3:28 am - Saturday April 21, 2018

To Be Read At Dusk-by Charles Dicken-Novel and Ebooks

Novel Name: To Be Read At Dusk

Written by: Charles Dicken

Category: Fiction, Short Stories, Short Novel

Page 1:

One, two, three, four, five. There were five of them.

Five couriers, sitting on a bench outside the convent on the summit
of the Great St. Bernard in Switzerland, looking at the remote
heights, stained by the setting sun as if a mighty quantity of red
wine had been broached upon the mountain top, and had not yet had
time to sink into the snow.

This is not my simile. It was made for the occasion by the
stoutest courier, who was a German. None of the others took any
more notice of it than they took of me, sitting on another bench on
the other side of the convent door, smoking my cigar, like them,
and – also like them – looking at the reddened snow, and at the
lonely shed hard by, where the bodies of belated travellers, dug
out of it, slowly wither away, knowing no corruption in that cold
region.

The wine upon the mountain top soaked in as we looked; the mountain
became white; the sky, a very dark blue; the wind rose; and the air
turned piercing cold. The five couriers buttoned their rough
coats. There being no safer man to imitate in all such proceedings
than a courier, I buttoned mine.

The mountain in the sunset had stopped the five couriers in a
conversation. It is a sublime sight, likely to stop conversation.
The mountain being now out of the sunset, they resumed. Not that I
had heard any part of their previous discourse; for indeed, I had
not then broken away from the American gentleman, in the
travellers’ parlour of the convent, who, sitting with his face to
the fire, had undertaken to realise to me the whole progress of
events which had led to the accumulation by the Honourable Ananias
Dodger of one of the largest acquisitions of dollars ever made in
our country.

‘My God!’ said the Swiss courier, speaking in French, which I do
not hold (as some authors appear to do) to be such an all-
sufficient excuse for a naughty word, that I have only to write it
in that language to make it innocent; ‘if you talk of ghosts – ‘

‘But I DON’T talk of ghosts,’ said the German.

‘Of what then?’ asked the Swiss.

‘If I knew of what then,’ said the German, ‘I should probably know
a great deal more.’

It was a good answer, I thought, and it made me curious. So, I
moved my position to that corner of my bench which was nearest to
them, and leaning my back against the convent wall, heard
perfectly, without appearing to attend.

‘Thunder and lightning!’ said the German, warming, ‘when a certain
man is coming to see you, unexpectedly; and, without his own
knowledge, sends some invisible messenger, to put the idea of him
into your head all day, what do you call that? When you walk along
a crowded street – at Frankfort, Milan, London, Paris – and think
that a passing stranger is like your friend Heinrich, and then that
another passing stranger is like your friend Heinrich, and so begin
to have a strange foreknowledge that presently you’ll meet your
friend Heinrich – which you do, though you believed him at Trieste
– what do you call THAT?’

‘It’s not uncommon, either,’ murmured the Swiss and the other
three.

‘Uncommon!’ said the German. ‘It’s as common as cherries in the
Black Forest. It’s as common as maccaroni at Naples. And Naples
reminds me! When the old Marchesa Senzanima shrieks at a card-
party on the Chiaja – as I heard and saw her, for it happened in a
Bavarian family of mine, and I was overlooking the service that
evening – I say, when the old Marchesa starts up at the card-table,
white through her rouge, and cries, “My sister in Spain is dead! I
felt her cold touch on my back!” – and when that sister IS dead at
the moment – what do you call that?’

‘Or when the blood of San Gennaro liquefies at the request of the
clergy – as all the world knows that it does regularly once a-year,
in my native city,’ said the Neapolitan courier after a pause, with
a comical look, ‘what do you call that?’

‘THAT!’ cried the German. ‘Well, I think I know a name for that.’

‘Miracle?’ said the Neapolitan, with the same sly face.

The German merely smoked and laughed; and they all smoked and
laughed.

‘Bah!’ said the German, presently. ‘I speak of things that really
do happen. When I want to see the conjurer, I pay to see a
professed one, and have my money’s worth. Very strange things do
happen without ghosts. Ghosts! Giovanni Baptista, tell your story
of the English bride. There’s no ghost in that, but something full
as strange. Will any man tell me what?’

As there was a silence among them, I glanced around. He whom I
took to be Baptista was lighting a fresh cigar. He presently went
on to speak. He was a Genoese, as I judged.

‘The story of the English bride?’ said he. ‘Basta! one ought not
to call so slight a thing a story. Well, it’s all one. But it’s
true. Observe me well, gentlemen, it’s true. That which glitters
is not always gold; but what I am going to tell, is true.’

He repeated this more than once.

Ten years ago, I took my credentials to an English gentleman at
Long’s Hotel, in Bond Street, London, who was about to travel – it
might be for one year, it might be for two. He approved of them;
likewise of me. He was pleased to make inquiry. The testimony
that he received was favourable. He engaged me by the six months,
and my entertainment was generous.

He was young, handsome, very happy. He was enamoured of a fair
young English lady, with a sufficient fortune, and they were going
to be married. It was the wedding-trip, in short, that we were
going to take. For three months’ rest in the hot weather (it was
early summer then) he had hired an old place on the Riviera, at an
easy distance from my city, Genoa, on the road to Nice. Did I know
that place? Yes; I told him I knew it well. It was an old palace
with great gardens. It was a little bare, and it was a little dark
and gloomy, being close surrounded by trees; but it was spacious,
ancient, grand, and on the seashore. He said it had been so
described to him exactly, and he was well pleased that I knew it.
For its being a little bare of furniture, all such places were.
For its being a little gloomy, he had hired it principally for the
gardens, and he and my mistress would pass the summer weather in
their shade.

‘So all goes well, Baptista?’ said he.

‘Indubitably, signore; very well.’

We had a travelling chariot for our journey, newly built for us,
and in all respects complete. All we had was complete; we wanted
for nothing. The marriage took place. They were happy. I was
happy, seeing all so bright, being so well situated, going to my
own city, teaching my language in the rumble to the maid, la bella
Carolina, whose heart was gay with laughter: who was young and
rosy.

The time flew. But I observed – listen to this, I pray! (and here
the courier dropped his voice) – I observed my mistress sometimes
brooding in a manner very strange; in a frightened manner; in an
unhappy manner; with a cloudy, uncertain alarm upon her. I think
that I began to notice this when I was walking up hills by the
carriage side, and master had gone on in front. At any rate, I
remember that it impressed itself upon my mind one evening in the
South of France, when she called to me to call master back; and
when he came back, and walked for a long way, talking encouragingly
and affectionately to her, with his hand upon the open window, and
hers in it. Now and then, he laughed in a merry way, as if he were
bantering her out of something. By-and-by, she laughed, and then
all went well again.

It was curious. I asked la bella Carolina, the pretty little one,
Was mistress unwell? – No. – Out of spirits? – No. – Fearful of bad
roads, or brigands? – No. And what made it more mysterious was,
the pretty little one would not look at me in giving answer, but
WOULD look at the view.

But, one day she told me the secret.

‘If you must know,’ said Carolina, ‘I find, from what I have
overheard, that mistress is haunted.’

‘How haunted?’

‘By a dream.’

‘What dream?’

‘By a dream of a face. For three nights before her marriage, she
saw a face in a dream – always the same face, and only One.’

‘A terrible face?’

‘No. The face of a dark, remarkable-looking man, in black, with
black hair and a grey moustache – a handsome man except for a
reserved and secret air. Not a face she ever saw, or at all like a
face she ever saw. Doing nothing in the dream but looking at her
fixedly, out of darkness.’

‘Does the dream come back?’

‘Never. The recollection of it is all her trouble.’

‘And why does it trouble her?’

Carolina shook her head.

‘That’s master’s question,’ said la bella. ‘She don’t know. She
wonders why, herself. But I heard her tell him, only last night,
that if she was to find a picture of that face in our Italian house
(which she is afraid she will) she did not know how she could ever
bear it.’

Upon my word I was fearful after this (said the Genoese courier) of
our coming to the old palazzo, lest some such ill-starred picture
should happen to be there. I knew there were many there; and, as
we got nearer and nearer to the place, I wished the whole gallery
in the crater of Vesuvius. To mend the matter, it was a stormy
dismal evening when we, at last, approached that part of the
Riviera. It thundered; and the thunder of my city and its
environs, rolling among the high hills, is very loud. The lizards
ran in and out of the chinks in the broken stone wall of the
garden, as if they were frightened; the frogs bubbled and croaked
their loudest; the sea-wind moaned, and the wet trees dripped; and
the lightning – body of San Lorenzo, how it lightened!

We all know what an old palace in or near Genoa is – how time and
the sea air have blotted it – how the drapery painted on the outer
walls has peeled off in great flakes of plaster – how the lower
windows are darkened with rusty bars of iron – how the courtyard is
overgrown with grass – how the outer buildings are dilapidated –
how the whole pile seems devoted to ruin. Our palazzo was one of
the true kind. It had been shut up close for months. Months? –
years! – it had an earthy smell, like a tomb. The scent of the
orange trees on the broad back terrace, and of the lemons ripening
on the wall, and of some shrubs that grew around a broken fountain,
had got into the house somehow, and had never been able to get out
again. There was, in every room, an aged smell, grown faint with
confinement. It pined in all the cupboards and drawers. In the
little rooms of communication between great rooms, it was stifling.
If you turned a picture – to come back to the pictures – there it
still was, clinging to the wall behind the frame, like a sort of
bat.

The lattice-blinds were close shut, all over the house. There were
two ugly, grey old women in the house, to take care of it; one of
them with a spindle, who stood winding and mumbling in the doorway,
and who would as soon have let in the devil as the air. Master,
mistress, la bella Carolina, and I, went all through the palazzo.
I went first, though I have named myself last, opening the windows
and the lattice-blinds, and shaking down on myself splashes of
rain, and scraps of mortar, and now and then a dozing mosquito, or
a monstrous, fat, blotchy, Genoese spider.

Filed in: Charles Dicken, Fiction, Short Novel, Short Stories

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