University of Virginia Library

THE HAUNTED MAN.
A Christmas Story.
BY CH--R--S D--C--K--N--S.

PART I.
THE FIRST PHANTOM.

Don't tell me that it wasn't a knocker. I had
seen it often enough, and I ought to know. So
ought the three o'clock beer, in dirty high-lows,
swinging himself over the railing, or executing a demoniacal
jig upon the doorstep; so ought the butcher,
although butchers as a general thing are scornful of
such trifles; so ought the postman, to whom knockers
of the most extravagant description were merely
human weaknesses, that were to be pitied and used.
And so ought, for the matter of that, etc., etc., etc.

But then it was such a knocker. A wild, extravagant
and utterly incomprehensible knocker. A
knocker so mysterious and suspicious that Policeman

X 37, first coming upon it, felt inclined to take
it instantly in custody, but compromised with his
professional instincts by sharply and sternly noting
it with an eye that admitted of no nonsense, but confidently
expected to detect its secret yet. An ugly
knocker; a knocker with a hard, human face, that
was a type of the harder human face within. A human
face that held between its teeth a brazen rod.
So hereafter, in the mysterious future should be held,
etc., etc.

But if the knocker had a fierce human aspect in
the glare of day, you should have seen it at night,
when it peered out of the gathering shadows and suggested
an ambushed figure; when the light of the
street lamps fell upon it, and wrought a play of sinister
expression in its hard outlines; when it seemed to
wink meaningly at a shrouded figure who, as the night
fell darkly, crept up the steps and passed into the
mysterious house; when the swinging door disclosed
a black passage into which the figure seemed to lose
itself and become a part of the mysterious gloom;
when the night grew boisterous and the fierce wind
made furious charges at the knocker, as if to wrench
it off and carry it away in triumph. Such a night
as this.

It was a wild and pitiless wind. A wind that had
commenced life as a gentle country zephyr, but wandering
through manufacturing towns had become demoralized,
and reaching the city had plunged into
extravagant dissipation and wild excesses. A roy
stering wind that indulged in Bacchanalian shouts on

the street corners, that knocked off the hats from the
heads of helpless passengers, and then fulfilled its
duties by speeding away, like all young prodigals—
to sea.

He sat alone in a gloomy library listening to the
wind that roared in the chimney. Around him novels
and story-books were strewn thickly; in his lap
he held one with its pages freshly cut, and turned
the leaves wearily until his eyes rested upon a portrait
in its frontispiece. And as the wind howled the
more fiercely, and the darkness without fell blacker,
a strange and fateful likeness to that portrait appeared
above his chair and leaned upon his shoulder.
The Haunted Man gazed at the portrait and sighed.
The figure gazed at the portrait and sighed too.

“Here again?” said the Haunted Man.

“Here again,” it repeated in a low voice.

“Another novel?”

“Another novel.”

“The old story?”

“The old story.”

“I see a child,” said the Haunted Man, gazing
from the pages of the book into the fire—“a most
unnatural child, a model infant. It is prematurely
old and philosophic. It dies in poverty to slow
music. It dies surrounded by luxury to slow music.
It dies with an accompaniment of golden water and
rattling carts to slow music. Previous to its decease
it makes a will; it repeats the Lord's prayer, it kisses
the `boofer lady.' That child—”

“Is mine,” said the phantom.

“I see a good woman, undersized. I see several
charming women, but they are all undersized. They
are more or less imbecile and idiotic, but always fascinating
and undersized. They wear coquettish caps
and aprons. I observe that feminine virtue is invariably
below the medium height, and that it is always
babyish and infantine. These women—”

“Are mine.”

“I see a haughty, proud, and wicked lady. She
is tall and queenly. I remark that all proud and
wicked women are tall and queenly. That woman—”

“Is mine,” said the phantom, wringing his hands.

“I see several things continually impending. I
observe that whenever an accident, a murder, or
death is about to happen, there is something in the
furniture, in the locality, in the atmosphere that foreshadows
and suggests it years in advance. I cannot
say that in real life I have noticed it—the perception
of this surprising fact belongs—”

“To me!” said the phantom. The Haunted Man
continued, in a despairing tone:

“I see the influence of this in the magazines and
daily papers: I see weak imitators rise up and enfeeble
the world with senseless formula. I am getting
tired of it. It won't do, Charles! it won't do!”
and the Haunted Man buried his head in his hands
and groaned. The figure looked down upon him
sternly: the portrait in the frontispiece frowned as he
gazed.

“Wretched man,” said the phantom, “and how
have these things affected you?”

“Once I laughed and cried, but then I was younger.
Now, I would forget them if I could.”

“Have then your wish. And take this with you,
man whom I renounce. From this day henceforth
you shall live with those whom I displace. Without
forgetting me, 'twill be your lot to walk through life
as if we had not met. But first you shall survey
these scenes that henceforth must be yours. At one
to-night, prepare to meet the phantom I have raised.
Farewell!”

The sound of its voice seemed to fade away with
the dying wind, and the Haunted Man was alone.
But the firelight flickered gayly, and the light danced
on the walls, making grotesque figures of the furniture.

“Ha, ha!” said the Haunted Man, rubbing his
hands gleefully; “now for a whiskey punch and a
cigar.”

BOOK II.
THE SECOND PHANTOM.

One! The stroke of the far-off bell had hardly
died before the front door closed with a reverberating
clang. Steps were heard along the passage; the
library door swung open of itself, and the Knocker—
yes, the Knocker—slowly strode into the room. The
Haunted Man rubbed his eyes—no! there could be
no mistake about it—it was the Knocker's face,
mounted on a misty, almost imperceptible body

The brazen rod was transferred from its mouth to its
right hand, where it was held like a ghostly truncheon.

“It's a cold evening,” said the Haunted Man.

“It is,” said the Goblin, in a hard, metallic voice.

“It must be pretty cold out there,” said the Haunted
Man, with vague politeness. “Do you ever—
will you—take some hot water and brandy?”

“No,” said the Goblin.

“Perhaps you'd like it cold, by way of change?”
continued the Haunted Man, correcting himself, as
he remembered the peculiar temperature with which
the Goblin was probably familiar.

“Time flies,” said the Goblin coldly. “We have
no leisure for idle talk. Come!” He moved his
ghostly truncheon toward the window, and laid his
hand upon the other's arm. At his touch the body
of the Haunted Man seemed to become as thin and
incorporeal as that of the Goblin himself, and
together they glided out of the window into the
black and blowy night.

In the rapidity of their flight the senses of the
Haunted Man seemed to leave him. At length they
stopped suddenly.

“What do you see?” asked the Goblin.

“I see a battlemented medieval castle. Gallant
men in mail ride over the drawbridge, and kiss their
gauntleted fingers to fair ladies, who wave their lily
hands in return. I see fight and fray and tournament.
I hear roaring heralds bawling the charms of
delicate women, and shamelessly proclaiming their

lovers. Stay. I see a Jewess about to leap from a
battlement. I see knightly deeds, violence, rapine,
and a good deal of blood. I've seen pretty much
the same at Astley's.”

“Look again.”

“I see purple moors, glens, masculine women, bare-legged
men, priggish book worms, more violence,
physical excellence, and blood. Always blood—and
the superiority of physical attainments.”

“And how do you feel now?” said the Goblin.

The Haunted Man shrugged his shoulders.
“None the better for being carried back and asked
to sympathize with a barbarous age.”

The Goblin smiled and clutched his arm; they
again sped rapidly through the black night, and
again halted.

“What do you see?” said the Goblin.

“I see a barrack room, with a mess table, and a
group of intoxicated Celtic officers telling funny
stories, and giving challenges to duel. I see a young
Irish gentleman capable of performing prodigies
of valor. I learn incidentally that the acme of all
heroism is the cornetcy of a dragoon regiment. I
hear a good deal of French! No, thank you,” said
the Haunted Man hurriedly, as he stayed the waving
hand of the Goblin; “I would rather not go to the
Peninsula, and don't care to have a private interview
with Napoleon.”

Again the Goblin flew away with the unfortunate
man, and from a strange roaring below them, he
judged they were above the ocean. A ship hove in

sight, and the Goblin stayed its flight. “Look,” he
said, squeezing his companion's arm.

The Haunted Man yawned. “Don't you think,
Charles, you're rather running this thing into the
ground? Of course, it's very moral and instructive,
and all that. But ain't there a little too much pantomime
about it? Come now!”

“Look!” repeated the Goblin, pinching his arm
malevolently. The Haunted Man groaned.

“Oh, of course, I see Her Majesty's ship Arethusa.
Of course I am familiar with her stern First Lieutenant,
her eccentric Captain, her one fascinating and
several mischievous midshipmen. Of course, I
know it's a splendid thing to see all this, and not to
be sea-sick. Oh, there the young gentlemen are
going to play a trick on the purser. For God's sake,
let us go,” and the unhappy man absolutely dragged
the Goblin away with him.

When they next halted, it was at the edge of a
broad and boundless prairie, in the middle of an oak
opening.

“I see,” said the Haunted Man, without waiting
for his cue, but mechanically, and as if he were repeating
a lesson which the Goblin had taught him,
“I see the Noble Savage. He is very fine to look
at! But I observe under his war paint, feathers and
picturesque blanket—dirt, disease, and an unsymmetrical
contour. I observe beneath his inflated
rhetoric deceit and hypocrisy. Beneath his physical
hardihood, cruelty, malice and revenge. The Noble
Savage is a humbug. I remarked the same to Mr.
Catlin.”

“Come,” said the phantom.

The Haunted Man sighed, and took out his watch.
“Couldn't we do the rest of this another time?”

“My hour is almost spent, irreverent being, but
there is yet a chance for your reformation. Come!”

Again they sped through the night, and again
halted. The sound of delicious but melancholy
music fell upon their ears.

“I see,” said the Haunted Man, with something
of interest in his manner, “I see an old moss-covered
manse beside a sluggish, flowing river. I see weird
shapes: witches, Puritans, clergymen, little children,
judges, mesmerized maidens, moving to the sound of
melody that thrills me with its sweetness and purity.

But, although carried along its calm and evenly-flowing
current, the shapes are strange and frightful:
an eating lichen gnaws at the heart of each; not
only the clergymen, but witch, maiden, judge, and
Puritan, all wear Scarlet Letters of some kind
burned upon their hearts. I am fascinated and
thrilled, but I feel a morbid sensitiveness creeping
over me. I—I beg your pardon.” The Goblin was
yawning frightfully. “Well, perhaps, we had better
go.”

“One more, and the last,” said the Goblin. They
were moving home. Streaks of red were beginning to
appear in the eastern sky. Along the banks of the
blackly flowing river by moorland and stagnant
fens, by low houses, clustering close to the water's
edge, like strange mollusks, crawled upon the beach
to dry; by misty black barges, the more misty and

indistinct seen through its mysterious veil, the river
fog was slowing rising. So rolled away and rose
from the heart of the Haunted Man, etc., etc.

They stopped before a quaint mansion of red
brick. The Goblin waved his hand without speaking.

“I see,” said the Haunted Man, “a gay drawingroom.
I see my old friends of the club, of the college,
of society, even as they lived and moved. I
see the gallant and unselfish men, whom I have loved,
and the snobs whom I have hated. I see strangely
mingling with them, and now and then blending with
their forms, our old friends Dick Steele, Addison,
and Congreve. I observe, though, that these gentlemen
have a habit of getting too much in the way.
The royal standard of Queen Anne, not in itself a
beautiful ornament, is rather too prominent in the
picture. The long galleries of black oak, the formal
furniture, the old portraits, are picturesque, but depressing.
The house is damp. I enjoy myself better
here on the lawn, where they are getting up a
Vanity Fair. See, the bell rings, the curtain is rising,
the puppets are brought out for a new play. Let me
see.”

The Haunted Man was pressing forward in his
eagerness, but the hand of the Goblin stayed him,
and pointing to his feet, he saw between him and the
rising curtain, a new-made grave. And bending
above the grave in passionate grief, the Haunted Man
beheld the phantom of the previous night.

The Haunted Man started, and—woke. The

bright sunshine streamed into the room. The air
was sparkling with frost. He ran joyously to the
window and opened it. A small boy saluted him
with “Merry Christmas.” The Haunted Man instantly
gave him a Bank of England note. “How
much like Tiny Tim, Tom and Bobby that boy
looked—bless my soul, what a genius this Dickens
has!”

A knock at the door, and Boots entered.

“Consider your salary doubled instantly. Have
you read David Copperfield?”

“Yezzur.”

“Your salary is quadrupled. What do you think
of the Old Curiosity Shop?”

The man instantly burst into a torrent of tears,
and then into a roar of laughter.

“Enough! Here are five thousand pounds. Open
a porter-house, and call it, `Our Mutual Friend.'
Huzza! I feel so happy!” And the Haunted Man
danced about the room.

And so, bathed in the light of that blessed sun,
and yet glowing with the warmth of a good action,
the Haunted Man, haunted no longer, save by those
shapes which make the dreams of children beautiful,
reseated himself in his chair, and finished Our
Mutual Friend.