The Invisible Eye by Erkman Chatrian. About this time, said Christian Poor,
as a church mouse, I took refuge in the roof of an old house
in Minnesanga Street, Nuremberg, and made my nest in the corner of the
garret. I was compelled to work over my straw bed to reach the window.
But this window was in the gable end, and the view from it
was magnificent, both town and country being spread out before me. I could
see the cats walking gravely in the gutters, the stalks, their beaks filled
with frogs, carrying nourishment to their ravenous brood. The pigeons springing from their
coats, their tails spread like fans, hovering over the streets. In the
evening, when the bells called the world to the Angelus. With my elbows
upon the edge of the roof, I listened to their melancholy chimes. I
watched the windows as one by one they were lighted up. The good burghers
smoking their pipes on the sidewalks, the young girls in their red skirts with
their pitchers under their arms, laughing and chatting around the fountain Sant sabot Insensibly,
all this faded away. The bats commenced their rapid course, and I
retired to my mattress in a sweet peace and tranquility. The old curiosity seller,
Tubac knew the way to my little lodging as well as I did,
and was not afraid to climb the ladder. Every week, his ugly head,
adorned with a reddish cap, raised the trap door. His fingers grasped
the ledge, and he cried out in a nasal tone, well, well,
master Christian, have you anything, to which I replied, come in.
Why in the devil don't you come in. I'm just finishing a little
landscape, and you must tell me what you think of it. Then his
great back, seeming to elongate, grew up even to the roof, and
the good Man laughed silently. I must do justice to Tubac. He never
haggled with me about prices. He bought all my paintings at fifteen florins,
one with the other, and sold them again for forty each. This was
an honest jew. I began to grow fond of this mode of existence and
to find new charms in it day by day. Just at this time the
city of Nuremberg was agitated by a strange and mysterious event. Not far from
my dormer window, a little to the left stood the Inn Berf Gras,
an old ouberche much patronized throughout the country. Three or four wagons filled with
sacks or casks were always drawn up before the door, where the rustic drivers
were in the habit of stopping on their way to the market to take their
morning draft of wine. The gable end of the inn was distinguished by its
peculiar form, twas very narrow pointed, and on two sides cut in teeth
like a saw. The carvings were strangely grotesque, interwoven and ornamenting the cornices
and surrounding the windows. But the most remarkable fact was that the house opposite
reproduced exactly the same sculptures, the same ornaments. Even the sign board,
with its post and spiral of iron, was exactly copied. One might have
thought that these two ancient houses reflected each other. Behind the inn, however,
was a grand old oak, whose somber leaves darkened the stones of the
roof, while the other house stood out in bold relief against the sky.
To complete the description, this old building was as silent and dreary as the
Inn Berf cuire was noisy and animated. On one side, a crowd of
merry drinkers were continually entering in and going out, singing, tripping, cracking
their whips. On the other, profound silence reigned. Perhaps once or twice
during the day, the heavy door seemed to open of itself to allow a
little old woman to go out, with her back almost in a semicircle,
her dress fitting tight about her hips, an enormous basket on her arm,
and her hand contracted against her breast. It seemed to me that I saw,
at a glance, as I looked upon her, a whole existence of
good works and pious meditations. The physiognomy of this old woman had struck me
more than once. Her little green eyes, long thin nose, the immense
bouquets of flowers on her shawl, which must have been at least a hundred
years old, the withered smile which puckered her cheeks into a cockade, the
lace of her bonnet falling down to her eyebrows. All this was fantastic and
interested me much. Why did this old woman live in this great deserted he?
I wished to explore the mystery One day, as I paused in the
street and followed her with my eyes. She turned suddenly and gave me a
look, a horrible expression of which I know not how to paint, made
three or four hideous grimaces, and then, letting her palsied head fall upon
her breast, drew her great shawl closely around her, and advanced slowly to
the heavy door, behind which I saw her disappear. She's an old fool,
I said to myself, in a sort of stupor. My faith it
was the height of folly in me to be interested in her. However,
I would like to see her grimace again. Old Toubac would willingly give me
fifteen florins if I could paint it for him. I must confess that these
pleasantries of mine did not entirely reassure me. The hideous glance which the old
shrew had given me pursued me everywhere more than once, climbing the almost perpendicular
ladder to my loft, feeling my clothing caught on some point, I trembled
from head to foot, imagining that the old wretch was hanging to the tails
of my coat in order to destroy me. Tubac, to whom I related
this adventure was far from laughing at it. Indeed, he assumed a grave
and solemn air. Master Christian said he, if the old woman wants you
take care, her teeth are small pointed and of marvelous whiteness, and that
is not natural at her age, she has an evil eye. Children flee
from her, and the people of Nuremberg call her Fledamous. I admired the
clear, sagacious intellect of the Jew, and his words gave me cause for
reflection. Several weeks passed away, during which I often encountered Fladamous without any
alarming consequences. My fears were dissipated, and I thought of her no more.
But an evening came during which, while sleeping very soundly, I was
awakened by a strange harmony. It was a kind of vibration so sweet,
so melodious, that the whispering of the breeze among the leaves can give but
a faint idea of its charm. For a long time I listened intently,
with my eyes wide open, and holding my breath so as not to lose
a note. At last, I looked toward the window and saw two wings
fluttering against the glass. I thought at first that it was a bat caught
in my room, but the moon rising at that instant, I saw the
wings of a magnificent butterfly of the night, delineated upon her shining disk.
Their vibrations were often so rapid that they could not be distinguished. Then they
posed extended upon the glass, and their frail fibers were again brought to view.
Miss misty apparition, coming in the midst of the universal silence, opened
my heart to all sweet emotions. It seemed to me that an airy sylph,
touched with a sense of my solitude, had come to visit me,
and this idea melted me almost to tears. Be tranquil, sweet, captive,
Be tranquil, said I. Your confidence shall not be abused. I
will not keep you against your will. Return to heaven and to liberty.
I then opened my little window. The night was calm, and millions of
stars were glittering in the sky. For a moment I contemplated this sublime spectacle,
and words of prayer and praise came naturally to my lips. But judge
of my amazement. When lower my eyes I saw a man hanging from the
cross beam of the sign of the berf gras, the hair disheveled, the
arms stiff, the legs elongated to a point, and casting their gigantic shadows
down to the street. The immobility of this figure under the moon's rays was
terrible. I felt my tongue freezing, my teeth clinched. I was about
to cry out in terror, when, by some incomprehensible, mysterious attraction,
my glance fell below, and I distinguished confusedly the old woman, crouched at
her window, in the midst of dark shadows, and contemplating the dead man
with an air of diabolic satisfaction. Then I had a vertigo of terror.
All my strength abandoned me, and retreating to the wall of my loft,
I sank down and became insensible. I do not know how long the sleep
of death continued. When restored to consciousness, I saw that it was broad
day. The mists of the night had penetrated to my garret and deposited their
fresh dew upon my hair, and the confused murmurs of the street ascended to
my little lodging. I looked without. The burgomaster and his secretary were stationed
at the door of the inn, and remained there a long time. Crowds
of people came and went, and paused to look in, then recommenced their
course. The good women of the neighborhood, who were sweeping before their doors,
looked on from afar and talked gravely with each other. At last a
litter, and upon this litter a body covered with a linen cloth issued from
the inn. Carried by two men. They descended to the street, and
the children, on their way to school, ran behind them. All the
people drew back as they advanced. The window opposite was still open. The
end of a rope floated from the cross beam. I had not dreamed.
I had indeed seen the butterfly of the night. I had seen the man
hanging, and I had seen flayed the mouse. That day, Toubac made
me a visit, and as his great nose appeared on a level with the
floor, he exclaimed, Master Christian, have you nothing to sell? I
did not hear him. I was seated upon my one chair, my hands
clasped upon my knees, and my eyes fixed before me. Toubac, surprised
at my inattention, repeated in a louder voice, Master Christian. Master Christian,
then striding over the sill, he advanced and struck me on the shoulder.
Well, well, what is the matter now, ah? Is that
you Toubac eh parbleu? I rather think so? Are you ill? No?
I am only thinking what in the devil are you thinking about? Of
the man who was hanged? Oh? Oh, cried the curiosity vender.
You have seen him, then, the poor boy. What a singular history?
The third in the same place, How the third? Ah, yes,
I ought to have warned you, but it is not too late.
There will certainly be a fourth who will follow the example of the others.
In laque le premiere pa gikute. Saying this, Toubac took a seat on
the corner of my trunk, struck his match box, lighted his pipe,
and blew three or four powerful whiffs of smoke with a meditative air. My
faith said he. I am not fearful, but if I had full permission
to pass the night in that chamber, I should much prefer to sleep elsewhere.
Listen, Master Christian. Nine or ten months ago, a good man
of Tubingen, wholesale dealer in furs, dismounted at the Inn Boeufras. He
called for supper. He ate well, he drank well, and was finally
conducted to that room in the third story. It is called the green Room.
Well, the next morning he was found hanging to the cross beam of
the signboard. Well that might do. For once nothing could be said.
Every proper investigation was made, and a stranger was buried at the bottom of
the garden. But look you. About six months afterwards, a brave soldier
from Neustadt arrived. He had received his final discharge and was rejoicing in the
thought of returning to his native village. During the whole evening, while emptying
his wine cup, he spoke fondly of his little cousin, who was waiting
to marry him. At last, this big monsieur was conducted to his room,
the Green Room, And the same night the watchman, passing down the
street Minnesanger, perceived something hanging to the cross beam. He raised his lantern
and lo it was the soldier, with his final discharge in a bow on
his left hip, and his hands gathered up to the seam of his pantaloons,
as if on parade. Truth to say, this is extraordinary, cried
the burgomaster. The devils to pay well, the chamber was much visited,
the walls were replastered, and the dead man was sent to Neustadt. The
registrar wrote this marginal note, died of apoplexy. All Nuremberg was enraged against
the innkeeper. There were many, indeed, who wished to force him to
take down his iron crossbeam under the pretext that had inspired people with dangerous ideas.
But you may well believe that old Michael Schmidt would not lend his ear
to this proposition. This crossbeam said, he was placed here by my grandfather.
It has borne the sign of Berfgraft for one hundred and fifty years,
from father to son. It harms no one, not even the hay wagons
which pass beneath, for it is thirty feet above them. Those who don't
like it can turn their heads aside and not see it. Well. Gradually
the town calmed down, and during several months no new event agitated it.
Unhappily, a student of Heidelberg returning to the university, stopped day before yesterday
at the inn Berfkras and asked for lodging. He was the son of a
minister of the Gospel. How could any one supposed that the son of a
pastor could conceive the idea of hanging himself on the cross beam of a sign
board because a monsieur and an old soldier had done so. We must admit,
Master Christian, that the thing was not probable, that these reasons would
not have seemed sufficient to myself or to you Enough enough, I exclaimed,
this is too horrible. I see a frightful mystery involved in all this.
It is not the crossbeam, it is not the room. What do you
suspect the innkeeper, the most honest man in the world, and belonging to
one of the oldest families in Nuremberg. No, no, may God preserve
me from indulging in unjust suspicions. But there is an abyss before me into
which I scarcely dare glance. You are right, said Toubac, astonished at
the violence of my excitement. We will speak of other things. A propos,
Master Christian, where is our landscape of Saint Odile? This question brought
me back to the world of realities. I showed the old man the painting
I had just completed. The affair was soon concluded, and to Bac,
well satisfied, descended the ladder, entreating me to think no more of the
student of Heidelberg. I would gladly have followed my good friend's counsel. But
when the devil once mixes himself up in our concerns, it is not easy
to disembarrass ourselves of him. In my solitary hours, all these events were
reproduced with frightful distinctness in my mind. This old wretch, I said to
myself, is the cause of it all. She alone has conceived these crimes
and has consummated them. But by what means has she had recourse to cunning
alone? Or has she obtained the intervention of invisible powers? I walked to
and fro in my retreat, an inward voice cried out, It is not
in vain that providence permitted you to see fladormous contemplating the agonies of her victim.
It is not in vain that the soul of the poor young man came
in the form of a butterfly of the night to awake you. No,
no, all, this was not accidental. Christian. The heavens impose upon
you a terrible mission. If you do not accomplish it, tremble lest you
fall yourself into the hands of the old murderess. Perhaps at this moment she
is preparing her snares in the darkness. During these several days, these hideous
images followed me without intermission. I lost my sleep. It was impossible for
me to do anything. My brush fell from my hand, and horrible to
confess, I found myself sometimes gazing at the cross beam with a sort of
complacency. At last, I could endure it no longer, and one evening
I descended the ladder and hid myself behind the door of Fledormous, hoping to
surprise her fatal secret. From that time, no day passed in which I
was not en route, following the old wretch, watching, spying, never
losing sight of her. But she was so cunning, had a scent so
suptile, that without even turning her head, she knew I was behind her.
However, she feigned not to perceive this. She went to the market
to the butcher's like any good simple woman, only hastening her steps and murmuring
confused words. At the close of the month, I saw that it was
impossible for me to attain my object in this way, and this conviction made
me inexpressibly sad. What can I do? I said to myself, the
old woman divines my plan. She is on her guard. Every hope abandons
me. Ah, old hag, you think you already see me at the
end of your rope. I was continually asking myself this question, what can
I do? What can I do? At last, a luminous idea struck
me. My chamber overlooked the house of Fledermous, But there was no window
on this side. I adroitly raised a slate, and no pen could paint
my joy. When the whole ancient building was thus exposed to me. At
last, I have you, I exclaimed, You cannot escape me. Now
from here I can see all that passes, your goings, your comings,
your arts and snares. You will not suspect this invisible eye, this watchful
eye, which will surprise crime. At the moment it blooms, Oh,
justice, Justice. She marches slowly, but she arrives. Nothing could be
more sinister than the den now spread out before me. A great court yard,
the large slabs of which were covered with moss. In one corner,
a well whose stagnant waters you shuddered to look upon a stairway covered with old
shells. At the farther end, a gallery with wooden balustrade and hanging upon
it some old linen, and the tick of an old straw mattress. On
the first floor. To the left, the stone covering of a common sewer
indicated the kitchen. To the right, the lofty windows of the building looked
out upon the street, then a few pots of dried withered flowers. All
was cracked somber moist. Only one or two hours during the day could the
sun penetrate this loathsome spot. After that the shadows took possession. Then the
sunshine fell upon the crazy walls, the worm eaten balcony, the dull and
tarnished glass, and upon the whirlwind of atoms floating in its golden rays,
disturbed by no breath of air. I had scarcely finished these observations and reflections
when the old woman entered, having just returned from market. I heard the
grating of her heavy door. Then she appeared with her basket. She seemed
fatigued, almost out of breath. The lace of her bonnet fell to her
nose. With one hand, she grasped the banister and ascended the stairs.
The heat was intolerable, suffocating. It was precisely one of those days in
which all insects, crickets, spiders, mosquitoes, et cetera, make old
ruins resound with their strange sounds. Fladamouse crossed the gallery slowly, like an
old ferret who feels at home. She remained more than a quarter of an
hour in the kitchen, then returned, spread out her linen, took the
broom and brushed away some blades of straw on the floor. At last,
she raised her head, and turning her little green eyes in every direction,
searching, investigating carefully. Could she, by some strange intuition suspect anything?
I do not know, But I gently lowered the slate and gave up my
watch for the day. In the morning, Fladamouse appeared reassured. One angle
of light fell upon the gallery. In passing, she caught a fly on
the wing and presented it delicately to a spider established in a corner of the
roof. This spider was so bloated that, notwithstanding the distance, I saw
it descend from round to round, then glide along a fine web like a
drop of venom, seize its prey from the hands of the old shoe,
and remount rapidly. Flador Mouse looked at it very attentively, with her eyes
half closed, then sneezed and said to herself in a jeering tone, God,
bless you, beautiful one, God bless you. I watched during six
weeks and could discover nothing concerning the power of Fladormouse. Sometimes seated upon a
stool, she peeled her potatoes, then hung out her linen upon the balustrade.
Sometimes I saw her spinning, but she never sang, as good kind
old women are accustomed to do, their trembling voices mingling well with the humming
of the wheel. Profound silence always reigned around her. She had no cat
that cherished society of old women. Not even a sparrow came to rest under
her roof. It seemed as if all animated nature shrank from her glance.
The bloated spider alone took delight in her society. I cannot now conceive how
my patience could endure these long hours of observation. Nothing escaped me, nothing
was matter of indifference. At the slightest sound, I raised my slate.
My curiosity was without limit, insatiable. Toubac complained greatly. Master Christian said
he How in the devil do you pass your time? Formerly you painted something
for me every week. Now you do not finish a piece once a month.
Oh, you painters. Lazy is a painter is a good wise proverb.
As soon as you have a few kreutzers in possession, you put your
hands in your pockets and go to sleep. I confess that I began to
lose courage. I had watched, spied, and discovered nothing. I said
to myself that the old woman could not be so dangerous as I had supposed,
that I had perhaps done her injustice by my suspicions. In short,
I began to make excuses for her. One lovely afternoon, with my eye
fixed at my post of observation, I abandoned myself to these benevolent reflections.
When suddenly the scene changed. Flaedormouse passed through the gallery with the rapidity of
lightning. She was no longer the same person. She was erect. Her
jaws were clinched, her glove ants fixed, her neck extended. She walked
with grand strides, her gray locks floating behind her. Oh, at last,
I said to myself, something is coming attention, But alas the shadows
of evening descended upon the old building. The noises of the city expired,
and silence prevailed. Fatigued and disappointed, I lay down upon my bed.
When casting my eyes toward my dormer window, I saw the room opposite illuminated.
So a traveler occupied the green room, fatal to strangers. Now all
my fears were reawakened. The agitation of flator mouse was explained. She scented
a new victim. No sleep for me that night. The rustling of the
straw, the nibbling of the mice under the floor gave me nervous chills.
I rose and leaned out of my window. I listened. The light in
the room opposite was extinguished. In one of those moments of poignant anxiety,
I cannot say if it was illusion or reality. I thought I saw the
old wretch also watching and listening. The night passed, and the gray dawn
came to my windows. By degrees, the noise and movements in the street
ascended to my loft. Harassed by fatigue and emotion, I fell asleep,
But my slumber was short, and by eight o'clock I had resumed my post
of observation. It seemed as if the night had been as disturbed and tempestuous
to flador Mouse as to myself. When she opened the door of the gallery,
I saw that a livid pallor covered her cheeks and thin throat. She
had on only her chemise and the woolen skirt. A few locks of reddish
gray hair fell on her shoulders. She looked towards my hiding place with a
dreamy, abstracted air, but she saw nothing. She was thinking of other
things. Suddenly she descended, leaving her old shoes at the bottom of the
steps. Without doubt, thought I, she is going to see if the
door below is well fastened. I saw her remount, hastily, springing up
three or four steps at a time. It was terrible. She rushed into
the neighboring chamber, and I heard something like the falling of the top of
a great chest. Then Flademaus appeared in the gallery, dragging a mannikin after
her, and this mannikin was clothed like the Heidelberg student. With surprising dexterity,
the old woman suspended this hideous object to a beam of the shed,
then descended rapidly to the courtyard to contemplate it. A burst of sardonic laughter
escaped from her lips. She remounted, then descended again like a maniac,
and each time uttered new cries and new bursts of laughter. A noise was
heard near the door, and the old woman bounded forward, unhooked the mannikin
and carried it off. Then, leaning over the balustrade with her throat elongated,
her eyes flashing, she listened earnestly. The noise was lost in the
distance. The muscles of her face relaxed, and she drew long breaths.
It was only a carriage which had passed. The old wretch had been frightened.
She now returned to the room, and I heard the chest close.
This strange scene confounded all my ideas. What did this mannikin signify? I
became more than ever attentive. Flador Mouse now left the house with her basket
on her arm. I followed her with my eyes till she turned the corner
of the street. She had reassumed the air of a trembling old woman,
took short steps, and from time to time turned her head partly round to
peer behind from the corner of her eye. Clady Mouse was absent fully five
hours for myself. I went, I came I meditated. The time seemed
insupportable. The sun heated the slate of the roof and scorched my brain.
Now I saw at the window the good man who occupied the fatal green chamber.
He was a brave peasant of Nassau, with a large three cornered hat,
a scarlet vest, and a laughing face. He smoked his pipe of
ulmn tranquility and seemed to fear no evil. I felt a strong desire to
cry out to him, good man, bey on your guard. Do not
allow yourself to be entrapped by the old wretch. Distrust yourself. But he
would not have comprehended me. Toward two o'clock, Fladormaus returned. The noise
of her door resounded through the vestibule. Then alone, all alone, she
entered the yard and seated herself on the interior step of the stairway. She
put down her basket before her and drew out first some packets of herbs,
then vegetables, then a red vest, then a three cornered hat, a
coat of brown velvet, pants of plush, a coarse woolen hose, the
complete costume of the peasant from Nassau. For a moment I felt stunned.
Then flames passed before my eyes. I recollected those precipices which entice with an
irresistible power, Those wells or pits which the police have been compelled to close
because as men threw themselves into them, Those trees which had been cut down
because they inspired men with the idea of hanging themselves. That contagion of suicides,
of robberies, of murders at certain epochs by desperate means, that strange
and subtile enticement, of example, which makes you yawn because another yawns,
suffer because you see another suffer, kill yourself because you see others kill themselves.
And my hair stood up with horror. How could this flador mouse,
this base, sordid creature, have derived so profound a law of human nature?
How had she found the means to use this law to the profit or
indulgence of her sanguinary instincts. This I could not comprehend. It surpassed my
wildest imaginations. But reflecting longer upon this inexplicable mystery, I resolved to turn
the fatal law against her, and to draw the old murderess into her own
net. So many innocent victims called out for vengeance. I felt myself to
be on the right path. I went to all the old clothes cellars in
Nuremberg and returned in the afternoon to the Inn berth Cras with an enormous packet
under my arm. Michel Smitt had known me for a long time. His
wife was fat and good looking. I had painted her portrait. Ah,
mister Christian, said he squeezing my hand. What happy circumstance brings you here?
What procures me the pleasure of seeing you, my dear mister Smitt.
I feel a vehement, insatiable desire to sleep in the green room. We
were standing on the threshold of the inn, and I pointed to the room.
The good man looked at me distrustfully, fear nothing, I said,
I have no desire to hang myself a la boneur, ah, la boneur.
For frankly, that would give me pain an artist of such merit.
When do you wish the room, Master Christian, This evening impossible? It
is occupied. Monsieur can enter, immediately, said a voice just behind me.
I will not be in the way. We turned round in great surprise.
The peasant of Nassau stood before us, with his three cornered hat and
his packet at the end of his walking stick. He had just learned the
history of his three predecessors in the green room and was trembling with rage.
Rooms like yours, cried he stuttering. But it is murderous to put people
in there. It is assassination. You deserve to be sent to the galleys.
Immediately. Go go calm yourself, said the innkeeper. That did not
prevent you from sleeping. Well, happily I said my prayers at night,
said the peasant. Without that, where would I be? And he withdrew
with his hands raised to heaven. Well, said nischheol Smidt, stupefied.
The room is vacant. But I entreat you, do not serve me a
bad trick. It would be a worse trick for myself than for you,
monsieur. I gave my packet to the servants and installed myself for the time
with the drinkers. For a long time I had not felt so calm and
happy after so many doubts and disquietudes. I touched the goal. The horizon
seemed to clear up, and it appeared that some invisible power gave me the
hand. I lighted my pipe, placed my elbow on the table, my
wine before me, and listened to the chorus in Freischutz, played by a
troop of gypsies from the Black forest. The trumpets, the hue and cry
of the chase the hot boys plunged me into a vague reverie, and at
times rousing up to look at the hour. I asked myself gravely if all
which had happened to me was not a dream. But the watchman came to
ask us to leave the sal and soon other and more solemn thoughts were surging
in my soul and in deep meditation. I followed little Charlotte, who preceded
me with a candle to my room. We mounted the stairs to the third
story. Charlotte gave me the candle and pointed to the door there, said
she, and descended rapidly. I opened the door. The green room was
like any other inn room. The sea was very low, the bed very
high. With one glance, I explored the interior and then glided to the
window. Nothing was to be seen in the house of Fladermouse. Only in
some distant room an obscure light was burning. Some one was on the watch
that is well, said I, closing the curtain. I have all necessary
time. I opened my packet. I put on a woman's bonnet with hanging
lace. Then, placing myself before a mirror, I took a brush and
painted wrinkles in my face. This took me nearly an hour. Then I
put on the dress and a large shawl, and I was actually afraid of
myself. Fladermouse seemed to me to look at me from the mirror. At
this moment, the watchman cried out eleven o'clock. I seized the mannikin which
I had brought in my packet, and muffled it in a costume precisely similar
to that worn by the old wretch. I then opened the curtain. Certainly,
after all that I had seen of the Flaedor Mouse, of her infernal
cunning, her prudence, her adroitness, she could not in any way surprise
me. And yet I was afraid. The light which I had remarked in
the chamber was still immovable, and now cast its yellow rays on the mannikin
of the peasant of Nassau, which was crouched on the corner of the bed,
with the head hanging on the breast. The three cornered hat pulled down
over the face, the arms suspended, and the whole aspect that of absolute
despair. The shadows, managed with diabolical art, allowed nothing to be seen
but the general effect of the face, the red vest and six round buttons
alone to shine out in the darkness, but the silence of the night,
the complete immobility of the figure, the exhausted, mournful air were well calculated
to take possession of a spectator with a strange power. For myself, although
forewarned, I was chilled even to my bones. How would it then have
fared with the poor simple peasant. If he had been surprised unawares, he
would have been utterly cast down, despairing. He would have lost all power
of self control, and the spirit of imitation would have done the rest scarcely
had I moved the curtain. When I saw a flayed a mouse on the
watch behind her window, she could not see me. I opened my window
softly. The window opposite was opened, and her mannikin appeared to rise slowly
and advance before me. I also advanced my mannikin, and seizing my torch
with one hand with the other, I quickly opened the shutter, And now
the old woman and myself were face to face, struck with sudden terror.
She had let her mannekin fall. We gazed at each other with almost equal
horror. She extended her finger. I advanced mine. She moved her lips.
I agitated mine. She breathed a profound sigh and leaned upon her elbow.
I imitated her. To describe all the terrors of the scene would be
impossible. It bordered upon confusion, madness, delirium. It was a death
struggle between two wills, between two intelligences, between two souls, each one
wishing to destroy the other. And in this struggle I had the advantage.
Her victims struggled with me. After having imitated for some seconds every movement of
flador mouse, I pulled a rope from under my skirt and attached it to
the cross beam. The old woman gazed at me with gaping mouth. I
passed the rope around my neck. Her pupils expanded, lightened, her face
was convulsed. No, no, said she in a whistling voice. I
pursued her with the impassibility of an executioner. Then rage seemed to take possession
of her old fool. She exclaimed, straightening herself up and her hands contracted
on the cross beam. Old fool, I gave her no time to go
on blowing out my lamp. I stooped like a man going to make a
vigorous spring and seizing my mannekin, I passed the rope around its neck and
precipitated it below. A terrible cry resounded through the street, and then silence,
which I seemed to feel. Perspiration bathed my forehead. I listened a
long time. At the end of a quarter of an hour, I heard,
far away, very far away, the voice of the watchman crying.
Inhabitants of Nuremberg midnight. Midnight sounds. Now justice is satisfied, I cried,
and three victims are avenged. Pardon me, o Lord. About five
minutes after the cry of the watchman, I saw fledormouse, attracted allured by
my mannikin her exact image, spring from the window with a rope around her
neck and rest suspended from the crossbeam. I saw the shadow of death undulating
through her body, while the moon, calm, silent, majestic, inundated
the summit of the roof, and her cold, pale rays reposed upon the
old disheveled, hideous head. Just as I had seen the poor young student
of Heidelberg, just so did I now see Fledermouse. In the morning,
all Nuremberg learned that the old wretch had hanged herself, and this was the
last event of that kind. In the street Minnesonga