Ghost Stories of an Antiquary
antiphoner; perhaps it may be something good, after all.” The next
moment the book was open, and Dennistoun 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 Canon
Alberic de Mauléon stamped in gold on the sides. There may have been a
hundred and fifty leaves of paper in the book, and on almost every one
of them was fastened a leaf from an illuminated manuscript. Such a
collection Dennistoun had hardly dreamed of in his wildest moments.
Here were ten leaves from a copy of Genesis, illustrated with pictures,
which could not be later than A.D. 700. 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 uncial 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 Papias “On the Words of Our Lord”, which was known to
have existed as late as the twelfth century at Nîmes?[1] 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
St. 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.
[1] We now know that these leaves did contain a considerable fragment
of that work, if not of that actual copy of it.
“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 yet seen, which puzzled him
considerably. They must be contemporary, he decided, with the
unprincipled Canon Alberic, who had doubtless plundered the Chapter
library of St Bertrand to form this priceless scrap-book. 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 aisle and
cloisters of St Bertrand’s. There were curious signs looking like
planetary symbols, and a few Hebrew words in the corners; and in the
north-west angle of the cloister was a cross drawn in gold paint. Below
the plan were some lines of writing in Latin, which ran thus:
Responsa 12mi Dec. 1694. Interrogatum est: Inveniamne? Responsum est:
Invenies. Fiamne dives? Fies. Vivamne invidendus? Vives. Moriarne in
lecto meo? Ita. (Answers of the 12th of December, 1694. 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
Mr Minor-Canon Quatremain in _Old St Paul’s_,” was Dennistoun’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 sight, a
Biblical scene; for the architecture (the picture represented an
interior) and the figures had that semi-classical flavour about them
which the artists of two hundred years ago thought appropriate to
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
sceptre, 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 centred 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 eye-balls 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
restrained 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 a lecturer 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 of 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 hairs, and hideously taloned.
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 shown the picture: “It was drawn from the life.”
As soon as the first shock of his irresistible fright had subsided,
Dennistoun 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 plunge of 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 Dennistoun’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. Dennistoun rose to go.
“I shall have the honour 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—if he finds occasion; he will keep
the middle of the road, the sides are so rough.”
“Certainly, certainly,” said Dennistoun, 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 on her own account; perhaps, like Gehazi, 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, Dennistoun 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 Dennistoun 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 Dennistoun 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
bought an old book from him. He thought, too, that he had heard a
hurried dialogue between her and the said sacristan in the passage
outside the _salle à manger_; 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 resulted in a conviction that there was someone
behind him, and that he was far more comfortable with his back to the
wall. 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 Alberic’s treasures, in
which every moment revealed something more charming.
“Bless Canon Alberic!” said Dennistoun, 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; it 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 round one’s
neck—just too heavy. Most likely her father has been wearing it for
years. I think 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 infinitesimal 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, grey,
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, its right 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 Dennistoun were the intensest
physical fear and the most profound mental loathing. What did he do?