Dreams and Dream-Stories by Anna Kingsford

Dreams and Dream-Stories by Anna Kingsford
don't believe in anything of the kind. As for these rooms, they have for a long time been let for two or
three nights [Page 67] every week to our Society for the purpose of social reunion. We are members of a
musical and literary association, and are in the habit of holding conversaziones in these rooms on certain
evenings, during which we entertain ourselves with dancing, singing, charades, and literary gossip. The
rooms are spacious and lofty, and exactly adapted to our requirements. As you are here, I may say, in the
name of the rest of the members, that we shall be happy if you will join us." At this I glanced at our
dresses in some confusion, which being observed by the gentleman, he hastened to say: " You need be
under no anxiety about your appearance, for this is a costume night, and the greater number of our
guests are in travesty." As he spoke he threw open the door of a large drawing-room and invited us in.
On entering we found a company of men and women, well-dressed, some in ordinary evening attire and
some costumed. The room was brilliantly lighted and beautifully furnished and decorated. At one end was
a grand piano, round which several persons were grouped; others were seated on ottomans taking tea or
coffee; and others strolled about, talking. Our host, who appeared to be master of the ceremonies,
introduced us to several persons, and we soon became deeply interested in a conversation on literary
subjects. So the evening wore on pleasantly, but I never ceased to wonder how we could have mistaken
the house or the staircase after the precaution we had taken of visiting it in the daytime in order to avoid
the possibility of error.
Presently, being tired of conversation, I wandered away from the group with which C. was still engaged,
to look at the beautiful decorations of the great salon, the walls of which were covered with artistic
designs in [Page 68] fresco. Between each couple of panels, the whole length of the salon, was a beautiful
painting, representing a landscape or a sea-piece. I passed from one to the other, admiring each, till I
had reached the extreme end, and was far away from the rest of the company, where the lights were not
so many or so bright as in the centre. The last fresco in the series then caught my attention. At first it
appeared to me to be unfinished; and then I observed that there was upon its background no picture at
all, but only a background of merging tints which seemed to change, and to be now sky, now sea, now
green grass. This empty picture had, moreover, an odd metallic colouring which fascinated me; and
saying to myself " Is there really any painting on it " I mechanically put out my hand and touched it. On
this I was instantly seized by a frightful sensation, a shock that ran from the tips of my fingers to my brain,
and steeped my whole being. Simultaneously I was aware of an overwhelming sense of sucking and
dragging, which, from my hand and arm, and, as it were, through them, seemed to possess and envelop
my whole person. Face, hair, eyes, bosom, limbs, every portion of my body was locked in an awful
embrace which, like the vortex of a whirlpool, drew me irresistibly towards the picture. I felt the hideous
impulse clinging over me and sucking me forwards into the wall. I strove in vain to resist it. My efforts
were more futile than the flutter of gossamer wings. And then there rushed upon my mind the
consciousness that all we had been told about the haunted rooms was true; that a strong delusion had
been cast over us; that all this brilliant throng of modern ladies and gentlemen were fiends
masquerading, prepared beforehand for our coming; that all the beauty and splendour of our
surroundings were mere glamour; and [Page 69] that in reality the rooms were those we had seen in the
daytime, filled with lumber and rot and vermin. As I realised all this, and was thrilled with the certainty of
it, a sudden access of strength came to me, and I was impelled, as a last desperate effort, to turn my
back on the awful fresco, and at least to save my face from coming into contact with it and being glued to
its surface. With a shriek of anguish I wrenched myself round and fell prostrate on the ground, face
downwards, with my back to the wall, feeling as though the flesh had been torn from my hand and arm.
Whether I was saved or not I knew not. My whole being was overpowered by the realisation of the
deception to which I had succumbed. I had looked for something so different, — darkness, vacant,
deserted rooms, and perhaps a tall, white, empty canvas in a frame, against which I should have been on
my guard. Who could have anticipated or suspected this cheerful welcome, these entertaining literati,
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