All who were there and saw and heard it have kept the impress thereof for the rest of their lives—nor till in their death hour was the remembrance thereof absent from their minds. Shrieks, horrible beyond conception, were heard till nightfall—then the rain rained.
The ‘other side’ is harmless now—charred ashes only; but none dares to cross but Gabriel alone—for once a year for nine days a strange madness comes over him.
‘All the kingdoms of the earth will I give thee if thou wilt fall down and worship me.’*
Who I, the narrator, may be, is of no consequence; I merely mention myself to emphasise the fact that the monk would not have told me the story, or shown me the manuscript, unless I were a person who had an absolute right to know.
In the story I have avoided as many names as possible: where they have to be used I have anglicized them. Also in the transcription I have suppressed, on purpose, all names of places. Let it be sufficient to all that the place where the following occurrences took place was not England.
I was visiting a Carthusian monastery, and the guest-master was showing me round. Each monk had a little house of four rooms, round the large quadrangle; one of these little houses was empty. I was especially struck with this, because there were a few little houses of the same sort built outside the quadrangle; so I asked why was this particular little house not tenanted. The guest-master said it was because of a terrible thing that happened here, and no-one would ever live in that cell. I said, continuing my enquiry, (which was both official and ecclesiastical), ‘You must tell me exactly all about it. I know that you monks, observing the rule of silence, are not inaccurate when you do talk.’
‘Well,’ said the guest-master, ‘although our Order is generally silent, I have to do the talking for the whole community; but I will try and tell you as best I can, though, perhaps, one of the others might relate it better, being less accustomed to speak.
‘That is the cell,’ said the guest-master, ‘where Brother Henry, or rather, I mean Brother Michael, died. You know our habits—you know we do not speak except on Sundays, when, between Nones and Vespers, we are allowed to converse on Spiritual subjects. Then Brother Michael, though the youngest of all, astonished us with his marvellous learning. Then, again, we have one day of recreation in the week: in this Monastery, Thursday. Then we are allowed to take a walk about these large grounds in the afternoon, and to talk about whatsoever we like. Then I suppose, as you will understand, from a kind of nervous reaction we talk chiefly about what we were in the world, and, indeed, play about the place like children. Much the most childish of all was Brother Henry. I call him Henry because that was the name he had in the world, by which we always addressed him on Thursdays. He used to tell a great many stories about his childhood, but there were periods in his life which he never mentioned. I remember once, when we were speaking about the different names we had chosen in religion, we asked him why he chose the name of Michael. He appeared strangely affected, and with his sweet smile, he said, “I would far rather that you would call me Henry, for that was my Christian name; Michael I took for a reason which—”
‘He seemed to be suddenly stopped—leaned his head back as though he were being strangled; but he soon recovered himself, and said, “I felt a little bit ill just now, but it's alright. Let's go and get some flowers for our garden. Just up there, there are some beautiful cyclamens; let's race for them.” Of course, said the guest-master, you will think such kind of conduct undignified with monks; but you know what our life is, and on our one day of recreation we become simply children. All this seems trivial and irrelevant, but it is necessary to explain.
‘Next week I was appointed tintinabularius. At midnight I had to go to ring the bells for Matins. Just as I was taking the bell-rope in my hand I heard a frightful shriek from Brother Henry's cell—so frightful that I rang the alarm bell, and violated the rules of silence by telling the Brothers what I had heard. We went all together to the cell, and there we found Brother Henry lying on the floor, and uttering frightful blasphemies. As we never speak, we had learned to divine the thoughts of one another by the expression of their eyes. I say this because in what followed I am quite certain that all and everyone had the same impressions as myself.
‘Of course, we were absolutely shocked, and indeed were more than shocked at first. When we came to render assistance to Brother Henry, (observing always the rigid rule of silence), a strange influence came upon all—a subtle and peculiar perfume pervaded the room; a mixture, it seemed, of honeysuckle, tuberose and spices and incense, which produced a sense of luxurious languor. We could not move. There seemed to be a vague music floating about the place. Then our saintly Abbot came in, and then suddenly all the raving stopped. There was nothing ocularly visible. I saw by the eyes of the others they had seen what I had seen—what Saint Theresa calls “an intellectual vision.” Something beautiful beyond compare; a sense of rose violet colour with streaks of silver. Then the presence spoke. I knew that all understood. It said, “I am Raphael, the healing of God. Father Michael is in danger of death; he shall be healed if you will take that manuscript on the desk and cast it into the fire.” It was obvious that all of us had heard, because several rushed towards the manuscript to destroy it, when the Abbot said simply “No!” The Abbot said, “Who art thou, that comest in the name of the Lord?” The voice said again, “I am the Son of God. One thing more I ask—there is one picture in the Church, that which was brought by Brother Michael, of the Crucifixion, and must be destroyed, because it is the temptation of the Evil One.”
‘At the time, I was struck by the fact that the voice, sweet and insinuating, caressingly soft, should, on mentioning the name Michael sound sardonic; and on saying the words “the Evil One” seemed to have an echo of horrible laughter. The Abbot said nothing, but beckoned to one who understood, and went out. Another went with him. They returned, one with a torch, and the other with the Ciborium itself. As soon as they had entered the whole languid influence was dispelled. Then the Abbot took the Ciborium in his hands, and Father Henry opened his eyes and prepared himself to receive Communion. He just lifted one arm, pointed to the desk, and said, “Read!” That was all. Having received the Host, he lay back, and we all knew that he was dead!
‘We took up the manuscript, which I will show you,’ said the guest-master. ‘It ended abruptly, as you will see. As we took it up we found a postscript, in quite a different handwriting, very peculiar and very distinct, leaning to the left in red characters. But what was written was in a strange tongue unknown to us. I remember the exact words:
“JÀ ũLI GAVRÉLA JÉ AL JÉ MÀ ZHELE SÉVAL JÀ”
‘Then,’ he continued, ‘it was signed with a monogram, something,’ he said, taking up a paper and a pencil, ‘like this. All traces of it,’ he said, ‘are gone. You see, here is the manuscript, but there is no postscript; but the monogram impressed me so much that I think I can reproduce it more or less.’
He began to draw it; he got as far as this,
when his arm suddenly dropped to his side, withered and paralysed.
A sudden inspiration came over me. I took him, or rather, dragged and supported him, to the Church, and there, in a side-chapel was a picture of the Crucifixion, in a very plain frame. The picture was horrible at first sight; every pore oozed with blood; on the frame was written, in the same writing as the manuscript, ‘He was not comely or desired of men.’ Then again: ‘We esteemed Him as a leper—as one afflicted of God.’ Then at the bottom, more neatly written, ‘A Man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. By His stripes we are healed.’
I looked at the picture again: Yes, the figure was ghastly—but the eyes were divine, filled with infinite pity. I took the monk's paralysed hand and made it touch the feet in the picture. At once the arm was healed. We both remained prostrate in adoration for a long while, then the monk gave me the manuscript to read, of which I now give a transcription.
The Manuscript
Knowledge; Riches; Power
‘I had, I think, more knowledge than anyone on the earth. I had utterly and entirely mastered the algebraic analysis; but that merely unfolded to me ideas that I could only just touch upon, and not conceive. I thirsted for more. Now I was utterly depressed because I knew all that there was to be known in that aspect. There I was sitting, with the compasses in my hand, and my various implements lying around me. Just over my head was a square, in which was framed a very difficult mathematical problem, of which I had found the solution. My dog was lying at my feet utterly weary and listless. I arose, and looked out of the window from my turret-chamber, on to the sea. At one time the sea fascinated me beyond all things—now it looked dull and lifeless. There was a strange light upon it, and something dark seemed to flit across the light. Even the rocks had become to me mere problems of integral calculus in their various curves. I closed the window with a shudder; the air seemed glacially cold. “What have I gained by all this?” I mused. “I would give all this knowledge for the simple Faith I had in my youth!”
‘Riches I had, certainly—but not to the extent I would have, to enable me to realise all dreams. Power I also had to some degree—not to that degree I aspired to. Then I said, “There is yet another thing in that I am wholly deficient. I mean Love. Yes, that is the reason why the sea is listless, and the rocks merely mathematical.” I had just painted a picture, representing Cupid working at mathematical problems on a slate, with a pair of equally weighted scales behind. By this I meant to represent my own state of mind. I could not possibly love. I weighed every emotion in the balance, and reckoned it out and analysed it. And then there was no beauty I had ever seen who could satisfy my cravings for the Ideal.
‘As I was thinking thus, the air became gradually perfumed. A strange delicious scent, mingled of honeysuckle, jasmine, incense and spices. Then before me there was a faint glimmer of rose-violet colour, bordered with silver, from which the scent seemed to emanate. Then the light grew brighter, and in the midst thereof there was an apparition—something incomparably and entirely beautiful. It was a figure entirely nude, shaped like the Greek Hermaphrodite. But, oh, how much more beautiful! All conceivable beauties of both sexes were blended in its beautiful lines. The face was beyond description in its incredible loveliness. Its long hair was bronze-coloured, with threads of gold. The mouth was infinitely sweet, the eyes, which were of dark violet, infinitely sad.
‘It said, (I do not know that it actually spoke, for what it said seemed rather to impress the mind than the outward hearing, and yet it was like a human voice speaking, singularly sweet, accompanied by far-off music) “I have all knowledge. By the knowledge that I can impart ye may be as gods, knowing good and evil. All the riches of the earth are mine, and all power is given unto me. Or—” (here the voice became railing and scornful), “I have it! Then,” (here the voice became infinitely tender) “I am a Seraph: my life is love. All I ask in return is a little love. I show mercy unto thousands of them that love me. My children, my chosen, who worship me, my children, my chosen, taken from the elect of mankind, whose intellect is sufficient to understand me.”
‘“Who art thou?” I asked.
‘‘‘I am,” it answered, “the son of God, who, for man and man's salvation descended from Heaven, and for love of men would not rise again.”
‘“How do men name thee?” I asked.
‘‘‘Men name me by different names,” he said. “Many call me Shaitan, the enemy: my followers call me the Lightbearer.” (Then the voice again became railing and scoffing). “We do not go by our right names. They call Him Jehovah, or Adonai, but His real name is—” Then he said out loud, with a mocking laugh, that which no mortal has dared to pronounce; and then the voice, becoming tender again, continued: “My name is—” then he uttered another name, also composed entirely of vowels; it was the inversion of the other name, and the last vowel was pronounced with a long wail of agony.
‘At the first name, an awful terror seized me; at the second a feeling of infinite pity and attraction. The figure advanced towards me—it threw its arms around me and kissed me. A sensation of extreme pleasure penetrated every nerve of my body. Then the vision seemed to melt into a dream; I had certainly fallen asleep, but the voice spoke still. It told a long account of the entire history of the universe; how it was created by a malignant God, and how that he was the Redeemer, and how all that was beautiful on the earth was his work and if he had assistance from those whom he sought to benefit, all things would come again to their original fair order, and that he should come to his own inheritance again. Then the voice became sadder than ever: “There is another they call the Redeemer,” (here the voice varied between scoffing and sadness). “He suffered for a few hours and I suffer always. Yet even to Him I was merciful. I offered Him all the Kingdoms of the earth if He would but worship me, for I thought to love Him as I love thee. They put His Cross on their crowns, and trample down the people in His Name. I am the consoler of the afflicted—the friend of the poor and the down-trodden. The refuge of sinners—the seat of wisdom; the morning-star—the chief of angels. I will leave one sign,” he said, “to show that my visit was real,” and here something was pressed into my hand. The voice seemed to continue, and through the dream a certain address in the city was impressed on my mind. Then I almost heard definite words: “Show this at the door. It will be next Friday 8 o’clock. Then whatsoever is asked, do, and verily thou shalt not be without thy reward!” I had again the same languorous, delicious sensation, and gradually fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. I woke up the next day singularly refreshed.
‘‘‘What a strange dream!” I thought, and then I felt something in my hand. It was simply a silver disc inscribed with a strange monogram. For days I didn't know what to do. As I said before, I had given up the faith of my childhood. Then why should I not go? My curiosity, or desire for knowledge, was too strong. Still, at that time, the faith of my childhood seemed to come back to me. Every time I passed a church, something seemed to irresistibly drag me in. When I put my foot on the threshold a kind of paralysis seized me, and I could not move in that direction, so I avoided ever passing a church door. And the following Friday I went.
‘I knocked at the door of the house specified, and showed the medal to the person who opened the door. There was a closed carriage with white horses waiting at the door. Immediately two people came, and said, “We were expecting you.” Then before I could see them, they wound a yellow silken handkerchief over my eyes, strangely and deliciously scented, and hurried me into the carriage. I felt I was powerless to resist. Neither of them spoke a single word. The horses went with singular rapidity, and seemed to give no sound in going. At last it stopped.
‘I was taken up several flights of stairs, then the bandages were removed. I was in a chapel. My first impression was that peculiar perfume of honeysuckle, jasmine and spiced incense, that I had had before. The perfume seemed to emanate from the many candles and candelabra about the chapel, which were all black, but which emitted a rose-coloured flame. It was so faint a light that it was impossible to distinguish the others who were in the chapel. The altar, which was of rich material, was in the form of a great coiled serpent. Thereon were six black candles, burning with a steady and somewhat brighter flame. In the midst there was a bronze statue, a reproduction of the vision I had had the week before: with great outspread wings, silver and rose-colour. In the left hand it held aloft a singularly bright light, and in the right one downwards a cornucopia. On either side were two much smaller statues—on the right, Baal; on the left, Astarte, both terrifically obscene. In the middle, between the feet of the statue, was a still more horrible figure of Moloch, holding a hatchet in his hand.
‘The chapel seemed very richly decorated. There were many pictures, but I could only distinguish three. They represented the history of Cain. The first was—Cain, proud, youthful and beautiful, offering the fruits of the earth. Then Abel, with a cruel, mean, abject expression, killing a lamb, whose expression seemed to call
for pity. Then Cain standing triumphant on his brother's body and a burlesquely irascible old man, sealing him on the forehead with the monogram which was on the medal. Then entered a priest, accompanied by two remarkably handsome acolytes. I was paralysed and could not move. I expected something terrible. The priest wore an extraordinary gorgeous chasuble, and he merely commenced to say a low Mass in the ordinary way, except, it seemed to me, in an unknown tongue. As soon as the Mass commenced, a strange music, of violins and flutes began. The musicians were not to be seen. It was entrancingly beautiful, and very, very sad. It seemed to come in gusts, like the tone of an Æolian harp, and then die again, very, very soft. At the Epistle the music ceased. The Epistle was read aloud in the unknown tongue. Then, during an extremely sad Gradual, two acolytes went behind the altar, and brought forth something that looked like the Jewish “Thorah”, and unrolled from its rich coverings a manuscript, and held it before the priest, who now turned towards the people. I was utterly surprised to recognise in him a well-known noble of vast wealth. The people stood up, but did not make the sign of the Cross. I think I omitted to mention the whole floor was covered with crosses, the significance of which I understood afterwards. The priest read aloud an extract from the Book, while a third acolyte cast incense on to a tripod before the altar. After this, which corresponded to the Gospel, I suddenly became aware of, sitting on a peculiarly shaped seat, a strangely beautiful dark woman, clad entirely in black, with a silver circlet round her head with one ruby of extraordinary lustre. On her lap was coiled a serpent, of all colours of the rainbow. She began to give a sermon in the unknown tongue, or, rather, to prophesy. Everyone listened to what she said in wrapt attention; then all the congregation together said a creed aloud; at one portion all stamped on the crosses on the floor, and spat. Then the music began again, and the offertory followed, according to the usual rite. Then the rest, (except that there was no bell rung at what corresponds to the Sanctus). The acolyte cast more incense on the tripod. Then the music again suddenly ceased. Then the priest said in Latin, in a very loud voice, “Hoc est corpus meum,” and the rest of the words of consecration. I noticed at the elevation that the Host was black, and stamped with the same monogram. After the elevation of the Chalice the most terrible thing of all happened. There was utter silence. The serpent glided down from the woman's lap and crept down on to the altar. It devoured one of the Hosts, and crawled over the rest. Then it tasted of the Chalice; then glided back whence it had come. Then the Mass seemed to proceed on the same lines as usual. Just at the time which would correspond to the “Domine non sum dignus”, two people took hold of me from either side, and I was powerless to resist. They took me to the altar rails and divested me of my clothing. A sharp instrument was then handed to the priest. He made two punctures, which caused pungent pain; one beneath the left breast, the other one on the right arm, saying, “Set me as a seal on thine heart, and as a seal on mine arm, for Love is as strong as Death.” The pain was only momentary, and then I saw the monogram had been impressed on both places. They put on me a perfumed mantle of soft material, and other communicants came to the altar rails. All communicated in utter silence, in both kinds. The wine was blood-red, of peculiarly delicious flavour. On taking it I felt a sudden vitality come into me. Then, when I had consumed the Host, I had the same delightful sensation again as I had during the vision. The Baal and Astarte now seemed to me to be beautiful; and Moloch, though awful, sublime and benevolent. Again music began. This time it was accompanied by far-off voices, also in the unknown tongue; but, strange to say, I now understood it. It was a Litany: “O, merciful, O, good God, Redeemer of Mankind, O, one Holy Spirit; Lover of man, consoler of the afflicted, giver of all delight, sun of illumination, seat of all knowledge,” and much more besides, to which the congregation murmured the response, “Have pity on us.”
Of Kings and Things Page 10