‘And I stand on the edge of the grave,’ snarled Roger of Salerno. ‘Who pities me?’
‘Hush!’ said Thomas the Infirmarian. ‘The little creatures shall be sanctified-sanctified to the service of His sick.’
‘What need?’ John of Burgos wiped his lips. ‘It shows no more than the shapes of things. It gives good pictures. I had it at Granada. It was brought from the East, they told me.’
Roger of Salerno laughed with an old man’s malice. ‘What of Mother Church? Most Holy Mother Church? If it comes to Her ears that we have spied into Her Hell without Her leave, where do we stand?’
‘At the stake,’ said the Abbot of St. Illod’s, and, raising his voice a trifle ‘You hear that? Roger Bacon, heard you that?’
The Friar turned from the window, clutching the compasses tighter.
‘No, no!’ he appealed. ‘Not with Falcodi-not with our English-hearted Foulkes made Pope. He’s wise-he’s learned. He reads what I have put forth. Foulkes would never suffer it.’
‘“Holy Pope is one thing, Holy Church another,”‘ Roger quoted.
‘But I-I can bear witness it is no Art Magic,’ the Friar went on. ‘Nothing is it, except Art optical-wisdom after trial and experiment, mark you. I can prove it, and-my name weighs with men who dare think.’
‘Find them!’ croaked Roger of Salerno. ‘Five or six in all the world. That makes less than fifty pounds by weight of ashes at the stake. I have watched such men-reduced.’
‘I will not give this up!’ The Friar’s voice cracked in passion and despair. ‘It would be to sin against the Light.’
‘No, no! Let us-let us sanctify the little animals of Varro,’ said Thomas.
Stephen leaned forward, fished his ring out of the cup, and slipped it on his finger. ‘My sons,’ said he, ‘we have seen what we have seen.’
‘That it is no magic but simple Art,’ the Friar persisted.
‘‘Avails nothing. In the eyes of Mother Church we have seen more than is permitted to man.’
‘But it was Life-created and rejoicing,’ said Thomas.
‘To look into Hell as we shall be judged-as we shall be proved-to have looked, is for priests only.’
‘Or green-sick virgins on the road to sainthood who, for cause any midwife could give you — ’
The Abbot’s half-lifted hand checked Roger of Salerno’s outpouring.
‘Nor may even priests see more in Hell than Church knows to be there. John, there is respect due to Church as well as to Devils.’
‘My trade’s the outside of things,’ said John quietly. ‘I have my patterns.’
‘But you may need to look again for more,’ the Friar said.
‘In my craft, a thing done is done with. We go on to new shapes after that.’
‘And if we trespass beyond bounds, even in thought, we lie open to the judgment of the Church,’ the Abbot continued.
‘But thou knowest-knowest!’ Roger of Salerno had returned to the attack. ‘Here’s all the world in darkness concerning the causes of things-from the fever across the lane to thy Lady’s-throe own Lady’s- eating malady. Think!’
‘I have thought upon it, Salerno! I have thought indeed.’
Thomas the Infirmarian lifted his head again; and this time he did not stammer at all. ‘As in the water, so in the blood must they rage and war with each other! I have dreamed these ten years-I thought it was a sin-but my dreams and Varro’s are true! Think on it again! Here’s the Light under our very hand!’
‘Quench it! You’d no more stand to roasting than-any other. I’ll give you the case as Church-as I myself-would frame it. Our John here returns from the Moors, and shows us a hell of devils contending in the compass of one drop of water. Magic past clearance! You can hear the faggots crackle.’
‘But thou knowest! Thou hast seen it all before! For man’s poor sake! For old friendship’s sake-Stephen!’ The Friar was trying to stuff the compasses into his bosom as he appealed.
‘What Stephen de Sautre knows, you his friends know also. I would have you, now, obey the Abbot of St. Illod’s. Give to me!’ He held out his ringed hand.
‘May I-may John here-not even make a drawing of one-one screw?’ said the broken Friar, in spite of himself.
‘Nowise!’ Stephen took it over. ‘Your dagger, John. Sheathed will serve.’
He unscrewed the metal cylinder, laid it on the table, and with the dagger’s hilt smashed some crystal to sparkling dust which he swept into a scooped hand and cast behind the hearth.
‘It would seem,’ said he, ‘the choice lies between two sins. To deny the world a Light which is under our hand, or to enlighten the world before her time. What you have seen, I saw long since among the physicians at Cairo. And I know what doctrine they drew from it. Hast thou dreamed, Thomas? I also-with fuller knowledge. But this birth, my sons, is untimely. It will be but the mother of more death, more torture, more division, and greater darkness in this dark age. Therefore I, who know both my world and the Church, take this Choice on my conscience. Go! It is finished.’
He thrust the wooden part of the compasses deep among the beech logs till all was burned.
The Last Ode
(Nov. 27, B.C. 8)
HORACE, Ode 31, Bk. V.
AS watchers couched beneath a Bantine oak.
Hearing the dawn-wind stir.
Know that the present strength of night is broke
Though no dawn threaten her
Till dawn’s appointed hour-so Virgil died.
Aware of change at hand, and prophesied
Change upon all the Eternal Gods had made
And on the Gods alike-
Fated as dawn but, as the dawn, delayed
Till the just hour should strike-
A Star new-risen above the living and dead;
And the lost shades that were our loves restored
As lovers, and for ever. So he said;
Having received the word...
Maecenas waits me on the Esquiline:
Thither to-night go I...
And shall this dawn restore us, Virgil mine.
To dawn? Beneath what sky?
The Gardener
One grave to me was given.
One watch till Judgement Day;
And God looked down from Heaven
And rolled the stone away.
One day in all the years.
One hour in that one day.
His Angel saw my tears.
And rolled the stone away!
EVERY one in the village knew that Helen Turrell did her duty by all her world, and by none more honourably than by her only brother’s unfortunate child. The village knew, too, that George Turrell had tried his family severely since early youth, and were not surprised to be told that, after many fresh starts given and thrown away, he, an Inspector of Indian Police, had entangled himself with the daughter of a retired noncommissioned officer, and had died of a fall from a horse a few weeks before his child was born. Mercifully, George’s father and mother were both dead, and though Helen, thirty-five and independent, might well have washed her hands of the whole disgraceful affair, she most nobly took charge, though she was, at the time, under threat of lung trouble which had driven her to the South of France. She arranged for the passage of the child and a nurse from Bombay, met them at Marseilles, nursed the baby through an attack of infantile dysentery due to the carelessness of the nurse, whom she had had to dismiss, and at last, thin and worn but triumphant, brought the boy late in the autumn, wholly restored, to her Hampshire home.
All these details were public property, for Helen was as open as the day, and held that scandals are only increased by hushing them up. She admitted that George had always been rather a black sheep, but things might have been much worse if the mother had insisted on her right to keep the boy. Luckily, it seemed that people of that class would do almost anything for money, and, as George had always turned to her in his scrapes, she felt herself justified-her friends agreed with her-in cutti
ng the whole non-commissioned officer connection, and giving the child every advantage. A christening, by the Rector, under the name of Michael, was the first step. So far as she knew herself, she was not, she said, a child-lover, but, for all his faults, she had been very fond of George, and she pointed out that little Michael had his father’s mouth to a line; which made something to build upon.
As a matter of fact, it was the Turrell forehead, broad, low, and well-shaped, with the widely spaced eyes beneath it, that Michael had most faithfully reproduced. His mouth was somewhat better cut than the family type. But Helen, who would concede nothing good to his mother’s side, vowed he was a Turrell all over, and, there being no one to contradict, the likeness was established.
In a few years Michael took his place, as accepted as Helen had always been-fearless, philosophical, and fairly good-looking. At six, he wished to know why he could not call her ‘Mummy’, as other boys called their mothers. She explained that she was only his auntie, and that aunties were not quite the same as mummies, but that, if it gave him pleasure, he might call her ‘Mummy’ at bedtime, for a pet-name between themselves.
Michael kept his secret most loyally, but Helen, as usual, explained the fact to her friends; which when Michael heard, he raged.
‘Why did you tell? Why did you tell?’ came at the end of the storm.
‘Because it’s always best to tell the truth,’ Helen answered, her arm round him as he shook in his cot.
‘All right, but when the troof’s ugly I don’t think it’s nice.’
‘Don’t you, dear!’
‘No, I don’t, and’-she felt the small body stiffen-’now you’ve told, I won’t call you “Mummy” any more-not even at bedtimes.
‘But isn’t that rather unkind?’ said Helen softly.
‘I don’t care! You’ve hurted me in my insides and I’l hurt you back. I’ll hurt you as long as I live!’
‘Don’t, oh, don’t talk like that, dear! You don’t know what-’
‘I will! And when I’m dead I’ll hurt you worse!’
‘Thank goodness, I shall be dead long before you, darling.’
‘Huh! Emma says, “‘Never know your luck.”‘ (Michael had been talking to Helen’s elderly flat-faced maid.) ‘Lots of little boys die quite soon. So’ll I. Then you’ll see!’
Helen caught her breath and moved towards the door, but the wail of ‘Mummy! Mummy!’ drew her back again, and the two wept together.
At ten years old, after two terms at a prep. school, something or somebody gave him the idea that his civil status was not quite regular. He attacked Helen on the subject, breaking down her stammered defences with the family directness.
‘Don’t believe a word of it,’ he said, cheerily, at the end. ‘People wouldn’t have talked like they did if my people had been married. But don’t you bother, Auntie. I’ve found out all about my sort in English Hist’ry and the Shakespeare bits. There was William the Conqueror to begin with, and-oh, heaps more, and they all got on first-rate. ‘Twon’t make any difference to you, my being that-will it?’
‘As if anything could-’ she began.
‘All right. We won’t talk about it any more if it makes you cry.’ He never mentioned the thing again of his own will, but when, two years later, he skilfully managed to have measles in the holidays, as his temperature went up to the appointed one hundred and four he muttered of nothing else, till Helen’s voice, piercing at last his delirium, reached him with assurance that nothing on earth or beyond could make any difference between them.
The terms at his public school and the wonderful Christmas, Easter, and Summer holidays followed each other, variegated and glorious as jewels on a string; and as jewels Helen treasured them. In due time Michael developed his own interests, which ran their courses and gave way to others; but his interest in Helen was constant and increasing throughout. She repaid it with all that she had of affection or could command of counsel and money; and since Michael was no fool, the War took him just before what was like to have been a most promising career.
He was to have gone up to Oxford, with a scholarship, in October. At the end of August he was on the edge of joining the first holocaust of public-school boys who threw themselves into the Line; but the captain of his OTC, where he had been sergeant for nearly a year, headed him off and steered him directly to a commission in a battalion so new that half of it still wore the old Army red, and the other half was breeding meningitis through living overcrowdedly in damp tents. Helen had been shocked at the idea of direct enlistment. ‘But it’s in the family,’ Michael laughed.
‘You don’t mean to tell me that you believed that old story all this time?’ said Helen. (Emma, her maid, had been dead now several years.) ‘I gave you my word of honour-and I give it again-that-that it’s all right. It is indeed.’
‘Oh, that doesn’t worry me. It never did,’ he replied valiantly. ‘What I meant was, I should have got into the show earlier if I’d enlisted- like my grandfather.
‘Don’t talk like that! Are you afraid of its ending so soon, then!’
‘No such luck. You know what K says.’
‘Yes. But my banker told me last Monday it couldn’t possibly last beyond Christmas-for financial reasons.’
‘Hope he’s right, but our Colonel-and he’s a Regular-says it’s going to be a long job.’
Michael’s battalion was fortunate in that, by some chance which meant several ‘leaves’, it was used for coast-defence among shallow trenches on the Norfolk coast; thence sent north to watch the mouth of a Scotch estuary, and, lastly, held for weeks on a baseless rumour of distant service. But, the very day that Michael was to have met Helen for four whole hours at a railway-junction up the line, it was hurled out, to help make good the wastage of Loos, and he had only just time to send her a wire of farewell.
In France luck again helped the battalion. It was put down near the Salient, where it led a meritorious and unexacting life, while the Somme was being manufactured; and enjoyed the peace of the Armentieres and Laventie sectors when that battle began. Finding that it had sound views on protecting its own flanks and could dig, a prudent Commander stole it out of its own Division, under pretence of helping to lay telegraphs, and used it round Ypres at large.
A month later, just after Michael had written Helen that there was nothing special doing and therefore no need to worry, a shell-splinter dropping out of a wet dawn killed him at once. The next shell uprooted and laid down over the body what had been the foundation of a barn wall, so neatly that none but an expert would have guessed that anything unpleasant had happened.
By this time the village was old in experience of war, and, English fashion, had evolved a ritual to meet it. When the postmistress handed her seven-year-old daughter the official telegram to take to Miss Turrell, she observed to the Rector’s gardener: ‘It’s Miss Helen’s turn now.’ He replied, thinking of his own son: ‘Well, he’s lasted longer than some.’ The child herself came to the front-door weeping aloud, because Master Michael had often given her sweets. Helen, presently, found herself pulling down the house-blinds one after one with great care, and saying earnestly to each: ‘Missing always means dead.’ Then she took her place in the dreary procession that was impelled to go through an inevitable series of unprofitable emotions. The Rector, of course, preached hope and prophesied word, very soon, from a prison camp. Several friends, too, told her perfectly truthful tales, but always about other women, to whom, after months and months of silence, their missing had been miraculously restored. Other people urged her to communicate with infallible Secretaries of organizations who could communicate with benevolent neutrals, who could extract accurate information from the most secretive of Hun prison commandants. Helen did and wrote and signed everything that was suggested or put before her.
Once, on one of Michael’s leaves, he had taken her over munition factory, where she saw the progress of a shell from blank-iron to the all but finished article. It struck her at the time that the wretc
hed thing was never left alone for a single second; and ‘I’m being manufactured into a bereaved next of kin,’ she told herself, as she prepared her documents.
In due course, when all the organizations had deeply or sincerely regretted their inability to trace, etc., something gave way within her and all sensation-save of thankfulness for the release-came to an end in blessed passivity. Michael had died and her world had stood still and she had been one with the full shock of that arrest. Now she was standing still and the world was going forward, but it did not concern her-in no way or relation did it touch her. She knew this by the ease with which she could slip Michael’s name into talk and incline her head to the proper angle, at the proper murmur of sympathy.
In the blessed realization of that relief, the Armistice with all its bells broke over her and passed unheeded. At the end of another year she had overcome her physical loathing of the living and returned young, so that she could take them by the hand and almost sincerely wish them well. She had no interest in any aftermath, national or personal, of the war, but, moving at an immense distance, she sat on various relief committees and held strong views-she heard herself delivering them-about the site of the proposed village War Memorial.
Then there came to her, as next of kin, an official intimation, backed by a page of a letter to her in indelible pencil, a silver identity- disc, and a watch, to the effect that the body of Lieutenant Michael Turrell had been found, identified, and re-interred in Hagenzeele Third Military Cemetery-the letter of the row and the grave’s number in that row duly given.
So Helen found herself moved on to another process of the manufacture- to a world full of exultant or broken relatives, now strong in the certainty that there was an altar upon earth where they might lay their love. These soon told her, and by means of time-tables made clear, how easy it was and how little it interfered with life’s affairs to go and see one’s grave.
‘So different,’ as the Rector’s wife said, ‘if he’d been killed in Mesopotamia, or even Gallipoli.’
The agony of being waked up to some sort of second life drove Helen across the Channel, where, in a new world of abbreviated titles, she learnt that Hagenzeele Third could be comfortably reached by an afternoon train which fitted in with the morning boat, and that there was a comfortable little hotel not three kilometres from Hagenzeele itself, where one could spend quite a comfortable night and see one’s grave next morning. All this she had from a Central Authority who lived in a board and tar-paper shed on the skirts of a razed city full of whirling lime-dust and blown papers.
Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) Page 548