The owl's ear by Erkmann Schatron. On the twenty ninth day of July eighteen
thirty five, Casper Bok, a shepherd of the little village of Hirshviller,
with his large felt hat tipped back, his wallet of stringy sackcloth hanging at
his hip, and his great tawny dog at his heels, presented himself at
about nine o'clock in the evening at the house of the burgomaster, Petrus Moyer,
who had just finished supper and was taking a little glass of Kirschwasser to
facilitate digestion. His burgomaster was a tall, thin man and wore a bushy
gray mustache. He had seen service in the armies of the Archduke Charles.
He had a jovial disposition and ruled the village, it is said, with
his finger and with the rod. Mister burgomaster cried the shepherd in evident excitement.
But Petrus Moiere, without awaiting the end of his speech, frowned and
said, Casper Bok, begin by taking off your hat, put your dog
out of the room, and then speak distinctly intelligibly, without stammering, so
that I may understand you. Hereupon the Burgomaster, standing near the table tranquility,
emptied his little glass and wiped his great gray mustachios indifferently. Casper put
his dog out and came back with his hat off. Well, said Petrus,
seeing that he was silent. What has happened? It happens that the
spirit has appeared again in the ruins of Geierstein. Ah, I doubt it.
You've seen it yourself, very clearly, mister Burgomaster, without closing your
eyes. Yes, mister Burgomaster, my eyes were wide open. There was
plenty of moonlight. What form did it have? The form of a small
man? Good? And turning toward the glass door at the left, Catell
cried the Burgomaster. An old serving woman opened the door, Sir, I'm
going out for a walk on the hillside. Sit up for me until ten
o'clock. Here's the key, yes, sir. Then the old soldier took
down his gun from the hook over the door, examined the priming, and
slung it over shoulder. Then he addressed Casper, back, go and tell
the rural guard to meet me in the holly path and tell him behind the
mill. Your spirit must be some marauder. But if it's a fox,
I'll make a fine hood of it with long ear laps. Master Petris,
Moire and humble Casper then went out. The weather was superb, the stars
innumerable. While the shepherd went to knock the rural guard's door, the burgomaster
plunged among the elder bushes in a little lane that wound around behind the old
church. Two minutes later, Casper and Hans Girner, hunting knife at his
side, by running overtook Master Petris in the holly path. All three made
their way together toward the ruins of Geierstein. These ruins, which are about
twenty minutes walk from the village, seemed to be insignificant enough. They consist
of the ridges of a few decrepit walls from four to six feet high,
which extend among the briar bushes. Archaeologists call them the aqueducts of Seranus,
the Roman camp of Holder, or vestiges of Theodoric. According to their fantasy.
The only thing about these ruins which could be considered remarkable is a stairway
to a cistern cut in the rock. Inside of this spiral staircase, instead
of concentric circles which twist around. With each complete turn. The involutions become
wider as they proceed, in such a way that the bottom of the pit
is three times as large as the opening. Is it an architectural freak or
did some reasonable cause determine such an odd construction? Yeah, it matters little
to us. The result was to cause in the cistern that vague reverberation which
anyone may hear upon placing a shall at his ear, and to make you
aware of the steps on the gravel path, murmurs of the air, rustling
of the leaves, or even distant words spoken by people passing the foot of
the hill. Our three personages then followed the pathway between the vineyards and gardens
of Hirschfiller. I see nothing, the Burgomaster would say, turning up his
nose derisively. Nor I either the rural guard would pete, imitating the other's
tone. It's down in the hole, muttered the shepherd. We shall see,
we shall see, returned the burgomaster. It was in this fashion,
after a quarter of an hour, that they came upon the opening of the
cistern. As I have said, the night was clear, limpid, and
perfectly still. The moon portrayed as far as the eye could see, one
of those nocturnal landscapes in bluish lines, studded with slim trees, the shadows
of which seemed to have been drawn with a black crayon. The blooming briar
and broom perfumed the air with a rather sharp odor, and the frogs of
a neighboring swamp sang their oily anthem, interspersed with silences. But all these
details escaped the notice of our good rustics. They thought of nothing but laying
hands on the spirit. When they had reached the stairway, all three stopped
and listened, then gazed into the dark shadows. Nothing appeared. Nothing stirred
the devil, said the Burgomaster. We forgot to bring a bit of candle.
Descend, Kasper, you know the way better than I. I'll follow
you. At this proposition, the shepherd promptly recoiled. If he had consulted
his inclinations, the poor man would have taken flight. His pitiful expression made
the Burgomaster burst out laughing. Ha, well, Hans, since he doesn't
want to go down, show me the way, he said to the game
warden. But mister Burgomuster said the latter. You know very well that steps
are missing. We should risk breaking our necks. Then what's to be done?
Yes, what is to be done? Send your dog, replied Petrus.
The shepherd whistled to his dog, showed him the stairway urged him,
but he did not wish to take the chances any more than the others.
At this moment, a bright idea struck the rural guardsman. Ah mister burgomaster
said he you should fire your gun inside, faith, cried the other.
You're right, we shall catch a glimpse at least, And without hesitating,
the worthy man approached the stairway and leveled his gun. But by the acoustic
effect which I have already pointed out, the spirit the marauder, the individual
who chanced to be actually in the cistern, had heard everything. The idea
of stopping a gunshot did not strike him as amusing, for in a shrill,
piercing voice, he cried, stop, don't fire, I'm coming.
Then the three functionaries looked at each other and laughed softly, and the burgomaster,
leaning over the opening again, cried, rudely, be quick about it,
you varlet or all shoot, be quick about it. He cocked his
gun, and the click seemed to hasten the ascent of the mysterious person.
They heard him rolling down some stones. Nevertheless, it still took him another
minute before he appeared the cistern, being at a depth of sixty feet.
What was this man doing in such deep darkness? He must be some great
criminal, so at least, thought Petrus Mariere and his acolytes. At last
a vague form could be discerned in the dark. Then, slowly, by
degrees, a little man four and a half feet high at the most frail,
sagged, his face withered and yellow, his eye gleaming like a magpie's,
and his hair tangled. Came out shouting, by what right do you
come to disturb my studies, wretched creatures? This grandiose apostrophe was scarcely in
accord with his costume and physiognomy. Accordingly, the burgomaster indignantly replied, try
to show that you're honest, you knave were all begin by administering a correction.
Like correction, said the little man, leaping with anger and drawing himself
up under the nose of the burgomaster. Yes, replied the other, who
nevertheless did not fail to admire the pigmy's courage. If you do not answer
the questions satisfactorily, I'm going to put to you I am the burgomaster of
Hirschviller. Here are the rural guard, the shepherd and his dog. We
are stronger than you. Be wise and tell me peaceably who you are,
what you're doing here, and why you do not dare to appear in broad
daylight. Then we shall see what's to be done with you. All that's
none of your business, replied the little man in his crow voice. I
shall not answer in that case. Forward march, ordered the burgomaster, who
grasped him firmly by the nape of the neck. You're going to sleep in
prison, the little man writhed, like a weasel. He even tried to
bite, and the dog was sniffing at the calves of his legs. When
quite exhausted, he said, not without a certain dignity, let go,
sir, I surrender to superior force. I'm yours. The burgomaster, who
was not entirely lacking in good breeding, became calmer. Do you promise,
said he I promise very well, walk in front, And that is how
on the night of the twenty ninth of July eighteen thirty five, the burgomaster
took captive a little red haired man issuing from the cavern of Geierstein. Upon
arriving at Hirschfiller, the rural guard ran to find the key of the prison,
and the vagabond was locked in and double locked, not to forget the
outside bolt and padlock. Everyone could then repose after his fatigues, and Petrus
Moyere went to bed and dreamed till midnight of this singular adventure. On the
morrow, towards nine o'clock, hence Girner, the rural guard, having been
ordered to bring the prisoner to the town house for another examination, repaired to
the cooler with four husky daredevils. They opened the door, all of them
curious to look upon the will of the wisp. But imagine their astonishment upon
seeing him hanging from the bars of the window by his necktie. Some said
he was still writhing, others that he was already stiff, however that may
be. They ran to Petrus Moriere's house to inform him of the fact.
And what is certain is that upon the latter's arrival, the little man had
breathed his last. The Justice of the peace, and the Doctor of Hurstfiller
drew up a formal statement of the catastrophe. Then they buried the Unknown in
a field of meadow grass, and it was all over. Now. About
three weeks after these occurrences, I went to see my cousin Petrus Mariere,
whose nearest relative I was, and consequently his heir. This circumstance sustained an
intimate acquaintance between us. We were at dinner, talking on indifferent matters,
when the burgomaster recounted the foregoing little story, as I have just reported it
tis strange, cousin, I said, truly strange. And you have no
other information concerning the Unknown, none, And you have found nothing which could
give you a clue as to his purpose, Absolutely nothing Christian. But as
a matter of fact, what could he have been doing in the cistern?
On? What did he live? The burgomaster shrugged his shoulders, refilled our
glasses, and replied, with to your health, cousin, to yours.
We remained silent a few minutes. It was impossible for me to accept the
abrupt conclusion of the adventure, and in spite of myself, I mused with
some melancholy on the sad fate of certain men who appear and disappear in this
world like the grass of the field, without leaving the least memory or the
least regret. Cousin, I resumed, how far may it be from here
to the ruins of Geierstein, twenty minutes walk? And most why because I
should like to see them. You know that we have a meeting of the
municipal council, and I cannot accompany you. Oh, I can find them
by myself. No, the rural guard will show you the way. He
has nothing better to do. And my worthy cousin, having wrapped on his
glass, called his servant Katel, go and find Hans Groner. Let him
hurry and get here. By two o'clock. I must be going. The
servant went out, and the rural guard was not tardy in coming. He
was directed to take me to the ruins. While the burgomaster proceeded gravely toward
the hall of the Municipal Council. We were already climbing the hill. Hans
Girner, with a wave of the hand, indicated the remains of the aqueduct.
At the same moment, the rocky ribs of the plateau, the blue
distances of Hansrick, the sad crumbling walls covered with somber ivy, the tolling
of the Hirshfeller bell summoning the notables to the council, the rural guardsman panting
and catching at the brambles, assumed in my eyes a sad and severe hinge
for which I could not account. It was the story of the hanged man
which took the color out of the prospect. The cistern staircase struck me as
being exceedingly curious, with its elegant spiral, the bushes bristling in the fissures
at every step, the deserted aspect of its surroundings, all harmonized with my
sadness. We descended, and soon the luminous point of the opening, which
seemed to contract more and more and to take the shape of a star with
curved rays, alone, sent us its pale light. When we attained the
very bottom of the cistern, we found a superb sight was to be had
of all those steps, lighted from above and cutting off their shadows with marvelous
precision. I then heard the hum of which I have already spoken, the
immense granite conch had as many echoes as stones. Has nobody been down here
since the little man, I asked the rural guardsman. No, sir,
the peasants are afraid. They imagine that the hanged man will return. And
you, oh, I'm just not us, but the justice of the peace.
His duty was to hah, what could he have come to the owl's
ear? For they call this the owl's ear. Yes, that's pretty near,
it, said I, raising my eyes. This reverse vault forms the
pavilion well enough. The underside of the steps makes the covering for the tympanum,
and the winding of the staircase, the cochlea, the labyrinth, and
the vestibule of the ear. That is the cause of the murmur which we
hear. We are at the back of a colossal ear. Very likely,
said the hans Girner, who did not seem to have understood my observations.
We started up again, and I had descended the first steps when I felt
something crush under my feet. I stopped to see what it could be,
and at that moment perceived a white object before me. It was a torn
sheet of paper. As for the hard object which I had felt grinding,
up. I recognize it as a sort of glazed earthenware. Jug Ah,
I said to myself, this may clear up the burgomaster's story. I rejoined
Hans Girner, who was now waiting for me at the edge of the pit.
Now, Sir cried he, where would you like to go? First?
Let's sit down for a while. We shall see. Presently I sat
down on a large stone, while the rural guard cast his falcon eyes over
the village to see if there chanced to be any trespassers in the gardens.
I carefully examined the glazed face, of which nothing but splinters remained. These
fragments presented the appearance of a funnel lined with wool. It was impossible for
me to perceive its purpose. I then read the piece of a letter written
in an easy running and firm hand. I transcribe it here below, word
for word. It seems to follow the other half of the sheet for which
I looked vainly all about the ruins. My micro acoustic ear trumpet thus has
the double advantage of infinitely multiplying the intensity of sounds, and of introducing them
into the ear without causing the observer the least discomfort you would never have imagined,
Dear Master, the charm which one feels in perceiving these thousands of impercepti
sounds, which are confounded on a fine summer day in an immense murmuring.
The bumblebee has his song as well as the nightingale. The honey bee is
the warbler of the mosses. The cricket is the lark of the tall grasses.
The maggot is the wren. It has only a sigh, but the
sigh is melodious. This discovery, from the point of view of sentiment,
which makes us live in the universal life, surpasses in its importance all that
I could say on the matter. After so much suffering, privations and weariness,
How happy it makes one to reap the rewards of all his labors,
How the soul's soars toward the divine author of all these microscopic worlds, the
magnificent of which is revealed to us. Where now are the long hours of
anguish, hunger, contempt which overwhelmed us before? Gone? Sir, Gone,
tears of gratitude moisten our eyes. One is proud to have achieved through
suffering, new joys for humanity and to have contributed to its mental development.
But howsoever vast, howsoever admirable, may be the first fruits of my microcoustic
ear trumpet, these do not delimit its advantages. There are more positive ones,
more material and ones which may be expressed in figures. Just as a
telescope brought the discovery of myriads of worlds performing their harmonious revolutions in infinite space,
so also will my microcoustic ear trumpet extend the sense of the unhearable beyond
all possible bounds. Thus, Sir, the circulation of the blood and the
fluids of the body will not give me pause. You shall hear them flow
with the impetuosity of cataracts. You shall perceive them so distinctly as to startle
you. The slightest irregularity of the pulse, the least obstacle is striking and
produces the same effect as a rock against which the waves of a torrent are
dashing. It is doubtless an immense conquest in the development of our knowledge of
physiology and pathology. But this is not the point on which I would emphasize.
Upon applying your ear to the ground, sir, you may hear the
mineral waters springing up at immeasurable depths, you may judge of their volume,
their currents, and the obstacles which they meet. Do you wish to go
further enter a subterranean vault which is so constructed as to gather a quantity of
loud sounds than at night, when the world sleeps, when nothing will be
confused with the interior noises of our globe. Listen, sir, all that
is possible for me to tell you at the present moment, For in the
midst of my profound misery, of my privations, and often of my despair,
I am left only a few lucid instants to pursue my geological observations.
All that I can affirm is that the seething of glow worms the explosions of
boiling fluids is something terrifying and sublime, which can only be compared to the
impression of the astronomer whose glass fathoms depths of limitless extent. Nevertheless, I
must avow that these impressions should be studied further and classified in a methodological manner,
in order that definite conclusions may be derived. Therefrom Likewise, as soon
as you shall have deemed dear and noble master to transmit the little sum for
the use at Neustadt, as I asked to supply my first needs. We
shall see our way to an understanding in regard to the establishment of three great
subterranean observatories, one in the valley of Catania, another in Iceland, then
a third in kapak Urwin Songay or cayambe Urwin, the deepest of the Cordilleras.
And consequently here the letter stopped. I let my hands fall in stupefaction.
Had I read the conceptions of an idiot or the inspirations of a genius
which had been realized? What am I to say to think? So this
man, this miserable creature, living at the bottom of a burrow like a
fox dying of hunger, had had perhaps one of those inspirations which the Supreme
Being sent unearthed to enlighten future generations. And this man had hanged himself in
disgust despair. No one had answered his prayer, though he'd ask only for
a crust of bread in exchange for his discovery. It was horrible, long
long I sat there, dreaming, thanking Heaven for having limited my intelligence to
the needs of ordinary life, for not having desired to make me a superior
man in the community of martyrs. At length, the rural guardsman, seeing
me with fixed gaze and mouth agape, made so bold as to touch me
on the shoulder. Mister Christian said, he see it's getting late. The
burgomaster must have come back from the council. That's a fact, cried I,
crumpling up the paper. Come on we descended the hill. My worthy
cousin met me with a smiling face at the threshold of his house. Well,
well, Christian, so you've found no trace of the imbecile who hanged
himself. No I thought as much. He was some lunatic who escaped from
Staffhansfield or somewhere. Faith he did well to hang himself. When one is
good for nothing, that's the simplest way for it. The following day I
left hurshfiller, I shall never return, and of the owl's ear