THE SUPERNATURAL OMNIBUS (68 page)

(Item. A vessel of silver, adorned with a crystal supported on four statuettes. The work of Benvenuto, most famous of goldsmiths. This crystal our Pontiff Pomponius was wont to use in our rites at Rome in days gone by.)

‘Well, that sounds conclusive enough,’ said Father Bertrand, who had been listening intently. ‘Opus Benevenuti, aurificis clarissimi, could only mean Cellini; and the last sentence certainly sounds very suspicious, though it doesn’t give one much to go upon as to the use made of the crystal.’

‘But there is more yet,’ broke in Herr Aufrecht, ‘it is in another script and much fainter.’ He peered into the page with eyes screwed up, and then exclaimed in surprise, ‘Why it is Greek!’

‘Indeed,’ said the squire, with interest, ‘that accounts for my failure to read it. I’m afraid I forgot all the Greek I ever knew as soon as I left school.’

Meanwhile the professor had produced his pocket-book, and was jotting down the words as he deciphered them, while Father Bertrand and myself took the opportunity to examine the work on the little plaques which adorned the base of the fountain.

‘I haf him all now,’ announced Herr Aufrecht, triumphantly,' after a few minutes. ‘Listen and I will translate him to you,’ and after a little hesitation he read out the following:

In the globe all truth is recorded, of the present, the past and the future.

To him that shall gaze it is shown; whosoever shall seek he shall find. O Lucifer, star of the morn, give ear to the voice of thy servant,

Enter and dwell in my heart, who adore thee as master and lord.

Fabius Britannicus.

‘Fabius Britannicus,’ exclaimed the squire, as the professor ceased reading, ‘why, those are the words on the base of the pagan altar in the background of Sir Hubert’s portrait!’

‘I doubt not he was named Fabius Britannicus in the Academia,’ answered the German; ‘all the members thereof did receive classical names in place of their own.’

‘It must be that,’ said the squire; ‘so he really was a worshipper of Satan. No wonder tradition paints him in such dark colours. But, why - of course,’ he burst out, ‘I see it all now, that explains everything.’

We all looked up, surprised at his vehemence, but he kept silent, until Father Bertrand said gently:

‘I think, Philip, you can tell us something more about all this; will you not do so? ’

The old man hesitated for a little while and then answered: ‘Very well, if you wish it, you shall hear the story; but I must ask you to excuse me giving you the name. Although the principal actor in it has been dead many years now, I would rather keep his identity secret.

‘When I was still quite a young man, and before I decided to take orders, I made friends in London with a man who was a spiritualist. He was on terms of intimacy with Home, the medium, and he himself possessed considerable gifts in the same direction. He often pressed me to attend some of their seances, which I always refused to do, but our relations remained quite friendly, and at length he came down here on a visit to Stanton Rivers.

‘The man was a journalist by profession, a critic and writer on matters artistic, so one evening, although we were quite alone at dinner, I told the butler, Avison’s predecessor, to put out the Cellini fountain for him to see. I did not warn him what to expect, as I wanted to get his unbiased opinion, but the moment he set eyes on it, he burst out in admiration, and, like our friend the professor tonight, he pronounced it to be unquestionably by Benvenuto himself.

‘I said it was always believed to be his work, but purposely told him nothing about Sir Hubert, or my suspicions as to the original use of the crystal, and he did not question me about its history. As the meal advanced, however, he became curiously silent and self-absorbed. Sometimes I had to repeat what I was saying two or three times before he grasped the point; and I began to feel uncomfortable and anxious, so that it was a real relief when the butler put the decanters on the table and left us to ourselves.

‘My friend was sitting on my right, at the side of the table, so that we could talk to each other more easily, and I noticed that he kept his gaze fixed on the fountain in front of him. After all it was a very natural thing for him to do, and at first I did not connect his silence and distraction with the piece of plate.

‘All at once he leaned forward until his eyes were not two feet away from the great crystal globe, into which he gazed with the deepest attention, as if fascinated. It is difficult to convey to you how intense and concentrated his manner became. It was as if he looked right into the heart of the globe - not at it, if you understand, but at something inside it, something beneath the surface, and that something of a compelling, absorbing nature which engrossed every fibre of his being in one act of profound attention.

‘For a minute or two he sat like this in perfect silence, and I noticed the sweat beginning to stand out on his forehead, while his breath came audibly between his lips, under the strain. Then, all at once, I felt I must do something, and without stopping to deliberate I said in a loud tone, “I command you to tell me what it is you see.”

‘As I spoke, a kind of shiver ran through his frame, but his eyes never moved from the crystal ball. Then his lips moved, and after some seconds came a faint whisper, uttered as if with extreme difficulty, and what he said was something like this:

‘“There is a low, flat arch, with a kind of slab beneath it, and a picture at the back. There is a cloth on the slab, and on the cloth a tall gold cup, and lying in front of it is a thin white disc. By the side is a monster, like a huge toad,” and he shuddered, “but it is much too big to be a toad. It glistens, and its eyes have a cruel light in them. Oh, it is horrible!” Then all at once the voice leaped to a shrill note, and he spoke very rapidly, as if the scene were changing quicker than he could describe it.

‘“The man in front - the one with a cross on the back of his cloak - is holding a dagger in his hand. He raises it and strikes at the white disc. He has pierced it with the dagger. It bleeds! The white cloth beneath it is all red with blood. But the monster - some of the blood has fallen upon it as it spurted out, and the toad is writhing now as if in agony. Ah! it leaps down from the slab, it is gone. All present rise up in confusion; there is a tumult. They rush away down the dark passages. Only one remains, the man with the cross on his back. He is lying insensible upon the ground. On the slab still stands the gold cup and white disc with the bloodstained cloth, and the picture behind and the voice sank to an inaudible whisper, as if the speaker were exhausted.

‘Almost without thinking, I put a question to him before the sight should fade entirely. “The picture, what is it like?” But instead of answering he merely whispered "Irene, da calda,” and fell back as if exhausted in his chair.’

There was silence for a few moments.

‘And your friend, the spiritualist,’ began Father Bertrand, ‘could he tell you nothing more of what he saw?’

‘I did not ask him,’ answered the old priest, ‘for, when he came to himself, he seemed quite ignorant of what he had told me during his trance. But, some years afterwards, I got some further light on the incident, and that in quite an unexpected way. Just wait a minute, and I will show you what I believe to be the picture he saw at the back of the niche!’ And the old man walked to one of the bookcases and selected a large folio volume.

‘The picture I am going to show you is an exact copy of one of the frescoes in the catacombs of SS. Peter and Marcellinus, where I came upon it, quite unexpectedly, during my period in Rome as a student; it has been reproduced since by Lanciani in one of his books. Ah, here it is,’ and he laid the album on the table.

There, before us, was a copy of an undeniable catacomb fresco depicting an ‘agape’ or love-feast! a group of figures symbolical both of the Last Supper and the communion of the elect. Above it were the contemporary inscriptions, ‘irene da calda’ and ‘agape misce mi’, while round about were scrawled, in characters evidently much more recent, a number of names: ‘POMPONIUS, FABIANUS, RUFFUS, LETUS, VOLSCUS, FABIUS’ and others, all of them members of the notorious Academy. There they had written them in charcoal, and there they still remain today, as evidence how the innermost recesses of a Christian catacomb were profaned, and the cult of Satan practised there, by the neo-pagans of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.

We sat looking at the picture in silence for a minute or so, and then Herr Aufrecht turned to the Dominican.

‘Fra Bertrand,’ he said, ‘you are Master in Theologia, what is your opinion of all this? ’

The friar hesitated for a moment before he answered.

‘Well, Herr Aufrecht,’ he said at length, ‘the Church has never ceased to teach the possibility of diabolical possession, and for my part I see no reason why a thing,’ and he pointed to the crystal, ‘should not become “possessed” in much the same way as a person can. But if you ask my opinion on the practical side of the question, I should say that, since Father Philip here cannot legally part with his heirloom, he certainly acts wisely in keeping it under lock and key.’

from
ALL THE YEAR ROUND
, 1860

***

Mine is my brother’s Ghost Story. It happened to my brother about thirty years ago, while he was wandering, sketch-book in hand, among the High Alps, picking up subjects for an illustrated work on Switzerland. Having entered the Oberland by the Brunig Pass, and filled his portfolio with what he used to call ‘bits’ from the neighbourhood of Meyringen, he went over the Great Scheideck to Grindlewald, where he arrived one dusky September evening, about three quarters of an hour after sunset. There had been a fair that day, and the place was crowded. In the best inn there was not an inch of space to spare - there were only two inns at Grindlewald, thirty years ago - so my brother went to one at the end of the covered bridge next the church, and there, with some difficulty, obtained the promise of a pile of rugs and a mattress, in a room which was already occupied by three other travellers.

The Adler was a primitive hostelry, half farm, half inn, with great rambling galleries outside, and a huge general room, like a barn. At the upper end of this room stood long stoves, like metal counters, laden with steaming-pans, and glowing underneath like furnaces. At the lower end, smoking, supping, and chatting, were congregated some thirty or forty guests, chiefly mountaineers, char drivers, and guides. Among these my brother took his seat, and was served, like the rest, with a bowl of soup, a platter of beef, a flagon of country wine, and a loaf made of Indian corn. Presently, a huge St Bernard dog came and laid his nose upon my brother’s arm. In the meantime he fell into conversation with two Italian youths, bronzed and dark-eyed, near whom he happened to be seated. They were Florentines. Their names, they told him, were Stefano and Battisto. They had been travelling for some months on commission, selling cameos, mosaics, sulphur casts, and the like pretty Italian trifles, and were now oh their way to Interlaken and Geneva. Weary of the cold North, they longed, like children, for the moment which should take them back to their own blue hills and grey-green olives; to their workshop on the Ponte Vecchio, and their home down by the Arno.

It was quite a relief to my brother, on going up to bed, to find that these youths were to be two of his fellow-lodgers. The third was already there, and sound asleep, with his face to the wall. They scarcely looked at this third. They were all tired, and all anxious to rise at daybreak, having agreed to walk together over the Wengern Alp as far as Lauterbrunnen. So, my brother and the two youths exchanged a brief good night, and, before many minutes, were all as far away in the land of dreams as their unknown companion.

My brother slept profoundly - so profoundly that, being roused in the morning by a clamour of merry voices, he sat up dreamily in his rugs, and wondered where he was.

‘Good day, signor,’ cried Battisto. ‘Here is a fellow-traveller going the same way as ourselves.’

‘Christien Baumann, native of Kandersteg, musical-box maker by trade, stands five feet eleven in his shoes, and is at monsieur’s service to command,’ said the sleeper of the night before.

He was as fine a young fellow as one would wish to see. Light, and strong, and well proportioned, with curling brown hair, and bright, honest eyes that seemed to dance at every word he uttered.

‘Good morning,’ said my brother. ‘You were asleep last night when we came up.’

‘Asleep! I should think so, after being all day in the fair, and walking from Meyringen the evening before. What a capital fair it was!’

‘Capital, indeed,’ said Battisto. ‘We sold cameos and mosaics yesterday, for nearly fifty francs.’

‘Oh, you sell cameos and mosaics, you two! Show me your cameos, and I will show you my musical boxes. I have such pretty ones, with coloured views of Geneva and Chillon on the lids, playing two, four, six and even eight tunes. Bah! I will give you a concert ’

And with this he unstrapped his pack, displayed his little boxes on the table, and wound them up, one after the other, to the delight of the Italians.

‘I helped to make them myself, every one,’ said he, proudly. ‘Is it not pretty music? I sometimes set one of them when I g0 to bed at night, and fall asleep listening to it. I am sure, then, to have pleasant dreams ! But let us see your cameos. Perhaps I may buy one for Marie, if they are not too dear. Marie is my sweetheart, and we are to be married next week.’

‘Next week!’ exclaimed Stefano. ‘That is very soon. Battisto has a sweetheart also, up at Impruneta; but they will have to wait a long time before they can buy the ring.’

Battisto blushed like a girl.

‘Hush, brother! ’ said he. ‘Show the cameos to Christien, and give your tongue a holiday! ’

But Christien was not so to be put off.

‘What is her name?’ said he. ‘Tush! Battisto, you must tell me her name! Is she pretty? Is she dark, or fair? Do you often see her when you are at home? Is she very fond of you? Is she as fond of you as Marie is of me?’