‘Weird, or what?’
‘And here’s another funny thing, though it may be just a coincidence. When he—Well, when he did the dirty deed—Did you know he did it one night in his family pile at Maxford? In the drawing room too, of all places. They had to redecorate completely. Apparently they were picking bits of his head out of the Aubusson for weeks afterwards.’
‘Uncle Ralph, please! Spare us the gories and get to the point.’
‘Well, the point is—and I don’t even know if it is a point—the night he did it, like the other night I was telling you about, it was a full moon.’
‘So? What are you getting at?’
‘All I’m saying—’
‘My God! What was that?’
‘That’s my sis. Davina. I’d know that scream anywhere. It sounded as if it was coming from upstairs. Wait here!’
***
‘Well?’
‘Vicky, you don’t want to know. You do not want to know.’
‘Don’t tell me. It’s Oliver, isn’t it?’
‘Some moron, probably my sister Davina, poor cow, left the nursery door open, and something seems to have got in and got at the baby. It’s bitten great chunks out of the wretched little sod.’
‘Is he dead?’
‘Well, of course he’s bloody dead, you fucking idiot!’
‘All right! All right!’
‘There are bits of baby all over the bloody nursery.’
‘My God! It must have been—’
‘Yes. Several people saw it going upstairs, so I was spared the blame for not alerting anyone. Uncle Ralph’s taken Pa’s twelve bore and gone out to hunt the beast down. Typical Ralph: do anything rather than stay here and face the ghastly music.’
‘Do you think Ralph’ll ever find it?’
‘What d’you mean? Of course he’ll find it. That animal was real all right. My God, do you want to see what it’s done upstairs? That poor child was literally torn in half. . . . What are you laughing at? Vicky stop that at once! Stop that now! For Christ’s sake, everyone’s staring! Stop it or I’ll hit you, you stupid hysterical bitch. Vicky! VICKY!!’
THE DEVIL’S FUNERAL
My great grandfather’s dying words were succinct and enigmatic: ‘No life.’
Various interpretations have been put forward. It might have been a simple statement of existential fact, or even a despairing assertion of metaphysical hopelessness. It was generally assumed, however, in the light of various remarks he had let fall in his declining years, that what he meant was that he wanted no-one to write his biography. As the year of his death was 1909, a time when lives of Church of England bishops were a more marketable commodity than they are now, this was something of a disappointment to my family. But it was also a time when the wishes of the deceased were obeyed, to use the word appropriately for once, religiously. A few days after his death, my great-grandmother, a formidable lady by all accounts, assisted by her two sons, my grandfather Charles, a clergyman, and his elder brother Cyprian, organised a huge bonfire in the garden of the Bishop’s Palace at Morton Episcopi. On it were burnt several forests’ worth of papers belonging to my great grandfather, the Bishop of Morchester: correspondence, diaries, even the manuscripts of sermons and his remarkably tedious theological works.
The mystery of why there was to be ‘no life’ remained, but the legend of those last words was preserved. My grandfather died when I was eight, long before I would have had the urge to ask him about it. His daughter, my mother, told me that it probably had something to do with the circumstances in which my great grandfather took over the See of Morchester, but that was all she knew. Curiosity was never a fault of hers.
The only trace of a clue I could find was in an excessively dull book published in 1934 entitled Historical Records of the Cathedral Diocese of Morchester, compiled by two clergymen whose names I forget. At the end of the brief chapter describing the ministry of my great grandfather’s predecessor is the following paragraph:
Bishop Hartley was not a strong man, and the onerousness of his duties put physique and spirituality to the test. He never lost his diligence in administrative matters, but his life of prayer failed. In 1882 he sent in his resignation to the Archbishop and hurried abroad, where he died little more than a year later after much suffering, and a ‘life of strict penitence’*.
(*Private correspondence to the authors)
After my great grandmother’s death in 1926 it was discovered that there remained among her effects a black japanned tin box with my great grandfather’s initials painted in white on it. It was locked and the key was missing, but the weight and general feel of the thing suggested that it contained papers. It is somehow typical of my family that this item, known simply as ‘The Bishop’s Box’ should have been carefully preserved by my grandfather but never opened until 1976 when, unknown to my parents, I forced the lid with a chisel. You might say it is also typical that until now the contents have been unpublished, but I have my reasons for that.
The box contains a number of documents, some of which make up a narrative of a kind. It requires, I think, no commentary, and if it does I am quite unable to give it.
***
Letter from the Reverend Alfred Simms, Canon of Morchester Cathedral to Miss Agnes Taitt
No. 2 The Close, Morchester, Wednesday 15th February 1882
My Dearest Agnes,
There are a hundred endearments with which I should begin this letter, but I fear you must take them as read, because there is something I must tell you. Even now, I see you blush at these words and put your fingers up to your lips in that charming way you have, and say ‘Oh, Gracious, but what?’ Be assured that it does not concern you, or should I say ‘us’. I would say that my love for you is constant were it not for the fact that far from being constant it increases daily and swells in your absence, not that—God Forbid!—it should diminish when we meet again! But enough of this! I see I have already done what I said I should not.
You will be surprised to learn that what I have to tell you is not something that has occurred to me in the course of my daily existence, but a dream. And yet it was such a dream that it burns into me in a way that no incident has done of late. I have had it more than once and its essentials remain the same. Its details are an accumulation of what I can remember over several nights.
What sets it apart from other dreams is that the location does not vary, nor the point of view from which it is observed. I am standing in the North West corner of the Close and looking across the green at an angle of some forty-five degrees—you see how clear it is in my mind’s eye!—to the great West Door of the Cathedral. It is a bright and cloudless day; the sun is pitilessly hot and I am standing in a small crowd of people who are townspeople, not gentlefolk. All of them are sombrely dressed, as am I, for I am in my black cassock.
We are watching a funeral procession. It is headed by six people carrying a coffin which seems to me unnaturally long. This is followed by twenty or thirty others mostly in single file. All are in black like the coffin which is draped in black. It is too far away to see the mourners’ faces, but, as far as I can tell, these also are black or obscured by black material. I ask one of those standing by me, a respectable looking old gentleman with long white whiskers, whose funeral this might be.
‘Why, do you not know, sir?’ he replies. ‘ ’Tis Satan’s funeral.’
The others murmur their assent and I am filled with wonder—as well I should be! I see that the procession has not gone in by the West Door but is snaking around the Cathedral towards the little North Entrance. Suddenly my mind is filled with urgent necessity and purpose. I know that I must inform the Dean because only he—I believe—can prevent the cortège from entering the Cathedral, and it is of the utmost importance that it should not. So I set off towards the Dean’s residence in the Close, but, as in a dream, I can move only slowly; it feels as if my boots are made of lead and that I am wading through treacle. My desperation grows but, as it does, my mind
slowly approaches waking consciousness. There is a point where I know that I am dreaming, but the urgency remains because I am certain that this vision from the realm of sleep is trying to communicate a message of importance to my woken self. On waking I am convinced that a message must be delivered: but what? You see my difficulty and my distress.
You may say I think too much about this strange dream, but only yesterday I came across this passage from a book I picked up in Archdeacon Bourne’s library. (He tolerates my use of it from time to time in return for my accompanying his execrable violin playing on the pianoforte.) The book entitled Ancient Customs and Curious Legends of Morsetshire by the Rev. Augustine Willows was published in 1843 and the passage runs as follows:
The villagers of Morton Abbas and some surrounding hamlets have a curious custom. Whenever one of their number disappears and is presumed dead, though the body be not found, they hold what they call a ‘devil’s funeral’. An empty coffin covered with a black pall is brought to the church and the appropriate canonical rites are pronounced over it by a man in holy orders. Some years back a clergyman of my acquaintance who was then Rector of Morton was asked by some of his parishioners to perform such a ceremony. The request was quite properly denied, but the consequences of his refusal, he tells me, were most disagreeable to himself, his wife and his five daughters. He has since moved to a more congenial living. I have heard also, but on somewhat dubious authority, that suicides are sometimes granted the same unorthodox exequies.
The village of Morton Abbas is not ten miles from Morchester, and when I tell you that until yesterday evening I had no notion of this ‘devil’s funeral’ being in the folklore of this or any other English county, you will imagine my confusion and consternation.
I tell you this, dearest one, not that you may offer any explanation, for it is beyond me, or, I suspect, any of us, but simply that you may know my state of mind. There should be no secrets between us, either now or in the bliss of marriage that awaits us.
I am, as always, your ever loving, Alfred.
From the diary of the Very Reverend Montague Sykes Bennett, Dean of Morchester
Saturday 18th February 1882
A chill grey day. The new housemaid Jane had let the fire go out in my study which added to my discomfort. I rebuked her gently and agreed not to tell my dear wife Lizzie of her offence. Received a visit from Canon Simms, an odd young man, tall and angular, with a very prominent Adam’s apple and an earnest air about him. He teaches at the choir school and is, I believe, well thought of, both as pedagogue and musician. He often sings the responses at evensong and his voice is pleasing. (Even Lizzie remarked on it with approval.) He told me that he was troubled by dreams, but when I pressed him he would not say what they were. Then he began to talk about Mr Darwin and his theories. I told him firmly not to trouble his head about such matters. I said to him: ‘The truths of the Gospel are the truths of the Gospel; the truths of Mr Darwin (if they be truths) are the truths of Science.’ Render unto Caesar, etc. I am not sure if he took in what I was trying to say. A most unsatisfactory interview. I am flattered of course that he should seek spiritual guidance from me, but I cannot fathom what he wants. Lizzie wishes to dismiss Cook, but I dissuade her. (For the time being.)
From a letter of Canon Simms to Miss Agnes Taitt, Monday 20th February 1882
I guess from your last dear letter that you do not greatly care for my dreams. Dearest, I do not blame you! I do not like them myself, but I must tell you of what I might call a ‘development’ in my dream that I had last night. It is as before. I am standing at the North West corner of the Close and witnessing the same mysterious event of the Devil’s Funeral. The cathedral never looked lovelier to me: its immemorial stones and soaring pinnacles scintillated in the sharp sunlight. Never did it seem to my inward eye more like a great bastion of the spirit, a fragment of the Heavenly Jerusalem come down to earth. And yet to no avail! If the cortège were to enter the Cathedral by the North Door all would be lost! I look to the assembled company for someone to whom I can communicate my distress and, to my astonishment, whom should I see among the assembled townspeople but the Bishop, with his stout frame and his great long legs! He wears his frock coat and gaiters and is watching the proceedings with rapt attention. I call out to him, but I think my voice is faint and muffled in the hubbub. I try to move closer to him and then I see that there is a boy standing next to him. It could be one of my boys at the choir school, but I cannot be sure. I watch with horror as the boy, unseen by all but myself, proceeds to pick the Bishop’s pocket! He delicately draws aside the flap of His Grace’s frock coat and reaches into the pocket of his black breaches, and the Bishop notices nothing. I try to cry out, but you know how it is in dreams, the sound that I make is barely audible, no more than a squeak. The boy withdraws his hand from the Bishop’s breeches and I see that in it is an oblong silvery object, a whistle perhaps, but curiously twisted and gnarled. He runs off and I stand there incapable of any action, and, at the same time, consumed by guilt for my incapacity. And still in my waking hours I feel the guilt. Dearest, you will tell me in your sweet sensible way, that it is only a dream, and so I know it to be, and yet all’s not well about my heart.
From the diary of the Very Reverend Montague Sykes Bennett, Dean of Morchester
Ash Wednesday 22nd February 1882
The bishop and I pay a pastoral visit to the choir school. Bishop Hartley has always taken the greatest interest in ‘my boys’ as he calls them. His condescension shows an admirable sweetness and humility of spirit, but I cannot help feeling that he is at times a little over-familiar with the lads. We were in the main music room. Canon Simms was there, looking very pale and withdrawn. I approached him. He seemed nervous, but grateful for my conversation and company. As we spoke, though, his eyes kept darting towards the Bishop who was talking to some boys in the corner of the room. The Bishop had acquired a number of penny whistles and, besides demonstrating a surprising prowess on the instrument himself, was disseminating a number of them to the choristers. There came a moment when there was something of a clamour among the boys. One of them, Damer, a treble on the Cantoris side, was demanding one of the penny whistles that the others had been given. The Bishop said that he had one left for Damer; it was in the pocket of his breeches, but he would not get it for him: Damer must reach into the Bishop’s pocket and fetch it for himself. At this such a look of horror passed over Canon Simms’ face that I was quite taken aback. There was perhaps some impropriety, certainly over-familiarity, in the Bishop’s conduct but it was no doubt intended in a spirit of harmless fun. I did not think it warranted quite such a violent reaction from Simms. By way of conversation, I asked him if he had had any further dreams, but he looked at me aghast. He is a strange young man, somewhat alone in the world, and perhaps in need of fatherly guidance. I invited him to call on me at any time and he shook my hand warmly at that. On returning to the Deanery I found Lizzie with Mrs Fogle, the Precentor’s wife, taking tea in the parlour. I have noticed that whenever Lizzie is talking with Mrs Fogle in a room and I enter it they immediately fall silent. I am afraid Mrs Fogle is an incorrigible gossip and a bad influence on dear Lizzie. I must speak to her on the subject. Lizzie said: ‘Have you been with the Bishop?’ And Mrs Fogle said: ‘And how is the dear Bishop?’ I cannot be certain, but there was something about their tone which I did not like, a sort of knowingness. Have they been gossiping about the Bishop? I must speak to Lizzie.
From a letter of Canon Simms to Miss Agnes Taitt, Wednesday 1st March 1882
As I told you, dearest one, I have not been having the dream of late, or, if I have, I have forgotten it. (But if you forget a dream, can you truly say that you have had one?) Then yesterday I was giving a scripture lesson to the choir school boys. We were reading the passage in the gospels about the Temptation in the Wilderness when suddenly one of the boys, Wilkins it was, a fair boy with the face of an angel, asked: ‘If God is all-powerful, why doesn’t he kill the Devil?’ I confes
s it ‘knocked me all of a heap’, to use the vernacular expression. Given the dreams I have been having his question seemed to pierce my very soul. (‘Foolish man!’ I hear you saying in that sweet voice of yours.) I think I acquitted myself well, though. I pointed out that the Devil was a spirit and therefore immortal by nature and that God had decreed it so. ‘Why?’ asked the indefatigable Wilkins, but I passed on to my second point which was that God had granted all beings, angels and devils included, free will and that this was a sign of His love. I concluded by saying that, by the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, the Devil had been defeated because Salvation had been granted freely to all who accept Christ. This seemed to satisfy them, even the inquisitive Wilkins, though, I confess to you, it did not entirely satisfy me. I know that it is the teaching of the Church, my love, and I do accept it in my heart, but as I spoke the words, they seemed to mean nothing to me. That afternoon I went a-walking by the River Orr which winds through tranquil meadows beside the Cathedral. It was a dull day, but it did not appear to threaten rain. You know, dearest, how I often walk there and think of you, because of that day when you came and we walked in the water meadows and talked of the time when we would be together for always. Do you remember the bench where we sat down and I held your hand? Dear Heaven, I feel your hand now, soft and cool in my own! I often go to that bench and remember all the things that we said to one another, and it consoles me for the time when we must be apart before the blessed sacrament conjoins us and sanctifies our union in spirit and in body. I sat down on that bench, but my thoughts did not at once fly to you. Restlessly I went over what I had said to the boys about God and the Devil and why God had not killed the Devil and my dream of the Devil’s Funeral. You remember, my love, how that bench looks onto the slowly winding stream of the Orr and beyond it to the cathedral itself, solitary, majestic, its high spire pointing heavenwards. You remember how I told you, as we looked at it, that we too were going to heaven and that our heaven would begin on earth when we were together. Well, as I sat there before that sublime scene I began to feel calmer, and I think I must have fallen into a kind of trance or reverie. That is the only way I can explain it. The sky was darkening and I wondered whether I should move before it began to rain, but I did not want to break the spell of the stillness. As I watched the flowing river I began to notice something. It troubled me a little perhaps, but, at first, it did no more than excite my curiosity. The current, which flows from left to right as you see it from the bench, was beginning to slow down. It was as if the water were changing its natural constituency into something lazy and sluggish like mud or treacle. I wondered whether this had been caused by some obstruction in the stream farther up river. The height of the water remained the same but its surface became smoother, glassier. I also noticed that the birds, whose song is an added delight in that meadow, had fallen silent. The whole world seemed suddenly to be thick and soundless. Wonder and bewilderment began to be replaced by horror as I saw that the river now was slowing to a standstill. In its mirror-like surface I could see an exact reflection of the great dirty bellies of cloud that now hung over the spot. Then the stream of the Orr gave what I can only describe as a kind of lurch and began to flow backwards. [These words are heavily underlined three times.] At this, I lost all restraint, I screamed, I roared aloud and then I think I must have fainted. The next thing I knew I was being helped to my feet and then onto the bench by an elderly man and his wife, both respectable folk. The man had long white whiskers and looked not unlike the man in my dream who told me it was the Devil’s funeral. I tell you this, my love, not to frighten you, but to say that today the sun is shining and that all my fears have gone. I have been trying to find out a cause of all these aberrations and the only explanation I can think of is that you, my love, are the utterly innocent agent of my afflictions. Or rather it is my longing for you that torments me, to see you, to touch you, to hold you in my arms and lay my tired head on your soft breast. No, do not blame yourself, or your good father for his inflexibility. It is life, it is fate: we are on the Calvary side of the grave.
The Ballet of Dr Caligari Page 6
