by M. R. James
“That, Mr. Humphreys, was your good uncle’s last word on the subject, and I don’t think I can add anything to it. Unless,” added Cooper, after a pause, “it might be just this: that, so far as I could form a judgment, he had a dislike (as people often will for one reason or another) to the memory of his grandfather, who, as I mentioned to you, had that maze laid out.
“A man of peculiar tenets, Mr. Humphreys, and a great traveler. You’ll have the opportunity, on the coming Sabbath, of seeing the tablet to him in our little parish church—put up it was some long time after his death.”
“Oh! I should have expected a man who had such a taste for building to have designed a mausoleum for himself.”
“Well, I’ve never noticed anything of the kind you mention. And, in fact, come to think of it, I’m not at all sure that his resting-place is within our boundaries at all: that he lays in the vault I’m pretty confident is not the case. Curious now that I shouldn’t be in a position to inform you on that heading. Still, after all, we can’t say, can we, Mr. Humphreys, that it’s a point of crucial importance where the pore mortal coils are bestowed?”
At this point they entered the house, and Cooper’s speculations were interrupted.
Tea was laid in the library, where Mr. Cooper fell upon subjects appropriate to the scene. “A fine collection of books! One of the finest, I’ve understood from connoisseurs, in this part of the country; splendid plates, too, in some of these works.
“I recollect your uncle showing me one with views of foreign towns—most absorbing it was: got up in first-rate style. And another all done by hand, with the ink as fresh as if it had been laid on yesterday, and yet, he told me, it was the work of some old monk hundreds of years back.
“I’ve always taken a keen interest in literature myself. Hardly anything to my mind can compare with a good hour’s reading after a hard day’s work; far better than wasting the whole evening at a friend’s house—and that reminds me, to be sure. I shall be getting into trouble with the wife if I don’t make the best of my way home and get ready to squander away one of these same evenings! I must be off, Mr. Humphreys.”
“And that reminds me,” said Humphreys, “if I’m to show Miss Cooper the maze tomorrow we must have it cleared out a bit. Could you say a word about that to the proper person?”
“Why, to be sure. A couple of men with scythes could cut out a track tomorrow morning. I’ll leave word as I pass the lodge, and I’ll tell them, what’ll save you the trouble, perhaps, Mr. Humphreys, of having to go up and extract them yourself: that they’d better have some sticks or a tape to mark out their way with as they go on.”
“A very good idea! Yes, do that; and I’ll expect Mrs. and Miss Cooper in the afternoon, and yourself about half-past ten in the morning.”
“It’ll be a pleasure, I’m sure, both to them and to myself, Mr. Humphreys. Good night!”
Humphreys dined at eight. But for the fact that it was his first evening, and that Calton was evidently inclined for occasional conversation, he would have finished the novel he had bought for his journey.
As it was, he had to listen and reply to some of Calton’s impressions of the neighborhood and the season: the latter, it appeared, was seasonable, and the former had changed considerably—and not altogether for the worse—since Calton’s boyhood (which had been spent there).
The village shop in particular had greatly improved since the year 1870. It was now possible to procure there pretty much anything you liked in reason: which was a conveniency, because suppose anythink was required of a suddent (and he had known such things before now), he (Calton) could step down there (supposing the shop to be still open), and order it in, without he borrered it of the Rectory, whereas in earlier days it would have been useless to pursue such a course in respect of anything but candles, or soap, or treacle, or perhaps a penny child’s picture-book, and nine times out of ten it’d be something more in the nature of a bottle of whisky you’d be requiring; leastways—
On the whole Humphreys thought he would be prepared with a book in the future.
The library was the obvious place for the after-dinner hours. Candle in hand and pipe in mouth, he moved around the room for some time, taking stock of the titles of the books. He had all the predisposition to take interest in an old library, and there was every opportunity for him here to make systematic acquaintance with one, for he had learned from Cooper that there was no catalog save the very superficial one made for purposes of probate.
The drawing up of a catalog raisonné would be a delicious occupation for winter. There were probably treasures to be found, too: even manuscripts, if Cooper might be trusted.
As he pursued his round the sense came upon him (as it does upon most of us in similar places) of the extreme unreadableness of a great portion of the collection. “Editions of Classics and Fathers, and Picart’s Religious Ceremonies, and the Harleian Miscellany, I suppose are all very well, but who is ever going to read Tostatus Abulensis, or Pineda on Job, or a book like this?”
He picked out a small quarto, loose in the binding, and from which the lettered label had fallen off; and observing that coffee was waiting for him, retired to a chair.
Eventually he opened the book. It will be observed that his condemnation of it rested wholly on external grounds. For all he knew it might have been a collection of unique plays, but undeniably the outside was blank and forbidding.
As a matter of fact, it was a collection of sermons or meditations, and mutilated at that, for the first sheet was gone. It seemed to belong to the latter end of the 17th century.
He turned over the pages till his eye was caught by a marginal note: “A Parable of this Unhappy Condition,” and he thought he would see what aptitudes the author might have for imaginative composition.
I have heard or read, so ran the passage, whether in the way of Parable or true Relation I leave my Reader to judge, of a Man who, like Theseus, in the Attick Tale, should adventure himself, into a Labyrinth or Maze: and such an one indeed as was not laid out in the Fashion of our Topiary artists of this Age, but of a wide compass, in which, moreover, such unknown Pitfalls and Snares, nay, such ill-omened Inhabitants were commonly thought to lurk as could only be encountered at the Hazard of one’s very life.
Now you may be sure that in such a Case the Disswasions of Friends were not wanting. “Consider of such-an-one” says a Brother “how he went the way you wot of, and was never seen more.”
“Or of such another” says the Mother “that adventured himself but a little way in, and from that day forth is so troubled in his Wits that he cannot tell what he saw, nor hath passed one good Night.”
“And have you never heard” cries a Neighbor “of what Faces have been seen to look out over the Palisadoes and betwixt the Bars of the Gate?”
But all would not do: the Man was set upon his Purpose. For it seems it was the common fireside Talk of that Country that at the Heart and Center of this Labyrinth there was a jewel of such Price and Rarity that would enrich the Finder thereof for his life: and this should be his by right that could persevere to come at it.
What then? Quid multa? The Adventurer pass’d the Gates, and for a whole day’s space his Friends without had no news of him, except it might be by some indistinct Cries heard afar off in the Night, such as made them turn in their restless Beds and sweat for very Fear, not doubting but that their Son and Brother had put one more to the Catalog of those unfortunates that had suffer’d shipwreck on that Voyage.
So the next day they went with weeping Tears to the Clark of the Parish to order the Bell to be toll’d. And their Way took them hard by the gate of the Labyrinth: which they would have hastened by, from the Horror they had of it, but that they caught sight of a sudden of a Man’s Body lying in the Roadway, and going up to it (with what Anticipations may be easily figured) found it to be him whom they reckoned as lost: and not dead, though he were in a Swoon most like Death.
They then, who had gone forth as Mourners
came back rejoicing, and set to by all means to revive their Prodigal. Who, being come to himself and hearing of their Anxieties and their Errand of that Morning, “Ay” says he “you may as well finish what you were about: for, for all I have brought back the Jewel (which he shew’d them, and ’twas indeed a rare Piece) I have brought back that with it that will leave me neither Rest at Night nor Pleasure by Day.” Whereupon they were instant with him to learn his Meaning, and where his Company should be that went so sore against his Stomach.
“O” says he “’tis here in my Breast: I cannot flee from it, do what I may.”
So it needed no Wizard to help them to a guess that it was the Recollection of what he had seen that troubled him so wonderfully. But they could get no more of him for a long Time but by Fits and Starts.
However at long and at last they made shift to collect somewhat of this kind: that at first, while the Sun was bright, he went merrily on, and without any Difficulty reached the Heart of the Labyrinth and got the Jewel, and so set out on his way back rejoicing. But as the Night fell, wherein all the Beasts of the Forest do move, he begun to be sensible of some Creature keeping Pace with him and, as he thought, peering and looking upon him from the next Alley to that he was in. And that when he should stop, this Companion should stop also, which put him in some Disorder of his Spirits.
And, indeed, as the Darkness increas’d, it seemed to him that there was more than one, and, it might be, even a whole Band of such Followers: at least so he judg’d by the Rustling and Cracking that they kept among the Thickets. Besides that there would be at a Time a Sound of Whispering, which seem’d to import a Conference among them. But in regard of who they were or what Form they were of, he would not be persuaded to say what he thought.
Upon his Hearers asking him what the Cries were which they heard in the Night (as was observ’d above) he gave them this Account: That about Midnight (so far as he could judge) he heard his Name call’d from a long way off; and he would have been sworn it was his Brother that so call’d him. So he stood still and hilloo’d at the Pitch of his Voice, and he suppos’d that the Echo, or the Noyse of his Shouting, disguis’d for the Moment any lesser sound; because, when there fell a Stillness again, he distinguish’d a Trampling (not loud) of running Feet coming very close behind him, wherewith he was so daunted that himself set off to run, and that he continued till the Dawn broke.
Sometimes when his Breath fail’d him, he would cast himself flat on his Face, and hope that his Pursuers might over-run him in the Darkness, but at such a Time they would regularly make a Pause, and he could hear them pant and snuff as it had been a Hound at Fault: which wrought in him so extream an Horror of mind, that he would be forc’d to betake himself again to turning and doubling, if by any Means he might throw them off the Scent.
And, as if this Exertion was in itself not terrible enough, he had before him the constant Fear of falling into some Pit or Trap, of which he had heard, and indeed seen with his own Eyes that there were several, some at the sides and other in the Midst of the Alleys. So that in fine (he said) a more dreadful Night was never spent by Mortal Creature than that he had endur’d in that Labyrinth; and not that jewel which he had in his Wallet, nor the richest that was ever brought out of the Indies, could be a sufficient Recompence to him for the Pains he had suffered.
I will spare to set down the further Recital of this Man’s Troubles, inasmuch as I am confident my Reader’s Intelligence will hit the Parallel I desire to draw. For is not this Jewel a just Emblem of the Satisfaction which a Man may bring back with him from a Course of this World’s Pleasures? And will not the Labyrinth serve for an Image of the World itself wherein such a Treasure (if we may believe the common Voice) is stored up?
At about this point Humphreys thought that a little Patience would be an agreeable change, and that the writer’s “improvement” of his Parable might be left to itself.
So he put the book back in its former place, wondering as he did so whether his uncle had ever stumbled across that passage; and if so, whether it had worked on his fancy so much as to make him dislike the idea of a maze, and determine to shut up the one in the garden.
Not long afterward he went to bed.
The next day brought a morning’s hard work with Mr. Cooper, who, if exuberant in language, had the business of the estate at his fingers’ ends.
He was very breezy this morning, Mr. Cooper was: had not forgotten the order to clear out the maze—the work was going on at that moment—his girl was on the tentacles of expectation about it. He also hoped that Humphreys had slept the sleep of the just, and that we should be favored with a continuance of this congenial weather.
At luncheon he enlarged on the pictures in the dining room, and pointed out the portrait of the constructor of the temple and the maze. Humphreys examined this with considerable interest.
It was the work of an Italian, and had been painted when old Mr. Wilson was visiting Rome as a young man. (There was, indeed, a view of the Colosseum in the background.) A pale thin face and large eyes were the characteristic features. In the hand was a partially unfolded roll of paper, on which could be distinguished the plan of a circular building, very probably the temple, and also part of that of a labyrinth.
Humphreys got up on a chair to examine it, but it was not painted with sufficient clearness to be worth copying. It suggested to him, however, that he might as well make a plan of his own maze and hang it in the hall for the use of visitors.
This determination of his was confirmed that same afternoon. For when Mrs. and Miss Cooper arrived, eager to be inducted into the maze, he found that he was wholly unable to lead them to the center.
The gardeners had removed the guide-marks they had been using, and even Clutterham, when summoned to assist, was as helpless as the rest.
“The point is, you see, Mr. Wilson—I should say ’Umphreys—these mazes is purposely constructed so much alike, with a view to mislead. Still, if you’ll foller me, I think I can put you right. I’ll just put my ’at down ’ere as a starting-point.”
He stumped off, and after five minutes brought the party safe to the hat again.
“Now that’s a very peculiar thing,” he said, with a sheepish laugh. “I made sure I’d left that ’at just over against a bramble-bush, and you can see for yourself there ain’t no bramble-bush not in this walk at all. If you’ll allow me, Mr. Humphreys—that’s the name, ain’t it, sir?—I’ll just call one of the men in to mark the place like.”
William Crack arrived, in answer to repeated shouts. He had some difficulty in making his way to the party. First he was seen or heard in an inside alley, then, almost at the same moment, in an outer one. However, he joined them at last, and was first consulted without effect and then stationed by the hat, which Clutterham still considered it necessary to leave on the ground.
In spite of this strategy, they spent the best part of three-quarters of an hour in quite fruitless wanderings, and Humphreys was obliged at last, seeing how tired Mrs. Cooper was becoming, to suggest a retreat to tea, with profuse apologies to Miss Cooper. “At any rate you’ve won your bet with Miss Foster,” he said; “you have been inside the maze. And I promise you the first thing I do shall be to make a proper plan of it with the lines marked out for you to go by.”
“That’s what’s wanted, sir,” said Clutterham, “someone to draw out a plan and keep it by them. It might be very awkward, you see, anyone getting into that place and a shower of rain come on, and them not able to find their way out again.
“It might be hours before they could be got out, without you’d permit of me makin’ a short cut to the middle: what my meanin’ is, takin’ down a couple of trees in each ’edge in a straight line so as you could git a clear view right through. Of course that’d do away with it as a maze, but I don’t know as you’d approve of that.”
“No, I won’t have that done yet. I’ll make a plan first, and let you have a copy. Later on, if we find occasion, I’ll think of what you say.”
Humphreys was vexed and ashamed at the fiasco of the afternoon, and could not be satisfied without making another effort that evening to reach the center of the maze.
His irritation was increased by finding it without a single false step.
He had thoughts of beginning his plan at once, but the light was fading, and he felt that by the time he had gotten the necessary materials together, work would be impossible.
Next morning accordingly, carrying a drawing-board, pencils, compasses, cartridge paper, and so forth (some of which had been borrowed from the Coopers and some found in the library cupboards), he went to the middle of the maze (again without any hesitation), and set out his materials. He was, however, delayed in making a start.
The brambles and weeds that had obscured the column and globe were now all cleared away, and it was for the first time possible to see clearly what these were like.
The column was featureless, resembling those on which sundials are usually placed. Not so the globe. I have said that it was finely engraved with figures and inscriptions, and that on a first glance Humphreys had taken it for a celestial globe. But he soon found that it did not answer to his recollection of such things.
One feature seemed familiar: a winged serpent—Draco—encircled it about the place which, on a terrestrial globe, is occupied by the equator. But on the other hand, a good part of the upper hemisphere was covered by the outspread wings of a large figure whose head was concealed by a ring at the pole or summit of the whole.
Around the place of the head the words princeps tenebrarum could be deciphered. In the lower hemisphere there was a space hatched all over with cross-lines and marked as umbra mortis. Near it was a range of mountains, and among them a valley with flames rising from it. This was lettered (will you be surprised to learn it?) vallis filiorum Hinnom.