From The United Irishman, August 5, 1899.
He was evidently a stranger. We had lazily wondered who he could be and our chairman had endeavoured to draw him into conversation; but he had failed—ignominiously failed. So we left the pale young man in his moodiness.
It is ten years since that winter night when five of us sat round the blazing fire in Tim Dwyer’s ancient hostelry within the shadow of Christ Church Cathedral. Tim was an honest man and he had known Clarence Mangan. Therefore, we visited him every night and drank his health in his own nectar. But on this night when we had marched in to take up our accustomed position round the fire we had espied a stranger sitting by the hob—a pale young man, whose taciturnity did not agree with us. So we left him, and it being a wild night we fell a-talking of ghosts and goblins, shees and banshees, and then we drifted into Germanic Legendland, and discussed Prince Henry and the Architect of Koln Cathedral and the immortal Dr. Faustus and other people of much more account to humanity than philosophers or politicians. The pale young man, I marked from the corner of my right eye, had shown an interest in the latter part of the conversation. Kevin Casey was telling a story of devils and damned souls and blood-written documents when I saw the stranger’s eyes shine with an eager light, and he thrust his head forward and stared at the storyteller.
As Kevin finished, the pale young man addressing us, said: ‘Pardon me, gentlemen; but as you seem acquainted with the literature and lore of the supernatural the thought has occurred to me that you might, if you were willing, render me assistance in a difficulty I am in.’
Mat Lavelle was our chairman; he invariably took the chair because it had a cushioned seat. Mat was a cautious man, and he replied, while he examined the stranger carefully with his eyes:
‘If, sir, we can serve you in any honourable way, rely on our assistance.’
‘Thank you,’ returned the pale young man. ‘But, gentlemen, to help me you must first hear my story.’
This we agreed to cheerfully, and the pale young man having allowed us to refill his empty glass, lit his pipe and began:
‘I am a native of the Fatherland, and the last representative of one of its oldest houses. My father—the one parent I remember—was a man of great learning and moderate fortune. Not far from the ancestral castle wherein we dealt the Rhine—the flashing Rhine—flowed along. One window only of the castle overlooked it—that of my father’s room. My father idolised me, but to this room, where he spent the greater part of his time, never, on any pretence, was I admitted. However, I was never a pryer and contented myself by straying along the banks of the sun-loved river or poring over, in the library, the adventures of gallant knights and courtly gentlemen, like the speedy Amadis de Gaul.
‘Time passed. I had grown a pale and thoughtful youth, when one night as I sat reading in the library, my father entered. He seemed excited and there was a strange light in his eyes. He came and kissed me. ‘My child,’ he said, slipping a packet of papers into my hand, ‘you will not see me alive again. Open this packet and obey the instructions you will find therein.’ And he rushed from the room, leaving me speechless with astonishment.
‘I rose to follow him, but some mysterious power seemed to restrain me. Then I opened the packet and read the papers. The instructions were simple: I was to repair to the University of Leipzig on the death of my father, there to remain until the completion of my 21st year, when I would be free to follow my inclinations. I was also solemnly enjoined to not open the room which I have spoken of as my father’s until the 21st anniversary of my natal day.
‘When I finished reading a strange feeling came over me and I sank into a trance. I awakened to find it broad daylight and the castle in an uproar. My poor father had been found lying cold in death in the picture-gallery. Heart-disease said the physicians. Within a month I entered the university and for four years I remained there, gaining honour and distinctions, and happy, save for the oft-recurring thought that in the room I was forbidden to enter until I had attained legal manhood lay some deep mystery. I longed for the hour to arrive when I could solve it, and when the time came I returned to the castle, full of expectation.
‘When I opened the room I found the furniture to consist solely of a table, a chair, and a bookcase. Opening the case, I found inside a sealed paper with my name written on it. Breaking the seal I read:
‘BELOVED SON.—I have forbidden you to enter this room and learn our dreadful secret until you have attained manhood, lest youthful impetuosity impel you to your ruin.
‘There is, my child, a curse upon our race.
‘An ancestor of ours, carried away by love, sold his soul to Satan to gain the object of his heart’s desire.
‘Near the time of his death he confessed what he had done to his son and told him the only chance of salvation lay in some person’s volunteering to gain for Satan five souls as a solatium. The volunteer, however, was subject to the condition that if he failed, his soul, too, would be Satan’s at the end of three years.
‘The son volunteered and failed; his son volunteered to save him and failed, and so on until your grandfather’s time—whom I volunteered to release, and failed.
‘The result is, my dear son, that all your ancestors in the male line, for three centuries back are damned.
‘Do not, my child, attempt to save my soul; by striving to do so you must inevitably lose your own. Do not make the attempt I implore of you.’
‘I was horrified when I had read the MS. and remained for some time in a half-dazed condition. Then I pulled myself together and further inspected the bookcase. The books were twelve in number, and I found them all to be narratives of my unfortunate ancestors’ efforts to save each his predecessor.
‘Three days I pondered, and then having decided to attempt my father’s rescue I put into practice the instructions I had learned from the books for raising the devil.
‘As I stood expectantly waiting a loud noise smote on my ears and a light flashed before my eyes. When I again saw clearly I beheld a figure sitting on the table, gazing at me.
‘Satan, I presume?’ I queried.
‘I have not the honour,’ returned the other. ‘My name is Beelzebub.’
‘Pardon the error,’ I returned. ‘Have you’—
‘Full power to conclude all arrangements?’ he interrupted. ‘Yes, my young friend. You wish to release from bondage the soul of your respected father. You can do so by giving three souls in exchange within five years. If you fail to keep the contract you pay yourself as a forfeit. Every assistance in our power will be rendered you on demand. We stipulate that the souls be male souls and not already on our books. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Almost,’ I replied, ‘Why, however, do you raise a sex limitation?’
‘We love peace,’ said my companion.
‘Suffice it to say that I signed the agreement and set out to search for the three beings who were to be the salvors of my father and myself. Naturally, on such a quest I decided to look in the great cities and to Berlin first I wended my way.
‘There I frequented cafes, theatres, and beer-gardens, and I felt several times that my search had been successful, but on each occasion when I notified Beelzebub he informed me the names I submitted were already on his books. Once I was cruelly disappointed when I submitted him the names of three eminent men and he coldly assured me that politicians and journalists were a drug in the market.
‘I spent a year in Berlin without success. Many, indeed, snatched at the bribe of power and wealth in exchange for their souls, but these, alas! I found to be of the number already booked. Any of those the destination of whose souls was doubtful clung firmly to the hope of salvation despite my many and great inducements to the contrary. I left Berlin and travelled through the other great cities of Germany—and failed in all. In Catholic Spain, Italy, and Austria, in Protestant Sweden and Norway, I fared as ill. Not yet despondent I travelled into France, and, after fruitless efforts in the provinces, journeyed up to Paris.
‘On the banks of the Seine I found little difficulty in securing three persons who were willing, for a consideration, to give me a right to dispose of their souls—honestly warning me that they knew they had none. I found, to my joy, their names were unknown to Beelzebub; but when the night arrived on which the bargain was to be struck—when I had explained to them that the documents I had produced must be signed in their own blood—they drew back.
‘No, monsieur,’ said one. ‘We will sign no papers. We have no souls—but ‘tis better to keep on the safe side.’
‘Disgusted, I left Paris and crossed to England, whence I departed in twenty-four hours, as I found the whole nation was already damned. I came to Ireland, but I found the inhabitants so much occupied with the land question that they had no leisure to bother about their souls. All but a few months of my allotted time had now expired, and a prey to agonising fear I returned to the Fatherland. There I made a last effort—and failed. Deciding to resign myself to the inevitable I returned to my castle by the Rhine. In vain I tried to play the stoic. The thought of eternity terrified me.
‘The last day of the year—the last day of my contract—dawned on no creature on God’s earth a tithe as wretched as I. At midnight my time would expire and torture everlasting begin. I wept, I blasphemed, I tried to pray. Hope had fled me. I paced up and down my room till evening fell, listening up to the striking of the hours. Eight struck and my blood grew chill—nine, ten, and fearful of the solitude I rushed out into the night. Far-off I heard the bells of a village church ring a merry peal. ‘Twas the eleventh hour. The gladsome clang spoke of a doomed year and a damned soul.
‘I bowed my head and wandered up and down beside the green river in anguished thought. Suddenly I started in terror. The iron tongue of midnight had toiled twelve. As the last stroke boomed upon my ear a light flashed, before my eyes and, with a shriek of horror I beheld Beelzebub standing before me.’
The pale young man paused, passed his hand across his brow, and glanced round at us.
‘Tell us,’ said our chairman with emotion—‘tell us how you escaped!’
‘That,’ said the pale young man, stroking his moustache meditatively, ‘is just what puzzles me. I’m blessed if I know.’
We were young and innocent and we looked at him in astonishment.
‘The fact is,’ he continued, ‘I’m writing that story for the Weekly Irish Times. I have reached the point where I left off and hang me if I know how to get my hero out of the scrape.’
We drew long breaths. ‘Do you mean to convey,’ asked Kevin Casey, ‘that your narrative is fictitious?’
‘Certainly,’ said the pale young man. ‘Surely you did not think otherwise? I thought, perhaps, you gentlemen might be able to help me with a suggestion.’
At this moment Tim Dwyer shoved his head in.
‘Christ Church is on the shtroke of eleven, boys,’ he called. ‘Mind me license and may heaven bless yez.’
The pale young man stood up and buttoned his coat. ‘I am sorry you cannot assist me. Good-night,’ he said with a bow.
And we arose and went forth into the darkness reflecting on Pilate’s conundrum, ‘What is truth?’
CUGUAN.