Speaker 1: The owl's ear by Erkmann Chatran. On the twenty ninth
day of July eighteen thirty five, Casper Bach, a shepherd
of the little village of Hirschviller, 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 Petras Moyer, who had just
finished supper and was taking a little glass of Kerschwasser
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 Moyeer, without awaiting the
end of his speech, frowned and said, Casper Boch, begin
by taking off your hat, put your dog out of
the room, and then speak distinctly intelligibly, without stammering, so
that I I may understand you. Hereupon the Burgomaster, standing
near the table tranquility, emptied his little glass and wiped
his great gray mustachios indifferently. Kasper 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 Geyerstein. 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, catl 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.
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 sum marauder.
But if it's a fox I'll make a fine hood
of it with long earlaps. Master Petris, Moyere 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 Gerner, hunting knife at his side, by
running overtook Master Petris in the holly path. All three
made their way together toward the ruins of Geyerstein. 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 Serranus, the Roman camp of Holderlock, 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? Eh, 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 repet imitating the other's tone.
It's down in the hole, muttered the shepherd. We shall see,
we shall see, returned the bergamaster. 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 brier 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, Kaspar, 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 er. But mister Burgermaster 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 I'll 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 Marier 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, ragged, 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 your honest you knave,
or I'll 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 craw 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 Geyerstein. 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 Moriere went to bed and
dreamed till midnight of this singular adventure. On the morrow,
toward nine o'clock hens Gerner, the rural guard, having been
ordered to bring the prisoner to the town house for
another examination, repaired to the cooler with poor Husky dare devils.
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 neck tie. Some said he was still writhing,
others that he was already stiff, however that may be.
They ran to Petris 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 Geyerstein in a twenty
minutes walk at 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 Catel, 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 Gerner, 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 hunsrick, the
sad crumbling walls covered with somber ivy, the tolling of
the Hirschfeler 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 notus. But the justice, the piece, His duty was
to ha 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. Oh,
very likely, said Hans Gerner, who did not seem to
have understood my observations. We started up again, and I
had ascended 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 recognized
it as a sort of glazed earthenware. Jug Aha, I
said to myself, this may clear up the burgomaster's story.
I rejoined Hans Gerner, 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 chance
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 microacoustic 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 bumble bee 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 sores 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 moist in 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 it 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, Then 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 Urun Songay or cayambe uruin 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 on earth to enlighten future generations. And this
man had hanged himself in disgust despair. No one had
answered his prayer, though he'd asked 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 Royal 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. Ha, 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 Stephensfield 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 Hirschfiller, I shall
never return, and of the owl's ear