Your father, John
Maltravers, was born in 1820 at Worth, and succeeded his father and
mine, who died when we were still young children. John was sent to
Eton in due course, and in 1839, when he was nineteen years of age,
it was determined that he should go to Oxford. It was intended at
first to enter him at Christ Church; but Dr. Sarsdell, who visited
us at Worth in the summer of 1839, persuaded Mr. Thoresby, our
guardian, to send him instead to Magdalen Hall. Dr. Sarsdell was
himself Principal of that institution, and represented that John,
who then exhibited some symptoms of delicacy, would meet with more
personal attention under his care than he could hope to do in so
large a college as Christ Church. Mr. Thoresby, ever solicitous for
his ward's welfare, readily waived other considerations in favour
of an arrangement which he considered conducive to John's health,
and he was accordingly matriculated at Magdalen Hall in the autumn
of 1839.
Dr. Sarsdell had not been
unmindful of his promise to look after my brother, and had secured
him an excellent first-floor sitting-room, with a bedroom
adjoining, having an aspect towards New College Lane.
I shall pass over the first two
years of my brother's residence at Oxford, because they have
nothing to do with the present story. They were spent, no doubt, in
the ordinary routine of work and recreation common in Oxford at
that period.
From his earliest boyhood he had
been passionately devoted to music, and had attained a considerable
proficiency on the violin. In the autumn term of 1841 he made the
acquaintance of Mr. William Gaskell, a very talented student at New
College, and also a more than tolerable musician. The practice of
music was then very much less common at Oxford than it has since
become, and there were none of those societies existing which now
do so much to promote its study among undergraduates. It was
therefore a cause of much gratification to the two young men, and
it afterwards became a strong bond of friendship, to discover that
one was as devoted to the pianoforte as was the other to the
violin. Mr. Gaskell, though in easy circumstances, had not a
pianoforte in his rooms, and was pleased to use a fine instrument
by D'Almaine that John had that term received as a birthday present
from his guardian.
From that time the two students
were thrown much together, and in the autumn term of 1841 and
Easter term of 1842 practised a variety of music in John's rooms,
he taking the violin part and Mr. Gaskell that for the
pianoforte.
It was, I think, in March 1842
that John purchased for his rooms a piece of furniture which was
destined afterwards to play no unimportant part in the story I am
narrating. This was a very large and low wicker chair of a form
then coming into fashion in Oxford, and since, I am told, become a
familiar object of most college rooms. It was cushioned with a
gaudy pattern of chintz, and bought for new of an upholsterer at
the bottom of the High Street.
Mr. Gaskell was taken by his
uncle to spend Easter in Rome, and obtaining special leave from his
college to prolong his travels; did not return to Oxford till three
weeks of the summer term were passed and May was well advanced. So
impatient was he to see his friend that he would not let even the
first evening of his return pass without coming round to John's
rooms. The two young men sat without lights until the night was
late; and Mr. Gaskell had much to narrate of his travels, and spoke
specially of the beautiful music which he had heard at Easter in
the Roman churches. He had also had lessons on the piano from a
celebrated professor of the Italian style, but seemed to have been
particularly delighted with the music of the seventeenth-century
composers, of whose works he had brought back some specimens set
for piano and violin.
It was past eleven o'clock when
Mr. Gaskell left to return to New College; but the night was
unusually warm, with a moon near the full, and John sat for some
time in a cushioned window-seat before the open sash thinking over
what he had heard about the music of Italy. Feeling still
disinclined for sleep, he lit a single candle and began to turn
over some of the musical works which Mr. Gaskell had left on the
table. His attention was especially attracted to an oblong book,
bound in soiled vellum, with a coat of arms stamped in gilt upon
the side. It was a manuscript copy of some early suites by Graziani
for violin and harpsichord, and was apparently written at Naples in
the year 1744, many years after the death of that composer. Though
the ink was yellow and faded, the transcript had been accurately
made, and could be read with tolerable comfort by an advanced
musician in spite of the antiquated notation.
Perhaps by accident, or perhaps
by some mysterious direction which our minds are incapable of
appreciating, his eye was arrested by a suite of four movements
with a basso continuo, or figured bass, for the harpsichord. The
other suites in the book were only distinguished by numbers, but
this one the composer had dignified with the name of
"l'Areopagita." Almost mechanically John put the book on his
music-stand, took his violin from its case, and after a moment's
tuning stood up and played the first movement, a lively Coranto.
The light of the single candle burning on the table was scarcely
sufficient to illumine the page; the shadows hung in the creases of
the leaves, which had grown into those wavy folds sometimes
observable in books made of thick paper and remaining long shut;
and it was with difficulty that he could read what he was playing.
But he felt the strange impulse of the old-world music urging him
forward, and did not even pause to light the candles which stood
ready in their sconces on either side of the desk. The Coranto was
followed by a Sarabanda, and the Sarabanda by a Gagliarda. My
brother stood playing, with his face turned to the window, with the
room and the large wicker chair of which I have spoken behind him.
The Gagliarda began with a bold and lively air, and as he played
the opening bars, he heard behind him a creaking of the wicker
chair. The sound was a perfectly familiar one—as of some person
placing a hand on either arm of the chair preparatory to lowering
himself into it, followed by another as of the same person being
leisurely seated. But for the tones of the violin, all was silent,
and the creaking of the chair was strangely distinct. The illusion
was so complete that my brother stopped playing suddenly, and
turned round expecting that some late friend of his had slipped in
unawares, being attracted by the sound of the violin, or that Mr.
Gaskell himself had returned. With the cessation of the music an
absolute stillness fell upon all; the light of the single candle
scarcely reached the darker corners of the room, but fell directly
on the wicker chair and showed it to be perfectly empty. Half
amused, half vexed with himself at having without reason
interrupted his music, my brother returned to the Gagliarda; but
some impulse induced him to light the candles in the sconces, which
gave an illumination more adequate to the occasion. The Gagliarda
and the last movement, a Minuetto, were finished, and John closed
the book, intending, as it was now late, to seek his bed. As he
shut the pages a creaking of the wicker chair again attracted his
attention, and he heard distinctly sounds such as would be made by
a person raising himself from a sitting posture. This time, being
less surprised, he could more aptly consider the probable causes of
such a circumstance, and easily arrived at the conclusion that
there must be in the wicker chair osiers responsive to certain
notes of the violin, as panes of glass in church windows are
observed to vibrate in sympathy with certain tones of the organ.
But while this argument approved itself to his reason, his
imagination was but half convinced; and he could not but be
impressed with the fact that the second creaking of the chair had
been coincident with his shutting the music-book; and,
unconsciously, pictured to himself some strange visitor waiting
until the termination of the music, and then taking his
departure.
His conjectures did not, however,
either rob him of sleep or even disturb it with dreams, and he woke
the next morning with a cooler mind and one less inclined to
fantastic imagination. If the strange episode of the previous
evening had not entirely vanished from his mind, it seemed at least
fully accounted for by the acoustic explanation to which I have
alluded above. Although he saw Mr. Gaskell in the course of the
morning, he did not think it necessary to mention to him so trivial
a circumstance, but made with him an appointment to sup together in
his own rooms that evening, and to amuse themselves afterwards by
essaying some of the Italian music.
It was shortly after nine that
night when, supper being finished, Mr. Gaskell seated himself at
the piano and John tuned his violin. The evening was closing in;
there had been heavy thunder-rain in the afternoon, and the moist
air hung now heavy and steaming, while across it there throbbed the
distant vibrations of the tenor bell at Christ Church. It was
tolling the customary 101 strokes, which are rung every night in
term-time as a signal for closing the college gates. The two young
men enjoyed themselves for some while, playing first a suite by
Cesti, and then two early sonatas by Buononcini. Both of them were
sufficiently expert musicians to make reading at sight a pleasure
rather than an effort; and Mr. Gaskell especially was well versed
in the theory of music, and in the correct rendering of the basso
continuo. After the Buononcini Mr. Gaskell took up the oblong copy
of Graziani, and turning over its leaves, proposed that they should
play the same suite which John had performed by himself the
previous evening. His selection was apparently perfectly
fortuitous, as my brother had purposely refrained from directing
his attention in any way to that piece of music. They played the
Coranto and the Sarabanda, and in the singular fascination of the
music John had entirely forgotten the episode of the previous
evening, when, as the bold air of the Gagliarda commenced, he
suddenly became aware of the same strange creaking of the wicker
chair that he had noticed on the first occasion. The sound was
identical, and so exact was its resemblance to that of a person
sitting down that he stared at the chair, almost wondering that it
still appeared empty. Beyond turning his head sharply for a moment
to look round, Mr. Gaskell took no notice of the sound; and my
brother, ashamed to betray any foolish interest or excitement,
continued the Gagliarda, with its repeat. At its conclusion Mr.
Gaskell stopped before proceeding to the minuet, and turning the
stool on which he was sitting round towards the room, observed,
"How very strange, Johnnie,"—for these young men were on terms of
sufficient intimacy to address each other in a familiar style,—"How
very strange! I thought I heard some one sit down in that chair
when we began the Gagliarda. I looked round quite expecting to see
some one had come in. Did you hear nothing?"
"It was only the chair creaking,"
my brother answered, feigning an indifference which he scarcely
felt. "Certain parts of the wicker-work seem to be in accord with
musical notes and respond to them; let us continue with the
Minuetto."
Thus they finished the suite, Mr.
Gaskell demanding a repetition of the Gagliarda, with the air of
which he was much pleased. As the clocks had already struck eleven,
they determined not to play more that night; and Mr. Gaskell rose,
blew out the sconces, shut the piano, and put the music aside. My
brother has often assured me that he was quite prepared for what
followed, and had been almost expecting it; for as the books were
put away, a creaking of the wicker chair was audible, exactly
similar to that which he had heard when he stopped playing on the
previous night. There was a moment's silence; the young men looked
involuntarily at one another, and then Mr. Gaskell said, "I cannot
understand the creaking of that chair; it has never done so before,
with all the music we have played. I am perhaps imaginative and
excited with the fine airs we have heard to-night, but I have an
impression that I cannot dispel that something has been sitting
listening to us all this time, and that now when the concert is
ended it has got up and gone." There was a spirit of raillery in
his words, but his tone was not so light as it would ordinarily
have been, and he was evidently ill at ease.
"Let us try the Gagliarda again,"
said my brother; "it is the vibration of the opening notes which
affects the wicker-work, and we shall see if the noise is
repeated." But Mr. Gaskell excused himself from trying the
experiment, and after some desultory conversation, to which it was
evident that neither was giving any serious attention, he took his
leave and returned to New College.
