Canon Alberic's Scrapbook

St Bertrand deComminges is a decayed town on the spurs of the Pyrenees, not
very far from Toulouse, and still nearer to Bagnres-de-Luchon.It was the
site of a bishopric until the Revolution, and has a cathedralwhich is
visited by a certain number of tourists. In the spring of 1883 anEnglishman
arrived at this old-world place - I can hardly dignify it withthe name of
city, for there are not a thousand inhabitants. He was aCambridge man, who
had come specially from Toulouse to see St Bertrand's Church, andhad left
two friends, who were less keen archaeologists than himself, intheir 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 thenpursue their
journey in the direction of Auch. But our Englishman had comeearly on the
day in question, and proposed to himself to fill a notebook andto use
several dozens of plates in the process of describing andphotographing
every corner of the wonderful church that dominates the littlehill of
Comminges. In order to carry out this design satisfactorily, itwas
necessary to monopolize the verger of the church for the day. Theverger or
sacristan (I prefer the latter appellation, inaccurate as it maybe) was
accordingly sent for by the somewhat brusque lady who keeps theinn of the
Chapeau Rouge; and when he came, the Englishman found him anunexpectedly
interesting object of study. It was not in the personalappearance of the
little, dry, wizened old man that the interest lay, for he wasprecisely
like dozens of other church-guardians in France, but in a curiousfurtive,
or rather hunted and oppressed, air which he had. He wasperpetually half
glancing behind him; the muscles of his back and shoulders seemedto be
hunched in a continual nervous contraction, as if he wereexpecting every
moment to find himself in the clutch of an enemy. The Englishmanhardly knew
whether to put him down as a man haunted by a fixed delusion, oras one
oppressed by a guilty conscience, or as an unbearably henpeckedhusband. The
probabilities, when reckoned up, certainly pointed to the lastidea; but,
still, the impression conveyed was that of a more formidablepersecutor even
than a termagant wife.

However, the Englishman (let us call him Dennistoun) was soon toodeep in
his notebook and too busy with his camera to give more than anoccasional
glance to the sacristan. Whenever he did look at him, he foundhim at no
great distance, either huddling himself back against the wall orcrouching
in one of the gorgeous stalls. Dennistoun became rather fidgetyafter a
time. Mingled suspicions that he was keeping the old man from hisdŽjeuner,
that he was regarded as likely to make away with St Bertrand'sivory
crozier, or with the dusty stuffed crocodile that hangs over thefont, began
to torment him.

"Won't you go home?" he said at last; "I'm quitewell able to finish my
notes alone; you can lock me in if you like. I shall want atleast two hours
more here, and it must be cold for you, isn't it?"

"Good Heavens!" said the little man, whom thesuggestion seemed to throw
into a state of unaccountable terror, "such a thing cannotbe 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 notat all cold,
with many thanks to monsieur."

"Very well, my little man,' quoth Dennistoun 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 choir-screen of Bishop John de MaulŽon,the remnants
of glass and tapestry, and the objects in the treasure-chamber,had been
well and truly examined; the sacristan still keeping atDennistoun'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 buildingfell on his
ear. Curious noises they were sometimes.

"Once," Dennistoun said to me,"I could have swornI heard a thin metallic
voice laughing high up in the tower. I darted an inquiring glanceat my
sacristan. He was white to the lips. ÔIt is he - that is - it isno one; the
door is locked,Õ was all he said, and we looked at each otherfor a full
minute.Ó

Another little incident puzzled Dennistoun a good deal. He wasexamining
a large dark picture that hangs behind the altar, one of a series
illustrating the miracles of St Bertrand. The composition of thepicture is
well-nigh indecipherable, but there is a Latin legend below,which runs
thus:

Ó Qualiter S. Bertrandus liberavit hominem quem diabolus diu
volebat strangulare.Ó (How St Bertrand delivered a man whom the
Devil long sought to strangle.)

Dennistoun was turning to the sacristan with a smile and ajocular remark
of some sort on his lips, but he was confounded to see the oldman on his
knees, gazing at the picture with the eye of a suppliant inagony, his hands
tightly clasped, and a rain of tears on his cheeks. Dennistounnaturally
pretended to have noticed nothing, but the question would notaway from him,
"Why should a daub of this kind affect anyone so strongly?"He seemed to
himself to be getting some sort of clue to the reason of thestrange look
that had been puzzling him all the day: the man must be amonomaniac; but
what was his monomania?

It was nearly five o'clock; the short day was drawing in, and thechurch
began to fill with shadows, while the curious noises - themuffled footfalls
and distant talking voices that had been perceptible all day -seemed, no
doubt because of the fading light and the consequently quickenedsense 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 notebookwere finally
packed up and stowed away, and hurriedly beckoned Dennistoun tothe western
door of the church, under the tower. It was time to ring theAngelus. A few
pulls at the reluctant rope, and the great bell Bertrande, highin the
tower, began to speak, and swung her voice up among the pines anddown to
the valleys, loud with mountain-streams, calling the dwellers onthose
lonely hills to remember and repeat the salutation of the angelto her whom
he called Blessed among women. With that a profound quiet seemedto fall for
the first time that day upon the little town, and Dennistoun andthe
sacristan went out of the church. On the doorstep they fell into
conversation. "Monsieur seemed to interest himself in theold choir-books in
the sacristy."

ÓUndoubtedly. I was going to ask you if there were a library inthe
town."

"No, monsieur; perhaps there used to be one belonging to theChapter, but
it is now such a small place - " Here came a strange pauseof irresolution,
as it seemed; then, with a sort of plunge, he went on: "Butif monsieur is
amateur des vieux livres, I have at home something that mightinterest him.
It is not a hundred yards."

At once all Dennistoun's cherished dreams of finding priceless
manuscripts in untrodden corners of France flashed up, to diedown again the
next moment. It was probably a stupid missal of Plantin'sprinting, about
1580. Where was the likelihood that a place so near Toulousewould not have
been ransacked long ago by collectors? However, it would befoolish not to
go; he would reproach himself for ever after if he refused. Sothey set off.
On the way the curious irresolution and sudden determination ofthe
sacristan recurred to Dennistoun, and he wondered in a shamefacedway
whether he was being decoyed into some purlieu to be made awaywith as a
supposed rich Englishman. He contrived, therefore, to begintalking with his
guide, and to drag in, in a rather clumsy fashion, the fact thathe expected
two friends to join him early the next morning. To his surprise,the
announcement seemed to relieve the sacristan at once of some ofthe anxiety
that oppressed him.

"That is well,' he said quite brightly - "that is verywell. Monsieur
will travel in company with his friends; they will be always nearhim. It is
a good thing to travel thus in company - sometimes."

The last word appeared to be added as an afterthought, and tobring with
it a relapse into gloom for the poor little man.

They were soon at the house, which was one rather larger than its
neighbours, stone-built, with a shield carved over the door, theshield of
Alberic de MaulŽon, a collateral descendant, Dennistountells me, of Bishop
John de MaulŽon. This Alberic was a Canon of Comminges from1680 to 1701.
The upper windows of the mansion were boarded up, and the wholeplace bore,
as does the rest of Comminges, the aspect of decaying age.Arrived on his
doorstep, the sacristan paused a moment.

"Perhaps," he said, "perhaps, after all, monsieurhas not the time?"

"Not at all - lots of time - nothing to do till tomorrow.Let us see what
it is you have got."

The door was opened at this point, and a face looked out, a facefar
younger than the sacristan's, but bearing something of the samedistressing
look: only here it seemed to be the mark, not so much of fear forpersonal
safety as of acute anxiety on behalf of another. Plainly, theowner of the
face was the sacristan's daughter; and, but for the expression Ihave
described, she was a handsome girl enough. She brightened upconsiderably
seeing her father accompanied by an able-bodied stranger. A fewremarks
passed between father and daughter, of which Dennistoun onlycaught these
words, said by the sacristan, "He was laughing in thechurch," 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 shadowscast by a
wood-fire that flickered on a great hearth. Something of thecharacter of an
oratory was imparted to it by a tall crucifix, which reachedalmost to the
ceiling on one side; the figure was painted of the naturalcolours, the
cross was black. Under this stood a chest of some age andsolidity, and when
a lamp had been brought, and chairs set, the sacristan went tothis chest,
and produced therefrom, with growing excitement and nervousness,as
Dennistoun thought, a large book, wrapped in a white cloth, onwhich cloth a
cross was rudely embroidered in red thread. Even before thewrapping had
been removed, Dennistoun began to be interested by the size andshape of the
volume. "Too large for a missal," he thought, "andnot the shape of an
antiphoner; perhaps it may be something good, after all."The next moment
the book was open, and Dennistoun felt that he had at last litupon
something better than good. Before him lay a large folio, bound,perhaps,
late in the seventeenth century, with the arms of Canon Albericde MaulŽon
stamped in gold on the sides. There may have been a hundred andfifty leaves
of paper in the book, and on almost every one of them wasfastened a leaf
from an illuminated manuscript. Such a collection Dennistoun hadhardly
dreamed of in his wildest moments. Here were ten leaves from acopy of
Genesis, illustrated with pictures, which could not be later thanA.D. 700.
Further on was a complete set of pictures from a Psalter, ofEnglish
execution, of the very finest kind that the thirteenth centurycould
produce; and, perhaps best of all, there were twenty leaves ofuncial
writing in Latin, which, as a few words seen here and there toldhim at
once, must belong to some very early unknown patristic treatise.Could it
possibly be a fragment of the copy of Papias "On the Wordsof Our Lord",
which was known to have existed as late as the twelfth century atN”mes? In
any case, his mind was made up; that book must return toCambridge with him,
even if he had to draw the whole of his balance from the bank andstay at St
Bertrand till the money came. He glanced up at the sacristan tosee if his
face yielded any hint that the book was for sale. The sacristanwas pale,
and his lips were working.

"If monsieur will turn on to the end," he said. Somonsieur turned on,
meeting new treasures at every rise of a leaf; and at the end ofthe book he
came upon two sheets of paper, of much more recent date thananything he had
yet seen, which puzzled him considerably. They must becontemporary, he
decided, with the unprincipled Canon Alberic, who had doubtlessplundered
the Chapter library of St Bertrand to form this priceless scrap-book.On the
first of the paper sheets was a plan, carefully drawn andinstantly
recognizable by a person who knew the ground, of the south aisleand
cloisters of St Bertrand's. There were curious signs looking likeplanetary
symbols, and a few Hebrew words, in the corners; and in the north-westangle
of the cloister was a cross drawn in gold paint. Below the planwere 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 ofDecember,
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 - quitereminds one of
Mr Minor-Canon Quatremain in 'Old St Paul's,'"wasDennistoun's comment, and
he turned the leaf.

What he then saw impressed him, as he has often told me, morethan he
could have conceived any drawing or picture capable of impressinghim. And,
though the drawing he saw is no longer in existence, there is aphotograph
of it (which I possess) which fully bears out that statement. Thepicture in
question was a sepia drawing at the end of the seventeenthcentury,
representing, one would say at first sight, a Biblical scene; forthe
architecture (the picture represented an interior) and thefigures had that
semi-classical flavour about them which the artists of twohundred years ago
thought appropriate to illustrations of the Bible. On the rightwas a King
on his throne, the throne elevated on twelve steps, a canopyoverhead, lions
on either side - evidently King Solomon. He was bending forwardwith
outstretched sceptre, in attitude of command; his face expressedhorror and
disgust, yet there was in it also the mark of imperious will andconfident
power. The left half of the picture was the strangest, however.The interest
plainly centred there. On the pavement before the throne weregrouped four
soldiers, surrounding a crouching figure which must be describedin a
moment. A fifth soldier lay dead on the pavement, his neckdistorted, and
his eyeballs starting from his head. The four surrounding guardswere
looking at the King. In their faces the sentiment of horror wasintensified;
they seemed, in fact, only restrained from flight by theirimplicit trust in
their master. All this terror was plainly excited by the beingthat crouched
in their midst. I entirely despair of conveying by any words theimpression
which this figure makes upon anyone who looks at it. I recollectonce
showing the photograph of the drawing to a lecturer on morphology- a person
of, I was going to say, abnormally sane and unimaginative habitsof mind. He
absolutely refused to be alone for the rest of that evening, andhe told me
afterwards that for many nights he had not dared to put out hislight before
going to sleep. However, the main traits of the figure I can atleast
indicate. At first you saw only a mass of coarse, matted blackhair;
presently it was seen that this covered a body of fearfulthinness, almost a
skeleton, but with the muscles standing out like wires. The handswere of a
dusky pallor, covered, like the body, with long, coarse hairs,and hideously
taloned. The eyes, touched in with a burning yellow, hadintensely black
pupils, and were fixed upon the throned King with a look of beast-likehate.
Imagine one of the awful bird-catching spiders of South Americatranslated
into human form, and endowed with intelligence just less thanhuman, and you
will have some faint conception of the terror inspired by thisappalling
effigy. One remark is universally made by those to whom I haveshown the
picture: "It was drawn from the life."

As soon as the first shock of his irresistible fright hadsubsided,
Dennistoun stole a look at his hosts. The sacristan's hands werepressed
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 determinationthat he
had noticed before, and then came the welcome answer. "Ifmonsieur 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 sometimesstirred,
and Dennistoun's conscience was tenderer than a collector's.

"My good man!" he said again and again, "your bookis 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 andfifty francs,
not more."

There was really no possibility of refusing such a chance. Themoney was
paid, the receipt signed, a glass of wine drunk over thetransaction, and
then the sacristan seemed to become a new man. He stood upright,he ceased
to throw those suspicious glances behind him, he actually laughedor tried
to laugh. Dennistoun rose to go.

"I shall have the honour of accompanying monsieur to hishotel?" said the
sacristan.

"Oh no, thanks! it isn't a hundred yards. I know the wayperfectly, 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; hewill keep
the middle of the road, the sides are so rough."

"Certainly, certainly," said Dennistoun, who wasimpatient to examine his
prize by himself; and he stepped out into the passage with hisbook under
his arm.

Here he was met by the daughter; she, it appeared, was anxious todo 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 wouldperhaps be good
enough to accept it?"

Well, really, Dennistoun hadn't much use for these things. Whatdid
mademoiselle want for it?

"Nothing - nothing in the world. Monsieur is more thanwelcome to it."

The tone in which this and much more was said was unmistakablygenuine,
so that Dennistoun was reduced to profuse thanks, and submittedto have the
chain put round his neck. It really seemed as if he had renderedthe father
and daughter some service which they hardly knew how to repay. Ashe set off
with his book they stood at the door looking after him, and theywere still
looking when he waved them a last good night from the steps ofthe Chapeau
Rouge.

Dinner was over, and Dennistoun was in his bedroom, shut up alonewith
his acquisition. The landlady had manifested a particularinterest in him
since he had told her that he had paid a visit to the sacristanand bought
an old book from him. He thought, too, that he had heard ahurried dialogue
between her and the said sacristan in the passage outside thesalle ˆ
manger, some words to the effect that "Pierre and Bertrandwould be sleeping
in the house" had closed the conversation.

All this time a growing feeling of discomfort had been creepingover him
- nervous reaction, perhaps, after the delight of his discovery.Whatever it
was, it resulted in a conviction that there was someone behindhim, 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 thecollection
he had acquired. And now, as I said, he was alone in his bedroom,taking
stock of Canon Alberic's treasures, in which every momentrevealed something
more charming.

"Bless Canon Alberic!" said Dennistoun, who had aninveterate habit of
talking to himself. "I wonder where he is now? Dear me! Iwish that landlady
would learn to laugh in a more cheering manner; it makes one feelas if
there was someone dead in the house. Half a pipe more, did yousay? I think
perhaps you are right. I wonder what that crucifix is that theyoung woman
insisted on giving me? Last century, I suppose. Yes, probably. Itis rather
a nuisance of a thing to have round one's neck - just too heavy.Most likely
her father had been wearing it for years. I think I might give ita 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 byhis left
elbow. Two or three ideas of what it might be flitted through hisbrain with
their own incalculable quickness.

"A penwiper? No, no such thing in the house. A rat? No, tooblack. A
large spider? I trust to goodness not - no. Good God! a hand likethe hand
in that picture!"

In another infinitesimal flash he had taken it in. Pale, duskyskin,
covering nothing but bones and tendons of appalling strength;coarse black
hairs, longer than ever grew on a human hand; nails rising fromthe ends of
the fingers and curving sharply down and forward, grey, horny andwrinkled.

He flew out of his chair with deadly, inconceivable terrorclutching at
his heart. The shape, whose left hand rested on the table, wasrising to a
standing posture behind his seat, its right hand crooked abovehis scalp.
There was black and tattered drapery about it; the coarse haircovered 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 andintense, and
the exulting hate and thirst to destroy life which shone there,were the
most horrifying features in the whole vision. There wasintelligence of a
kind in them - intelligence beyond that of a beast, below that ofa man.

The feelings which this horror stirred in Dennistoun were theintensest
physical fear and the most profound mental loathing. What did hedo? 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 silvercrucifix, 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, whorushed in,
saw nothing, but felt themselves thrust aside by something thatpassed out
between them, and found Dennistoun in a swoon. They sat up withhim that
night, and his two friends were at St Bertrand by nine o'clocknext morning.
He himself, though still shaken and nervous, was almost himselfby that
time, and his story found credence with them, though not untilthey had seen
the drawing and talked with the sacristan.

Almost at dawn the little man had come to the inn on somepretence, and
had listened with the deepest interest to the story retailed bythe
landlady. He showed no surprise.

"It is he - it is he! I have seen him myself," was hisonly comment; and
to all questionings but one reply was vouchsafed: 'Deux fois jel'ai vu;
mille fois je l'ai senti.' He would tell them nothing of theprovenance of
the book, nor any details of his experiences. 'I shall soonsleep, and my
rest will be sweet. Why should you trouble me?' he said.

We shall never know what he or Canon Alberic de MaulŽonsuffered. At the
back of that fateful drawing were some lines of writing which maybe
supposed to throw light on the situation:

"Contradictio Salomonis cum demonio nocturno. Albericus de
Mauleone delineavit. V. Deus in adiutorium. Ps. Qui habitat.
Sancte Bertrande, demoniorum effugator, intercede pro me
miserrimo. Primum uidi nocte 12mi Dec. 1694: uidebo mox ultimum.
Peccaui et passus sum, plura adhuc passurus. Dec. 29,1701."

( I.e. The Dispute of Solomon with a demon of the night.
Drawn by Alberic de MaulŽon. Versicle. O Lord, make haste tohelp
me. Psalm. Whoso dwelleth (xci).

Saint Bertrand, who puttest devils to flight, pray for me most
unhappy. I saw it first on the night of Dec. 12, 1694: soon I
shall see it for the last time. I have sinned and suffered, and
have more to suffer yet. Dec. 29,1701.

The ÒGallia ChristianaÓ gives the date of the Canon's death as
December 31, 1701, 'Óin bed, of a sudden seizureÓ. Details ofthis
kind are not common in the great work of the Sammarthani.)

I have never quite understood what was Dennistoun's view of theevents I
have narrated. He quoted to me once a text from Ecclesiasticus:"Some
spirits there be that are created for vengeance, and in theirfury lay on
sore strokes." On another occasion he said: "Isaiah wasa very sensible man;
doesn't he say something about night monsters living in the ruinsof
Babylon? These things are rather beyond us at present."

Another confidence of his impressed me rather, and I sympathizedwith it.
We had been, last year, to Comminges, to see Canon Alberic's tomb.It is a
great marble erection with an effigy of the Canon in a large wigand
soutane, and an elaborate eulogy of his learning below. I sawDennistoun
talking for some time with the Vicar of St Bertrand's, and as wedrove away
he said to me: 'I hope it isn't wrong: you know I am aPresbyterian - but I
- I believe there will be 'saying of Mass and singing of dirges'for Alberic
de MaulŽon's rest.' Then he added, with a touch of theNorthern British in
his tone, 'I had no notion they came so dear.'

The book is in the Wentworth Collection at Cambridge. The drawingwas
photographed and then burnt by Dennistoun on the day when he leftComminges
on the occasion of his first visit.