DARSIE LATIMER, as he sat one afternoon in his rooms on Campden Hill, resembled the 'party in a parlour crammed,' in that he was drinking tea and was silent. Let us hope that the resemblance did not extend to the less enviable quality attached to those good folk. To him presently entered, to disturb or enliven his meditations, his friend Mr Peregrine, 'the Agent,' as to whom few words of commented description may not be amiss fro those who have not made his acquaintance. Mr. Peregrine, then, was a man of slight but extremely significant appearance, with a curiously Oriental cast of countenance, and with a singular charm of manner, the almost silky suaviness of which emphasised rather than concealed obvious habit of self reliance and of command. The brass plate outside his office (which was more like a delicately appointed library than an ordinary office), in one of the first streets off the Strand, bore the inscription, 'Mr. Peregrine, Agent' with no further clue to his special calling. What this was, however, may be inferred from the facts that when Morton, an intimate friend of Latimer's, found himself saddled with a badly haunted house, Peregrine had, with the assistance of one of his 'clients,' known as The Green Lady,¹ cleared the mansion of all superfluous and annoying ghosts; and that on another occasion, when the same Morton was in great straits to find actors for a theatrical entertainment which he had promised at another, house of his, Peregrine had come to the rescue with a complete company of players who had the best reasons for knowing the first — literally the first — traditions of the 'business' and so on of The Rivals designed by Sheridan himself, and who appeared and disappeared in strange mystery.

1 'The Green Lady,' LONG­MAN'S MAGA­ZINE, November 1887.

       Such, briefly, was the person who entered Latimer's rooms, and with a graceful bow and smile accepted the cigar and cup of tea which Darsie, knowing his ways, silently offered him. It was so seldom that Peregrine called upon anyone — even his most intimate friends — without appointment, that his presence alone, without a certain look on his face which belied his smile, told his host that the Agent had some matter of import to communicate.

       Peregrine, catching the look of interrogation which Darsie half-unconsciously turned upon him, broke the silence by saying, in the distinct voice which could be soft as lovers' vows or impressive as the silver trumpets in Aïda:

       'No, I have not come to ask anything. You know, it's not my way. Too commonplace altogether both for you and for me.'

       'To tell me something, then?' answered Darsie.

       'Yes,' rejoined Peregrine with deliberation — 'yes. The thing is really so curious that, considering the creditably intelligent interest you take in such matters, I have yielded, against my rule, to an impulse to share my impressions with a friend. And, indeed, I don't mind telling you that I am really glad to do so.'

       'Well,' inquired Darsie, subduing as best he could any appearance of eagerness, 'what is it?'

       'I think,' Peregrine replied, 'I had better tell you the whole matter exactly as it occurred straight off. I trust to your tried discretion about interrupting me.'

       'So be it,' said Darsie. 'Go on.'

       'Three days ago,' Peregrine continued, 'I was as usual busy in the morning sorting the letters that reached me by the first post at my office. Most of them were letters of quite the usual kind, from people who wanted explanations of mysterious sounds and sights which they detailed; others from people in trouble about what they called their souls (as if could help them there!); many from earnest people, some denouncing me as a miscreant in league with persons not lawful to mention, and hinting — or, rather, asserting — that ought to be burnt or shot with a silver bullet; some again praying pathetically to serve an apprenticeship with me and be introduced to some of my "clients."' Peregrine paused for a moment and added, 'These letters are sometimes trying when they are not merely silly.'

       'Ah,' said Darsie; 'you get them, of course, of all sorts.'

       'I certainly do,' replied the other. 'But I don't mean now, at any rate, to bore you with a kind of précis of my correspondence. I always go through it myself in the first instance. On this occasion, as generally, it contained all kinds of letters from all kinds of people, asking for a personal interview, with more or less — generally, as you will imagine, less — reason. One of these on that particular morning caught my attention. I cannot tell you why, but you know perfectly well that I never neglect an instinct, however baseless it may seem. This letter was in a handwriting that, for some subtle characterisation that it possessed, induced me to read it carefully. It was excellently written, and it was signed "Jean Marie de Sartorys." I supposed, of course, that the name was assumed, and probably borrowed from a play as well known to you as it is to me. A curious letter certainly.'

       Peregrine paused, and seemed for a moment or two lost in musing. Darsie, watchful of his moods, interrupted with:

       'What was in the body of the letter? You have told me thus far only the impression produced upon you by, so to speak, its spirit.'

       'For a very good reason,' replied Peregrine, re-arousing himself to speech. 'There was nothing in the body of the letter but a request for an interview, which I at once granted.'

       'You did?' cried Darsie, surprised for once into needless interruption.

       'I did,' said the other, 'again against all such rules as I have. And I can give you no better reason than those I have already given for making such an exception. Anyhow, I sent an answer by District Messenger —–'

       'Ah!' broke in Darsie again, 'you never employ the great means.'

       'Except when they are wanted,' said Peregrine. 'That really is a silly interruption. I made an appointment for that same afternoon at half-past four, and as the time drew near I fell to thinking. I am not given to troubling myself more than common about things that happen on the earth or in the waters under the earth. Yet about this man's letter — not about the words, mind you, for they were few and simple — there was something which was so — what shall I call it? I really cannot hit on a better word for the moment than unusual — that I paid him a compliment I rarely pay to visitors, in wondering about him before he made his appearance.'

       'And his appearance?' asked Latimer, as Peregrine paused again for a moment.

       'That,' answered the Agent, 'I had, of course, foreseen within a few points. I knew, for instance, that he would be what idiots call a fine-looking man, that his colouring would be in the direction of auburn, and that his air of being a "personage" would be due rather to his expression and bearing than to his figure and his well-cut features. Also, I knew that he would be completely self-possessed and well-bred. Naturally, there were a few things I did not know until I was face to face with him. I had no reason, that is, for supposing that he was a Francised — not Frenchified — American. He spoke in French once, when the particular expressions he sought came more easily to him in that language than in English. His French was perfect, and so, like his manners, was his English, with just that touch of American intonation that made it a pleasant variation on what one hears every day in the beaten track of business. But I am losing sight of how our interview began. That beginning also I had foreseen; it was made up of the most commonplace courtesies, and under them all I had the strange sensation — very strange to me, as you know — of being in contact with a man whom I did not as yet at all understand. It is as you are well aware, no part of my proceedings to ask questions of people who come to see me. I wait for them to tell me, as Mr. Burnand so beautifully puts it, "what lies in their power," and the result — though you may refuse to believe it — is that occasionally they tell me something not absolutely remote from the truth.'

       'But surely —–' began Darsie, when the other caught him up with:

       'I know what you are going to say — or, rather, repeat — for if I'm not much mistaken you learned it from me. it is absolutely impossible for a layman, and nearly impossible for an expert, to describe any occurrence, strange or otherwise, just as exactly as he actually saw it. This is the secret of, among many other things, the fabulous tricks of Indian magicians, vouched for by the most honourable and honest people in the world. These people, having seen something which has completely upset all their preconceived ideas, describe some marvel to others in the full belief that they are describing it as they saw it. Not so. They invariably leave out some circumstance which has escaped their notice, and which is really the clue to the amazing success of the performance. It was the knowledge of this fact which enabled me to discover the true explanation of the trick in which a magician swarms up a rope until both rope and man vanish in mid-air or higher air. But let me be accurate, before all things, even in speaking confidentially to you. When I say that I discovered the true explanation, I mean the explanation of how the trick was done on a particular occasion. The eye-witness, a man of impeccable veracity, who thought to describe it to me, thought also — or, rather, had the impression — that it was done under conditions which put the conjurer's art out of the question. It was only from his answers to seemingly casual interrogations of mine that I found out his mistake. The conditions as a fact made clever trickery unusually easy. I did not, of course, disturb his belief by explaining this to him, and I remind you of these things only that you may have a wary eye and ear on what I am going to tell you, expert though you may think me. And if anybody really deserves the name of expert in any profession or pursuit, "call me Bishop and baffle me!" But to return to Mr. Jean Marie de Sartorys. All through our conversation I had the same impression of something at once fascinating, repellent, and in a word unfathomable, about the man. In fact, he influenced me, as I am seldom influenced, to listen attentively to all he had to say.'

       'And that —–?' interrupted Darsie.

       'That,' replied Peregrine, 'was, when you reduce it to simplicity, a seemingly unimportant request. He turned the talk, naturally enough, to the cinematograph and its latest developments, and, also naturally enough, glanced at the idea, which may be or may not be fantastic, of photographing or "Kodaking" thought — human, or for that matter animal, thought. Then he proceeded to say, "I have made some experiments in these two directions, combined. I had heard much of you, from Mr. Morton and from — other people. It seemed to me that you might be more interested in such an experiment than most people that one knows, and it is really for that reason that I have ventured to intrude upon you for so long a time. I would beg the favour of your presence at a private performance — a kind of ballon d'essai — that I give, by Mr. Morton's kind permission, to-morrow evening at a house which he has taken for a few weeks in Mayfair." I was betrayed — and this will show you the man's strange influence — into exclaiming, with surprise, "Morton in town?" "Ah!" he replied, with an inscrutable Smile, "yes, Mr. Morton is in town. I thought you would be aware of that. I may count on your presence? Yes? Here is the bill of the play, so to speak." So saying, he put into my hands a very neatly designed and executed programme, which I have preserved. Here it is.'

       Darsie Latimer took from Peregrine the small programme, printed in red on a white ground. It bore these words: 'Jean Marie de Sartorys, by the kindness of Mr. Morton, has the honour to announce a trial performance of his "phantas­matograph" at 211 Black Street, Mayfair, at ten o'clock to-morrow evening.' There was no date. Of course I went. Equally of course I was received with effusion by Morton, who as you well know, would, if he met you in Saturn two thousand years hence, take up the interrupted friendship or acquaintance exactly where it was last dropped on earth, in such a manner as to make all things smooth and pleasant. Besides us two and Mr. de Sartorys there were only two other people present. One was a hard-headed, sceptical man of science' (Peregrine mentioned his name). 'You know him well enough, and know that he is untiring in his search after reality. He is, in another way, as devoted to his cause as was his forbear the witch-hunter. The second guest was your second cousin, Dr. Mantis, who, as you also know, adds to a profound knowledge of actual, practical medicine a close sympathy with those inner secrets of healing lore, that metaphysical aid which Sheridan Lefanu attributed to his Doctor Hesselius. And who,' Peregrine interjected, 'Dr, Hesselius really was I should uncommonly like to know. Well, we had coffee and cigars; we talked of this, that, and the other; and presently Morton cast an interrogative glance at Mr. de Sartorys, who made a grave and dignified inclination of his head, and then said, with a distinctness that savoured of subdued nervousness, "Gentlemen, I now propose, if it will not bore you, to give you the first illustration which has been given, save on one very private occasion to Mr. Morton, of my phantas­matograph. I will not prelude it by any description. You will see it, and will form your own opinion and judgment." With that he passed through the half-open folding-doors of Morton's drawing-room, and, when he was on the other side, opened them fully. I then saw that the inner room was draped heavily with black velvet exactly, as you may remember, Buatier de Kolta's stage used to be draped at the Egyptian Hall; but, as I see you surmise, not, to the best of my lodged belief, for the same reason. Furthermore, which you will naturally note as important points, there was no raised stage, and, as I afterwards knew, there was not a hand's-breadth between the drapery and the walls. The room appeared to be lighted by concealed incandescent lights, and there was no sort of furniture visible in it. Mr. de Sartorys took up his position in the middle of the floor, in an attitude which was imposing without a hint of theatrical pose. True to his expressed intention of indulging in no kind of rodomontade, and indeed in no sort of detailed explanation, he introduced his show with these very simple words, which I carefully noted: "Gentlemen, the first illustration of the phantas­matograph which I propose to put before you takes the form of the apparition of the dead Julius Cæsar in the tent of Brutus." Almost as he spoke the last word, at one and the same moment the lights grew dim, the room took upon it the semblance of Brutus's tent, with the sleeping attendants. Mr. de Sartorys sat before us, no longer in well-cut evening-dress, but gowned like Brutus for the night; and Cæsar's Ghost, unmistakable from its likeness to the busts, stood stern and sad in front of Brutus as Brutus spoke the opening words of his speech: "How ill this taper burns!" My experience in such matters is, as you know, far from limited, and yet I do not well know how to describe, or at any rate how to define to you, the extraordinarily ghostly and spectral impression which the image of dead Cæsar produced upon me. I can get nearest to it perhaps by saying that it was less like a ghost than like the ghost of a ghost, having something in common with the "Scin-Læea" of Bulwer's Strange Story, and yet being so apparent in a misty, terrible way to the sight as to give a certain shivery feeling even to me — a feeling which, I was perfectly conscious, was far more strongly aroused in the other spectators of this singular performance. And when the Ghost spoke, its voice produced the same kind of impression upon the ear with which its appearance had shocked the eye; insomuch that as the image disappeared with the fateful words, "Ay! at Philippi," there was an actual sigh of relief from those who had heard and seen this strange scene. Not more than ten seconds can have passed between the utterance of the word 'Philippi' and the restoring, by some amazing method, of the room to its former aspect. The sleeping attendants, the walls, and the furniture of the tent had all vanished as into thin air. The concealed lights were up again, and showed us, instead of the magnificent Brutus, Mr. Sartorys, impassible save maybe for a slight touch of exultation which I fancied to detect, and polished as before. "I perceive," he said, very quietly, "from the absence of any outward form of approval on your part, that I have done something more than deserve applause — I have compelled attention even from Dr. Mantis and from Mr. Peregrine; and now, with your permission, we will move from Sardis to Elsinore." Again, on the very utterance of the concluding word, the room disappeared, and in its stead one saw the battlements of Elsinore; but as, I believe, they have never been seen before on any stage. The room was, of course, small, but this scene carried with it an ineffable sense of vastness, grandeur, desolation, and impending woe. I have left you to infer, rather than distinctly told you, that Sartorys's Brutus was most impressive. The same thing holds good of the Hamlet into which, as in the case of Brutus, he was transformed as if by magic (I use the term, of course, with a sense of its possible significance), and of every transformation which he went through before our very eyes. But, as in the previous scene, it was the Ghost that riveted the attention of eye and ear. You may remember, as I do, a certain description of Macready's Ghost, in which it is said that without any trickery of voice "his tones seemed to come from another world. They were audible, quite audible; but they were without resonance. They seemed to proceed from a being apart, who had seen what we could not see." This, but intensified to an extraordinary degree, was the effect produced by seeing and hearing this Ghost of King Hamlet, produced somehow by Mr. de Sartorys in Morton's room. And with it, as before and as afterwards, was the strange sense of its being less a Ghost than a Ghost's spectre. On the words "remember me" both the room and Mr. de Sartorys resumed their natural aspect. Mr. de Sartorys's face on this occasion displayed an undoubted look, veiled though it was by good-breeding, of delight in achieved success. Also the look of innate power in it which I had noticed at our first interview was more strongly marked, and there was another and new expression in it which I did not then find myself at all able to decipher. I looked round at Mantis, to see if I could find any reflection in his face that might give me a clue, but I saw only that look of puzzledom which my own face might have worn if it were less trained to impassiveness, while in the man of science's face there was simply incredulity struggling with bewilderment. Morton I need say nothing about — you know how he would look. On looking back at Mr. de Sartorys I was well assured that he had taken all this in, though his features would not have betrayed the fact to any but a specially trained observer. He made no sort of comment upon what had passed before going on to say: "I shall now, if you please, pass from Shakespeare to one on whom has been from long ago conferred the great title of 'Wizard.'" He gave a sudden sweeping look all around him out of his curious eyes — eyes indefinable even to me. It seemed to me that he held himself ready to defy any comment or challenge on that one word "Wizard." "I mean," he continued, recovering his old manner, "Scott; not the discoverer of witchcraft but his namesake with a different spelling, the Wizard of the North, Walter Scott. You remember how, in Waverley, Vich Ian Vohr saw the Bodach Glas." As Sartorys spoke the words the room in which he stood again vanished — or, rather, instantaneously gave place to lonely misty scene. The background was veiled in obscurity — with a footbridge in front along which Mr. de Sartorys in the likeness of Fergus McIvor, brave and brilliant in plaided array, paced, with head bent as if in sadness and foreboding. Suddenly he raised his head, while a shudder ran all through his frame, to face a figure misty as the mist itself, yet instinct with a terrible sense of reality through the mistiness. Fergus stopped, made the sign of the Cross, and uttered, in accents wherein a natural daring seemed to contend vainly with a more than natural terror, the adjuration which you well remember. The Figure stayed also, and for a moment it appeared to me that I could discern lineaments stern, even cruel, yet not all-forbidding as it spoke the fateful words: "Vich Ian Vohr, beware of to-morrow!" I saw Fergus reel before the impact of the speech; I felt a breath of coldest air rush through the room like a very lightning of frost; and then there was Mr. de Sartorys, again himself and unmoved, in the little Mayfair back drawing-room with its black hangings and invisible lights. I have said "unmoved," but in truth he had a haggard look as of one who was overstraining some effort, physical or mental or — what you will. This last scene had in some strange way produced an impression that had not been reached, — or, rather, had not been likened — by those preceding it, and as I looked round at the others I saw that some such impression had conveyed itself to them. The man of science no longer wore an incredulous look; it was replaced by one of sheer wonderment. Dr. Mantis's expression was that of the quivering, suffering eagerness which you may note in very sensitive people while a thunderstorm is mutteringly waiting to break out in its full fury. Morton sat back in shadow, inscrutable. Mr. de Sartorys's haggard look disappeared as he, too, noted the effect produced. He stepped a little forward and said: "I shall now venture to show you something of the Spirit that Denies." He spoke the words with an absolutely icy clearness, and he trembled slightly, as though the iciness of his tone were caught from some atmosphere enveloping him; but I noted one drop of sweat on his forehead. He shook himself together, so swiftly that this action and the previous tremulousness seemed blended together, and continued: "Messieurs, la dernière scène de Faust. Ah!" he went on, with a gesture which seemed meant to reassure himself rather than the spectators, "ah! non pas celle de Berlioz. Ça serait trop terrible. Non," he went on in a soft purring voice, "nous nous bornerons à l'œuvre de notre cher et bon Gounod." It certainly struck me that to represent that last scene of La Damnation de Faust (which it has always been my secret ambition to put worthily on the operatic stage), with its infernal chorus of Swedenborgian fiends, would be a trying undertaking even for Mr. de Sartorys, while at the same moment I reflected that to compass the last scene of Gounod's opera was an extraordinary adventure enough. But the impression was a very fleeting one, for the aspect of Mr. de Sartorys caught irresistibly the best part of my attention. I perceived again that marked sweeping look round which I had before noticed, and in it there seemed to me to be a combination of comprehension — comprehension of something unseen to us — and of apprehension. The sudden drop into French, the sudden change in his mode of address, had been ominous; but there was now something in his aspect far beyond such accidents — something that came from the man's inmost soul. "Messieurs," he said again, "l'Esprit qui Nie!" and he now spoke the words with all his old air of dignity, mixed with a new expression of exaltation. Yet as I observed him I knew, as well as I know that I am speaking to you now, that I was looking on a doomed man — a man doomed by his own excess and pride of will. The scene changed suddenly to Margaret's prison, with all the familiar stage-arrangement as to details, but with what a difference in the whole effect! — the difference between the most perfect illusion and the most damning reality. The figure and face of Margaret were beautiful exceedingly, and charged with a weight of tragic passion that seemed as if it must crush the frail form into nothingness; the appearance of Mr. de Sartorys as Faust was the utmost expression of desperate and helpless love; the vast and forbidding walls and pillars of the prison filled one's very soul with gloom and horror. But how shall I try to describe the terrible Mephistopheles who stood before us? Théophile Gautier has described something like it in his Deux Acteurs pour un Rôle; but the Mephistopheles in that did not assume the almost Satanic grandeur that this Appearance carried, in addition to the fiendish and overmastering malice discerned in his least looks, his least gestures, I can but attempt to convey something of the impression produced by telling you that, while I could not take my eyes off what was passing in front of me, I felt that the others were, like myself — I confess it — shuddering. Then began the final Terzetto. I do not care to tell you how many great singers and actors I have seen and heard in this scene — for it might give you a clue to the secret of my age — but this I do tell you, that I have never heard that wonderful music so sung before and never can hear it so sung again. The invisible orchestra responded to every beat, every quiver of passion. And for the acting! — I must not call it acting; the thing was too real, too poignant. And through all the glory and beauty of the music that inexplicable Figure of Dread dominated the whole scene with a nameless sense of terror. By the time when the end of the scene was reached we were worked up to a very madness of excitement. The final chorus was omitted. Margaret did not fall dead, but seemed absorbed into a sunbeam that shot suddenly through the narrow window high up in the massive wall. Then this disappeared, and the two remaining figures were seen only by the dim light of the prison lamp. Thereon Mephistopheles advanced to Faust, and silently wrapped the red mantle around him. As he did so the mantle burst into a sheet of white flame — so dazzling in its brilliancy that, had its overpowering radiance lasted more than the fraction of a second, no mortal eye could have endured those scorching beams. Then all was dark, and we heard the sound of a heavy fall. Mantis, snatching a lamp from a bracket, seized me by the arm, and without uttering a word we rushed together into the farther room. The others followed us. I need not tell you,' Peregrine went on, dropping into a dry tone, 'that we found no one there except Mr. de Sartorys, stone dead. There was not a mark upon him, and the coroner's jury can find no verdict but death from syncope due to excitement in a dramatic performance.'

       Then, passing from this commonplace to a different mood, Peregrine leant forward and said:

       'Darsie, I assure you there was not a stick of furniture, not a rag of scenery, not a scrap of apparatus to be found in the whole of that room. No, not a single lamp, electrical or other. Nothing — absolutely nothing — but the black drapery close against the wall, and the dead man!'

       Peregrine, in whom excitement and emotion were things almost unknown, leant back, and his breath came short and quick. Darsie broke the silence by saying in tremulous tones:

       'And — your conclusions?'

       'Nay,' said Peregrine, recovering himself, 'that you must teach me. I have formed only one conclusion. What I saw has defined for me most accurately the limits of my profession.'

WALTER HERRIES POLLOCK.      

(THE END)