After we had drunk the squire’s health, we retired to the library, where Avison brought us coffee, and about ten o’clock Sir John’s carriage was announced. He had promised to give the rector a lift home, so the two of them soon departed together, and only the professor and Father Bertrand were left with the squire and myself. I felt a little afraid lest Herr Aufrecht should return to the subject of the Cellini fountain, but to my surprise, as soon as the other two were gone, the squire himself brought up the subject, which I thought he wished to avoid.
‘You seemed interested in the rose-water fountain, Herr Aufrecht,’ he remarked, ‘would you like to examine it now that the others are gone?’
The German beamed with delight, and accepted the proposal volubly, while the squire rang the bell for Avison, and ordered him to bring the Cellini fountain to the library for Herr Aufrecht to see. The butler looked almost as pleased as the professor, and in a minute the splendid piece of plate was placed on a small table, arranged in the full light of a big shaded lamp.
The professor’s flow of talk stopped abruptly as the conversationalist gave place to the connoisseur. Seating himself beside the little table, he produced a pocket lens, and proceeded to examine every part of the fountain with minute care, turning it slowly round as he did so. For fully five minutes he sat in silence, absorbed in his examination, and I noticed that his attention returned continually to the great crystal globe, supported by the four lovely figures, which formed the summit of the whole. Then he leaned back in his chair and delivered his opinion.
‘It is undoubtedly by Cellini,’ he said, ‘and yet the schema is not like him. I think the patron for whom he laboured did compel him thus to fashion it. That great crystal ball at top - no, it is not what Benvenuto would do of himself. Thing you not so?’ and he turned to the squire with a look of interrogation.
‘I will tell you all I know about it in a minute, professor,’ answered the old priest, ‘but first please explain to me why you think Cellini was not left free in the design.’
‘Ach so,’ replied the German, ‘it is the crystal globe. He is too obvious, too assertive; how is it you say in English, he “hit you in the eye”. You haf read the Memoirs of Benvenuto?’ The squire nodded. 'Ach, then you must see it, yourself. Do you not remember the great morse he make, the cope-clasp for Clemens septimus? The Pope show to him his great diamond, and demand a model for a clasp with it set therein. The other artists, all of them, did make the diamond the centre of the whole design. But Cellini? No. He put him at the feet of God the Father, so that the lustre of the great gem would set off all the work, but should not dominate the whole, for ars est celare artem. Now here,’ and he laid his hand upon the crystal globe, ‘here it is otherwise.
These statuettes, they are perfection, in efery way they are worth far more than is the crystal. Yet, the great ball, he crush them, he kill them. You see him first, last, all the time. No, he is there for a purpose, but the purpose is not that of the design, not an artistic purpose, no. I am sure of it, he is there for use.’
As he finished speaking, he turned quickly towards the squire, and looked up at him with an air of conviction. I followed his example, and saw the old priest smiling quietly with an expression of admiration and agreement.
‘You are perfectly right, professor,’ he said quietly, ‘the crystal was put there with a purpose, at least so I firmly believe; and I expect you can tell us also what the purpose was.’
‘No, no, Herr Pater,’ answered the other. ‘If you know the reason, why make I guesses at it? Better you should tell us all about it, is it not so?’
‘Very well,’ replied the squire, and he seated himself beside the little table. Father Bertrand and myself did the same, and when we were all settled, he turned to the professor and began:
‘I mentioned at dinner that this piece of plate was brought from Italy by Sir Hubert Rivers, and, first of all, I must tell you something about him. He was born about the year 1500, and lived to be over ninety years old, so his life practically coincides with the sixteenth century. His father died soon after Hubert came of age, and he thus became a person of some importance while still quite young. He was knighted by Henry VIII a year or two later, and soon afterwards was sent to Rome in the train of the English Ambassador.
‘There his brilliant parts attracted attention, and he soon abandoned his diplomatic position to become a member of the Papal entourage, though without any official position. When the breach between Henry and the Pope took place, he attached himself to the suite of the Imperial Ambassador, thus avoiding any trouble with his own sovereign, who could not afford to quarrel still further with the Emperor, as well as any awkward questions as to his religious opinions.
‘Of his life in Rome I can tell you practically nothing, but if tradition be true, he was a typical son of the Renaissance. He played with art, literature, and politics; and he more than played with astrology and the black arts, being, in fact, a member of the famous, or infamous, Academy. You may remember how that institution, which was founded in the fifteenth century by the notorious Pomponio Leto, used to hold its meetings in one of the catacombs. Under Paul II the members were arrested and tried for heresy, but nothing could be actually proved against them, and afterwards they were supposed by their contemporaries to have reformed. We know now that in reality things went from bad to worse. The study of paganism led them on to the worship of Satan, and eventually suspicion was again aroused, and a further investigation ordered.
‘Sir Hubert got wind of this in time, however, so he availed himself of his position in the household of the Imperial Ambassador, and quietly retired to Naples. There he lived till he was over eighty, and no one in England ever expected him to return. But he did so, bringing with him a great store of books and manuscripts, some pictures, and this piece of plate; and he died and was buried here in the last decade of the sixteenth century.
‘His nephew, who came in for the estates on his death, was a devout Catholic, and had been educated at St Omers. He made short work with Sir Hubert’s manuscripts, most of which he burned, as being heretical or worse, but he spared one volume, which contains an inventory of the things brought from Naples. Among the items mentioned is this fountain. In fact, it has a whole page to itself, with a little sketch and a note of its attribution to Cellini, besides some other words, which I have never been able to make out. But I think it is clear that the crystal was used for evil purposes, and that is why I dislike seeing it on the table. If Avison had asked me, I should have forbidden him to produce it.’
‘Then I am very glad he did not ask you, mein Herr,' observed the German, bluntly, ‘for I should not then have seen him. But this inventory you speak of, is it permitted that I study it?’
‘Certainly, Herr Aufrecht,’ replied the squire, and walking to one of the bookcases, he unlocked the glass doors and took out a small volume, bound in faded red leather with gilt ornaments.
‘This is the book,’ he said; I will find you the page with the sketch,’ and a minute later he handed the volume to the professor. I glanced across and saw a little drawing, unquestionably depicting the piece of plate before us, with some lines of writing beneath; the whole in faded ink, almost the colour of rust.
The professor’s lens came out again and, with its aid, he read out the description beneath the picture.
‘“Item. Vasculum argenteum, crystallo ornatum in quattuor statuas imposito. Opus Benevenuti, aurificis clarissimi. Quo crystallo Roma in ritibus nostris pontifex noster Pomponius olim uti solebat."’
(Item. A vessel of silver, adorned with a crystal supported on four statuettes. The work of Benvenuto, most famous of goldsmiths. This crystal our Pontiff Pomponius was wont to use in our rites at Rome in days gone by.)
‘Well, that sounds conclusive enough,’ said Father Bertrand, who had been listening intently. ‘Opus Benevenuti, aurificis clarissimi, could only mean Cellini; and the last sentence certainly sounds very suspicious, though it doesn’t give one much to go up
on as to the use made of the crystal.’
‘But there is more yet,’ broke in Herr Aufrecht, ‘it is in another script and much fainter.’ He peered into the page with eyes screwed up, and then exclaimed in surprise, ‘Why it is Greek!’
‘Indeed,’ said the squire, with interest, ‘that accounts for my failure to read it. I’m afraid I forgot all the Greek I ever knew as soon as I left school.’
Meanwhile the professor had produced his pocket-book, and was jotting down the words as he deciphered them, while Father Bertrand and myself took the opportunity to examine the work on the little plaques which adorned the base of the fountain.
‘I haf him all now,’ announced Herr Aufrecht, triumphantly,' after a few minutes. ‘Listen and I will translate him to you,’ and after a little hesitation he read out the following:
In the globe all truth is recorded, of the present, the past and the future.
To him that shall gaze it is shown; whosoever shall seek he shall find. O Lucifer, star of the morn, give ear to the voice of thy servant,
Enter and dwell in my heart, who adore thee as master and lord.
Fabius Britannicus.
‘Fabius Britannicus,’ exclaimed the squire, as the professor ceased reading, ‘why, those are the words on the base of the pagan altar in the background of Sir Hubert’s portrait!’
‘I doubt not he was named Fabius Britannicus in the Academia,’ answered the German; ‘all the members thereof did receive classical names in place of their own.’
‘It must be that,’ said the squire; ‘so he really was a worshipper of Satan. No wonder tradition paints him in such dark colours. But, why - of course,’ he burst out, ‘I see it all now, that explains everything.’
We all looked up, surprised at his vehemence, but he kept silent, until Father Bertrand said gently:
‘I think, Philip, you can tell us something more about all this; will you not do so? ’
The old man hesitated for a little while and then answered: ‘Very well, if you wish it, you shall hear the story; but I must ask you to excuse me giving you the name. Although the principal actor in it has been dead many years now, I would rather keep his identity secret.
‘When I was still quite a young man, and before I decided to take orders, I made friends in London with a man who was a spiritualist. He was on terms of intimacy with Home, the medium, and he himself possessed considerable gifts in the same direction. He often pressed me to attend some of their seances, which I always refused to do, but our relations remained quite friendly, and at length he came down here on a visit to Stanton Rivers.
‘The man was a journalist by profession, a critic and writer on matters artistic, so one evening, although we were quite alone at dinner, I told the butler, Avison’s predecessor, to put out the Cellini fountain for him to see. I did not warn him what to expect, as I wanted to get his unbiased opinion, but the moment he set eyes on it, he burst out in admiration, and, like our friend the professor tonight, he pronounced it to be unquestionably by Benvenuto himself.
‘I said it was always believed to be his work, but purposely told him nothing about Sir Hubert, or my suspicions as to the original use of the crystal, and he did not question me about its history. As the meal advanced, however, he became curiously silent and self-absorbed. Sometimes I had to repeat what I was saying two or three times before he grasped the point; and I began to feel uncomfortable and anxious, so that it was a real relief when the butler put the decanters on the table and left us to ourselves.
‘My friend was sitting on my right, at the side of the table, so that we could talk to each other more easily, and I noticed that he kept his gaze fixed on the fountain in front of him. After all it was a very natural thing for him to do, and at first I did not connect his silence and distraction with the piece of plate.
‘All at once he leaned forward until his eyes were not two feet away from the great crystal globe, into which he gazed with the deepest attention, as if fascinated. It is difficult to convey to you how intense and concentrated his manner became. It was as if he looked right into the heart of the globe - not at it, if you understand, but at something inside it, something beneath the surface, and that something of a compelling, absorbing nature which engrossed every fibre of his being in one act of profound attention.
‘For a minute or two he sat like this in perfect silence, and I noticed the sweat beginning to stand out on his forehead, while his breath came audibly between his lips, under the strain. Then, all at once, I felt I must do something, and without stopping to deliberate I said in a loud tone, “I command you to tell me what it is you see.”
‘As I spoke, a kind of shiver ran through his frame, but his eyes never moved from the crystal ball. Then his lips moved, and after some seconds came a faint whisper, uttered as if with extreme difficulty, and what he said was something like this:
‘“There is a low, flat arch, with a kind of slab beneath it, and a picture at the back. There is a cloth on the slab, and on the cloth a tall gold cup, and lying in front of it is a thin white disc. By the side is a monster, like a huge toad,” and he shuddered, “but it is much too big to be a toad. It glistens, and its eyes have a cruel light in them. Oh, it is horrible!” Then all at once the voice leaped to a shrill note, and he spoke very rapidly, as if the scene were changing quicker than he could describe it.
‘“The man in front - the one with a cross on the back of his cloak - is holding a dagger in his hand. He raises it and strikes at the white disc. He has pierced it with the dagger. It bleeds! The white cloth beneath it is all red with blood. But the monster - some of the blood has fallen upon it as it spurted out, and the toad is writhing now as if in agony. Ah! it leaps down from the slab, it is gone. All present rise up in confusion; there is a tumult. They rush away down the dark passages. Only one remains, the man with the cross on his back. He is lying insensible upon the ground. On the slab still stands the gold cup and white disc with the bloodstained cloth, and the picture behind and the voice sank to an inaudible whisper, as if the speaker were exhausted.
‘Almost without thinking, I put a question to him before the sight should fade entirely. “The picture, what is it like?” But instead of answering he merely whispered "Irene, da calda,” and fell back as if exhausted in his chair.’
There was silence for a few moments.
‘And your friend, the spiritualist,’ began Father Bertrand, ‘could he tell you nothing more of what he saw?’
‘I did not ask him,’ answered the old priest, ‘for, when he came to himself, he seemed quite ignorant of what he had told me during his trance. But, some years afterwards, I got some further light on the incident, and that in quite an unexpected way. Just wait a minute, and I will show you what I believe to be the picture he saw at the back of the niche!’ And the old man walked to one of the bookcases and selected a large folio volume.
‘The picture I am going to show you is an exact copy of one of the frescoes in the catacombs of SS. Peter and Marcellinus, where I came upon it, quite unexpectedly, during my period in Rome as a student; it has been reproduced since by Lanciani in one of his books. Ah, here it is,’ and he laid the album on the table.
There, before us, was a copy of an undeniable catacomb fresco depicting an ‘agape’ or love-feast! a group of figures symbolical both of the Last Supper and the communion of the elect. Above it were the contemporary inscriptions, ‘irene da calda’ and ‘agape misce mi’, while round about were scrawled, in characters evidently much more recent, a number of names: ‘POMPONIUS, FABIANUS, RUFFUS, LETUS, VOLSCUS, FABIUS’ and others, all of them members of the notorious Academy. There they had written them in charcoal, and there they still remain today, as evidence how the innermost recesses of a Christian catacomb were profaned, and the cult of Satan practised there, by the neo-pagans of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.
We sat looking at the picture in silence for a minute or so, and then Herr Aufrecht turned to the Dominican.
‘Fra Bertrand
,’ he said, ‘you are Master in Theologia, what is your opinion of all this? ’
The friar hesitated for a moment before he answered.
‘Well, Herr Aufrecht,’ he said at length, ‘the Church has never ceased to teach the possibility of diabolical possession, and for my part I see no reason why a thing,’ and he pointed to the crystal, ‘should not become “possessed” in much the same way as a person can. But if you ask my opinion on the practical side of the question, I should say that, since Father Philip here cannot legally part with his heirloom, he certainly acts wisely in keeping it under lock and key.’
Amelia B. Edwards: My Brother’s Ghost Story
from ALL THE YEAR ROUND, 1860
***
Mine is my brother’s Ghost Story. It happened to my brother about thirty years ago, while he was wandering, sketch-book in hand, among the High Alps, picking up subjects for an illustrated work on Switzerland. Having entered the Oberland by the Brunig Pass, and filled his portfolio with what he used to call ‘bits’ from the neighbourhood of Meyringen, he went over the Great Scheideck to Grindlewald, where he arrived one dusky September evening, about three quarters of an hour after sunset. There had been a fair that day, and the place was crowded. In the best inn there was not an inch of space to spare - there were only two inns at Grindlewald, thirty years ago - so my brother went to one at the end of the covered bridge next the church, and there, with some difficulty, obtained the promise of a pile of rugs and a mattress, in a room which was already occupied by three other travellers.
The Adler was a primitive hostelry, half farm, half inn, with great rambling galleries outside, and a huge general room, like a barn. At the upper end of this room stood long stoves, like metal counters, laden with steaming-pans, and glowing underneath like furnaces. At the lower end, smoking, supping, and chatting, were congregated some thirty or forty guests, chiefly mountaineers, char drivers, and guides. Among these my brother took his seat, and was served, like the rest, with a bowl of soup, a platter of beef, a flagon of country wine, and a loaf made of Indian corn. Presently, a huge St Bernard dog came and laid his nose upon my brother’s arm. In the meantime he fell into conversation with two Italian youths, bronzed and dark-eyed, near whom he happened to be seated. They were Florentines. Their names, they told him, were Stefano and Battisto. They had been travelling for some months on commission, selling cameos, mosaics, sulphur casts, and the like pretty Italian trifles, and were now oh their way to Interlaken and Geneva. Weary of the cold North, they longed, like children, for the moment which should take them back to their own blue hills and grey-green olives; to their workshop on the Ponte Vecchio, and their home down by the Arno.
THE SUPERNATURAL OMNIBUS Page 53
