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The owl's ear by Erkmann Schatron.
On the twenty ninth day of July eighteen

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thirty five, Casper Bok, a
shepherd of the little village of Hirshviller,

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with his large felt hat tipped back, his wallet of stringy sackcloth hanging at

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his hip, and his great tawny
dog at his heels, presented himself at

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about nine o'clock in the evening at
the house of the burgomaster, Petrus Moyer,

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who had just finished supper and was
taking a little glass of Kirschwasser to

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facilitate digestion. His burgomaster was a
tall, thin man and wore a bushy

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gray mustache. He had seen service
in the armies of the Archduke Charles.

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He had a jovial disposition and ruled
the village, it is said, with

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his finger and with the rod.
Mister burgomaster cried the shepherd in evident excitement.

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But Petrus Moiere, without awaiting the
end of his speech, frowned and

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said, Casper Bok, begin by
taking off your hat, put your dog

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out of the room, and then
speak distinctly intelligibly, without stammering, so

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that I may understand you. Hereupon
the Burgomaster, standing near the table tranquility,

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emptied his little glass and wiped his
great gray mustachios indifferently. Casper put

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his dog out and came back with
his hat off. Well, said Petrus,

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seeing that he was silent. What
has happened? It happens that the

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spirit has appeared again in the ruins
of Geierstein. Ah, I doubt it.

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You've seen it yourself, very clearly, mister Burgomaster, without closing your

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eyes. Yes, mister Burgomaster,
my eyes were wide open. There was

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plenty of moonlight. What form did
it have? The form of a small

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man? Good? And turning toward
the glass door at the left, Catell

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cried the Burgomaster. An old serving
woman opened the door, Sir, I'm

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going out for a walk on the
hillside. Sit up for me until ten

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o'clock. Here's the key, yes, sir. Then the old soldier took

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down his gun from the hook over
the door, examined the priming, and

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slung it over shoulder. Then he
addressed Casper, back, go and tell

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the rural guard to meet me in
the holly path and tell him behind the

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mill. Your spirit must be some
marauder. But if it's a fox,

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I'll make a fine hood of it
with long ear laps. Master Petris,

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Moire and humble Casper then went out. The weather was superb, the stars

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innumerable. While the shepherd went to
knock the rural guard's door, the burgomaster

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plunged among the elder bushes in a
little lane that wound around behind the old

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church. Two minutes later, Casper
and Hans Girner, hunting knife at his

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side, by running overtook Master Petris
in the holly path. All three made

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their way together toward the ruins of
Geierstein. These ruins, which are about

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twenty minutes walk from the village,
seemed to be insignificant enough. They consist

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of the ridges of a few decrepit
walls from four to six feet high,

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which extend among the briar bushes.
Archaeologists call them the aqueducts of Seranus,

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the Roman camp of Holder, or
vestiges of Theodoric. According to their fantasy.

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The only thing about these ruins which
could be considered remarkable is a stairway

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to a cistern cut in the rock. Inside of this spiral staircase, instead

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of concentric circles which twist around.
With each complete turn. The involutions become

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wider as they proceed, in such
a way that the bottom of the pit

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is three times as large as the
opening. Is it an architectural freak or

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did some reasonable cause determine such an
odd construction? Yeah, it matters little

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to us. The result was to
cause in the cistern that vague reverberation which

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anyone may hear upon placing a shall
at his ear, and to make you

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aware of the steps on the gravel
path, murmurs of the air, rustling

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of the leaves, or even distant
words spoken by people passing the foot of

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the hill. Our three personages then
followed the pathway between the vineyards and gardens

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of Hirschfiller. I see nothing,
the Burgomaster would say, turning up his

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nose derisively. Nor I either the
rural guard would pete, imitating the other's

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tone. It's down in the hole, muttered the shepherd. We shall see,

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we shall see, returned the burgomaster. It was in this fashion,

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after a quarter of an hour,
that they came upon the opening of the

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cistern. As I have said,
the night was clear, limpid, and

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perfectly still. The moon portrayed as
far as the eye could see, one

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of those nocturnal landscapes in bluish lines, studded with slim trees, the shadows

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of which seemed to have been drawn
with a black crayon. The blooming briar

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and broom perfumed the air with a
rather sharp odor, and the frogs of

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a neighboring swamp sang their oily anthem, interspersed with silences. But all these

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details escaped the notice of our good
rustics. They thought of nothing but laying

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hands on the spirit. When they
had reached the stairway, all three stopped

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and listened, then gazed into the
dark shadows. Nothing appeared. Nothing stirred

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the devil, said the Burgomaster.
We forgot to bring a bit of candle.

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Descend, Kasper, you know the
way better than I. I'll follow

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you. At this proposition, the
shepherd promptly recoiled. If he had consulted

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his inclinations, the poor man would
have taken flight. His pitiful expression made

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the Burgomaster burst out laughing. Ha, well, Hans, since he doesn't

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want to go down, show me
the way, he said to the game

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warden. But mister Burgomuster said the
latter. You know very well that steps

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are missing. We should risk breaking
our necks. Then what's to be done?

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Yes, what is to be done? Send your dog, replied Petrus.

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The shepherd whistled to his dog,
showed him the stairway urged him,

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but he did not wish to take
the chances any more than the others.

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At this moment, a bright idea
struck the rural guardsman. Ah mister burgomaster

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said he you should fire your gun
inside, faith, cried the other.

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You're right, we shall catch a
glimpse at least, And without hesitating,

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the worthy man approached the stairway and
leveled his gun. But by the acoustic

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effect which I have already pointed out, the spirit the marauder, the individual

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who chanced to be actually in the
cistern, had heard everything. The idea

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of stopping a gunshot did not strike
him as amusing, for in a shrill,

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piercing voice, he cried, stop, don't fire, I'm coming.

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Then the three functionaries looked at each
other and laughed softly, and the burgomaster,

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leaning over the opening again, cried, rudely, be quick about it,

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you varlet or all shoot, be
quick about it. He cocked his

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gun, and the click seemed to
hasten the ascent of the mysterious person.

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They heard him rolling down some stones. Nevertheless, it still took him another

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minute before he appeared the cistern,
being at a depth of sixty feet.

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What was this man doing in such
deep darkness? He must be some great

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criminal, so at least, thought
Petrus Mariere and his acolytes. At last

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a vague form could be discerned in
the dark. Then, slowly, by

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degrees, a little man four and
a half feet high at the most frail,

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sagged, his face withered and yellow, his eye gleaming like a magpie's,

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and his hair tangled. Came out
shouting, by what right do you

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come to disturb my studies, wretched
creatures? This grandiose apostrophe was scarcely in

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accord with his costume and physiognomy.
Accordingly, the burgomaster indignantly replied, try

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to show that you're honest, you
knave were all begin by administering a correction.

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Like correction, said the little man, leaping with anger and drawing himself

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up under the nose of the burgomaster. Yes, replied the other, who

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nevertheless did not fail to admire the
pigmy's courage. If you do not answer

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the questions satisfactorily, I'm going to
put to you I am the burgomaster of

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Hirschviller. Here are the rural guard, the shepherd and his dog. We

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are stronger than you. Be wise
and tell me peaceably who you are,

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what you're doing here, and why
you do not dare to appear in broad

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daylight. Then we shall see what's
to be done with you. All that's

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none of your business, replied the
little man in his crow voice. I

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shall not answer in that case.
Forward march, ordered the burgomaster, who

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grasped him firmly by the nape of
the neck. You're going to sleep in

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prison, the little man writhed,
like a weasel. He even tried to

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bite, and the dog was sniffing
at the calves of his legs. When

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quite exhausted, he said, not
without a certain dignity, let go,

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sir, I surrender to superior force. I'm yours. The burgomaster, who

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was not entirely lacking in good breeding, became calmer. Do you promise,

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said he I promise very well,
walk in front, And that is how

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on the night of the twenty ninth
of July eighteen thirty five, the burgomaster

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took captive a little red haired man
issuing from the cavern of Geierstein. Upon

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arriving at Hirschfiller, the rural guard
ran to find the key of the prison,

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and the vagabond was locked in and
double locked, not to forget the

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outside bolt and padlock. Everyone could
then repose after his fatigues, and Petrus

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Moyere went to bed and dreamed till
midnight of this singular adventure. On the

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morrow, towards nine o'clock, hence
Girner, the rural guard, having been

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ordered to bring the prisoner to the
town house for another examination, repaired to

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the cooler with four husky daredevils.
They opened the door, all of them

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curious to look upon the will of
the wisp. But imagine their astonishment upon

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seeing him hanging from the bars of
the window by his necktie. Some said

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he was still writhing, others that
he was already stiff, however that may

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be. They ran to Petrus Moriere's
house to inform him of the fact.

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And what is certain is that upon
the latter's arrival, the little man had

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breathed his last. The Justice of
the peace, and the Doctor of Hurstfiller

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drew up a formal statement of the
catastrophe. Then they buried the Unknown in

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a field of meadow grass, and
it was all over. Now. About

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three weeks after these occurrences, I
went to see my cousin Petrus Mariere,

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whose nearest relative I was, and
consequently his heir. This circumstance sustained an

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intimate acquaintance between us. We were
at dinner, talking on indifferent matters,

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when the burgomaster recounted the foregoing little
story, as I have just reported it

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tis strange, cousin, I said, truly strange. And you have no

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other information concerning the Unknown, none, And you have found nothing which could

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give you a clue as to his
purpose, Absolutely nothing Christian. But as

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a matter of fact, what could
he have been doing in the cistern?

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On? What did he live?
The burgomaster shrugged his shoulders, refilled our

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glasses, and replied, with to
your health, cousin, to yours.

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We remained silent a few minutes.
It was impossible for me to accept the

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abrupt conclusion of the adventure, and
in spite of myself, I mused with

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some melancholy on the sad fate of
certain men who appear and disappear in this

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world like the grass of the field, without leaving the least memory or the

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least regret. Cousin, I resumed, how far may it be from here

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to the ruins of Geierstein, twenty
minutes walk? And most why because I

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should like to see them. You
know that we have a meeting of the

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municipal council, and I cannot accompany
you. Oh, I can find them

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by myself. No, the rural
guard will show you the way. He

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has nothing better to do. And
my worthy cousin, having wrapped on his

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glass, called his servant Katel,
go and find Hans Groner. Let him

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hurry and get here. By two
o'clock. I must be going. The

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servant went out, and the rural
guard was not tardy in coming. He

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was directed to take me to the
ruins. While the burgomaster proceeded gravely toward

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the hall of the Municipal Council.
We were already climbing the hill. Hans

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Girner, with a wave of the
hand, indicated the remains of the aqueduct.

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At the same moment, the rocky
ribs of the plateau, the blue

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distances of Hansrick, the sad crumbling
walls covered with somber ivy, the tolling

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of the Hirshfeller bell summoning the notables
to the council, the rural guardsman panting

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and catching at the brambles, assumed
in my eyes a sad and severe hinge

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for which I could not account.
It was the story of the hanged man

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which took the color out of the
prospect. The cistern staircase struck me as

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being exceedingly curious, with its elegant
spiral, the bushes bristling in the fissures

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at every step, the deserted aspect
of its surroundings, all harmonized with my

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sadness. We descended, and soon
the luminous point of the opening, which

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seemed to contract more and more and
to take the shape of a star with

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curved rays, alone, sent us
its pale light. When we attained the

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very bottom of the cistern, we
found a superb sight was to be had

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of all those steps, lighted from
above and cutting off their shadows with marvelous

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precision. I then heard the hum
of which I have already spoken, the

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immense granite conch had as many echoes
as stones. Has nobody been down here

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since the little man, I asked
the rural guardsman. No, sir,

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the peasants are afraid. They imagine
that the hanged man will return. And

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you, oh, I'm just not
us, but the justice of the peace.

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His duty was to hah, what
could he have come to the owl's

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ear? For they call this the
owl's ear. Yes, that's pretty near,

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it, said I, raising my
eyes. This reverse vault forms the

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pavilion well enough. The underside of
the steps makes the covering for the tympanum,

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and the winding of the staircase,
the cochlea, the labyrinth, and

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the vestibule of the ear. That
is the cause of the murmur which we

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hear. We are at the back
of a colossal ear. Very likely,

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said the hans Girner, who did
not seem to have understood my observations.

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We started up again, and I
had descended the first steps when I felt

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something crush under my feet. I
stopped to see what it could be,

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and at that moment perceived a white
object before me. It was a torn

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sheet of paper. As for the
hard object which I had felt grinding,

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up. I recognize it as a
sort of glazed earthenware. Jug Ah,

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I said to myself, this may
clear up the burgomaster's story. I rejoined

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Hans Girner, who was now waiting
for me at the edge of the pit.

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Now, Sir cried he, where
would you like to go? First?

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Let's sit down for a while.
We shall see. Presently I sat

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down on a large stone, while
the rural guard cast his falcon eyes over

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the village to see if there chanced
to be any trespassers in the gardens.

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I carefully examined the glazed face,
of which nothing but splinters remained. These

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fragments presented the appearance of a funnel
lined with wool. It was impossible for

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me to perceive its purpose. I
then read the piece of a letter written

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in an easy running and firm hand. I transcribe it here below, word

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for word. It seems to follow
the other half of the sheet for which

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I looked vainly all about the ruins. My micro acoustic ear trumpet thus has

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the double advantage of infinitely multiplying the
intensity of sounds, and of introducing them

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into the ear without causing the observer
the least discomfort you would never have imagined,

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Dear Master, the charm which one
feels in perceiving these thousands of impercepti

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sounds, which are confounded on a
fine summer day in an immense murmuring.

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The bumblebee has his song as well
as the nightingale. The honey bee is

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the warbler of the mosses. The
cricket is the lark of the tall grasses.

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The maggot is the wren. It
has only a sigh, but the

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sigh is melodious. This discovery,
from the point of view of sentiment,

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which makes us live in the universal
life, surpasses in its importance all that

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I could say on the matter.
After so much suffering, privations and weariness,

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How happy it makes one to reap
the rewards of all his labors,

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How the soul's soars toward the divine
author of all these microscopic worlds, the

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magnificent of which is revealed to us. Where now are the long hours of

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anguish, hunger, contempt which overwhelmed
us before? Gone? Sir, Gone,

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tears of gratitude moisten our eyes.
One is proud to have achieved through

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suffering, new joys for humanity and
to have contributed to its mental development.

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But howsoever vast, howsoever admirable,
may be the first fruits of my microcoustic

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ear trumpet, these do not delimit
its advantages. There are more positive ones,

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more material and ones which may be
expressed in figures. Just as a

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telescope brought the discovery of myriads of
worlds performing their harmonious revolutions in infinite space,

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so also will my microcoustic ear trumpet
extend the sense of the unhearable beyond

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all possible bounds. Thus, Sir, the circulation of the blood and the

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fluids of the body will not give
me pause. You shall hear them flow

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with the impetuosity of cataracts. You
shall perceive them so distinctly as to startle

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you. The slightest irregularity of the
pulse, the least obstacle is striking and

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produces the same effect as a rock
against which the waves of a torrent are

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dashing. It is doubtless an immense
conquest in the development of our knowledge of

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physiology and pathology. But this is
not the point on which I would emphasize.

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Upon applying your ear to the ground, sir, you may hear the

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mineral waters springing up at immeasurable depths, you may judge of their volume,

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their currents, and the obstacles which
they meet. Do you wish to go

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further enter a subterranean vault which is
so constructed as to gather a quantity of

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loud sounds than at night, when
the world sleeps, when nothing will be

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confused with the interior noises of our
globe. Listen, sir, all that

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is possible for me to tell you
at the present moment, For in the

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midst of my profound misery, of
my privations, and often of my despair,

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I am left only a few lucid
instants to pursue my geological observations.

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All that I can affirm is that
the seething of glow worms the explosions of

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boiling fluids is something terrifying and sublime, which can only be compared to the

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impression of the astronomer whose glass fathoms
depths of limitless extent. Nevertheless, I

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must avow that these impressions should be
studied further and classified in a methodological manner,

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in order that definite conclusions may be
derived. Therefrom Likewise, as soon

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as you shall have deemed dear and
noble master to transmit the little sum for

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the use at Neustadt, as I
asked to supply my first needs. We

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shall see our way to an understanding
in regard to the establishment of three great

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subterranean observatories, one in the valley
of Catania, another in Iceland, then

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a third in kapak Urwin Songay or
cayambe Urwin, the deepest of the Cordilleras.

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And consequently here the letter stopped.
I let my hands fall in stupefaction.

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Had I read the conceptions of an
idiot or the inspirations of a genius

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which had been realized? What am
I to say to think? So this

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man, this miserable creature, living
at the bottom of a burrow like a

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fox dying of hunger, had had
perhaps one of those inspirations which the Supreme

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Being sent unearthed to enlighten future generations. And this man had hanged himself in

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disgust despair. No one had answered
his prayer, though he'd ask only for

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a crust of bread in exchange for
his discovery. It was horrible, long

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long I sat there, dreaming,
thanking Heaven for having limited my intelligence to

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the needs of ordinary life, for
not having desired to make me a superior

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man in the community of martyrs.
At length, the rural guardsman, seeing

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me with fixed gaze and mouth agape, made so bold as to touch me

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on the shoulder. Mister Christian said, he see it's getting late. The

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burgomaster must have come back from the
council. That's a fact, cried I,

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crumpling up the paper. Come on
we descended the hill. My worthy

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00:19:48,119 --> 00:19:52,240
cousin met me with a smiling face
at the threshold of his house. Well,

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well, Christian, so you've found
no trace of the imbecile who hanged

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himself. No I thought as much. He was some lunatic who escaped from

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Staffhansfield or somewhere. Faith he did
well to hang himself. When one is

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good for nothing, that's the simplest
way for it. The following day I

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left hurshfiller, I shall never return, and of the owl's ear