‘It ended I cannot tell how. I was in a state of ecstasy. I only remember finding myself in the street, where the bandage was taken from my eyes; two people went into the house, and the carriage with white horses drove swiftly away. I began to walk. How had my step become so light and elastic? I went into a Café to ask the way. Then I caught sight of myself in a mirror—or was that myself? There was some resemblance. I had become quite young, and singularly beautiful. They all seemed to look at me in wonder. I walked the whole length of the town without the slightest fatigue. When I got home I feared I should not be recognised, but I was, and I was given a book which they said had been left for me. It was beautifully bound and printed, labelled “Apadno”, with a device of a serpent strangling an eagle. I looked into it. It was in the unknown tongue that I had so strangely acquired. It consisted of a series of Gospels, telling the history of the universe, and of him who had been cast out. Then there was an Appendix, stating the method to transmute all metals into gold; and another, how to obtain the Elixir of Life. The first, which was perfectly simple, I tried at once, and with complete success. The second I never have—it was too terrible. On the flyleaf of the first page was written in characters of red, “To mine own, of mine own. All that I ask is come to Communion every Friday.”
‘All this I did. The same thing happened every time. No-one spoke to me.
‘At last one day, the priest said to me, “You must attend the Sacrifice. Then you will be fully initiated, and need not be blindfolded any more. Be there—”, mentioning the first address, “three hours before midnight on midsummer day.”
‘At the time specified I went to the house. The carriage with the white horses was waiting at the door. Almost immediately the priest himself came out. He beckoned to me to sit in the carriage, and sat himself beside me; he said no word. The horses went very swiftly. The drive was long, through a large bleak tract of country, and nothing to relieve the monotony save the occasional cry of a wild bird.
‘At last we came to some gates, which opened at our approach and then shut. We went up a long carriage-drive. The place seemed utterly desolate and untenanted. The carriage startled a flock of black sheep that were asleep. Then a large white owl flew across the drive, with a melancholy hoot. A bat dashed itself against the window-pane. We came at length to an old castle, seemingly uninhabited, except that in one upper room a red light was burning, and on the top of the tower another light. The doors were opened for us by a silent porter. I was taken up a long staircase, and found myself at last in a very large and very luxuriously fitted up bedroom, with an extremely large fireplace, in which there was a large fire burning. The atmosphere of the rooms was oppressively hot and perfumed. The carpet was very soft and several inches thick, of a deep red colour. Indeed, the staircase was carpeted with the same material, so that no footstep could be heard. The walls were also hung with red tapestry, with gorgeous patterns in gold and costly jewels. Above the fireplace was the fatal image of Moloch. There was a very large splendidly caparisoned bed. Also a table, spread with all kinds of confectionery and sweetmeats, and decanters of the wine of Cyprus. The priest handed me a glass. When I had drunk of it, I felt my initial terror going from me. There were several acolytes in the room, all young and handsome; also a sombre looking man, dressed in a dark magician's robe. The priest himself was dressed in the ordinary priestly costume. None spoke; all seemed to be waiting for something. Then the door opened, and a dark woman of evil aspect came in, bringing in with her two children. The woman had a basket of toys slung on her back, and the children were holding some of the toys in their hands. The woman crept over to the priest, and whispered, “I think this time I have a nice morsel for Monseigneur.” The priest silently passed some money—a great deal—into her hand, and she glided out as quickly as she had come in.
‘The children were obviously of the peasant class. They were barefooted, clean and healthy looking, and decently, if not smartly, dressed. They were obviously brother and sister; in age something between ten and twelve. Both were pretty; the boy was the elder, and by far the prettier of the two. Indeed, it was an angelic face, with heavenly blue eyes and gold shimmering hair. They looked so innocent and so frightened. They clung together. The priest looked the very picture of paternal benevolence. Obviously at the sight of him they were getting over their fright, and were feeling with their bare feet the softness of the carpets. “My poor dears,” said the priest, “what is there to be frightened at? It is so sweet of you to come and see us in this lonely place; besides, I have a little surprise in store for you. You just happen to be the very people I want. Your father is a mason, is he not?” The children listened open-mouthed. “Well, I want some repairs done in my private chapel, and I believe your father would do it better than anyone else. Tell him I will pay him well. But stay! You had better take this letter to him, and hoping he will begin the job the day after tomorrow, I send him the first instalment. You see I put the money into the letter.” The children moved towards him to take the letter!
‘“But my dears,” he said, taking them on either side of him, “you must not go from here empty-handed. Come, see how you like these cakes and sweetmeats.” Saying this, he kissed the boy and stroked the girl on the head, and poured them out each a glass of Cyprus wine. The children seemed to gain confidence, his manner to them was so charming. They took cakes and sweetmeats, and tasted the wine, which they seemed to like. Then they began to prattle, telling the priest all about their first Communion. At last the girl said: “We were rather frightened at first, when the woman brought us here; we didn't know we should find such a nice kind priest. But we should be so frightened to go home alone.” “Oh,” said the priest, “do you suppose for a moment I should let you go home alone? I will see that you are properly taken care of.”
‘After a while, suddenly the priest's expression changed utterly. It became the face of a wild beast seizing on its prey. He suddenly bit the boy in the neck. What happened then I cannot—dare not—relate. The girl knelt down in the middle of the room, and began to recite:
“Kyrie Eleison,”
“Christe Eleison,”
“Kyrie Eleison.”
‘“Be quiet!” said an acolyte. “If you are silent you shall be spared.” The child went on all the more:
“Sancta Maria,”
“Sancta Dei genetrix,”
“Sancta virgo virginum,”
“Ora pro nobis.”
And so she went through the whole Litany of Our Lady. When she came to say: “Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata mundi,” the priest made a sign. Two acolytes hurried up, one with a scimitar, and the other with a golden bowl. The one with the scimitar suddenly cut the boy's throat; the one with the golden bowl caught the blood. Then the priest seized the scimitar, and seizing the little girl, who was still kneeling and praying, by the hair, with one blow from behind severed her head from her body. Then, pointing at her with a gesture of disgust, said “Throw her away!” The acolytes took the body and the head, and opened the window and threw them out into the moat. I heard two splashes. Then they wiped up the blood, and cast the clothes also out of the window, then shut the window again. Then the boy's head was wholly severed from the body. The magician waited with a patten; a lock of hair and some parts of the body were placed on the patten. The magician disappeared through a door I had not seen before by a spiral staircase to the upper chamber. Then an acolyte brought a richly jewelled reliquary, filled with salt, into which the boy's head was placed. Then the bowl of blood was placed before the fire. A rainbow coloured serpent appeared and, going up to the bowl, lapped up the blood. Then the boy's body was cast into the fire, after which the priest cast himself upon the bed in absolute languor. I myself was absolutely petrified with horror, and could not possibly move a single muscle. I thought now there would be an horrible odour of burnt flesh, but there was not. A thick dense blue smoke came forth from the fireplace, and there was now the mingled perfume of honeysuckle, jasmine and spiced incense; cool,
even, and refreshing, there seemed to be a raining dew. The dense smoke gradually cleared itself; then there was a rose-coloured radiance, then silver; then the lovely vision I had seen at first showed itself, with the same expression of infinite tenderness and sadness. The acolytes fell prostrate on their faces, but I, feeling strangely bold, turned to address it. Before I could speak, it spoke; “I know well what you are going to say,” he said. “You think me cruel. Have I not given you my Gospel? Have you not read it? Do you know so little? Do you not even know the first law of the universe—without Death there is no Light? It is God's law, not my law. Did He not, too, demand His victims in His temple, with its hideous shambles? Did He not require the sacrifice of Isaac? Did He not kill my rival?”—then exultingly—“He could not kill me. I am immortal. I am a spirit, and will be worshipped in spirit and in truth.” Then tenderly again: “Is it not expedient that one should die for the people?” I said very lamely, stammering: “One—but why two?” “She was not meant for sacrifice,” he said, in a tone of anger not heard before. “She invoked a name of all others most abhorrent to me. Often have I bruised her heel; soon I shall rear my head over her.” He laughed terribly saying this. “Once,” he continued, “in horror of that name I invented a ridiculous religion called Protestantism, and they have ended in not believing in me. But many do my behests without knowing. Blessed are they that see and know!”
‘I tried to answer, but could not. The figure grew larger and larger, till it assumed colossal proportions; the rose colour became flaming red fire; the face could not be looked at—it flashed lightning. “Who is this,” he said, “who will dispute my commands? My kingdom shall come, my will shall be done on earth as it was in Heaven.” There was a clap of thunder and a flash of lightning, which for a moment blinded me. Then when I opened my eyes again, there was the same lovely vision with the infinitely sad eyes. The same sweet, tender voice said: “They that love me keep my commandments. Go now, the horses are already waiting.”
‘The vision disappeared. But I went down the stairs impelled by another force. The carriage was waiting; I got into it; but it went off at once. As soon as it began to move, delicious music accompanied it. I felt nothing but a delightful languor, and fell asleep, with some sense of loving arms carrying me. Then when I awoke, I found myself in my own bed.
‘I was examining an old cabinet in my house, and I found a beautifully carved old crucifix. I was taking it up to look at it, when a sudden shiver made me drop it, and it broke. Then there was a sense of the same perfume, and a tender voice said: “What were His sufferings to mine? I suffer eternally—He suffered for three hours and was glorified. I suffer for the love of man. None knows or can understand what I suffer—I, the firstborn son of God! That is a thing no image could represent, but His suffering can be easily portrayed.”
‘‘‘Can you portray it?’ I said.
‘“Yes,” he said scornfully. “What hand could portray it save mine? Was I not there? Did I not see? Take up that brush and begin to paint.”
‘I did as I was bid. No movement was voluntary; my hand was swayed to and fro, and the picture grew under my eyes. It was terrible! Blood flowed from every pore. Every disgraceful circumstance was emphasised. The figure was mean and abject. Then I began to paint the face. It was so disfigured as not to be even attractive. But then—’
Here the paper looked as if scorched. There was written
‘Oh, piteous Christ!’
It was struck out with a red mark. Then:
‘J— ’
and here the manuscript ended abruptly. Then I said, ‘How did he come here and what account did he give?’
‘He came here,’ answered the guest-master, ‘barefooted and humbly clad. He was carrying with him that picture which you have seen. He had with him a large sum of money which he gave to the Abbot, and implored him to receive him into the community. All that he asked as a special favour was, that the picture be allowed to remain in his cell during his novitiate, and this was granted to him. He was very pale and ill; I know he suffered frightfully, but just at that time I was the one who brought the daily food supply, and so had more opportunities for observing him. But no suffering kept him from attending to the minutest detail of the Rule. He never told anything about himself—at least I mean that part of his life with which the manuscript deals. He gradually recovered his health in some measure and, when professed, he gave the picture to the church. I have told you about his death.’
‘May I copy the manuscript?’ I asked.
‘Of course you may,’ he answered. ‘You are our ecclesiastical superior, and you may make what use of the manuscript you like. But if my presumption may be excused, I should say, do not publish it, as it might cause the loss of some soul.’
* Author's note: The idea of the story was suggested by A. Dürer's Picture of ‘Melancholia.’
The world says charitably that Bernard and I (Francis) were once two very dissipated young men. Dissipated indeed!—Debauched and depraved rather. We were not always so. When we first met we conversed together chiefly on religious subjects. How was it? Did we read latent depravity in one another's eyes?
At first we spoke hesitatingly, then plainly: afterwards we whispered.
There is one depravity which the world ignores: and speaks of little, and then in bated breath. There is another lower stratum of depravity which the world does not know—God grant it may never know!
I certainly had wronged Bernard. Considering the relations between us: seeing that to us, rules of right and wrong were nought, how could I have offended him so much? Our sins had no sentiment about them. They were coarse and calm. So how should a sentiment such as jealousy spring up in Bernard's heart?
Bernard and I were both rich: and so had ample means to indulge our monstrous pleasures.
Bernard had in his house a luxuriously fitted Turkish,or rather Roman, bath.
Though we had cast all religion and restraints of religion aside; still, was it from some remnant of religious feeling, or superstition, or blasphemous jest, that we both of us still wore the Scapular of Mount Carmel?
We were in the bath that day: the scene of our worst orgies. I was lying on the divan: I said, ‘Bernard, I feel faint.’ He said, ‘Take a glass of wine, my dear’; and pouring out a glass he gave it to me. I had a sudden frightful cramp in the stomach, followed by excessive perspiration. I understood now:—it was strychnine—I had tried an overdose of that once before.
After languor, I became again conscious: and first of all was aware of Bernard's eyes gleaming at me with intense hatred. Surely Bernard had forgiven me the wrong I had done him: he had said so. I thought he was fond of me. At one time, at least, he loved me. But there was no mistaking—I understood.
‘Bernard,’ I cried ‘for God's sake give me my Scapular.’
‘For God's sake?’ said Bernard: ‘what God do you mean? possibly Eros; he will hardly save you when you lie “like a sheep in hell and death feedeth on your bones.’’’
I felt the cramp coming on again; ‘Bernard!’ I shrieked, ‘for Our Lady's sake, give me the Scapular.’
‘For Our Lady's sake? I suppose you mean Venus Libitina; she will have you soon.’ Then one more convulsive cramp.
Of Kings and Things Page 11
