Martyrs of Science Page 8

  The Trou-d’Enfer is not a better place to be during the night, Most of the time, plaintive cries, the sounds of stunning blows and raucous voices proffering oaths rise up relentlessly. Then, when a patrol appears, attracted by the tumult, everything disappears; the door slam shut; there is now only one single noise amid that great deceptive calm: the slow and measured tread of the guardsmen. Scarcely have those footsteps faded into the distance like an indistinct murmur, however, than confusion and disorders spring forth noisily from all directions, and insomnia begins again for peaceful folk, if there are any in such a place.

  Isn’t it the truth? The Trou-d’Enfer, as I have depicted it, is a hideous quarter.

  Well, seven hundred years ago, it was even worse.

  There were no streets to be seen there, no houses at all. It was a vast marsh of evil renown, in the middle of which were vast ruins. No Christian ever dared set foot there, because, as its name clearly indicates, the Trou-d’Enfer was haunted by the Evil Spirit, and frightful marvels were recounted in that regard, which probably did not measure up to the verity. Lend me your ears, pay attention, and judge whether I’m telling the truth.

  The ruins that lay in the heart of the Trou-d’Enfer were those of a fortified château, inhabited a long time ago by a Seigneur named Truandre, whose mother had sold him in his cradle to the Demon and his power.

  The chronicler relates that the miscreant in question worshiped the Father of Evil, and committed a thousand lubricious and impious horrors to please his god. Young women of good lineage were abducted from their families and kept captive in horrible warrens; the throats of infants were cut in order to prepare diabolical unguents from their body-fat, and pilgrims who had the misfortune to ask for shelter at the château found themselves forced to deny the holy name of God or die of starvation in dungeons more frightful than one can describe.

  But it was priests in particular, and the bishop most of all, that Truandre hated. He had all the servants of God who were not extremely careful apprehended, and when they refused to tell him where he treasures of the church were hidden and did not want to surrender the rents of their abbeys to him, he whipped them, personally, until they fell dead beneath his blows, or laid them out on hot coals and burned them slowly thereupon.

  Heaven finally took pity on the misfortunes of Le Cambrésis,11 and during a violent storm, Truandre was struck by lightning, along with the accomplices of his crimes and all his men-at-arms. Only a few servants were spared.

  Those servants went to find the bishop, and offered him large sums of money to bury their dead lord, as befitted a nobleman of high lineage, in holy ground—but the bishop did not even want to listen to them, and ordered that the corpse should be thrown into the moat of Truandre’s château, next to an enormous gibbet. In addition, he declared excommunicate and expelled from the holy church anyone who touched the body other than to spit in its face and damage it.

  There was no need for that excommunication, for the body had no sooner been thrown where the bishop had ordered than the earth all around began to catch fire and to emit continuous jets of flame; and, horrible as the rains were that fell during the next four years, they were incapable of extinguishing them. A thousand petty demons were working incessantly, throwing oil and pitch to aliment the fire of that inferno, the approach to which was guarded by a huge dragon.

  The clamors of Truandre and the laments of his servants were heard night and day; their souls were seen, trying to flee, and demons armed with pitchforks pitilessly hurling them back into the midst of the flames. Songs such as human mouths could never have produced, such as the human mind could not conceive, and bursts of laughter suggestive of the ripping of thunder mingled with the cries of the damned; often, too, the demons seized them with their burning hands and forced them to join in with their dances and whirl with them in mid-air, from which they suddenly dropped them to the ground.

  The worthy bishop, touched with compassion by the sufferings of Truandre’s soul, persuaded a vassal of the dead man to do penitence for him, by relieving the necessities of the poor and giving all the wealth that he had inherited from his master to the church. That pious vassal had no sooner accomplished the bishop’s good advice than the marsh, which had vomited fire for four years and caused to appear everything that Hell, demons and reproofs had of the most hideous, resumed its somber verdure and its still, stagnant waters.

  No one, however, had the courage to go and live in a château in which the angels of darkness had held their sabbats, and it remained deserted for a long time.

  Nevertheless, little by little, poor people who had no hearth or home became bold enough to take a few stones from the manor house to build houses, and, as no harm came to them, others did more, and built their houses near to the châtel, even in the midst of the ruins, although there was always a kind of reprobation attached to the place.

  Such is the origin of the quarter known nowadays as the Trou-d’Enfer, which continues to justify its name by its sinister aspect.

  THE DEVIL’S SONATA

  There was once a musician in Augsbourg named Niéser, who was equally skilled at making instruments, composing tunes and playing them; his reputation still extends throughout the region of Swabia. It is true that he was immensely rich, and that does no harm to artistes, even the most skillful ones. His less fortunate colleagues sometimes said that his opulence had been achieved by less than honorable means, but he had friends who were able to rely that those were nothing but the words of the envious.

  Niéser’s only heir was a daughter whose innocence and beauty would have appeared to be a sufficient dowry, even without the attractive prospect of her father’s possessions. Esther was no less celebrated for the softness of her blue eyes, the grace of her smile and a thousand amiable qualities than old Niéser was for his riches, the perfection of his instruments and his prodigious talent.

  Now, in spite of old Niéser’s fortune and the consideration that he drew from it, and in spite of his musical celebrity, he was tormented by a great chagrin. Esther, his only child, the sole representative of a musical family extending over generations, could scarcely distinguish one note from another, and it was a source of painful reflection to Niéser not to be able to leave an inheritor of his talents, which he held in equal esteem to his wealth. As Esther grew up, however, he consoled himself with the idea that, if he could not be the father of a family of musicians, he might at least be the grandfather of one.

  In fact, as soon as his daughter was old enough to marry, he made the singular resolution to give her, with a dowry of two hundred thousand florins, to the man who composed the best sonata and was best able to play it. His determination as immediately published throughout the town and the day fixed for the competition. It was even said that Niéser had affirmed on oath that he would keep his promise, even if the sonata were composed and played by the Devil himself. Perhaps it was only a joke, but it would have been better for old Niéser never to have said those words. It was obvious, some said, that he was a wicked man, with no respect for religion.

  As soon as the musician’s resolution was known in Augsbourg, the entire town was in a stir. Several people who had never before dared to raise such high ambitions presented themselves without hesitation as competitors for Esther’s hand; for, independently of her charms and Niéser’s florins, their reputation as artistes was at stake, and where there was a lack of talent, vanity stood in for it.

  In brief, there was not a musician in Augsbourg who did not hasten, for one reason or another, to enter the lists of which beauty was the prize. Morning, noon and night the streets of Augsburg resounded with melodious chords. At every window the sounds of a sonata in progress could be heard; there was no longer any topic of conversation in the town than the imminent competition and its probable result. A musical fever reigned over all social classes; favorite tunes were repeated by instruments or voices in every house in Augsbourg; sentinels hummed sonatas at their posts; shopkeepers beat time on their counters w
ith their yardsticks and their customers, when they came in, forgot what they had come to buy in order to join in. It was even said that the priests were murmuring allegros as they emerged from the confessional, and that a few bars of a rather lively movement had been found sketched on the reverse of the bishop’s homily.

  In the midst of all that agitation, however, one single man remained unafflicted the general epidemic. That was Franz Gortlingen. With as little disposition for music as Esther, he had the most noble character and was reputed to be one of the best-dressed cavaliers in Swabia. Franz loved the musician’s daughter, and the latter, for her part, would have preferred hearing her name pronounced by Franz, with a few amiable compliments, to the most beautiful sonatas ever composed between the Rhine and the Oder.

  On the eve of the great musical competition, Franz had not yet attempted anything for the accomplishment of his desires. How could he have done so? He had never composed a note of music in his life. To sing a simple tune to the accompaniment of a harpsichord was the nec plus ultra of his science.

  That evening, Franz came out of his apartment and went down to the street. The shops were closed and the town entirely deserted. A few lights were still burning in windows, however, and the sound of instruments being prepared for the struggle that might deprive Franz of Esther struck his ears sadly. Sometimes he stopped to listen, and was even able to distinguish, through the panes, the faces of musicians satisfied with the success of their efforts and animated by the hope of triumph.

  Gortlingen wandered at random, so that he eventually found himself in a part of the town that seemed entirely unfamiliar to him, although he had spent his entire life in Augsbourg. He could no longer hear anything but the roar of the river. Then, suddenly, the distant chords of a supernatural harmony reminded him once again of all his anxieties. A light coming from an isolated house proved that the reign of sleep as not yet general. Gortlingen assumed, judging by the direction of the sound, that some musician was still preparing for the next day’s ordeal.

  Gortlingen went on, and as he came closer to the light, such brilliant bursts of harmony were launched into the air that, ignorant as he was of music, the chords exercised a charm upon him that increasingly aroused his curiosity. He moved forward rapidly, without making any noise, all the way to the window. It was open, and inside, an old man was sitting at a harpsichord with a manuscript in front of him. His back was to the window, but an antique mirror allowed Gortlingen to see the musician’s face and movements.

  He had an expression of infinite gentleness and benevolence: a physiognomy of which Gortlingen could not remember ever having seen the like, but which one could have desired to see often. The old man was playing with marvelous expression; he stopped from time to time in order to make a few changes to his manuscript, and when he had appreciated their effect, he testified his joy in words that were incomprehensible, and resembled gestures of thanks, but in an unknown language.

  To begin with, Gortlingen could hardly contain his indignation at the thought that that little old man might dare to present himself as one of Esther’s suitors, but as he watched him and listened to him he sensed himself becoming reconciled to him by virtue of his singularly gentle physiognomy, and also by the beauty and particular character of his music.

  Finally, at the conclusion of a brilliant passage, the artiste perceived that he was not alone, for Gortlingen, no longer able to restrain his admiration, had stifled the moderate exclamations of the old man with his applause. Immediately, the old man got up and opened the door.

  “Good evening, Herr Franz,” he said. “Sit down and tell me how you like my sonata, and whether you think it can win the prize.”

  There was something benevolent in the old man’s face, and something soft in his voice. Gortlingen felt all jealousy disappear, and he listened.

  “Does my sonata please you?” said the old man, as he finished.

  “Alas!” replied Gortlingen. “If I were only capable of doing as much!”

  “Listen to me,” said the old man. “Niéser has made a criminal oath in swearing that he would give his daughter to whoever composes the best sonata, even if it were the Devil himself, and played by his hand. Those words have been heard, and repeated by the echo of the forests, have been carried on the wings of the wind and night all the way to the ears of the one who dwells in the valley of darkness; the Demon’s cries of joy burst forth. But the genius of good was alert; so, without taking pity on Niéser, the fate of Esther and Gortlingen has touched him. Take this score; go into Niéser’s drawing-room; a stranger will present himself to dispute the prize; two others will seem to be accompanying him: the sonata I have given you is the same one that they will play, but mine has a particular virtue: watch for an opportunity, and substitute this one for his.”

  After this extraordinary speech, the old man took Gortlingen by the hand; he led him through unfamiliar streets to one of the gates of the city, and left him.

  As he returned home with his scroll of paper, Gortlingen lost himself in his reflections regarding that bizarre adventure and conjectures relating to the next day’s event. There had been something in the old man’s physiognomy that he could not mistrust, and yet it was impossible for him to comprehend how he could obtain any advantage from the substitution of one sonata for another, since he was not one of the suitors for Esther’s hand.

  He went up to his room and went to bed. While he was asleep, Esther’s image danced before his eyes, and the old man’s sonata resonated in the air.

  The next day, at sunset, the Niéser house was opened to the competitors. All the musicians of Augsbourg were then seen, hurrying along with scrolls of paper in hand, while a crowd gathered at Niéser’s gate to watch them pass by.

  When the time had come, Gortlingen, taking his score, also went to Niéser’s door. All those who knew him felt sorry for him, because of his love for the musician’s daughter; they said to one another: “What’s Franz doing with that piece of paper in his hand? Surely he isn’t thinking of entering the lists? Poor fellow!”

  When he entered the room, Gortlingen found it full of suitors and the music-lovers of Augsbourg, who had been invited to the session. When Gortlingen crossed the room with his musical score, smiles appeared on the faces of the musicians, who all knew one another, and also knew that he could hardly play a march, much less a sonata, even if he were able to compose one. On seeing him, Niéser smiled too, but when Esther’s eyes met his, she was seen to wipe away a tear.

  It was announced that the rivals could come forward to inscribe their names, and that the order of play would be decided by lot. The last to present himself was a stranger, for whom everyone made way as if by instinct. No one had seen him before and no one knew where he had come from. His physiognomy as so repulsive and there was something so extraordinary about his gaze that even Niéser could not help whispering to his daughter that he hoped that the man’s sonata would not be the best.

  “Let’s begin the trial,” said Niéser. “I swear to give my daughter, whom you can see sitting beside me, with a dowry of two hundred thousand florins, to the man who composes the best sonata and can play it most perfectly.”

  “And you’ll keep your word!” said he stranger, advancing to face Niéser.

  “I’ll keep my word,” said the musician of Augsbourg, “even if the sonata is composed by the Devil in person and played by him.”

  Everyone fell silent and shivered; only the stranger smiled.

  The first name presented by the ballot was that of the stranger, who immediately took his place and unrolled his score. Two men whom no one had noticed previously placed themselves by his sides with their instruments, awaiting the signal to begin. All eyes were upon them. The signal was given, and when the three musicians raised their heads to follow the music, everyone perceived, with horror, that their faces were similar.

  A frisson ran through the audience. No one dared speak to his neighbor, but people began to draw their cloaks more tightly about them
and slip silently away. Soon, the entire audience had disappeared, with the exception of the three who were continuing to play the sonata and Gortlingen, who had not forgotten the old man’s advice. Old Niéser was still in his seat, but he was trembling at the memory of his fatal oath.

  Gortlingen was standing close to the musicians; as they approached the finale, he boldly substituted his paper for theirs. An infernal grimace contracted the faces of the three artistes, and a distant groan resounded like an echo.

  A few hours after midnight, the old man was seen leading Esther and Gortlingen out of the room, but the sonata was still continuing.

  The years went by. Esther and Gortlingen were married, and reaching the end of their lives; the strange musicians, however, were still pursuing their task, and old Niéser, it is said, was still sitting in his seat, beating time.

  THE SABBAT BOW

  Mathias Wilmart was the best fiddler in the town of Hesdin. In no village for ten leagues around would people have danced with such a good heart if anyone other than Mathias Wilmart were playing the bass violin. Thus, he was an individual of no small importance; he sat down at the relatives’ table at weddings; the bride—who, following local custom, served the guests during the meal—never failed to give him the choice morsel. Furthermore, when he began to speak, everyone lent him their eras, for no one knew better than he did how to tell a story, sing a song or make a witty remark.