The Master of the Day of Judgment

by Leo Perutz

  "That is the Valley of Jehoshaphat, " Messer Salimbeni declared, "and the rock hovering in the air is God's eternal throne and, Giovansimone, know that to me that is a sign that you are destined tonight to see things so tremendous that no human being has seen them before."

  "We are not alone," the Master said, and his voice dropped to a fearful whisper. "I see people singing and rejoicing, and there are many of them."

  "There are not many but only a few to whom it is granted to join God's angels in singing the glory of the Day of Judgment," Messer Salimbeni said quietly.

  "And now I see thousands upon thousands, an endless host, knights and councillors and richly adorned ladies, raising their arms to heaven and weeping, and there is great lamentation among them."

  "They lament what has been and cannot be again," said Messer Salimbeni. "They weep because they are condemned to darkness and are deprived to all eternity of the sight of the Lord."

  "There is a terrible fiery sign in the sky that glows in a colour I have never seen before," the Master cried. "Woe is me. It is no earthly colour, and my eyes cannot stand it."

  "That colour is trumpet red," Messer Salimbeni called out in a voice of thunder. "That colour is trumpet red, the colour of the sunshine on the Day of Judgment."

  "Whose is the voice that calls my name out of the storm wind?" the Master cried, his whole body beginning to tremble, and suddenly he began howling, howling like an animal, and the howling shattered the silence of the night and seemed as if it would never end.

  "The demons of hell are coming for me, coming for me from everywhere and the air is full of them," he yelled. In his terror he tried to flee, but the invisible host caught him and he fell to the ground and struck out at the void all round him. He rose shrieking and with terribly distorted features, he started running but collapsed again, and it was such a pitiful sight that I thought I was going to die with fear.

  "Help him, Messer Salimbeni," I cried in desperation, but the Cardinal Legate's physician shook his head.

  "Too late," he said. "He is lost, for the visions of the night have taken possession of him."

  "Have mercy on him, Messer Salimbeni, have mercy," I yelled.

  The demons of hell had seized him and were dragging him away, and he fought them, screaming, and Messer Salimbeni went towards him and stood in the way at the cliff edge just above the quarry.

  "Murderer without fear of Almighty God," he cried. "Stop and confess your crime."

  "Mercy," the Master cried, and fell on his knees.

  At that Messer Salimbeni raised his fist and struck him in the middle of his brow so that he fell to the ground as if dead.

  I now know that this was an act, not of cruelty, but of mercy, and that by that blow Messer Salimbeni freed the Master from the power of his visions.

  We took him back to his workshop, still unconscious, and he lay there without a sign of life until the Angelus. When he awoke he did not know whether it was night or day. He was confused, and kept talking about the demons of hell and the terrible colour of trumpet red.

  Later, when the frenzy began to abate, he became completely absorbed in himself. He just sat in a corner of his workshop staring into the void, and he would talk to no-one. But at night he could be heard lamenting and singing prayers in his room, and on St Stephen's day he disappeared from the city and no-one knew where he had gone.

  And it chanced that three years later on my way to Rome I stopped at the monastery of the Seraphic Brothers of the Seven Dolours, in which the hair-band and girdle of the Holy Virgin are preserved, as well as a ball of thread spun by her own hands. I went to the chapel, accompanied by the prior, to see the holy relics. A monk was standing on a trestle there, and it took me some time to recognise him as Giovansimone, my former master.

  "His mind is clouded, but his compositions are truly great," the prior said. "We call him the Master of the Day of Judgment, for that is the only thing he paints over and over again. If I say to him: Master, here a Visitation and there the Healing of the Sick or the Feeding of the Ten Thousand, he gets very angry, and one has to let him go his own way."

  The sun was just setting, and pink light from the windows shone on the stone paving, and on the wall I saw the divine rock hovering in the air, and the Valley of Jehoshaphat, and the chorus of the Blessed and the multiform demons of hell and the fiery furnace of the deepest pit of hell, and among the damned the Master had painted himself, and all this was painted with such verisimilitude that I shuddered with horror.

  "Master Giovansimone," I called out, but he did not recognise me. He remained absorbed in prayer, painting with trembling hands an angry cherub with as much haste as if the devils of hell were still at his heels.

  That is what I have to relate about the Master of the Day of Judgment, and there is not much more that I know. When I came to the monastery again a few weeks later the chapel was empty, and the monks showed me where he was buried. On the Day of Judgment may Christ, our bright morning star, lead him and all of us into the host of the blessed.

  Since that night I have never again seen Messer Salimbeni, whom I call the real Master of the Day of Judgment, and he may have returned to the distant realms of the east in which he spent so many years of his life. But I have preserved in my memory the secret of his art, and I set it down here for those who believe themselves to be intrepid and sturdy minded: Take bloodwort saturated in brandy, divide into three parts, then . . .

  TWENTY

  "Go on, go on," Dr Gorski exclaimed.

  "That's all," said Felix. "The writing suddenly breaks off. There isn't any more."

  "Impossible," Dr Gorski declared. "There must be more. The most important thing is missing — let me have a look."

  "See for yourself, doctor. There's nothing else but maps, the Spanish provinces. Granata et Murcia. Utriusque Castiliae nova descriptio. Insulae Balearides et Pytiusae. No writing on the back. Andalusiae continens Sevillam et Cordubam. Not the slightest trace of writing. The story's unfinished."

  "But the composition of the drug. Where did Eugen Bischoff get it from? There must be the end of the story. You must have missed a page, Felix, have another look."

  All three of us bent over the book. Felix slowly turned back the pages.

  "There's a page missing here," Dr Gorski suddenly exclaimed. "Here, between Asturias and the Castiles. A page has been cut out."

  "You're right," said Felix. "Cut out with a blunt knife."

  Dr Gorski struck his forehead with his hand.

  "Solgrub," he exclaimed. "It must have been Solgrub, don't you see? So that no-one would be able to try the experiment after him. He destroyed the last page, which included the composition of the drug. What now, Felix?"

  "What now, doctor?"

  They looked at each other, both completely at a loss.

  "Let me confess," said Dr Gorski, "that I was going to try the drug on myself, with every possible precaution, of course."

  "So was I," said Felix.

  "No, Felix, I should never have allowed you, a medical layman — but what's the good of arguing about that now? It's all over. Not one of us three will ever find out what was the inconceivable force that drove Solgrub and Eugen Bischoff and heaven knows how many others to a mysterious death."

  He closed the heavy copper-lined cover of the book.

  "It will lead no-one else astray," he went on. "Solgrub, our poor Solgrub, was the last victim. The more I think about it — the physiology of the brain gives us some leads to follow, Felix. I have a theory of my own. No, I don't think it was a vision of the Day of Judgment. I prefer to assume that in every case the effect of the drug ..."

  I jumped to my feet. I had had an idea that overwhelmed me and threw me completely off balance. I was in no condition to conceal my excitement. I glanced at Felix and Dr Gorski — they took no notice of me. I walked out of the room.

  I walked quickly through the garden, giving them little time to notice my disappearance. No, the secret was not lost, it lay ther
e, waiting for me. I alone was going to be the discoverer of the truth. Just a few more paces . . .

  The pavilion door was open. Everything had been left as I remembered it that evening. The revolver was on the desk, the tartan rug lay over the sofa, the upset ink pot, the broken bust of Iffland, everything had been left where it was, and my pipe was still on the table.

  I picked it up. There, under a thin layer of ashes, was the drug, a dark brown mixture, the Sienese physician's fumi- gatory preparation, the magic concoction that had wrung from the murderer Giovansimone Chigi a confession of his guilt.

  When I struck the match I felt a slight fear of the unknown that awaited me. Fear? No, it was not fear, it was the feeling with which a swimmer dives from dry land into deep water. The water will close over his head, but he will be up again a moment later. That was exactly how I felt. I felt sure of my nerves. I waited for visions of the Day of Judgment, I waited for them with indifference, almost with curiosity. I faced the spectres and bogies of a past age with the whole intellectual armoury of a man of the present day. All you will see is smoke and shadows, I said to myself, and took a first puff at my pipe.

  Nothing happened. Through a haze of blue smoke I could see Beethoven's death mask on the wall, as well as some branches of a chestnut tree moving in the wind and above them a patch of sky covered with grey cloud. A big, bluish beetle of a kind unknown to me crept across the floor, but I had noticed it beforehand. I took a second puff, and a third, and for the first time I noticed the mixture's strange, sour smell. I noticed it only for a second, it disappeared very quickly. I had the uncomfortable feeling that Felix or Dr Gorski might surprise me, and I looked out of the window. But no-one was in the garden. They were still sitting and talking and presumably had not yet noticed my absence.

  I remember that altogether I took five puffs at my pipe. Then I saw a hibiscus bush in the middle of the room.

  I was perfectly aware that I was experiencing a sensory illusion, no doubt reliving a forgotten memory, but the vision was of such unparalleled vividness and plasticity that I involuntarily stepped closer and counted the reddish violet flowers of the hibiscus, there were eight of them so far as I could tell, and a ninth, a deep red one, opened as I looked at it.

  The hibiscus bush vanished, and gave way to the deep green of an areca palm tree. Leaning against it was a Chinese wearing a silvery grey silk robe. The first thing that struck me was his atrocious ugliness, he had the face of a newborn child, but this did not alarm me, I was well aware that my imagination, highly stimulated by the drug, was reproducing something that had been imprinted on my memory in some foreign land but in some inexplicable way presented itself to me in horribly distorted form. At this stage of the experiment I was still a calm and cold-blooded observer of a very strange optical phenomenon. I could still see the table and the sofa and the outlines of the room, but they seemed shadowy and unreal, like an obscure and confused memory of something that had happened long, long ago.

  This vision gave way to one of a brick wall and an open workshop that remained motionless before my eyes for some minutes and gave me a feeling of indescribable melancholy. The inside of the shop was illuminated by the light of a blacksmith's fire, and I saw two men, naked to the waist and with shaved heads. This immediately gave me a vague sense of alarm that grew into intense horror.

  One of the men suddenly turned, emerged from the shop and walked towards me on legs that seemed dislocated in some strange way. His head and shoulders were bent forward and his arms dangled lifelessly from his shoulders. He stopped in front of me, raised his left arm with his right hand, the fingers of his left hand sought for me, groped for me, I felt them on my wrist, I started back and shrieked, I heard myself shriek, fear of death shook me — those eyes — those lips — the face eaten away — leprosy, I yelled inside me — leprosy, leprosy — I broke down, I hid my hands — leprosy, I moaned, and then for a fraction of a second I struggled desperately to grasp the idea that all this was only dream and illusion, but the idea faded and I was left alone with my vision of terror, carried away on a tide of fear and horror.

  I do not know what happened next. I had been lost, but came back to myself. The first thing I saw was a barred window high up on the wall, too high for me to reach. In the half- darkness that surrounded me I made out a table and two chairs screwed to the floor. On the narrow side of the room there was a heavy iron bed.

  I was squatting on the floor. I had the feeling I had been in this room for a long time and had had harrowing experiences in it, though I could not remember what they were. I was dimly aware of a big, very red face in front of me with a round chin and small drops of sweat on its brow which gave me a feeling of violent revulsion.

  I felt thirsty, and knew without seeing it that next to the bed an iron bowl full of water was chained to the wall. I was overcome by an irresistible urge to smash it to pieces, but it withstood my efforts.

  The door suddenly opened, light flooded in, and two men came in. One of them was tall, broad-shouldered, clean-shaven and wore horn-rimmed spectacles, and his face was familiar to me. The other was a short, thin fellow with a small grey moustache and lively eyes, and his hands were in the pockets of his caped cloak. I looked at him, but could not connect any memory with him.

  "Dementia, alternating type, attacks recurring serially," the broad-shouldered man said in a foreign language of which I nevertheless understood every word. "Under treatment for four years. Former staff officer, cavalryman, hereditary defects on both sides."

  I lay on the floor and kept my eyes on him.

  "Argyll Robertson pupil, heightened muscle tone, increased pressure of cerebro-spinal fluid. No, leave the door open, the warder . . . Look out!"

  I dragged him to the ground and got on top of him and throttled him. Then I jumped up and out, someone went for me, I threw him off and twice punched a broad red face with a round chin, ran on, heard shouts and cries and a whistle being blown, and suddenly I was out in the open.

  Trees, bushes, an endless plain. I was alone, and round me there was an indescribable silence. The landscape was dead, nothing moved, not a leaf, not a blade of grass, only small white clouds moved over a blue sky.

  I suddenly realised that I had been living for years in that room between the table and the iron bed, creeping on the floor, roaring like a wild beast, flinging myself at the door again and again, and now they were coming to take me back — there they were, I could see them, they surrounded me, and I felt a nameless fear of the man with a broad, red face.

  "There he is," I heard him shout, and he was standing in front of me. His broad face was twisted into a grin, small, shiny drops of sweat were on his brow, and behind his back — I knew what he was hiding from me, I shrieked and wanted to flee, but they came at me from all sides and there was no help anywhere.

  Suddenly the revolver was in my hand. I did not know where I got it from, it was just there, and I was holding it, I felt the deathly cold metal of the barrel.

  And just when I was raising the weapon to my temple, just at that moment there appeared in the sky a tremendous fiery glow that blazed and flashed in a colour I had never seen before, though I knew its name, it was called trumpet red, my eyes were dazzled by the hurricane of terrifying colour, it was trumpet red, and it was shining on the end of all things.

  "Quick, his hand!" a voice close to me said, and I felt my arm getting as heavy as lead, but I freed myself and did not want to go on living.

  "This won't do, let me go," the voice yelled, and then I heard a roaring and a singing, the terrible light in the sky went out, darkness descended, for a second I saw long-forgotten things as in a dream, a table, a sofa, blue wallpaper, white curtains moving in the wind, and then I saw nothing more.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I awoke as if from a deep sleep. For a time I lay with closed eyes without any idea of place or time. I could not remember where I had just been or what had happened to me, and I sought in vain for some clarifying idea. Then I opened my
eyes. This cost me an effort. I had to cope with great sleepiness and a sense of torpor and indisposition.

  Then I realised where I was. I was lying on an ottoman in the music room in the Bischoff villa. Dr Gorski was sitting beside me feeling my pulse, and Felix was standing behind him. The subdued light of the standard lamp fell on the pages of the huge book, which lay open on the table.

  "How do you feel?" Dr Gorski asked. "Headache? Giddiness? Nausea? Buzzing in the ears? Does the light hurt your eyes?"

  I shook my head.

  "You have an enviable constitution, baron. Anyone else . . . Your heart is all right. I almost think you'll be able to go home alone."

  "You were incredibly foolhardy, baron," Felix said. "How could you — didn't you know what you let yourself in for? It was pure chance that Dina was in the garden and heard you shout ..."

  "Yes, and we arrived not a moment too soon," Dr Gorski interrupted. "You were holding the revolver to your temple. I shan't conceal from you the fact that you treated me very unceremoniously. You threw me at the wall as if I were a rubber ball, and if Felix hadn't had the happy idea ..."

  "You know very well that it wasn't my idea," Felix pointed out.

  "Very well, if Felix hadn't applied Dr Salimbeni's therapeutic violence. A single blow in the middle of the forehead made you give up your suicidal intentions. You must indeed have had terrifying experiences. Do you realise how close you were to the other bank, baron?"

  Then the full memory of all that had happened to me at last returned. I jumped up and wanted to tell the whole story — the leper, the madhouse, the dreadful light in the sky.

  "Don't talk about it now," Dr Gorski said. "You must tell me all about it later, when you're feeling better. Leprosy, the lunatic asylum, I expected something of the sort. The case is clear, and what you've been through only confirms what I suspected. I was just starting to give Felix my ideas on the subject when you came round. So listen to me, if you don't find it too tiring. It will make a great deal intelligible to you."