THE TERRACES OF NIGHT

by Margery Lawrence

  I blinked at her, still half-asleep, and she smiled at me in the friendliest way.

  ‘So—mam’selle awakes!’ Her eyes were extraordinarily bright, a pale, clear blue, and she had the steady stare of a boy. ‘Mademoiselle was weary?’

  She spoke with an odd throaty accent, in a curious sort of French, quite different to any of the peasant patois I’d heard before. I supposed it was the Vosges dialect, but still, I understood her quite well.

  ‘Yes,’ I said vaguely, still staring at her. ‘I was dreadfully tired.’

  She laughed, and tossed a tiny stone into the pool, watching its circling rings disappear.

  ‘Tired . . . but yes, I know—who should know better—what it is to be tired. Oh, but so tired, so dreadfully tired—to long for peace, and rest, and a long, long sleep. . . .’

  The brown face was grave, and I laughed too, seized with a sudden liking for this queer little peasant lass with the tow hair blowing in the warm wind, and white teeth shining in her brown, round face.

  ‘Eh, well, it passes. Like all other things, it passes, in the good God’s time!’ She threw in another pebble as she went on, eyeing me obliquely, like a child grown suddenly cunning. ‘But, say, why did mademoiselle come to the Shrine at the Cross-Roads?’

  ‘I—just to see it, I suppose,’ I said rather lamely.

  She made a gesture towards the statue, and I looked round—to gasp in astonishment, for the little stone figure had gone. I gasped and sat bolt upright, feeling somehow affronted. What on earth! . . . The little girl grinned at me across the water. Her smile was elfish.

  ‘It is Midsummer Day, m’selle, and the villagers——’ I interrupted.

  ‘You don’t mean to say the villagers take that old chunk of stone away to clean or to make a fête about, or something, on Midsummer Day?’

  She nodded, nodding her head till the thick hair danced like thistledown, her blue eyes intent on mine.

  ‘Why not? While you slept they must have taken it. They are simple people, mam’selle, and it pleases them to make a feast every Midsummer Day for the saint.’

  I grunted unbelievingly. The figure had looked too solidly built on to the pedestal that held her to be shifted with that casual sort of ease. But I had not examined the structure closely, and after all she must know. She belonged, obviously, to the district.

  ‘Who is it—what saint is it?’ I asked idly, stretching back against my mossy pillow, my hands beneath my head.

  The girl stared past me into the dusk of the forest with a curious expression in her eyes, an odd sort of strained look. I noticed then the squareness of her tilted chin, sharp-cut against the green. She was ugly, this child of the people, this solidly built little peasant with her strong brown hands, her thick wrists and sturdy ankles coarsened by hard work in field and byre, but she had a character. Character and a curious charm that grew on you. With an idle interest I studied her, and opened my mouth on a question, but before I could speak she answered, and the moment had passed.

  ‘They say—but they are poor ignorant people, mam’selle, and perchance they lie—that it is the statue of a maid who, because those greater than she commanded her, said goodbye to all she held dear. Said goodbye to all that womanhood may mean to a woman—and died. And when she died, one who loved her truly built her this poor shrine with his hands, untaught, unskilled, that had once held hers in true love. . . .’

  There was a minute’s silence. I couldn’t speak. For some reason, I felt, all of a sudden, very cold and frightened, and I stared at the brown-faced girl with the piercing blue eyes . . . stared and stared, and knew that I couldn’t look away as she went on, quietly, intensely, looking deep into my eyes as if she could read through them everything in my very innermost soul.

  ‘Mademoiselle! It is Midsummer Day, and on Midsummer Day strange things may happen, and even a saint may long for an hour’s freedom; yet think what it would mean to the poor souls who come here to see their shrine empty, their Goddess fled? Mademoiselle, you are a maid as she was—will you, in your kindness, step into the place of the statue, for one little hour, in memory of the girl to whom the shrine was raised?’

  This part of the recollection is very vague. I can only remember, and that very indistinctly, that intent blue gaze, that voice in my ears, and myself without any thought but utter blind obedience to that strangely changed and dominant voice. I shall try and tell the rest as coherently as possible, but forgive me if it’s not very lucid. Even to myself it all still remains a curious cloudy haze of tangled memories, impossible to string together with any real clarity. I only know that I found myself immovable, without desire to move, yet perfectly, although dimly, conscious, standing alone in the vacant niche under the pink and white veiling of blossoms, watching the reflections of the tall trees in the clear surface of the pool, the blue and purple glint of darting flies across it, the sharp-cut shadows on the undisturbed dust of the white road.

  It seemed to me, in the dimness in which my mind was wandering, as though I had stood there for centuries. Would stand there for further untold years, feeling the rain beat on my unmoving head, the snow and sun alike upon it, season after season, facing the quiet road beside the tiny pool. As I stared before me, there came a rustle through the ferns, and an old woman, red-shawled and brown as a winter nut, holding a tiny child by the hand, stopped beside the pool. Stooping, she scooped up water in the palm of her hand and drank, then gave the child to drink, and looking up at me, crossed herself and murmured a prayer, then turning, shambled away down the road toward the village.

  It did not seem odd that she noticed no difference—that it was I, Mamie Van Doon, of New York, who stood there beneath the drifting elder-blossom. . . . Yet, was it I after all? I tried to glance down at myself, but I could not move—yet I did not feel frightened, somehow it all seemed right, and anyway I did not care. All my old firm hold on life seemed to have loosened, and I seemed to have become simply a vague half-asleep mind imprisoned in an immovable body; a body that might be mine or might not . . . it did not seem to matter any more. Even my mind seemed to be gradually becoming less my own, even. I was faintly conscious of thoughts, feelings, impressions certainly not my own, conscious of memories of tragedy, of wonder and glory beyond anything in my brisk, common-sense American life. I felt, with dawning awe and terror, yet with no real desire to escape, as if a great, wild sea of knowledge was creeping nearer and nearer, washing close to my soul till it swamped me utterly, entirely . . . instinctively I closed my eyes as it rose about me, and the world of today sank away swiftly as the dark sea of an older soul and its memories closed over and absorbed me in its depths!

  * * * * *

  I seemed to sink into complete unconsciousness for a time—to wake, gradually, so gradually, to a vague shadow world; a huge darkness, dark yet pricked with lights, little wandering lights that grew clearer by degrees—lights that merged at last into a deep blueness spattered with stars, and I felt a cool wind run like ghostly fingers through my hair. I stood beside a little wooded copse on a hillside, under the moon, in a wide rolling country rising like lack waves against the inky blue. As I blinked and stared, I seemed to hear a voice singing, a voice joyous and young. Where had I heard that before? . . .

  ‘“Au clair de la lune, mon ami Pierrot”?André, André!’

  Oh, the shrilling sweetness of that call! The quick answer from the shadow of the trees, as a lad’s lithe figure emerged, stood for second in the moonlight, then ran to meet the singer, a squarely built, sturdy little maiden whose wild hair stood up like a dandelion-clock, silhouetted against the star-dusted sky.

  Held close in each other’s arms they stood a moment, two young shadows backed by the watching yellow moon, two shadows that kissed and clung together. Then the picture faded, and I drifted again into the darkness. When the darkness cleared I saw, as in a vignette, small but quite clear, the same peasant child—I knew her by her shock of hair—at work among the cows in a stable. She was clearing out the str
aw with a fork, and her little strong hands were dirty, her forehead wet with sweat, while the cows munched and breathed contentedly around her. Of a sudden she stopped, and seemed to listen intently—and listening, fell upon her knees, her face rapt, her soiled hands clasped upon the bosom of her coarse blue stuff frock. I had the impression, faint yet awe-inspiring, for I shivered as I listened, of a far-off delicate sound of voices chanting . . . as the picture faded I saw a rough-looking peasant, entering, cuff the child soundly on the head for idleness and waste of time. . . .

  Then for a long time all was dark, and then I saw that across the outer wall of a tiny farm, a ramshackle pile of old wooden buildings guarding a few poor fields, the boy and girl leant urgently, the boy pleading, the girl silent, sorrowful.

  The boy was urging something that was plain, yet it did not seem that the girl refused him for lack of love—on the contrary, as I watched I saw her suddenly bend and press her lips passionately, wildly, to the strong young hand that clasped hers, and her rejoinder was shaken, tremulous.

  ‘André, André . . . ah, mon ange, mon chéri. I am chosen—on me rests the burden. I must renounce thee, renounce all that lies between me and my duty! I know. I have spoken face to face with Those that have lain upon me this heavy task, and I know I must not fail Them.’

  The boy’s voice was thick and husky with shamed emotion as he replied, his curly head bowed over their clasped hands.

  ‘I love thee—what thou askest is hard, my own. Yet I do believe. . . . I will plague thee no more, my saint! From tonight I speak no word of love. But if only, only I may follow thee!’

  The desolation in the young voice wrung my heart, and when the tears cleared from my eyes the picture had faded. But thick and fast the pictures came now, so fast that it was difficult to follow at times, and my impressions of this part of my strange dream are sadly confused. I seem to remember long winding roads, the yellow dazzle of sun on hill and valley and springing cornfields, of riding many weary hours upon a great white horse, athirst and dazed with lack of sleep, yet pressing on, with an ever-gathering horde of eager people following, faster and ever faster. At last the clang of hoofs on the cobbles of a great town, its grey walls lined with balconies laden with curious faces, its streets a rainbow sea of banners, of tossing coloured pennons and lanceheads gold and steel and silver, of cloaks of vair and velvet and helmets that dazzled in the sunshine . . . then, a sudden hush, and a great vaulted hall filled with people! A hall where the tall columned dimness fell like a cool hand on the brow after the long heat and dust and weariness. . . .

  There was a daïs covered with purple and crimson damask at the farthest end of the hall, and a red carpet leading to it, and behind the daïs stood serried rows of men, prelates and nobles and officers in many-coloured robes and gleaming armour, all whispering together behind their hands and looking down the hall.

  On the daïs was a chair of velvet under a tasselled canopy with great gold fleur-de-lys on it, and on the chair a weak faced, pallid man who picked nervously at his chin with a lean white hand bearing a priceless ruby. As I gazed there was a stir and murmur in the glittering crowd that lined the great room, and a solitary figure marched up the wide crimson carpet towards the daïs. A young girl, square-jawed and steady-eyed, in a torn and ragged gown of faded blue—and with a sudden shock, with a woe and dread and awe unspeakable, I knew whose life’s memories I was privileged to sense in this strange way! As I stared, shaken and afraid, I saw the girl halt, stare for a moment at the figure upon the throne, then her voice came sharp with contempt as she spoke to the watching nobles about the throne.

  ‘Do not trifle with me, my lords! Dismiss this play-actor . . . and lead me to the Dauphin who hides yonder in the crowd!’

  The scene clouded over, to the sound of amazed acclamations. Again a welter of scenes succeeded, too many to remember now, however hard I try—but the next distinct recollection I have is the wide dark emptiness of a great church at midnight, where a single row of tall pale candles flared like ghostly lilies in the gloom about the High Altar, and a little figure knelt before the altar.

  A little lonely figure—how lonely and how young and small she looked! Her thick lint-white mop of hair was cut short as a boy’s above the high collar of her corselet, she knelt stiffly, awkwardly in the shining many-jointed steel that burdened her, and the painted saints, gleaming like jewelled shadows from the purple dusk of their high niches, looked gravely down as she prayed beside a lean cross-hilted sword that lay athwart the step before her. Long and fervently she prayed, and I—perhaps because I am a woman too—I heard the unspoken prayer behind the spoken words.

  ‘Sweet Saints, I do your will and have no other will. Yet I cannot altogether tear away all thoughts of earth. Forgive me, my Saints! Only, only, let him be happy always. . . .’

  And it seemed that as the vision faded I caught a glimpse of a lonely camp-fire on the hills outside the city, and beside it a solitary figure, a rough-haired lad, sitting with his chin on his hands, brooding over the red firelight, and ever and anon raising a haggard gaze towards the far lights of the city. It faded again . . . and the scene changed to horror unspeakable. Horrors such as I had never dreamt of, till I cried out and wanted to turn away, and could not, held with a dreadful fascination!

  It was a high-walled city, and thousands of soldiers besieged it: like bees they swarmed, their helms gleaming as they massed to the attack, heaving huge and awful engines against the walls, with great cannons that flung chained balls and lumps of raw iron and stones, amidst a welter of smoke and noise. I saw a man cut clean in two by a flying chain, saw another drop, with a sudden choke that sounded like dreadful laugh as a lancehead pinned him through the throat—and I could not look away!

  The defenders fought like maniacs. I shrieked aloud as I saw them pour boiling tar and oil and pitch upon the heads of the attackers! Saw the scaling ladders dragged down by sheer weight of thousands, saw those that fell tramped into the mud and slime by their fellows till they choked and died, saw humanity run mad till they fought like beasts, screaming, fighting, killing . . . and in the very midst of the horror I saw a shining figure, white-horsed, beneath a great white banner, and as she went victory followed her as certainly as the needle follows the magnet! Yet I saw her stern young face blanch as she heard the groans of the wounded and dying, and her jaw set hard as she went on doing her bitter duty . . . then, it seemed, a great and dreadful wail rose as the picture faded, a wail that rang in my ears like the call of doom.

  ‘The Maid—the Maid is taken!’ And with it a great dread seized me till I shuddered and grew sick—for a moment, I knew, I felt the Maid’s own blank horror as the English seized her and she knew her fate sealed, knew the merry world, sunshine and idle days and happy dreams gone by for ever. . . .

  My next recollection is a small bare room with high barred windows. A room, grey, stone-walled, and furnished with but a deal table and a chair or two, and a group of grave men interrogating the girl in coarse grey prison clothes, with chains upon her hands and feet. I cannot remember, even if I heard, the actual conversation, but I was aware of a great and utter weariness, as if this inquisition had gone on for many hours, or perhaps even days. . . . I am conscious that with a quick gesture of impatience the questioned girl retorted at last with some brusque reply, and the men exchanged a quick satisfied glance. Trapped. . . .

  ‘You realise what you are saying, Mademoiselle?’

  ‘I know—I care not. Read into my sayings what you please—and now make an end of this, for I am weary.’

  Shadows again, shifting and clouding and lightening, and through the shadows a girl’s voice that wept for bitter fear and called to the Saints for strength to bear her cross until the end—shadows lightening at last into a sinister redness, a thunderous and dreadful glow that made the very soul of me shiver, chilled to the heart!

  A crowded market-place—the tall gabled houses, shrouded like grim relentless nuns in veils of drizzling rain, their wi
ndows and balconies, their very roofs, packed to suffocation with watching humanity. . . . The streets leading into the square filled with carts on which were mounted more people, peasants, townsfolk, beggars, nobles, their reds and blue and browns making a strangely fantastic patchwork against the grey walls. There were soldiers in steel helmets and leather jerkins forming a ring round the square as one set a light to a great pyre of faggots piled high and steeply at the foot of a stake—oh, they burnt you high, for all the world to gaze at, Jeanne d’Arc!

  There was an acrid stench that caught me by the throat, the stink of sweating bodies and frowsy garments, the harsh biting scent of leather and horses, from the mounted soldiers pressing the crowd back, slipping and stumbling in the mire—but sharp above all rose the smell of burning wood, stinging, horrible!

  The flames had caught already and burnt bravely, as the mists cleared from before my horrified eyes—in the awed hush that held the crowded square their mocking crackle rose high, like the laughter of demons at the proud smiling face of the waiting girl, strapped waist and ankle to her stake above their snapping, beckoning fingers—a year’s imprisonment had whitened the sunburnt country lass, and she was piteously thin beneath the coarse white linen shift that was all her clothing. Gone the old blue stuff frock, gone the pale bright armour, the embroidered tabard, the satin tunic with the golden lilies of France upon it; yet the firm chin was set as of old, and the bright blue eyes faced outwards, dauntless, courageous, the lips were parted in a little triumphant smile. . . . Furious, the crowd shook their fists, spat, hurled ugly names at her as she stood there; but she was already far away, and did not hear. Yet she was not so far from earth that one beloved voice out of all those could not reach her . . . as the flames, flaring high, flung their red and yellow tentacles upwards towards her, a wild cry came from beyond the barrier, where a ragged handsome youth fought wildly in the grip of the guards.