(image from pixabay)
I translate German horror stories published before 1900. Most of them have never been translated into English before. This story is taken from my book Hanns Heinz Ewers Volume I.
I own the copyright to this translation. Joe Bandel
The Spider
Three people had hung themselves in the window of room #7 in the little hotel Stevens on three successive Fridays when medical student Richard Brocquemont resolved to move in.
The first was a Swiss travelling salesman. They found his body Saturday evening. The doctor determined that his death must have occurred between five and six o’clock on Friday evening. The corpse hung on a strong hook that had been driven into the crossbar of the window serving as a place to hang clothes. The window was closed; the deceased had used the curtain cord as a noose. Because the window was very low his legs lay on the floor with his knees almost touching as well. A strong will or purpose must have certainly driven the suicide.
It was further determined that he was married and the father of four children. He had a good job, a cheerful disposition and was always an entertaining character to be around. There was nothing found on his body, not even a note. Yet no one had ever heard him mention anything that would indicate a reason for his suicide.
The second case was not much different. The performer Karl Krause had been hired as a cyclist stuntman for the nearby Médrano circus. He moved into room #7 two days later. When he didn’t show for the performance that Friday the director sent a show attendant to the hotel. He found the performer in the open room hanging from the crossbar of the window.
All of the details were the same in both cases. This suicide appeared no less mysterious. The popular performer received a high wage and everything he needed. He was a young man, twenty-five years old, his life was in full bloom and he enjoyed it. In this case as well there was no note, no insidious remark that might have hinted at a reason for the suicide. He was survived by his old mother to whom he had punctually sent 300 Marks on the first of every month for her care and livelihood.
For Mrs. Dubonnet, the owner of the reasonable little hotel, most of her clients were from the nearby Montmartre vaudeville troop. This second strange death in one of her rooms had very unpleasant consequences. Soon these guests left and the regular ones didn’t come back.
She turned to her personal friend, the commissioner of the 9th Precinct. He told her that he would do everything in his power to help her. He not only investigated the suicides of both hotel guests; he also placed an officer in the room at her disposal.
Charles-Maria Chaumié volunteered for the job of his own free will. He was an old “Marsouin”, marine infantryman, with eleven years of service, had been a sergeant at Tonkin and Annam. He had spent many nights at lonely posts, shot greetings from out of the bushes at sneaking, cowardly river pirates. He appeared completely suitable to confront the “ghost” of Rue Alfred Stevens that everyone was talking about.
The room was prepared for him and he moved in on Sunday evening, then lay down to sleep very contented after the meal and drinks the worthy Mrs. Dubonnet had so amply provided. Every morning and evening Chaumié went to the police precinct to make his report. In the first days these were very limited. He explained that he had not noticed much to report.
Wednesday, on the other hand, he believed he had found a clue. When pressed to say more, he pleaded to be silent just a little while longer. He had no idea whether what he had discovered really had anything at all to do with the deaths of the two people in any way and was afraid that he would be made fun of and laughed at.
On Thursday his behavior was a little uncertain, yet serious. He had nothing further to report. On Friday morning he was considerably excited. He indicated half laughing, half-serious that the window, in any case, had a strange power of attraction. Nevertheless he would continue to stay there, it was absolutely in no way connected with the suicides and that people would only laugh at him if he said anymore.
He didn’t come to the precinct that evening. They found him hanging on the hook of the window crossbar. Here too all the evidence was the same as in the other cases down to the last detail, the legs dangling off the floor, the curtain cord used as a noose. The window was shut, the door unlocked. The death occurred around six o’clock in the evening. The mouth of the deceased was open with the tongue hanging out.
This third death in room #7 had very serious consequences, that same day each and every guest left hotel Stevens with the exception of the German schoolteacher in room #16. He used the opportunity to lower his rent to a third of what he had been paying.
It was a small consolation for Mrs. Dubonnet when Mary Garden, star of the opera, Comique, drove up in her Renault one day and bargained for the red curtain cord. She got it for 200 Francs only because she had seen them in the newspaper by luck. If these things had happened in the summer, in July or August, Mrs. Dubonnet would have gotten three times as much for her curtain cord. Entire sections of the paper would have been filled for weeks with this stuff. But this season was filled with Wahlen, Morocco, Persia, the bank crash in New York and not less than three important political affairs.
Really, you scarcely knew how to get to the place from the papers. The result was that the affair at Rue Alfred Stevens was not talked about as much as it should have been. Further, the articles were taken from the police reports, concise, short, objective and fairly free from exaggeration.
These articles were the only things that medical student Richard Bracquemont knew of the matter. There was one other little fact that he didn’t know; it appeared so immaterial that neither the commissioner nor any of the eyewitnesses had told the reporters about it. It only came out later after the adventure of the medical student, and then they remembered it.
It was simply that when the police took the corpse of Sergeant Charles-Maria Chaumnié down from the window crossbar a large black spider crawled out of his open mouth. The hotel servant flicked it away with his finger.
“Phui,” he cried. “That’s a big devil!”
Later in the investigation, the one of Bracquemont, a witness said that as they took down the corpse of the Swiss travelling salesman a similar spider had been seen running across the dead man’s shoulder.
But Richard Bracquemont knew nothing of that. He took the room two weeks after the last suicide on a Sunday. Then he scrupulously wrote down what he experienced there in his journal.
The Journal of medical student Richard Bracquemont
Monday 28 February
I moved in here yesterday evening. I unpacked my two suitcases, put my things in order a little, and then I went to bed. I had an excellent sleep and woke up at exactly nine o’clock by someone knocking on my door. It was the owner, herself, bringing me breakfast. She was concerned for me, you could tell by the eggs, the bacon and the excellent coffee that she brought me. Then I washed up, dressed and watched as a maid made up the room. After that I smoked my pipe.
Well, now I’m here. I know very well that this may be dangerous but I also know that if successful I will have it made. Once you could find a reasonably priced meal in Paris but no more today! Indeed it is well worth it to set aside this bit of my life for play. This is my chance and I will take it.
By the way, there were others with the same idea that found out about it. Not less than twenty-seven people have tried, have appealed to the police and to the landlady to get the room. In addition there were three ladies downstairs as well. That was more than enough competition, they were probably all poor devils like myself.
But I got the job. Why? Ah, I was probably the only one there that could give the police a plan! Naturally it was a bluff.
Yes, these reports are most decidedly for the police and they are fun for me as well. Right at the beginning I want to say I played a little trick on them. If the commissioner is sensible he will read this and say, “Hmm, straight to the point. It appears that Bracquemont is just what we need!”
I don’t really care what he says when he reads this later. But right now I’m sitting here and it appears to be a good omen to begin by telling how I so thoroughly bluffed these gentlemen.
First I went to Mrs. Dubonnet, she sent me to the police precinct. I loitered around there every day for an entire week, my offer was always “being considered”. I was always told that I should come back again the next morning. Most of my competitors had long since given up, had something better to do than wait for hours in the musty guardroom. The commissioner was getting annoyed over my stubbornness. Finally he categorically told me that there was no need for me to keep coming back. He thanked me like he had all the others for my good will, but said they had absolutely no use for “dilettante laymen”. Now if I only had some kind of operations plan worked out-
That’s when I told him that I did have such a plan. Naturally I didn’t have one and couldn’t explain a word of it to him, but I told him that my plan was a good one even if a bit dangerous and could indeed find the solution. Unlike the activity of his officer, I would not keep information to myself and deliver any relevant information to him personally.
He thanked me again and was about to dismiss me when he asked if I couldn’t give him a little hint of what my plan was. I knew I was in way over my head, so I told him a bunch of blooming nonsense that I made up on the spot. I don’t know where all of these strange thoughts suddenly came from.
I told him that of all the hours of the week there was one with a strange mysterious influence. That was the hour that Christ vanished from his tomb and descended into hell. It was six o’clock in the evening of the last day of the Jewish week. I reminded him that it was during this hour on Friday between five and six o’clock that all three of the suicides had occurred. I couldn’t tell him any more than that right then, but hinted he might refer to the Revelations of St. John. The commissioner made a face as if he knew what I was talking about, thanked me and ordered me to come back in the evening.
I stepped punctually into his office. Before him on the table I saw the New Testament lying open. Earlier I, like him, had been reading through Revelations and hadn’t understood a single syllable of it. Perhaps the commissioner was more intelligent than I was; in any case he was very obliging and told me that despite my very vague hints he believed he understood what I meant to do. He was prepared to let me go forward with my wishes and give me any help I might need.
I must acknowledge that he has been very helpful to me. He made the arrangement with the landlady, so that during the duration of my stay at the hotel everything would be free. He gave me an excellent revolver and a police whistle. The patrolmen on duty have been directed to go through Rue Alfred Stevens often and come to my aid at the slightest sign of trouble. But the most important thing is that he had a telephone installed in the room with which I could stay in direct contact with the police precinct. It is scarcely four minutes away and I can have help quickly at any time. With all of these things I have no reason to be afraid.
Tuesday 1 March
Nothing happened either yesterday or today. Mrs. Dubonnet had a new curtain cord brought in from a different room. The window has stood empty long enough. She uses any opportunity at all to check in on me. Each time she brings something else along.
I still have nothing to relate in regards to the cause of the suicides, but nothing new has happened. Mrs. Dubonnet has her own opinion. She believes that what happened with the performer was due to an unlucky love affair. A young lady had been coming to visit him this past year but Mrs. Dubonnet had not seen her anymore lately. She didn’t really know what led to the traveling salesman’s resolve. She couldn’t know everything. But the sergeant had most certainly committed suicide just to make her mad!
I must say that this explanation by Mrs. Dubonnet seems a little inadequate. But I keep quiet and let her chatter, after all, she breaks up my boredom.
Thursday 3 March
Still nothing at all, like always. The commissioner calls a few times every day. I tell him that everything is going excellently with me. It is obvious that he is not entirely satisfied with this information. I’ve sent for my books on medicine and can study them now. My voluntary imprisonment will serve a purpose in any case.
Friday 4 March, two o’clock in the afternoon
I had an excellent lunch at noon; my hostess brought me half a bottle of champagne to go along with it. It was truly a condemned man’s last meal. She considers me already three-quarters dead. Before she left, she cried and begged me to go with her. She was afraid that I would hang myself “just to make her mad!”.
I have made an exhaustive examination of the curtain cord. Will I hang myself with it? Hmm, I feel little inclination to do so. The cord is coarse and hard, pulls very poorly in the noose. I would really have to try hard to follow the examples of the others.
Now I’m sitting at my desk, on my left is the telephone, on my right lies the revolver. I am not at all afraid, but I am curious.
Six o’clock in the evening
Nothing has happened, except what I’ve already written. Unfortunately! The fateful hour has come and gone. It was like all the others. Well, really I can’t lie. Several times I did feel the compulsion to go to the window, oh yes, but for a different reason!
The commissioner called on the phone at least ten times between five and six o’clock. He is as impatient as I am. But Mrs. Dubonnet is delighted. Someone has lived for an entire week in room #7 without hanging themselves. Fabulous!
Monday 7 March
I am now convinced that I will not find anything and also inclined to believe the suicides of my predecessors were only due to curious coincidence. I have pleaded with the commissioner to take up an even more exhaustive investigation into the motives behind the three deaths. I am certain such reasons will finally be found.
How this concerns me is that I want to stay here as long as possible. It is not Paris, but I live here for nothing, have regular meals and ample time for my studies. I need to finish my report for the commissioner and finally there is one other reason why I want to stay here.
Wednesday 9 March
Well, I am one step closer. Clarimonde—
Oh, I’ve not yet mentioned Clarimonde. She is the “third reason” I want to stay here. She is also the reason I wanted to go to the window at the fateful hour, but certainly not to hang myself.
Why do I call her that? I have no idea what her name really is but to me she is Clarimonde. I would like to bet that when I do finally ask her name sometime, that is what it will be.
I noticed Clarimonde right away in the very first days. She lives on the other side of the very small street and her window is right across from mine. She sits there behind her curtain.
By the way, I must establish that she noticed me earlier as well and visibly showed an interest in me. No wonder, the entire street knows that I live here and why. Mrs. Dubonnet has already taken care of that.
I have never had an inclination to fall in love and have had very few interactions with women. When you leave Verdun and come to Paris to study medicine with barely enough money for three meals a day, then you need to think about something other than love. I don’t have much experience in these things and have perhaps made a stupid start, but she is still there. I must please her.
In the beginning I had no intention of engaging in a relationship with my opposite across the street. I only thought that since I was here to observe, and since there was nothing to observe in my room, I might just as well observe her. You can’t sit all day long pouring over books.
I’ve determined that Clarimonde apparently lives alone in the little apartment. She has three windows, but only sits at the one that is across from mine. She sits there and spins on a little old fashioned distaff. I have seen something like it once at my grandmother’s but she never used it herself. She inherited it from some old aunt. I didn’t know that anyone still used them today.
By the way, Clarimonde’s distaff is a very small, dainty thing. It is white, apparently made out of ivory and the thread she makes with it must be frightfully delicate. She sits there behind the curtain working incessantly for the entire day. She only stops when it begins to grow dark. These foggy days it gets dark quite early in the narrow streets. There is a beautiful sunset around five o’clock already. I have never seen a light in her room.
What does she look like? Well, I don’t really know. She wears her black hair in wavy curls and her face is quite pale. Her nose is narrow and small. Her nostrils flare like wings. Her lips are pale as well and it appears to me that her teeth are pointed, like predators. Her eyelids have deep shadows but when she opens them, her large dark eyes glow. Yet this is all something I feel rather than know. It is hard to see anyone clearly behind a curtain.
There is one other thing; she always wears a black gown with the collar tightly buttoned. It has large lilac polka dots on it and she also wears long black gloves to protect her hands while she works. It looks strange, how her narrow black fingers quickly take the thread and pull it through each other-almost like the legs of an insect.
What is our relationship with each other? It is currently only a casual, surface relationship, yet it seems to me that it is getting much deeper. It began like this, she looked through my window and saw me and I looked through hers. She observed me and I observed her. She must have liked what she saw because one day as I looked back at her, she laughed. Naturally I laughed too. It went on like that for a couple of days, always a little more often and always more laughing together.
Almost hourly I feel compelled to greet her. I truly don’t know what restrains me and holds me back. Finally I did it, today at noon and Clarimonde greeted me back! It was hardly noticeable, but I saw it, saw how she nodded back to me.
Thursday 10 March
I sat over my books for a long time yesterday. I can’t truthfully say that I got much studying done. I built castles in the air and dreamed of Clarimonde. I hadn’t slept very well until late in the morning. When I stepped up to the window Clarimonde was sitting there. I greeted her and she nodded back. She laughed and looked at me for a long time.
I wanted to study but found no peace. I sat by the window and stared over at her. I saw how her hands lay in her lap. I pulled the white curtain back with the cord and at almost the same instant she did the same. We laughed and looked at each other. I believe we must have spent an hour sitting like that. Then she started spinning again.
Saturday 12 March
This day is gone. I ate and drank, I sat at my desk, and then I smoked my pipe and bent over a book. But I didn’t read a single syllable. I tried again and again but knew ahead of time that it was no use. Then I went to the window, greeted Clarimonde. She thanked me; we laughed and stared at each other for hours.
Yesterday afternoon around six o’clock was a little disturbing. Dusk came quite early and I felt a certain fear. I sat at my desk and waited. I felt an almost uncontrollable urge to go to the window, not to hang myself, really, but instead to see Clarimonde. I sprang up and stood behind the curtain. Never had I been able to see so perfectly even though it was already dark. She was spinning but her eyes looked over at me. I felt a curious sense of well being and a slight fear as well. The phone rang. I was enraged that the commissioner had torn me out of my dream with his foolish questions.
This morning he visited me, together with Mrs. Dubonnet. They are satisfied with my activity; it is enough that I have now survived for two weeks in room #7. Yet the commissioner wants more information. I had made mysterious comments and he wants answers. I said that I was hot on the trail of something and the ass believed every word.
In any case I can stay here one week longer, and that is my only wish, not because of Mrs. Dubonnet’s food and drink. Good God! How quickly we become indifferent to these things when we are always satisfied! No, it is because of her window, the one that she hates and fears, the one that I love so much, the one that shows me Clarimonde.
When the lamps are lit I can’t see her anymore. I’ve kept watch to see if she ever goes out, but have never seen her on the street.
I have a large comfortable easychair and a lamp with a green shade over it. I keep warm and comfortably wrapped up. The commissioner brought me a large pack of tobacco; I have never smoked in such luxury. And yet, despite all this I can’t study. I read two or three pages and when I get to the end I haven’t understood a single word. My eyes read the letters but my brain refuses to find any meaning in them.
Funny! It’s as if a sign said: Entry Forbidden! As if no other thought were allowed than one- Clarimonde. I finally shoved the book away, leaned back deeply in my chair and dreamed.
Sunday 13 March
This morning I saw a little performance. I went out into the hallway and waited while the maid was cleaning my room. In front of the little hall window hung a spiderweb. A fat Cross spider sat on it. Mrs. Dubonnet wouldn’t allow them to be taken away. Spiders bring “luck” and she already had enough “bad luck” in her house.
Then I saw how another smaller spider cautiously ran around the net, a male. It carefully stepped a little way onto a quivering thread and moved toward the middle. The female moved, snapping the thread and pulling it back quickly to herself. The male ran to another thread and tried again to get closer.
Finally the strong female in the middle of the web consented to his courtship and didn’t move anymore. The male plucked a strand lightly at first, then harder until the entire web trembled but the object of his worship remained motionless. He went there quickly and was infinitely more cautious the closer he got. The female received him quietly and unmoving, surrendering entirely, falling into his armorous embrace. They hung motionless for long minutes in the center of the web.
Then I saw how the male slowly freed himself, one leg at a time. It was as if he wanted to draw back and leave his companion alone in the afterglow of their lovemaking. Suddenly he was free and ran as quickly as possible to edge of the web. At the same moment the female quickly came to life and wildly chased him down. The weak male was lowering himself down onto a thread as his beloved caught up to him.
Both fell onto the windowsill as he struggled with all of his might to escape. It was too late. He was already trapped in the powerful grip of his companion. She carried him back onto the web, back to the middle, to the same place, that had just served as a bed for their voluptuous desire. Now it appeared much differently.
The lover struggled in vain, reaching his weak legs out again and again in an effort to escape this wild embrace. His beloved would not let him go. In a few minutes she spun a cocoon around him so tightly that he couldn’t move a single limb. Then she sank her sharp pinchers into his body and sucked in full pulls the young blood of her beloved.
I saw then how she finally cut loose the miserable, unrecognizable lump, legs, skin and thread and contemptuously threw it out of the net. That is how love is with these creatures. I’m glad I’m not a boy spider.
Monday 14 March
I don’t even look at my books any more. I just spend my days at the window. When it gets dark I still sit there. She is not there, but I close my eyes and then I see her.
Hmm, this journal has really become something much different than what I thought it would be. It tells of Mrs. Dubonnet and the commissioner, of spiders and of Clarimonde. But there is not one syllable about the discovery I wanted to make. What can I write instead?
Tuesday 15 March
We have discovered an unusual game, Clarimonde and I. We play it all day long. I greet her, immediately she greets me back. Then I drum with my hand against the windowpane. She scarcely sees it before she begins drumming as well. I nod to her, she nods back. I move my lips as if I’m speaking to her and she does the same. Then I stroke the hair back on my temples and her hand is on her forehead as well. It is a true child’s game and we both laugh over it.
That is to say, she doesn’t really laugh, it is more of a smile that she gives, looking exactly like I believe my own does. This, by the way, is not as simple as it seems. It is not only a pure imitation, a form of play, but a form of communication as well. Clarimonde follows my movements and in the smallest fraction of a second replies. She hardly has time to see and sometimes it appears to me as if we are both doing it at the same time.
That’s what is so fascinating to me, there is always something new, something unforeseen and she copies it! It is staggering how she can make the same movements at the same time. Sometimes I try to fool her. I make a lot of different movements, one right after the other. Then do the same moves again and again in a pattern. Finally I follow the same pattern but make a small change in the order of the movements or make a different one, or leave one out. It’s just like how the children play “Simon Says”.
What is incredible is that Clarimonde never once makes a wrong move, even though I alternate so quickly that she scarcely has time to recognize a single movement.
That’s how I spend my day but I don’t for a second feel that I’m uselessly wasting my time. On the contrary, it seems as if I have never done anything as important.
Wednesday 16 March
It is funny that I’ve never seriously thought about my relationship with Clarimonde on a rational basis. What does it mean? All these hours of play? Last night I thought about it, deliberated over it. I could simply take up my hat and coat, go down two flights of stairs, five steps across the street, back up two flights of stairs again to be at her door. There would be a small sign on it that says “Clarimonde” —Clarimonde what? I don’t know her last name but Clarimonde would be on it. I would knock on the door and then—
I can imagine everything perfectly up to that point, every small movement that I make. I can see it all right before my eyes. But I can't see at all what happens next. The door opens, I see that much. But I stay in the hallway looking into the dark room. It is so dark you can see absolutely nothing at all. She doesn’t come-doesn’t come. There is nothing there at all, only the black impenetrable darkness.
Sometimes I wonder if there is another Clarimonde other than the one that sits at the window and plays with me. I can not imagine at all what this woman would look like in a hat or a different dress other than the black one with the lilac polka dots on it. I can’t even imagine her without gloves. If I saw her on the street or even in a restaurant eating, drinking and chatting, I would burst out laughing. The image appears so impossible to me.
Sometimes I wonder if I love her. I can’t answer truthfully; I’ve never been in love. Is the feeling that I have for Clarimonde really love? Or is it something entirely different. It’s not something I’ve learned about from my companions or from a book. It is very difficult to express my feelings. In general, it is very difficult to think about anything that doesn’t include Clarimonde and even more, include our game.
I can’t lie. It is our game that apparently always occupies me, nothing else. I understand at least that much. Clarimonde, yes, I feel attracted to her, but mixed with that is another feeling, as if I’m afraid. Afraid? No, that’s not quite right. It is more of shyness, a light anxiety about something. I don’t really know what.
It is precisely this anxiety, this strange restraint, this voluptuous sensuality that keeps me away from her and becomes stronger the closer I get. It is as if I am running in a wide circle around her, coming in a little closer, then pulling back again, running further, trying again from another place and quickly backing away again, until I finally—and this I most certainly know—until I finally go to her.
Clarimonde sits by the window and spins thread, long, infinitely fine thread. She’s making a web out of it. I don’t know what it is for, and I don’t understand how she can make her delicate net without ever tangling or ripping the delicate threads. Her fine work contains fairytale animals and remarkable little monkeys.
What did I just write? The truth is that I can’t exactly see what she spins, the threads are much too fine. Yet I know exactly what she is making when I see her with my eyes closed. It is a large net with many creatures in it, fairytale animals and remarkable little monkeys.
Thursday 17 March
I am in a strange impulsive mood. I don’t speak with people anymore. I scarcely say good morning to the maid or even to Mrs. Dubonnet herself. I hardly take the time to eat. I just want to sit by the window and play games with her. It’s the excitement of the game, really, that’s what it is. I have the feeling that something will happen tomorrow.
Friday 18 March
Yes, yes, something will happen today. I told myself ahead of time- made a loud speech to myself—to hear my own voice—reminded myself of why I am here. The bad thing is that I’m afraid and this fear that I will end up like my predecessors in this room mixes strangely together with my other fear, my fear of Clarimonde. I can scarcely stay away from her. I am afraid. I want to scream.
Six o’clock in the evening
A few quick words in hat and jacket. At five o’clock I was at the end of my wits. Oh, I know now that it has most certainly something to do with this fateful sixth hour of the last day of the week. I don’t laugh anymore at the nonsense I told the commissioner.
I sat at my chair clutching my revolver, but the window pulled at me, almost tore at me. I wanted to play with Clarimonde but had this horrible fear of the window. I saw them hanging there, the fat Swiss merchant with his thick neck and gray stubble beard, the slender performer and the stocky powerful sergeant. I saw all three of them one after the other, and then all three of them together on the same hook with open mouths and protruding tongues. Then I saw myself in the midst of them.
Oh, the fear! I knew that just like them, I had stood in front of the crossbar and the horrible hook looking through the window at Clarimonde. May she forgive me, but it’s true. In my tangled fear I always placed her in the picture with the other three. The ones that hung there, legs deeply dragging on the floor.
The truth is that I felt no wish or desire to hang myself, that wasn’t my fear. It was only a fear of the window itself and of Clarimonde—of something terrible, unknown, that was just about to happen. I had the passionate uncontrollable impulse to stand up and go to the window. I had to do it—
Then the phone rang. I picked up the receiver and screamed into it before I could hear a word.
“Come over here, Come over here now!”
It was as if the shrill cry of my voice had instantly chased the last scratching shadows under the floorboards. I was instantly at peace, wiped the sweat from my forehead and drank a glass of water. Then I deliberated about what I should tell the commissioner when he came. Finally I went to the window, greeted her and smiled. Clarimonde greeted me back and smiled.
Five minutes later the commissioner was there. I told him that I had finally found the basis of the suicides. I didn’t want to answer any questions that night but I would certainly in a very short time reveal the entire remarkable story to him.
The funny thing is that even as I lied to him, I knew that I was telling the truth. I could almost grasp the answer but it still eluded me. He immediately noticed my calm composure, especially since I had just screamed fearfully into the telephone. I apologized, said that I knew he would naturally like an explanation but I didn’t have all the pieces put together yet.
He was amiable about it, said I should not let it bother me that I called him. He was always at my disposal, that was his duty. He would much rather come a dozen times in vain than not be called the one time when it was needed.
Then he invited me to go out with him that evening. It would be a diversion. It was not good that I spent so much of my time alone. I gave in- that is to say I accepted. It didn’t seem right to me. I didn’t really want to step out of the room.
Saturday 19 March
We went to the Gaieté Rochechouart, the Cigale and the Lune Rousse. The commissioner was right. It was good for me to get out of there, breathe different air. In the beginning I was uncomfortable, felt like I was doing something wrong, as if I was a deserter, had turned my back on the flag. But then the feeling went away. We drank a lot, laughed a lot and chatted.
This morning as I went to the window I believed I saw reproach in Clarimonde’s look. Perhaps I only imagined it. How could she possibly know that I went out last night? Besides, it only lasted a moment, and then she laughed again. We played together all day long.
Sunday 20 March
I can only write again that we played all day long.
Tuesday 21 March
Yes, and we did it again today as well, nothing, absolutely nothing else. At times I literally ask myself, “For what purpose? Why? What do I really want? Where will this all lead?”
But I never have any answers. What is certain is that I don’t want anything else, only this. Whatever comes out of it, well, I must wait and see.
We speak with each other now in these days. Not by speaking out loud, sometimes we just move our lips; more often we just communicate by looking at each other. We understand each other very well. I was right. Clarimonde did reproach me because I ran away last Friday night. I asked for her forgiveness, said that I understood, it was stupid of me, and I have promised to never again want to leave this window. We kissed, pressing our lips for a long time on the windowpanes.
Wednesday 23 March
I know now that I love her. It must be so; she permeates me to the last fiber. The love of other people might be different but is the head, the ear, the hand, of each person the same as millions of others? No love is the same either. Especially my love, I know that for certain. But is it any less beautiful because it is different?
I am very fortunate in this love. If only it weren’t for the fear! Sometimes it sleeps, then I forget it. But then it wakes up again in minutes and won't leave me alone. It comes to me like a paltry mouse that fights against a large beautiful snake, trying to wrest itself from the snake’s powerful embrace. Just wait, you stupid little fear, soon this great love will devour you.
Thursday 24 March
I’ve made a discovery! I’m not playing with Clarimonde. She’s playing with me. This is how I found out. Yesterday evening I was thinking as usual about our game. I wrote down five new complicated series of movements wanting to surprise her with them in the morning. Each movement had its own number. I practiced doing them as quickly as possible, both forwards and backwards. Then I practiced them by only looking at the numbers. Then I practiced the ones I missed. Finally I practiced all the first and last movements of all five series. It was very laborious, but it made me very happy because they would bring me that much closer to Clarimonde the next time I saw her. I practiced for hours until it went like clockwork.
This morning I went to the window, we greeted each other and began the game. There and back, over and across, it was unbelievable how quickly she understood me, how she responded with her own movements in almost the same instant.
Then there was a knock at the door. It was the house servant bringing my boots back. I took them from him and was going back to the window when my glance fell on the piece of paper with my notes on it. That’s when I realized that I had not done a single one of the new movements.
I staggered and nearly fell. I grabbed the back of the chair to keep from falling. I didn’t believe it, looked at the paper again and again. It was true, I had been playing an entire series of new movements at the window and not one of them was mine. Again I had the feeling that a door was opening wide, her door. I was standing in front of it, staring inside- nothing, nothing, only the empty darkness.
I knew then that if I left I could still save myself. I perceived that I was free to go. Instead I stayed. It was because I was convinced that I was now holding the solution to the mystery solidly in both hands. “Paris! I could conquer Paris! I would be famous! For that small moment Paris was stronger than Clarimonde.
But now I scarcely even think of it any more. Now I only feel my love for her and this quiet, sensuous fear. But that moment gave me strength. I read through my first series of movements and did each one of them perfectly. Then I went back to the window. I noticed exactly what I was doing. None of the movements were the ones I wanted to do! Then I gave her the finger, but I kissed the windowpane instead. I wanted to drum on the window but I ran my fingers through my hair.
Clarimonde was certainly not doing what I did. I was doing what she did, and doing it so quickly, so lightning fast, that they almost happened at the same second. What I had believed to be true was now delusion and my own will appeared to be gone.
I had been so proud of my ability to influence her and manipulate her, when it was I, myself, that was being influenced and manipulated! Only the influence was so subtle, so weak, that it gave no hint of its existence. It was so soothing.
I made one more attempt. I put both hands in my pockets, steeling myself not to move. Then I looked over at her. I saw how she raised her hand, how she laughed lightly while giving me the finger. I didn’t move. I felt how my right hand tried to pull itself out of my pocket but I clutched the fabric tightly. Slowly after a few moments my fingers loosened by themselves. My hand came out of the pocket and raised itself. I gave her the finger and laughed.
It was as if I wasn’t doing it, it was some stranger instead. I was only observing. No, no. That wasn’t it! I, I was doing it and some stranger was observing me. It was a strong stranger that was making a great discovery, but it wasn’t me! What discovery had I made? I was just there to do what she wanted, Clarimonde, whom I loved with such a delicious fear.
Friday 25 March
I cut the telephone cord. I have no desire to be once more disturbed by the commissioner when the fateful hour comes.
Dear God! What did I just write? Not one word of it is true. It is as if someone other than myself is moving the writing quill.
But I will, will, will write all of this down in my journal. Write what is true. I am reluctant and it requires an immense effort, but I will do it. I will do just this one last thing.
I cut the telephone cord, well, because I had to. There it is, finally! Because I had to, had to—
This morning we stood at the window and played. The game was different than yesterday. She would make some move and I would resist as long as I could. But I finally had to give in, do what she wanted without any will of my own. I can’t tell you how wonderful and desirable a feeling it is, this surrender, this giving in to her will.
We were playing and then suddenly she stood up and went back into her room. It was so dark I couldn’t see her any more. She seemed to have disappeared into the darkness. Soon she came back, carrying a desk telephone in both hands just like mine.
She laughed, set it down on the windowsill, took a knife, cut through the cord, and then carried it back again. I fought with myself for a quarter of an hour. My fear was larger than it was before, but so was the delicious feeling of slowly succumbing to her will. Finally I picked up my telephone, cut through the cord and placed it back again on the desk.
So, it’s going to happen.
I’m sitting at my desk, I’ve already had my tea, and the house servant is just now taking the plates and dishes away. I asked him what time it was; my own clock has not been working right. It is fifteen minutes after five o’clock, fifteen minutes after five o’clock.
I know that when I look at her next, Clarimonde will do something. She will do something and I will have to do it also. I can see her now. She stands there and laughs. Now—
If only I could look away! Now she goes to the curtain—she takes up the cord. It is red—exactly like the one in my window. She makes a noose. She hangs the cord over the hook on the window crossbar. She sits there and laughs.
No, you can’t call it fear anymore, this thing I am feeling. It is a horrible anguish, a terror that I would not exchange for anything in the world. It is a compulsion so unheard of in its own way and yet so strangely sensuous in its inescapable cruelty.
I could easily run over there and do what she wants. But I wait, fight, and resist. I feel how it grows stronger with each passing minute.
I’m sitting here again. I quickly ran over there and did what she wanted, took the cord, made the noose and hung it on the hook. I don’t want to look at her anymore. I will just stare at this paper because I know what I will see when I look at her again. Then, at the sixth hour of the last day of the week I will see her and I will have to do what she wants. Then I will have to—
I will not look at her—
There, I just laughed out loud. No, I didn’t laugh; it was something inside of me that laughed. I know that I will not laugh over this. I will not and still I know most certainly that I will have to. I will have to look at her, have to, have to do it—
And then the rest—
I’m only waiting to draw this torture out as long as possible. Yes, that’s it. This breathless suffering is the highest, most sensuous pleasure imaginable. I write quickly, quickly, just to sit here a little longer, to draw out in these last seconds the ache of my love and desire as it rises to infinity.
Just a little more, a little longer—
Again the fear, again! I know that I will look at her, will stand up, and will hang myself. That’s not what I’m afraid of. Oh no! That is beautiful, that is exquisitely delicious.
But there is something, somehow something that is still there- that happens then, something will come, it most certainly will come. The pleasure of my torment is so immense that I feel what happens next, oh, it must be just as unthinkably horrible!
Don’t think of it!
Someone is writing something, someone, something, it is all the same to me.
Only quickly, think, remember something—
My name—Richard Bracquemont, Richard Bracquemont, Richard—Oh, I can’t go any longer—Richard Bracquemont, Richard Bracquemont—Now, now, I need to look at her— Richard Bracquemont—I need—No—Just a little more—Richard—Richard Bracque—
The commissioner of the 9th precinct tried to repeat his phone call on the telephone but there was only static on the line. He arrived at Hotel Stevens at exactly five minutes after six o’clock. He found the corpse of student Richard Bracquemont in room # 7 hanging on the window crossbar in exactly the same position as his predecessors.
Only his face had a different expression. It was frozen in horrible terror; his eyes were bulging from their sockets. His lips were tightly shut and his strong teeth tightly clenched together. Between them was stuck a large black spider with remarkable violet polka dots. It was squashed and bitten in two.
The journal of the medical student lay on the desk. The commissioner read it and immediately went to the house across the street. He found out that the second floor had been empty and unlived in for over a month.