Mauled and mocked her,
Lizzie uttered not a word;
Would not open lip from lip
Lest they should cram a mouthful in:
But laughed in heart to feel the drip
Of juice that syruped all her face,
And lodged in dimples of her chin,
And streaked her neck which quaked like curd.
At last the evil people,
Worn out by her resistance,
Flung back her penny, kicked their fruit
Along whichever road they took,
Not leaving root or stone or shoot;
Some writhed into the ground,
Some dived into the brook
With ring and ripple,
Some scudded on the gale without a sound,
Some vanished in the distance.
In a smart, ache, tingle,
Lizzie went her way;
Knew not was it night or day;
Sprang up the bank, tore thro’ the furze,
Threaded copse and dingle,
And heard her penny jingle
Bouncing in her purse, -
Its bounce was music to her ear.
She ran and ran
As if she feared some goblin man
Dogged her with gibe or curse
Or something worse:
But not one goblin skurried after,
Nor was she pricked by fear;
The kind heart made her windy-paced
That urged her home quite out of breath with haste
And inward laughter.
She cried, “Laura,” up the garden,
“Did you miss me?
Come and kiss me.
Never mind my bruises,
Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices
Squeezed from goblin fruits for you,
Goblin pulp and goblin dew.
Eat me, drink me, love me;
Laura, make much of me;
For your sake I have braved the glen
And had to do with goblin merchant men.”
Laura started from her chair,
Flung her arms up in the air,
Clutched her hair:
“Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted
For my sake the fruit forbidden?
Must your light like mine be hidden,
Your young life like mine be wasted,
Undone in mine undoing,
And ruined in my ruin,
Thirsty, cankered, goblin-ridden?” -
She clung about her sister,
Kissed and kissed and kissed her:
Tears once again
Refreshed her shrunken eyes,
Dropping like rain
After long sultry drouth;
Shaking with anguish fear, and pain,
She kissed and kissed her with a hungry mouth.
Her lips began to scorch,
That juice was wormwood to her tongue,
She loathed the feast:
Writhing as one possessed she leaped and sung,
Rent all her robe, and wrung
Her hands in lamentable haste,
And beat her breast.
Her locks streamed like the torch
Borne by a racer at full speed,
Or like the mane of horses in their flight,
Or like an eagle when she stems the light
Straight toward the sun,
Or like a caged thing freed,
Or like a flying flag when armies run.
Swift fire spread through her veins, knocked at her heart,
Met the fire smouldering there
And overbore its lesser flame;
She gorged on bitterness without a name:
Ah! fool to choose such part
Of soul-consuming care!
Sense failed in the mortal strife:
Like the watch-tower of a town
Which an earthquake shatters down,
Like a lightning-stricken mast,
Like a wind-uprooted tree
Spun about,
Like a foam-topped waterspout
Cast down headlong in the sea,
She fell at last;
Pleasure past and anguish past,
Is is death or is it life?
Life out of death.
That night long Lizzie watched by her,
Counted her pulse’s flagging stir,
Felt for her breath,
Held water to her lips, and cooled her face
With tears and fanning leaves.
But when the first birds chirped about their eaves,
And early reapers plodded to the place
Of golden sheaves,
And dew-wet grass
Bowed in the morning winds so brisk to pass,
And new buds with new day
Opened of cup-like lilies on the stream,
Laura awoke as from a dream,
Laughed in the innocent old way,
Hugged Lizzie but not twice or thrice;
Her gleaming locks showed not one thread of grey,
Her breath was sweet as May,
And light danced in her eyes.
Days, weeks, months, years
Afterwards, when both were wives
With children of their own;
Their mother-hearts beset with fears,
Their lives bound up in tender lives;
Laura would call the little ones
And tell them of her early prime,
Those pleasant days long gone
Of not-returning time:
Would talk about the haunted glen,
The wicked quaint fruit-merchant men,
Their fruits like honey to the throat
But poison in the blood
(Men sell not such in any town):
Would tell them how her sister stood
In deadly peril to do her good,
And win the fiery antidote:
Then joining hands to little hands
Would bid them cling together, -
“For there is no friend like a sister
In calm or stormy weather;
To cheer one on the tedious way,
To fetch one if one goes astray,
To lift one if one totters down,
To strengthen whilst one stands.”
WILLIAM GILBERT (1804-1890) was a medical man whose interest in abnormal psychology is elaborately displayed in his collections of imaginary case-studies Shirley Hall Asylum; or, The Memoirs of a Monomaniac (1863) and Dr. Austin’s Guests (1866). His horror and fantasy stories are similarly embedded in two collections, each of which has a linking frame-narrative. The Magic Mirror (1866), from which the story below is taken, features a mirror which grants the wishes of those who look into it; The Wizard of the Mountain (1867) describes the fates of various visitors who come to beg favours from the mysterious Innominato, and are served according to their desserts. His novels - as is commonly the case with the authors included in this anthology - are much more earnest, devoid of supernatural intrusions, and quite forgotten.
Gilbert was the father of William Schwenck Gilbert (1836-1911) of Gilbert & Sullivan fame; the younger Gilbert also published a collection of stories including several absurd fantasies, Foggerty’s Fairy and Other Stories (1890), but the ironic impact of the stories tends to be weakened by an over-extravagant silliness which he certainly did not inherit from his father.
THE SACRISTAN OF ST. BOTOLPH
By William Gilbert
Master Walter de Courcey, although an indefatigable man of business, was extremely punctual in his religious observances, and he made a point, both in winter and summer, of attending early mass in his parish church, St Botolph’s, Bishopsgate. It has already been stated that his departure for Windsor was very sudden, in fact hardly any one out of his own house was aware that he had left London. The officiating priest at the church was therefore much surprised at his non-appearance two days running; and as Master Walter did not appear on the third, nor in fact for a week, he began to fear he migh
t be indisposed, and one morning, as soon as mass was over, he directed the sacristan to call at the merchant’s house and inquire after his health. The sacristan was a certain Geoffrey Cole, a very tall thin man with a low forehead, deep sunk eyes, harsh features, and very large hands and feet. Although something of a miser, intensely selfish, and most uncharitable, both in the matter of giving alms, and in his feelings towards his neighbours, he was extremely punctilious in all the external forms and ceremonies of the Church, and he flattered himself he was not only very religious, but even a model of piety. The more he studied the subject, the more certain of his blissful state he became, till at last he believed himself to be so good that the saints alone were his equals. He would frequently draw comparisons between his life and some of the inferior saints, and he generally concluded he could compare with them most advantageously. On the morning when he was directed to call on Master Walter this train of thought especially occupied his mind, and by the time he had arrived at the house he was certain that in the whole city of London there was not another individual so good as himself.
The person who received him was an old woman half imbecile from age, who had formerly been Master Walter’s nurse, and with her the sacristan had frequently conversed on matters of what he called religion. When he had received from her an explanation of the merchant’s absence from church, the pair commenced talking on subjects connected with Church affairs, which consisted in fact of the sacristan’s explaining to her what a good and pious man he was, and her complimenting him thereon. Before he left the house the nurse asked him if he would like to see the mirror, as she would have much pleasure in showing it to him. He accepted the offer at once, at the same time saying that vanities of the kind had but few attractions for him.
The nurse led the way to the chamber, and when they had arrived there, in spite of his mock ascetic manner, there was no difficulty in perceiving he admired the mirror greatly. Fearing, however, the real state of his mind might be detected by the old woman, he began to speak of it in terms of great disparagement, not indeed finding fault with its form and beauty, but dwelling on the absurdity of mortals setting their minds on such trifles, and neglecting subjects of far greater importance which concerned the welfare of their souls.
“But everybody cannot be so good as you are, Master Geoffrey,” said the old woman; “and you ought to have a little feeling for those who are not.”
“I do not see that,” said the sacristan, taking the compliment without the slightest hesitation. “I condemn all trifles of the kind. What would the blessed St Anthony have said to a vanity of this sort?”
“Ah!” said the old woman; “but it would not be possible in the present day to find so good a man as he was.”
“It would be very difficult, I admit,” said the sacristan; “but I am not sure it would be impossible. Do not think for a moment that I would attempt to compare myself with him; but I thought, while reflecting on his life as I came here this morning, that I should very much like to be subjected to the same temptations, to see if I could not resist them.”
“You surely do not mean that?” said the nurse; “why, they were dreadful.”
“Indeed, I do,” said the sacristan, looking at himself in the mirror, “I should like immensely to be subjected to them for a month, and then I could form an idea whether I was as good as I ought to be.”
“Well,” said the nurse, leaving the room with him, “I trust you will never be subjected to anything of the kind.” After a little conversation of the same description the sacristan left the house.
After he had delivered his message to the priest and the functions of the day were over, he sought his own home in the rural district of Little Moorfields. He lived in a room on the top floor of a house occupied by a man and his wife who were employed at a merchant’s house in the City. As the merchant and his family were absent, Geoffrey’s landlord and his wife were requested to sleep at the house of business, and thus he had for the time the whole abode to himself.
His room, which was comfortably furnished, was the very picture of neatness and cleanliness, for he was very particular in his domestic arrangements; and his landlady, during her temporary absence at the house of business, called every day to put his room in order, and place his supper on the table.
Arrived at home he requested a neighbour’s wife to light his lamp and fire for him, and that being done she left him. He then bolted the street door, went up to his own room, and after having a very comfortable and abundant meal went to bed, having, however, left ample food on the table for his breakfast the next morning. He was generally a very sound sleeper, and his slumbers that night formed no exception to the general rule; but, somehow or other, as morning advanced they were by no means so profound. He grew very restless, with a sense of oppression, and occasionally he heard a sound like the tinkling of a bell, which continued till daybreak, when the annoyance became intolerable. At last, when it was fully day, he aroused himself and sat up in his bed. What was his surprise and terror when he saw, stretched across the foot of it, outside the clothes, a large fat pig with a bell fastened round its neck with a leathern strap. His first attempt was to push the brute from the bed, but the only effect produced was that it placed itself in a still more comfortable position directly on his legs, and then went to sleep again. Enraged and in great pain, he immediately began to pommel the pig with his fist on the neck and head, but without other result than a few surly grunts. His passion increased to such an extent that he struck it still harder blows, when suddenly his attention was arrested by a loud peal of laughter, and he saw, sitting on his stool by the fireplace, an imp so intensely ugly that he was almost frightened to look at it. Somewhat recovering himself, he said, “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
“No matter who I am,” said the imp; “but as to what I am doing, I am simply laughing at your ungrateful and absurd behaviour.”
“In what way,” said the sacristan, “is my behaviour absurd?”
“In attacking in that violent manner your friend and pig.”
“My pig?” said the sacristan; “I have no pig. It is none of mine.”
“O you ungrateful man,” said the imp. “Did you not yesterday say you wished you could meet with some temptations similar to those tradition tells us annoyed St. Anthony? And now, when you have a pig, and a very handsome one too, for your protection and society, the first thing you do is to pommel it as if you would kill it.”
“I did not know it was a pig of that description,” said the sacristan, with much solemnity of tone, “or I should have treated it with the respect it deserves.”
“Well, then, do so now,” said the imp. “To all appearance it will give you ample opportunity for a trial of patience.”
“But I cannot remain here all day,” said the sacristan, “I must go to my duties; I shall be scolded as it is for being late.”
Then scratching the pig lovingly on the poll, he addressed it with much sweetness of tone and manner: “If it is not asking you too great a favour, would you oblige me by getting off my bed? I am really very sorry to trouble you, but you are rather heavy, and I suffer from corns.”
But the pig took no further notice of these blandishments than closing its eyes more fast than ever, and falling into a sounder sleep.
“What am I to do?” said the poor sacristan, in a despairing tone.
“Exercise your patience,” said the imp. “He is affording you capital practice.”
The sacristan was now silent, and for some time the imp said nothing, contenting himself with a quiet chuckle. Presently, however, he said to the sacristan,
“Come, I will assist you if I can. What do you want me to do?”
“To get this accurs…. I mean blessed pig off my bed if you can.”
“I can do it easily enough,” said the imp; “but you mortals are so ungrateful, it is ten to one you will be angry with me if I do.”
“On the contrary,” said Geoffrey, “I shall be most grateful to y
ou, I promise you on my word of honour. That is to say,” he continued, “if it do not put the dear creature to much pain.”
“I promise you that it shall, on the contrary, be much pleased.”
“Pray proceed then.”
The imp immediately leaped off the stool, and going to the table took from it the food the sacristan had set aside for his breakfast, and placing it on the ground called out, “Pig, pig.”
The pig lazily opened its eyes and looked on the ground. No sooner, however, did it see the food than its sleepy fit left it, and it jumped from the bed and commenced a furious attack on the sacristan’s breakfast.
Master Geoffrey, in spite of his promise, was now dreadfully angry. He leaped on the floor, and rushing to the pig attempted in vain to push it away from the food, the imp laughing lustily the while.
“Upon my word,” he said, “I never saw in my life a man worse adapted for an anchorite than you are. Why, you ought to be delighted to see your pig enjoy itself so heartily.”
Master Geoffrey immediately left the pig and cast a very proper look of intense hatred at the imp, who seemed more delighted with it than ever.
“Did I not tell you,” he said, “that you would be ungrateful to me for my kindness?”
The sacristan made no reply, but commenced dressing himself. He went on systematically with his toilet, casting occasionally an envious glance at the pig, but by the time he was fully dressed he had contrived to regain his equanimity. He now put on his cap as if to leave the house, and then, going to the pig, he patted it on the back and scratched its head, saying at the time,
“There’s a good pig, go on with your breakfast, and when you have finished we will take a pretty pleasant walk together down to St. Botolph’s, and there I will leave you in the streets till my duties are over, and then we will walk back together comfortably in the evening.”
Here the imp set up a furious laugh, and stamped on the floor with pleasure.
“Bravo! admirable!” he said, “upon my word you are a nice fellow. You know the Lord Mayor has lately published an order that all pigs found in the streets of the City shall have their throats cut, and their flesh given to the poor. Upon my word you are a very clever fellow, and I begin to like you immensely. I could not have done anything better myself.”
The Dedalus Book of British Fantasy Page 28
