At a Winter\'s Fire written by Bernard Edward J. Capes
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Bernard Edward J. Capes >> At a Winter\'s Fire
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13 AT A WINTER'S FIRE
by
BERNARD CAPES
Author of _The Lake of Wine_, etc.
1899
All except three of the following Tales have already appeared in English
or American Magazines. The best thanks of the author are due to the
Editors of the "Cornhill," "Macmillan's," "Lippincott's" and "Pearson's"
Magazines, and to the Editor of the "Sketch," for permission to reprint
such of the stories as have been published in their pages.
Contents
THE MOON STRICKEN
JACK AND JILL
THE VANISHING HOUSE
DARK DIGNUM
WILLIAM TYRWHITT'S "COPY"
A LAZY ROMANCE
BLACK VENN
AN EDDY ON THE FLOOR
DINAH'S MAMMOTH
THE BLACK REAPER
A VOICE FROM THE PIT
THE MOON STRICKEN
It so fell that one dark evening in the month of June I was belated
in the Bernese Oberland. Dusk overtook me toiling along the great
Chamounix Road, and in the heart of a most desolate gorge, whose towering
snow-flung walls seemed--as the day sucked inwards to a point secret as a
leech's mouth--to close about me like a monstrous amphitheatre of ghosts.
The rutted road, dipping and climbing toilfully against the shouldering
of great tumbled boulders, or winning for itself but narrow foothold over
slippery ridges, was thawed clear of snow; but the cold soft peril yet
lay upon its flanks thick enough for a wintry plunge of ten feet, or may
be fifty where the edge of the causeway fell over to the lower furrows
of the ravine. It was a matter of policy to go with caution, and a thing
of some moment to hear the thud and splintering of little distant
icefalls about one in the darkness. Now and again a cold arrow of wind
would sing down from the frosty peaks above or jerk with a squiggle of
laughter among the fallen slabs in the valley. And these were the only
voices to prick me on through a dreariness lonely as death.
I knew the road, but not its night terrors. Passing along it some days
before in the glory of sunshine, broad paddocks and islands of green had
comforted the shattered white ruin of the place, and I had traversed it
merely as a magnificent episode in the indifferent history of my life.
Now, as it seemed, I became one with it--an awful waif of solemnity, a
thing apart from mankind and its warm intercourse and ruddy inn doors, a
spectral anomaly, whose austere epitaph was once writ upon the snow
coating some fallen slab of those glimmering about me. I thought the
whole gorge smelt of tombs, like the vault of a cathedral. I thought, in
the incomprehensible low moaning sound that ever and again seemed to eddy
about me when the wind had swooped and passed, that I recognised the
forlorn voices of brother spirits long since dead and forgotten of the
world.
Suddenly I felt the sweat cold under the knapsack that swung upon my
back; stopped, faced about and became human again. Ridge over ridge
to my right the mountain summits fell away against a fathomless sky; and
topping the furthermost was a little paring of silver light, the coronet
of the rising moon. But the glory of the full orb was in the retrospect;
for, closing the savage vista of the ravine, stood up far away a cluster
of jagged pinnacles--opal, translucent, lustrous as the peaks of icebergs
that are the frozen music of the sea.
It was the toothed summit of the Aiguille Verte, now prosaically bathed
in the light of the full moon; but to me, looking from that grim and
passionless hollow, it stood for the white hand of God lifted in menace
to the evil spirits of the glen.
I drank my fill of the good sight, and then turned me to my tramp again
with a freshness in my throat as though it had gulped a glass of
champagne. Presently I knew myself descending, leaving, as I felt rather
than saw, the stark horror of the gorge and its glimmering snow patches
above me. Puffs of a warmer air purred past my face with little friendly
sighs of welcome, and the hum of a far-off torrent struck like a wedge
into the indurated fibre of the night. As I dropped, however, the
mountain heads grew up against the moon, and withheld the comfort of her
radiance; and it was not until the whimper of the torrent had quickened
about me to a plunging roar, and my foot was on the striding bridge that
took its waters at a step, that her light broke through a topmost cleft
in the hills, and made glory of the leaping thunder that crashed beneath
my feet.
Thereafter all was peace. The road led downwards into a broadening
valley, where the smell of flowers came about me, and the mountain walls
withdrew and were no longer overwhelming. The slope eased off, dipping
and rising no more than a ground swell; and by-and-by I was on a level
track that ran straight as a stretched ribbon and was reasonable to my
tired feet.
Now the first dusky chalets of the hamlet of Bel-Oiseau straggled towards
me, and it was music in my ears to hear the cattle blow and rattle in
their stalls under the sleeping lofts as I passed outside in the
moonlight. Five minutes more, and the great zinc onion on the spire of
the church glistened towards me, and I was in the heart of the silent
village.
From the deep green shadow cast by the graveyard wall, heavily
buttressed against avalanches, a form wriggled out into the moonlight
and fell with a dusty thud at my feet, mowing and chopping at the air
with its aimless claws. I started back with a sudden jerk of my pulses.
The thing was horrible by reason of its inarticulate voice, which issued
from the shapeless folds of its writhings like the wet gutturizing of a
back-broken horse. Instinct with repulsion, I stood a moment dismayed,
when light flashed from an open doorway a dozen yards further down the
street, and a woman ran across to the prostrate form.
"Up, graceless one!" she cried; "and carry thy seven devils within
doors!"
The figure gathered itself together at her voice, and stood in an angle
of the buttresses quaking and shielding its eyes with two gaunt arms.
"Can I not exchange a word with Mere Pettit," scolded the woman, "but
thou must sneak from behind my back on thy crazed moon-hunting?"
"Pity, pity," moaned the figure; and then the woman noticed me, and
dropped a curtsy.
"Pardon," she said; "but he has been affronting Monsieur with his
antics?"
"He is stricken, Madame?"
"Ah, yes, Monsieur. Holy Mother, but how stricken!"
"It is sad."
"Monsieur knows not how sad. It is so always, but most a great deal when
the moon is full. He was a good lad once."
Monsieur puts his hand in his pocket. Madame hears the clink of coin and
touches the enclosed fingers with her own delicately. Monsieur withdraws
his hand empty.
"Pardon, Madame."
"Monsieur has the courage of a gentleman. Come, Camille, little fool! a
sweet good-night to Monsieur."
"Stay, Madame. I have walked far and am weary. Is there an hotel in
Bel-Oiseau?"
"Monsieur is jesting. We are but a hundred of poor chalets."
"An auberge, then--a cabaret--anything?"
"_Les Trois Chevres_. It is not for such as you."
"Is it, then, that I must toil onwards to Chatelard?"
"Monsieur does not know? The _Hotel Royal_ was burned to the walls six
months since."
"It follows that I must lie in the fields."
Madame hesitates, ponders, and makes up her mind.
"I keep Monsieur talking, and the night wind is sharp from the snow. It
is ill for a heated skin, and one should be indoors. I have a bedroom
that is at Monsieur's disposition, if Monsieur will condescend?"
Monsieur will condescend. Monsieur would condescend to a loft and a truss
of straw, in default of the neat little chilly chamber that is allotted
him, so sick are his very limbs with long tramping, and so uninviting
figures the further stretch in the moonlight to Chatelard, with its
burnt-out carcase of an hotel.
This is how I came to quarter myself on Madame Barbiere and her idiot
son, and how I ultimately learned from the lips of the latter the strange
story of his own immediate fall from reason and the dear light of
intellect.
* * * * *
By day Camille Barbiere proved to be a young man, some five and twenty
years of age, of a handsome and impressive exterior. His dark hair
lay close about his well-shaped head; his features were regular and cut
bold as an Etruscan cameo; his limbs were elastic and moulded into the
supple finish of one whose life has not been set upon level roads. At a
speculative distance he appeared a straight specimen of a Burgundian
youth--sinewy, clean-formed, and graceful, though slender to gauntness;
and it was only on nearer contact that one marvelled to see the soul die
out of him, as a face set in the shadow of leafage resolves itself into
some accident of twisted branches as one approaches the billowing tree
that presented it.
The soul of Camille, the idiot, had warped long after its earthly
tabernacle had grown firm and fair to look upon. Cause and effect were
not one from birth in him; and the result was a most wistful expression,
as though the lost intellect were for ever struggling and failing to
recall its ancient mastery. Mostly he was a gentle young man, noteworthy
for nothing but the uncomplaining patience with which he daily observed
the monotonous routine of simple duties that were now all-sufficient for
the poor life that had "crept so long on a broken wing." He milked the
big, red, barrel-bodied cow, and churned industriously for butter; he
kept the little vegetable garden in order and nursed the Savoys into
fatness like plumping babies; he drove the goats to pasture on the
mountain slopes, and all day sat among the rhododendrons, the forgotten
soul behind his eyes conning the dead language of fate, as a foreigner
vainly interrogates the abstruse complexity of an idiom.
By-and-by I made it an irregular habit to accompany him on these
shepherdings; to join him in his simple midday meal of sour brown bread
and goat-milk cheese; to talk with him desultorily, and study him the
while, inasmuch as he wakened an interest in me that was full of
speculation. For his was not an imbecility either hereditary or
constitutional. From the first there had appeared to me something
abnormal in it--a suspension of intelligence only, a frost-bite in the
brain that presently some April breath of memory might thaw out. This was
not merely conjectural, of course. I had the story of his mental collapse
from his mother in the early days of my sojourn in Bel-Oiseau; for it
came to pass that a fitful caprice induced me to prolong my stay in the
swart little village far into the gracious Swiss summer.
The "story" I have called it; but it was none. He was out on the hills
one moonlight night, and came home in the early morning mad. That was
all.
This had happened some eight years before, when he was a lad of
seventeen--a strong, beautiful lad, his mother told me; and with a dreamy
"poet's corner" in his brain, she added, but in her own better way of
putting it. She had no shame that her shepherd should be an Endymion. In
Switzerland they still look upon Nature as a respectable pursuit for a
young man.
Well, they had thought him possessed of a devil; and his father had at
first sought to exorcise it with a chamois-hide thong, as Munchausen
flogged the black fox out of his skin. But the counter-irritant failed of
its purpose. The devil clung deep, and rent poor Camille with periodic
convulsions of insanity.
It was noted that his derangement waxed and waned with the monthly moon;
that it assumed a virulent character with the passing of the second
quarter, and culminated, as the orb reached its fulness, in a species of
delirium, during which it was necessary to carefully watch him; that it
diminished with the lessening crescent until it fell away into a quiet
abeyance of faculties that was but a step apart from the normal
intelligence of his kind. At his worst he was a stricken madman
acutely sensitive to impressions; at his best an inoffensive peasant who
said nothing foolish and nothing wise.
When he was twenty, his father died, and Camille and his mother had to
make out existence in company.
Now, the veil, in my first knowledge of him, was never rent; yet
occasionally it seemed to me to gape in a manner that let a little
momentary finger of light through, in the flashing of which a soul
kindled and shut in his eyes, like a hard-dying spark in ashes. I wished
to know what gave life to the spark, and I set to pondering the problem.
"He was not always thus?" I would say to Madame Barbiere.
"But no, Monsieur, truly. This place--bah! we are here imbeciles all to
the great world, without doubt; but Camille!--_he_ was by nature of those
who make the history of cities--a rose in the wilderness. Monsieur
smiles?"
"By no means. A scholar, Madame?"
"A scholar of nature, Monsieur; a dreamer of dreams such as they become
who walk much with the spirits on the lonely mountains."
"Torrents, and avalanches, and the good material forces of nature, Madame
means."
"Ah! Monsieur may talk, but he knows. He has heard the _foehn_ sweep down
from the hills and spin the great stones off the house-roofs. And one may
look and see nothing, yet the stones go. It is the wind that runs before
the avalanche that snaps the pine trees; and the wind is the spirit that
calls down the great snow-slips."
"But how may Madame who sees nothing; know then a spirit to be abroad?"
"My faith; one may know one's foot is on the wild mint without shifting
one's sole to look."
"Madame will pardon me. No doubt also one may know a spirit by the smell
of sulphur?"
"Monsieur is a sceptic. It comes with the knowledge of cities. There
are even such in little Bel-Oiseau, since the evil time when they took
to engrossing the contracts of good citizens on the skins of the poor
jew-beards that give us flesh and milk. It is horrible as the Tannery of
Meudon. In my young days, Monsieur, such agreements were inscribed upon
wood."
"Quite so, Madame, and entirely to the point. Also one may see from whom
Camille inherited his wandering propensities. But for his fall--it was
always unaccountable?"
"Monsieur, as one trips on the edge of a crevasse and disappears. His
soul dropped into the frozen cleft that one cannot fathom."
"Madame will forgive my curiosity."
"But surely. There was no dark secret in my Camille's life. If the little
head held pictures beyond the ken of us simple women, the angels painted
them of a certainty. Moreover, it is that I willingly recount this grief
to the wise friend that may know a solution."
"At least the little-wise can seek for one."
"Ah, if Monsieur would only find the remedy!"
"It is in the hands of fate."
Madame crossed herself.
"Of the _Bon Dieu_, Monsieur."
At another time Madame Barbiere said:--
"It was in such a parched summer as this threatens to be that my Camille
came home in the mists of the morning possessed. He was often out on the
sweet hills all night--that was nothing. It had been a full moon, and the
whiteness of it was on his face like leprosy, but his hands were hot with
fever. Ah, the dreadful summer! The milk turned sour in the cows' udders
and the tufts of the stone pines on the mountains fell into ashes like
Dead Sea fruit. The springs were dried, and the great cascade of Buet
fell to half its volume."
"This cascade; I have never seen it. Is it in the neighbourhood?"
"Of a surety. Monsieur must have passed the rocky ravine that vomits the
torrent, on his way hither."
"I remember. I will explore it. Camille shall be my guide."
"Never."
"And why?"
Madame shrugged her plump shoulders.
"Who may say? The ways of the afflicted are not our ways. Only I know
that Camille will never drive his flock to pasture near the lip of that
dark valley."
"That is strange. Can the place have associations for him connected with
his malady?"
"It is possible. Only the good God knows."
But _I_ was to know later on, with a little reeling of the reason also.
* * * * *
"Camille, I want to see the Cascade de Buet."
The hunted eyes of the stricken looked into mine with a piercing glance
of fear.
"Monsieur must not," he said, in a low voice.
"And why not?"
"The waters are bad--bad--haunted!"
"I fear no ghosts. Wilt thou show me the way, Camille?"
"I!" The idiot fell upon the grass with a sort of gobbling cry. I thought
it the prelude to a fit of some sort, and was stepping towards him, when
he rose to his feet, waved me off and hurried away down the slope
homewards.
Here was food for reflection, which I mumbled in secret.
A day or two afterwards I joined Camille at midday on the heights where
he was pasturing his flocks. He had shifted his ground a little distance
westwards, and I could not find him at once. At last I spied him, his
back to a rock, his hand dabbled for coolness in a little runnel that
trickled at his side. He looked up and greeted me with a smile. He had
conceived an affection for me, this poor lost soul.
"It will go soon," he said, referring to the miniature streamlet. "It is
safe in the woods; but to-morrow or next day the sun will lap it up ere
it can reach the skirt of the shadow above there. A farewell kiss to you,
little stream!"
He bent and sipped a mouthful of the clear water. He was in a more
reasonable state than he had shown for long, though it was now close
on the moon's final quarter, a period that should have marked a more
general tenor of placidity in him. The summer solstice, was, however, at
hand, and the weather sultry to a degree--as it had been, I did not fail
to remember, the year of his seizure.
"Camille," I said, "why to-day hast thou shifted thy ground a little in
the direction of the Buet ravine?"
He sat up at once, with a curious, eager look in his face.
"Monsieur has asked it," he said. "It was to impel Monsieur to ask it
that I moved. Does Monsieur seek a guide?"
"Wilt thou lead me, Camille?"
"Monsieur, last night I dreamed and one came to me. Was it my father? I
know not, I know not. But he put my forehead to his breast, and the evil
left it, and I remembered without terror. 'Reveal the secret to the
stranger,' he said; 'that he may share thy burden and comfort thee; for
he is strong where thou art weak, and the vision shall not scare him.'
Monsieur, wilt thou come?"
He leaped to his feet, and I to mine.
"Lead on, Camille. I follow."
He called to the leader of his flock: "Petitjean! stray not, my little
one. I shall be back sooner than the daisies close." Then he turned to me
again. I noticed a pallid, desperate look in his face, as though he were
strung to great effort; but it was the face of a mindless one still.
"Do you not fear?" he said, in a whisper; and the apple in his throat
seemed all choking core.
"I fear nothing," I answered with a smile; yet the still sombreness of
the woods found a little tremor in my breast.
"It is good," he answered, regarding me. "The angel spoke truth. Follow,
Monsieur."
He went off through the trees of a sudden, and I had much ado to keep
pace with him. He ran as one urged on by a sure sense of doom, looking
neither to right nor left. His mountain instincts had remained with him
when memory itself had closed around like a fog, leaving him face to face
and isolated with his one unconfessed point of terror. Swiftly we made
our way, ever slightly climbing, along the rugged hillside, and soon
broke into country very wild and dismal. The pastoral character of the
scene lessened and altogether disappeared. The trees grew matted and
grotesquely gnarled, huddling together in menacing battalions--save
where some plunging rock had burst like a shell, forcing a clearing and
strewing the black moss with a jagged wreck of splinters. Here no
flowers crept for warmth, no sentinel marmot turned his little scut with
a whistle of alarm to vanish like a red shadow. All was melancholy and
silence and the massed defiance of ever-impending ruin. Storm, and
avalanche, and the bitter snap of frost had wrought their havoc year by
year, till an uncrippled branch was a rare distinction. The very
saplings, of stunted growth, bore the air of thieves reared in a rookery
of crime.
We strode with difficulty in an inhuman twilight through this great dark
quickset of Nature, and had paused a moment where the thronging trunks
thinned somewhat, when a little mouthing moan came towards us on the
crest of a ripple of wind. My companion stopped on the instant, and
clutched my arm, his face twisting with panic.
"The Cascade, Monsieur!" he shook out in a terrified whisper.
"Courage, my friend! It is that we come to seek."
"Ah! My God, yes--it is that! I dare not--I dare not!"
He drew back livid with fear, but I urged him on.
"Remember the dream, Camille!" I cried.
"Yes, yes--it was good. Help me, Monsieur, and I will try--yes, I will
try!"
I drew his arm within mine, and together we stumbled on. The undergrowth
grew denser and more fantastic; the murmur filled out, increased and
resolved itself into a sound of falling water that ever took shape, and
volume, and depth, till its crash shook the ground at our feet. Then in
a moment a white blaze of sky came at us through the trunks, and we burst
through the fringe of the wood to find ourselves facing the opposite side
of a long cleft in the mountain and the blade's edge of a roaring
cataract.
It shot out over the lip of the fall, twenty feet above us, in a curve
like a scimitar, passed in one sheet the spot where we stood, and dived
into a sunless pool thirty feet below with a thunderous boom. What it may
have been in full phases of the stream, I know not; yet even now it was
sufficiently magnificent to give pause to a dying soul eager to shake off
the restless horror of the world. The flat of its broad blade divided the
lofty black walls of a deep and savage ravine, on whose jagged shelves
some starved clumps of rhododendron shook in the wind of the torrent.
Far down the narrow gully we could see the passion of water tossing,
champed white with the ravening of its jaws, until it took a bend of the
cliffs at a leap and rushed from sight.
We stood upon a little platform of coarse grass and bramble, whose fringe
dipped and nodded fitfully as the sprinkle caught it. Beyond, the sliding
sheet of water looked like a great strap of steel, reeled ceaselessly off
a whirling drum pivoted between the hills. The midday sun shot like a
piston down the shaft of the valley, painting purple spears and angles
behind its abutting rocks, and hitting full upon the upper curve of the
fall; but half-way down the cataract slipped into shadow.
My brain sickened with the endless gliding and turmoil of descent, and I
turned aside to speak to my companion. He was kneeling upon the grass,
his eyes fixed and staring, his white lips mumbling some crippled memory
of a prayer. He started and cowered down as I touched him on the
shoulder.
"I cannot go, Monsieur; I shall die!"
"What next, Camille? I will go alone,"
"My God, Monsieur! the cave under the fall! It is there the horror is."
He pointed to a little gap in the fringing bushes with shaking finger.
I stole gingerly in the direction he indicated. With every step I
took the awful fascination of the descending water increased upon
me. It seemed hideous and abnormal to stand mid-way against a
perpendicularly-rushing torrent. Above or below the effect would have
been different; but here, to look up was to feel one's feet dragging
towards the unseen--to look down and pass from vision of the lip of the
fall was to become the waif of a force that was unaccountable.
I had a battle with my nerves, and triumphed. As I approached the opening
in the brambles I became conscious of a certain relief. At a little
distance the cataract had seemed to actually wash in its descent the edge
of the platform. Now I found it to be further away than I had imagined,
the ground dropping in a sharp slope to a sort of rocky buttress which
lay obliquely on the slant of the ravine, and was the true margin of the
torrent. Before I essayed the descent, I glanced back at my companion. He
was kneeling where I had left him, his hands pressed to his face, his
features hidden; but looking back once again, when I had with infinite
caution accomplished the downward climb, I saw that he had crept to
the edge of the slope, and was watching me with wide, terrified eyes. I
waved my hand to him and turned to the wonderful vision of water that
now passed almost within reach of my arm. I stood near the point where
the whole glassy breadth glided at once from sunlight into shadow. It
fell silently, without a break, for only its feet far below trod the
thunder.
Now, as I peered about, I noticed a little cleft in the rocky margin, a
minute's climb above me. I was attracted to this by an appearance of
smoke or steam that incessantly emerged from it, as though some witch's
caldron were simmering alongside the fall. Spray it might be, or the
condensing of water splashed on the granite; but of this I might not be
sure. Therefore I determined to investigate, and straightway began
climbing the rocks--with my heart in my mouth, it must be confessed, for
the foothold was undesirable and the way perilous. And all the time
I was conscious that the white face of Camille watched me from above. As
I reached the cleft I fancied I heard a queer sort of gasping sob issue
from his lips, but to this I could give no heed in the sudden wonder that
broke upon me. For, lo! it appeared that the cleft led straight to a
narrow platform or ledge of rock right underneath the fall itself, but
extending how far I could not see, by reason of the steam that filled the
passage, and for which I was unable to account. Footing it carefully and
groping my way, I set step in the little water-curtained chamber and
advanced a pace or two. Suddenly, light grew about me, and a beautiful
rose of fire appeared on the wall of the passage in the midst of what
seemed a vitrified scoop in the rock.
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