Anarchistbanjo's World

The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel

“Maybe so, maybe so,” growled a fat, frowning man with
a coarse face and a high collar. “Nevertheless, it would be a
mistake to consider the not yet confirmed fraud from the outset
as a premise. We are man enough to get to the bottom of the
thing, and I’m not concerned with light phenomena or
nonsensical tapping.”
Just then, a small wallpaper door opened, and a
somewhat crooked, elderly girl with an unattractive and yellow
face entered. She was dressed in a gray silk robe and sat down
in the arm chair after a curtsy to those present, spreading and
smoothing her skirt.
Behind her stepped a darkly dressed man with an
unpleasant facial expression and piercing eyes, whose age was
between thirty and forty, not far from that of the woman. In his
face, strangely enough, the facial expressions changed
constantly, so that one could believe, his mood swung between
laughing and crying. He bowed, collected the required douceur
on a silver plate, put the plate in front of one of the candelabras,
bowed again and then said with a hard accent, as it is peculiar
to German-speaking Russians:
“This Demoiselle Maria Theresia Köckering, from Reval,
38 years old, is capable of answering all the questions
addressed to her, whether they concern the past, the present or
future of the esteemed personalities present here, once she has
gone into magnetic sleep.”
He approached the table, extinguished some of the
brightly burning wax candles, then went to the motionless girl,
stretched out his fingers toward her face and softly stroked her
forehead, eyes and temples several times. Then he turned
around.
“She’s asleep now,” he said.
We looked at her and had the impression of a seated
person deeply lost in sleep.
“I beg your pardon, my highly respectable gentlemen!”
continued the man in a subdued voice. “There is a certain
amount of silence required for the experiment. If the questions
asked are answered well I ask you to confirm half aloud that
the answer was correct. If it is not, I ask you to point out
without agitation, whereupon I will renew the question. For it
happens that the sensitive mind of the demoiselle can
experience confusion caused by scary images from other
regions. Any fair examination and investigation is permitted.
Strictly forbidden is disturbing noise, rough calling, abrupt
touching, since physical fright endangers the life of the
demoiselle in the highest, because in such a state the soul is
only very loosely connected with the body.”
A short, disapproving clearing of the throat came from
the row of listeners. But the presenter did not pay attention to it,
but continued speaking:
“For the time being, I will ask some questions myself. So
that the learned audience will understand the simplicity of the
process and the impossibility of fraud.
“Demoiselle Maria Theresial” he addressed the sleeping
woman in a raised tone.
In a moment, the face of the sleeper began to twitch, and
her hands moved restlessly back and forth, grasping at the air
and in turn fingering the armrests of the chair.
“Do you hear me, demoiselle?”
“I hear,” she said with a strangely altered and deeper
sounding rough voice.
“The names of the distinguished and learned gentlemen
present here in their seating order from right to left?”
To us he said behind his held out hand.
“She sees everything as it were in a mirror, and that’s
how she calculates.”
The trembling and grimacing became more severe, then a
kind of smile appeared flippantly on her face, and she spoke
inexorably, rapidly and without any pause in between:
“Doctor Achaz Moll, Professor Gisbertus van der Meulen,
Doctor Johannes Baptista Schlurich, Baron Melchior von
Dronte, Magister Benedikt Fleck, Spectabilitas Doctor Imanuel
Balaenarius, Doctor Veit Pfefferich.”
A murmur and nod of approval followed. But Magister
Fleck said half aloud, such knowledge can be obtained from
such highly famous men.
The man with the sleeping woman shook his head with
an angry expression and asked a second question:
“Tell me, demoiselle, on what important work that
gentleman is currently working on, who is raising his hand?”
He gave us a sign, and Spectabilis raised his hand,
silently invited by all.
Köckering became lively again, moved her lips, put her
hand up several times and then out:
“About the healing effect of pure water in case of
Obstipatio and about the harm of too frequent purging.”
“Bene,” said the dean, “Admirable!”
“This, too, can be brought to light – “, whispered the
suspicious red haired magister.
“I now ask the honored gentlemen, to ask your own
questions as you see fit.”
The magnetizer looked with a sharp glance at the
magister and with a wave of his hand motioned him to speak.
“How — how much money do I have in my pocket?” the
latter stammered, visibly surprised.
The woman answered without reflection:
“One Laubtaler, but it’s fake, and five silver groschen.”
The questioner pulled out his little pouch and counted the
small amount of cash. It was true.
“Quite nice,” grumbled Doctor Moll, and his double chin
rested gloomily on his high tie.
“When he asks for his pennies, is it as well to inquire
who stole my reddish-brown rooster from my house six days
ago?”
“Leberecht Piepmal,” came back immediately.
“That thunder may smite you!” the coarse voice started
up. “That must be true! I immediately said to my beloved, that
Piepmal and no other –“
“Piano, my lord,” the organizer admonished unwillingly.
“Just not too loud! Another of the gentlemen, if you please”
“On which day of the week, month and year did the
woman I loved the most pass away?” one of the gentlemen said
softly.
The face of the sleeping woman distorted painfully, her
mouth closed tightly, and after a while she understood:
“Wednesday, the 12th of Hornung 1754.”
“My mother!” A heavy sigh said, that the question had
been answered correctly.
I took heart and raised my voice:
“Who visited me there, from where I came to this city?”
The sleeping woman stroked with her hand the back of
the chair, shook her head softly, and then let out a sound like a
soft laugh and spoke:
“You yourself -” she said.
A murmur rose.
“Attention, Demoiselle!” sounded the commanding voice.
“The gentleman himself could not have done it. Once more!”
“Isa Bektschi – yourself — your brother in you-.-” she
whispered, barely audible, “Ewli -“
“I ask, my lord, whether this answer is understandable to
you?”
I nodded mutely.
“But we don’t understand it,” the magister blurted out.
“What do you mean by that?”
“What do you mean demoiselle?” the man repeated
readily.
“The coming back,” she breathed.
“She babbles,” grumbled Doctor Pepperich.
“Still, some things have been amazing so far. May I do
one more question?”
“Please.”
“What is it? It’s on my desk at home, once alive and very
clever and is now useless and dead.”
The magnetized one breathed heavily, thought
strenuously and reached out with her hand to her throat,
catching her breath with difficulty, as if a choking attack was
coming over her. Then she said heavily:
“The hand – of the – hanged Janitschek from Prague.”
The doctor passed a blue cloth over his sweating
forehead.
“Guessed,” he gasped. “The hand of the Bohemian thief
lies withered on my table.”
“It is astonishing, after all,” Dean Balaenarius cleared his
throat. “The phenomenon is not so easy to grasp -.”
The man in the dark habit stepped forward.
“My esteemed ones,” he said. “The Demoiselle is greatly
fatigued and in need of early rest. May I ask for a few more
questions about the future?”
But no one moved. No one seemed to have the desire to
look behind the dark veil.
Then Doctor Schlurich half rose from his seat, opened his
mouth, wanted to speak, but changed his mind and sat down
again.
“Right now he is with her,” said Köckering tonelessly.
The doctor made a defensive gesture, as if he didn’t want
to hear anything, and leaned back, deathly pale, with quivering
lips, in his chair.
“That was her oath-!” I heard him say softly.
“May I do one more question?”
I stood up. So far I had remained so dazed by what the
clairvoyant had told me that everything around me was as if in
a dream, but only at the surface, as I had been lost in my own
thoughts.
A silent, somewhat impatient movement of the hand
invited me.
“When will I see Isa Bektschi again?”
I asked.
The demoiselle raised her head, shuddered inward and
groaned.