by A. C. Benson
Then with a swift motion he took up the tinder-box and made a light; he drew aside the curtain that hid the alcove; he put fire to the powder in the candlesticks, which at first spluttered, and then swiftly kindling sent up a thick smoky flame, fragrant with drugs, burning hotly and red. Then he came back to the altar; cast a swift glance round him to see that all was ready; put fire to the powder on the altar, and in a low and inward voice began to recite words from the book, and from the parchment which he held in his hand; once or twice he glanced fearfully at the skull, and the hands which gleamed luridly through the smoke; the figures in the picture wavered in the heat; and now the powders began to burn clear, and throw up a steady light; and still he read, sometimes turning a page, until at last he made an end; and drawing something from a silver box which lay beside the book, he dropped it in the flame, and looked straight before him to see what might befall. The thing that fell in the flame burned up brightly, with a little leaping of sparks, but soon it died down; and there was a long silence in the room, a breathless silence, which, to Anthony’s disordered mind, was not like the silence of emptiness, but such silence as may be heard when unseen things are crowding quietly to a closed door, expecting it to be opened, and as it were holding each other back.
Suddenly, between him and the picture, appeared for a moment a pale light, as of moonlight, and then with a horror which words cannot attain to describe, Anthony saw a face hang in the air a few feet from him, that looked in his own eyes with a sort of intent fury, as though to spring upon him if he turned either to the right hand or to the left. His knees tottered beneath him, and a sweat of icy coldness sprang on his brow; there followed a sound like no sound that Anthony had ever dreamed of hearing; a sound that was near and yet remote, a sound that was low and yet charged with power, like the groaning of a voice in grievous pain and anger, that strives to be free and yet is helpless. And then Anthony knew that he had indeed opened the door that looks into the other world, and that a deadly thing that held him in enmity had looked out. His reeling brain still told him that he was safe where he was, but that he must not step or fall outside the circle; but how he should resist the power of the wicked face he knew not. He tried to frame a prayer in his heart; but there swept such a fury of hatred across the face that he dared not. So he closed his eyes and stood dizzily waiting to fall, and knowing that if he fell it was the end.
Suddenly, as he stood with closed eyes, he felt the horror of the spell relax; he opened his eyes again, and saw that the face died out upon the air, becoming first white and then thin, like the husk that stands on a rush when a fly draws itself from its skin, and floats away into the sunshine.
Then there fell a low and sweet music upon the air, like a concert of flutes and harps, very far away. And then suddenly, in a sweet clear radiance, the face of his mother, as she lived in his mind, appeared in the space, and looked at him with a kind of heavenly love; then beside the face appeared two thin hands which seemed to wave a blessing towards him, which flowed like healing into his soul.
The relief from the horror, and the flood of tenderness that came into his heart, made him reckless. The tears came into his eyes, not in a rising film, but a flood hot and large. He took a step forwards round the altar; but as he did so, the vision disappeared, the lights shot up into a flare and went out; the house seemed to be suddenly shaken; in the darkness he heard the rattle of bones, and the clash of metal, and Anthony fell all his length upon the ground and lay as one dead.
But while he thus lay, there came to him in some secret cell of the mind a dreadful vision, which he could only dimly remember afterwards with a fitful horror. He thought that he was walking in the cloister of some great house or college, a cool place, with a pleasant garden in the court. He paced up and down, and each time that he did so, he paused a little before a great door at the end, a huge blind portal, with much carving about it, which he somehow knew he was forbidden to enter. Nevertheless, each time that he came to it, he felt a strong wish, that constantly increased, to set foot therein. Now in the dream there fell on him a certain heaviness, and the shadow of a cloud fell over the court, and struck the sunshine out of it. And at last he made up his mind that he would enter. He pushed the door open with much difficulty, and found himself in a long blank passage, very damp and chilly, but with a glimmering light; he walked a few paces down it. The flags underfoot were slimy, and the walls streamed with damp. He then thought that he would return; but the great door was closed behind him, and he could not open it. This made him very fearful; and while he considered what he should do, he saw a tall and angry-looking man approaching very swiftly down the passage. As he turned to face him, the other came straight to him, and asked him very sternly what he did there; to which Anthony replied that he had found the door open. To which the other replied that it was fast now, and that he must go forward. He seized Anthony as he spoke by the arm, and urged him down the passage. Anthony would fain have resisted, but he felt like a child in the grip of a giant, and went forward in great terror and perplexity. Presently they came to a door in the side of the wall, and as they passed it, there stepped out an ugly shadowy thing, the nature of which he could not clearly discern, and marched softly behind them. Soon they came to a turn in the passage, and in a moment the way stopped on the brink of a dark well, that seemed to go down a long way into the earth, and out of which came a cold fetid air, with a hollow sound like a complaining voice. Anthony drew back as far as he could from the pit, and set his back to the wall, his companion letting go of him. But he could not go backward, for the thing behind him was in the passage, and barred the way, creeping slowly nearer. Then Anthony was in a great agony of mind, and waited for the end.
But while he waited, there came some one very softly down the passage and drew near; and the other, who had led him to the place, waited, as though ill-pleased to be interrupted; it was too murky for Anthony to see the new-comer, but he knew in some way that he was a friend. The stranger came up to them, and spoke in a low voice to the man who had drawn Anthony thither, as though pleading for something; and the man answered angrily, but yet with a certain dark respect, and seemed to argue that he was acting in his right, and might not be interfered with. Anthony could not hear what they said, they spoke so low, but he guessed the sense, and knew that it was himself of whom they discoursed, and listened with a fearful wonder to see which would prevail. The end soon came, for the tall man, who had brought him there, broke out into a great storm of passion; and Anthony heard him say, ‘He hath yielded himself to his own will; and he is mine here; so let us make an end.’ Then the stranger seemed to consider; and then with a quiet courage, and in a soft silvery voice like that of a child, said, ‘I would that you would have yielded to my prayer; but as you will not, I have no choice.’ And he took his hand from under the cloak that wrapped him, and held something out; then there came a great roaring out of the pit, and a zigzag flame flickered in the dark. Then in a moment the tall man and the shadow were gone; Anthony could not see whither they went, and he would have thanked the stranger; but the other put his finger to his lip as though to order silence, and pointed to the way he had come, saying, ‘Make haste and go back; for they will return anon with others; you know not how dear it hath cost me.’ Anthony could see the stranger’s face in the gloom, and he was surprised to see it so youthful; but he saw also that tears stood in the eyes of the stranger, and that something dark like blood trickled down his brow; yet he looked very lovingly at him. So Anthony made haste to go back, and found the door ajar; but as he reached it, he heard a horrible din behind him, of cries and screams; and it was with a sense of gratitude, that he could not put into words, but which filled all his heart, that he found himself back in the cloister again. And then the vision all fled away, and with a shock coming to himself, he found that he was lying in his own room; and then he knew that a battle had been fought out over his soul, and that the evil had not prevailed.
He was cold and aching in every limb; the ro
om was silent and dark, with the heavy smell of the burnt drugs all about it. Anthony crept to the door, and opened it; locked it again, and made his way in the dark very feebly to his bed-chamber; he had just the strength to get into his bed, and then all his life seemed to ebb from him, and he lay, and thought that he was dying. Presently from without there came the crying of cocks, and a bell beat the hour of four; and after that, in his vigil of weakness, it was strange to see the light glimmer in the crevices, and to hear the awakening birds that in the garden bushes took up, one after another, their slender piping song, till all the choir cried together.
But Anthony felt a strange peace in his heart; and he had a sense, though he could not say why, that it was as once in his childhood, when he was ill, and his mother had sate softly by him while he slept.
So he waited, and in spite of his mortal weakness that was a blessed hour.
When his man came to arouse him in the morning, Anthony said that he believed that he was very ill, that he had had a fall, and that the old doctor must be fetched to him. The man looked so strangely upon him, that Anthony knew that he had some fear upon his mind. Presently the doctor was brought, and Anthony answered such questions as were put to him, in a faint voice, saying, ‘I was late at my work, and I slipped and fell.’ The doctor, who looked troubled, gave directions; and when he went away he heard his man behind the door asking the doctor about the strange storm in the night, that had seemed like an earthquake, or as if a thunder-bolt had struck the house. But the doctor said very gruffly, ‘It is no time to talk thus, when your master is sick to death.’ But Anthony knew in himself that he would not die yet.
It was long ere he was restored to a measure of health; and indeed he never rightly recovered the use of his limbs; the doctor held that he had suffered some stroke of palsy; at which Anthony smiled a little, and made no answer.
When he was well enough to creep to and fro, he went sadly to the dark room, and with much pain and weakness carried the furniture out of it. The picture he cut into pieces and burnt; and the candles and dishes, with the book, he cast into a deep pool in the stream; the bones he buried in the earth; the hangings he stored away for his own funeral.
Anthony never entered his workroom again; but day after day he sate in his chair, and read a little, mostly the Bible; he made a friend of a very wise old priest, to whom he opened all his heart, and to whom he conveyed much money to be bestowed on the poor; there was a great calm in his spirit, which was soon written in his face, in spite of his pain, for he often suffered sorely; but he told the priest that something, he knew not certainly what, seemed to dwell by him, waiting patiently for his coming; and so Anthony awaited his end.
FATHER MEURON’S TALE
R.H. Benson
Father Meuron was very voluble at supper on the Saturday. He exclaimed; he threw out his hands; his bright black eyes shone above his rosy cheeks; and his hair appeared to stand more on end than I had ever known it.
He sat at the farther side of the horse-shoe table from myself, and I was able to remark on his gaiety to the English priest who sat beside me, without fear of being overheard.
Father Brent smiled.
‘He is drunk with la gloire,’ he said. ‘He is to tell the story tonight.’
This explained everything.
I did not look forward, however, to his recital. I was confident that it would be full of tinsel and swooning maidens who ended their day in convents under Father Meuron’s spiritual direction; and when he came upstairs I found a shadowy corner, a little back from the semi-circle, where I could fall asleep, if I wished, without provoking remark.
In fact I was totally unprepared for the character of his narrative.
When we had all taken our places and Monsignor’s pipe was properly alight, and himself at full length in his deck-chair, the Frenchman began. He told his story in his own language; but I am venturing to render it in English as nearly as I am able.
‘My contribution to the histories,’ he began, seated in his upright arm-chair, a little turned away from me – ‘My contribution to the histories which these good priests are to recite, is an affair of exorcism. That is a matter with which we who live in Europe are not familiar these days. It would seem, I suppose, that grace has a certain power, accumulating through the centuries, of saturating even physical objects with its force. However men may rebel, yet the sacrifices offered and the prayers poured out have a faculty of holding Satan in check, and preventing his more formidable manifestations. Even in my own poor country at this hour, in spite of widespread apostacy, in spite even of the deliberate worship of Satan, yet grace is in the air, and it is seldom, indeed, that a priest has to deal with a case of possession. In your respectable England, too, it is the same; the simple piety of Protestants has kept alive to some extent the force of the Gospel. Here in this country it is somewhat different. The old powers have survived the Christian assault, and while they cannot live in holy Rome, there are corners where they do so.’
From my place I saw Padre Bianchi turn a furtive eye upon the speaker, and I thought I read in it an unwilling assent.
‘However,’ went on the Frenchman, with a superb dismissory gesture, ‘my recital does not concern this continent, but the little island of La Souffrière. There circumstances are other than here. It was a stronghold of darkness when I was there in ’91. Grace, while laying hold of men’s hearts, had not yet penetrated the lower creation. Do you understand me? There were many holy persons whom I knew, who frequented the Sacraments and lived devoutly, but there were many of another manner. The ancient rites survived secretly amongst the negroes, and darkness – how shall I say it? – dimness made itself visible.
‘However, to our history—’
The priest resettled himself in his chair and laid his fingers together like precious instruments. He was enjoying himself vastly, and I could see that he was preparing himself for a revelation.
‘It was in ’91,’ he repeated, ‘that I went there with another of our Fathers to the mission-house. I will not trouble you, gentlemen, with recounting the tale of our arrival, nor of the months that followed it, except perhaps to tell you that I was astonished by much that I saw. Never until that time had I seen the power of the Sacraments so evident. In civilised lands, as I have suggested to you, the air is charged with grace. Each is no more than a wave in the deep sea. He who is without God’s favour is not without His grace at each breath he draws. There are churches, religious, pious persons about him; there are centuries of prayers behind him. The very buildings he enters, as M. Huysmans has explained to us, are browned by prayer. Though a wicked child, he is yet in his Father’s house: and the return from death to life is not such a crossing of the abyss, after all. But there in La Souffrière all is either divine or satanic, black or white, Christian or devilish. One stands as it were on the sea-shore to watch the breakers of grace; and each is a miracle. I tell you I have seen holy catechumens foam at the mouth and roll their eyes in pain, as the saving water fell on them, and that which was within went out. As the Gospel relates, “Spiritus conturbavit illum: et elisus in terram, volutabatur spumans.”’
Father Meuron paused again.
I was interested to hear this corroboration of evidence that had come before me on other occasions. More than one missionary had told me the same thing; and I had found in their tales a parallel to those related by the first preachers of the Christian religion in the early days of the Church.
‘I was incredulous at first,’ continued the priest, ‘until I saw these things for myself. An old father of our mission rebuked me for it. “You are an ignorant fellow,” he said, “your airs are still of the seminary.” And what he said was just, my friends.
‘On one Monday morning as we met for our council, I could see that this old priest had something to say. M. Lasserre was his name. He kept very silent until the little business had been accomplished, and then he turned to the Father Rector.
‘“Monseigneur has written,” he said
, “and given me the necessary permission for the matter you know, my father. And he bids me take another priest with me. I ask that Father Meuron may accompany me. He needs a lesson, this zealous young missionary.”
‘The Father Rector smiled at me, as I sat astonished, and nodded at Father Lasserre to give permission.
‘“Father Lasserre will explain all to you,” he said, as he stood up for prayer.
‘The good priest explained all to me as the Father Rector had directed.
‘It appeared that there was a matter of exorcism on hand. A woman who lived with her mother and husband had been afflicted by the devil, Father Lasserre said. She was a catechumen, and had been devout for several months and all seemed well, until this – this assault had been made on her soul. Father Lasserre had visited the woman and examined her, and had made his report to the bishop, asking permission to exorcise the creature, and it was this permission that had been sent on that morning.
‘I did not venture to tell the priest that he was mistaken and that the affair was one of epilepsy. I had studied a little in books for my medical training, and all that I heard now seemed to confirm to me in the diagnosis. There were the symptoms, easy to read. What would you have?’ – the priest again made his little gesture – ‘I knew more in my youth than all the Fathers of the Church. Their affairs of devils were nothing but an affection of the brain, dreams and fancies! And if the exorcisms had appeared to be of direct service to such folk, it was from the effect of the solemnity upon the mind. It was no more.’
He laughed with a fierce irony.
‘You know it all, gentlemen!’
I had lost all desire to sleep now. The French priest was more interesting than I had thought. His elaborateness seemed dissipated, his voice trembled a little as he arraigned his own conceit, and I began to wonder how his change of mind had been wrought.