The Apple-Tree Table, and Other Sketches. Herman Melville

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СКАЧАТЬ it. The skinny hand was on me.

      All at once—Hark!

      My hair felt like growing grass.

      A faint sort of inward rapping or rasping—a strange, inexplicable sound, mixed with a slight kind of wood-pecking or ticking.

      Tick! Tick!

      Yes, it was a faint sort of ticking.

      I looked up at my great Strasbourg clock in one corner. It was not that. The clock had stopped.

      Tick! Tick!

      Was it my watch?

      According to her usual practice at night, my wife had, upon retiring, carried my watch off to our chamber to hang it up on its nail.

      I listened with all my ears.

      Tick! Tick!

      Was it a death-tick in the wainscot?

      With a tremulous step I went all round the room, holding my ear to the wainscot.

      No; it came not from the wainscot.

      Tick! Tick!

      I shook myself. I was ashamed of my fright.

      Tick! Tick!

      It grew in precision and audibleness. I retreated from the wainscot. It seemed advancing to meet me.

      I looked round and round, but saw nothing, only one cloven foot of the little apple-tree table.

      Bless me, said I to myself, with a sudden revulsion, it must be very late; ain't that my wife calling me? Yes, yes; I must to bed. I suppose all is locked up. No need to go the rounds.

      The fascination had departed, though the fear had increased. With trembling hands, putting Cotton Mather out of sight, I soon found myself, candlestick in hand, in my chamber, with a peculiar rearward feeling, such as some truant dog may feel. In my eagerness to get well into the chamber, I stumbled against a chair.

      "Do try and make less noise, my dear," said my wife from the bed.

      "You have been taking too much of that punch, I fear. That sad habit grows on you. Ah, that I should ever see you thus staggering at night into your chamber."

      "Wife," hoarsely whispered I, "there is—is something tick-ticking in the cedar-parlor."

      "Poor old man—quite out of his mind—I knew it would be so. Come to bed; come and sleep it off."

      "Wife, wife!"

      "Do, do come to bed. I forgive you. I won't remind you of it to-morrow. But you must give up the punch-drinking, my dear. It quite gets the better of you."

      "Don't exasperate me," I cried now, truly beside myself; "I will quit the house!"

      "No, no! not in that state. Come to bed, my dear. I won't say another word."

      The next morning, upon waking, my wife said nothing about the past night's affair, and, feeling no little embarrassment myself, especially at having been thrown into such a panic, I also was silent. Consequently, my wife must still have ascribed my singular conduct to a mind disordered, not by ghosts, but by punch. For my own part, as I lay in bed watching the sun in the panes, I began to think that much midnight reading of Cotton Mather was not good for man; that it had a morbid influence upon the nerves, and gave rise to hallucinations. I resolved to put Cotton Mather permanently aside. That done, I had no fear of any return of the ticking. Indeed, I began to think that what seemed the ticking in the room, was nothing but a sort of buzzing in my ear.

      As is her wont, my wife having preceded me in rising, I made a deliberate and agreeable toilet. Aware that most disorders of the mind have their origin in the state of the body, I made vigorous use of the flesh-brush, and bathed my head with New England rum, a specific once recommended to me as good for buzzing in the ear. Wrapped in my dressing gown, with cravat nicely adjusted, and fingernails neatly trimmed, I complacently descended to the little cedar-parlor to breakfast.

      What was my amazement to find my wife on her knees, rummaging about the carpet nigh the little apple-tree table, on which the morning meal was laid, while my daughters, Julia and Anna, were running about the apartment distracted.

      "Oh, papa, papa!" cried Julia, hurrying up to me, "I knew it would be so. The table, the table!"

      "Spirits! spirits!" cried Anna, standing far away from it, with pointed finger.

      "Silence!" cried my wife. "How can I hear it, if you make such a noise? Be still. Come here, husband; was this the ticking you spoke of? Why don't you move? Was this it? Here, kneel down and listen to it. Tick, tick, tick!—don't you hear it now?"

      "I do, I do," cried I, while my daughters besought us both to come away from the spot.

      Tick, tick, tick!

      Right from under the snowy cloth, and the cheerful urn, and the smoking milk-toast, the unaccountable ticking was heard.

      "Ain't there a fire in the next room, Julia," said I, "let us breakfast there, my dear," turning to my wife—"let us go—leave the table—tell Biddy to remove the things."

      And so saying I was moving towards the door in high self-possession, when my wife interrupted me.

      "Before I quit this room, I will see into this ticking," she said with energy.

      "It is something that can be found out, depend upon it. I don't believe in spirits, especially at breakfast-time. Biddy! Biddy! Here, carry these things back to the kitchen," handing the urn. Then, sweeping off the cloth, the little table lay bare to the eye.

      "It's the table, the table!" cried Julia.

      "Nonsense," said my wife, "Who ever heard of a ticking table? It's on the floor. Biddy! Julia! Anna! move everything out of the room—table and all. Where are the tack-hammers?"

      "Heavens, mamma—you are not going to take up the carpet?" screamed Julia.

      "Here's the hammers, marm," said Biddy, advancing tremblingly.

      "Hand them to me, then," cried my wife; for poor Biddy was, at long gun-distance, holding them out as if her mistress had the plague.

      "Now, husband, do you take up that side of the carpet, and I will this." Down on her knees she then dropped, while I followed suit.

      The carpet being removed, and the ear applied to the naked floor, not the slightest ticking could be heard.

      "The table—after all, it is the table," cried my wife. "Biddy, bring it back."

      "Oh no, marm, not I, please, marm," sobbed Biddy.

      "Foolish creature!—Husband, do you bring it."

      "My dear," said I, "we have plenty of other tables; why be so particular?"

      "Where is that table?" cried my wife, СКАЧАТЬ