The Man Who Sees Ghosts Read online

  “And I would like to see the man,” I exclaimed, “who under these circumstances could resist assuming something similar. But what are the reasons you now have for changing your mind? After what we have just heard about this Armenian, one would expect belief in his miraculous powers to have strengthened rather than diminished.”

  “Believe the word of a scoundrel?” the Prince broke in earnestly. “For I hope you do not doubt any longer that that is whom we have been dealing with?”

  “No,” I said. “But because of that should his testimony—”

  “The testimony of a scoundrel—given I had no other reason to doubt it—cannot be weighed in the same scales as truth and sound reason. Does a man who has deceived me several times, who has made deception his trade, deserve a hearing in an affair where even the most upright love of truth must first be purified in order to deserve belief? Does such a man, who has perhaps never spoken a true word for its own sake, deserve to be believed when he appears as a witness against human reason and the eternal laws of nature? That would be just like my giving a branded villain full authority to bring an action against pure and unsullied innocence.”

  “But what reasons could he have to give a man he has so much cause to hate, or at least to fear, such a splendid testimonial?”

  “Even though I cannot perceive these reasons, does that therefore mean he does not have them? Who paid him to deceive me—do I know that? I admit that I cannot quite see yet the web of his deceit in its entirety but he has badly served his argument by exposing himself to be a fraud—and something even worse, perhaps.”

  “The matter of the ring does indeed appear to me somewhat suspicious.”

  “It is more than that,” said the Prince, “it is decisive. He received that ring from the murderer (accepting for the moment that the event he related really took place) and instantly he must have known for certain that this person was the murderer. Who but the murderer could have taken from Jeronymo’s finger a ring which the dead man himself certainly never removed? Throughout the whole of his story he sought to persuade us that he himself was deceived by the brother, while he had believed that he, the Sicilian, was doing the deceiving. Why else would he have practised this subterfuge unless he felt how utterly he would have condemned himself by admitting to an understanding with the murderer? His whole story is clearly nothing but a string of fabrications on which to hang the few truths he thought it good to reveal to us. And am I to have any greater misgivings about indicting a scoundrel for telling me the eleventh lie when I have caught him out lying to me ten times before? Should I instead concede a suspension of the fundamental laws of nature in which I have never yet encountered a discordant note?”

  “I have no reply to that,” I said. “But nonetheless I still find the apparition we saw yesterday no less difficult to understand.”

  “And so do I,” answered the Prince, “although I am tempted to think I have found a key to that.”

  “What is that?” I said.

  “Do you remember that the second figure, as soon as it entered, went up to the altar, took the crucifix in his hand and stepped onto the carpet?”

  “That is how I remember it. Yes.”

  “And the crucifix, the Sicilian tells us, was a conductor. From this you can see the hurry it was in to become electrically charged. So the dagger thrust that Lord Seymour made at it was bound to be ineffectual since the electric shock paralysed his arm.”

  “That would make good sense as regards the dagger. But the ball which the Sicilian fired at the figure and which we heard slowly rolling over the altar?”

  “But do you know for certain that the ball we heard rolling was the one he fired?—Not to mention the possibility that the marionette or man playing the spirit was so well armoured that he was ball and dagger-proof. But think back a moment—who was it who loaded the pistols?”

  “It is true,” I said,—and it suddenly dawned on me—“The Russian did. But this took place under our noses: how could a trick have been played on us under such circumstances?”

  “And why could it not? Were you suspicious enough of that man at the time, enough to find it necessary to keep a watch on him? Did you examine the ball before he put it into the barrel? —it could just as well have been a quicksilver one or even just a painted ball of clay. Were you watching to see whether he really dropped it into the barrel of the pistol and not into his hand? What convinces you—supposing he really had loaded them—that it was these loaded pistols that he took with him over to the other building and that he did not rather substitute another pair, a thing which was done with such ease because it did not enter anyone’s head to watch him, and with us besides busy undressing? And could not the ghost, at the moment when the smoke from the powder separated it from us, have dropped onto the altar another ball, one that it had about itself for emergencies? Of all these instances which one is impossible?”

  “You are right. But that striking likeness the figure had to your friend—I saw him with you on many occasions and I immediately recognised him in the apparition.”

  “So did I—and I can only say that the illusion was created to perfection. But if the Sicilian, after a few furtive looks at my snuff-box, was able to give his figure a fleeting likeness which deceived you and me, then why not the Russian so much the more easily, who during the whole supper had free use of my snuff-box, who enjoyed the advantage of remaining throughout unobserved, and to whom besides I had disclosed in confidence whose picture it was that appeared on the box. Add to this the fact—and this the Sicilian remarked on, too—that what distinguishes the Marquis is an abundance of those kinds of features that can easily be copied in rough, then what is there at all in this apparition that cannot be explained?”

  “But then there is what it said—the revelation concerning your friend?”

  “And? Did not the Sicilian tell us that he put together a similar story from the little he gleaned from me? Does that not prove how very natural it was to hit upon this fiction? Moreover, the spirit’s answers, like an oracle, sounded so obscure that there was no danger of his being embarrassed by a contradiction. Supposing the charlatan’s minion, the one who played the spirit, had been shrewd and self-possessed and had been instructed only slightly as regards the circumstances—to what lengths could this trickery have been taken?”

  “But, my lord, think how complicated it would have to have been for the Armenian to arrange so complex a deception! How much time it would have involved! How much time simply to paint as true a copy of another human face as was here required! How much time needed to instruct this bogus spirit so well that one could be sure that no glaring mistake would be made! How much attention the countless little secondary matters would have required, things that could either assist or those which had to be dealt with somehow because they could spoil the effect! And consider, too, that the Russian was away for no longer than half an hour. Could everything—that is, just the most basic essentials in this case—really have been arranged in no more than half an hour?—Truly, my lord, not even a playwright scratching his head over the three rigid unities of his Aristotle would have burdened one scene with so much action, or demanded to boot so much suspension of disbelief from his groundlings.” “What? So you think it absolutely impossible that all those arrangements could have been made in that short half hour?”

  “As good as impossible, in fact,” I exclaimed.

  “I do not understand what you are saying. Is it against all the laws of time, space and physics for a skilful fellow, such as this Armenian undeniably is, with the help of minions as equally skilful perhaps, under the cover of night, unobserved and equipped with all the means that a man of his trade would anyway always have to hand, for such a man, under such favourable circumstances, to be able to bring off so much in such a short time? Is it frankly unthinkable and absurd to believe, that with the help of a few words, orders or signs, he could give his accomplices detailed tasks? And that he could designate detailed and complicated operation
s with the minimum amount of explanation?—And is there something else apart from a clearly conceived impossibility that may be deployed against the eternal laws of nature? Would you rather believe in a miracle than admit to an improbability? Rather overturn the forces of nature than acknowledge an artificial and unusual combination of these same forces?”

  “Even if the business does not justify coming to such a daring conclusion, you must nevertheless admit that it goes far beyond our comprehension.”

  “I am tempted to challenge you on that, too,” said the Prince mischievously and in high spirits. “What would you say, my dear Count, if, for example, it transpired that the Armenian had people working for him not just during and after that half-hour, and not hurriedly and carelessly, but throughout the whole evening and night? Remember, the Sicilian spent nearly three hours making his preparations.”

  “The Sicilian, my lord?”

  “And what proof can you offer me that the Sicilian did not have just as much to do with the second spectre as with the first?”

  “What, my lord?”

  “That he was not the Armenian’s chief accomplice—in short, that both of them are not working hand in glove with each other?”

  “That might be difficult to prove,” I exclaimed, not a little taken aback.

  “Not as difficult, my dear Count, as you may think. Why, was it by chance that both these men met in such an unusual, such a complicated attack on the same person at the same time and in the same place—by chance that there was such a striking harmony in their respective operations, such a studied understanding that the one seemed almost to play into the hands of the other? Suppose he had employed this cruder jugglery to act as a foil for the more polished one. Suppose he had sent the other one on ahead in order to discover the level of credulity he would have to reckon with in my case, to spy out ways of winning my trust. By this experiment—which could go wrong without prejudicing the rest of his plan—he would get to know his subject and, in short, would thus begin to play his instrument. Suppose he did this because, by deliberately focusing my attention on one thing and keeping it there wide awake, he would make it drowsy as regards another that was more important to him. Suppose he had some information to gather, and the cost for this he wished to put on the conjuror’s bill, so as to put anyone becoming suspicious off the true scent.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let us assume that he bribed one of my servants so as to obtain through him certain secret information—even documents perhaps—which might serve his purpose. My huntsman is missing. What is there to stop me from believing that the Armenian is involved in the disappearance of this man? But chance may have it that I catch him out: a letter can be intercepted, a servant can talk. He is completely discredited if I discover the source of his omniscience. And so he introduces this conjurer, who must have something or other against me. He does not omit to drop a timely hint as regards the nature and intentions of this man. So whatever I might discover, my suspicion would fall on no-one else but the conjurer; and to all the inquiries that would be to the benefit of the Armenian, the Sicilian would give his own name. This was the doll with which he let me play, while he himself, unobserved and unsuspected, was entwining me in invisible cords.”

  “Very good! But how does the fact that he himself helped to expose the trickery accord with these intentions—that he revealed the secrets of his art to profane eyes? Would that not make him fear that, once the baselessness of the deception was discovered—a deception practised with such a high degree of realism, as the Sicilian’s in fact certainly was—that this would not actually weaken your credulity and make it more difficult for him in his plans for a greater deception?”

  “What are these secrets that he has revealed? None for sure of the sort that he wishes to practise on me. So he has lost nothing through their profanation. But how much on the contrary has he gained, if this supposed triumph over deception and sleight of hand has emboldened me and if, as a result of this, he succeeds in making me turn my attention in an opposite direction, in making me focus my suspicions, which are still vague and wide-ranging, on objects which are furthest removed from the actual place of attack? —He would expect me sooner or later either to grow so suspicious or be so prompted by some hint or remark that I would look to sleight of hand as an explanation of his miracles.—What better could he do than to set sleight of hand alongside miracles, and let me take the measure of the two, as it were, and, by imposing artificial limits on the first deception, elevate or confuse all the more my notions concerning the other. How many suspicions will he have swiftly nipped in the bud by means of this device! How many kinds of explanation pre-empted, to which I may have subsequently resorted!”

  “He has at least acted very much against his own interests by sharpening the eyes of those he wanted to deceive and, through the exposure of such a fabricated lie, made their faith in miraculous powers weaker. You yourself, my lord, are the best refutation of his plan, if indeed he had one.”

  “He was perhaps mistaken about me—but, for all that, he judged things no less shrewdly. Could he have foreseen that I would remember the very thing that could be the key to the miracle? Was it part of his plan that the minion he used should give himself away to me as he did? How do we know whether this Sicilian did not greatly overstep his authority? —Certainly in the case of the ring—And it is indeed principally this one circumstance which decided my distrust of this man. How easy it is for a well-laid, subtle plan to begin to unravel because of a cruder agent! It certainly cannot have been his intention that the conjurer, like some loud-mouthed market stallholder, should trumpet his fame before us—that he should serve us up with those fairy-tales, which, upon the slightest reflection, can be seen to be full of contradictions. So, for example, how can this charlatan have the face to allege that his miracle worker must break off all human relations on the stroke of midnight? Did we not ourselves seen him in our midst at this time?”

  “That is true,” I exclaimed. “He must have forgotten that!”

  “But it is in the nature of this kind of man to exceed his commission and, by overdoing things, spoil everything that a more modest and moderate deception would have achieved magnificently.”

  “Nevertheless, my lord, I still cannot bring myself to see this whole affair as nothing more than a contrived performance. And why? The Sicilian’s terror, his convulsions, his loss of consciousness, the whole wretched condition of the man, which inspired even us with compassion—was all this only a well-rehearsed act? Even if we grant that the histrionics of conjuring tricks could lead to such extremes, nevertheless the art of the actor cannot control the organs of his life.”

  “If it comes to that, my friend, I saw Garrick’s Richard III.—But were we calm enough at that moment to serve as idle and impartial spectators? Were we in a position to be able to examine the emotional state of that man when we ourselves were overcome by our own? Besides, the decisive climax even of a deception is such an important moment for the trickster that its anticipation can very easily produce in him symptoms as powerful as astonishment can in those being deceived. Consider also the unexpected appearance of the court officers—”

  “Exactly, my lord—it is good that you remind me of them.—Would he really have dared to compromise so dangerous a plan in full view of the law? To put the loyalty of his minion to such a hazardous test? And to what purpose?”

  “He must know his own people—let him take care of that. Do we know what kind of secret crimes there are that give him a hold over that man’s tongue?—You heard what office he occupies in Venice—and let this pretence, too, be ranked alongside the remaining fairy tales—what would it cost him in fact to help this fellow out, who has no other accuser than himself?”

  (And, in fact, the way things fell out justified the Prince’s suspicions only too well. Some days later, on putting out enquiries regarding our prisoner, we received the answer that he had vanished.)

  “And to what purpose, you ask?
In what other way than by these powerful means could he have seen to it that the Sicilian was obliged to give such an improbable and outrageous confession, on which so much depended? Who, other than a desperate man with nothing more to lose could decide to give such humiliating information about himself? Under what other circumstances would we have believed what he told us?”

  “I will grant everything you say, my lord,” I said at last: “that both apparitions were tricks; that this Sicilian foisted a mere fairy-tale on us that his principal had taught him; that both of them, working hand in glove, had one and the same end in view, and that all those other miraculous accidents that astonished us in the course of this incident can be explained in the light of this partnership. Nevertheless, that prophecy in the Piazza San Marco, the first miracle that led to all the rest, remains unexplained; and what good to us is the key to all the other mysteries if the explanation of this one defeats us?”

  “Turn it rather the other way round, my dear Count,” the Prince rejoined. “Tell me, what do all those miracles prove if I can show that there was just one single piece of sleight of hand behind them? That prophecy, I freely confess, is beyond my comprehension. If it stood there on its own, then the Armenian would have concluded his part as he began it—I admit I do not know how much further it might have led me. I am inclined to be somewhat suspicious of prophecies in this vulgar society.”

  “That I grant you, my lord! But it still remains inexplicable and I call upon all our philosophers to furnish me with an explanation.”

  “But is it really so incomprehensible?” the Prince continued, after reflecting for a few moments. “I am very far from claiming the name of philosopher and yet I might feel tempted to find a natural key to this miracle as well, or rather to strip it of all supernatural appearance.”

  “If you can do that, my dear Prince,” I replied, giving him a very sceptical smile, “then you would be the only miracle I believed in.”