The Big Book of Classic Fantasy

by The Big Book of Classic Fantasy (retail) (epub)

  The king no longer laughs; at times he can be quite compassionate. He now goes back over to the marble bench, sits down, and again turns his attention to the laces of his patent leather boots.

  THE DESPAIR PANTOMIME

  The women sprinkle each other’s burns with powder and bandage them with handkerchiefs and move around desperately, standing, sitting, and lying in rows; the colorful scarves are back.

  The bodies and limbs are contorted this way and that, and a harmony of movement takes place that conveys an overall impression of pain. Faces are used to great effect.

  And the wizard similarly expresses his despair over the aloofness of the celestial beings.

  The wizard drops to one knee before the king and begs for mercy, shrugs, and suggests by way of his hand and arm movements that one cannot force celestial beings. These movements form a counterpoint to the desperate movements of the women of the harem.

  The music of the spheres becomes a muffled growl.

  The king indicates through a number of smiling gestures that he fully understands the stars. The king would not dance with his harem, either.

  Then of course all of the courtiers have to laugh with arch cordiality. The women of course understand neither their king nor the laughter of the men.

  The wizard bows seven times, smiling, before his king and clasps his hands together seven times as a sign of his gratitude.

  THE PAS DE TROIS

  On tiptoes, the jester creeps to the center of the stage, makes faces full of meaning, and confidently pantomimes in every way possible that as a jester he can certainly seduce the stars into dancing with him. After a wild clown dance, which the minstrels raucously accompany, the gold and silver stars approach the jester. When the trio begins to dance, the women try to applaud. With their burnt fingers, this of course is not possible.

  The Pas de trois, however, comes to an abrupt conclusion just as the trio moves toward the background, when the two stars wedge the jester between them and rise into the air, taking him with them.

  THE SABER PANTOMIME

  This ascension releases the entire company from the script.

  The courtiers believe it is now their duty to actively intervene.

  As if by silent agreement, the courtiers all simultaneously display their immense indignation to the crowd: they draw their flashing sabers and brandish them in the air.

  And a very lively, menacing saber pantomime develops. It is as if the courtiers with their flashing sabers are attacking the entire sky in order to win back the jester.

  The wizard runs around desperately, wringing his hands, trying to calm those who have become excited and are genuflecting. After a great effort, he succeeds.

  The comets straighten up a few times in surprise at the flashing of the sabers.

  Marvelous metallic sounds are heard through the music of the spheres.

  The king, his arms raised, has for a long while been staring up at the jester.

  THE FULL MOON

  Everything becomes quiet.

  The nightingales sing again.

  The music of the spheres whispers like a distant lullaby.

  The wizard again raises his peacock feathers to the sky, and with them describes long incantatory lines. And following this incantation, a laughing full moon appears in the sky. He majestically descends from the higher regions. The full moon takes the stage and, to the singing of the nightingales, dances a droll waggling dance with small jumps that enables the entire court to regain their good mood. The courtiers’ sabers fly back into their sheaths. The moon has a very funny face; it is the same one that appeared in the clouds at the end of the first act. The back of his head consists of nothing but dark violet curls that fly to and fro as he dances. His face is plump and golden yellow.

  At the end of his dance, the moon expels the jester from his hair.

  And while the moon, in the manner of celestial globes, stands calmly in the center of the stage, others help the jester back onto his feet—with both hands he grasps large tufts of dark violet hair.

  THE MOON’S CURLS BACCHANAL

  The jester distributes the moon’s violet curls among the women of the harem, the courtiers, and the servants.

  The curls possess an intoxicating power—so that everyone bounces about in absolutely mute exhilaration—and a genuine bacchanal is staged, in which only the wine is missing.

  The king, the poet, the wizard, the maid, and a few individual men and women have refused the curls and are now standing about dolefully, while the intoxicated dance around the moon—in an unbridled and ludicrous manner—as the servants and the minstrels dance along.

  The white octahedral lanterns flit through the air like fireflies.

  The five smaller stars at first do not move, but as the ferocity of the bacchanal wanes they approach the moon and bow small bows. Everyone laughs.

  The maid then wants to lodge herself in the moon’s purple curls, but the moon shakes his head and the maid is thrown into the executioner’s powerful arms. A strong resolution is born in the king: the king wants to be lifted skyward in the moon’s hair. But as soon as he begins making serious preparations to do so, the moon opens his mouth and blows on the king so powerfully that he staggers backward.

  And the full moon screams hideously loud, like a donkey braying, moves back, and, while a nightingale that lights on his nose is heard singing loudly, rises back up into the background with the stars—his violet hair apparently having room for at most one jester.

  The king does not understand any of this, and the women of the harem and the courtiers do not understand, either—they clap their hands together over their heads and again stand as still as statues—the violet hair no longer affects them.

  The bacchanal is at an end.

  THE ABDUCTION

  The comets in the background once again raise their heads a little, so that their head beams shine upward at a slant; they raise and lower the beams intermittently.

  The king, using a number of pantomime gestures, asks what it was like to be in the sky.

  The five smaller stars move into the background and float there individually, one after the other.

  And the king is terribly agitated. While the courtiers and harem women lie exhausted on the tile floor, the king tries to detain the stars. He pantomimes entreating them with beseeching movements of his arms and bent knees. He wants them to remain with him at court.

  And the five small stars do not stay. Fear seizes the king—he fears that the comets could leave him as well.

  The wizard was supposed to have held the comets with his peacock feathers; that the wizard could not do.

  The king wants the peacock feathers.

  But the wizard will not hand over the feathers, and again gives his best pantomime of despair.

  And the king is angry and beckons his executioner and his henchmen and takes the feathers by force. The wizard is handcuffed and made to kneel in company with the poet, while the king tries to summon the three comets with the peacock feathers.

  And the feathers burn.

  And the king will now behead the wizard and the poet if they are unable to compel the three large comets to remain.

  And the pair must crane their necks and, rolling their eyes, shrug.

  As the executioner again sharpens his sword and makes preparations to strike, the comets, with their head beams shining high and oscillating to and fro, stroll slowly to the foreground and free the two condemned men with their glittering spider fingers—the chains, clattering, fall away. The comets take the king, the executioner and the maid into their midst and go—despite the executioner’s reluctance—into the background, and there, with the three, rise slowly into starry space.

  The king becomes quite giddy with delight. He greets his court with his emerald crown as if it were a cap
, thumbs his nose at his court, sticks out his tongue to those left behind, and laughs heartily.

  The executioner is of course very angry, and the maid is of course utterly thrilled. The trio disappears up among the stars.

  Clouds billow from the tiled floor and flames emerge. The stage sinks amid thunder and lightning, taking those who remained behind into the depths. Meanwhile, not far from the lamps, an old wall, as long as the stage is wide, slowly rises up out of the floor, a good meter high.

  THE ENCHANTED

  The music of the spheres is roaring; it often sounds like deep rocks being crushed.

  And the planets appear—round globes in various colors, from one to five meters high. Black Saturn displays its gray rings at various angles.

  The great globes slowly float up and down. In the background the laughing full moon passes through.

  The voice of a nightingale sounds fervidly within the music of the spheres as long as the moon can be seen.

  The clouds gradually disappear, and the fixed stars are visible. Some of these are much larger than usual and oddly shaped and tinted.

  The king, the executioner, and the maid appear before the new front wall and, turning their backs on the audience, look at the planets with the greatest enchantment.

  The executioner is soon weary of this admiration, but his two companions are not; they show their enthusiasm with expressive movements of their arms, heads, and bodies.

  The three slowly pass along the wall from right to left. The two men are now unarmed.

  THE INSANE

  The round planets move to the side—new planets are emerging from the fixed stars.

  The music of the spheres has been growing ever faster and hurtles along at its wildest tempo at this point.

  The new planets are no longer shaped like spheres. They now take the form of giant diamonds and multifaceted phosphorescent crystal bodies. Some consist of shapeless tubular structures that shimmer like soap bubbles and are reminiscent of polyps, others resemble solidified flames—most are very gaudy and richly formed. From suns that resemble huge whitecaps, colorful lights strike out like headlights that shine through the new world of stars. All the stars move up and down, and the globe-shaped planets also reemerge and join the richly shaped planetary bodies. The planets frequently move deep into the background toward the fixed stars, so that there are always different stars in the foreground. The three people climb a narrow and bumpy stone staircase to the left, which continues back along the left side up to a rock, on the top of which are castle-like ruins with an upper room.

  Because of the upper room’s high stone balustrade, the three are at times obscured. Their enthusiasm has now exceeded all bounds, its bustle growing greater and greater—only the executioner plays the cold rationalist.

  And so it is quite natural that they clash with one another and finally come to blows. Unfortunately, the executioner is the strongest, and after he has thrown them down behind the stone balustrade, he succeeds in throwing his two adversaries headlong into the world of the stars—first the king and then the maid. Immediately after this event the full moon appears above, his hair now standing on end—he descends very quickly, hurrying to the aid of the fallen. The nightingale can again be heard; she is back on the nose of the moon.

  At the left, a rotund globe star pushes forward against the narrow stairs and casts them into the wings, together with the rock walkway and the executioner.

  The sound of thunder comes through the music of the spheres.

  THE STARS OF THE HEAVENS

  Once again new planets emerge from the fixed stars—gaseous forms of light that pass through one another like shadows. There is a constant flickering of colorful flashes. This develops into an exhilarating, wavering abundance of tremendous lighting effects.

  Comets resembling flaming swords dart through the chaotic realm.

  Glowing ribbon meteors like fiery eels wind through everywhere.

  The round and richly formed planets, which often float off to the side but rarely disappear entirely, are frequently lit in every possible color by the tails of the passing comets.

  The music of the spheres reaches its greatest intensity and at times sounds like ancient rock being scratched by giant claws. Floating slowly up from below into this world of excited light, color, and form come the three great comets, the lights on their heads beaming straight up—the three comets again carry the three people they abducted into the sky, holding them in their glittering arms.

  All the stars float to the sides and into the background to make room.

  The comets, with the king, maid, and executioner who now all calmly turn their heads from side to side, float slowly upward into still higher spheres that are invisible. The music of the spheres grows ever quieter and softer.

  The moon also rises from the depths and floats upward, smiling, following the comets and the people. When the moon is nearly up the curtain slowly falls.

  And the music of the spheres resounds very softly, as if from a great distance.

  And the voice of the nightingale also sounds, as if from a great distance.

  FINIS

  Arthur Machen (1863–1947), also known as Arthur Llewellyn Jones, was a Welsh author, translator, and actor who is considered the godfather of weird fiction. His work was a major influence on H. P. Lovecraft and raised the level of horror from what it was to a new height of terror and suspense. Most of his stories are set in medieval England or Wales in order to invoke an innate gothic mystery from antiquity. Indeed, Machen’s contributions to fantasy fiction, in novels like The Hill of Dreams (1907), is much underrated because of his connection to weird fiction. First appearing in Horlick’s Magazine in 1904, “The White People” is a horrifying tale about human sin, but also contains extremely original and potent evocations of witchcraft, folktales, and the fantastical.

  The White People

  Arthur Machen

  PROLOGUE

  “SORCERY AND SANCTITY,” said Ambrose, “these are the only realities. Each is an ecstasy, a withdrawal from the common life.”

  Cotgrave listened, interested. He had been brought by a friend to this mouldering house in a northern suburb, through an old garden to the room where Ambrose the recluse dozed and dreamed over his books.

  “Yes,” he went on, “magic is justified of her children. There are many, I think, who eat dry crusts and drink water, with a joy infinitely sharper than anything within the experience of the ‘practical’ epicure.”

  “You are speaking of the saints?”

  “Yes, and of the sinners, too. I think you are falling into the very general error of confining the spiritual world to the supremely good; but the supremely wicked, necessarily, have their portion in it. The merely carnal, sensual man can no more be a great sinner than he can be a great saint. Most of us are just indifferent, mixed-up creatures; we muddle through the world without realizing the meaning and the inner sense of things, and, consequently, our wickedness and our goodness are alike second-rate, unimportant.”

  “And you think the great sinner, then, will be an ascetic, as well as the great saint?”

  “Great people of all kinds forsake the imperfect copies and go to the perfect originals. I have no doubt but that many of the very highest among the saints have never done a ‘good action’ (using the words in their ordinary sense). And, on the other hand, there have been those who have sounded the very depths of sin, who all their lives have never done an ‘ill deed.’ ”

  He went out of the room for a moment, and Cotgrave, in high delight, turned to his friend and thanked him for the introduction.

  “He’s grand,” he said. “I never saw that kind of lunatic before.”

  Ambrose returned with more whisky and helped the two men in a liberal manner. He abused the teetotal sect with ferocity, as he handed the seltzer, and
pouring out a glass of water for himself, was about to resume his monologue, when Cotgrave broke in—

  “I can’t stand it, you know,” he said, “your paradoxes are too monstrous. A man may be a great sinner and yet never do anything sinful! Come!”

  “You’re quite wrong,” said Ambrose. “I never make paradoxes; I wish I could. I merely said that a man may have an exquisite taste in Romanée Conti, and yet never have even smelt four ale. That’s all, and it’s more like a truism than a paradox, isn’t it? Your surprise at my remark is due to the fact that you haven’t realized what sin is. Oh, yes, there is a sort of connexion between Sin with the capital letter, and actions which are commonly called sinful: with murder, theft, adultery, and so forth. Much the same connexion that there is between the A, B, C and fine literature. But I believe that the misconception—it is all but universal—arises in great measure from our looking at the matter through social spectacles. We think that a man who does evil to us and to his neighbours must be very evil. So he is, from a social standpoint; but can’t you realize that Evil in its essence is a lonely thing, a passion of the solitary, individual soul? Really, the average murderer, quâ murderer, is not by any means a sinner in the true sense of the word. He is simply a wild beast that we have to get rid of to save our own necks from his knife. I should class him rather with tigers than with sinners.”

  “It seems a little strange.”

  “I think not. The murderer murders not from positive qualities, but from negative ones; he lacks something which non-murderers possess. Evil, of course, is wholly positive—only it is on the wrong side. You may believe me that sin in its proper sense is very rare; it is probable that there have been far fewer sinners than saints. Yes, your standpoint is all very well for practical, social purposes; we are naturally inclined to think that a person who is very disagreeable to us must be a very great sinner! It is very disagreeable to have one’s pocket picked, and we pronounce the thief to be a very great sinner. In truth, he is merely an undeveloped man. He cannot be a saint, of course; but he may be, and often is, an infinitely better creature than thousands who have never broken a single commandment. He is a great nuisance to us, I admit, and we very properly lock him up if we catch him; but between his troublesome and unsocial action and evil—Oh, the connexion is of the weakest.”