The Dedalus Book of Decadence, Volume 1: Moral Ruins

by Brian Stableford (ed. )

  The morning after my declaration she rode across her part to the meditating walk I always paced till noon. She was alone, dressed in a habit of white lutestring with a loose girdle of blue. As her mare reached the yew hedge, she dismounted, and came to me with more lightness than I had ever beheld in her. At her waist hung a black glass mirror, and her half-bare arms were adorned with cabalistic jewels.

  When I knelt to kiss her hand, she sighed heavily. “Ask me nothing,” she said. “Life itself is too joyless to be more embittered by explanations. Let all rest between us as now. I will love coldly, you warmly, with no nearer approaching.” Her voice rangfull of a wistful expectancy: as if she knew that I should combat her half-explained decision. She read me well, for almost ere she had done I cried out loudly against it: – “It can never be so – I cannot breathe – I shall die?”

  She sank to the low moss-covered wall. “Must the sacrifice be made?” she asked, half to herself. “Must I tell him all?” Silence prevailed a while, then turning away her face she said: “From the first I loved you, but last night in the darkness, when I could not sleep for thinking of your words, love sprang into desire.”

  I was forbidden to speak.

  “And desire seemed to burst the cords that bound me. In that moment’s strength I felt that I could give all for the joy of being once utterly yours.”

  I longed to clasp her to my heart. But her eyes were stern, and a frown crossed her brow.

  “At morning light,” she said, “desire died, but in my ecstasy I had sworn to give what must be given for that short bliss, and to lie in your arms and pant against you before another midnight. So I have come to bid you fare with me to the place where the spell may be loosed, and happiness bought.”

  She called the mare: it came whinnying, and pawed the ground until she had stroked its neck. She mounted, setting in my hand a tiny, satin-shod foot that seemed rather child’s than woman’s. “Let us go together to my house,” she said. “I have orders to give and duties to fulfil. I will not keep you there long, for we must start soon on our errand.” I walked exultantly at her side, but, the grange in view, I entreated her to speak explicitly of our mysterious journey. She stooped and patted my head. “’Tis but a matter of buying and selling,” she answered.

  When she had arranged her household affairs, she came to the library and bade me follow her. Then, with the mirror still swinging against her knees, she led me through the garden and the wilderness down to a misty wood. It being autumn, the trees were tinted gloriously in dusky bars of colouring. The rowan, with his amber leaves and scarlet berries, stood before the brown black-spotted sycamore; the silver beech flaunted his golden coins against my poverty; firs, green and fawn-hued, slumbered in hazy gossamer. No bird carolled, although the sun was hot. Marina noted the absence of sound, and without prelude of any kind began to sing from the ballad of the Witch Mother: about the nine enchanted knots, and the trouble-comb in the lady’s knotted hair, and the master-kid that ran beneath her couch. Every drop of my blood froze in dread, for whilst she sang her face took on the majesty of one who traffics with infernal powers. As the shade of the trees fell over her, and we passed intermittently out of the light, I saw that her eyes glittered like rings of sapphires. Believing now that the ordeal she must undergo would be too frightful, I begged her to return. Supplicating on my knees – “Let me face the evil alone!” I said, “I will entreat the loosening of the bonds. I will compel and accept any penalty.” She grew calm. “Nay,” she said, very gently, “if aught can conquer, it is my love alone. In the fervour of my last wish I can dare everything.”

  By now, at the end of a sloping alley, we had reached the shores of a vast marsh. Some unknown quality in the sparkling water had stained its whole bed a bright yellow. Green leaves, of such a sour brightness as almost poisoned to behold, floated on the surface of the rush-girdled pools. Weeds like tempting veils of mossy velvet grew beneath in vivid contrast with the soil. Alders and willows hung over the margin. From where we stood a half-submerged path of rough stones, threaded by deep swift channels, crossed to the very centre. Marina put her foot upon the first step. “I must go first,” she said. “Only once before have I gone this way, yet I know its pitfalls better than any living creature.”

  Before I could hinder her she was leaping from stone to stone like a hunted animal. I followed hastily, seeking, but vainly, to lessen the space between us. She was gasping for breath, and her heart-beats sounded like the ticking of a clock. When we reached a great pool, itself almost a lake, that was covered with lavender scum, the path turned abruptly to the right, where stood an isolated grove of wasted elms. As Marina beheld this, her pace slackened, and she paused in momentary indecision; but, at my first word of pleading that she should go no further, she went on, dragging her silken mud-bespattered skirts. We climbed the slippery shores of the island (for island it was, being raised much above the level of the marsh), and Marina led the way over lush grass to an open glade. A great marble tank lay there, supported on two thick pillars. Decayed boughs rested on the crust of stagnancy within, and divers frogs, bloated and almost blue, rolled off at our approach. To the left stood the columns of a temple, a round, domed building, with a closed door of bronze. Wild vines had grown athwart the portal; rank, clinging herbs had sprung from the overteeming soil; astrological figures were enchiselled on the broad stairs.

  Here Marina stopped. “I shall blindfold you,” she said, taking off her loose sash, “and you must vow obedience to all I tell you. The least error will betray us.” I promised, and submitted to the bandage. With a pressure of the hand, and bidding me neither move nor speak, she left me and went to the door of the temple. Thrice her hand struck the dull metal. At the last stroke a hissing shriek came from within, and the massive hinges creaked loudly. A breath like an icy tongue leaped out and touched me, and in the terror my hand sprang to the kerchief. Marina’s voice, filled with agony, gave me instant pause. “Oh, why am I thus torn between the man and the fiend? The mesh that holds life in will be ripped from end to end! Is there no mercy?”

  My hand fell impotent. Every muscle shrank. I felt myself turn to stone. After a while came a sweet scent of smouldering wood: such an Oriental fragrance as is offered to Indian gods. Then the door swung to, and I heard Marina’s voice, dim and wordless, but raised in wild deprecation. Hour after hour passed so, and still I waited. Not until the sash grew crimson with the rays of the sinking sun did the door open.

  “Come to me!” Marina whispered. “Do not unblindfold. Quick – we must not stay here long. He is glutted with my sacrifice.”

  Newborn joy rang in her tones. I stumbled across and was caught in her arms. Shafts of delight pierced my heart at the first contact with her warm breasts. She turned me round, and bidding me look straight in front, with one swift touch untied the knot. The first thing my dazed eyes fell upon was the mirror of black glass which had hung from her waist. She held it so that I might gaze into its depths. And there, with a cry of amazement and fear, I saw the shadow of the Basilisk.

  The Thing was lying prone on the floor, the presentment of a sleeping horror. Vivid scarlet and sable feathers covered its gold-crowned cock’s-head, and its leathern dragon-wings were folded. Its sinuous tail, capped with, a snake’s eyes and mouth, was curved in luxurious and delighted satiety. A prodigious evil leaped in its atmosphere. But even as I looked a mist crowded over the surface of the mirror: the shadow faded, leaving only an indistinct and wavering shape. Marina breathed upon it, and, as I peered and pored, the gloom went off the plate and left, where the Chimera had lain, the prostrate figure of a man. He was young and stalwart, a dark outline with a white face, and short black curls that fell in tangles over a shapely forehead, and eyelids languorous and red. His aspect was that of a wearied demon-god.

  When Marina looked sideways and saw my wonderment, she laughed delightedly in one rippling running tune that should have quickened the dead entrails of the marsh. “I have conquered!” she cried. “I h
ave purchased the fulness of joy!” And with one outstretched arm she closed the door before I could turn to look; with the other she encircled my neck, and, bringing down my head, pressed my mouth to hers. The mirror fell from her hand, and with her foot she crushed its shards into the dank mould.

  The sun had sunk behind the trees now, and glittered through the intricate leafage like a charcoal-burner’s fire. All the nymphs of the pools arose and danced, grey and cold, exulting at the absence of the divine light. So thickly gathered the vapours that the path grew perilous. “Stay, love,” I said. “Let me take you in my arms and carry you. It is no longer safe for you to walk alone.” She made no reply, but, a flush arising to her pale cheeks, she stood and let me lift her to my bosom. She rested a hand on either shoulder, and gave no sign of fear as I bounded from stone to stone. The way lengthened deliriously, and by the time we reached the plantation the moon was rising over the further hills. Hope and fear fought in my heart: soon both were set at rest. When I set her on the dry ground she stood a-tiptoe, and murmured with exquisite shame: “To-night, then, dearest. My home is yours now.”

  So, in a rapture too subtle for words, we walked together, arm-enfolded, to her house. Preparations for a banquet were going on within: the windows were ablaze, and figures passed behind them bowed with heavy dishes. At the threshold of the hall we were met by a triumphant crash of melody. In the musician’s gallery bald-pated veterans stood to it with flute and harp and viol-de-gamba. In two long rows the antic retainers stood, and bowed, and cried merrily: “Joy and health to the bride and groom!” And they kissed Marina’s hands and mine, and, with the players sending forth that half-forgotten tenderness which threads through ancient song-books, we passed to the feast, seating ourselves on the dais, whilst the servants filled the tables below. But we made little feint of appetite. As the last dish of confections was removing, a weird pageant swept across the further end of the banqueting-room: Oberon and Titania with Robin Goodfellow and the rest, attired in silks and satins gorgeous of hue, and bedizened with such late flowers as were still with us. I leaned forward to commend, and saw that each face was brown and wizened and thin-haired: so that their motions and their epithalamy felt goblin and discomforting; nor could I smile till they departed by the further door. Then the tables were cleared away, and Marina, taking my finger-tips in hers, opened a stately dance. The servants followed, and in the second maze a shrill and joyful laughter proclaimed that the bride had sought her chamber….

  Ere the dawn I wakened from a troubled sleep. My dream had been of despair: I had been persecuted by a host of devils, thieves of a price-less jewel. So I leaned over the pillow for Marina’s consolation; my lips sought hers, my hand crept beneath her head. My heart gave one mad bound – then stopped.

  **********

  7.

  MAGIC

  by Lionel Johnson

  I.

  BECAUSE I work not, as logicians work,

  Who but to ranked and marshalled reason yield:

  But my feet hasten through a faery field,

  Thither, where underneath the rainbow lurk

  Spirits of youth, and life, and gold, concealed:

  Because by leaps I scale the secret sky,

  Upon the motion of a cunning star:

  Because I hold the winds oracular,

  And think on airy warnings, when men die:

  Because I tread the ground, where shadows are:

  Therefore my name is grown a popular scorn,

  And I a children’s terror! Only now,

  For I am old! O Mother Nature! thou

  Leavest me not; wherefore, as night turns morn,

  A magian wisdom breaks beneath my brow.

  These painful toilers of the bounded way,

  Chaired within cloister halls: can they renew

  Ashes to flame? Can they of moonlit dew

  Prepare the immortalizing draughts? Can they

  Give gold for refuse earth, or bring to view

  Earth’s deepest doings? Let them have their school,

  Their science, and their safety! I am he,

  Whom Nature fills with her philosophy,

  And takes for kinsman. Let me be their fool,

  And wise man in the winds’ society.

  II.

  THEY wrong with ignorance a royal choice,

  Who cavil at my loneliness and labour:

  For them, the luring wonder of a voice,

  The viol’s cry for them, the harp and tabour:

  For me divine austerity.

  And voices of philosophy.

  Ah! light imaginations, that discern

  No passion in the citadel of passion:

  Their fancies lie on flowers; but my thoughts turn

  To thoughts and things of an eternal fashion:

  The majesty and dignity

  Of everlasting verity.

  Mine is the sultry sunset, when the skies

  Tremble with strange, intolerable thunder:

  And at the dead of an hushed night, these eyes

  Draw down the soaring oracles winged with wonder:

  From the four winds they come to me,

  The Angels of Eternity.

  Men pity me; poor men, who pity me!

  Poor, charitable, scornful souls of pity!

  I choose laborious loneliness: and ye

  Lead Love in triumph through the dancing city:

  While death and darkness girdle me,

  I grope for immortality.

  III.

  POUR slowly out your holy balm of oil,

  Within the grassy circle: let none spoil

  Our favourable silence. Only I,

  Winding wet vervain round mine eyes, will cry

  Upon the powerful Lord of this our toil;

  Until the first lark sing, the last star die.

  Proud Lord of twilight, Lord of midnight, hear!

  Thou hast forgone us; and hast drowsed thine ear,

  When haggard voices hail thee: thou hast turned

  Blind eyes, dull nostrils, when our vows have burned

  Herbs on the moonlit flame, in reverent fear:

  Silence is all, our love of thee hath earned.

  Master! we call thee, calling on thy name!

  Thy savoury laurel crackles: the blue flame

  Gleams, leaps, devours apace the dewy leaves.

  Vain! for not breast of labouring midnight heaves,

  Nor chilled stars fall: all things remain the same,

  Save this new pang, that stings, and burns, and cleaves.

  Despising us, knowest not! We stand,

  Bared for thine adoration, hand in hand:

  Steely our eyes, our hearts to all but thee

  Iron: as waves of the unresting sea,

  The wind of thy least Word is our command:

  And our ambition hails thy sovereignty.

  Come, Sisters! for the King of night is dead:

  Come! for the frailest star of stars hath sped:

  And though we waited for the waking sun,

  Our King would wake not. Come! our world is done:

  For all the witchery of the world is fled,

  And lost all wanton wisdom long since won.

  8.

  THE OTHER SIDE

  by Count Stanislaus Eric Stenbock

  “Not that I like it, but one does feel so much better after it – oh, thank you, Mère Yvonne, yes just a little drop more.” So the old crones fell to drinking their hot brandy and water (although of course they only took it medicinally, as a remedy for their rheumatics), all seated round the big fire and Mère Pinquèle continued her story.

  “Oh, yes, then when they get to the top of the hill, there is an altar with six candles quite black and a sort of something in between, that nobody sees quite clearly, and the old black ram with the man’s face and long horns begins to say Mass in a sort of gibberish nobody understands, and two black strange things like monkeys glide about with the book and the cruets – and there’s music
too, such music. There are things the top half like black cats, and the bottom part like men only their legs are all covered with close black hair, and they play on the bag-pipes, and when they come to the elevation, then –” Amid the old crones there was lying on the hearth-rug, before the fire, a boy, whose large lovely eyes dilated and whose limbs quivered in the very ecstacy of terror.

  “Is that all true, Mère Pinquèle?” he said. “Oh, quite true, and not only that, the best part is yet to come; for they take a child and –.” Here Mère Pinquèle showed her fang-like teeth.

  “Oh! Mère Pinquèle, are you a witch too?”

  “Silence, Gabriel,” said Mère Yvonne, “how can you say anything so wicked? Why, bless me. the boy ought to have been in bed ages ago.”

  Just then all shuddered, and all made the sign of the cross except Mère Pinquèle, for they heard that most dreadful of dreadful sounds – the howl of a wolf, which begins with three sharp barks and then lifts itself up in a long protracted wail of commingled cruelty and despair, and at last subsides into a whispered growl fraught with eternal malice.

  There was a forest and a village and a brook, the village was on one side of the brook, none had dared to cross to the other side. Where the village was, all was green and glad and fertile and fruitful; on the other side the trees never put forth green leaves, and a dark shadow hung over it even at noon-day, and in the nightime one could hear the wolves howling – the were-wolves and wolf-men and the men-wolves, and those very wicked men who for nine days in every year are turned into wolves; but on the green side no wolf was ever seen, and only one little running brook like a silver streak flowed between.

  It was spring now and the old crones sat no longer by the fire but before their cottages sunning themselves, and everyone felt so happy that they ceased to tell stories of the “other side”. But Gabriel wandered by the brook as he was wont to wander, drawn thither by some strange attraction mingled with intense horror.