The Owl's Ear





On the 29th of July, 1835, Kasper Boeck, a shepherd of the little

village of Hirschwiller, with his large felt hat tipped back, his

wallet of stringy sackcloth hanging at his hip, and his great tawny dog

at his heels, presented himself at about nine o'clock in the evening at

the house of the burgomaster, Petrus Mauerer, who had just finished

supper and was taking a little glass of kirchwasser to facilitate

digestion.



This burgomaster was a tall, thin man, and wore a bushy gray mustache.

He had seen service in the armies of the Archduke Charles. He had a

jovial disposition, and ruled the village, it is said, with his finger

and with the rod.



"Mr. Burgomaster," cried the shepherd in evident excitement.



But Petrus Mauerer, without awaiting the end of his speech, frowned and

said:



"Kasper Boeck, begin by taking off your hat, put your dog out of the

room, and then speak distinctly, intelligibly, without stammering, so

that I may understand you."



Hereupon the burgomaster, standing near the table, tranquilly emptied

his little glass and wiped his great gray mustachios indifferently.



Kasper put his dog out, and came back with his hat off.



"Well!" said Petrus, seeing that he was silent, "what has happened?"



"It happens that the _spirit_ has appeared again in the ruins of

Geierstein!"



"Ha! I doubt it. You've seen it yourself?"



"Very clearly, Mr. Burgomaster."



"Without closing your eyes?"



"Yes, Mr. Burgomaster--my eyes were wide open. There was plenty of

moonlight."



"What form did it have?"



"The form of a small man."



"Good!"



And turning toward a glass door at the left:



"Katel!" cried the burgomaster.



An old serving woman opened the door.



"Sir?"



"I am going out for a walk--on the hillside--sit up for me until ten

o'clock. Here's the key."



"Yes, sir."



Then the old soldier took down his gun from the hook over the door,

examined the priming, and slung it over his shoulder; then he addressed

Kasper Boeck:



"Go and tell the rural guard to meet me in the holly path, and tell him

behind the mill. Your _spirit_ must be some marauder. But if it's a

fox, I'll make a fine hood of it, with long earlaps."



Master Petrus Mauerer and humble Kasper then went out. The weather was

superb, the stars innumerable. While the shepherd went to knock at the

rural guard's door, the burgomaster plunged among the elder bushes, in

a little lane that wound around behind the old church.



Two minutes later Kasper and Hans Goerner, whinger at his side, by

running overtook Master Petrus in the holly path.



All three made their way together toward the ruins of Geierstein.



These ruins, which are twenty minutes' walk from the village, seem to

be insignificant enough; they consist of the ridges of a few decrepit

walls, from four to six feet high, which extend among the brier bushes.

Archaeologists call them the aqueducts of Seranus, the Roman camp of

Holderlock, or vestiges of Theodoric, according to their fantasy. The

only thing about these ruins which could be considered remarkable is a

stairway to a cistern cut in the rock. Inside of this spiral staircase,

instead of concentric circles which twist around with each complete

turn, the involutions become wider as they proceed, in such a way that

the bottom of the pit is three times as large as the opening. Is it an

architectural freak, or did some reasonable cause determine such an odd

construction? It matters little to us. The result was to cause in the

cistern that vague reverberation which anyone may hear upon placing a

shell at his ear, and to make you aware of steps on the gravel path,

murmurs of the air, rustling of the leaves, and even distant words

spoken by people passing the foot of the hill.



Our three personages then followed the pathway between the vineyards

and gardens of Hirschwiller.



"I see nothing," the burgomaster would say, turning up his nose

derisively.



"Nor I either," the rural guard would repeat, imitating the other's

tone.



"It's down in the hole," muttered the shepherd.



"We shall see, we shall see," returned the burgomaster.



It was in this fashion, after a quarter of an hour, that they came upon

the opening of the cistern. As I have said, the night was clear,

limpid, and perfectly still.



The moon portrayed, as far as the eye could reach, one of those

nocturnal landscapes in bluish lines, studded with slim trees, the

shadows of which seemed to have been drawn with a black crayon. The

blooming brier and broom perfumed the air with a rather sharp odor, and

the frogs of a neighboring swamp sang their oily anthem, interspersed

with silences. But all these details escaped the notice of our good

rustics; they thought of nothing but laying hands on the _spirit_.



When they had reached the stairway, all three stopped and listened,

then gazed into the dark shadows. Nothing appeared--nothing stirred.



"The devil!" said the burgomaster, "we forgot to bring a bit of candle.

Descend, Kasper, you know the way better than I--I'll follow you."



At this proposition the shepherd recoiled promptly. If he had consulted

his inclinations the poor man would have taken to flight; his pitiful

expression made the burgomaster burst out laughing.



"Well, Hans, since he doesn't want to go down, show me the way," he

said to the game warden.



"But, Mr. Burgomaster," said the latter, "you know very well that steps

are missing; we should risk breaking our necks."



"Then what's to be done?"



"Yes, what's to be done?"



"Send your dog," replied Petrus.



The shepherd whistled to his dog, showed him the stairway, urged

him--but he did not wish to take the chances any more than the others.



At this moment, a bright idea struck the rural guardsman.



"Ha! Mr. Burgomaster," said he, "if you should fire your gun inside."



"Faith," cried the other, "you're right, we shall catch a glimpse at

least."



And without hesitating the worthy man approached the stairway and

leveled his gun.



But, by the acoustic effect which I have already pointed out, the

_spirit_, the marauder, the individual who chanced to be actually in

the cistern, had heard everything. The idea of stopping a gunshot did

not strike him as amusing, for in a shrill, piercing voice he cried:



"Stop! Don't fire--I'm coming."



Then the three functionaries looked at each other and laughed softly,

and the burgomaster, leaning over the opening again, cried rudely:



"Be quick about it, you varlet, or I'll shoot! Be quick about it!"



He cocked his gun, and the click seemed to hasten the ascent of the

mysterious person; they heard him rolling down some stones.

Nevertheless it still took him another minute before he appeared, the

cistern being at a depth of sixty feet.



What was this man doing in such deep darkness? He must be some great

criminal! So at least thought Petrus Mauerer and his acolytes.



At last a vague form could be discerned in the dark, then slowly, by

degrees, a little man, four and a half feet high at the most, frail,

ragged, his face withered and yellow, his eye gleaming like a magpie's,

and his hair tangled, came out shouting:



"By what right do you come to disturb my studies, wretched creatures?"



This grandiose apostrophe was scarcely in accord with his costume and

physiognomy. Accordingly the burgomaster indignantly replied:



"Try to show that you're honest, you knave, or I'll begin by

administering a correction."



"A correction!" said the little man, leaping with anger, and drawing

himself up under the nose of the burgomaster.



"Yes," replied the other, who, nevertheless, did not fail to admire the

pygmy's courage; "if you do not answer the questions satisfactorily I

am going to put to you. I am the burgomaster of Hirschwiller; here are

the rural guard, the shepherd and his dog. We are stronger than you--be

wise and tell me peaceably who you are, what you are doing here, and

why you do not dare to appear in broad daylight. Then we shall see

what's to be done with you."



"All that's none of your business," replied the little man in his

cracked voice. "I shall not answer."



"In that case, forward, march," ordered the burgomaster, who grasped

him firmly by the nape of the neck; "you are going to sleep in prison."



The little man writhed like a weasel; he even tried to bite, and the

dog was sniffing at the calves of his legs, when, quite exhausted, he

said, not without a certain dignity:



"Let go, sir, I surrender to superior force--I'm yours!"



The burgomaster, who was not entirely lacking in good breeding, became

calmer.



"Do you promise?" said he.



"I promise!"



"Very well--walk in front."



And that is how, on the night of the 29th of July, 1835, the

burgomaster took captive a little red-haired man, issuing from the

cavern of Geierstein.



Upon arriving at Hirschwiller the rural guard ran to find the key of

the prison and the vagabond was locked in and double-locked, not to

forget the outside bolt and padlock.



Everyone then could repose after his fatigues, and Petrus Mauerer went

to bed and dreamed till midnight of this singular adventure.



On the morrow, toward nine o'clock, Hans Goerner, the rural guard,

having been ordered to bring the prisoner to the town house for another

examination, repaired to the cooler with four husky daredevils. They

opened the door, all of them curious to look upon the Will-o'-the-wisp.

But imagine their astonishment upon seeing him hanging from the bars of

the window by his necktie! Some said that he was still writhing; others

that he was already stiff. However that may be, they ran to Petrus

Mauerer's house to inform him of the fact, and what is certain is that

upon the latter's arrival the little man had breathed his last.



The justice of the peace and the doctor of Hirschwiller drew up a

formal statement of the catastrophe; then they buried the unknown in a

field of meadow grass and it was all over!



Now about three weeks after these occurrences, I went to see my cousin,

Petrus Mauerer, whose nearest relative I was, and consequently his

heir. This circumstance sustained an intimate acquaintance between us.

We were at dinner, talking on indifferent matters, when the burgomaster

recounted the foregoing little story, as I have just reported it.



"'Tis strange, cousin," said I, "truly strange. And you have no other

information concerning the unknown?"



"None."



"And you have found nothing which could give you a clew as to his

purpose?"



"Absolutely nothing, Christian."



"But, as a matter of fact, what could he have been doing in the

cistern? On what did he live?"



The burgomaster shrugged his shoulders, refilled our glasses, and

replied with:



"To your health, cousin."



"To yours."



We remained silent a few minutes. It was impossible for me to accept

the abrupt conclusion of the adventure, and, in spite of myself, I

mused with some melancholy on the sad fate of certain men who appear

and disappear in this world like the grass of the field, without

leaving the least memory or the least regret.



"Cousin," I resumed, "how far may it be from here to the ruins of

Geierstein?"



"Twenty minutes' walk at the most. Why?"



"Because I should like to see them."



"You know that we have a meeting of the municipal council, and that I

can't accompany you."



"Oh! I can find them by myself."



"No, the rural guard will show you the way; he has nothing better to

do."



And my worthy cousin, having rapped on his glass, called his servant:



"Katel, go and find Hans Goerner--let him hurry, and get here by two

o'clock. I must be going."



The servant went out and the rural guard was not tardy in coming.



He was directed to take me to the ruins.



While the burgomaster proceeded gravely toward the hall of the

municipal council, we were already climbing the hill. Hans Goerner,

with a wave of the hand, indicated the remains of the aqueduct. At the

same moment the rocky ribs of the plateau, the blue distances of

Hundsrueck, the sad crumbling walls covered with somber ivy, the tolling

of the Hirschwiller bell summoning the notables to the council, the

rural guardsman panting and catching at the brambles--assumed in my

eyes a sad and severe tinge, for which I could not account: it was the

story of the hanged man which took the color out of the prospect.



The cistern staircase struck me as being exceedingly curious, with its

elegant spiral. The bushes bristling in the fissures at every step, the

deserted aspect of its surroundings, all harmonized with my sadness. We

descended, and soon the luminous point of the opening, which seemed to

contract more and more, and to take the shape of a star with curved

rays, alone sent us its pale light. When we attained the very bottom of

the cistern, we found a superb sight was to be had of all those steps,

lighted from above and cutting off their shadows with marvelous

precision. I then heard the hum of which I have already spoken: the

immense granite conch had as many echoes as stones!



"Has nobody been down here since the little man?" I asked the rural

guardsman.



"No, sir. The peasants are afraid. They imagine that the hanged man

will return."



"And you?"



"I--oh, I'm not curious."



"But the justice of the peace? His duty was to--"



"Ha! What could he have come to the _Owl's Ear_ for?"



"They call this the _Owl's Ear_?"



"Yes."



"That's pretty near it," said I, raising my eyes. "This reversed vault

forms the _pavilion_ well enough; the under side of the steps makes the

covering of the _tympanum_, and the winding of the staircase the

_cochlea_, the _labyrinth_, and _vestibule_ of the ear. That is the

cause of the murmur which we hear: we are at the back of a colossal

ear."



"It's very likely," said Hans Goerner, who did not seem to have

understood my observations.



We started up again, and I had ascended the first steps when I felt

something crush under my foot; I stopped to see what it could be, and

at that moment perceived a white object before me. It was a torn sheet

of paper. As for the hard object, which I had felt grinding up, I

recognized it as a sort of glazed earthenware jug.



"Aha!" I said to myself; "this may clear up the burgomaster's story."



I rejoined Hans Goerner, who was now waiting for me at the edge of the

pit.



"Now, sir," cried he, "where would you like to go?"



"First, let's sit down for a while. We shall see presently."



I sat down on a large stone, while the rural guard cast his falcon

eyes over the village to see if there chanced to be any trespassers in

the gardens. I carefully examined the glazed vase, of which nothing

but splinters remained. These fragments presented the appearance of a

funnel, lined with wool. It was impossible for me to perceive its

purpose. I then read the piece of a letter, written in an easy running

and firm hand. I transcribe it here below, word for word. It seems to

follow the other half of the sheet, for which I looked vainly all

about the ruins:



"My _micracoustic_ ear trumpet thus has the double advantage of

infinitely multiplying the intensity of sounds, and of introducing

them into the ear without causing the observer the least discomfort.

You would never have imagined, dear master, the charm which one feels

in perceiving these thousands of imperceptible sounds which are

confounded, on a fine summer day, in an immense murmuring. The

bumble-bee has his song as well as the nightingale, the honey-bee is

the warbler of the mosses, the cricket is the lark of the tall grass,

the maggot is the wren--it has only a sigh, but the sigh is melodious!



"This discovery, from the point of view of sentiment, which makes us

live in the universal life, surpasses in its importance all that I

could say on the matter.



"After so much suffering, privations, and weariness, how happy it makes

one to reap the rewards of all his labors! How the soul soars toward

the divine Author of all these microscopic worlds, the magnificence of

which is revealed to us! Where now are the long hours of anguish,

hunger, contempt, which overwhelmed us before? Gone, sir, gone! Tears

of gratitude moisten our eyes. One is proud to have achieved, through

suffering, new joys for humanity and to have contributed to its mental

development. But howsoever vast, howsoever admirable may be the first

fruits of my _micracoustic_ ear trumpet, these do not delimit its

advantages. There are more positive ones, more material, and ones which

may be expressed in figures.



"Just as the telescope brought the discovery of myriads of worlds

performing their harmonious revolutions in infinite space--so also will

my _micracoustic_ ear trumpet extend the sense of the unbearable beyond

all possible bounds. Thus, sir, the circulation of the blood and the

fluids of the body will not give me pause; you shall hear them flow

with the impetuosity of cataracts; you shall perceive them so

distinctly as to startle you; the slightest irregularity of the pulse,

the least obstacle, is striking, and produces the same effect as a rock

against which the waves of a torrent are dashing!



"It is doubtless an immense conquest in the development of our

knowledge of physiology and pathology, but this is not the point on

which I would emphasize. Upon applying your ear to the ground, sir, you

may hear the mineral waters springing up at immeasurable depths; you

may judge of their volume, their currents, and the obstacles which they

meet!



"Do you wish to go further? Enter a subterranean vault which is so

constructed as to gather a quantity of loud sounds; then at night when

the world sleeps, when nothing will be confused with the interior

noises of our globe--listen!



"Sir, all that it is possible for me to tell you at the present

moment--for in the midst of my profound misery, of my privations, and

often of my despair, I am left only a few lucid instants to pursue my

geological observations--all that I can affirm is that the seething of

glow worms, the explosions of boiling fluids, is something terrifying

and sublime, which can only be compared to the impression of the

astronomer whose glass fathoms depths of limitless extent.



"Nevertheless, I must avow that these impressions should be studied

further and classified in a methodical manner, in order that definite

conclusions may be derived therefrom. Likewise, as soon as you shall

have deigned, dear and noble master, to transmit the little sum for use

at Neustadt as I asked, to supply my first needs, we shall see our way

to an understanding in regard to the establishment of three great

subterranean observatories, one in the valley of Catania, another in

Iceland, then a third in Capac-Uren, Songay, or Cayembe-Uren, the

deepest of the Cordilleras, and consequently--"



Here the letter stopped.



I let my hands fall in stupefaction. Had I read the conceptions of an

idiot--or the inspirations of a genius which had been realized? What am

I to say? to think? So this man, this miserable creature, living at the

bottom of a burrow like a fox, dying of hunger, had had perhaps one of

those inspirations which the Supreme Being sends on earth to enlighten

future generations!



And this man had hanged himself in disgust, despair! No one had

answered his prayer, though he asked only for a crust of bread in

exchange for his discovery. It was horrible. Long, long I sat there

dreaming, thanking Heaven for having limited my intelligence to the

needs of ordinary life--for not having desired to make me a superior

man in the community of martyrs. At length the rural guardsman, seeing

me with fixed gaze and mouth agape, made so bold as to touch me on the

shoulder.



"Mr. Christian," said he, "see--it's getting late--the burgomaster must

have come back from the council."



"Ha! That's a fact," cried I, crumpling up the paper, "come on."



We descended the hill.



My worthy cousin met me, with a smiling face, at the threshold of his

house.



"Well! well! Christian, so you've found no trace of the imbecile who

hanged himself?"



"No."



"I thought as much. He was some lunatic who escaped from Stefansfeld or

somewhere--Faith, he did well to hang himself. When one is good for

nothing, that's the simplest way for it."



The following day I left Hirschwiller. I shall never return.





The Old Stone House The Pavilion On The Links facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail

Feedback