All I want of it is to enforce the principle, that, when the door of the soul is once opened to a guest, there is no knowing who will come in next.
--Our young girl keeps up her early habit of sketching heads and characters.Nobody is, I should think, more faithful and exact in the drawing of the academical figures given her as lessons, but there is a perpetual arabesque of fancies that runs round the margin of her drawings, and there is one book which I know she keeps to run riot in, where, if anywhere, a shrewd eye would be most likely to read her thoughts.This book of hers I mean to see, if I can get at it honorably.
I have never yet crossed the threshold of the Little Gentleman's chamber.How he lives, when he once gets within it, I can only guess.His hours are late, as I have said; often, on waking late in the night, I see the light through cracks in his window-shutters on the wall of the house opposite.If the times of witchcraft were not over, I should be afraid to be so close a neighbor to a place from which there come such strange noises.Sometimes it is the dragging of something heavy over the floor, that makes me shiver to hear it,--it sounds so like what people that kill other people have to do now and then.Occasionally I hear very sweet strains of music,--whether of a wind or stringed instrument, or a human voice, strange as it may seem, I have often tried to find out, but through the partition I could not be quite sure.If I have not heard a woman cry and moan, and then again laugh as though she would die laughing, I have heard sounds so like them that--I am a fool to confess it--I have covered my head with the bedclothes; for I have had a fancy in my dreams, that I could hardly shake off when I woke up, about that so-called witch that was his great-grandmother, or whatever it was,--a sort of fancy that she visited the Little Gentleman,--a young woman in old-fashioned dress, with a red ring round her white neck,--not a neck-lace, but a dull-stain.
Of course you don't suppose that I have any foolish superstitions about the matter,--I, the Professor, who have seen enough to take all that nonsense out of any man's head! It is not our beliefs that frighten us half so much as our fancies.A man not only believes, but knows he runs a risk, whenever he steps into a railroad car; but it does n't worry him much.On the other hand, carry that man across a pasture a little way from some dreary country-village, and show him an old house where there were strange deaths a good many years ago, and there are rumors of ugly spots on the walls,--the old man hung himself in the garret, that is certain, and ever since the country-people have called it "the haunted house,"--the owners have n't been able to let it since the last tenants left on account of the noises,--so it has fallen into sad decay, and the moss grows on the rotten shingles of the roof, and the clapboards have turned black, and the windows rattle like teeth that chatter with fear, and the walls of the house begin to lean as if its knees were shaking,--take the man who did n't mind the real risk of the cars to that old house, on some dreary November evening, and ask him to sleep there alone,--how do you think he will like it? He doesn't believe one word of ghosts,--but then he knows, that, whether waking or sleeping, his imagination will people the haunted chambers with ghostly images.It is not what we believe, as I said before, that frightens us commonly, but what we conceive.A principle that reaches a good way if I am not mistaken.I say, then, that, if these odd sounds coming from the Little Gentleman's chamber sometimes make me nervous, so that I cannot get to sleep, it is not because I suppose he is engaged in any unlawful or mysterious way.
The only wicked suggestion that ever came into my head was one that was founded on the landlady's story of his having a pile of gold; it was a ridiculous fancy; besides, I suspect the story of sweating gold was only one of the many fables got up to make the Jews odious and afford a pretext for plundering them.As for the sound like a woman laughing and crying, I never said it was a woman's voice; for, in the first place, I could only hear indistinctly; and, secondly, he may have an organ, or some queer instrument or other, with what they call the vox humana stop.If he moves his bed round to get away from the window, or for any such reason, there is nothing very frightful in that simple operation.Most of our foolish conceits explain themselves in some such simple way.And, yet, for all that, I confess, that, when I woke up the other evening, and heard, first a sweet complaining cry, and then footsteps, and then the dragging sound,--nothing but his bed, I am quite sure,--I felt a stirring in the roots of my hair as the feasters did in Keats's terrible poem of "Lamia."There is nothing very odd in my feeling nervous when I happen to lie awake and get listening for sounds.Just keep your ears open any time after midnight, when you are lying in bed in a lone attic of a dark night.What horrid, strange, suggestive, unaccountable noises you will hear! The stillness of night is a vulgar error.All the dead things seem to be alive.Crack! That is the old chest of drawers; you never hear it crack in the daytime.Creak! There's a door ajar; you know you shut them all.
