The Twilight of the Gods, and Other Tales - Richard Garnett
"I think you might put in a word for _my_ bell," interposed Euschemon, a
little squinting saint, very merry and friendly when not put out, as on the
present occasion.
"Your bell!" retorted the big saints, with incredible disdain; and,
forgetting their own altercation, they fell so fiercely on their little
brother that he ran away, stopping his ears with his hands, and vowing
vengeance.
A short time after this fracas, a personage of venerable appearance
presented himself at Epinal, and applied for the post of sacristan and
bell-ringer, at that time vacant. Though he squinted, his appearance was
far from disagreeable, and he obtained the appointment without difficulty.
His deportment in it was in all respects edifying; or if he evinced some
little remissness in the service of Saints Eulogius and Eucherius, this was
more than compensated by his devotion to the hitherto somewhat slighted
Saint Euschemon. It was indeed observed that candles, garlands, and other
offerings made at the shrines of the two senior saints were found to be
transferred in an unaccountable and mystical manner to the junior, which
induced experienced persons to remark that a miracle was certainly
brewing. Nothing, however, occurred until, one hot summer afternoon, the
indications of a storm became so threatening that the sacristan was
directed to ring the bells. Scarcely had he begun than the sky became
clear, but instead of the usual rich volume of sound the townsmen heard
with astonishment a solitary tinkle, sounding quite ridiculous and
unsatisfactory in comparison. St. Euschemon's bell was ringing by itself.
In a trice priests and laymen swarmed to the belfry, and indignantly
demanded of the sacristan what he meant.
"To enlighten you," he responded. "To teach you to give honour where honour
is due. To unmask those canonised impostors."
And he called their attention to the fact that the clappers of the bells of
Eulogius and Eucherius were so fastened up that they could not emit a
sound, while that of Euschemon vibrated freely.
"Ye see," he continued, "that these sound not at all, yet is the tempest
stayed. Is it not thence manifest that the virtue resides solely in the
bell of the blessed Euschemon?"
The argument seemed conclusive to the majority, but those of the clergy who
ministered at the altars of Eulogius and Eucherius stoutly resisted,
maintaining that no just decision could be arrived at until Euschemon's
bell was subjected to the same treatment as the others. Their view
eventually prevailed, to the great dismay of Euschemon, who, although
firmly convinced of the virtue of his own bell, did not in his heart
disbelieve in the bells of his brethren. Imagine his relief and amazed joy
when, upon his bell being silenced, the storm, for the first time in the
memory of the oldest inhabitant, broke with full fury over Epinal, and, for
all the frantic pealing of the other two bells, raged with unspeakable
fierceness until his own was brought into requisition, when, as if by
enchantment, the rain ceased, the thunder-clouds dispersed, and the sun
broke out gloriously from the blue sky.
"Carry him in procession!" shouted the crowd.
"Amen, brethren; here I am," rejoined Euschemon, stepping briskly into the
midst of the troop.
"And why in the name of Zernebock should we carry _you?_" demanded some,
while others ran off to lug forth the image, the object of their devotion.
"Why, verily," Euschemon began, and stopped short. How indeed was he to
prove to them that he _was_ Euschemon? His personal resemblance to his
effigy, the work of a sculptor of the idealistic school, was in no respect
remarkable; and he felt, alas! that he could no more work a miracle than
you or I. In the sight of the multitude he was only an elderly sexton with
a cast in his eye, with nothing but his office to keep him out of the
workhouse. A further and more awkward question arose, how on earth was he
to get back to Paradise? The ordinary method was not available, for he had
already been dead for several centuries; and no other presented itself to
his imagination.
Muttering apologies, and glad to be overlooked, Euschemon shrank into a
corner, but slightly comforted by the honours his image was receiving at
the hands of the good people of Epinal. As time wore on he became pensive
and restless, and nothing pleased him so well as to ascend to the belfry on
moonlight nights, scribbling disparagement on the bells of Eulogius and
Eucherius, which had ceased to be rung, and patting and caressing his own,
which now did duty for all three. With alarm he noticed one night an
incipient crack, which threatened to become a serious flaw.
"If this goes on," said a voice behind him, "I shall get a holiday."
Euschemon turned round, and with indescribable dismay perceived a gigantic
demon, negligently resting his hand on the top of the bell, and looking as
if it would cost him nothing to pitch it and Euschemon together to the
other side of the town.
"Avaunt, fiend," he stammered, with as much dignity as he could muster, "or
at least remove thy unhallowed paw from my bell."
"Come, Eusky," replied the fiend, with profane familiarity, "don't be a
fool. You are not really such an ass as to imagine that your virtue has
anything to do with the virtue of this bell?"
"Whose virtue then?" demanded Euschemon.
"Why truly," said the demon, "mine! When this bell was cast I was
imprisoned in it by a potent enchanter, and so long as I am in it no storm
can come within sound of its ringing. I am not allowed to quit it except by
night, and then no further than an arm's length: this, however, I take the
liberty of measuring by my own arm, which happens to be a long one. This
must continue, as I learn, until I receive a kiss from some bishop of
distinguished sanctity. Thou hast done some bishoping in thy time,
peradventure?"
Euschemon energetically protested that he had been on earth but a simple
laic, which was indeed the fact, and was also the reason why Eulogius and
Eucherius despised him, but which, though he did not think it needful to
tell the demon, he found a singular relief under present circumstances.
"Well," continued the fiend, "I wish he may turn up shortly, for I am half
deaf already with the banging and booming of this infernal clapper, which
seems to have grown much worse of late; and the blessings and the crossings
and the aspersions which I have to go through are most repugnant to my
tastes, and unsuitable to my position in society. Bye-bye, Eusky; come up
to-morrow night." And the fiend slipped back into the bell, and instantly
became invisible.
The humiliation of poor Euschemon on learning that he was indebted for his
credit to the devil is easier to imagine than to describe. He did not,
however, fail at the rendezvous next night, and found the demon sitting
outside the bell in a most affable frame of mind. It did not take long for
the devil and the saint to become very good friends, both wanting company,
and the former being apparently as much amused by the latter's simplicity
as the latter was charmed by the former's knowingness. Euschemon learned
numbers of things of which he had not had the faintest notion. The demon
taught him how to play cards (just invented by the Saracens), and initiated
him into divers "arts, though unimagined, yet to be," such as smoking
tobacco, making a book on the Derby, and inditing queer stories for Society
journals. He drew the most profane but irresistibly funny caricatures of
Eulogius and Eucherius, and the rest of the host of heaven. He had been one
of the demons who tempted St. Anthony, and retailed anecdotes of that
eremite which Euschemon had never heard mentioned in Paradise. He was
versed in all scandal respecting saints in general, and Euschemon found
with astonishment how much about his own order was known downstairs. On the
whole he had never enjoyed himself so much in his life; he became
proficient in all manner of minor devilries, and was ceasing to trouble
himself about his bell or his ecclesiastical duties, when an untoward
incident interrupted his felicity.
It chanced that the Bishop of Metz, in whose diocese Epinal was situated,
finding himself during a visitation journey within a short distance of the
town, determined to put, up there for the night. He did not arrive until
nightfall, but word of his intention having been sent forward by a
messenger the authorities, civil and ecclesiastical, were ready to receive
him. When, escorted in state, he had arrived at the house prepared for his
reception, the Mayor ventured to express a hope that everything had been
satisfactory to his Lordship.
"Everything," said the bishop emphatically. "I did indeed seem to remark
one little omission, which no doubt may be easily accounted for."
"What was that, my Lord?"
"It hath," said the bishop, "usually been the practice to receive a bishop
with the ringing of bells. It is a laudable custom, conducive to the
purification of the air and the discomfiture of the prince of the powers
thereof. I caught no sound of chimes on the present occasion, yet I am
sensible that my hearing is not what it was."
The civil and ecclesiastical authorities looked at each other. "That
graceless knave of a sacristan!" said the Mayor.
"He hath indeed of late strangely neglected his charge," said a priest.
"Poor man, I doubt his wits are touched," charitably added another.
"What!" exclaimed the bishop, who was very active, very fussy, and a great
stickler for discipline. "This important church, so renowned for its three
miraculous bells, confided to the tender mercies of an imbecile rogue who
may burn it down any night! I will look to it myself without losing a
minute."
And in spite of all remonstrances, off he started. The keys were brought,
the doors flung open, the body of the church thoroughly examined, but
neither in nave, choir, or chancel could the slightest trace of the
sacristan be found.
"Perhaps he is in the belfry," suggested a chorister.
"We'll see," responded the bishop, and bustling nimbly up the ladder, he
emerged into the open belfry in full moonlight.
Heavens! what a sight met his eye! The sacristan and the devil sitting
_vis-a-vis_ close by the miraculous bell, with a smoking can of hot spiced
wine between them, finishing a close game of cribbage.
"Seven," declared Euschemon.
"And eight are fifteen," retorted the demon, marking two.
"Twenty-three and pair," cried Euschemon, marking in his turn.
"And seven is thirty."
"Ace, thirty-one, and I'm up."
"It _is_ up with you, my friend," shouted the bishop, bringing his crook
down smartly on Euschemon's shoulders.
"Deuce!" said the devil, and vanished into his bell.
When poor Euschemon had been bound and gagged, which did not take very
long, the bishop briefly addressed the assembly. He said that the accounts
of the bell which had reached his ears had already excited his
apprehensions. He had greatly feared that all could not be right, and now
his anxieties were but too well justified. He trusted there was not a man
before him who would not suffer his flocks and his crops to be destroyed by
tempest fifty times over rather than purchase their safety by unhallowed
means. What had been done had doubtless been done in ignorance, and could
be made good by a mulct to the episcopal treasury. The amount of this he
would carefully consider, and the people of Epinal might rest assured that
it should not be too light to entitle them to the benefit of a full
absolution. The bell must go to his cathedral city, there to be examined
and reported on by the exorcists and inquisitors. Meanwhile he would
himself institute a slight preliminary scrutiny.
The bell was accordingly unhung, tilted up, and inspected by the combined
beams of the moonlight and torchlight. Very slight examination served to
place the soundness of the bishop's opinion beyond dispute. On the lip of
the bell were engraven characters unknown to every one else, but which
seemed to affect the prelate with singular consternation.
"I hope," he exclaimed, "that none of you know anything about these
characters! I earnestly trust that none can read a single one of them. If I
thought anybody could I would burn him as soon as look at him!"
The bystanders hastened to assure him that not one of them had the
slightest conception of the meaning of the letters, which had never been
observed before.
"I rejoice to hear it," said the bishop. "It will be an evil day for the
church when these letters are understood."
And next morning he departed, carrying off the bell, with the invisible
fiend inside it; the cards, which were regarded as a book of magic; and the
luckless Euschemon, who shortly found himself in total darkness, the inmate
of a dismal dungeon.
It was some time before Euschemon became sensible of the presence of any
partner in his captivity, by reason of the trotting of the rats. At length,
however, a deep sigh struck upon his ear.
"Who art thou?" he exclaimed.
"An unfortunate prisoner," was the answer.
"What is the occasion of thy imprisonment?"
"Oh, a mere trifle. A ridiculous suspicion of sacrificing a child to
Beelzebub. One of the little disagreeables that must occasionally occur in
our profession."
"_Our_ profession!" exclaimed Euschemon.
"Art thou not a sorcerer?" demanded the voice.
"No," replied Euschemon, "I am a saint."
The warlock received Euschemon's statement with much incredulity, but
becoming eventually convinced of its truth--
"I congratulate thee," he said. "The devil has manifestly taken a fancy to
thee, and he never forgets his own. It is true that the bishop is a great
favourite with him also. But we will hope for the best. Thou hast never
practised riding a broomstick? No? 'Tis pity; thou mayest have to mount one
at a moment's notice."
This consolation had scarcely been administered ere the bolts flew back,
the hinges grated, the door opened, and gaolers bearing torches informed
the sorcerer that the bishop desired his presence.
He found the bishop in his study, which was nearly choked up by Euschemon's
bell. The prelate received him with the greatest affability, and expressed
a sincere hope that the very particular arrangements he had enjoined for
the comfort of his distinguished prisoner had been faithfully carried out
by his subordinates. The sorcerer, as much a man of the world as the
bishop, thanked his Lordship, and protested that he had been perfectly
comfortable.
"I have need of thy art," said the bishop, coming to business. "I am
exceedingly bothered--flabbergasted were not too strong an expression--by
this confounded bell. All my best exorcists have been trying all they know
with it, to no purpose. They might as well have tried to exorcise my mitre
from my head by any other charm than the offer of a better one. Magic is
plainly the only remedy, and if thou canst disenchant it, I will give thee
thy freedom."
"It will be a tough business," observed the sorcerer, surveying the bell
with the eye of a connoisseur. "It will require fumigations."
"Yes," said the bishop, "and suffumigations."
"Aloes and mastic," advised the sorcerer.
"Aye," assented the bishop, "and red sanders."
"We must call in Primeumaton," said the warlock.
"Clearly," said the bishop, "and Amioram."
"Triangles," said the sorcerer.
"Pentacles," said the bishop.
"In the hour of Methon," said the sorcerer.
"I should have thought Tafrac," suggested the bishop, "but I defer to your
better judgment."
"I can have the blood of a goat?" queried the wizard.
"Yes," said the bishop, "and of a monkey also."
"Does your Lordship think that one might venture to go so far as a little
unweaned child?"
"If absolutely necessary," said the bishop.
"I am delighted to find such liberality of sentiment on your Lordship's
part," said the sorcerer. "Your Lordship is evidently of the profession."
"These are things which stuck by me when I was an inquisitor," explained
the bishop, with some little embarrassment.
Ere long all arrangements were made. It would be impossible to enumerate
half the crosses, circles, pentagrams, naked swords, cross-bones,
chafing-dishes, and vials of incense which the sorcerer found to be
necessary. The child was fortunately deemed superfluous. Euschemon was
brought up from his dungeon, and, his teeth chattering with fright and
cold, set beside his bell to hold a candle to the devil. The incantations
commenced, and speedily gave evidence of their efficacy. The bell trembled,
swayed, split open, and a female figure of transcendent loveliness attired
in the costume of Eve stepped forth and extended her lips towards the
bishop. What could the bishop do but salute them? With a roar of triumph
the demon resumed his proper shape. The bishop swooned. The apartment was
filled with the fumes of sulphur. The devil soared majestically out of the
window, carrying the sorcerer under one arm and Euschemon under the other.
It is commonly believed that the devil good-naturedly dropped Euschemon
back again into Paradise, or wheresoever he might have come from. It is
even added that he fell between Eulogius and Eucherius, who had been
arguing all the time respecting the merits of their bells, and resumed his
share in the discussion as if nothing had happened. Some maintain, indeed,
that the devil, chancing to be in want of a chaplain, offered the situation
to Euschemon, by whom it was accepted. But how to reconcile this assertion
with the undoubted fact that the duties of the post in question are at
present ably discharged by the Bishop of Metz, in truth we see not. One
thing is certain: thou wilt not find Euschemon's name in the calendar,
courteous reader.
The mulct to be imposed upon the parish of Epinal was never exacted. The
bell, ruptured beyond repair by the demon's violent exit, was taken back
and deposited in the museum of the town. The bells of Eulogius and
Eucherius were rung freely on occasion; but Epinal has not since enjoyed
any greater immunity from storms than the contiguous districts. One day an
aged traveller, who had spent many years in Heathenesse and in whom some
discerned a remarkable resemblance to the sorcerer, noticed the bell, and
asked permission to examine it. He soon discovered the inscription,
recognised the mysterious characters as Greek, read them without the least
difficulty--
"[Greek: Mae kinei Kamarinan akinaetos gar ameinoon]--"
and favoured the townsmen with this free but substantially accurate
translation:--
"CAN'T YOU LET WELL ALONE?"
BISHOP ADDO AND BISHOP GADDO
Midday, midsummer, middle of the dark ages. Fine healthy weather at the
city of Biserta in Barbary. Wind blowing strong from the sea, roughening
the dark blue waters, and fretting their indigo with foam, as though the
ocean's coursers champed an invisible curb. On land tawny sand whirling,
green palm-fans swaying and whistling, men abroad in the noonday blaze
rejoicing in the unwonted freshness.
"She is standing in," they cried, "and, by the Prophet, she seemeth not a
ship of the true believers."
She was not, but she bore a flag of truce. Pitching and rearing, the little
bark bounded in, and soon was fast in harbour. Ere long messengers of peace
had landed, bearing presents and a letter from the Bishop of Amalfi to the
Emir of Biserta. The presents consisted of fifty casks of Lacrima Christi,
and of a captive, a tall, noble-looking man, in soiled ecclesiastical
costume, and disfigured by the loss of his left eye, which seemed to have
been violently plucked out.
"Health to the Emir!" ran the letter. "I send thee my captive, Gaddo,
sometime Bishop of Amalfi, now an ejected intruder. For what saith the
Scripture? 'When a strong man armed keepeth his palace, his goods are in
peace; but if one stronger than he cometh, he divideth the spoils.'
Moreover it is written: 'His bishopric let another take.' Having solemnly
sworn that I would not kill or blind or maim my enemy, or imprison him in a
monastery, and the price of absolution from an oath in this corrupt age
exceeding all reason and Christian moderation, I knew not how to take
vengeance on him, until a sagacious counsellor represented that a man
cannot be said to be blinded so long as he is deprived of only one eye.
This I accordingly eradicated, and now, being restrained from imprisoning
him, and fearing to release him, I send him to thee, to retain in captivity
on my behalf; in return for which service, receive fifty casks of the
choicest Lacrima Christi, which shall not fail to be sent thee yearly, so
long as Gaddo continues in thy custody.
"+ Addo, by Divine permission Bishop of Amalfi."
"First," said the Emir, "I would be certified whether this vintage is
indeed of such excellence as to prevail upon a faithful Mussulman to
jeopard Paradise, the same being forbidden by his law."
Experiments were instituted forthwith, and the problem was resolved in the
affirmative.
"This being so," declared the Emir, "honour and good faith towards Bishop
Addo require that Bishop Gaddo be kept captive with all possible
strictness. Yet bolts may be burst, fetters may be filed, walls may be
scaled, doors may be broken through. Better to enchain the captive's soul,
binding him with invisible bonds, and searing out of him the very wish to
escape. Embrace the faith of the Prophet," continued he, addressing Gaddo;
"become a Mollah."
"No," said the deposed Bishop, "my inclination hath ever been towards a
military life. At present, mutilated and banished as I am, I rather affect
the crown of martyrdom."
"Thou shalt receive it by instalments," said the Emir. "Thou shalt work at
the new pavilion in my garden."
Unceasing toil under the blazing sun, combined with the discipline of the
overseers, speedily wore down Gaddo's strength, already impaired by
captivity and ill-treatment. Unable to drag himself away after his
fellow-workmen had ceased from their labours, he lay one evening, faint and
almost senseless, among the stones and rubbish of the unfinished edifice.
The Emir's daughter passed by. Gaddo was handsome and wretched, the
Princess was beautiful and compassionate. Conveyed by her fair hands, a cup
of Bishop Addo's wine saved Bishop Gaddo's life.
The next evening Gaddo again lingered behind, and the Princess spoke to him
out of her balcony. The third evening they encountered in an arbour. The
next meeting took place in her chamber, where her father discovered them.
"I will tear thee to pieces with pincers," shouted he to Gaddo.
"Your Highness will not be guilty of that black action," responded Gaddo
resolutely.
"No?" roared the Emir. "No? and what shall hinder me?"
"The Lacrima Christi will hinder your Highness," returned the far-seeing
Gaddo. "Deems your Highness that Bishop Addo will send another cupful, once
he is assured of my death?"
"Thou sayest well," rejoined the Emir. "I may not slay thee. But my
daughter is manifestly most inflammable, wherefore I will burn her."
"Were it not better to circumcise me?" suggested Gaddo.
Many difficulties were raised, but Ayesha's mother siding with Gaddo, and
promising a more amicable deportment for the future towards the other
lights of the harem, the matter was arranged, and Gaddo recited the
Mahometan profession of faith, and became the Emir's son-in-law. The
execrable social system under which he had hitherto lived thus vanished
like a nightmare from an awakened sleeper. Wedded to one who had saved his
life by her compassion, and whose life he had in turn saved by his change
of creed, adoring her and adored by her, with the hope of children, and
active contact with multitudes of other interests from which he had
hitherto been estranged, he forgot the ecclesiastic in the man; his
intellect expanded, his ideas multiplied, he cleared his mind of cant, and
became an eminent philosopher.
"Dear son," said the Emir to him one day, "the Lacrima is spent, we thirst,
and the tribute of that Christian dog, the Bishop of Amalfi, tarries to
arrive. We will presently fit out certain vessels, and thou shalt hold a
visitation of thine ancient diocese."
"Methinks I see a ship even now," said Gaddo; and he was right. She
anchored, the ambassadors landed and addressed the Emir:
"Prince, we bring thee the stipulated tribute, yet not without a trifling
deduction."
"Deduction!" exclaimed the Emir, bending his brows ominously.
"Highness," they represented, "by reason of the deficiency of last year's
vintage it hath not been possible to provide more than forty-nine casks,
which we crave to offer thee accordingly."
"Then," pronounced the Emir sententiously, "the compact is broken, the ship
is confiscated, and war is declared."
"Not so, Highness," said they, "for the fiftieth cask is worth all the
rest."
"Let it be opened," commanded the Emir.
It was accordingly hoisted out, deposited on the quay, and prized open; and
from its capacious interior, in a deplorable plight from hunger, cramp, and
sea-sickness, was extracted--Bishop Addo.
"We have," explained the deputation, "wearied of our shepherd, who,
shearing his flock somewhat too closely, hath brought the wolf to light. We
therefore desire thee to receive him at our hands in exchange for our good
Bishop Gaddo, promising one hundred casks of Lacrima Christi as yearly
tribute for the future."