“Of the devil’s chair it is related, that once, when a certain Count Victorin, with his head full of wicked projects, had sat down upon this rock, the devil suddenly appeared beside him; and because he was himself resolved to carry the Count’s wicked designs into execution, he incontinently hurled Victorin down into the unfathomable gulf.

  “Thereafter, the devil appeared as a capuchin monk, at the castle of the Baron von R —— ; and when he had taken his pleasure with the Baroness, he first sent her out of the world, (no one knew how,) and then, because the Baron’s son, a madman, would by no means allow of this masquerade, but always called out, ‘The devil, the devil is among us!’ he strangled him. However, by that persevering annonce of the madman, one pious soul at least was saved from the destruction which the devil had intended for them all; and this was the young Baroness Aurelia, the subject of the picture, which you have this night been commending.

  “Afterwards, the capuchin, (or the devil,) in an inconceivable manner, vanished; and it is said, that he fled, coward-like, from Victorin, who had risen like a bloody spectre from the grave against him.

  “Let all this be as it may, I can assure you, in plain truth, that the Baroness died mysteriously — probably by poison; and that Hermogen (the madman) was assassinated. The Baron himself, shortly afterwards, died of grief; and Aurelia, the pious Saint, whose portrait I painted, at the very time when these horrible events had taken place at the castle, fled as a desolate orphan into a distant Cistertian Convent, of which the Abbess had been in terms of friendship with her father.

  “You have seen and admired in my gallery the likeness of this admirable and unfortunate young lady. But as to other circumstances, this gentleman (pointing to me) will be better able to inform you than I am, since, during the whole of the adventures to which I have alluded, he was an inhabitant of the castle!”

  All looks, full of astonishment, were now directed towards me. Quite unnerved, and lost to all self-possession, I started up— “How, sir!” exclaimed I, in a violent tone— “What have I to do with your absurd stories of capuchins, and devils, and assassinations? You mistake me — you mistake me completely, I assure you; and I must beg that, for this once, you will leave me completely out of the question.”

  Considering the tumult of my mind, it was difficult for me to give my words even this much of connection and propriety, or to assume any degree of composure. The powerful influence of the painter’s narrative, and my excessive disquietude, were only too visible. The cheerful tone which prevailed through the party rapidly declined; and as the members of the club gradually recollected that I was a complete stranger, and had only by accident obtained my place among them, they began to fix on me mistrustful and suspicious glances.

  Meanwhile, the painter had risen from his chair, and, standing opposite, transfixed me once more with his dead-alive glaring eyes, as formerly in the Capuchin church. He did not utter a word; he stood cold, stiff, and, but for the expression of his eyes, as if lifeless.

  But at those ghostly looks, my hair rose on end; cold drops gathered on my forehead, and, seized by the most intense horror, I trembled through every fibre. “Avaunt! — away with thee!” I exclaimed, out of myself with agitation; “for thou thyself art Satan! Thou art the murderer — yet over me thou hast no power!”

  The whole party instantly left their seats.— “What’s the matter? Who is that?” was heard from all quarters; and out of the adjoining salle, the people, terrified by my voice, having left their amusements, came thronging into our room.— “A drunk man! — A madman! — Turn him out!” cried several voices.

  Meanwhile, the painter stood there steadfast, and immovably staring upon me. The power which he thus (I know not how) exerted over my very mind and thoughts — the whole train of consequences which the discovery he was determined to force out would bring upon me — the wretched thraldom in which I should remain at present, and the destruction which must ensue — all these ideas conflicted together in my mind. But even without their aid, the looks of the spectral painter alone were more than I could endure. Methought his detestable features at length enlarged, moved, and were writhen in mockery and scorn. At last, driven to the uttermost paroxysm of rage and despair, I drew forth the stiletto with which I had, in self-defence, killed Hermogen, and which I always carried in my breast-pocket.

  With this weapon in my hand, I now fell upon my enemy; but his quick eye had caught every movement, and one blow of his powerful arm brought me to the ground. Methought I heard him laugh aloud, in hideous and scornful triumph, so that his voice resounded through the chamber.

  “Brother Medardus!” said he, “Brother Medardus, play no longer this false game! Go, return to the sanctuary of thy convent, and humble thyself to the dust in shame and repentance!”

  I now felt myself seized by the people in the room; and allowing them to raise me up, pretended at first to be quite exhausted; then, all at once, rousing my whole strength, I drove and struck like a raging wild beast against my assailants; and this so unexpectedly, that several of them fell to the ground, and I made myself a passage towards the door; but had scarcely rushed into the corridor, when a small side door opened, and I felt myself seized on by an invisible arm, by which I was drawn into a dark chamber. To this I made no resistance, for the multitude of pursuers were raging behind me.

  Into this dark room I had been drawn just as I turned round a corner of the corridor, and the mob of people, imagining that I had run onwards and escaped down stairs, passed by the door and left me for the moment unmolested. My invisible companion listened to their proceedings, and in a few moments led me by the arm down a dark, private staircase, into a back court, and then through the buildings behind into the open street. By the light of the lamps I here recognised as my deliverer the absurd Belcampo!

  CHAPTER XX.

  “YOUR EXCELLENCY,” SAID Belcampo, “appears to have laboured under a strange fatality with regard to this painter. I was drinking my wine in an adjoining room when the uproar began, and resolved, if possible, to rescue you, for I alone am the author of all this disturbance.”

  “How can that be?” said I; “what share could you possibly have in the disaster?”

  “Who can resist momentary impulse?” said the little man, in a tone of great pathos; “who can withstand the influences of that unseen, but predominant Spirit, that rules over and inspires all our thoughts and actions?

  “When I arranged your excellency’s hair, my mind was, as usual, lighted up by the sublimest ideas. I resigned myself up to the unbridled impulse of wild phantasy, and accordingly I not only forgot to bring the lock of anger on the topmost curls into a state of proper softness and roundness, but even left seven-and-twenty hairs of fear and horror upon the forehead.

  “The twenty-seven hairs that were thus left, raised themselves erect at the stern looks of the painter, (who is, in truth, neither more nor less than a revenant,) and inclined themselves longingly towards the lock of anger on the toupée, which, in return, hissing and rustling, became dishevelled. All this I could perceive with my own eyes.

  “Then, roused to extreme rage, your excellency pulled out a stiletto, on which I distinguished that there were already drops of blood. But it was a vain and needless attempt to send to hell him who to hell already belongs. For this painter is Ahasuerus, the Wandering Jew, or Bertram de Bornis, or Mephistopheles, or Benvenuto Cellini, or Judas Iscariot; in short, a wicked revenant, and, in my opinion, to be banished by no other means than by burning-hot curling-irons, which shall twist away into annihilation that idea in which he properly consists; or, by the dexterous and energetic use of electrical combs, against those thoughts which, in order to his own existence, he must suck up and imbibe.

  “Your excellency perceives that to me, phantast and artist by profession, such things are, as the French say, veritable pomade, which proverb, borrowed from our science, has more meaning than one would otherwise suppose, as soon as the pomade is known to contain genuine oil of cloves.”

  This mad and unintelligible gibberish of the little man, who, meanwhile, ran along with me through the streets, had for me, in my present mood of mind, something truly horrible; and yet, when I looked now and then at his incredible leaps and springs, his grotesque gestures, and comical countenances, I was forced, as if by an involuntary convulsion, to laugh.

  At last we were in my own chamber, in the inn of the suburb, and beyond the town gates. Here Belcampo assisted me to pack up my clothes, &c. and in a short time all was ready for my departure. Thereafter, I slipped not one only, but several ducats, into his hand, whereupon he jumped up into the air for joy, and cried aloud, “Hurrah! — hurrah! — now I have got gold, indeed — honourable gold, dyed in heart’s-blood, streaming and beaming with its red effulgence! Excuse me, sir,” (for at these words I looked at him with amazement,) “’twas but a passing thought, and now ’tis gone!”

  He then offered his services to give to the “lock of anger” the proper degree of roundness, and cut away the “twenty-seven hairs of horror,” requesting also that he might be allowed to choose for himself a small “love-lock,” to keep as a remembrance. This I accordingly granted, and with indescribable gestures and grimaces, he fulfilled his task.

  After this, he seized the stiletto, which, on undressing, I had laid upon the table, and taking the position of a fencer, made with it divers cuts and thrusts into the air.

  “Ha!” said he, “now shall I make an end of your adversary, for he is but an idea, probably he may also be extirpated by a thought. Let him die, then, by this thought of mine, which, in order to render more powerful, I accompany with suitable gestures of the body — Apage, Satanas! — apage, Ahasuerus! — Allez vous en! — Now, that was something like! That was working to some purpose,” said he, laying down the stiletto, breathing hard, and wiping his brows, like one that has exerted his utmost to get through some great labour.

  Luckily I now got possession of the stiletto, and, wishing to conceal it, groped with it into my sleeve, forgetting that I no longer wore my capuchin robes. This gesture the man seemed to remark, and slyly to laugh at. Meanwhile the postilion (for I had ordered horses) began to blow his bugle before the house.

  Then Belcampo suddenly changed his posture and tone. He drew out a small pocket-handkerchief, bent himself several times with deep reverence, at last kneeled before me, and entreated in a lamentable voice —

  “Two masses, reverend father, I beseech you, for my poor grandmother, who died of a surfeit; four for my father, who died of involuntary fasting; but for myself, one every week when I am dead. Above all, however, and in the first place, an indulgence for my many faults and sins now, while I am yet living!

  “Alas! sir, there is an infamous wicked fellow that lurks concealed within me, and says, ‘Peter Fairfield, be no longer an ass, and believe that thou existest; for I am properly thou, and am called Belcampo — moreover am a genial idea; and if thou dost not believe this, I will strike thee down to the earth with an acute thought, finely pointed as a hair!’

  “This damnable fellow, sir, commits all sorts of sins and wicked pranks. Oftentimes he doubts of the Real Presence — gets drunk — falls into quarrels and pommelling matches, and commits gross indelicacies against pure virgin thoughts. This Pietro Belcampo, sir, has made me, Peter Fairfield, quite confused and dissipated; so that I frequently jump about in an absurd and unbecoming manner, and defile the spotless garb of innocence, when, with white silk stockings, and singing dulce jubilo, I splash unawares into the dirt. Forgiveness, then, venerable father, for both, for Peter Fairfield and Pietro Belcampo.”

  He continued prostrate, and pretended to sob violently. The folly of the man became tiresome to me. “Be reasonable at least,” said I to him, “and give us no more of this.” The head-waiter now came in to take my luggage. Belcampo sprung up, and resuming at once his mirthful humour, he assisted, talking, however, all the time, to collect together whatever property of mine was in the room. In a few moments I found myself seated in my cabriolet.

  “That fellow is a most complete puppy,” said the waiter, in a low voice, and pointing to Belcampo; “the less one has to do with him the better.”

  The door was closed, and the postilion mounted. Belcampo waved his hat, and began, “Even to the last breath of my life—” but with a significant look, I laid my finger on my lips, and he was silent. Anon the postilion drove off, blowing the Tyroler-lied on his bugle as we clattered along the chaussée, and I was once more, emancipated from all ties, whether hostile or friendly, thrown upon the world.

  When the morning began to dawn, the town from which I had fled lay far behind me; and as I contemplated with some interest the new scenes through which we passed, the form of that frightful man, who pursued and haunted me like a visible impersonization of the guilt and mystery by which my life had been darkened, had again almost vanished away. On setting out, I had merely desired to be driven to the first stage on the high road leading southwards; but at every new station, the questions of the postmaster, “Whence and whither?” revived to my mind how completely I was now separated and cut off from every relationship in life; and like the wandering Ahasuerus, of whom Belcampo had spoken, was utterly given up, a prey to the stormy waves of chance, that bore me like a powerless wreck along.

  But had not my ruling destiny drawn me thus out of my former relationships and dependencies, only that the internal efforts of my spirit might be exerted with greater life and vigour? Something must be accomplished, in order to still those yearnings of the soul, by which I was convinced that a great and important result was before me. Restless I travelled on, through a beautiful and flourishing country. Nowhere could I find repose, but was driven irresistibly onward, always farther and farther, towards the south. I had hitherto, without any consciousness or attention on my own part, scarcely made any important deviation from the route recommended to me by Leonardus; so that the impulse which he had given to me at first setting out, seemed to work always in a straight-forward direction, and with an influence wholly uninterrupted.

  It happened, one very dark night, that I travelled through a dense wood of pine and beech-trees, which was said to extend as far as the next station, on which account the postmaster had advised me to remain with him till the next morning; but from an impatience, to myself unaccountable, as I was unable to put a name on any goal or object which I wished to reach, I peremptorily refused his proposal.

  Already, at the time of my departure, lightning, which is not usual at that season of the year, gleamed on the distant horizon; and very soon, clouds, collected by the approaching storm, rolled together, darker and darker, in threatening volumes. The postilion observed what sort of weather we should of necessity encounter; pointed to the clouds, and asked if he might return? To this I gave a peremptory answer in the negative. We entered accordingly that long, interminable, and tangled forest which stretches between Holzenheim and Rosenthurm, where the wood alternately consists of tall beech-trees and dense thickets of Norway and Scotch fir. Having laid aside his tobacco-pipe, he began here, for his diversion, to play “Malbrook” on his bugle; but anon the thunder began to roll, and even to crack above our heads, with numberless reverberations; while, far as the eye could reach, there was nothing but the crossing and re-crossing of red lightnings on the horizon. Such a tempest I have never witnessed, neither before nor since. During a thunderstorm, the air is generally calm, but now there were unaccountable gusts of wind, such as usually occur only in the depth of winter. The tall fir-trees, shaken to their very roots, groaned and crashed. The rain poured down in torrents. Every moment we ran the risk of being killed by the falling of the trees, and the horses constantly reared, and ran back from the flashes of lightning.

  At last, after a long struggle, and many vicissitudes, we were “beat to a stand still,” for the carriage (as a climax) was overturned, on a piece of rough road, so violently, that one of the hinder wheels broke in pieces. Thus we had no alternative, but must remain on the spot, till the storm should abate, and the moon break through the clouds.

  The postilion now remarked, that, on account of the darkness, and the rain driving in his face, he had quite wandered away from the right road, and had fallen into an avenue of the forest. There was now no other method, but to follow out this avenue as far as it would go, and thus perhaps to arrive at some woodman’s hut or village.

  Though the darkness continued, yet we contrived to prop up the carriage with a kind of wooden leg, and thus it was dragged gradually onwards. We had not gone far, till, marching in the van, I perceived now and then the gleaming of a light, and thought that I could distinguish the baying of dogs.

  I had not deceived myself; for we had not persevered in our laborious progress above a few minutes longer, before I distinctly heard the dogs’ voices; and in due time we came to an opening in the wood, where the road became more passable. At last we arrived at a large respectable-looking house, though, as far as the dim light enabled us to perceive, old, gloomy, and surrounded by the high walls of a regularly-built square court.

  The postilion, without hesitation, knocked loudly at the outer gate. The dogs immediately grew outrageous, and sprang out from their kennels against us. In the house, (or keep,) however, all remained quiet and dead, till the postilion had recourse to his horn, (lending me a spare one, that we might play a duet,) and blew “Wilhelmus von Nassau” with such vehemence, that the old vaulted building re-echoed to the notes.

 

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