Prince Zaleski
Page 8
THE STONE OF THE EDMUNDSBURY MONKS
'Russia,' said Prince Zaleski to me one day, when I happened to be on avisit to him in his darksome sanctuary--'Russia may be regarded as landsurrounded by ocean; that is to say, she is an island. In the same way,it is sheer gross irrelevancy to speak of _Britain_ as an island,unless indeed the word be understood as a mere _modus loquendi_ arisingout of a rather poor geographical pleasantry. Britain, in reality, is asmall continent. Near her--a little to the south-east--is situated thelarge island of Europe. Thus, the enlightened French traveller passingto these shores should commune within himself: "I now cross to theMainland"; and retracing his steps: "I now return to the fragment rentby wrack and earthshock from the Mother-country." And this I say not inthe way of paradox, but as the expression of a sober truth. I have inmy mind merely the relative depth and extent--the _non-insularity_, infact--of the impressions made by the several nations on the world. Butthis island of Europe has herself an island of her own: the name of it,Russia. She, of all lands, is the _terra incognita_, the unknown land;till quite lately she was more--she was the undiscovered, theunsuspected land. She _has_ a literature, you know, and a history, anda language, and a purpose--but of all this the world has hardly so muchas heard. Indeed, she, and not any Antarctic Sea whatever, is the realUltima Thule of modern times, the true Island of Mystery.'
I reproduce these remarks of Zaleski here, not so much on account ofthe splendid tribute to my country contained in them, as because itever seemed to me--and especially in connection with the incident I amabout to recall--that in this respect at least he was a genuine son ofRussia; if she is the Land, so truly was he the Man, of Mystery. I whoknew him best alone knew that it was impossible to know him. He was abeing little of the present: with one arm he embraced the whole past;the fingers of the other heaved on the vibrant pulse of the future. Heseemed to me--I say it deliberately and with forethought--to possessthe unparalleled power not merely of disentangling in retrospect, butof unravelling in prospect, and I have known him to relate _coming_events with unimaginable minuteness of precision. He was nothing if notsuperlative: his diatribes, now culminating in a very _extravaganza_ ofhyperbole--now sailing with loose wing through the downy, witched,Dutch cloud-heaps of some quaintest tramontane Nephelococcugia ofthought--now laying down law of the Medes for the actual world ofto-day--had oft-times the strange effect of bringing back to my mindthe very singular old-epic epithet, [Greek: aenemoen]--_airy_--asapplied to human thought. The mere grip of his memory was not simplyextraordinary, it had in it a token, a hint, of the strange, thepythic--nay, the sibylline. And as his reflecting intellect, moreover,had all the lightness of foot of a chamois kid, unless you couldcontrive to follow each dazzlingly swift successive step, by the sum ofwhich he attained his Alp-heights, he inevitably left on you theastounding, the confounding impression of mental omnipresence.
I had brought with me a certain document, a massive book bound in ironand leather, the diary of one Sir Jocelin Saul. This I had abstractedfrom a gentleman of my acquaintance, the head of a firm of inquiryagents in London, into whose hand, only the day before, it had come. Adistant neighbour of Sir Jocelin, hearing by chance of his extremity,had invoked the assistance of this firm; but the aged baronet, being ina state of the utmost feebleness, terror, and indeed hystericalincoherence, had been able to utter no word in explanation of hiscondition or wishes, and, in silent abandonment, had merely handed thebook to the agent.
A day or two after I had reached the desolate old mansion which theprince occupied, knowing that he might sometimes be induced to take anabsorbing interest in questions that had proved themselves tooprofound, or too intricate, for ordinary solution, I asked him if hewas willing to hear the details read out from the diary, and on hisassenting, I proceeded to do so.
The brief narrative had reference to a very large and very valuableoval gem enclosed in the substance of a golden chalice, which chalice,in the monastery of St. Edmundsbury, had once lain centuries longwithin the Loculus, or inmost coffin, wherein reposed the body of St.Edmund. By pressing a hidden pivot, the cup (which was composed of twoequal parts, connected by minute hinges) sprang open, and in a hollowspace at the bottom was disclosed the gem. Sir Jocelin Saul, I may say,was lineally connected with--though, of course, not descendantfrom--that same Jocelin of Brakelonda, a brother of the Edmundsburyconvent, who wrote the now so celebrated _Jocelini Chronica_: and thechalice had fallen into the possession of the family, seemingly at sometime prior to the suppression of the monastery about 1537. On it wasinscribed in old English characters of unknown date the words:
'Shulde this Ston stalen bee, Or shuld it chaunges dre, The Houss of Sawl and hys Hed anoon shal de.'
The stone itself was an intaglio, and had engraved on its surface thefigure of a mythological animal, together with some nearly obliteratedletters, of which the only ones remaining legible were those formingthe word 'Has.' As a sure precaution against the loss of the gem,another cup had been made and engraved in an exactly similar manner,inside of which, to complete the delusion, another stone of the samesize and cut, but of comparatively valueless material, had been placed.
Sir Jocelin Saul, a man of intense nervosity, lived his life alone in aremote old manor-house in Suffolk, his only companion being a person ofEastern origin, named Ul-Jabal. The baronet had consumed his vitalityin the life-long attempt to sound the too fervid Maelstrom of Orientalresearch, and his mind had perhaps caught from his studies a tinge oftheir morbidness, their esotericism, their insanity. He had for someyears past been engaged in the task of writing a stupendous work onPre-Zoroastrian Theogonies, in which, it is to be supposed, Ul-Jabalacted somewhat in the capacity of secretary. But I will give _verbatim_the extracts from his diary:
'_June 11_.--This is my birthday. Seventy years ago exactly I slid fromthe belly of the great Dark into this Light and Life. My God! My God!it is briefer than the rage of an hour, fleeter than a mid-day trance.Ul-Jabal greeted me warmly--seemed to have been looking forward toit--and pointed out that seventy is of the fateful numbers, its onlyfactors being seven, five, and two: the last denoting the duality ofBirth and Death; five, Isolation; seven, Infinity. I informed him thatthis was also my father's birthday; and _his_ father's; and repeatedthe oft-told tale of how the latter, just seventy years ago to-day,walking at twilight by the churchyard-wall, saw the figure of _himself_sitting on a grave-stone, and died five weeks later riving with thepangs of hell. Whereat the sceptic showed his two huge rows of teeth.
'What is his peculiar interest in the Edmundsbury chalice? On eachsuccessive birthday when the cup has been produced, he has asked me toshow him the stone. Without any well-defined reason I have alwaysdeclined, but to-day I yielded. He gazed long into its sky-blue depth,and then asked if I had no idea what the inscription "Has" meant. Iinformed him that it was one of the lost secrets of the world.
'_June l5_.--Some new element has entered into our existence here.Something threatens me. I hear the echo of a menace against my sanityand my life. It is as if the garment which enwraps me has grown toohot, too heavy for me. A notable drowsiness has settled on my brain--adrowsiness in which thought, though slow, is a thousandfold morefiery-vivid than ever. Oh, fair goddess of Reason, desert not me, thychosen child!
'_June 18_.--Ul-Jabal?--that man is _the very Devil incarnate!_
'_June 19_.--So much for my bounty, all my munificence, to thispoisonous worm. I picked him up on the heights of the Mountain ofLebanon, a cultured savage among cultured savages, and brought him hereto be a prince of thought by my side. What though his plunderedwealth--the debt I owe him--has saved me from a sort of ruin? Have not_I_ instructed him in the sweet secret of Reason?
'I lay back on my bed in the lonely morning watches, my soul heavy aswith the distilled essence of opiates, and in vivid vision knew that hehad entered my apartment. In the twilight gloom his glittering rows ofshark's teeth seemed impacted on my eyeball--I saw _them_, and nothingelse. I was not aware when he vanished from the r
oom. But at daybreak Icrawled on hands and knees to the cabinet containing the chalice. Theviperous murderer! He has stolen my gem, well knowing that with it hehas stolen my life. The stone is gone--gone, my precious gem. Aweakness overtook me, and I lay for many dreamless hours naked on themarble floor.
'Does the fool think to hide ought from my eyes? Can he imagine that Ishall not recover my precious gem, my stone of Saul?
'_June 20_.--Ah, Ul-Jabal--my brave, my noble Son of the Prophet ofGod! He has replaced the stone! He would not slay an aged man. Theyellow ray of his eye, it is but the gleam of the great thinker,not--not--the gleam of the assassin. Again, as I lay insemi-somnolence, I saw him enter my room, this time more distinctly. Hewent up to the cabinet. Shaking the chalice in the dawning, some hoursafter he had left, I heard with delight the rattle of the stone. Imight have known he would replace it; I should not have doubted