Short Fiction

terror could have sustained, the fiendish monk not only kept up with me, but ran round and round me⁠—sometimes in narrower, sometimes in wider circles, with gambols of preterhuman agility, and grimaces more hideous than nightmare ever saw. Suddenly he stopped short before me, and by an unearthly sympathy I was constrained to do the same: he sat down upon the earth; by an irresistible impulse I did so likewise. We were opposite to one another⁠—face to face, and scarcely a yard asunder. He tossed his arms wildly in the air⁠—I could not choose but do the same: he writhed his features into contortions such as delirium never portrayed, each one of which, with frenzied exaggeration, I felt forced to imitate. Into these hideous grimaces he threw, at times, expressions of demoniac passion so fearfully intense, that hell itself could not have exceeded them: these too, I was forced to follow, and the dreadful passions themselves possessed me in succession, while all the time, independently of these malignant inspirations, there remained within me, as it were looking on, a terrified self-consciousness. He yelled forth blasphemies the most awful, while my very brain sickened with horror⁠—the unearthly power constrained me to echo them all, tone for tone, and word for word. He advanced his face, I did the same⁠—our features almost touched. He burst into a peal of laughter like that of lunacy, I joined howling in the horrible mirth. Every word he spoke, I spoke⁠—every movement he made, I made too. My motions all corresponded with his, with the simultaneousness and accuracy with which shadow follows substance; I felt as if my identity was merging into his. He placed his hand within his bosom⁠—my hand copied the gesture, and rested upon my stiletto; he drew a dagger from his breast⁠—I drew my poignard from mine. At the next instant his weapon was at his throat, and mine at mine. Another moment, and hell would have had its victim; but it was to be otherwise. A voice close by shouted, ‘In the name of God, young man, forbear,’ and at the instant I was disenthralled; the hideous figure cast upon me one livid scowl, and threw himself on the ground. I saw no more, for my senses forsook me. How long the demon had made me the sport of his hellish mockeries I cannot say. As soon as consciousness returned I found myself supported in the arms of an honest peasant⁠—he to whose intervention I owed my life.

“ ‘So, so, master,’ exclaimed he, ‘a pleasant frolic this, for the carnival⁠—time was, when you youngsters were satisfied with carving your neighbours’ throats, but nothing will serve you now, forsooth, but cutting your own. In God’s name, young man, why do you seek to harm yourself?”

“ ‘Tell me,’ said I eagerly, ‘where he is gone⁠—where is the mask⁠—the harlequin⁠—the devil? Bring me away from this place. Where is the monster you saw before me?’

“ ‘Sir,’ replied the man, ‘I see you are disordered. I will go with you to the town; here, take my arm.’

“ ‘Where,’ I said with increased excitement, ‘where is the hellish thing that sat on the ground before me?’

“ ’Pshaw, sir,’ replied he, ‘there was nothing before you but yonder old bush; to be sure,’ he added, after a thoughtful pause, ‘it did sway and tremble rather oddly; and then, when I came up, I saw something like an otter sliding softly through the sedges into the stream. But that is all⁠—come on, signor, let us be moving.’

“Silently I walked with my friendly guide, who cast many a fearful look around, and muttered many a prayer as we proceeded⁠—so contagious is mysterious terror.

“For more than a month I was in mind and body utterly prostrate. There is in youth, however, a recuperative power, an elasticity which never loses its spring while youth remains. In five weeks’ time, after an illness, during which mind and body were bound down in the fiery chains of fever for nearly the space of a month, I was once more mingling in all the pleasures and follies of the capital, as if no fears or perils had ever crossed me. As time wore on, I began to grow weary of uncontrolled indulgence. Fashion is a hard taskmaster⁠—vice and pleasure tire their pursuers at length more than the severest toil⁠—monotony dulls the edge of enjoyment, and the solicitous repinings of conscience wear the spirits, and irritate and embitter the temper; all this I felt, and half (but only half) resolved to reform, and lead a better life. In this melancholy mood I was wandering through the oldest and least-frequented streets of the city, when a singular adventure befell me. There was walking before me, with slow and feeble steps, an old and venerable man; his dress was of the richest velvet of that hue which we call ruby, lined with yellow satin, and richly overlaid with gold lace; the fashion, however, of his garments was that of another day, and though the suit was no doubt originally a splendid one, it bore no less in its faded colour and tarnished embroidery, than in its obsolete construction, the evidences of extreme antiquity. From under the shadow of a broad-leafed hat his snow-white hair descended in venerable ringlets, covering the topmost folds of his short velvet cloak. In his hand he carried a crutch-handled stick of ebony, which, with measured and solemn action, he impressed upon the pavement as he proceeded. The figure of the old man was slight, and as well as I could discern, elegantly moulded; he bore about him, too, that indescribable air of high birth and breeding which cannot be mistaken. These circumstances, along with the striking peculiarities of which I have already spoken, irresistibly fixed my attention and engaged my curiosity. As I followed in the track of this old man, he suddenly tottered, as if through weakness or giddiness, and would, no doubt, have fallen upon the pavement, had not I instantly caught him in my