All was dark; darkness well-nigh palpable. I arose and tried to walk. I could see nothing. I walked on and on: I know not on what I trod. So this was Hell.
After a time, the darkness became interfused, I cannot say illuminated, with a faint green glimmer. I heard something that sounded like singing: singing indeed! I cannot describe it. Some monotone of idiotic despair. Then I discovered forms and faces around me. Hideous, green, squalid faces with dull, dead eyes; a soft green scum was on their lips. As they sang their lower jaws fell: and showed their jagged, sepulchral teeth.
O, rather the darkness! I ran on and on through the darkness: and was consumed with a burning thirst.
O for one drop of water, just to cool my tongue! Suddenly I saw before me a number of people sitting at a table drinking. Could they not give me something to drink? I was desperate: I would beg them. When I came nearer I heard the sound of hideous laughter. They were a company feasting: clad in ancient Roman garments.
Looking nearer I saw they were skeletons: their faces skulls. But they had eyes—horrible eyes. Presiding at the table was one clad in a black and yellow coloured garment, with a strange zigzag pattern. On his head were large bullock's horns. He was beating a hellish tattoo on a drum he had before him. The others seemed to be responding to, or taking part in, some hideous pagan rite.
I was desperate. ‘Give me to drink!’ I cried: ‘I am dying of thirst.’ One said, the mouth of his skull moving to smile sardonically, ‘Oh no, we don't die here.’ Another, clad more luxuriously than the rest, with a long curled wig on his skull, said with a hideous effeminate laugh, ‘Yes, you will like our drink,’ and handed me a glass of obscene shape. I drank eagerly: It burnt within me: then I vomited it forth and the vomit fell and turned to liquid fire!
I ran forth again: which was worse? the outer darkness, or this company?
Then I saw something white; and something dark pursuing. The white was a youthful form. The dark a hideous creature in a tattered garment.
The youthful form ever ran round in a circle; and the other ever pursued. Now and then the dark form clutched the white one. Then the white form turned with glaring eyes, that shot hideous dull red flame, on his pursuer. Then they would begin to bite and tear one another to pieces: till the white form escaped again, and the same eternal round began once more.
One time the dark form turned its face: then in that face I saw—myself!
No, this was the most horrible of all. Let me be for ever in the outer darkness. I went into the outer darkness and lay down there.
Suddenly something fell on me, a creature, human in shape (I could see nothing), covered with bristling glutinous hair: with the odour of a swine. It embraced and clung to me. Its body stuck to me.
O, the pain!
And this was to be my punishment—eternally.
Light! Light at last! comparative light: for there was but one star. I was swimming. The water was more salt and brackish than any other water. It seemed less like water than glue. There was an odour of pitch and sulphur about it. This I knew was the Dead Sea. I was near a shore which I tried in vain to reach. On the shore there were fruit trees, but the fruits dropped one by one: and broke in dropping and became dust.
The star shone brighter and brighter: no, I was not in Hell now. There was some semblance of hope. In the outer darkness I tried in vain to remember the name of Jesus, or Mary. Now I cried aloud, ‘Star of the sea, rescue me!’
Then I was overcome with a feeling of utter awe. No, I was not in Hell now. A form walked on the waters before me. A moonlight radiance shone about. She was taller than the daughters of men: clad in white, gold-broidered garments. On her head was a crown of gold and pearl. At first I could not see her face, in the fearful refulgence that went from it. Then I caught a glimpse. Her divine eyes full of mercy, turned towards me.
She held in her hands a scapular. She said, though I do not think she spoke, ‘What I have said, I have said. Those who wear my scapular shall not die in mortal sin. Make thy peace with God. Go, and sin no more!’
I was on the divan still. The scapular was round my neck: and Bernard was holding me by the hand.
People would hardly recognize, even if they heard their names mentioned, in two Carmelite Friars whom I hear to my annoyance are held up to novices as models for ascetic practice, viz. Father Francis and Father Bernard—for we have retained our ancient names in Religion, seeing they were names of Saints—those two, whom the world over charitably calls, ‘very dissipated young men,’ Bernard and Francis.
‘Well,’ said the Princess Faustina, lifting up her sleepy, magnificent eyes, towards her cavaliere servente Egidio di Rezzi, ‘this is indeed a poor show. Oh for the circuses of old! The lions might at least have eaten the man. That would have been something a little bit interesting. Indeed, he only controls them with brute force and a whip.’
‘Yes,’ answered Don Egidio in a low voice, ‘if we could only restore the ancient Colosseum.’
‘But,’ she continued, ‘we could. You see that boy there: that tall, graceful, fair one: would it not be delightful to see him torn to pieces by the lions. Indeed, he has quite the look of a Christian martyr.’ An evil look came to Don Egidio's eyes, like sombre fire playing about them.
‘Yes indeed it would be delicious to see those delicate limbs torn to death and bleeding.’
‘Then,’ said the Princess, ‘that is easily managed. If you go down and tell the proprietor, I mean Francotelli, that I should like to see the boy in the lion-cage: and for that I am willing to pay 10,000 francs, or indeed more than that if necessary. But begin with 10,000. He won't object to one of his troop being put inside the cage, and indeed may possibly think that the lions would not hurt him. He controls them with a whip and is a strong man. But then he has a good deal of difficulty in doing so, and I am sure they would tear a child to pieces.’
Don Egidio's face had lost its evil expression, and regained its usual expression, gentle and caressing.
‘My dear Faustina,’ he said, ‘what you suggest is too atrocious. Besides, remember we live today in the nineteenth century: Rome is not what it was.’
‘No,’ she said, her whole incomparable face and figure becoming animated. ‘This is what I wish: if you will not do what I ask of you, I will not see you again. Besides,’ she said, putting one of her splendid arms round his neck, ‘you said yourself it would cause a delicious sensation.’ He trembled: and went down from the box.
Francotelli was not exactly an unkind man. He thought himself extraordinarily generous for having adopted Venanzio, a foundling. Perhaps he did not reflect that Venanzio, whose keep did not cost much, brought him in a great deal more money than all the rest of his children. He learnt all the tricks of the acrobat almost by inspiration. He could turn summersaults better than anyone else, and fly from one trapeze to another, it seemed, without fear and without training. In fact, it was he who made the show.
Francotelli's wife was kind enough in her coarse way: she willingly gave Venanzio the crumbs—when her own children had been fed. His real torture was from the three sons of Francotelli. They hated him, because he was a better performer than themselves: and also for a saintly ecstatic expression on his face, so different from theirs, though he was generally advertised as their brother. They—Pietro, Lippo, Luigi—had all coarse hair and low foreheads: and the child with fair silken hair and heaven-blue eyes was their detestation.
Then again, Francotelli never beat Venanzio, simply because he never gave him any cause for offence, and learnt his tricks without any trouble; and had frequently occasion to beat his own boys, for not doing their gymnastic feats properly: although to him the rapt saintly expression of Venanzio was a continual disgust. Indeed, all of Venanzio's spare time was wholly given to prayer. Once when quite a child, he thought to himself, ‘Well I cannot sing, I cannot play. But then I can tumble better than other boys. Would it not please Our Lady if I went and tumbled before her.’ So he was found one day in a side chapel of S. Ma
ria Maggiore turning summersaults before the altar. Ever since then he was unmercifully chaffed, and called by his companions, ‘il tombio della Madonna’, or ‘arlecchino dello chiesa’. He had to sleep in the same room as the other boys. When at night he was absorbed in prayer they took the opportunity to throw their boots at him, and other things. But he did not take the slightest notice. When he had finished and they had gone to sleep, he always blacked the boots and put them beside their respective beds. Poor little Venanzio had no boots of his own, except the slippers he appeared in at the circus. But that did not mitigate their bitterness against him. Indeed, it was Luigi, whom he by an extraordinary dive had rescued from drowning, who was the most unkind to him of all.
Don Egidio said to Francotelli, ‘The Princess Faustina has an extraordinary caprice. She wants that boy of yours (pointing to Venanzio) to go into the lions’ cage. I daresay it's all right. But here one must gratify her caprice, you know.’
‘What! my son? no!’ said Francotelli, ‘certainly not, I never heard of such a thing.’
‘But then she offers you 10,000 francs to gratify her caprice. Again I say probably the lions would not hurt him.’
‘Well let us be fair and square about the whole matter,’ said Francotelli. ‘I tell you frankly Venanzio is not my own flesh and blood. I would not allow one of my own boys to go in there for anything. Then you see if anything happened to him, I should lose a great deal. Because you see he is the best performer in my company. I must have more than that. I can take nothing less than 30,000 francs.’
Don Egidio trembled: his expression was a mixture of remorse and cruelty.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you shall have 40,000. Here they are.’ Francotelli called Venanzio. ‘I want you to go into the lion's cage. I know you have never been there before. But they're really quite tame.’ (‘Good God! they are not,’ he muttered to himself in the hearing of Don Egidio.)
‘Oh yes, certainly,’ said Venanzio, ‘why should I mind going in there?’ And he went, clad in his harlequin's spangles.
The Princess Faustina's yellow eyes dilated, and shone with tigerlike ferocity.
The boy entered the cage: the audience looked astonished and rather frightened. Contrary to everyone's expectation, the lion and the lioness came to him caressingly, nestled themselves against him, and then lay down and licked his feet, while he stroked them. A wild shout of applause broke from the audience. Many of them had turned pale beforehand.
‘Come out, Venanzio; that is enough,’ said Francotelli: and in his nervousness forgot to fasten the cage properly.
Now came Venanzio's great feat. To be shot out of the cannon's mouth, and fly into the air.
‘Well, really!’ said the Princess Faustina; ‘what are we to do for amusement in our time. The wretched lions were quite tame.’
‘Oh no they were not,’ said Don Egidio, with an astonished expression.
‘Well really,’ she replied, ‘you might have managed things better. I won't quarrel with you just this moment, because I am rather in hope some accident may happen in the shooting of the cannon. If he dies after all, it will be amusing, though not so nice as if one could see the blood.’
Now Venanzio was shot from the cannon's mouth. This he had often been before. But this time he saw a strange golden light, stretched out his arms and literally flew towards it, further than the trapeze to which the cannon would take him. Then he fell suddenly down—dead!
‘Ah you see,’ said Faustina, ‘some little fun at last!’
The lions burst out of the cage which had been imperfectly locked, and placed themselves on either side of the fallen form. The audience were terrified, and got away as quickly as they could. In fact, there was a panic. Francotelli came to secure the lions. They growled, as he approached them, and attacked him. So he made his escape as soon as possible.
‘Well,’ said Faustina languidly, ‘as soon as these people have gone, perhaps we'd better go.’
‘No,’ said Egidio, ‘it is my fault, and your fault too! But, I suppose you feel no remorse, and I do. I suppose the poor child began to feel nervous after being in the lion's cage, and forgot to do his trapeze feat in the right way. We were the cause of it.’
Then there was silence between them. Faustina in her box was wholly inaccessible to the lions: and did not mind waiting till the general stampede had ceased. Then Don Egidio, whose face had assumed quite another expression, said, ‘Faustina, I hate you! I think I have always hated you. I am monstrous; but you are more monstrous than I am! I at least will make what reparation I may. I will go down to the arena and be torn up by the lions, to whom I supplied their innocent victim. My sin is greater than I deserve pardon for!’
‘You talk of sin!’ said Faustina. But he was gone. He went into the arena; it seemed to him a sacred light was burning round the child's head. He went and threw himself down and kissed the child's feet: and shed tears, which hehad not done for many a year. The lions did not move. They simply stood guard over the body. Emboldened by this, some of the crowd who had been unable to get away, quickly came up to the corpse: and touched it: also seeing the strange light about the head.
‘Miracolo!’ cried an old woman with crutches: ‘now I can walk!’
‘Miracolo!’ cried a deaf man, ‘now I can hear!’
Don Egidio said, ‘Perhaps there is some pardon for me too.’ He remained there prostrate before the corpse. Nobody could remove him because the lions attacked all those who attempted to do so.
The next morning he was found dead, face downwards, before the body. The lions, who had now become tame, kept guard over Venanzio's body till it was removed, and then went quietly back into their cage.
A Study in Morbid Pathology
Narrative of Sir Joseph Randall, M.D.
I may as well begin by saying I am a Doctor. Indeed I am considered eminent in my profession. My speciality is the brain. Thus I have contracted the habit of observing all things very minutely, especially such things as are strange or abnormal.
I am thinking of writing a series of pathological curiosities, which have come immediately under my own experience, which may after my death be of some use as data. So here is number one.
I was in an omnibus one day: I prefer going in an omnibus to a doctor's brougham. It affords me so many more opportunities of observing persons and things. Just at this time I had disposed of most of my patients by sending them off to Homburg and various places of the same kind. At the extreme other end of the omnibus was a girl, who at a first glance might seem too insignificant to attract anyone's attention. But for some reason or other she interested me at once.
She was not pretty, and dressed simply—I must say dowdily—in plain black. She had with her a common-looking black reticule. In fact, at first glance one would have taken her for a rather superior servant-girl, who had been sent by her mistress to purchase provisions. But then her hat had not the slightest trace of coquetry about it—not even a black feather: which made me think she could not be a servant girl, after all. Upon looking at her more closely, it was evident she must be a lady. In spite of the dowdiness of her costume, there was a great air of refinement about her: and the one hand which was visible was singularly beautiful in shape and well kept. She obviously, whatever she did, did not work for her living with her hands.
As I said before, she was not pretty: a large, rather sensual mouth, an irregular profile, fair, curled hair, short like a boy's. Even through her ill-made clothing, it was obvious that her figure was graceful. But even about that too there was something boyish. Indeed there was no indication of sex about her, particularly, one way or the other. What chiefly struck me was her intense pallor: not the pallor of anaemia, but the pallor of passion.
It had been my habit, on first seeing a face, to think of some quality in connection with which the face in question would be most characteristic, so I put her down in my mental note-book as excessively passionate. But then I also said, the passion must be of some peculiar kind. Her eyes, rathe
r large, had green in them, with eyebrows and lashes darker than her hair. They had the expression of settled sadness mingled with an appealing wistfulness which went to my heart. A great feeling of pity arose in me. At the same time I had the haunting suggestion, ‘does she deserve to be pitied?’ I am so used to observation that I frequently can tell at sight what people's sorrows are, before they tell me: e.g. if it were a mother who had lost her child, or a woman whose husband had left her, or lover deserted her: or one who had sunk from wealth to poverty, or from prosperity to degradation.
But her expression I can only define by the single short word, ‘strange’.
The conductor came to demand fares. ‘Can you give me change?’ she said, in a low, thrilling, very refined voice.
Then as she took her purse from her pocket I noticed her other hand. On the fourth finger was a ring—one only: a ruby of extraordinary and peculiar lustre, oddly enough set in silver.
I rather pride myself on being a connoisseur of jewels: and I could swear to it that this stone was genuine—not only genuine, but of that peculiar variety which is only found in Siberia. Why she should wear this immensely valuable jewel and be dressed almost shabbily, greatly puzzled me.
The second time I saw her was under very different conditions.
A French company were playing Alphonse Daudet's strange drama L’Arlésienne, with Bizet's wonderful too little known incidental music. The company were exceptionally good: indeed they were all stars. But the chief attraction was to be the appearance of La Girandola, the celebrated dancer, about whom all—or all artistic—people raved, in the ‘title rôle’.
The ‘title rôle’ is not a large one. L’Arlésienne is a mute character who merely appears twice in the course of the drama and only dances across the stage. But how shall I describe it?
Of Kings and Things Page 12