The Great God Pan
light, as a picture, before him. Above all there came to his nostrils
the scent of summer, the smell of flowers mingled, and the odour of the
woods, of cool shaded places, deep in the green depths, drawn forth by
the sun’s heat; and the scent of the good earth, lying as it were with
arms stretched forth, and smiling lips, overpowered all. His fancies
made him wander, as he had wandered long ago, from the fields into the
wood, tracking a little path between the shining undergrowth of
beech-trees; and the trickle of water dropping from the limestone rock
sounded as a clear melody in the dream. Thoughts began to go astray and
to mingle with other thoughts; the beech alley was transformed to a
path between ilex-trees, and here and there a vine climbed from bough
to bough, and sent up waving tendrils and drooped with purple grapes,
and the sparse grey-green leaves of a wild olive-tree stood out against
the dark shadows of the ilex. Clarke, in the deep folds of dream, was
conscious that the path from his father’s house had led him into an
undiscovered country, and he was wondering at the strangeness of it
all, when suddenly, in place of the hum and murmur of the summer, an
infinite silence seemed to fall on all things, and the wood was hushed,
and for a moment in time he stood face to face there with a presence,
that was neither man nor beast, neither the living nor the dead, but
all things mingled, the form of all things but devoid of all form. And
in that moment, the sacrament of body and soul was dissolved, and a
voice seemed to cry “Let us go hence,” and then the darkness of
darkness beyond the stars, the darkness of everlasting.
When Clarke woke up with a start he saw Raymond pouring a few drops of
some oily fluid into a green phial, which he stoppered tightly.
“You have been dozing,” he said; “the journey must have tired you out.
It is done now. I am going to fetch Mary; I shall be back in ten
minutes.”
Clarke lay back in his chair and wondered. It seemed as if he had but
passed from one dream into another. He half expected to see the walls
of the laboratory melt and disappear, and to awake in London,
shuddering at his own sleeping fancies. But at last the door opened,
and the doctor returned, and behind him came a girl of about seventeen,
dressed all in white. She was so beautiful that Clarke did not wonder
at what the doctor had written to him. She was blushing now over face
and neck and arms, but Raymond seemed unmoved.
“Mary,” he said, “the time has come. You are quite free. Are you
willing to trust yourself to me entirely?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Do you hear that, Clarke? You are my witness. Here is the chair, Mary.
It is quite easy. Just sit in it and lean back. Are you ready?”
“Yes, dear, quite ready. Give me a kiss before you begin.”
The doctor stooped and kissed her mouth, kindly enough. “Now shut your
eyes,” he said. The girl closed her eyelids, as if she were tired, and
longed for sleep, and Raymond placed the green phial to her nostrils.
Her face grew white, whiter than her dress; she struggled faintly, and
then with the feeling of submission strong within her, crossed her arms
upon her breast as a little child about to say her prayers. The bright
light of the lamp fell full upon her, and Clarke watched changes
fleeting over her face as the changes of the hills when the summer
clouds float across the sun. And then she lay all white and still, and
the doctor turned up one of her eyelids. She was quite unconscious.
Raymond pressed hard on one of the levers and the chair instantly sank
back. Clarke saw him cutting away a circle, like a tonsure, from her
hair, and the lamp was moved nearer. Raymond took a small glittering
instrument from a little case, and Clarke turned away shudderingly.
When he looked again the doctor was binding up the wound he had made.
“She will awake in five minutes.” Raymond was still perfectly cool.
“There is nothing more to be done; we can only wait.”
The minutes passed slowly; they could hear a slow, heavy, ticking.
There was an old clock in the passage. Clarke felt sick and faint; his
knees shook beneath him, he could hardly stand.
Suddenly, as they watched, they heard a long-drawn sigh, and suddenly
did the colour that had vanished return to the girl’s cheeks, and
suddenly her eyes opened. Clarke quailed before them. They shone with
an awful light, looking far away, and a great wonder fell upon her
face, and her hands stretched out as if to touch what was invisible;
but in an instant the wonder faded, and gave place to the most awful
terror. The muscles of her face were hideously convulsed, she shook
from head to foot; the soul seemed struggling and shuddering within the
house of flesh. It was a horrible sight, and Clarke rushed forward, as
she fell shrieking to the floor.
Three days later Raymond took Clarke to Mary’s bedside. She was lying
wide-awake, rolling her head from side to side, and grinning vacantly.
“Yes,” said the doctor, still quite cool, “it is a great pity; she is a
hopeless idiot. However, it could not be helped; and, after all, she
has seen the Great God Pan.”
II
MR. CLARKE’S MEMOIRS
Mr. Clarke, the gentleman chosen by Dr. Raymond to witness the strange
experiment of the god Pan, was a person in whose character caution and
curiosity were oddly mingled; in his sober moments he thought of the
unusual and eccentric with undisguised aversion, and yet, deep in his
heart, there was a wide-eyed inquisitiveness with respect to all the
more recondite and esoteric elements in the nature of men. The latter
tendency had prevailed when he accepted Raymond’s invitation, for
though his considered judgment had always repudiated the doctor’s
theories as the wildest nonsense, yet he secretly hugged a belief in
fantasy, and would have rejoiced to see that belief confirmed. The
horrors that he witnessed in the dreary laboratory were to a certain
extent salutary; he was conscious of being involved in an affair not
altogether reputable, and for many years afterwards he clung bravely to
the commonplace, and rejected all occasions of occult investigation.
Indeed, on some homeopathic principle, he for some time attended the
seances of distinguished mediums, hoping that the clumsy tricks of
these gentlemen would make him altogether disgusted with mysticism of
every kind, but the remedy, though caustic, was not efficacious. Clarke
knew that he still pined for the unseen, and little by little, the old
passion began to reassert itself, as the face of Mary, shuddering and
convulsed with an unknown terror, faded slowly from his memory.
Occupied all day in pursuits both serious and lucrative, the temptation
to relax in the evening was too great, especially in the winter months,
when the fire cast a warm glow over his snug bachelor apartment, and a
bottle of some choice claret stood ready by his elbow. His dinner
digested, he would make a brief pretence of reading the evening paper,
but the mere catalogue of news soon palled upon him, and Clarke would
find himself casting glances of warm desire in the direction of an old
Japanese bureau, which stood at a pleasant distance from the hearth.
Like a boy before a jam-closet, for a few minutes he would hover
indecisive, but lust always prevailed, and Clarke ended by drawing up
his chair, lighting a candle, and sitting down before the bureau. Its
pigeon-holes and drawers teemed with documents on the most morbid
subjects, and in the well reposed a large manuscript volume, in which
he had painfully entered the gems of his collection. Clarke had a fine
contempt for published literature; the most ghostly story ceased to
interest him if it happened to be printed; his sole pleasure was in the
reading, compiling, and rearranging what he called his “Memoirs to
prove the Existence of the Devil,” and engaged in this pursuit the
evening seemed to fly and the night appeared too short.
On one particular evening, an ugly December night, black with fog, and
raw with frost, Clarke hurried over his dinner, and scarcely deigned to
observe his customary ritual of taking up the paper and laying it down
again. He paced two or three times up and down the room, and opened the
bureau, stood still a moment, and sat down. He leant back, absorbed in
one of those dreams to which he was subject, and at length drew out his
book, and opened it at the last entry. There were three or four pages
densely covered with Clarke’s round, set penmanship, and at the
beginning he had written in a somewhat larger hand:
Singular Narrative told me by my Friend, Dr. Phillips. He assures me
that all the facts related therein are strictly and wholly True, but
refuses to give either the Surnames of the Persons Concerned, or the
Place where these Extraordinary Events occurred.
Mr. Clarke began to read over the account for the tenth time, glancing
now and then at the pencil notes he had made when it was told him by
his friend. It was one of his humours to pride himself on a certain
literary ability; he thought well of his style, and took pains in
arranging the circumstances in dramatic order. He read the following
story:—
The persons concerned in this statement are Helen V., who, if she is
still alive, must now be a woman of twenty-three, Rachel M., since
deceased, who was a year younger than the above, and Trevor W., an
imbecile, aged eighteen. These persons were at the period of the story
inhabitants of a village on the borders of Wales, a place of some
importance in the time of the Roman occupation, but now a scattered
hamlet, of not more than five hundred souls. It is situated on rising
ground, about six miles from the sea, and is sheltered by a large and
picturesque forest.
Some eleven years ago, Helen V. came to the village under rather
peculiar circumstances. It is understood that she, being an orphan, was
adopted in her infancy by a distant relative, who brought her up in his
own house until she was twelve years old. Thinking, however, that it
would be better for the child to have playmates of her own age, he
advertised in several local papers for a good home in a comfortable
farmhouse for a girl of twelve, and this advertisement was answered by
Mr. R., a well-to-do farmer in the above-mentioned village. His
references proving satisfactory, the gentleman sent his adopted
daughter to Mr. R., with a letter, in which he stipulated that the girl
should have a room to herself, and stated that her guardians need be at
no trouble in the matter of education, as she was already sufficiently
educated for the position in life which she would occupy. In fact, Mr.
R. was given to understand that the girl be allowed to find her own
occupations and to spend her time almost as she liked. Mr. R. duly met
her at the nearest station, a town seven miles away from his house, and
seems to have remarked nothing extraordinary about the child except
that she was reticent as to her former life and her adopted father. She
was, however, of a very different type from the inhabitants of the
village; her skin was a pale, clear olive, and her features were
strongly marked, and of a somewhat foreign character. She appears to
have settled down easily enough into farmhouse life, and became a
favourite with the children, who sometimes went with her on her rambles
in the forest, for this was her amusement. Mr. R. states that he has
known her to go out by herself directly after their early breakfast,
and not return till after dusk, and that, feeling uneasy at a young
girl being out alone for so many hours, he communicated with her
adopted father, who replied in a brief note that Helen must do as she
chose. In the winter, when the forest paths are impassable, she spent
most of her time in her bedroom, where she slept alone, according to