‘All the kingdoms of the earth will I give thee if thou wilt fall down and worship me.’*
Who I, the narrator, may be, is of no consequence; I merely mention myself to emphasise the fact that the monk would not have told me the story, or shown me the manuscript, unless I were a person who had an absolute right to know.
In the story I have avoided as many names as possible: where they have to be used I have anglicized them. Also in the transcription I have suppressed, on purpose, all names of places. Let it be sufficient to all that the place where the following occurrences took place was not England.
I was visiting a Carthusian monastery, and the guest-master was showing me round. Each monk had a little house of four rooms, round the large quadrangle; one of these little houses was empty. I was especially struck with this, because there were a few little houses of the same sort built outside the quadrangle; so I asked why was this particular little house not tenanted. The guest-master said it was because of a terrible thing that happened here, and no-one would ever live in that cell. I said, continuing my enquiry, (which was both official and ecclesiastical), ‘You must tell me exactly all about it. I know that you monks, observing the rule of silence, are not inaccurate when you do talk.’
‘Well,’ said the guest-master, ‘although our Order is generally silent, I have to do the talking for the whole community; but I will try and tell you as best I can, though, perhaps, one of the others might relate it better, being less accustomed to speak.
‘That is the cell,’ said the guest-master, ‘where Brother Henry, or rather, I mean Brother Michael, died. You know our habits—you know we do not speak except on Sundays, when, between Nones and Vespers, we are allowed to converse on Spiritual subjects. Then Brother Michael, though the youngest of all, astonished us with his marvellous learning. Then, again, we have one day of recreation in the week: in this Monastery, Thursday. Then we are allowed to take a walk about these large grounds in the afternoon, and to talk about whatsoever we like. Then I suppose, as you will understand, from a kind of nervous reaction we talk chiefly about what we were in the world, and, indeed, play about the place like children. Much the most childish of all was Brother Henry. I call him Henry because that was the name he had in the world, by which we always addressed him on Thursdays. He used to tell a great many stories about his childhood, but there were periods in his life which he never mentioned. I remember once, when we were speaking about the different names we had chosen in religion, we asked him why he chose the name of Michael. He appeared strangely affected, and with his sweet smile, he said, “I would far rather that you would call me Henry, for that was my Christian name; Michael I took for a reason which—”
‘He seemed to be suddenly stopped—leaned his head back as though he were being strangled; but he soon recovered himself, and said, “I felt a little bit ill just now, but it's alright. Let's go and get some flowers for our garden. Just up there, there are some beautiful cyclamens; let's race for them.” Of course, said the guest-master, you will think such kind of conduct undignified with monks; but you know what our life is, and on our one day of recreation we become simply children. All this seems trivial and irrelevant, but it is necessary to explain.
‘Next week I was appointed tintinabularius. At midnight I had to go to ring the bells for Matins. Just as I was taking the bell-rope in my hand I heard a frightful shriek from Brother Henry's cell—so frightful that I rang the alarm bell, and violated the rules of silence by telling the Brothers what I had heard. We went all together to the cell, and there we found Brother Henry lying on the floor, and uttering frightful blasphemies. As we never speak, we had learned to divine the thoughts of one another by the expression of their eyes. I say this because in what followed I am quite certain that all and everyone had the same impressions as myself.
‘Of course, we were absolutely shocked, and indeed were more than shocked at first. When we came to render assistance to Brother Henry, (observing always the rigid rule of silence), a strange influence came upon all—a subtle and peculiar perfume pervaded the room; a mixture, it seemed, of honeysuckle, tuberose and spices and incense, which produced a sense of luxurious languor. We could not move. There seemed to be a vague music floating about the place. Then our saintly Abbot came in, and then suddenly all the raving stopped. There was nothing ocularly visible. I saw by the eyes of the others they had seen what I had seen—what Saint Theresa calls “an intellectual vision.” Something beautiful beyond compare; a sense of rose violet colour with streaks of silver. Then the presence spoke. I knew that all understood. It said, “I am Raphael, the healing of God. Father Michael is in danger of death; he shall be healed if you will take that manuscript on the desk and cast it into the fire.” It was obvious that all of us had heard, because several rushed towards the manuscript to destroy it, when the Abbot said simply “No!” The Abbot said, “Who art thou, that comest in the name of the Lord?” The voice said again, “I am the Son of God. One thing more I ask—there is one picture in the Church, that which was brought by Brother Michael, of the Crucifixion, and must be destroyed, because it is the temptation of the Evil One.”
‘At the time, I was struck by the fact that the voice, sweet and insinuating, caressingly soft, should, on mentioning the name Michael sound sardonic; and on saying the words “the Evil One” seemed to have an echo of horrible laughter. The Abbot said nothing, but beckoned to one who understood, and went out. Another went with him. They returned, one with a torch, and the other with the Ciborium itself. As soon as they had entered the whole languid influence was dispelled. Then the Abbot took the Ciborium in his hands, and Father Henry opened his eyes and prepared himself to receive Communion. He just lifted one arm, pointed to the desk, and said, “Read!” That was all. Having received the Host, he lay back, and we all knew that he was dead!
‘We took up the manuscript, which I will show you,’ said the guest-master. ‘It ended abruptly, as you will see. As we took it up we found a postscript, in quite a different handwriting, very peculiar and very distinct, leaning to the left in red characters. But what was written was in a strange tongue unknown to us. I remember the exact words:
‘Then,’ he continued, ‘it was signed with a monogram, something,’ he said, taking up a paper and a pencil, ‘like this. All traces of it,’ he said, ‘are gone. You see, here is the manuscript, but there is no postscript; but the monogram impressed me so much that I think I can reproduce it more or less.’
He began to draw it; he got as far as this,
when his arm suddenly dropped to his side, withered and paralysed.
A sudden inspiration came over me. I took him, or rather, dragged and supported him, to the Church, and there, in a side-chapel was a picture of the Crucifixion, in a very plain frame. The picture was horrible at first sight; every pore oozed with blood; on the frame was written, in the same writing as the manuscript, ‘He was not comely or desired of men.’ Then again: ‘We esteemed Him as a leper—as one afflicted of God.’ Then at the bottom, more neatly written, ‘A Man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. By His stripes we are healed.’
I looked at the picture again: Yes, the figure was ghastly—but the eyes were divine, filled with infinite pity. I took the monk's paralysed hand and made it touch the feet in the picture. At once the arm was healed. We both remained prostrate in adoration for a long while, then the monk gave me the manuscript to read, of which I now give a transcription.
The Manuscript
Knowledge; Riches; Power
‘I had, I think, more knowledge than anyone on the earth. I had utterly and entirely mastered the algebraic analysis; but that merely unfolded to me ideas that I could only just touch upon, and not conceive. I thirsted for more. Now I was utterly depressed because I knew all that there was to be known in that aspect. There I was sitting, with the compasses in my hand, and my various implements lying around me. Just over my head was a square, in which was framed a very difficult mathematical problem, of which I had found the solution. My dog was lying at my feet utterly weary and listless. I arose, and looked out of the window from my turret-chamber, on to the sea. At one time the sea fascinated me beyond all things—now it looked dull and lifeless. There was a strange light upon it, and something dark seemed to flit across the light. Even the rocks had become to me mere problems of integral calculus in their various curves. I closed the window with a shudder; the air seemed glacially cold. “What have I gained by all this?” I mused. “I would give all this knowledge for the simple Faith I had in my youth!”
‘Riches I had, certainly—but not to the extent I would have, to enable me to realise all dreams. Power I also had to some degree—not to that degree I aspired to. Then I said, “There is yet another thing in that I am wholly deficient. I mean Love. Yes, that is the reason why the sea is listless, and the rocks merely mathematical.” I had just painted a picture, representing Cupid working at mathematical problems on a slate, with a pair of equally weighted scales behind. By this I meant to represent my own state of mind. I could not possibly love. I weighed every emotion in the balance, and reckoned it out and analysed it. And then there was no beauty I had ever seen who could satisfy my cravings for the Ideal.
‘As I was thinking thus, the air became gradually perfumed. A strange delicious scent, mingled of honeysuckle, jasmine, incense and spices. Then before me there was a faint glimmer of rose-violet colour, bordered with silver, from which the scent seemed to emanate. Then the light grew brighter, and in the midst thereof there was an apparition—something incomparably and entirely beautiful. It was a figure entirely nude, shaped like the Greek Hermaphrodite. But, oh, how much more beautiful! All conceivable beauties of both sexes were blended in its beautiful lines. The face was beyond description in its incredible loveliness. Its long hair was bronze-coloured, with threads of gold. The mouth was infinitely sweet, the eyes, which were of dark violet, infinitely sad.
‘It said, (I do not know that it actually spoke, for what it said seemed rather to impress the mind than the outward hearing, and yet it was like a human voice speaking, singularly sweet, accompanied by far-off music) “I have all knowledge. By the knowledge that I can impart ye may be as gods, knowing good and evil. All the riches of the earth are mine, and all power is given unto me. Or—” (here the voice became railing and scornful), “I have it! Then,” (here the voice became infinitely tender) “I am a Seraph: my life is love. All I ask in return is a little love. I show mercy unto thousands of them that love me. My children, my chosen, who worship me, my children, my chosen, taken from the elect of mankind, whose intellect is sufficient to understand me.”
‘‘‘I am,” it answered, “the son of God, who, for man and man's salvation descended from Heaven, and for love of men would not rise again.”
‘“How do men name thee?” I asked.
‘‘‘Men name me by different names,” he said. “Many call me Shaitan, the enemy: my followers call me the Lightbearer.” (Then the voice again became railing and scoffing). “We do not go by our right names. They call Him Jehovah, or Adonai, but His real name is—” Then he said out loud, with a mocking laugh, that which no mortal has dared to pronounce; and then the voice, becoming tender again, continued: “My name is—” then he uttered another name, also composed entirely of vowels; it was the inversion of the other name, and the last vowel was pronounced with a long wail of agony.
‘At the first name, an awful terror seized me; at the second a feeling of infinite pity and attraction. The figure advanced towards me—it threw its arms around me and kissed me. A sensation of extreme pleasure penetrated every nerve of my body. Then the vision seemed to melt into a dream; I had certainly fallen asleep, but the voice spoke still. It told a long account of the entire history of the universe; how it was created by a malignant God, and how that he was the Redeemer, and how all that was beautiful on the earth was his work and if he had assistance from those whom he sought to benefit, all things would come again to their original fair order, and that he should come to his own inheritance again. Then the voice became sadder than ever: “There is another they call the Redeemer,” (here the voice varied between scoffing and sadness). “He suffered for a few hours and I suffer always. Yet even to Him I was merciful. I offered Him all the Kingdoms of the earth if He would but worship me, for I thought to love Him as I love thee. They put His Cross on their crowns, and trample down the people in His Name. I am the consoler of the afflicted—the friend of the poor and the down-trodden. The refuge of sinners—the seat of wisdom; the morning-star—the chief of angels. I will leave one sign,” he said, “to show that my visit was real,” and here something was pressed into my hand. The voice seemed to continue, and through the dream a certain address in the city was impressed on my mind. Then I almost heard definite words: “Show this at the door. It will be next Friday 8 o’clock. Then whatsoever is asked, do, and verily thou shalt not be without thy reward!” I had again the same languorous, delicious sensation, and gradually fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. I woke up the next day singularly refreshed.
‘‘‘What a strange dream!” I thought, and then I felt something in my hand. It was simply a silver disc inscribed with a strange monogram. For days I didn't know what to do. As I said before, I had given up the faith of my childhood. Then why should I not go? My curiosity, or desire for knowledge, was too strong. Still, at that time, the faith of my childhood seemed to come back to me. Every time I passed a church, something seemed to irresistibly drag me in. When I put my foot on the threshold a kind of paralysis seized me, and I could not move in that direction, so I avoided ever passing a church door. And the following Friday I went.
‘I knocked at the door of the house specified, and showed the medal to the person who opened the door. There was a closed carriage with white horses waiting at the door. Immediately two people came, and said, “We were expecting you.” Then before I could see them, they wound a yellow silken handkerchief over my eyes, strangely and deliciously scented, and hurried me into the carriage. I felt I was powerless to resist. Neither of them spoke a single word. The horses went with singular rapidity, and seemed to give no sound in going. At last it stopped.
‘I was taken up several flights of stairs, then the bandages were removed. I was in a chapel. My first impression was that peculiar perfume of honeysuckle, jasmine and spiced incense, that I had had before. The perfume seemed to emanate from the many candles and candelabra about the chapel, which were all black, but which emitted a rose-coloured flame. It was so faint a light that it was impossible to distinguish the others who were in the chapel. The altar, which was of rich material, was in the form of a great coiled serpent. Thereon were six black candles, burning with a steady and somewhat brighter flame. In the midst there was a bronze statue, a reproduction of the vision I had had the week before: with great outspread wings, silver and rose-colour. In the left hand it held aloft a singularly bright light, and in the right one downwards a cornucopia. On either side were two much smaller statues—on the right, Baal; on the left, Astarte, both terrifically obscene. In the middle, between the feet of the statue, was a still more horrible figure of Moloch, holding a hatchet in his hand.
‘The chapel seemed very richly decorated. There were many pictures, but I could only distinguish three. They represented the history of Cain. The first was—Cain, proud, youthful and beautiful, offering the fruits of the earth. Then Abel, with a cruel, mean, abject expression, killing a lamb, whose expression seemed to call for pity. Then Cain standing triumphant on his brother's body and a burlesquely irascible old man, sealing him on the forehead with the monogram which was on the medal. Then entered a priest, accompanied by two remarkably handsome acolytes. I was paralysed and could not move. I expected something terrible. The priest wore an extraordinary gorgeous chasuble, and he merely commenced to say a low Mass in the ordinary way, except, it seemed to me, in an unknown tongue. As soon as the Mass commenced, a strange music, of violins and flutes began. The musicians were not to be seen. It was entrancingly beautiful, and very, very sad. It seemed to come in gusts, like the tone of an Æolian harp, and then die again, very, very soft. At the Epistle the music ceased. The Epistle was read aloud in the unknown tongue. Then, during an extremely sad Gradual, two acolytes went behind the altar, and brought forth something that looked like the Jewish “Thorah”, and unrolled from its rich coverings a manuscript, and held it before the priest, who now turned towards the people. I was utterly surprised to recognise in him a well-known noble of vast wealth. The people stood up, but did not make the sign of the Cross. I think I omitted to mention the whole floor was covered with crosses, the significance of which I understood afterwards. The priest read aloud an extract from the Book, while a third acolyte cast incense on to a tripod before the altar. After this, which corresponded to the Gospel, I suddenly became aware of, sitting on a peculiarly shaped seat, a strangely beautiful dark woman, clad entirely in black, with a silver circlet round her head with one ruby of extraordinary lustre. On her lap was coiled a serpent, of all colours of the rainbow. She began to give a sermon in the unknown tongue, or, rather, to prophesy. Everyone listened to what she said in wrapt attention; then all the congregation together said a creed aloud; at one portion all stamped on the crosses on the floor, and spat. Then the music began again, and the offertory followed, according to the usual rite. Then the rest, (except that there was no bell rung at what corresponds to the Sanctus). The acolyte cast more incense on the tripod. Then the music again suddenly ceased. Then the priest said in Latin, in a very loud voice, “Hoc est corpus meum,” and the rest of the words of consecration. I noticed at the elevation that the Host was black, and stamped with the same monogram. After the elevation of the Chalice the most terrible thing of all happened. There was utter silence. The serpent glided down from the woman's lap and crept down on to the altar. It devoured one of the Hosts, and crawled over the rest. Then it tasted of the Chalice; then glided back whence it had come. Then the Mass seemed to proceed on the same lines as usual. Just at the time which would correspond to the “Domine non sum dignus”, two people took hold of me from either side, and I was powerless to resist. They took me to the altar rails and divested me of my clothing. A sharp instrument was then handed to the priest. He made two punctures, which caused pungent pain; one beneath the left breast, the other one on the right arm, saying, “Set me as a seal on thine heart, and as a seal on mine arm, for Love is as strong as Death.” The pain was only momentary, and then I saw the monogram had been impressed on both places. They put on me a perfumed mantle of soft material, and other communicants came to the altar rails. All communicated in utter silence, in both kinds. The wine was blood-red, of peculiarly delicious flavour. On taking it I felt a sudden vitality come into me. Then, when I had consumed the Host, I had the same delightful sensation again as I had during the vision. The Baal and Astarte now seemed to me to be beautiful; and Moloch, though awful, sublime and benevolent. Again music began. This time it was accompanied by far-off voices, also in the unknown tongue; but, strange to say, I now understood it. It was a Litany: “O, merciful, O, good God, Redeemer of Mankind, O, one Holy Spirit; Lover of man, consoler of the afflicted, giver of all delight, sun of illumination, seat of all knowledge,” and much more besides, to which the congregation murmured the response, “Have pity on us.”
‘It ended I cannot tell how. I was in a state of ecstasy. I only remember finding myself in the street, where the bandage was taken from my eyes; two people went into the house, and the carriage with white horses drove swiftly away. I began to walk. How had my step become so light and elastic? I went into a Café to ask the way. Then I caught sight of myself in a mirror—or was that myself? There was some resemblance. I had become quite young, and singularly beautiful. They all seemed to look at me in wonder. I walked the whole length of the town without the slightest fatigue. When I got home I feared I should not be recognised, but I was, and I was given a book which they said had been left for me. It was beautifully bound and printed, labelled “Apadno”, with a device of a serpent strangling an eagle. I looked into it. It was in the unknown tongue that I had so strangely acquired. It consisted of a series of Gospels, telling the history of the universe, and of him who had been cast out. Then there was an Appendix, stating the method to transmute all metals into gold; and another, how to obtain the Elixir of Life. The first, which was perfectly simple, I tried at once, and with complete success. The second I never have—it was too terrible. On the flyleaf of the first page was written in characters of red, “To mine own, of mine own. All that I ask is come to Communion every Friday.”
‘All this I did. The same thing happened every time. No-one spoke to me.
‘At last one day, the priest said to me, “You must attend the Sacrifice. Then you will be fully initiated, and need not be blindfolded any more. Be there—”, mentioning the first address, “three hours before midnight on midsummer day.”
‘At the time specified I went to the house. The carriage with the white horses was waiting at the door. Almost immediately the priest himself came out. He beckoned to me to sit in the carriage, and sat himself beside me; he said no word. The horses went very swiftly. The drive was long, through a large bleak tract of country, and nothing to relieve the monotony save the occasional cry of a wild bird.
‘At last we came to some gates, which opened at our approach and then shut. We went up a long carriage-drive. The place seemed utterly desolate and untenanted. The carriage startled a flock of black sheep that were asleep. Then a large white owl flew across the drive, with a melancholy hoot. A bat dashed itself against the window-pane. We came at length to an old castle, seemingly uninhabited, except that in one upper room a red light was burning, and on the top of the tower another light. The doors were opened for us by a silent porter. I was taken up a long staircase, and found myself at last in a very large and very luxuriously fitted up bedroom, with an extremely large fireplace, in which there was a large fire burning. The atmosphere of the rooms was oppressively hot and perfumed. The carpet was very soft and several inches thick, of a deep red colour. Indeed, the staircase was carpeted with the same material, so that no footstep could be heard. The walls were also hung with red tapestry, with gorgeous patterns in gold and costly jewels. Above the fireplace was the fatal image of Moloch. There was a very large splendidly caparisoned bed. Also a table, spread with all kinds of confectionery and sweetmeats, and decanters of the wine of Cyprus. The priest handed me a glass. When I had drunk of it, I felt my initial terror going from me. There were several acolytes in the room, all young and handsome; also a sombre looking man, dressed in a dark magician's robe. The priest himself was dressed in the ordinary priestly costume. None spoke; all seemed to be waiting for something. Then the door opened, and a dark woman of evil aspect came in, bringing in with her two children. The woman had a basket of toys slung on her back, and the children were holding some of the toys in their hands. The woman crept over to the priest, and whispered, “I think this time I have a nice morsel for Monseigneur.” The priest silently passed some money—a great deal—into her hand, and she glided out as quickly as she had come in.
‘The children were obviously of the peasant class. They were barefooted, clean and healthy looking, and decently, if not smartly, dressed. They were obviously brother and sister; in age something between ten and twelve. Both were pretty; the boy was the elder, and by far the prettier of the two. Indeed, it was an angelic face, with heavenly blue eyes and gold shimmering hair. They looked so innocent and so frightened. They clung together. The priest looked the very picture of paternal benevolence. Obviously at the sight of him they were getting over their fright, and were feeling with their bare feet the softness of the carpets. “My poor dears,” said the priest, “what is there to be frightened at? It is so sweet of you to come and see us in this lonely place; besides, I have a little surprise in store for you. You just happen to be the very people I want. Your father is a mason, is he not?” The children listened open-mouthed. “Well, I want some repairs done in my private chapel, and I believe your father would do it better than anyone else. Tell him I will pay him well. But stay! You had better take this letter to him, and hoping he will begin the job the day after tomorrow, I send him the first instalment. You see I put the money into the letter.” The children moved towards him to take the letter!
‘“But my dears,” he said, taking them on either side of him, “you must not go from here empty-handed. Come, see how you like these cakes and sweetmeats.” Saying this, he kissed the boy and stroked the girl on the head, and poured them out each a glass of Cyprus wine. The children seemed to gain confidence, his manner to them was so charming. They took cakes and sweetmeats, and tasted the wine, which they seemed to like. Then they began to prattle, telling the priest all about their first Communion. At last the girl said: “We were rather frightened at first, when the woman brought us here; we didn't know we should find such a nice kind priest. But we should be so frightened to go home alone.” “Oh,” said the priest, “do you suppose for a moment I should let you go home alone? I will see that you are properly taken care of.”
‘After a while, suddenly the priest's expression changed utterly. It became the face of a wild beast seizing on its prey. He suddenly bit the boy in the neck. What happened then I cannot—dare not—relate. The girl knelt down in the middle of the room, and began to recite:
‘“Be quiet!” said an acolyte. “If you are silent you shall be spared.” The child went on all the more:
And so she went through the whole Litany of Our Lady. When she came to say: “Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata mundi,” the priest made a sign. Two acolytes hurried up, one with a scimitar, and the other with a golden bowl. The one with the scimitar suddenly cut the boy's throat; the one with the golden bowl caught the blood. Then the priest seized the scimitar, and seizing the little girl, who was still kneeling and praying, by the hair, with one blow from behind severed her head from her body. Then, pointing at her with a gesture of disgust, said “Throw her away!” The acolytes took the body and the head, and opened the window and threw them out into the moat. I heard two splashes. Then they wiped up the blood, and cast the clothes also out of the window, then shut the window again. Then the boy's head was wholly severed from the body. The magician waited with a patten; a lock of hair and some parts of the body were placed on the patten. The magician disappeared through a door I had not seen before by a spiral staircase to the upper chamber. Then an acolyte brought a richly jewelled reliquary, filled with salt, into which the boy's head was placed. Then the bowl of blood was placed before the fire. A rainbow coloured serpent appeared and, going up to the bowl, lapped up the blood. Then the boy's body was cast into the fire, after which the priest cast himself upon the bed in absolute languor. I myself was absolutely petrified with horror, and could not possibly move a single muscle. I thought now there would be an horrible odour of burnt flesh, but there was not. A thick dense blue smoke came forth from the fireplace, and there was now the mingled perfume of honeysuckle, jasmine and spiced incense; cool, even, and refreshing, there seemed to be a raining dew. The dense smoke gradually cleared itself; then there was a rose-coloured radiance, then silver; then the lovely vision I had seen at first showed itself, with the same expression of infinite tenderness and sadness. The acolytes fell prostrate on their faces, but I, feeling strangely bold, turned to address it. Before I could speak, it spoke; “I know well what you are going to say,” he said. “You think me cruel. Have I not given you my Gospel? Have you not read it? Do you know so little? Do you not even know the first law of the universe—without Death there is no Light? It is God's law, not my law. Did He not, too, demand His victims in His temple, with its hideous shambles? Did He not require the sacrifice of Isaac? Did He not kill my rival?”—then exultingly—“He could not kill me. I am immortal. I am a spirit, and will be worshipped in spirit and in truth.” Then tenderly again: “Is it not expedient that one should die for the people?” I said very lamely, stammering: “One—but why two?” “She was not meant for sacrifice,” he said, in a tone of anger not heard before. “She invoked a name of all others most abhorrent to me. Often have I bruised her heel; soon I shall rear my head over her.” He laughed terribly saying this. “Once,” he continued, “in horror of that name I invented a ridiculous religion called Protestantism, and they have ended in not believing in me. But many do my behests without knowing. Blessed are they that see and know!”
‘I tried to answer, but could not. The figure grew larger and larger, till it assumed colossal proportions; the rose colour became flaming red fire; the face could not be looked at—it flashed lightning. “Who is this,” he said, “who will dispute my commands? My kingdom shall come, my will shall be done on earth as it was in Heaven.” There was a clap of thunder and a flash of lightning, which for a moment blinded me. Then when I opened my eyes again, there was the same lovely vision with the infinitely sad eyes. The same sweet, tender voice said: “They that love me keep my commandments. Go now, the horses are already waiting.”
‘The vision disappeared. But I went down the stairs impelled by another force. The carriage was waiting; I got into it; but it went off at once. As soon as it began to move, delicious music accompanied it. I felt nothing but a delightful languor, and fell asleep, with some sense of loving arms carrying me. Then when I awoke, I found myself in my own bed.
‘I was examining an old cabinet in my house, and I found a beautifully carved old crucifix. I was taking it up to look at it, when a sudden shiver made me drop it, and it broke. Then there was a sense of the same perfume, and a tender voice said: “What were His sufferings to mine? I suffer eternally—He suffered for three hours and was glorified. I suffer for the love of man. None knows or can understand what I suffer—I, the firstborn son of God! That is a thing no image could represent, but His suffering can be easily portrayed.”
‘‘‘Can you portray it?’ I said.
‘“Yes,” he said scornfully. “What hand could portray it save mine? Was I not there? Did I not see? Take up that brush and begin to paint.”
‘I did as I was bid. No movement was voluntary; my hand was swayed to and fro, and the picture grew under my eyes. It was terrible! Blood flowed from every pore. Every disgraceful circumstance was emphasised. The figure was mean and abject. Then I began to paint the face. It was so disfigured as not to be even attractive. But then—’
Here the paper looked as if scorched. There was written
‘Oh, piteous Christ!’
It was struck out with a red mark. Then:
‘J— ’
and here the manuscript ended abruptly. Then I said, ‘How did he come here and what account did he give?’
‘He came here,’ answered the guest-master, ‘barefooted and humbly clad. He was carrying with him that picture which you have seen. He had with him a large sum of money which he gave to the Abbot, and implored him to receive him into the community. All that he asked as a special favour was, that the picture be allowed to remain in his cell during his novitiate, and this was granted to him. He was very pale and ill; I know he suffered frightfully, but just at that time I was the one who brought the daily food supply, and so had more opportunities for observing him. But no suffering kept him from attending to the minutest detail of the Rule. He never told anything about himself—at least I mean that part of his life with which the manuscript deals. He gradually recovered his health in some measure and, when professed, he gave the picture to the church. I have told you about his death.’
‘May I copy the manuscript?’ I asked.
‘Of course you may,’ he answered. ‘You are our ecclesiastical superior, and you may make what use of the manuscript you like. But if my presumption may be excused, I should say, do not publish it, as it might cause the loss of some soul.’