No. 44, The Mysterious Stranger

by Mark Twain

It gave me a shock, and also it angered me, and I said with some heat—

  “You seem to know a good deal about it—how do you know?”

  He was not affected by my warmth, neither did he trouble to answer my question; he only said—

  “The woman could have gained nothing worth considering—certainly nothing worth measuring by your curious methods. What are ten years, subtracted from ten billion years? It is the ten-thousandth part of a second—that is to say, it is nothing at all. Very well, she is in hell now, she will remain there forever. Ten years subtracted from it wouldn’t count. Her bodily pain at the stake lasted six minutes—to save her from that would not have been worthwhile. That poor creature is in hell; see for yourself!”

  Before I could beg him to spare me, the red billows were sweeping by, and she was there among the lost.

  The next moment the crimson sea was gone, with its evoker, and I was alone.

  Chapter 23

  Young as i was—I was barely seventeen—my days were now sodden with depressions, there was little or no rebound. My interest in the affairs of the castle and of its occupants faded out and disappeared; I kept to myself and took little or no note of the daily happenings; my Duplicate performed all my duties, and I had nothing to do but wander aimlessly about and be unhappy.

  Thus the days wore heavily by, and meantime I was missing something; missing something, and growing more and more conscious of it. I hardly had the daring to acknowledge to myself what it was. It was the master’s niece—Marget! I was a secret worshipper; I had been that a long time; I had worshipped her face and her form with my eyes, but to go further would have been quite beyond my courage. It was not for me to aspire so high; not yet, certainly; not in my timid and callow youth. Every time she had blessed me with a passing remark, the thrill of it, the bliss of it had tingled through me and swept along every nerve and fibre of me with a sort of celestial ecstasy and given me a wakeful night which was better than sleep. These casual and unconsidered remarks, unvalued by her were treasures to me, and I hoarded them in my memory, and knew when it was that she had uttered each of them, and the occasion and the circumstance that had produced each one, and the tone of her voice and the look of her face and the light in her eye; and there was not a night that I did not pass them through my mind caressingly, and turn them over and pet them and play with them, just as a poor girl possessed of half a dozen cheap seed-pearls might do with her small hoard. But that Marget should ever give me an actual thought—any word or notice above what she might give the cat—ah, I never dreamed of it! As a rule she had never been conscious of my presence at all; as a rule she gave me merely a glance of recognition and nothing more when she passed me by in hall or corridor.

  As I was saying, I had been missing her, a number of days. It was because her mother’s malady was grown a trifle worse and Marget was spending all her time in the sick room. I recognized, now, that I was famishing to see her, and be near that gracious presence once more. Suddenly, not twenty steps away, she rose upon my sight—a fairy vision! That sweet young face, that dainty figure, that subtle exquisite something that makes seventeen the perfect year and its bloom the perfect bloom—oh, there it all was, and I stood transfixed and adoring! She was coming toward me, walking slowly, musing, dreaming, heeding nothing, absorbed, unconscious. As she drew near I stepped directly in her way; and as she passed through me the contact invaded my blood as with a delicious fire! She stopped, with a startled look, the rich blood rose in her face, her breath came quick and short through her parted lips, and she gazed wonderingly about her, saying twice, in a voice hardly above a whisper—

  “What could it have been?”

  I stood devouring her with my eyes, she remained as she was, without moving, as much as a minute, perhaps more; then she said in that same low soliloquising voice, “I was surely asleep—it was a dream—it must have been that—why did I wake?” and saying this, she moved slowly away, down the great corridor.

  Nothing can describe my joy. I believed she loved me, and had been keeping her secret, as maidens will; but now I would persuade it out of her; I would be bold, brave, and speak! I made myself visible, and in a minute had overtaken her and was at her side. Excited, happy, confident, I touched her arm, and the warm words began to leap from my mouth—

  “Dear Marget! oh, my own, my dar—”

  She turned upon me a look of gentle but most chilly and dignified rebuke, allowed it a proper time to freeze where it struck, then moved on, without a word, and left me there. I did not feel inspired to follow.

  No, I could not follow, I was petrified with astonishment. Why should she act like that? Why should she be glad to dream of me and not glad to meet me awake? It was a mystery; there was something very strange about this; I could make nothing out of it. I went on puzzling and puzzling over the enigma for a little while, still gazing after her and half crying for shame that I had been so fresh and had gotten such a blistering lesson for it, when I saw her stop. Dear me, she might turn back! I was invisible in half an instant—I wouldn’t have faced her again for a province.

  Sure enough, she did turn back. I stepped to the wall, and gave her the road. I wanted to fly, but I had no power to do that, the sight of her was a spell that I could not resist; I had to stay, and gaze, and worship. She came slowly along in that same absorbed and dreamy way, again; and just as she was passing by me she stopped, and stood quite still a moment—two or three moments, in fact—then moving on, she said, with a sigh, “I was mistaken, but I thought I faintly felt it again.”

  Was she sorry it was a mistake? It certainly sounded like that. It put me in a sort of ecstasy of hope, it filled me with a burning desire to test the hope, and I could hardly refrain from stepping out and barring her way again, to see what would happen; but that rebuff was too recent, its smart was still too fresh, and I hadn’t the pluck to do it.

  But I could feast my eyes upon her loveliness, at any rate, and in safety, and I would not deny myself that delight. I followed her at a distance, I followed all her wanderings; and when at last she entered her apartment and closed the door, I went to my own place and to my solitude, desolate. But the fever born of that marvelous first contact came back upon me and there was no rest for me. Hour after hour I fought it, but still it prevailed. Night came, and dragged along, there was no abatement. At ten the castle was asleep and still, but I could not sleep. I left my room and went wandering here and there, and presently I was floating through the great corridor again. In the vague light I saw a figure standing motionless in that memorable spot. I recognized it—even less light would have answered for that. I could not help approaching it, it drew me like a magnet. I came eagerly on; but when I was within two or three steps of it I remembered, with a chill, who I was, and stopped. No matter: To be so near to Marget was happiness enough, riches enough! With a quick movement she lifted her head and poised it in the attitude of one who listens—listens with a tense and wistful and breathless interest; it was a happy and longing face that I saw in the dim light; and out of it, as through a veil, looked darkling and humid the eyes I loved so well. I caught a whisper: “I cannot hear anything—no, there is no sound—but it is near, I know it is near, and the dream is come again!” My passion rose and overpowered me and I floated to her like a breath and put my arms about her and drew her to my breast and put my lips to hers, unrebuked, and drew intoxication from them! She closed her eyes, and with a sigh which seemed born of measureless content, she said dreamily, “I love you so—and have so longed for you!”

  Her body trembled with each kiss received and repaid, and by the power and volume of the emotions that surged through me I realized that the sensations I knew in my fleshly estate were cold and weak by contrast with those which a spirit feels.

  I was invisible, impalpable, substanceless, I was as transparent as the air, and yet I seemed to support the girl’s weight and bear it up. No, it was more than seeming, it was an actuality. This was new; I had not been aware that my spirit pos
sessed this force. I must exploit this valuable power, I must examine it, test it, make experiments. I said—

  “When I press your hand, dear, do you feel it?”

  “Why, of course.”

  “And when I kiss you?”

  “Indeed yes!” and she laughed.

  “And do you feel my arms about you when I clasp you in them?”

  “Why, certainly. What strange questions!”

  “Oh, well, it’s only to make talk, so that I can hear your voice. It is such music to me, Marget, that I—”

  “Marget? Marget? Why do you call me that?”

  “Oh, you little stickler for the conventions and proprieties! Have I got to call you Miss Regen? Dear me, I thought we were further along than that!”

  She seemed puzzled, and said—

  “But why should you call me that?”

  It was my turn to be puzzled.

  “Why should I? I don’t know any really good reason, except that it’s your name, dear.”

  “My name, indeed!” and she gave her comely head a toss. “I’ve never heard it before!”

  I took her face between my hands and looked into her eyes to see if she were jesting, but there was nothing there but sweet sincerity. I did not quite know what to say, so at a venture I said—

  “Any name that will be satisfactory to you will be lovely to me, you unspeakably adorable creature! Mention it! What shall I call you?”

  “Oh, what a time you do have, to make talk, as you call it! What shall you call me? Why, call me by my own name—my first name—and don’t put any Miss to it!”

  I was still in the fog, but that was no matter—the longer it might take to work out of it the pleasanter and the better. So I made a start:

  “Your first name . . . . your first name . . . . . how annoying, I’ve forgotten it! What is it, dear?”

  The music of her laugh broke out rich and clear, like a bird-song, and she gave me a light box on the ear, and said—

  “Forgotten it?—oh, no, that won’t do! You are playing some kind of a game—I don’t know what it is, but you are not going to catch me. You want me to say it, and then—then—why then you are going to spring a trap or a joke or something and make me feel foolish. Is that it? What is it you are going to do if I say it, dearheart?”

  “I’ll tell you,” I said, sternly, “I am going to bend your head back and cradle your neck in the hollow of my left arm,—so—and squeeze you close—so—and the moment you say it I am going to kiss you on the mouth.”

  She gazed up from the cradling arm with the proper play-acting humility and resignation, and whispered—

  “Lisabet!” and took her punishment without a protest.

  “You have been a very good girl,” I said, and patted her cheek approvingly. “There wasn’t any trap, Lisabet—at least none but this: I pretended that forgetfulness because when the sweetest of all names comes from the sweetest of all lips it is sweeter then than ever, and I wanted to hear you say it.”

  “Oh, you dear thing! I’ll say the rest of it at the same price!”

  “Done!”

  “Elisabeth von Arnim!”

  “One—two—three: a kiss for each component!”

  I was out of the fog, I had the name. It was a triumph of diplomacy, and I was proud of it. I repeated the name several times, partly for the pleasure of hearing it and partly to nail it in my memory, then I said I wished we had some more things to trade between us on the same delicious basis. She caught at that, and said—

  “We can do your name, Martin.”

  Martin! It made me jump. Whence had she gathered this batch of thitherto unheard-of names? What was the secret of this mystery, the how of it, the why of it, the explanation of it? It was too deep for me, much too deep. However, this was no time to be puzzling over it, I ought to be resuming trade and finding out the rest of my name; so I said—

  “Martin is a poor name, except when you say it. Say it again, sweetheart.”

  “Martin. Pay me!”

  Which I did.

  “Go on, Betty dear; more music—say the rest of it.”

  “Martin von Giesbach. I wish there was more of it. Pay!”

  I did, and added interest.

  Boom-m-m-m! from the solemn great bell in the main tower.

  “Half-past eleven—oh, what will mother say! I did not dream it was so late, did you Martin?”

  “No, it seemed only fifteen minutes.”

  “Come, let us hurry,” she said, and we hurried—at least after a sort of fashion—with my left arm around her waist and the hollow of her right hand cupped upon my left shoulder by way of having a support. Several times she murmured dreamily, “How happy I am, how happy, happy, happy!” and seemed to lose herself in that thought and be conscious of nothing else. By and by I had a rare start—my Duplicate stepped suddenly out from a bunch of shadows, just as we were passing by! He said, reproachfully—

  “Ah, Marget, I waited so long by your door, and you broke your promise! Is this kind of you? is it affectionate?”

  Oh, jealousy—I felt the pang of it for the first time.

  To my surprise—and joy—the girl took no more notice of him than if he had not been there. She walked right on, she did not seem to see him nor hear him. He was astonished, and stopped still and turned, following her with his eyes. He muttered something, then in a more definite voice he said—

  “What a queer attitude—to be holding her hand up in the air like that! . . . . . Why, she’s walking in her sleep!”

  He began to follow, a few steps behind us. Arrived at Marget’s door, I took her—no, Lisbet’s!—peachy face between my hands and kissed the eyes and the lips, her delicate hands resting upon my shoulders the while; then she said “Good-night—good-night and blessed dreams,” and passed within. I turned toward my Duplicate. He was standing near by, staring at the vacancy where the girl had been. For a time he did only that. Then he spoke up and said joyfully—

  “I’ve been a jealous fool! That was a kiss—and it was for me! She was dreaming of me. I understand it all, now. And that loving good-night—it was for me, too. Ah, it makes all the difference!” He went to the door and knelt down and kissed the place where she had stood.

  I could not endure it. I flew at him and with all my spirit-strength I fetched him an open-handed slat on the jaw that sent him lumbering and spinning and floundering over and over along the stone floor till the wall stopped him. He was greatly surprised. He got up rubbing his bruises and looking admiringly about him for a minute or two, then went limping away, saying—

  “I wonder what in hell that was!”

  Chapter 24

  I floated off to my room through the unresisting air, and stirred up my fire and sat down to enjoy my happiness and study over the enigma of those names. By ferreting out of my memory certain scraps and shreds of information garnered from 44’s talks I presently untangled the matter, and arrived at an explanation—which was this: the presence of my flesh-and-blood personality was not a circumstance of any interest to Marget Regen, but my presence as a spirit acted upon her hypnotically—as 44 termed it—and plunged her into the somnambulic sleep. This removed her Day-Self from command and from consciousness, and gave the command to her Dream-Self for the time being. Her Dream-Self was a quite definite and independent personality, and for reasons of its own it had chosen to name itself Elisabeth von Arnim. It was entirely unacquainted with Marget Regen, did not even know she existed, and had no knowledge of her affairs, her feelings, her opinions, her religion, her history, nor of any other matter concerning her. On the other hand, Marget was entirely unacquainted with Elisabeth and wholly ignorant of her existence and of all other matters concerning her, including her name.

  Marget knew me as August Feldner, her Dream-Self knew me as Martin von Giesbach—why, was a matter beyond guessing. Awake, the girl cared nothing for me; steeped in the hypnotic sleep, I was the idol of her heart.

  There was another thing which I had learned from
44, and that was this: each human being contains not merely two independent entities, but three—the Waking-Self, the Dream-Self, and the Soul. This last is immortal, the others are functioned by the brain and the nerves, and are physical and mortal; they are not functionable when the brain and nerves are paralysed by a temporary hurt or stupefied by narcotics; and when the man dies they die, since their life, their energy and their existence depend solely upon physical sustenance, and they cannot get that from dead nerves and a dead brain. When I was invisible the whole of my physical make-up was gone, nothing connected with it or depending upon it was left. My soul—my immortal spirit—alone remained. Freed from the encumbering flesh, it was able to exhibit forces, passions and emotions of a quite tremendously effective character.

  It seemed to me that I had now ciphered the matter out correctly, and unpuzzled the puzzle. I was right, as I found out afterward.

  And now a sorrowful thought came to me: all three of my Selves were in love with the one girl, and how could we all be happy? It made me miserable to think of it, the situation was so involved in difficulties, perplexities and unavoidable heart-burnings and resentments.

  Always before, I had been tranquilly unconcerned about my Duplicate. To me he was merely a stranger, no more no less; to him I was a stranger; in all our lives we had never chanced to meet until 44 had put flesh upon him; we could not have met if we had wanted to, because whenever one of us was awake and in command of our common brain and nerves the other was of necessity asleep and unconscious. All our lives we had been what 44 called Box and Cox lodgers in the one chamber: aware of each other’s existence but not interested in each other’s affairs, and never encountering each other save for a dim and hazy and sleepy half-moment on the threshold, when one was coming in and the other going out, and never in any case halting to make a bow or pass a greeting.

  And so it was not until my Dream-Self’s fleshing that he and I met and spoke. There was no heartiness; we began as mere acquaintances, and so remained. Although we had been born together, at the same moment and of the same womb, there was no spiritual kinship between us; spiritually we were a couple of distinctly independent and unrelated individuals, with equal rights in a common fleshly property, and we cared no more for each other than we cared for any other stranger. My fleshed Duplicate did not even bear my name, but called himself Emil Schwarz.