Phantastes: A Faerie Romance for Men and Women
“Take it down yourself, master; I cannot reach it,” said the old man.
Cosmo took it down carefully, when he saw that the carving was indeed
delicate and costly, being both of admirable design and execution;
containing withal many devices which seemed to embody some meaning to
which he had no clue. This, naturally, in one of his tastes and
temperament, increased the interest he felt in the old mirror; so much,
indeed, that he now longed to possess it, in order to study its frame
at his leisure. He pretended, however, to want it only for use; and
saying he feared the plate could be of little service, as it was rather
old, he brushed away a little of the dust from its face, expecting to
see a dull reflection within. His surprise was great when he found the
reflection brilliant, revealing a glass not only uninjured by age, but
wondrously clear and perfect (should the whole correspond to this part)
even for one newly from the hands of the maker. He asked carelessly
what the owner wanted for the thing. The old man replied by mentioning
a sum of money far beyond the reach of poor Cosmo, who proceeded to
replace the mirror where it had stood before.
“You think the price too high?” said the old man.
“I do not know that it is too much for you to ask,” replied Cosmo; “but
it is far too much for me to give.”
The old man held up his light towards Cosmo’s face. “I like your look,”
said he.
Cosmo could not return the compliment. In fact, now he looked closely
at him for the first time, he felt a kind of repugnance to him, mingled
with a strange feeling of doubt whether a man or a woman stood before
him.
“What is your name?” he continued.
“Cosmo von Wehrstahl.”
“Ah, ah! I thought as much. I see your father in you. I knew your
father very well, young sir. I dare say in some odd corners of my
house, you might find some old things with his crest and cipher upon
them still. Well, I like you: you shall have the mirror at the fourth
part of what I asked for it; but upon one condition.”
“What is that?” said Cosmo; for, although the price was still a great
deal for him to give, he could just manage it; and the desire to
possess the mirror had increased to an altogether unaccountable degree,
since it had seemed beyond his reach.
“That if you should ever want to get rid of it again, you will let me
have the first offer.”
“Certainly,” replied Cosmo, with a smile; adding, “a moderate condition
indeed.”
“On your honour?” insisted the seller.
“On my honour,” said the buyer; and the bargain was concluded.
“I will carry it home for you,” said the old man, as Cosmo took it in
his hands.
“No, no; I will carry it myself,” said he; for he had a peculiar
dislike to revealing his residence to any one, and more especially to
this person, to whom he felt every moment a greater antipathy. “Just as
you please,” said the old creature, and muttered to himself as he held
his light at the door to show him out of the court: “Sold for the sixth
time! I wonder what will be the upshot of it this time. I should think
my lady had enough of it by now!”
Cosmo carried his prize carefully home. But all the way he had an
uncomfortable feeling that he was watched and dogged. Repeatedly he
looked about, but saw nothing to justify his suspicions. Indeed, the
streets were too crowded and too ill lighted to expose very readily a
careful spy, if such there should be at his heels. He reached his
lodging in safety, and leaned his purchase against the wall, rather
relieved, strong as he was, to be rid of its weight; then, lighting his
pipe, threw himself on the couch, and was soon lapt in the folds of one
of his haunting dreams.
He returned home earlier than usual the next day, and fixed the mirror
to the wall, over the hearth, at one end of his long room.
He then carefully wiped away the dust from its face, and, clear as the
water of a sunny spring, the mirror shone out from beneath the envious
covering. But his interest was chiefly occupied with the curious
carving of the frame. This he cleaned as well as he could with a brush;
and then he proceeded to a minute examination of its various parts, in
the hope of discovering some index to the intention of the carver. In
this, however, he was unsuccessful; and, at length, pausing with some
weariness and disappointment, he gazed vacantly for a few moments into
the depth of the reflected room. But ere long he said, half aloud:
“What a strange thing a mirror is! and what a wondrous affinity exists
between it and a man’s imagination! For this room of mine, as I behold
it in the glass, is the same, and yet not the same. It is not the mere
representation of the room I live in, but it looks just as if I were
reading about it in a story I like. All its commonness has disappeared.
The mirror has lifted it out of the region of fact into the realm of
art; and the very representing of it to me has clothed with interest
that which was otherwise hard and bare; just as one sees with delight
upon the stage the representation of a character from which one would
escape in life as from something unendurably wearisome. But is it not
rather that art rescues nature from the weary and sated regards of our
senses, and the degrading injustice of our anxious everyday life, and,
appealing to the imagination, which dwells apart, reveals Nature in
some degree as she really is, and as she represents herself to the eye
of the child, whose every-day life, fearless and unambitious, meets the
true import of the wonder-teeming world around him, and rejoices
therein without questioning? That skeleton, now—I almost fear it,
standing there so still, with eyes only for the unseen, like a
watch-tower looking across all the waste of this busy world into the
quiet regions of rest beyond. And yet I know every bone and every joint
in it as well as my own fist. And that old battle-axe looks as if any
moment it might be caught up by a mailed hand, and, borne forth by the
mighty arm, go crashing through casque, and skull, and brain, invading
the Unknown with yet another bewildered ghost. I should like to live in
_that_ room if I could only get into it.”
Scarcely had the half-moulded words floated from him, as he stood
gazing into the mirror, when, striking him as with a flash of amazement
that fixed him in his posture, noiseless and unannounced, glided
suddenly through the door into the reflected room, with stately motion,
yet reluctant and faltering step, the graceful form of a woman, clothed
all in white. Her back only was visible as she walked slowly up to the
couch in the further end of the room, on which she laid herself
wearily, turning towards him a face of unutterable loveliness, in which
suffering, and dislike, and a sense of compulsion, strangely mingled
with the beauty. He stood without the power of motion for some moments,
with his eyes irrecoverably fixed upon her; and even after he was
conscious of the ability to move, he could not summon up courage to
turn and look on her, face to face, in the veritable chamber in which
he stood. At length, with a sudden effort, in which the exercise of the
will was so pure, that it seemed involuntary, he turned his face to the
couch. It was vacant. In bewilderment, mingled with terror, he turned
again to the mirror: there, on the reflected couch, lay the exquisite
lady-form. She lay with closed eyes, whence two large tears were just
welling from beneath the veiling lids; still as death, save for the
convulsive motion of her bosom.
Cosmo himself could not have described what he felt. His emotions were
of a kind that destroyed consciousness, and could never be clearly
recalled. He could not help standing yet by the mirror, and keeping his
eyes fixed on the lady, though he was painfully aware of his rudeness,
and feared every moment that she would open hers, and meet his fixed
regard. But he was, ere long, a little relieved; for, after a while,
her eyelids slowly rose, and her eyes remained uncovered, but
unemployed for a time; and when, at length, they began to wander about
the room, as if languidly seeking to make some acquaintance with her
environment, they were never directed towards him: it seemed nothing
but what was in the mirror could affect her vision; and, therefore, if
she saw him at all, it could only be his back, which, of necessity, was
turned towards her in the glass. The two figures in the mirror could
not meet face to face, except he turned and looked at her, present in
his room; and, as she was not there, he concluded that if he were to
turn towards the part in his room corresponding to that in which she
lay, his reflection would either be invisible to her altogether, or at
least it must appear to her to gaze vacantly towards her, and no
meeting of the eyes would produce the impression of spiritual
proximity. By-and-by her eyes fell upon the skeleton, and he saw her
shudder and close them. She did not open them again, but signs of
repugnance continued evident on her countenance. Cosmo would have
removed the obnoxious thing at once, but he feared to discompose her
yet more by the assertion of his presence which the act would involve.
So he stood and watched her. The eyelids yet shrouded the eyes, as a
costly case the jewels within; the troubled expression gradually faded
from the countenance, leaving only a faint sorrow behind; the features
settled into an unchanging expression of rest; and by these signs, and
the slow regular motion of her breathing, Cosmo knew that she slept. He
could now gaze on her without embarrassment. He saw that her figure,
dressed in the simplest robe of white, was worthy of her face; and so
harmonious, that either the delicately moulded foot, or any finger of
the equally delicate hand, was an index to the whole. As she lay, her
whole form manifested the relaxation of perfect repose. He gazed till
he was weary, and at last seated himself near the new-found shrine, and
mechanically took up a book, like one who watches by a sick-bed. But
his eyes gathered no thoughts from the page before him. His intellect
had been stunned by the bold contradiction, to its face, of all its
experience, and now lay passive, without assertion, or speculation, or
even conscious astonishment; while his imagination sent one wild dream
of blessedness after another coursing through his soul. How long he sat
he knew not; but at length he roused himself, rose, and, trembling in
every portion of his frame, looked again into the mirror. She was gone.
The mirror reflected faithfully what his room presented, and nothing
more. It stood there like a golden setting whence the central jewel has
been stolen away—like a night-sky without the glory of its stars. She
had carried with her all the strangeness of the reflected room. It had
sunk to the level of the one without.
But when the first pangs of his disappointment had passed, Cosmo began
to comfort himself with the hope that she might return, perhaps the
next evening, at the same hour. Resolving that if she did, she should
not at least be scared by the hateful skeleton, he removed that and
several other articles of questionable appearance into a recess by the
side of the hearth, whence they could not possibly cast any reflection
into the mirror; and having made his poor room as tidy as he could,
sought the solace of the open sky and of a night wind that had begun to
blow, for he could not rest where he was. When he returned, somewhat
composed, he could hardly prevail with himself to lie down on his bed;
for he could not help feeling as if she had lain upon it; and for him
to lie there now would be something like sacrilege. However, weariness
prevailed; and laying himself on the couch, dressed as he was, he slept
till day.
With a beating heart, beating till he could hardly breathe, he stood in