curious thing about the picture was the attitude and aspect of the beautiful woman. Her head, partly thrown back, with half-closed eyes and tender smile, seemed to be asking a kiss. The lips pouted expectantly. I almost fancied I could feel her perfumed breath. Under the rounded arm I noticed a silky floss of bright hair in tiny curls. The arm was raised as if to be flung about the neck of the person from whom the kiss was expected. I was astonished by the art of the painter. No photograph could have rendered such effects, however delicately colored; no photograph could have reproduced the gloss of the smooth shoulder, the veins, the smallest details! But the picture had a curious fascination. It produced an effect upon me as if I were looking at a living beauty, a rosy and palpitating reality. Under the unsteady light of the lamp I once fancied that I saw the lips move, the eyes glisten! The head seemed to advance itself out of the canvas as though to be kissed. Perhaps it was very foolish; but I could not help kissing it—not once but a hundred times; and then I suddenly became frightened. Stories of bleeding statues and mysterious pictures and haunted tapestry came to my mind; and alone in a strange house and a strange city I felt oddly nervous. I placed the light on the table and went to bed.
But it was impossible to sleep. Whenever I began to doze a little, I saw the beautiful head on the pillow close beside me,—the same smile, the same lips, the golden hair, the silky floss under the caressing arm. I rose, dressed myself, lit a pipe, blew out the light, and smoked in the dark, until the faint blue tints of day stole in through the windows. Afar off I saw the white teeth of the Sierra flush rosily, and heard the rumbling of awakening traffic.
“Las cinco menos quarto, senor,” cried the servant as he knocked upon my door,—“tiempo para levantarse.”
* * * *
Before leaving I asked the landlord about the picture.
He answered with a smile, “It was painted by a madman, senor.”
“But who?” I asked. “Mad or not, he was a master genius.”
“I do not remember his name. He is dead. They allowed him to paint in the madhouse. It kept his mind tranquil. I obtained the painting from his family after his death. They refused to accept money for it, saying they were glad to give it away.”
* * * *
I had forgotten all about the painting when some five years after I happened to be passing through a little street in Mexico City. My attention was suddenly attracted by some articles I saw in the window of a dingy shop, kept by a Spanish Jew. A pair of earrings—two little Cupids, wrought in jet black, holding their bows above their heads, the bows being attached by slender gold chains to the hooks of the earrings!
I remembered the picture in a moment! And that night!
“I do not really care to sell them, senor,” said the swarthy jeweler, ‘unless I get my price. You cannot get another pair like them. I know who made them! They were made for an artist who came here expressly with the design. He wished to make a present to a certain woman.”
“Una Mejicana?”
“No, Americana.”
“Fair, with dark eyes—about twenty, perhaps, at that time—a little rosy?”
“Why, did you know her? They used to call her Josefita. You know he killed her? Jealousy. They found her still smiling, as if she had been struck while asleep. A ‘punal.’ I got the earrings back at a sale.”
“And the artist?”
“Died at P—, mad! Some say he was mad when he killed her. If you really want the earrings, I will let you have them for sixty pesos. They cost a hundred and fifty.”
THE BUNDLE OF LETTERS, by Moritz Jokai
(1891)
One of the celebrated medical practitioners of Pesth, Dr. K—, was one morning, at an early hour, obliged to receive a very pressing visitor. The man, who was waiting in the anteroom, sent in word by the footman that all delay would be dangerous to him; he had, therefore, to be received immediately.
The doctor hastily wrapped a dressing-gown about him, and directed the patient to be admitted to him.
He found himself in the presence of a man who was a complete stranger to him, but who appeared to belong to the best society, judging from his manners. On his pale face could discerned traces of great physical and moral sufferings. He carried his right hand in a sling, and, though he tried to restrain himself, he now and then could not prevent a stifled sigh escaping from his lips.
“You are Dr. K—?” he asked in a low and feeble tone of voice.
“That is my name, sir.”
“Living in the country, I have not the honor of knowing you, except by reputation. But I cannot say that I am delighted to make your acquaintance, because my visit to you is not a very agreeable one.”
Seeing that the sufferer’s legs were hardly able to sustain him, the doctor invited him to be seated.
“I am fatigued. It is a week since I had any sleep. Something is the matter with my right hand; I don’t know what it is—whether it is a carbuncle, or cancer. At first the pain was slight, but now it is a continuous horrible burning, increasing from day to day. I could bear it no longer, so threw myself into my carriage, and came to you, to beg you to cut out the affected spot, for an hour more of this torture will drive me mad.”
The doctor tried to reassure him, by saying that he might be able to cure the pain with dissolvents and ointments, without resorting to the use of the bistory.
“No, no, sir!” cried the patient; “no plaisters or ointments can give me any relief. I must have the knife. I have come to you to cut out the place which causes me so much suffering.”
The doctor asked to see the hand, which the patient held out to him, grinding his teeth, so insufferable appeared to be the pain he was enduring, and with all imaginable precaution he unwound the bandages in which it was enveloped.
“Above all, doctor, I beg of you not to hesitate on account of anything you may see. My disorder is so strange, that you will be surprised; but do not let that weigh with you.”
Doctor K— reassured the stranger. As a doctor in practice he was used to seeing everything, and there was nothing that could surprise him.
What he saw when the hand was freed from its bandages stupefied him nevertheless. Nothing abnormal was to be seen in it—neither wound nor graze; it was a hand like any other. Bewildered, he let it fall from his own.
A cry of pain escaped from the stranger, who raised the afflicted member with his right hand, showing the doctor that he had not come with the intention of mystifying him, and that he was really suffering.
“Where is the sensitive spot?”
“Here, sir,” said the stranger, indicating on the back of his hand a point where two large veins crossed, his whole frame trembling when the doctor touched it with the tip of his finger.
“It is here that the burning pain makes itself felt?”
“Abominably!”
“Do you feel the pressure when I place my finger on it?”
The man made no reply, but his eyes filled with tears, so acute was his suffering.
“It is surprising! I can see nothing at that place.”
“Nor can I; yet what I feel there is so terrible that at times I am almost driven to dash my head against the wall.”
The doctor examined the spot with a magnifying-glass, then shook his head.
“The skin is full of life; the blood within it circulates regularly; there is neither inflammation nor cancer under it; it
is as healthy at that spot as elsewhere.”
“Yet I think it is a little redder there.”
“Where?”
The stranger took a pencil from his pocket book and traced on his hand a ring about the size of a sixpenny-piece, and said:
“It is there.”
The doctor looked in his face; he was beginning to believe that his patient’s mind was unhinged.
“Remain here,” he said, “and in a few days I’ll cure you.”
“I cannot wait. Don’t think that I am a madman, a maniac; it is not in that way that you would cure me. The little circle which I have marked with my pencil causes me internal tortures, and I have come to you to cut it away.”
“That I cannot do,” said the doctor.
“Why?”
“Because your hand exhibits no pathological disorder. I see at the spot you have indicated nothing more amiss than on my own hand.”
“You really seem to think that I have gone out of my senses, or that I have come here to mock you,” said the stranger, taking from his pocket-book a banknote for a thousand florins, and laying it on the table. “Now, sir, you see that I am not playing off any childish jest and that the service I seek of you is as urgent as it is important. I beg you to remove this part of my hand.”
“I repeat, sir, that for all the treasures in the world you cannot make me regard as unsound a member that is perfectly sound, and still less induce me to cut it with my instruments.”
“And why not?”
“Because such an act would cast a doubt upon my medical knowledge and compromise my reputation. Everybody would say that you were mad; that I was dishonest in taking advantage of your condition, or ignorant in not perceiving it.”
The Macabre Megapack Page 35
