The Man Who Sees Ghosts Read online

  In the meantime our company had grown in number. We were now joined by an English lord whom the Prince had already seen in Nice, some merchants from Livorno, a German canon, a French Abbot along with some ladies, and a Russian officer. There was something so remarkable about the latter’s physignomy that it drew our attention. Never have I seen jostling together in one human face so many traits and yet so little character, so much endearing kindness alongside so much repelling coldness. All the passions seemed to have once suffused and then to have abandoned it. All that was left was the quiet, penetrating gaze of a complete connoisseur of men, which intimidated everyone it lighted on. This strange man followed us from afar but appeared to take but a casual interest in all the proceedings.

  We came to a booth where a lottery was being drawn. The ladies entered the draw and we followed their example; the Prince also demanded a ticket. He won a snuff-box. When he opened it, I saw him blanch and recoil in shock.—The key lay inside it.

  “What is this?” the Prince said to me when we found ourselves alone for a moment. “A higher power pursues me, omniscience hovers about me. An invisible being which I cannot escape watches over my every step. I must seek out the Armenian and have him throw light on this.”

  The sun was nearly setting when we arrived in front of the summer-house where dinner was being served. The name of the Prince had swelled our company to sixteen persons. Apart from those mentioned already, we had been joined by a virtuoso from Rome, some Swiss and an adventurer from Palermo, Sicily, who was in uniform and gave out that he was a captain. It was decided to spend the entire evening there and then travel home by torchlight. At table the conversation was lively and the Prince could not refrain from relating the incident with the key, which excited general wonderment. The matter was hotly argued over. Most of the company boldly contended that all these magic arts amounted to mere sleight of hand; the abbot, who was already well in his cups, challenged the whole world of spirits to come of their hiding-places; the Englishman uttered blasphemies, while the musician crossed himself to ward off the devil. A few, among whom the Prince numbered, were of the opinion that one should reserve judgement on such matters; meanwhile the Russian officer conversed with the ladies and seemed to take no interest in the conversation. In the heat of the argument no-one had noticed the Sicilian leave. Not half an hour had passed when he returned wrapped in a coat and placed himself behind the chair of the Frenchman. “You were bold enough earlier to want to take on all the spirits—would you like to try your hand with one?”

  “Done!” said the abbot—“if you are willing to take it upon yourself to produce one for me.”

  “I am,” replied the Sicilian, turning towards us, “when these ladies and gentlemen have left.”

  “Why so?” cried the Englishman. “A plucky spirit is not afraid of good company.”

  “I cannot vouch for the outcome,” said the Sicilian.

  “For Heaven’s sake, no!” shrieked the ladies at the table, starting up from their chairs in alarm.

  “Let it come, this spirit of yours,” said the abbot, defiantly, turning to one of the guests and asking him for his dagger, “but warn it in advance that we have some sharp blades here.”

  “You may do as you see fit,” the Sicilian replied coldly, “if later you should feel so prompted.” He then turned to the Prince: “You have maintained, my lord, that your key passed through the hands of some stranger—can you divine who that was?”

  “No.”

  “And there is no-one you could guess at?”

  “I did have one thought, I admit—”

  “Would you recognise this person, if you saw him before you?”

  “Most certainly.”

  At this the Sicilian threw back his cloak and drew out a mirror which he held before the Prince’s eyes.

  “Is this the man?”

  The Prince recoiled in fright.

  “What did you see?” I asked him.

  “The Armenian.”

  The Sicilian hid the mirror back beneath his cloak.

  “Was it the same person you imagined?” the whole assembly asked the Prince.

  “The very same.”

  A change of expression came over every face at this and the laughter ceased. All eyes were fixed intently on the Sicilian.

  “Monsieur l’Abbé, things are getting serious,” said the Englishman; “I would advise you to consider sounding the retreat.”

  “The fellow’s possessed!” the Frenchman shouted and ran out of the house; the women rushed out of the room, shrieking, with the virtuoso hard on their heels; the German canon was snoring in an armchair, while the Russian remained sitting nonchalantly as before.

  “Perhaps all you want is to make a laughing stock of a braggart,” the Prince resumed after these others had left, “or are you indeed willing to keep to your word?”

  “It is true,” said the Sicilian, “that in respect of the abbot I was not in earnest: I only made the proposition to him because I knew the coward would not take me at my word.—But the matter itself is too serious to be merely the means of playing a joke.”

  “So you will allow then that it is in your power?”

  The magician was silent for a long time and appeared to be examining the Prince carefully.

  “Yes,” he said finally.

  The Prince’s curiosity was already close to breaking point. In former times, making contact with the spirit world had been a subject he had enthused about more than any other and, since the first appearance of the Armenian, all those ideas that his maturer judgment had dismissed now claimed his attention once more. He went to one side with the Sicilian, with whom I heard him negotiating most urgently.

  “You see a man before you,” he continued, “burning with impatience to know for certain about this important matter. Whoever were to scatter my doubts in this and lift the veil from my eyes, him I would embrace as my benefactor and first friend of my heart—would you be willing to perform this great service for me?”

  “What are you asking of me?” said the magician cautiously.

  “Simply a demonstration of your skill in the first instance. Let me see an apparition.”

  “What would that lead to?”

  “Then when you know me better you may judge as to whether I am worthy to receive higher instruction.”

  “I have the highest regard for you, great Prince. In your countenance resides a secret power that you yourself have no knowledge of as yet and this it was that bound me to you from the first. You are mightier than you yourself realise. All my powers are completely at your command—but—”

  “Then let me see an apparition.”

  “I must, however, first be sure that you do not ask this of me out of idle curiosity. Although unseen forces do in some measure obey me, this is on the sacred condition that I do not profane the sacred secrets, that I do not misuse my power.”

  “My intentions are of the purest. I want the truth.”

  At this point they moved away to a window further off where I could no longer hear them. The Englishman, who had likewise been privy to this conversation, drew me to one side.

  “Your prince is a noble man. To let himself get mixed up with a swindler I find all the more deplorable.”

  “That depends,” I said, “on how he will manage to pull out of the transaction.”

  “I tell you what,” said the Englishman, “the wretched devil will now slap a high price on his services. He’ll not display his skills until he hears the clink of money. There are nine of us. Let us make a collection and tempt him with a substantial sum. That will both prove his undoing and open the Prince’s eyes.”

  “I’ll go along with that.”

  The Englishman threw six guineas onto a plate and went round everyone in turn making a collection. Each one contributed some louis; our proposal seemed to be of uncommon interest to the Russian in particular, who placed a one hundred zechin banknote on the plate—an extravagance that astonished the Englishman. We too
k the collection to the Prince. “Please be so good,” said the Englishman, “to intercede with this gentleman on our behalf that he might let us see a demonstration of his skill and accept this small proof of our appreciation.” The Prince added a costly ring to the plate, which he then offered to the Sicilian. The latter hesitated a few moments. “My good gentlemen and patrons,” he began, “I feel humbled by this generosity.—It would appear you have misjudged me—but I will yield to your demands. Your wish will be granted” and he gave the bell-pull a tug. “As regards this money, to which I myself have no right, you will allow me to deposit it with the nearest Benedictine cloister as a charitable donation. This ring I will retain as a treasured memento to remind me of the worthiest of Princes.”

  At this point the landlord entered, to whom he handed over the money.

  “He’s a rogue nevertheless,” the Englishman spoke in my ear. “He’s surrendering the money because now he’s more concerned with the Prince.”

  “Or because the landlord is acting on orders,” said another.

  “Whom would you like?” the magician now asked the Prince.

  The Prince hesitated a moment —

  “Best make it a great man,” cried the English milord. “Call up the Ganganelli Pope. It won’t cost that gentleman much either.”

  The Sicilian bit his lip. “I am not permitted to summon anyone who has been ordained.”

  “That’s too bad,” said the Englishman. “We might have learnt from him what disease he died of.”

  “The Marquis of Lanoy,” the Prince now rejoined, “was a French brigadier in the last war and my most trusted friend. In the battle of Hastinbeck he received a fatal wound—he was carried to my tent where he shortly died in my arms. While he was still struggling in his death throes, he beckoned me to him. “Prince,” he began, “I will never see my homeland again, so I wish to tell you a secret to which only I have the key. In a nunnery on the Dutch border lives a—” and with this he expired. The hand of death cut the thread of his words; I would like him summoned and to hear how he would have continued.”

  “By heaven, that’s asking a lot!” cried the Englishman. “I’ll declare you to be a second Salomo if you can peform this task.” —

  We praised the Prince’s clever choice, applauding it to a man. Meanwhile the magician strode up and down, appearing to be struggling to come to a decision.

  “And was that all that the dying man left you with?”

  “That was all.”

  “Did you make no further enquiries about it in his own country?”

  “All to no avail.”

  “Had the Marquis of Lannoy led a blameless life?—There are some who have died I am not free to summon.”

  “He died repenting the debaucheries of his youth.”

  “Do you have on your person some memento of him?”

  “Yes.” The Prince did in fact carry a snuff-box about with him, on which there was an enamel miniature of the Marquis, and this he had lying next to him on the table.

  “I do not require to know more—Leave me on my own. You shall see the dead man.”

  We were asked to repair to the other building until such time as he would call us, while he had all the furniture removed from the room, the windows unhinged and the shutters carefully bolted. He ordered the landlord, with whom he seemed to be on familiar terms, to bring a container filled with glowing coals and to douse all the fires in the rest of the building. Before we left he was careful to exact from each one of us an oath of eternal silence as regards what we would see and hear. All the rooms of this building were then locked behind us.

  It was after eleven and a profound silence reigned throughout the house. As we were leaving the Russian asked me whether we had loaded pistols on us. “What for?” I asked. “For any eventuality,” he replied. “Wait a moment, I will see to it.” And he went away. Baron von F** and I opened a window from which the building opposite could be seen and we thought we could hear two people whispering together and a noise as of a ladder being erected. But this was only conjecture and I am reluctant to swear to its truth. The Russian came back with a pair of pistols after a half an hour’s absence. We saw him load them. It was nearly two o’clock when the magician reappeared and announced that it was time. Before we went in we were ordered to remove our shoes and present ourselves wearing nothing but shirts, stockings and undergarments. As on the first occasion all the doors were locked behind us.

  When we entered the room once again we found on the floor and drawn in charcoal a large circle, which was easily able to hold all ten of us. Round about. along all four walls of the room, the floorboards had been pulled up so that we seemed to be standing on an island. A altar draped in a black cloth had been set up in the middle of the circle and under this was spread a carpet of red satin. A Chaldean bible lay open on the altar next to a skull, and a silver crucifix was fastened to the same. Instead of candles, spirit was burning in a silver vessel. The thick smoke of frankincense darkened the room, well nigh extinguishing the light. The conjurer was half-dressed like us but barefoot; about his bare neck he wore an amulet on a chain of human hair; about his waist he had bound a white apron which was marked with cryptic signs and symbolic figures. He bade us join hands and observe a deep silence; he particularly enjoined us not to question the apparition. He asked the Englishman and myself (he seemed to mistrust us two the most) to keep two naked, crossed daggers held steadily one inch above the crown of his head for as long as the ceremony should last. We stood round him in a half circle, while the Russian thrust close to the Englishman, positioning himself close to the altar. With his face turned to the east, the magician now stepped onto the carpet, sprinkled holy water towards the four quarters and bowed three times towards the bible. The incantation, of which we understood nothing, lasted the space of half a quarter of an hour; when this was over he gave those standing immediately behind him a sign that they should hold him fast by his hair. Then, while shaken by the most violent convulsions, he called on the dead man by name three times; the third time he stretched out his hand toward the crucifix…

  All at once we felt as if we had all been struck by lightning at the same time, so that our hands flew apart; a sudden clap of thunder shook the house, all the locks rattled, all the doors slammed shut, the lid of the silver vessel snapped to, the light went out, and on the opposite wall above the fireplace appeared a human figure in a bloody shirt, pale and with the face of a man at the point of death.

  “Who calls me?” said a hollow, scarcely audible voice.

  “Your friend,” answered the conjurer, “who honours your memory and prays for your soul,” giving at the same time the Prince’s name.

  The answers followed always after very long intervals.

  “What does he want?” the voice continued.

  “To hear the end of your confession, which you began in this world and did not conclude.”

  “In a cloister on the Dutch border there lives …”

  At this the house began to shake anew. The door flew open of itself with a mighty clap of thunder, a flash of lightning lit up the room and another solid figure, bloody and pale like the first but more terrible, appeared at the threshold. The spirit in the vessel began to burn spontaneously and the room grew bright as before.

  “Who is this among us?” cried the magician aghast, throwing a look of horror about the assembly—“You were not the one I wanted.”

  The figure strode slowly and majestically up to the altar, stepped onto the carpet opposite us and grasped the crucifix. The first figure we could see no longer.

  “Who calls me?” said this second apparition.

  The magician began to tremble violently. Horror and dismay rooted us to the spot. I reached for a pistol—the magician tore it out of my hand and fired it at the figure. The ball rolled slowly over the altar, and the figure walked unchanged from out of the smoke. At this the magician collapsed in a faint.

  “What is this?” exclaimed the Englishman in astonis
hment and went to strike a blow with his dagger at the figure. The apparition touched his arm and the blade fell to the floor. A cold sweat now broke out on my forehead. Baron F** confessed to us later that he began to pray. Throughout this the Prince stood fearless and calm with his eyes fixed on the apparition.

  “Yes! I recognise you,” he cried finally in a voice full of emotion. “You are Lanoy, you are my friend—where have you come from?”

  “Eternity is dumb. Ask me about the life that is past.”

  “Who lives in the cloister you spoke of?”

  “My daughter.”

  “What? You were a father?”

  “Alas for me, I was a poor one!”

  “Are you not happy, Lanoy?”

  “God has passed judgement.”

  “Is there some service still in this world that I can do for you?”

  “None, except to think on yourself.”

  “How must I do that?”

  “You will find that out in Rome.”

  There then followed a fresh clap of thunder—a black cloud of smoke filled the room; when it had dispersed, the figure was no more to be seen. I flung open a window. It was morning.

  The magician now came out of his stupor. “Where are we?” he cried, when he saw the daylight. The Russian officer was standing close behind him and looking at him as he leant forward over his shoulder. “Juggler,” he said, giving him a terrible look, “never more will you summon spirits.”

  The Sicilian turned round, gave him a closer look, let out a loud cry and fell to his knees.

  Now we all turned suddenly to look at the supposed Russian. With no difficulty the Prince recognised again in him the features of his Armenian and the words he was about to stammer out died on his lips. Terror and dismay had turned us all to stone. In silence and without moving a muscle we stared at this mysterious being, who took us all in with a look of quiet power and authority. This silence lasted one minute—and then one more. Not the breath of a sound was heard from the whole assembly.

  A violent banging on the door finally brought us back to our senses. The door broke, shattering into splinters, and officers of the court along with guards surged in. “Here they all are, caught together!” their leader shouted, turning to those with him. “In the name of the State,” he loudly announced to us, “you are under arrest!” With not enough time even to think, we were swiftly surrounded. The Russian officer, whom I shall now rename the Armenian, took the constable to one side and, as much as the confusion would permit, I saw him saying a few words privately in his ear and showing him some written document. In an instant the constable bowed to him silently and respectfully, turning then from him to us and removing his hat. “Forgive me, gentlemen,” he said, “for confounding you with this swindler. I will not ask who you are—but this gentleman assures me that I have before me men of honour.” At the same time he signalled his companions to release us. He ordered the Sicilian to be well guarded and bound. “That fellow there is more than ripe for plucking,” he added. “We have been waiting to pounce on him for seven months now.”