The Complete Works of Washington Irving: Short Stories, Plays, Historical Works, Poetry and Autobiographical Writings (Illustrated). Вашингтон Ирвинг

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      At length the announcement of tea and coffee in the cedar parlor roused all hands from this temporary torpor. Every one awoke marvellously renovated, and while sipping the refreshing beverage out of the Baronet’s old-fashioned hereditary china, began to think of departing for their several homes. But here a sudden difficulty arose. While we had been prolonging our repast, a heavy winter storm had set in, with snow, rain, and sleet, driven by such bitter blasts of wind, that they threatened to penetrate to the very bone.

      “It’s all in vain,” said our hospitable host, “to think of putting one’s head out of doors in such weather. So, gentlemen, I hold you my guests for this night at least, and will have your quarters prepared accordingly.”

      The unruly weather, which became more and more tempestuous, rendered The hospitable suggestion unanswerable. The only question was, whether such an unexpected accession of company, to an already crowded house, would not put the housekeeper to her trumps to accommodate them.

      “Pshaw,” cried mine host, “did you ever know of a Bachelor’s Hall that was not elastic, and able to accommodate twice as many as it could hold?” So out of a good-humored pique the housekeeper was summoned to consultation before us all. The old lady appeared, in her gala suit of faded brocade, which rustled with flurry and agitation, for in spite of mine host’s bravado, she was a little perplexed. But in a bachelor’s house, and with bachelor guests, these matters are readily managed. There is no lady of the house to stand upon squeamish points about lodging guests in odd holes and corners, and exposing the shabby parts of the establishment. A bachelor’s housekeeper is used to shifts and emergencies. After much worrying to and fro, and divers consultations about the red room, and the blue room, and the chintz room, and the damask room, and the little room with the bow window, the matter was finally arranged.

      When all this was done, we were once more summoned to the standing Rural amusement of eating. The time that had been consumed in dozing after dinner, and in the refreshment and consultation of the cedar parlor, was sufficient, in the opinion of the rosy-faced butler, to engender a reasonable appetite for supper. A slight repast had therefore been tricked up from the residue of dinner, consisting of cold sirloin of beef; hashed venison; a devilled leg of a turkey or so, and a few other of those light articles taken by country gentlemen to ensure sound sleep and heavy snoring.

      The nap after dinner had brightened up every one’s wit; and a great deal of excellent humor was expended upon the perplexities of mine host and his housekeeper, by certain married gentlemen of the company, who considered themselves privileged in joking with a bachelor’s establishment. From this the banter turned as to what quarters each would find, on being thus suddenly billeted in so antiquated a mansion.

      “By my soul,” said an Irish captain of dragoons, one of the most merry and boisterous of the party—”by my soul, but I should not be surprised if some of those good-looking gentlefolks that hang along the walls, should walk about the rooms of this stormy night; or if I should find the ghost of one of these long-waisted ladies turning into my bed in mistake for her grave in the churchyard.

      “Do you believe in ghosts, then?” said a thin, hatchet-faced gentleman, with projecting eyes like a lobster.

      I had remarked this last personage throughout dinner-time for one of Those incessant questioners, who seem to have a craving, unhealthy appetite in conversation. He never seemed satisfied with the whole of a story; never laughed when others laughed; but always put the joke to the question. He could never enjoy the kernel of the nut, but pestered himself to get more out of the shell.

      “Do you believe in ghosts, then?” said the inquisitive gentleman.

      “Faith, but I do,” replied the jovial Irishman; “I was brought up in the fear and belief of them; we had a Benshee in our own family, honey.”

      “A Benshee — and what’s that?” cried the questioner.

      “Why an old lady ghost that tends upon your real Milesian families, and wails at their window to let them know when some of them are to die.”

      “A mighty pleasant piece of information,” cried an elderly gentleman, with a knowing look and a flexible nose, to which he could give a whimsical twist when he wished to be waggish.

      “By my soul, but I’d have you know it’s a piece of distinction to be waited upon by a Benshee. It’s a proof that one has pure blood in one’s veins. But, egad, now we’re talking of ghosts, there never was a house or a night better fitted than the present for a ghost adventure. Faith, Sir John, haven’t you such a thing as a haunted chamber to put a guest in?”

      “Perhaps,” said the Baronet, smiling, “I might accommodate you even on that point.”

      “Oh, I should like it of all things, my jewel. Some dark oaken room, with ugly wo-begone portraits that stare dismally at one, and about which the housekeeper has a power of delightful stories of love and murder. And then a dim lamp, a table with a rusty sword across it, and a spectre all in white to draw aside one’s curtains at midnight—”

      “In truth,” said an old gentleman at one end of the table, “you put me in mind of an anecdote—”

      “Oh, a ghost story! a ghost story!” was vociferated round the board, every one edging his chair a little nearer.

      The attention of the whole company was now turned upon the speaker. He was an old gentleman, one side of whose face was no match for the other. The eyelid drooped and hung down like an unhinged window shutter. Indeed, the whole side of his head was dilapidated, and seemed like the wing of a house shut up and haunted. I’ll warrant that side was well stuffed with ghost stories.

      There was a universal demand for the tale.

      “Nay,” said the old gentleman, “it’s a mere anecdote — and a very commonplace one; but such as it is you shall have it. It is a story that I once heard my uncle tell when I was a boy. But whether as having happened to himself or to another, I cannot recollect. But no matter, it’s very likely it happened to himself, for he was a man very apt to meet with strange adventures. I have heard him tell of others much more singular. At any rate, we will suppose it happened to himself.”

      “What kind of man was your uncle?” said the questioning gentleman.

      “Why, he was rather a dry, shrewd kind of body; a great traveller, and fond of telling his adventures.”

      “Pray, how old might he have been when this happened?”

      “When what happened?” cried the gentleman with the flexible nose, impatiently—”Egad, you have not given any thing a chance to happen -come, never mind our uncle’s age; let us have his adventures.”

      The inquisitive gentleman being for the moment silenced, the old gentleman with the haunted head proceeded.

      THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE.

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      Many years since, a long time before the French revolution, my uncle had passed several months at Paris. The English and French were on better terms, in those days, than at present, and mingled cordially together in society. The English went abroad to spend money then, and the French were always ready to help them: they go abroad to save money at present, and that they can do without French assistance. Perhaps the travelling English were fewer and СКАЧАТЬ