Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

  “I am sincerely indebted to you, Mr. Mario, for granting me this unconventional interview. My invitation must have seemed brusque to the point of the uncouth, but chancing to learn of your presence I took advantage of an opportunity unlikely to repeat itself. I return to Rome to-night.”

  “Your Eminence’s invitation was a command,” replied Paul, and knew the words to be dictated by some former Mario, or by an earlier self in whose eyes a prince of the Church had ranked only second to the King. “I am honoured in obeying it.”

  Giovanni Pescara, in spite of his frail physique, was a man of imposing presence, the aristocrat proclaiming himself in every gesture, in the poise of his noble head, with its crown of wavy silver hair, in the movements of his fine hands. He had the prominent nose and delicate slightly distended nostrils of his family, but all the subtlety of the man was veiled by his widely opened mild hazel eyes. Seen thus closely, his face, which because of a pure white complexion from a distance looked statuesquely smooth, proved to be covered with a network of tiny lines. It was a wonderful face, and his smile lent it absolute beauty.

  “I should have counted my brief visit incomplete, Mr. Mario, if I had not met you. Therefore I pray you hold me excused. In Italy, where your fame is at least as great as it is in England, we are proud to know you one of ourselves. Many generations have come and gone since Paolo Mario settled in the English county of Kent, but the olive of Italy proclaims itself in his descendant. No son of the North could have given to the world the beautiful Tarone called Francesca of the Lilies. The fire of the South is in her blood and her voice is the voice of our golden nights. I have read the story in English, and it is magnificent, but Italian is its perfect raiment.”

  “It is delightful of you to say so,” said Paul, subtly flattered by the knowledge of his ancestry exhibited by the Cardinal, but at the same time keenly on the alert. Giovanni Pescara did not study men at the prompting of mere curiosity.

  “It is delightful to have been afforded an opportunity to say so. Your love of Tuscany, which is natural, has sometimes led me to hope that one day you would consent to spend your winters or a part of them amongst us, Mr. Mario. No door in Italy would be closed to you.”

  “You honour me very highly, and indeed I know something of your Italian hospitality, but there are so many points upon which I find myself at variance with the Church that I should hesitate to accept it under false pretences.”

  Cardinal Pescara gazed at him mildly. “You find yourself at variance with the Church, Mr. Mario? Frankly, your words surprise me. In which of your works have you expressed these dissensions?”

  “Notably in The Gates.”

  “In that event I have misunderstood your purpose in writing that fine and unusual book. I do not recall that his Holiness has banned it.”

  Paul met the questioning glance of the hazel eyes and knew himself foiled. “I must confess that I have not expressly inquired into that matter,” he said; “but it was only because I had taken inclusion in the Index for granted.”

  “But why should you do so, Mr. Mario? Have you advocated the destruction of the Papal power?”

  “Emphatically no. An organisation such as that of Rome and resting upon such authority is not lightly destroyed.”

  “Have you denied the mission of the heir of St. Peter to preach the Word of the Messiah?”

  “I have not.”

  “Have you denied the divinity of Christ or the existence of Almighty God?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Then why should you expect Rome to place its ban upon your book?”

  “I have not questioned the authority of Rome, your Eminence, but I have questioned Rome’s employment of that authority.”

  “As you are entitled to do being not a priest but a layman. We have many Orders within the Church, and upon minor doctrinal points they differ one from another, but their brotherhood is universal and his Holiness looks with equal favour upon them all. Amongst Catholic laymen we have kindly critics, but Rome is ever ready to reply to criticism and never disregards it. If you are conscious of imperfections in the administration of the Church, the Church would welcome your aid in removing them.”

  The facile skill with which the Cardinal had disarmed him excited Paul’s admiration even whilst he found himself disadvantaged by it. “My conception of the life of the spirit differs widely from that of Catholicism,” he said, speaking slowly and deliberately. “We stand upon opposite platforms, and our purposes are divided. I regard not one man in a million, however admirable his life, as fit for that perfect state called Heaven and not one in a hundred millions, however evil, as deserving of that utter damnation called Hell. I say that there are intermediate states innumerable. Is Rome open to consider such a claim?”

  “To consider it, Mr. Mario? Rome has always taught it. Have we not a Purgatory?”

  “For the justified, but what of the sinner?”

  “Have we no prayers for the dead? You maintain that no man is fit for Heaven; so does Rome — that no soul is lost whilst one prayer is offered for its redemption. We agree with you. In The Gates you have done no more than to analyse the symbolism of Roman ritual, defining Purgatory as a series of earthly experiences and Heaven as their termination. Have you considered, Mr. Mario, that whatever a man’s belief may be, he can do no more than to be true to himself?”

  “And is Rome true to Rome, your Eminence? Before the horrors of war the spirit stands aghast, but are the horrors perpetrated by Prussia reconcilable with the teachings of St. Peter? For lesser crimes, thousands burned at the stake during the Pontificate of Innocent VIII; yet Rome to-day hears German prelates calling upon God to exalt the murderer, the ravisher, and is silent. If Rome is untrue to Rome the rock upon which the Church of St. Peter stands may yet be shattered.”

  Cardinal Pescara twisted the ring upon his finger, regarding Paul with a glance of almost pathetic entreaty. “You hurt me, Mr. Mario,” he said. “I do not recall that you have levelled this charge against the Catholic Church in your book. But it seems to me to be rather a criticism of internal administration than of doctrine, after all. If no man be worthy of hell, why should his Holiness abandon sinful Germany? It is for him to decide, since all laws are locked within the bosom of the Pope.”

  “I would unlock those laws, your Eminence, and set them up before the world in place of empty dogmas. I would have open sanctuaries and open minds. Humanity has outgrown its childhood and demands more reasonable fare than that which sufficed for its needs in the nursery.”

  “That you honestly suppose this to be so I cannot question; but what you term ‘open-mindedness’ — implying a state of receptivity — is in fact an utter rejection of all established spiritual truths. The open-minded and the atheistical draw dangerously closer day by day. The only thing of which they are sure is that they are sure of nothing and their credo is ‘I do not believe.’ Broadly speaking, Mr. Mario, our differences may be said to revolve around one point. Of the construction which you place upon the Word of the Messiah I shall say nothing, but it is your projected second book in which, if I understand your purpose, you propose to lay bare the ‘arcana of the initiates’ (the words are your own) which, if it ever be published, will indisputably occasion action by the Holy See. Let me endeavour to bring home to you the fact that I believe you are about to make a dreadful and irrevocable mistake.”

  The hazel eyes momentarily lost their softness and the Cardinal’s expression grew gravely imperious. Paul felt again the shock of this man’s powerful will and braced himself for combat.

  “I shall always listen to your Eminence with respect.”

  “Respect, Mr. Mario, is due to any man who is sincere in his efforts to promote the well-being of his fellows, even though his efforts be mistaken. In the symbolism of the Church and even in the form of the Papal crown you have recognised the outward form of an inner truth. You have applauded the ritual of the Mass and the traditions of the Catholic priesthood because they approach so nearl
y to that mystic ideal which gave potency to the great hierarchies of the past, notably to that of Ancient Egypt. I shall venture to ask you a question. Outside the sacred colleges of the Egyptian priesthood what was known in those days of the truth underlying the symbols, Isis, Osiris and Amen-Râ?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why did you admire a system diametrically opposed to that which you would set up?”

  “Because it was ideally suited to the age of the Pharaohs. The world has advanced since those days but religion has tried to stand still.”

  “The world has advanced, and in The Gates we hear the tap of the cripple’s crutch upon the pavements of our enlightened cities. The world has advanced, Mr. Mario, and is filled with sad-eyed mothers and with widows who have scarcely known wifehood. Where is your evidence that this generation is ready for the ‘blinding light of truth’? You believe that you have been given a mission. I do not question your good faith. You believe that throughout a series of earlier physical experiences you have been preparing for this mission. Granting for a moment that this is so, what proof can you offer of your having attained to that state of perfection which you, yourself, lay down as a sine quâ non of mastership? If it should be revealed to you that you have actually lived before, but as a man enthusiastic, ardent and blinded by those passions which are a wall between humanity and the angels, should you not take pause? You have granted the authority of Rome. Wherein does your own reside? Are you sure that for you the veil is wholly lifted? Are you sure that you have no false friends? Are you sure that you comprehend the meaning of your own tenet— ‘Perfect Love and Fulfilment’? If you have any doubts upon these points, Mr. Mario, hold your hand. It can profit the world nothing to restir the witches’ cauldron. Love must always be the mainspring of life and honour its loftiest ideal. Teach men how to live and leave it to Death to reveal the hereafter. Not for the good of mankind do I tremble — God has the world in his charge — but for yourself. We all are granted glimpses of our imperfections, perhaps in the form of twinges of conscience, or dreams, or as you would say in the form of hazy memories inherited from earlier imperfect lives. If these gentle lessons fail, swift blows rain upon us. But we are never permitted to fall into error unchecked. Read well the tablet of your soul and read between the lines. Measure your strength and test your purity ere you dare to attempt to shatter at a blow the structure of the ages. When Lucifer fell from the Divine order, it was lust of knowledge that prompted him to set his own will in opposition to the Almighty. I speak in figures which you will understand. Lucifer became the great Self-Centre as opposed to the greater God-Centre. He is more active amongst us to-day than he has been for many ages. He has numerous servants and handmaidens. Are you sure, Mr. Mario, that you can recognise them when they pass you by? Remember that the Devil is a philosopher. If we may learn anything from the ancient creeds surely it is that the secret of governing humanity is never to tell humanity the truth.”

  VII

  Some days later Flamby was taking tea by appointment in Orlando James’s studio. Don had written from France urging her to divulge the nature of her misgivings respecting Paul and their connection with James, and Flamby, greatly daring, had determined to obtain confirmation of the doubts which troubled her. She wore the Liberty dress of grey velvet, and as she bent over an Arab coffee-table and her pretty hands busied themselves amid the old silver of the tea-service, Flamby made a delectable study which Orlando James who watched her found to be exceedingly tantalising. He flicked cigarette ash on to the floor and admired the creamy curve of Flamby’s neck as she lowered her head in the act of pouring out tea.

  “What a pretty neck you have, kid,” he said in his drawling self-confident way.

  “Yes,” replied Flamby, dropping pieces of sugar into the cups, “it isn’t so bad as necks go. But I should have liked it to be white instead of yellow.”

  “It isn’t yellow: it’s a delicious sort of old-ivory velvet which I am just itching to paint.”

  “Then why don’t you?” inquired Flamby, composedly settling herself in a nest of cushions on the floor.

  “Because you will never pose for me.”

  “You have never asked me.”

  “Why I asked you only a few days ago to pose for my next big picture.”

  Flamby sipped hot tea and looked up at James scornfully. “Do you think I’m daft!” she said. “I am a painter not a model. If you want to paint my portrait I don’t mind, but if you’ve got an idea in your head that I am ever likely to pose for the figure you can get it out as quick as lightning.”

  James lounged in a long rest-chair, watching her languidly. “You’re a funny girl,” he said. “I thought I was paying you a compliment, but perhaps it’s a sore point. Where’s the flaw, kid?”

  “The flaw?”

  “Yes, what is it — knotty knees? It certainly isn’t thick ankles.”

  Flamby had much ado to preserve composure; momentarily her thoughts became murderous. This was truly a ‘sore point,’ but mentally comparing Orlando James with Sir Jacques she was compelled to admit that the bold roué was preferable to the masked satyr. She placed her tea cup on a corner of the Arab table and smoothed her skirt placidly.

  “Spotty skin,” she replied. “Haven’t you seen my picture in the newspapers advertising somebody’s ointment?”

  James stared in the dull manner which characterised his reception of a joke. “Is that funny, Flamby?” he said, “because I don’t believe it is true.”

  “Don’t you? Well, it doesn’t matter. Do you want any more tea?”

  He passed his cup, watching her constantly and wondering why since he had progressed thus far in her favour not all his well-tried devices could advance him a single pace further. He had learned during a long and varied experience that the chief difficulty in these little affairs was that of breaking down the barrier which ordinarily precludes discussion of such intimately personal matters. Once this was accomplished he had found his art to be a weapon against which woman’s vanity was impotent. Unfortunately for his chance of success, Sir Jacques had also been a graduate of this school of artistic libertinage.

  “There is something selfish about a girl who keeps her beauty all to herself when it might delight future generations,” he said, taking the newly filled cup from Flamby. “Besides, it really is a compliment, kid, to ask you to pose for a big thing like The Dreaming Keats. It’s going to be my masterpiece.”

  “Our next picture is always going to be our masterpiece,” murmured Flamby wisely, taking an Egyptian cigarette from the Japanese cabinet on the table.

  “But I think I can claim to know what I’m talking about, Flamby. It means that I regard you as one of the prettiest girls in London.”

  “Your vanity is most soothing,” said Flamby, curling herself up comfortably amid the poppy-hued cushions and trying to blow rings of smoke.

  “Where does the vanity come in?”

  “In your delightful presumption. Do you honestly believe, Orlando, that any woman in London would turn amateur model if you asked her?”

  “I don’t say that any woman would do so, but almost any pretty woman would.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “You know who my model was for Eunice, don’t you?”

  “I have heard that Lady Daphne Freyle posed for it and the hair is like hers certainly, but the face of the figure is turned away. Oh! — how funny.”

  “What is funny?”

  “It has just occurred to me that a number of your pictures are like that: the figure is either veiled or half looking away.”

  “That is necessary when one’s models are so well-known.”

  Flamby hugged her knees tightly and gazed at the speaker as if fascinated. She was endeavouring to readjust her perspective. Vanity in women assumed many strange shapes. There were those who bartered honour for the right to live and in order that they might escape starvation. These were pitiful. There were some who bought jewels at the price of shame, an
d others who sold body and soul for an hour in the limelight. These were unworthy of pity. But what of those who offered themselves, like ghawâzi in a Keneh bazaar, in return for the odious distinction of knowing their charms to be “immortalised” by the brush of Orlando James? These were beyond Flamby’s powers of comprehension.

  “But Lady Daphne is an exception. I am only surprised that she did not want a pose which rendered her immediately recognisable.”

  “She did,” drawled James, “but I didn’t.”

  “Was she really an ideal model or did you induce her to pose just to please your colossal vanity?”