reproached herself bitterly for those scornful words. The man had barely escaped death, and she was merciless.
"Oh, please stay as long as you like/' she cried. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you."
He dragged himself with difficulty back to the chair, and she, conscience-stricken, stood over him helplessly. She poured out a glass of water, but he motioned it away as though he would not be beholden to her even for that.
"Is there nothing I can do for you at all?" she exclaimed, painfully.
"Nothing, except allow me to sit in this chair," he gasped.
"I hope you'll remain as long as you choose."
He did not reply. She sat down again and pretended to read. In a little while he began to speak. His voice reached her as if from a long way off.
"You think me a charlatan because I aim at things that are unknown to you. You won't try to understand. You won't give me any credit for striving with all my soul to a very great end."
She made no reply, and for a time there was silence. His voice was different now and curiously seductive.
"You look upon me with disgust and scorn. You almost persuaded yourself to let me die in the street rather than stretch out to me a helping hand. And if you hadn't been merciful then, almost against your will, I should have died."
"It can make no difference to you how I regard you," she whispered.
She did not know why his soft, low tones mysteriously wrung her heartstrings. Her pulse began to beat more quickly.
"It makes all the difference in the world. It is horrible to think of your contempt. I feel your goodness and your purity. I can hardly bear my own unworthiness. You turn your eyes away from me as though I were unclean."
She turned her chair a little and looked at him. She was astonished at the change in his appearance. His hideous obesity seemed no longer repellent, for his eyes wore a new expression; they were incredibly tender now and they were moist with tears. His mouth was tortured by a passionate distress. Margaret had never seen so much unhappiness on a man's face and an overwhelming remorse seized her.
"I don't want to be unkind to you," she said.
"I will go. That is how I can best repay you for what you have done."
The words were so bitter, so humiliated, that the colour rose to her cheeks.
"I ask you to stay. But let us talk of other things/'
For a moment he kept silence. He seemed no longer to see Margaret, and she watched him thoughtfully. His eyes rested on a print of La Gioconda which hung on the wall. Suddenly he began to speak. He recited the honeyed words with which Walter Pater expressed his admiration for that consummate picture.
Hers is the head upon which all the ends of the world are come, and the eyelids are a little weary. It is a beauty wrought out from within upon the flesh, the deposit, little cell by cell, of strange thoughts and fantastic reveries and exquisite passions. Set it for a moment beside one of those white Greek goddesses or beautiful women of antiquity, and how would they be troubled by this beauty, into which the soul with all its maladies has passed. All the thoughts and experience of the worlds have etched and moulded there, in that which they have of power to refine and make expressive the outward form, the animalism of Greece, the lust of Rome, the mysticism of the Middle Ages, with its spiritual ambition and imaginative loves, the return of the pagan world, the sins of the Borgias.
His voice, poignant and musical, blended with the suave music of the words so that Margaret felt she had never before known their divine significance. She was intoxicated with their beauty. She wished him to continue, but had not the strength to speak. As if he guessed her thought, he went on, and now his voice had a richness in it as of an organ heard afar off. It was like an overwhelming fragrance and she could hardly bear it.
She is older than the rocks among which she sits; like the vampire, she has been dead many times, and learned the secrets of the grave; and has been a diver in deep seas, and keeps their fallen day about her; and trafficked for strange evils with Eastern merchants; and, as Leda, was the mother of Helen of Troy, and, as Saint Anne, the mother of Mary; and all this has been to her but as the sound of lyres and flutes, and lives only in the delicacy with which it has moulded the changing lineaments, and tinged the eyelids and the hands.
Oliver Haddo began then to speak of Leonardo da Vinci, mingling with his own fantasies the perfect words of that essay which, so wonderful was his memory, he seemed almost to know by heart. He found exotic fancies in the likeness between Saint John the Baptist, with his
soft flesh and waving hair, and Bacchus, with his ambiguous smile. Seen through his eyes, the seashore in the Saint Anne had the airless lethargy of some damasked chapel in a Spanish nunnery, and over the landscapes brooded a wan spirit of evil that was very troubling. He loved the mysterious pictures in which the painter has sought to express something beyond the limits of painting, something of unsatisfied desire and of longing for unhuman passions. Oliver Haddo found this quality in unlikely places and his words gave a new meaning to paintings that Margaret had passed thoughtlessly by. There was the portrait of a statuary by Bronziho in the Long Gallery of the Louvre. The features were rather large, the face rather broad. The expression was sombre, almost surly in the repose of the painted canvas, and the eyes were brown, almond-shaped like those of an Oriental; the red lips were exquisitely modelled and the sensuality was curiously disturbing; the dark, chestnut hair, cut short, curled over the head with an infinite grace. The skin was like ivory softened with a delicate carmine. There was in that beautiful countenance more than beauty, for what most fascinated the observer was a supreme and disdainful indifference to the passion of others. It was a vicious face, except that beauty could never be quite vicious; it was a cruel face, except that indolence could never be quite cruel. It was a face that haunted you and yet your admiration was alloyed with an unreasoning terror. The hands were nervous and adroit, with long, fashioning fingers; and you felt that at their touch the clay almost moulded itslf into gracious forms. With Haddo's subtle words the character of that man rose before her, cruel yet indifferent, indolent and passionate, cold yet sensual; unnatural secrets dwelt in his mind, and mysterious crimes, and a lust for the knowledge that was arcane. Oliver Haddo was attracted by all that was unusual, deformed and monstrous, by the pictures that represented the hideousness of man or that reminded you of his mortality. He summoned before Margaret the whole array of Ribera's ghoulish dwarfs, with their cunning smile, the insane light of their eyes, and their malice: he dwelt with a horrible fascination upon their malformations, the humped backs, the club feet, the hydrocephalic heads. He described the picture by Valdes Leal in a certain place at Seville, which represents a priest at the altar; and the altar is sumptuous with gilt and florid carving. He wears a magnificent cope and a surplice of exquisite lace, but he wears them as though their weight was more than he could bear; and in the meagre trembling hands, and in the white, ashen face, in the dark hollowness of the eyes, there is a bodily corruption that is terrifying.
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(Film Guild-Hodkinson: 1923)
Osgood Perkins and the scarecrow
which is brought to life in Puritan
Passions.
(Universal: 1925)
The master of the horror film and the famous 'man of a thousand faces', Lon Chaney, in his classic portrayal of that tragic figure, the Phantom of the Opera.
{Overleaf, top) A rare still from one of the very first fantasy/horror films, George Melies'
Devil In A Convent.
{Overleaf bottom) The Lunatics was based on a story by Edgar Allen Poe.
( Melro-Goldwyn- Mayer: 1932)
Perhaps the most horrific of all horror films, Tod Browning's Freaks. outstanding terror film of hunter and hunted, Most Dangerous Game, with Joel McCre
a.
(RKO Radio: 1932)
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(Universal: 1936)
The beautiful and sinister Gloria Holden in Dracula's Daughter. Peter Lorre in a dramatic moment from The Beast With Five Fingers.
( Warner Brothers: 1947)
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oris Karloff starred in The Body Snatcher, based on Robert Louis Stevenson's little known
story.
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( Warner Brothers: 1953)
The Beast From 20,000 Fathoms on the rampage in the film version of Ray Bradbury's story.
Vincent Price and young companion confronted by The Fly.
(20th Century Fox: 1958)
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(American International: 1965)
Freda Jackson decomposing in the H.P. Lovecraft tale, Monster of Terror.
A human skull with unearthly powers in The Skull by Robert Bloch.
(Paramount: 1966)
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(Galatea-Jolly Films: i960)
Barbara Steele under torture as a witch in the Italian film Black Sunday. A moment of high tension from Robert Enrico's masterpiece, Incident at Owl Creek.
(Robert Enrico: 1961)
He seems to hold together with difficulty the bonds of the flesh, but with no eager yearning of the soul to burst its prison, only with despair; it is as if the Lord Almighty had forsaken him and the high heavens were empty of their solace. All the beauty of life appears forgotten, and there is nothing in the world but decay. A ghastly putrefaction has attacked already the living man; the worms of the grave, the piteous horror of mortality, and the darkness before him, offer naught but fear. Beyond, dark night is seen and a turbulent sea, the dark night of the soul of which the mystics write, and the troublous sea of life whereon there is no refuge for the weary and the sick at heart.
Then, as if in pursuance of a definite plan, he analysed with a searching, vehement intensity the curious talent of the modern Frenchman, Gustave Moreau. Margaret had lately visited the Luxembourg and his pictures were fresh in her memory. She had found in them little save a decorative arrangement marred by faulty drawing; but Oliver Haddo gave them at once a new, esoteric import. Those effects as of a Florentine jewel, the clustered colours like emeralds and rubies, like sapphires deeper than the sea, the atmosphere of scented chambers, the mystic persons who seem ever about secret, religious rites, combined in his cunning phrases to create, as it were, a pattern on her soul of morbid and mysterious intricacy. Those pictures were filled with a strange sense of sin, and the mind that contemplated them was burdened with the decadence of Rome and with the passionate vice of the Renaissance; and it was tortured, too, by all the introspections of this later day.
Margaret listened, rather breathlessly, with the excitement of an explorer before whom is spread out the plain of an undiscovered continent. The painters she knew spoke of their art technically, and this imaginative appreciation was new to her. She was horribly fascinated by the personality that imbued these elaborate sentences. Haddo's eyes were fixed upon hers and she responded to his words like a delicate instrument made for recording the beatings of the heart. She felt an extraordinary languor. At last he stopped. Margaret neither moved nor spoke. She might have been under some spell. It seemed to her that she had no power in her limbs.
"I want to do something for you in return for what you have done for me," he said.
He stood up and went to the piano.
"Sit in this chair," he said.
She did not dream of disobeying. He began to play. Margaret was hardly surprised that he played marvellously. Yet it was almost incred-
ible that those fat, large hands should have such a tenderness of touch. His fingers caressed the notes with a peculiar suavity and he drew out of the piano effects which she had scarcely thought possible. He seemed to put into the notes a troubling, ambiguous passion and the instrument had the tremulous emotion of a human being. It was very strange and rather terrifying. She was vaguely familiar with the music to which she listened; but there was in it, under his fingers, an exotic savour that made it harmonious with all that he had said that afternoon. His memory was indeed astonishing. He had an infinite tact to know the feeling that occupied Margaret's heart, and what he chose seemed to be exactly that which at the moment she imperatively needed. Then he began to play things she did not know. It was music of the like of which she had never heard, barbaric, with a plaintive weirdness that brought to her fancy the moonlit nights of desert places, with palm-trees mute in the windless air, and tawny distances. She seemed to know tortuous narrow streets, white houses of silence with strange moon-shadows and the glow of yellow light within, and the tinkling of uncouth instruments, and the acrid scents of Eastern perfumes. It was like a procession passing through her mind of persons who were not human, yet existed mysteriously, with a life of vampires. Mona Lisa and Saint John the Baptist, Bacchus and the mother of Mary, went with enigmatic motions. But the daughter of Herodias raised her hands as though, engaged for ever in a mystic rite, to invoke outlandish gods. Her face was very pale and her dark eyes were sleepless; the jewels of her girdle gleamed with sombre fires and her dress was of colours that have long been lost. The smile, in which was all the sorrow of the world and all its wickedness, beheld the wan head of the Saint, and with a voice that was cold with the coldness of death she murmured the words of the poet:
I am amorous of thy body, Iokanaan! Thy body is white like the lilies of a field that the mower hath never mowed. Thy body is white like the snows that lie on the mountains of Judaea, and come down into the valleys. The roses in the garden of the Queen of Arabia are not so white as thy body. Neither the roses in the garden of the Queen of Arabia, the garden of spices of the Queen of Arabia, nor the feet of the dawn when they light on the leaves, nor the breast of the moon when she lies on the breast of the sea. . . . There is nothing in the world so white as thy body. Suffer me to touch thy body.
Oliver Haddo ceased to play. Neither of them stirred. At last Margaret sought by an effort to regain her self-control.
"I shall begin to think that you really are a magician," she said, lightly.
"I could show you strange things if you cared to see them," he answered, again raising his eyes to hers.
"I don't think you will ever get me to believe in occult philosophy," she laughed.
"Yet it reigned in Persia with the magi, it endowed India with wonderful traditions, it civilized Greece to the sounds of Orpheus' lyre."
He stood before Margaret, towering over her in his huge bulk, and there was a singular fascination in his gaze. It seemed that he spoke only to conceal from her that he was putting forth now all the power that was in him.
"It concealed the first principles of science in the calculations of Pythagoras. It established empires by its oracles, and at its voice tyrants grew pale upon their thrones. It governed the minds of some by curiosity and others it ruled by fear."
His voice grew very low and it was so seductive that Margaret's brain reeled. The sound of it was overpowering, like too sweet a fragrance.
"I tell you that for this art nothing is impossible. It commands the elements and knows the language of the stars and directs the planets in their courses. The moon at its bidding falls blood red from the sky. The dead rise up and form into ominous words the night wind that moans through their skulls. Heaven and Hell are in its province; and all forms, lovely and hideous; and love and hate. With Circe's wand it can change men into beasts of the field and to them it can give a monstrous humanity. Life and death are in the right hand and in the left of him who knows its secrets. It confers wealth by the transmutation of metals and immortality by its quintessence."
Margaret could not hear what he said. A gradual lethargy seized her under his baleful
glance and she had not even the strength to wish to free herself. She seemed bound to him already by hidden chains.
"If you have powers show them," she whispered, hardly conscious that she spoke.
Suddenly he released the enormous tension with which he held her. Like a man who had exerted all his strength to some end, the victory won, he loosened his muscles, with a faint sigh of exhaustion. Margaret did not speak, but she knew that something horrible was about to happen. Her heart beat like a prisoned bird, with helpless flutterings, but it seemed too late now to draw back. Her words by a mystic influence had setded something beyond possibility of recall.
On the stove was a small bowl of polished brass in which water was
kept in order to give a certain moisture to the air. Oliver Haddo put his hand in his pocket and drew out a little silver box. He tapped it, with a smile, as a man taps a snuff-box, and opened it. He took an infinitesimal quantity of a blue powder that it contained and threw it on the water in the brass bowl. Immediately a bright flame sprang up and Margaret gave a cry of alarm. Oliver looked at her quickly and motioned her to remain still. She saw that the water was on fire. It was burning as brilliantly, as hotly as if it were common gas, and it burned with the same dry hoarse roar. Suddenly it was extinguished. She leaned forward and saw that the bowl was empty.
The water had been utterly consumed, as though it were straw, and not a drop remained. She passed her hand absently across her forehead.
"But water cannot burn," she muttered to herself.
It seemed that Haddo knew what she thought, for he smiled strangely.
"Do you know that nothing more destructive can be invented than this blue powder, and I have enough to burn up all the water in Paris? Who dreamt that water might be burnt like chaff?"
The ghouls Page 15
