Canon Alberic's Scrapbook by m R. James. Saint Bertrand de Commands is a
decayed town on the spurs of the Pyrenees, not very far from Toulouse and
still nearer to Bannier de Luchon. It was the site of a bishopric until
the Revolution and has a cathedral which is visited by a certain number of tourists.
In the spring of eighteen eighty three, an Englishman arrived at this old
world place. I can hardly dignify it with the name of city, for
there are not a thousand inhabitants. He was a Cambridge man who would come
specially from Toulouse to see Saint Bertrand's church, and had left two friends who
were less keen archaeologists than himself, and their hotel at Toulouse, under promise
to join him on the following morning. Half an hour at the church would
satisfy them, and all three could then pursue their journey in the direction of
Osh. But our englishmen had come early on the day in question, and
proposed to himself to fill a notebook and to use several dozen plates in the
process of describing and photographing every corner of the wonderful Church that dominates the little
Hill of Commands. In order to carry out this design satisfactorily, it was
necessary to monopolize the verger of the church for the day. The verger or
sacriston I prefer the latter appellation, inaccurate as it may be, was accordingly
sent for by the somewhat brusque lady who keeps the inn of the Chapeau Rouge,
And when he came the Englishman found him an unexpectedly interesting object of study.
It was not in the personal appearance of the little, dry, wizened
old man that the interest lay. For he was precisely like dozens of other
church guardians in France, but in a curious furtival rather hunted an oppressed air
which he had. He was perpetually half glancing behind him. The muscles of
his back and shoulders seemed to be hunched in a continual nervous contraction, as
if he were expecting every moment to find himself in the clutch of an enemy.
The Englishman hardly knew whether to put him down as a man haunted by
a fixed delusion, or as one oppressed by a guilty conscience, or as
an unbearably henpecked husband. The probability is when reckoned up certainly pointed to the
last idea, but still the impression conveyed was that of a more formidable persecutor
even than a termagant wife. However, the Englishman, let us call him
Dennis Tombe, was soon too deep in his notebook and too busy with his
camera to give more than an occasional glance to the sacristan. Whenever he did
look at him, he found him at no great distance, either huddling himself
back against the wall or crouching in one of the gorgeous stalls. Dennis tomb
became rather fidgety after a while, mingled suspicions that he was keeping the old
man from his dejane, that he was regarded as likely to make away with
Saint Bertrand's ivory crosying or with the dusty stuffed crocodile that hangs over the font,
began to torment him. Won't you go home? He said, at
last, I'm quite well able to finish my notes alone. You can lock
me in if you like. I shall want at least two hours more here,
and it must be cold for you. Isn't it good? Heavens,
said the little man, whom the suggestions seemed to throw into a state of
unaccountable terror. Such a thing cannot be thought of for a moment. Leave
monsieur alone in the church. No, No, two hours, three hours.
All will be the same to me. I have breakfasted. I am
not at all cold, with many thanks to Monsieur. Very well, my
little man, quoth Denniston to himself. You have been warned, and you
must take the consequences before the expiration of the two hours. The stalls,
the enormous dilapidated organ, the quoiet screen of Bishop John de Molians, the
remnants of glass and tapestry, and the objects in the treasure chamber had been
well and truly examined. The sacristan still keeping at Dennistoune's heels, and every
now and then whipping round as if he had been stung, when one or
other of the strange noises that trouble a large empty building fell on his ear.
Curious noises they were sometimes. Once, Deniston said to me, I
could have sworn I heard a thin metallic voice laughing high up in the tower.
I darted an inquiring glance at my sacristan. He was white to the
lips. It is he that is It is no one. The door is
locked, was all he said, and we looked at each other for a
full minute. Another little incident puzzled Denistoone a good deal. He was examining
a large, dark picture that hangs behind the altar, one of a series
illustrating the miracles of Saint Bertrand. The composition of the picture is well nigh
and decipherable, but there is a Latin legend below which runs, thus klite
s bertrandus le bravit hominem quem diabolus to volebat strangulaire how Saint Bertram delivered a
man whom the devil long sought to strangle. Denistune was turning to the Sacristan
with a smile and a jocular remark of some sort on his lips, but
he was confounded to see the old man on his knees, gazing at the
picture with the eye of a suppliant and agony, his hands tightly clasped,
and a rain of tears on his cheeks. Deniston naturally pretended to have noticed
nothing, but the question would not go away. From him. Why should
a door be of this kind effect any one so strongly? He seemed to
himself to be getting some sort of clue to the reason of the strange look
that had been puzzling him all the day. The man must be a monomaniac,
But what was his monomania? It was nearly five o'clock, The short
day was drawing in, and the church began to fill with shadows, while
the curious noises, the muffled footfalls and distant talking voices that had been perceptible
all day seemed no doubt. Because of the fading light and the consequently quickened
sense of hearing to become more frequent and insistent, The sacristan began for the
first time to show signs of hurry and impatience. He heaved a sigh of
relief when camera and Notebrook were finally packed up and stowed away, and hurriedly
beckoned Deniston to the western door of the church under the tower. It was
time to ring the angelus. A few polls at the reluctant rope, and
the great bell Betrand high in the tower, began to speak and swung her
voice up among the pines and down to the valleys loud with mountain streams,
calling the dwellers on those lonely hills to remember and repeat the salutation of the
Angel to her, whom he called blessed among women. With that, a
profound quiet seemed to fall for the first time that day upon the little town,
and Dennistoune and the sacriston went out of the church. On the doorstep,
they fell into conversation. Monsieur seemed to interest himself in the old choir
books in the sacristy. Undoubtedly, I was going to ask you if there
were a library in the town. No, Monsieur. Perhaps there used to
be one belonging to the chapter, but it is now such a small place.
Here came a strange pause of irresolution, as it seemed. Then with
a sort of plunge, he went on, But if Monsieur is amateur de
voux, leave, I have at home something that might interest him. It
is not a hundred yards at once. All Dennistoune's cherished dreams of finding priceless
manuscripts in untrodden corners of France flashed up to die down again the next moment.
It was probably a stupid messile of Plantin's printing about fifteen eight. Where
was the likelihood that a place so near to lose would not have been ransacked
long ago by collectors. However, it would be foolish not to go,
He would reproach himself for ever after if he refused. So they set off
on the way. The curious irresolution and sudden determination of the Sacristan recurred to
Dennis tune, and he wondered in a shamefaced way whether he was being decoyed
into some purlieu to be made away with as a supposed rich Englishman. He
contrived, therefore, to begin talking with his guide, and to drag in,
in a rather clumsy fashion, the fact that he expected two friends to
join him early next morning. To his surprise, the announcement seemed to relieve
the Sacristan at once of some of the anxiety that oppressed him. That is
well, he said, quite brightly, That is very well. Monsieur will
travel in company with his friends. They will be always near him. It
is a good thing to travel thus in company. Sometimes the last word appeared
to be added as an afterthought, and to bring with it a relapse into
gloom for the poor little man. They were soon at the house, which
was one rather larger than its neighbors. Stone built with a shield carved over
the door, the shield of Alberic de Morlion, a collateral descendant. Denistoune
tells me of Bishop John de Morlion. This Albaic was a cannon of commands.
From sixteen eighty to seventeen o one. The upper windows of the mansion
were boarded up, and the whole place bore as does the rest of commands.
The aspect of decaying age arrived on his doorstep. The sacristan paused a
moment. Perhaps he said, perhaps, after all, the monsieur has not
the time, not at all, lots of time, nothing to do till
to morrow. Let us see what it is you have got. The door
was opened at this point, and a face looked out, a face far
younger than the sacristan's, but bearing something of the same distressing look. Only
here it seemed to be the mark not so much of fear for personal safety
as of acute anxiety on behalf of another. Plainly, the owner of the
face was the Sacriston's daughter, And but for the expression I have described,
she was a handsome girl enough. She brightened up considerably on seeing her father
accompanied by an able bodied stranger. A few remarks passed between father and daughter,
of which Deniston only caught these words said by the sacristan he was laughing
in the church, words which were answered only by a look of terror from
the girl. But in another minute they were in the sitting room of the
house, a small high chamber with a stone floor, full of moving shadows,
cast by a wood fire that flickered on a great hearth. Something of
the character of an oratory was imparted to it by a tall crucifix, which
reached almost to the ceiling. On one side. The figure was painted of
the natural colors, the cross was black. Under this stood a chest of
some age and solidity, And when a lamp had been brought and chairs set,
the sacristan went to this chest and produced therefrom With growing excitement and nervousness,
as denistone thought a large book wrapped in a white cloth. On witchcloth,
a cross was rudely embroidered in red thread. Even before the wrapping had
been removed, Dennis Tune began to be interested by the size and shape of
the volume. Too large for a missile, he thought, and not the
shape of an antiphona. Perhaps it may be something good after all. The
next moment the book was open, and Dennistoune felt that he had at last
lit upon something better than good. Before him lay a large folio, bound
perhaps late in the seventeenth century, with the arms of Cannon Alberic Demolian stamped
in gold on the sides. There may have been a one hundred and fifty
leaves of paper in the book, and are almost every one of them was
fastened a leaf from an illuminated manuscript, such a collection Dennis Tune had hardly
dreamed of in his wildest moments. He wore ten leaves from a copy of
Genesis, illustrated with pictures which could not be later than AD seven hundred.
Further on was a complete set of pictures from a psalter of English execution of
the very finest kind that the thirteenth century could produce. And perhaps best of
all, there were twenty leaves of unsealed writing in Latin, which, as
a few words seen here and there told him at once, must belong to
some very early unknown Patristic treatise. Could it possibly be a fragment of the
copy of Pappius on the Words of Our Lord, which was known to have
existed as late as the twelfth century at Nemes. We now know that these
leaves did contain a considerable fragment of that work, if not of that actual
copy of it. In any case, his mind was made up that book
must return to Cambridge with him, even if he had to draw the whole
of his balance from the bank and stay at Saint Bertrand till the money came.
He glanced up at the sacristan to see if his face yielded any hint
that the book was for sale. The sacristan was pale, and his lips
were working. If Monsieur will turn on to the end, he said.
So. Monsieur turned on, meeting new treasures at every rise of a leaf,
and at the end of the book he came upon two sheets of paper
of much more recent date than anything he had seen yet, which puzzled him
considerably. They must be contemporary, he decided, with the unprincipled canon Alberic,
who had doubtless plundered the chapter library of Saint Bertrand to form this priceless
scrapbook. On the first of the paper sheets was a plan carefully drawn and
instantly recognizable by a person who knew the ground. Of the South Island cloisters
of Saint Bertrand's there were curious signs looking like planetary symbols, and a few
Hebrew words in the corners, and in the northwest angle of the cloister was
a cross drawn in gold paint. Below the plan were some lines of writing
in Latin, which ran thus response to twelve me Death sixteen ninety four in
terragatum est in veniamne responsum est invenies, viamne dives vs. Vivamne invidendis vives
marianne in lectomea eta Answers of the twelfth of December sixteen ninety four, it
was asked, shall I find it? Answer, thou shalt? Shall I
become rich thou wilt? Shall I live an object of envy? Thou wilt?
Shall I die in my bed thou wilt? A good specimen of the
treasure hunter's record quite reminds one of mister Minor Cannon catch Remaine in Old Saint
Paul's was Dennistoune's comment, and he turned the leaf. What he then saw
impressed him, as he has often told me more than he could have conceived
any drawing or picture capable of impressing him. And though the drawing he saw
is no longer in existence, there is a photograph of it which I possess,
which fully bears out that statement. The picture in question was a Sepia
drawing at the end of the seventeenth century, representing one would say, at
first, a biblical scene. For the architecture, the picture represented an interior,
and the figures had that semi classical flavor about them which the artists of
two hundred years ago thought appropriate illustrations of the Bible. On the right was
a king on his throne, the throne elevated on twelve steps, a canopy
overhead, soldiers on either side, evidently King Solomon. He was bending forward
with outstretched scepter in attitude of command. His face expressed horror and disgust.
Yet there was in it also the mark of imperious command and confident power.
The left half of the picture was the strangest, however, the interest plainly
centered. There on the pavement before the throne were grouped four soldiers surrounding a
crouching figure which must be described in a moment A fifth soldier lay dead on
the pavement, his neck distorted and his eyeballs starting from his head. The
four surrounding guards were looking at the king. In their faces. The sentiment
of horror was intensified. They seemed, in fact, only restrict from flight
by their implicit trust in their master. All this terror was plainly excited by
the being that crouched in their midst. I entirely despair of conveying, by
any words, the impression which this figure makes upon anyone who looks at it,
I recollect, once showing the photograph of the drawing to electra on morphology,
a person of I was going to say, abnormally sane and unimaginative habits
of mind. He absolutely refused to be alone for the rest of that evening,
and he told me afterwards that for many nights he had not dared to
put out his light before going to sleep. However, the main traits of
the figure I can at least indicate. At first, you saw only a
mass of coarse, matted black hair. Presently it was seen that this covered
a body, a fearful thinness, almost a skeleton, but with the muscles
standing out like wires. The hands were of a dusky pallor, covered like
the body with long, coarse hair, and hideously talented. The eyes,
touched in with a burning yellow, had intensely black pupils, and were fixed
upon the throned king with a look of beast like hate. Imagine one of
the awful bird catching spiders of South America translated into human form and endowed with
intelligence just less than human, and you will have some faint conception of the
terror inspired by the appalling effigy. One remark is universally made by those to
whom I have showed the picture. It was drawn from the life. As
soon as the first shock of his irresistible fright had subsided Dennis Tune stole a
look at his hosts. The sacristan's hands were pressed upon his eyes. His
daughter, looking up at the cross on the wall, was telling her beads
feverishly. At last, the question was asked, is this book for sale?
There was the same hesitation, the same plun determination that he had noticed
before, and then came the welcome answer, If monsieur pleases, how much
do you ask for it? I will take two hundred and fifty francs.
This was confounding, even a collector's conscience is sometimes stirred, and Dennis Stune's
conscience was tenderer than a collector's. My good man, he said, again
and again, your book is worth far more than two hundred and fifty francs.
I assure you far more. But the answer did not vary. I
will take two hundred and fifty francs, not more. There was really no
possibility of refusing such a chance. The money was paid, the receipt signed,
a glass of wine drunk over the transaction, and then the sacristan seemed
to become a new man. He stood upright, He ceased to throw those
suspicious glances behind him. He actually laughed, or tried to laugh. Dennis
Stune rose to go, I shall have the honor of accompanying Monsieur to his
hotel, said the sacristan, Oh, no, thanks, it isn't a
hundred yards. I know the way perfectly, and there is a moon.
The offer was pressed three or four times and refused as often. Then Monsieur
will summon me if he finds occasion. He will keep the middle of the
road. The sides are so rough. Certainly, certainly, said Denistune,
who was impatient to examine his prize by himself, and he stepped out into
the passage with his book under his arm. Here he was met by the
daughter. She, it appeared, was anxious to do a little business of
her own account, perhaps like ghazi, to take somewhat from the foreigner whom
her father had spared. A silver crucifix and chain for the neck. Monsieur
would perhaps be good enough to accept it. Well, Really, Dennistune hadn't
much use for these things. What did mademoiselle want for it? Nothing?
Nothing in the world. Monsieur is more than welcome to it. The tone
in which this, and much more was said was unmistakably genuine, so that
Dennistune was reduced to profuse thanks and submitted to have the chain put round his
neck. It really seemed as if he had rendered the father and daughter some
service which they hardly knew how to repay. As he set off with his
book, they stood at the door looking after him, and they were still
looking when he waved them a last good night from the steps of the Chapeau
Rouge. Dinner was over, and Dennistoune was in his bedroom, shut up
alone with his acquisition. The Landlady had manifested a particular interest in him,
since he had told her that he had paid a visit to the sacristan and
brought an old book from him. He thought, too, that he had
heard a hurried dialog between her and the said Sacristan in the passage outside of
the Salamanger. Some words to the effect that Pierre and Bertrand would be sleeping
in the house had closed the conversation. All this time, a growing feeling
of discomfort had been creeping over him, nervous reaction perhaps after the delight of
his discovery. Whatever it was, it resolted in a conviction that there was
some one behind him, and that he was far more comfortable with his back
to the All this, of course, weighed light in the balance as against
the obvious value of the collection he had acquired. And now, as I
said, he was alone in his bedroom taking stock of Canon Albarek's treasures,
in which every moment revealed something more charming. Bless Canon Albarek, said Denniston,
who had an inveterate habit of talking to himself. I wonder where he
is now, Dear me, I wish that Landlady would learn to laugh in
a more cheering manner, makes one feel as if there was someone dead in
the house. Half a pipe more, did you say? I think perhaps
you are right. I wonder what that crucifix is that the young woman insisted
on giving me last century. I suppose yes, probably it is rather a
nuisance of a thing to have around one's neck, just too heavy. Most
likely her father has been wearing it for years. I might give it a
clean up before I put it away. He had taken the crucifix off and
laid it on the table when his attention was caught by an object lying on
the red cloth just by his left elbow. Two or three ideas of what
it might be flitted through his brain with their own incalculable quickness. A penwiper,
no, no such thing in the house. A rat, no too
black, A large spider, I trust to Goodness, not no good God.
A hand like the hand in that picture. In another infinitismal flash,
he had taken it in pale, dusky skin, covering nothing but bones and
tendons of appalling strength, coarse black hairs longer than ever grew on a human
hand, nails rising from the ends of the fingers, and curving sharply down
and forward, gray, horny and wrinkled. He flew out of his chair
with deadly, inconceivable terror, clutching at his heart. The shape whose left
hand rested on the table was rising to a standing posture behind his seat.
It's hand crooked above his scalp. There was black and tattered drapery about it.
The coarse hair covered it as in the drawing. The lower jaw was
thin, what can I call it? Shallow like a beast's teeth showed behind
the black lips. There was no nose, The eyes of a fiery yellow,
against which the pupils showed black and intense, and the exulting hate and
thirst to destroy life which shone there were the most horrifying features in the whole
vision. There was intelligence of a kind in them, intelligence beyond that of
a beast, below that of a man. The feelings which this horror stirred
in Dennis Tune were the intensest physical fear and the most profound mental loathing.
What did he do? What could he do? He has never been quite
certain what words he said, but he knows that he spoke, that he
grasped blindly at the silver crucis fix that he was conscious of a movement towards
him on the part of the demon, and that he screamed with the voice
of an animal in hideous pain. Pierre and Bertrand, the two sturdy little
serving men who rushed in, saw nothing, but felt themselves thrust aside by
something that passed out between them, and found Dennistone in a swoon. They
sat up with him that night, and his two friends were at Saint Bertrand
by nine o'clock the next morning. He himself, though still shaken and nervous,
was almost himself by that time, and his story frowned credence with them,
though not until they had seen the drawing and talked with the sacristan almost
at dawn. The little man had come to the inn on some pretense and
had listened with the deepest interest to the story retailed by the landlady. He
showed no surprise. It is he, It is he, I have seen
him myself, was his only comment, and to all questionings but one reply
was vouchsafed, de fois gelle vous nielfoi jele santi. He would tell them
nothing of the provenance of the book, nor any details of his experiences.
I shall soon sleep, and my rest will be sweet. Why should you
trouble me? He said? He died that summer. His daughter married and
settled at Saint Papaul. She never understood the circumstances of her father's obsession.
We shall never know what he, or Canon Alberic Demolion suffered. At the
back of that fateful drawing were some lines of writing which may be supposed to
throw light on the situation. Contradictio salomonis come demonio nocturno Albericus Demolione delineavit Vidaeus
in auditorium ps qi habitat Sancte bertrand demoniorum effugata intercda Promo misserrimo primam uidi nocte
twelve me sixteen ninety four. We debo mox ultimum pecaui et pass sum plura
adhuc pas saurus December twenty ninth, seventeen O one I e the disputer Solomon
with the demon of the night, drawn by Albert de Molion, versical O,
Lord, make haste to help me, psalm whoso dwelleth x ci Saint
Bertrand who put us devils to flight? Pray for me most unhappy. I
saw it first on the night of December the twelfth, sixteen ninety four.
Soon I shall see it for the last time. I have sinned and suffered,
and have more to suffer yet December than twenty ninth, seventeen o one.
The Garlia Christiana gives the date of the Cannon's death as December thirty first,
seventeen o one, in bed of a sudden Caesar. Details of this
kind are not common in the great work of the Sammathani. I have never
quite understood what was Denis Tone's view of the events I have narrated. He
quoted to me once a text from Ecclesiasticus. Some spirits there be that are
created for vengeance, and in their fury lay on sore strokes. On another
occasion, he said, Isaiah was a very sensible man. Doesn't he say
something about night monsters living in the ruins of Babylon. These things are rather
beyond us at present. Another confidence of his impressed me rather, and I
sympathized with it. We had been last year to command to see Canon Alberic's
tomb. It is a great marble erection, with an effigy of the cannon
in the large Wig and Soutane, and an elaborate eulogy of his learning below.
I saw a Dennis Tune talking for some time with the Vicar of Saint
Bertrand's, and as we drove away, he said to me, I hope
it isn't wrong. You know, I am a Presbyterian, but I I
believe there will be saying of Mass and singing of dirges for Alberic de Molion's
rest. Then he added, with a touch of Northern British in his tone,
I had no notion there came so dear. The book is in the
went with collection at Cambridge. The drawing was photographed and then burnt by Dennis
Tune on the day when he left commands on the occasion of his first visit
of Canon Alberic scrapper