Красная комната

           AsIdidso,theoldmanwiththeshaderoseandstaggeredroundthetable,soastobeclosertotheothersandtothefire. AtthedoorIturnedandlookedatthem,andsawtheywereallclosetogether,darkagainstthefirelight,staringatmeovertheirshoulders,withanintentexpressionontheirancientfaces. 

           “Good-night,"Isaid,settingthedooropen. “It’syourownchoosing,"saidthemanwiththewitheredarm. 

           Ileftthedoorwideopenuntilthecandlewaswellalight,andthenIshutthemin,andwalkeddownthechilly,echoingpassage. 

           Imustconfessthattheoddnessofthesethreeoldpensionersinwhosechargeherladyshiphadleftthecastle,andthedeep-toned,old-fashionedfurnitureofthehousekeeper’sroom,inwhichtheyforegathered,hadaffectedmecuriouslyinspiteofmyefforttokeepmyselfatamatter-of-factphase. Theyseemedtobelongtoanotherage,anolderage,anagewhenthingsspiritualwereindeedtobefeared,whencommonsensewasuncommon,anagewhenomensandwitcheswerecredible,andghostsbeyonddenying. Theirveryexistence,thoughtI,isspectral;thecutoftheirclothing,fashionsbornindeadbrains;theornamentsandconveniencesintheroomaboutthemevenareghostly—thethoughtsofvanishedmen,whichstillhauntratherthanparticipateintheworldofto-day. AndthepassageIwasin,longandshadowy,withafilmofmoistureglisteningonthewall,wasasgauntandcoldasathingthatisdeadandrigid. ButwithaneffortIsentsuchthoughtstotheright-about.