The Man Who Sees Ghosts (5 page)

“To judge from his outward appearance he cannot be much more than forty.”

“And how old do you think I am?”

“Not far off fifty?”

“Correct. And if I now tell you I was a lad of seventeen when my grandfather told me of this prodigy, whom he had seen at Famagosta looking roughly the same age he now seems to be—”

“That is ridiculous—unbelievable and outlandish.”

“Not at all. If I was not restrained by these manacles, I would be happy to produce before you people ready to give testimony, people so worthy of repute that they would banish all doubt from your minds. There are trustworthy people who remember having seen him in different parts of the world at the same time. No dagger’s point can pierce him, no poison affect him, no fire burn him, no ship
sink in which he sails. Time itself seems to have lost its power over him: the years do not dry up his sap, and age cannot whiten his hair. No-one has ever seen him eat, no woman has ever been touched by him, no sleep ever closes his eyes; of all the hours of the day only one is known of which he is not master, during which no-one has seen him, and when his business has not been of this world.”

“Is that so?” said the Prince. “And what hour is that?”

“At twelve midnight. As soon as the clock strikes twelve, he no longer belongs to the world of the living. Wherever he may be, he has to leave; whatever business he is engaged in, he has to bring it to a halt. This terrible striking of the hour tears him from the arms of friendship, tears him even from the altar, and would also tear him even from the throes of death. No-one knows where he then goes, nor what he does there: no-one dares to ask him, still less to follow him, for, as soon as the feared hour strikes, his features immediately contract into such a dark and terrifying severity that the courage to look him in the face or address him deserts everyone. The liveliest conversation will then be abruptly cut off by a deep death-like silence, and all those around him will await his return with deferential terror, without daring even to rise from their seats or to open the door through which he left.”

“But does no-one notice anything out of the ordinary about him when he returns?” asked one of our party.

“Nothing, except that he looks pale and drained, rather like a man who has undergone some painful operation or who has received some terrible news. Some claim that they have seen blood-drops on his shirt, but that is not something I myself can judge of.”

“And has no-one ever tried at least to hide the time from him or to enmesh him in distractions to such an extent that he failed to notice it?”

“Once, and once only, they say, he overran his time. There were many present; they lingered until late at night; all the clocks had been carefully set to the wrong time and the conversation was so impassioned that it held him fast. When the appointed hour came, he was instantly struck dumb and froze, with all his limbs still aligned in the same direction they were when caught unawares; his eyes stared blankly, his pulse stopped beating; all the means employed to reawaken him were of no avail, and so he remained in this condition until the hour had passed. Then he suddenly came to life again, his eyes focused once more and he continued with the same syllable he had been speaking when he had been interrupted. The general consternation betrayed to him what had happened, and he then declared with a dreadful gravity that they should deem themselves lucky to have escaped with a fright only. But that very same evening he left the city where he had this experience, never to return. It is generally believed that in this mysterious hour he converses with his genius. Some even think he is a departed soul permitted to wander among the living twenty-three hours of the day but obliged in the last hour to return home to the lower world, in order to endure its judgment. There are also many who take him to be the famous Apollonius of Tyana, and others, even, to be the disciple, John, of whom it is said that he would tarry till the last judgment.”

“There is clearly bound to be a host of speculations,”
said the Prince, “regarding such an extraordinary man. Everything you have said so far, however, is simply from hearsay, and yet his behaviour towards you, and yours to him, seem to me to indicate a closer acquaintance. Is there not some particular story or other behind all this in which you yourself were involved? Don’t hide anything from us.”

The Sicilian looked at us doubtfully and held his tongue.

“If it concerns some affair,” continued the Prince, “which you do not wish to be made public, then in the name of these two gentlemen I guarantee you total secrecy. But speak candidly and without concealment.”

“If I may be permitted to hope,” began the man at last after a long silence, “that you will not let such a matter be brought in evidence against me, I will tell you of a remarkable incident concerning this Armenian, which I witnessed and which will leave you in no doubt as to the secret power of this man. But I must be allowed,” he added, “to withhold the names of some of those involved.”

“Can you not proceed without this condition?”

“No, my lord. It concerns a family which I have reasons for wanting to protect.”

“Let us hear it,” said the Prince.

“It must be a good five years ago now,” began the Sicilian, ”that I made the acquaintance in Naples, where I was practising my trade with moderate success, of a certain Lorenzo del M**nte, a knight of the order of St. Stephen, a young and rich gallant from one of the first houses of the realm, who heaped me with favours, and who seemed to think highly of my mysteries. He
confided in me that his father, the Marchese del M**nte, was an ardent admirer of the cabbala and would count himself fortunate to get to know a philosopher (as it pleased him to call me) under his own roof. The old man lived on one of his estates by the sea about seven miles from Naples where, in almost entire seclusion from humanity, he mourned the memory of a beloved son, who had been snatched from him by a terrible stroke of fate. The knight gave me to understand that he and his family might at some time require my person in a very serious matter, in order perhaps through my occult knowledge to unravel something for which all natural means of explanation had been tried to no avail. He in particular, he added very significantly, might perhaps at some point have good reason to regard me as the bringer of his peace and agent of all his earthly happiness. The matter itself, however, fell out in the following way.

“This Lorenzo was the younger son of the Marchese and so destined to take the cloth; the family fortune was to fall to his elder brother. Jeronymo, as this elder brother was called, had spent many years travelling and about seven years before the event which will now be related returned to his homeland in order to enter into a marriage with the only daughter of the family of a neighbouring Count of C***tti, this same marriage having been agreed by both families from the very birth of these children, so that, through this, their considerable estates might be united. Despite the fact that this union was a matter solely of parental convenience and that the hearts of the betrothed had not been consulted on the choice, the two had nevertheless silently approved
it. Jeronymo del M**nte and Antonie C***tti had been brought up together and, because there was, in their case, little of the then customary pressure imposed on the relations between two children regarded as a couple, an early and tender understanding had sprung up between the two of them, which was strengthened even more by the compatibility of their two natures and which, as they matured, naturally developed into love. A four year separation had the rather increased their ardour than cooled it, and Jeronimo returned to the arms of his bride as faithful and as passionate as if he had never torn himself away from them.

“The delight at seeing each other again had not yet faded and the preparations for the wedding were proceeding with great gusto when the bridegroom—disappeared. He was often in the habit of spending whole evenings at a country house which looked out over the sea, and would sometimes enjoy taking a boat out on the water. After one such evening it so happened that he failed to return for an unusually long time. Messengers were sent out after him, boats searched for him on the sea—nobody reported having seen him; none of his servants was missing, so none could have accompanied him. Night fell and he did not appear. Dawn came the next day—and noon, and evening, and still no Jeronymo. They began to fear the very worst, when news came in that an Algerian corsair had landed on the coast the day before and that several of the inhabitants had been carried off captive. Immediately two galleys, lying ready for sea, are manned; the old Marquis himself boards the first, determined to risk his own life to free his son. On the third morning they sighted
the corsair; they have the advantage of the wind of them and soon overhauled them; they get so near that Lorenzo, on board the first galley, believes he can see signs of his brother on the enemies’ deck, when suddenly a storm drives them apart once more. The damaged ships ride it out but the prize has vanished and their plight forces them to put into Malta. The grief of the family knows no bounds; in despair the old Marchese tears out his grey hair, while they fear for the life of the young countess.

Five years go by, spent in fruitless inquiries the whole length of the Barbary coast; huge rewards are offered for the release of the young Marchese, but nobody comes forward to claim them. At length they were left with the probable conjecture that the storm which separated both vessels had sent the robber ship to the bottom and that its entire company had perished in the waves.

As likely as this conjecture was, it nevertheless fell far short of being certain and in no way justified giving up all hope that the lost man might appear again at some time. But in the event that he did not, the family would then die out with him at the same time, or the second brother would have to renounce entering holy orders and assume the rights of the firstborn. As presumptuous and as unjust in itself this last step was, that is, to rob a brother who might still be alive of his birthright, they believed it was wrong to gamble with the fate of an ancient and illustrious line that would otherwise fail, all for the sake of such a remote possibility. Grief and the weight of his years drew the old Marquis nearer to the grave; at every newly thwarted attempt his hopes sank of ever finding his lost son again. He faced the extinction of his family
something which could be prevented by means of a small injustice, that is, by deciding to favour the younger brother at the expense of the elder. It needed only a change of name to bring about the alliance between himself and the house of the Count of C***tti; the purpose of both the families would be fulfilled in like manner, whether the Countess Antonie were now to be called the wife of Lorenzo or Jeronimo. The feeble possibility of a reappearance of the latter was not worth considering when compared with the certain and pressing evil of the total extinction of the family, and the old Marchese, who felt the approach of death growing daily stronger, yearned impatiently to die free at least of this anxiety.

“The one who alone delayed this step and most obstinately opposed it was the one who stood to gain most by it—Lorenzo. Unmoved by the attractions of untold wealth, indifferent even to possessing the delightful creature who would thus be handed over to his embrace, he high-mindedly and conscientiously refused to rob a brother who might still be alive and so might demand his fortune back. ‘Is not my dear brother’s fate, this long imprisonment, already terrible enough,’ he said, ‘without my making it all the more bitter by a theft which would destroy all that was dearest to him? With what kind of heart would I be able to implore heaven for his return if his wife were lying in my arms? With what brazen impudence would I hurry to greet him, should some miracle bring him back to us? And supposing that he has indeed been torn from us for ever, how can we better honour his memory than by leaving the void which his death has created in our circle forever empty, and by
giving up in sacrifice all hopes at the grave and leaving what was his untouched like a shrine?’

“But all the reasons which Lorenzo’s brotherly feelings came up with were not sufficient to reconcile the old Marchese to the idea of seeing a lineage die out which had blossomed for centuries. All that Lorenzo could win from him was a respite of a further two years before he was to lead his brother’s bride to the altar. During this time the search was resumed with the greatest of zeal. Lorenzo himself made several voyages, exposing himself to many dangers. No trouble, no cost was spared to recover the lost son. But these two years passed like all the earlier ones, producing nothing.”

“And the Countess Antonie?” asked the Prince. “You have told us nothing about her state of mind. Are we to believe she surrendered so calmly to her fate? No!”

“Antonie was caught up in the most terrible struggle between duty and passion, between antipathy and admiration. She was moved by the unselfish magnanimity of a brother’s love; she felt herself swept up by feelings of respect for the man she could never love. Torn with conflicting emotions, her heart bled. But it seemed that the more his claims to her esteem increased, the greater became her aversion to the young nobleman. It pained him deeply to observe the quiet grief that was devouring her youth. In place of the indifference with which he had looked on her until then, there crept in a tender compassion; but this treacherous feeling tricked him and a raging passion began to make it more difficult for him to practise a virtue which until now had remained superior to every temptation. However, even though it
meant denying his feelings, he heeded the suggestions of his nobler nature: it was he alone who took into his protection the unhappy victim of the family’s wishes. But all his efforts failed—every victory he won over his passions showed him to be all the more worthy of her, and the magnanimity with which he refused her served only to rob her obstructiveness of every excuse.

“This was how matters stood when the young nobleman persuaded me to visit him at his country estate. The warm recommendation of my patron led to my being welcomed there in a way that went well beyond anything I might have hoped for. I should not forget to explain here that some notable successes on my part had made my name famous among the lodges there, which may perhaps have contributed to increasing the trust of the old Marchese and to raising his expectations of me. Allow me to relate how far I managed to get with him and what methods I employed to effect this; from what I have already confessed, you will be able to guess all the rest. By making good use of all the books on mysticism that were in the Marchese’s very sizeable library, I soon succeeded in being able to speak to him in his own language and in reconciling my own system of describing the unseen world with his views on the subject. In short, he believed what I wanted him to and would have sworn with as much confidence on the mating of the philosophers with salamanders and sylphs as on an article of canonical faith. Moreover, since he was very religious and his predisposition to beliefs of this order had developed to a high degree, he was all the more ready to swallow my fairy tales, until finally I had so ensnared and entwined
him in mysticism that he no longer gave credit to anything the moment it was seen as not supernatural. In short, I was the idolised apostle of the house. The lectures I gave were usually about the exaltation of human nature and intercourse with higher beings, my authority the infallible Count Gabalis. The young Countess, who, since the loss of her beloved, lived anyway more in the spiritual than the real world and who, because of the rapturous flight of her imagination, was drawn with passionate interest to things of this nature, responded with frightening relish to the suggestions I threw out. Yes, even the servants of the house found themselves things to do in the room whenever I was speaking, in order to pick up the odd word of mine here and there, later stringing these fragments together in their own fashion.