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The Familiar
by J. Sheridan Le Fanu
1872
OUT of about two hundred and thirty cases more or less nearly akin to that I have entitled “Green Tea,” I select the following which I call “The Familiar.”
To this MS., Doctor Hesselius has, after his wont, attached some sheets of letter-paper, on which are written, in his hand nearly as compact as print, his own remarks upon the case. He says:
“In point of conscience, no more unexceptionable narrator than the venerable Irish Clergyman who has given me this paper, on Mr. Barton’s case, could have been chosen. The statement is, however, medically imperfect. The report of an intelligent physician, who had marked its progress, and attended the patient, from its earlier stages to its close, would have supplied what is wanting to enable me to pronounce with confidence. I should have been acquainted with Mr Barton’s probable hereditary predispositions; I should have known, possibly by very early indicators, something of a remoter origin of the disease than can now be ascertained.
“In a rough way, we may reduce all similar cases to three distinct classes. They are founded on the primary distinction between the subjective and the objective. Of those whose senses are alleged to be subject to supernatural impressions — some are simply visionaries, and propagate the illusions of which they complain from diseased brain or nerves. Others are, unquestionably, infested by, as we term them, spiritual agencies, exterior to themselves. Others, again, owe their sufferings to a mixed condition. The interior sense, it is true, is opened; but it has been and continues open by the action of disease. This form of disease may, in one sense, be compared to the loss of the scarf-skin, and a consequent exposure of surfaces for whose excessive sensitiveness nature has provided a muffling. The loss of this covering is attended by an habitual impassibility, by influences against which we were intended to be guarded. But in the case of the brain, and the nerves immediately connected with its functions and its sensuous impressions, the cerebral circulation undergoes periodically that vibratory disturbance which, I believe, I have satisfactorily examined and demonstrated in my MS. Essay, A. 17. This vibratory disturbance differs, as I there prove, essentially from the congestive disturbance, the phenomena of which are examined in A. 19. It is, when excessive, invariably accompanied by illusions.
“Had I seen Mr. Barton, and examined him upon the points in his case which need elucidation, I should have without difficulty referred those phenomena to their proper disease. My diagnosis is now, necessarily, conjectural.”
Thus writes Doctor Hesselius; and adds a great deal which is of interest only to a scientific physician.
The Narrative of the Rev. Thomas Herbert, which furnishes all that is known of the case will be found in the chapters that follow.
FOOTSTEPS
I WAS a young man at the time, and intimately acquainted
with some of the actors in this strange tale; the impression
which its incidents made on me, therefore, were deep and
lasting. I shall now endeavour, with precision, to relate
them all, combining, of course, in the narrative, whatever I
have learned from various sources, tending, however
imperfectly, to illuminate the darkness which involves its
progress and termination.
Somewhere about the year 1794, the younger brother of a
certain baronet, whom I shall call Sir James Barton,
returned to Dublin. He had served in the navy with some
distinction, having commanded one of His Majesty’s frigates
during the greater part of the American war. Captain Barton
was apparently some two or three-and-forty years of age. He
was an intelligent and agreeable companion when he pleased
it, though generally reserved, and occasionally even moody.
In society, however, he deported himself as a man of the
world, and a gentleman. He had not contracted any of the
noisy brusqueness sometimes acquired at sea; on the
contrary, his manners were remarkably easy, quiet, and even
polished. He was in person about the middle size, and
somewhat strongly formed — his countenance was marked with
the lines of thought, and on the whole wore an expression of
gravity and melancholy. Being, however, as I have said, a
man of perfect breeding, as well as of good family and in
affluent circumstances, he had, of course, ready access to
the best society of Dublin without the necessity of any
other credentials.
In his personal habits Mr. Barton was unexpensive. He
occupied lodgings in one of the then fashionable streets in
the south side of the town — kept but one horse and one
servant — and though a reputed free-thinker, yet lived an
orderly and moral life — indulging neither in gaming,
drinking, nor any other vicious pursuit — living very much to
himself, without forming intimacies, or choosing any
companions, and appearing to mix in gay society rather for
the sake of its bustle and distraction, than for any
opportunities it offered of interchanging thought or feeling
with its votaries.
Barton was, therefore, pronounced a saving, prudent,
unsocial sort of fellow, who bid fair to maintain his
celibacy alike against stratagem and assault, and was likely
to live to a good old age, die rich, and leave his money to
an hospital.
It was now apparent, however, that the nature of Mr
Barton’s plans had been totally misconceived. A young lady,
whom I shall call Miss Montague, was at this time introduced
into the gay world by her aunt, the Dowager Lady L–-.
Miss Montague was decidedly pretty and accomplished, and
having some natural cleverness and a great deal of gaiety,
became for a while a reigning toast.
Her popularity, however, gained her for a time nothing
more than that unsubstantial admiration which, however
pleasant as an incense to vanity, is by no means necessarily
antecedent to matrimony — for, unhappily for the young lady
in question, it was an understood thing that, beyond her
personal attractions, she had no kind of earthly provision.
Such being the state of affairs, it will readily be believed
that no little surprise was consequent upon the appearance
of Captain Barton as the avowed lover of the penniless Miss
Montague.
His suit prospered, as might have been expected, and in a
short time it was communicated by old Lady L–- to each of
her hundred-and-fifty particular friends in succession, that
Captain Barton had actually tendered proposals of marriage,
with her approbation, to her niece, Miss Montague, who had,
moreover, accepted the offer of his hand, conditionally upon
the consent of her father, who was then upon his homeward
voyage from India, and expected in two or three weeks at the
furthest.
About this consent there could be no doubt — the delay,
therefore, was one merely of form — they were looked upon as
absolutely engaged, and Lady L–-, with a rigour of
old-fashioned decorum with which her niece would, no doubt,
gladly have dispensed, withdrew her thenceforward from all
further participation in the gaieties of the town.
Captain Barton was a constant visitor, as well as a
frequent guest at the house, and was permitted all the
privileges of intimacy which a betrothed suitor is usually
accorded. Such was the relation of parties, when the
mysterious circumstances which darken this narrative first
began to unfold themselves.
Lady L–- resided in a handsome mansion at the north side
of Dublin, and Captain Barton’s lodgings, as we have already
said, were situated at the south. The distance intervening
was considerable, and it was Captain Barton’s habit
generally to walk home without an attendant, as often as he
passed the evening with the old lady and her fair charge.
His shortest way in such nocturnal walks lay, for a
considerable space, through a line of street which had as
yet merely been laid out, and little more than the
foundations of the houses constructed.
One night, shortly after his engagement with Miss Montague
had commenced, he happened to remain unusually late, in
company with her and Lady L–-. The conversation had
turned upon the evidences of revelation, which he had
disputed with the callous scepticism of a confirmed infidel.
What were called “French principles” had in those days found
their way a good deal into fashionable society, especially
that portion of it which professed allegiance to Whiggism,
and neither the old lady nor her charge were so perfectly
free from the taint as to look upon Mr. Barton’s views as any
serious objection to the proposed union.
The discussion had degenerated into one upon the
supernatural and the marvellous, in which he had pursued
precisely the same line of argument and ridicule. In all
this, it is but truth to state, Captain Barton was guilty of
no affectation — the doctrines upon which he insisted, were,
in reality, but too truly the basis of his own fixed belief,
if so it might be called; and perhaps not the least strange
of the many strange circumstances connected with my
narrative was the fact that the subject of the fearful
influences I am about to describe was himself, from the
deliberate conviction of years, an utter disbeliever in what
are usually termed preternatural agencies.
It was considerably past midnight when Mr. Barton took his
leave and set out upon his solitary walk homeward. He had
now reached the lonely road, with its unfinished dwarf walls
tracing the foundations of the projected row of houses on
either side — the moon was shining mistily, and its imperfect
light made the road he trod but additionally dreary — that
utter silence which has in it something indefinably exciting
reigned there and made the sound of his steps, which alone
broke it, unnaturally loud and distinct.
He had proceeded thus some way, when he, on a sudden,
heard other footfalls, pattering at a measured pace, and, as
it seemed, about two score steps behind him.
The suspicion of being dogged is at all times unpleasant:
it is, however, especially so in a spot so lonely: and this
suspicion became so strong in the mind of Captain Barton,
that he abruptly turned about to confront his pursuer, but,
though there was quite sufficient moonlight to disclose any
object upon the road he had traversed, no form of any kind
was visible there.
The steps he had heard could not have been the
reverberation of his own, for he stamped his foot upon the
ground, and walked briskly up and down, in the vain attempt
to awake an echo; though by no means a fanciful person,
therefore, he was at last fain to charge the sounds upon his
imagination, and treat them as an illusion. Thus satisfying
himself he resumed his walk, and before he had proceeded a
dozen paces the mysterious footfall was again audible from
behind, and this time, as if with the special design of
showing that the sounds were not the responses of an echo,
the steps sometimes slackened nearly to a halt, and
sometimes hurried for six or eight strides to a run, and
again abated to a walk.
Captain Barton, as before, turned suddenly round, and with
the same result — no object was visible above the deserted
level of the road. He walked back over the same ground,
determined that, whatever might have been the cause of the
sounds which had so disconcerted him,
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