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While the burgomaster was making his way solemnly to the council chamber, we were already going up the hill. Hans Goerner pointed out the remains of the aqueduct. At this point the rocky ridges of the plateau, the bluish distances of the Hundsrück, the dismal dilapidated walls, covered in a dark ivy, the tolling of the bell of Hirchwiller, summoning the dignitaries to the meeting, the constable panting, clinging to the brushwood … took on in my eyes a sad, harsh hue. It was the story of this poor hanged man which stained the horizon.
The stairway to the chamber appeared very strange, its spiral elegant. The prickly bushes in the clefts of each step, the deserted appearance of the surroundings, all were in harmony with my sadness. We descended. Soon the bright point of the opening which seemed to grow narrower and narrower and to assume the form of a star with curved rays, alone sent us its pale light.
When we reached the bottom of the chamber what a superb view awaited us of those stairs lit up underneath, throwing their shadows with wonderful regularity. Then I heard the buzzing which Pétrus had told me about; the huge granite conch had as many echoes as stones!
‘Since the little man, has anyone come down here?’ I asked the constable.
‘No, sir. The peasants are afraid. They think that the hanged man will return.’
‘And you?’
‘Me, I’m not curious.’
‘But the magistrate … his duty was …’
‘Humph! What would he be doing in the “Owl’s Ear”?’
‘They call this the Owl’s Ear?’
‘Yes.’
‘It is almost that,’ I said, looking up. ‘This inverted vault forms the outer ear very well, the underneath part of the steps represents the drum, and the bends of the stairway the cochlea, the labyrinth and the opening of the ear. That then explains the murmuring that we can hear: we are at the bottom of a colossal ear.’
‘That is very possible,’ said Hans Goerner, who seemed to understand nothing of my observations.
We were on our way back up. I had already taken the first steps when I felt something snap beneath my foot. I bent down to see what it could be and I noticed at the same time a white object in front of me. It was a sheet of torn paper. As for the hard matter that had been pulverized, I recognized a sort of pot made of glazed stoneware.
‘Ho! Ho!’ I said to myself, ‘this will be able to throw some light on the burgomaster’s story for us.’
And I joined Hans Goerner, who was by now waiting for me at the kerb of the cistern.
‘Now, sir,’ he shouted to me, ‘where would you like to go?’
‘First of all let us sit down a little, we shall see presently.’
And I found a place on a large stone, while the constable let his hawk-like eyes gaze all around the village, to discover marauders in the gardens, if there were any.
I carefully examined the stoneware vessel, of which no more than a fragment remained. This fragment took the shape of a funnel, lined with down on the inside. It was impossible for me to make out its purpose. Next I read the piece of paper, which was written on in a very steady hand. I transcribe it here according to the text. It seems to be a continuation of another sheet, for which I have since searched in the vicinity of the ruin, but in vain.
My ‘microeartrumpet’ has therefore the double advantage of multiplying ad infinitum the intensity of sounds, and of being able to fit the ear, which in no way impedes the observer. You cannot imagine, my dear master, the charm that one feels on hearing these thousands of imperceptible sounds which, on fine summer days, blend into one mighty buzzing. The bee has his song like the nightingale, the wasp is the warbler of the mosses, the cicada is the lark of the tall grasses, in this the mite is the wren – it has only a sigh, but this sigh is melodious!
This discovery which, from the sentimental point of view, makes us live the life of universal nature, surpasses in its importance all that I could say about it.
After so many sufferings, privations, and worries how happy it is in the end to gather the rewards of our labours! With what leaps the soul rises up to the divine author of these microscopic worlds, whose splendour is revealed to us. What then are these long hours of anguish, hunger, scorn which overwhelmed us in the past? Nothing, sir, nothing! Tears of gratitude wet our eyes. One is proud to have bought through suffering new joys for humanity and to have contributed to its improvement. But however vast, however admirable are the first results of my ‘microeartrumpet’, its advantages are not limited to that alone. There are others more positive, more material in some respects, and which can be translated into figures.
Just as the telescope causes us to discover myriads of worlds, completing their harmonious revolutions in the infinite, so too my ‘microeartrumpet’ extends the sense of hearing beyond all the limits of possibility. Thus, sir, I shall not stop at the circulation of the blood and vital fluids in the living body; you hear them running with the impulsiveness of cataracts, you perceive them with a distinctness which terrifies you, the slightest irregularity in the pulse, the lightest obstacle strikes you and has on you the effect of a rock against which break the waves of a torrent.
It is undoubtedly a tremendous conquest for the development of our physiological and pathological knowledge, but it is not on this point that I insist.
By pressing your ear to the ground you hear the hot springs surging at immeasurable depths, you assess their volume, the currents, the obstacles.
Would you like to go any further? Enter an underground chamber sufficiently large to pick up a considerable quantity of sounds; then, at night, when all is asleep, when nothing disturbs the inner sounds of our globe, listen!
Sir, all that it is possible for me to tell you at present, because in the midst of my abject misery, my privations, and often my despair, I have only a few lucid moments left to gather together geological observations, all that I can assert for you is that the bubbling incandescent lava, the glow of boiling substances is something terrifying and sublime, and which can only be compared to the impression of the astronomer sounding the endless depths of the universe with his telescope.
However, I must admit that these impressions need to be studied further and classified methodically, so as to draw from them fixed conclusions. Consequently as soon as you condescend, my dear and worthy master, to send to me at Neustadt the small sum that I ask to provide for my basic needs, we shall see that we agree with a view to establishing three subterranean observatories, one in the valley of Catania, the other in Iceland, and the third in one of the valleys of Capac-Uren, Songay, or Cayembé-Uren, the deepest of the Cordilleras, and as a consequence …
Here the letter stopped.
I was dumbfounded. Had I read the ideas of a madman, or rather the fulfilled inspirations of a genius? What was I to say? or think? Thus this man, this wretch, living at the bottom of a den like a fox, dying of hunger, had perhaps been one of those chosen people, whom the Supreme Being sends to earth, to enlighten future generations.
And this man had hanged himself out of disgust and despair! His request had not been answered when he only asked for a piece of bread in exchange for his discovery. It was horrible.
A long time, a very long time, I stayed there, dreaming, thanking heaven for having limited my intelligence to the everyday needs for life, for not having wanted to make myself superior to the common crowd. Finally the constable seeing me staring, my mouth wide open, ventured to touch my shoulder: ‘M. Christian,’ he said to me, ‘look it is getting late. The burgomaster must have returned from the meeting.’
‘Ah! That’s right!’ I exclaimed, crumpling up the paper. ‘On our way.’
We climbed down the hill again.
My worthy cousin received me, his face beaming, on the threshold of his house: ‘Well, well! Christian! Have you found anything of this idiot who hanged himself?’
‘No.’
‘As I suspected. He was some madman who escaped from Stefansfeld or elsewhere. Indeed he did well to hang himself. When one is good for nothing, it’s the simplest thing.’
The following day I left Hirchwiller. I shall never go back.
THE WHITE AND THE BLACK (#u178dcf7c-9018-52e6-8797-b16226043927)
I
At that time we passed our evenings at Brauer’s alehouse, which opens upon the square of Vieux-Brisach. After eight o’clock there used to drop in, one by one, Frederick Schultz the notary; Frantz Martin the burgomaster, Christopher Ulmett the magistrate; the counsellor Klers; the engineer Rothan; the young organist Theodore Blitz; and some others of the chief townsfolk, who all sat around the same table and drank their foaming bok-bier like brothers.
The apparition of Theodore Blitz, who came to us from Jena with a letter of recommendation from Harmosius – his dark eyes, his brown dishevelled hair, his thin white nose, his metallic voice, and his mystic ideas – occasioned us some little disquiet. It used to trouble us to see him rise abruptly and pace two or three times up and down the room, gesticulating the while, mocking with a strange air the Swiss landscapes with which the walls were adorned – lakes of indigo-blue, mountains of an apple-green, paths of brilliant red. Then he would seat himself down again, empty his glass at a gulp, and commence a discussion about the music of Palestrina, about the lute of the Hebrews, about the introduction of the organ into our churches, about the shophar, the sabbatic epochs, etc. He would knit his brows, plant his sharp elbows on the edge of the table, and lose himself in deep thought. Yes, he perplexed us not a little – we others who were grave and accustomed to methodical ideas. However, it was necessary to put up with it; and the engineer Rothan himself, in spite of his bantering spirit, in the end grew calm and no longer continued to contradict the young organist when he was right.
Theodore Blitz was plainly one of those nervously organised beings who are affected by every change of temperature. The year of which I speak was extremely warm; we had several heavy storms towards the autumn, and folk began to fear for the wine harvest.
One evening all our little world was gathered, according to custom, around the table, with the exception of the magistrate Ulmett and the organist. The burgomaster talked about the weather and great hydraulic works. As for me I listened to the wind gamboling without amongst the plane-trees of the Schlossgarten, to the drip of the water from the spouts, and to its dashing against the windows. From time to time one could hear a tile blown off a roof, a door shut to with a bang, a shutter beat against a wall. Then would arise the great clamour of the storm, sweeping, sighing, and groaning in the distance, as if all the invisible powers were seeking and calling on one another in the darkness, while living things hid themselves, sitting in corners, in order to escape a fearful meeting with them.
From the church of Saint-Landolphe nine o’clock sounded, when Blitz hurriedly entered, shaking his hat like one possessed, and saying in his husky voice: ‘Surely the Evil One is about his work! The white and the black are having a tussle. The nine times nine thousand nine hundred and ninety thousand spirits of Envy battle and tear themselves. Go, Ahriman! Walk! Ravage! Lay waste! The Amschaspands are in flight! Oromage veils her face! What a time, what a time!’
And so saying he walked round the room, stretching his long skinny limbs, and laughing by jerks.
We were all astounded at such an entry, and for some seconds no one spoke a word. Then, however, the engineer Rothan, led on by his caustic humour, said: ‘What nonsense is that you are singing there, M. Organist? What do Amschaspands signify to us? or the nine times nine thousand nine hundred and ninety thousand spirits of Envy? Ha! ha! ha! It is really comic. Where on earth did you pick up such strange language?’
Theodore Blitz stopped suddenly short in his walk and shut one eye, while the other, wide open, shone with a diabolic irony.
When Rothan had finished: ‘Oh, engineer,’ said he; ‘oh! sublime spirit, master of the trowel, and mortar, director of stones, he who orders right angles, angles acute, angles obtuse, you are right – a hundred times right.’
He bent himself with a mocking air, and went on: ‘Nothing exists but matter – the level, the rule, and the compass. The revelations of Zoroaster, of Moses, of Pythagoras, of Odin – the harmony, the melody, art, sentiment, they are all dreams, unworthy of an enlightened intellect such as yours. To you belongs the truth, the eternal truth. Ha! ha! ha! I bow myself before you: I salute you; I prostrate myself before your glory, imperishable as that of Nineveh and of Babylon.’
Finishing his speech, he made two little turns on his heels, and uttered a laugh so piercing that it was more like the crowing of a cock at daybreak.
Rothan was getting angry, when at the moment the old magistrate Ulmett came in, his head protected by a great otter-skin cap, his shoulders covered by his bottle-green greatcoat bordered with fox-skin. His hands hung down beside him, his back was bent, his eyes were half-closed, his big nose was red, and his large cheeks were wet with rain. He was as wet as a drake.
Outside the rain fell in torrents, the gutters gushed over, the spouts disgorged themselves, and the ditches were swollen into little rivers.
‘Ah, heavens!’ cried the good fellow. ‘Perhaps it was foolish to come out on such a night, and after such work too – two inquests, verbal processes, interrogatories! The bok-bier and old friends, though, would make me swim across the Rhine.’
And muttering these words he put off his otter-skin cap and opened his great pelisse to take out his long tobacco-pipe and his pouch, which he carefully laid down upon the table. After that he hung his greatcoat and his hat up beside the window, and called out: ‘Brauer!’
‘Well, M. Magistrate, what do you want?’
‘You would do well to put to the shutters. Believe me, this storm will wind up with some thunder.’
The innkeeper went out and put the shutters to, and the old magistrate, sitting down in his corner, heaved a deep sigh.
‘You know what has happened, burgomaster?’ he asked in a solemn voice.
‘No. What has occurred, my old Christopher?’
Before he replied M. Ulmett threw a glance around the room.
‘We are here alone, my friends,’ said he, ‘so I am able to tell you. About three o’clock this afternoon some one found poor Gredel Dick under the sluice of the miller at Holderloch.’
‘Under the sluice at Holderloch?’ cried all.
‘Yes; a cord round her neck.’
In order to understand how these words affected us it is necessary that you should know that Gredel Dick was one of the prettiest girls in Vieux-Brisach; a tall brunette, with blue eyes and red cheeks; the only daughter of an old anabaptist, Petrus Dick, who farmed considerable portions of the Schlossgarten. For some time she had seemed sad and melancholy – she who had beforetime been so merry in the morning at the washing-place, and in the evening at the well in the midst of her friends. She had been seen crying, and her sorrow had been ascribed to the incessant pursuit of her by Saphéri Mutz, the postmaster’s son – a big fellow, thin, vigorous, with an aquiline nose and curling black hair. He followed her like a shadow, and never let her off his arm at the dances.
There had been some talk about their marriage, but old Mutz, his wife, Karl Bremer his son-in-law, and his daughter Saffayel, were opposed to the match, all agreeing that a ‘heathen’ should not be introduced into the family.
For three days past nothing had been seen of Gredel. No one knew what had become of her. You may imagine the thousand different thoughts which crowded upon us when we heard that she was dead. No one thought any longer of the discussion between Theodore Blitz and the engineer Rothan touching invisible spirits. All eyes were fixed on M. Christopher Ulmett, who, his large bald head bent, his heavy white eyebrows knit, gravely filled his pipe, with a meditative air.
‘And Mutz – Saphéri Mutz?’ asked the burgomaster. ‘What has become of him?’
A slight flush coloured the cheeks of the old man as he answered, after some seconds of thought: ‘Saphéri Mutz? He has gone.’
‘Gone!’ cried little Klers. ‘Then he acknowledges his guilt?’
‘It certainly seems so to me,’ said the old magistrate simply. ‘One does not scamper off for nothing. As for the rest, we have searched his father’s place, and found all the house upset. The folk seemed struck with consternation. The mother raved and tore her hair; the daughter wore her Sunday clothes, and danced about like a fool. It was impossible to get anything out of them. As to Gredel’s father, the poor fellow is in the deepest despair. He does not wish to say anything against his child, but it is certain that Gredel Dick left the farm of her own accord on Tuesday last in order to meet Saphéri. The fact is attested by all the neighbours. Now the gendarmes are scouring the country. We shall see, we shall see!’
Then there was a long silence. Outside the rain fell heavily.
‘It is abominable!’ cried the burgomaster suddenly. ‘Abominable! To think that every father of a family, even such as bring up their children in the fear of God, are exposed to such misfortunes.’
‘Yes,’ replied Ulmett, lighting his pipe. ‘It is so. They say, no doubt rightly, that heaven orders all things; but the spirit of darkness seems to me to meddle a good deal more than is necessary in them. For one good fellow how many villains do we find, without faith or law? And for one good action how many evil ones? I tell you, my friends, if the Evil One were to count his flock—’
He had not time to finish, for at that moment a terrific flash of lightning glared in through the chinks of the shutters, making the lamp burn dim. It was immediately followed by a clap of thunder, crashing, jerky – one of those claps which make you tremble. One might have thought that the world was coming to an end.
The clock of the church of Saint-Landolphe just then struck the half-hour. The tolling bells seemed to be just hard by one. From far, very far off, there came a trembling plaintive voice, crying: ‘Help! Help!’
‘Some one cries for help,’ said the burgomaster.
‘Yes,’ said the others, turning pale, and listening.
While we were all thus in fright, Rothan, curling his lips in a joking fashion, broke out: ‘Ha! ha! ha! It is Mademoiselle Roesel’s cat singing its love story to Monsieur Roller, the young first tenor.’
Then dropping his voice and lifting his hand with a tragic gesture, he went on: ‘The time has sounded from the belfry of the chateau!’
‘Ill-luck to those who laugh at such a cry,’ said old Christopher, rising.
He went towards the door with a solemn step, and we all followed him, even the fat innkeeper, who held his cotton cap in his hand and murmured a prayer very low. Rothan alone did not stir from his seat. As for me, I was behind the others, with outstretched neck, looking over their shoulders.
The glass door was scarcely opened when there came another flash of lightning. The street, with its white flags washed by the rain, its flushed gutters, its multitude of windows, its old gables, its signboards, glared out from the night, and then was swallowed up in the darkness.
That glance of the eye allowed me to see the steeple of Saint-Landolphe with its innumerable little carvings all clothed in white light. In the steeple were the bells hanging to black beams, with their clappers, and their ropes hanging down to the body of the church. Below that was a stork’s nest, half torn in pieces by the wind – the young ones with their beaks out, the mother at her wits’ end, her wings extended, while the male-bird flew about the shining steeple, his breast thrown forward, his neck bent, his long legs thrown out behind as if defying the thunder peals.
It was a strange sight, a veritable Chinese picture – thin, delicate, light, something strange, terrible, upon a black background of clouds broken with streaks of gold.
We stood, with open mouths, upon the threshold of the inn, and asked: ‘What did you hear, M. Ulmett? What can you see, M. Klers?’
At that moment a lugubrious mewing commenced above us, and a whole regiment of cats set to work springing about in the gutter. At the same time a peal of laughter filled the room—
‘Ah well! ah well!’ cried the engineer. ‘Do you hear them? Was I wrong?’
‘It was nothing,’ murmured the old magistrate. ‘Thank heaven, it was nothing. Let us go in again. The rain is recommencing.’
As we took our places again, he said: ‘Is it astonishing, M. Rothan, that the imagination of a poor old fellow, such as myself, goes astray at a time when earth and heaven confound themselves, while good and bad are struggling together, while such mysterious crimes occur around us even at this day? Is it strange?’
We all took our places with a feeling of annoyance with the engineer, who had alone remained quiet, and had seen us disconcerted. We turned our backs on him as we emptied our glasses without saying a word, while he, his elbow on the edge of the window-ledge, hummed between his teeth I know not what military march, the time of which he beat with his fingers on the ledge, without deigning to notice our ill-humour.
So things went on for some minutes, when Theodore Blitz said laughingly: ‘Monsieur Rothan triumphs. He does not believe in invisible spirits. Nothing troubles him. He has a good foot, good eye, and good ear. What more is wanting to convict us of ignorance and folly?’
‘Ha,’ replied Rothan, ‘I should not have dared to say it, but you express things so well, Monsieur Organist, that one cannot disagree with you, especially in any matter that concerns yourself. As for my old friends Schultz, Ulmett, Klers, and the others, it is different, very different. Any one may at times be led astray by a dream, only one must see that it does not become a custom.’
Instead of answering to this direct attack, Blitz, his head bent down, seemed to be listening to some noise without.
‘Hush,’ said he, looking at us. ‘Hush.’
He lifted his finger, and the expression of his face was so striking that we all listened with an indefinable feeling of fear.
The same instant heavy steps were heard in the street without; a hand was laid on the catch of the door, and the organist said to us in a trembling voice: ‘Be calm – listen and see. Heaven be with us.’
The door opened and Saphéri Mutz appeared.
Should I live to be a thousand years old the figure of that man will never be erased from my memory. He is there – I see him. He advances reeling, pale – his hair hanging about his face – his eye dull, glassy – his blouse tight to his body – a big stick in his hand. He looks upon us without seeing us, like a man in a dream. A winding track of mud is left behind him. He stops, coughs, and says in a low voice, as if speaking to himself: ‘Well! what if they arrest me! What if they kill me! I would rather be here!’
