The Horrific Sufferings Of The Mind-Reading Monster Hercules Barefoot: His Wonderful Love and his Terrible Hatred by Vallgren Carl-Johan

Author:Vallgren, Carl-Johan [Vallgren, Carl-Johan]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2011-10-30T16:00:00+00:00

You can comprehend thoughts, Herr Barfuss. I know you’re reading my thoughts at this very moment! I, as you know, speak with the spirits . . . In my youth, in Stockholm, that terrible Sodom, it was then Swedenborg personally initiated me into his doctrine of Correspondences: explained how the universe is made up of series and degrees between the interjacent determinators. There Anima, the soul’s highest function, is to be in contact with our Lord God, the all-embracing Fluidum Spirituosum . . .

Countess Tavastestierna, his prospective helper, straightened out her pillows and lit one of her perfumed black cigars. He comprehended her very clearly. She was making a real effort to get every nuance across to him.

What are thoughts? he had asked.

Nothing but fluid undulations, my friend!

And what about speech?

Tremors conveyed to the mouth, which turn into air vibrations, which turn into sound. Believe me, thought is the real speech, infinitely more perfect than the larynx’s coarse articulation. And that is why it can also be heard by the angels! You may well be an angel yourself, Herr Barfuss, though your earthly form is anything but angelic, but rather demonic, repugnant, in fact . . . But allow me to finish: the angels’ speech to us, too, is pure thought. You know, Herr Barfuss, don’t you, that I can hear the voices of the little angels, and even the voices of the spirits. I cannot hear the thoughts of men, apart from yours, of which you so generously allow me to partake. But I can hear an angel’s speech as clearly as a peasant can hear a sermon at Candlemas. It’s only at card games the angels refuse to help me. “That’s where we draw the line, we can’t help you, m’lady,” they say. So that’s where you come into it. You won’t let me down this evening, will you? There’s such a terrible lot at stake. And in return, tomorrow the spirits have promised to tell me where you can find your girl.

Please, oh please, do tell me where she is . . .

I’m sorry, you must think more clearly, sharply. I can’t hear you all that well. On the other hand I can hear perfectly clearly the spirit voices in this room; like now! There’s one sitting on my shoulder, can’t you see him?

He stared, but saw nothing. Only the Countess sitting up in her bed in her nightdress, on Østergade, here in Copenhagen, with the coverlet drawn over her though it was already afternoon. And further away in the room was Baptiste, her blackamoor servant, who had just come in carrying a tea tray.

I can’t see anything . . .

That’s right . . . not everybody can see the spirits, or hear them. No more than little Baptiste is capable of hearing us two at this very moment. One has to have a special predisposition to it! But right now there’s one of them sitting on my shoulder. I think he’s German, or possibly Dutch . .

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