was taut with chill, that it was as though for a million years the sun had been gone and brought no warming rays to the ice-bound earth. And through the dank chill—the creeping-on of the sense of evil… ‘I could smell it as a horse scents danger…’ the old woman had said. And now, suddenly, it was all about her, strong, pungent, unmistakable as the stench of decay: the knowledge of the presence of evil, the knowledge of the presence of cruelty and pain…
At the heart of the evil—life. A voice whispered out of the evil: ‘I am here.’
And she saw him standing there, quietly. Aged thirty, perhaps; as fair as herself, of middle height and slender, dressed in the velvet and brocade of the late eighteenth century. And she looked at his pale face and suddenly all evil, all the cruelty were gone; for in all the world there never had been so much sadness, so much longing, so much—pleading—in the face of any man.
He did not move. He stood with one hand on the carved mahogany upright of the four-poster bed. He said: ‘Are you afraid?’
Of course she was afraid, crouching there, trembling, huddled at the edge of her chair. She tried to call out, to scream for help but no sound came. ‘Go away! Get away!’ She muttered and mumbled, small meaningless, ejaculatory prayers. ‘Don’t come near me, get away, get away…’ Beyond him, in the shadows by the head of the four-poster bed, the oil lamp glowed steadily and with a new and sickening stab of terror, she recognised that she saw this lamp though he stood between herself and it. ‘Who are you? What are you? You are not a man—’
‘I was a man,’ he sadly said.
‘You’re not a man now,’ she blurted out, whimpering. ‘You’re a ghost, you’re a dead thing, go away, get away, go back where you belong…’
‘I belong in hell,’ he said.
‘In—hell? Then if you belong in hell—’ she was gathering courage, finding some strength in the gentleness of his answers, the terrible, pleading sadness in his face—‘go back there to hell, go back where you belong.’
‘I belong here,’ he said. ‘This is my hell.’
‘Here—in this room?’
‘I made it my hell. I created it hell for myself; and for—another. She could have undone all the wrong; she could—here in this room, she could have held out her arms to me and made it all heaven again. But she would not. I had made it a hell for her too and so she would not, or could not; and there was no other way back…’ And the sadness was there and the terrible longing. ‘No other way back, but through a woman’s forgiveness: a woman who could love enough to forgive.’
So now she knew. No evil: that had been all repented in the long ago past. No cruelty—that had been in the bleak refusal of pardon to the sinner come home. And no fear: nothing to fear, only a sad ghost caught and caged in eternal atonement at the scene of his ultimate despair. She faltered: ‘What is it you want of me?’ but even as she asked, she knew.
‘If it could be found in the heart of a woman to forgive—to know it all and in spite of it all to love as she could not love, to love enough to forgive…’
‘Your sins were not sins against me,’ she said.
‘They were sins against womankind.’ He moved now, he came close to her, and she was not afraid. And he saw that she was not afraid and came closer and knelt at her feet, but not touching her; and now for the first time smiled at her, gently and whimsically. ‘It is like the child’s fairy story—isn’t it? The prince caught in the heart of the mountain of ice and one tear from the princess will melt the mountain away and set him free.’
‘That’s in the fairy stories.’
‘Yes, but… Fairy stories have deep roots, you know. Fairy stories come from old, ancient legends and legends from myths; and myths from the uttermost womb of religious time.’ And he held out his hand, the lace ruffle falling away like foam from the narrow wrist, and said,
At the heart of the evil—life. A voice whispered out of the evil: ‘I am here.’
And she saw him standing there, quietly. Aged thirty, perhaps; as fair as herself, of middle height and slender, dressed in the velvet and brocade of the late eighteenth century. And she looked at his pale face and suddenly all evil, all the cruelty were gone; for in all the world there never had been so much sadness, so much longing, so much—pleading—in the face of any man.
He did not move. He stood with one hand on the carved mahogany upright of the four-poster bed. He said: ‘Are you afraid?’
Of course she was afraid, crouching there, trembling, huddled at the edge of her chair. She tried to call out, to scream for help but no sound came. ‘Go away! Get away!’ She muttered and mumbled, small meaningless, ejaculatory prayers. ‘Don’t come near me, get away, get away…’ Beyond him, in the shadows by the head of the four-poster bed, the oil lamp glowed steadily and with a new and sickening stab of terror, she recognised that she saw this lamp though he stood between herself and it. ‘Who are you? What are you? You are not a man—’
‘I was a man,’ he sadly said.
‘You’re not a man now,’ she blurted out, whimpering. ‘You’re a ghost, you’re a dead thing, go away, get away, go back where you belong…’
‘I belong in hell,’ he said.
‘In—hell? Then if you belong in hell—’ she was gathering courage, finding some strength in the gentleness of his answers, the terrible, pleading sadness in his face—‘go back there to hell, go back where you belong.’
‘I belong here,’ he said. ‘This is my hell.’
‘Here—in this room?’
‘I made it my hell. I created it hell for myself; and for—another. She could have undone all the wrong; she could—here in this room, she could have held out her arms to me and made it all heaven again. But she would not. I had made it a hell for her too and so she would not, or could not; and there was no other way back…’ And the sadness was there and the terrible longing. ‘No other way back, but through a woman’s forgiveness: a woman who could love enough to forgive.’
So now she knew. No evil: that had been all repented in the long ago past. No cruelty—that had been in the bleak refusal of pardon to the sinner come home. And no fear: nothing to fear, only a sad ghost caught and caged in eternal atonement at the scene of his ultimate despair. She faltered: ‘What is it you want of me?’ but even as she asked, she knew.
‘If it could be found in the heart of a woman to forgive—to know it all and in spite of it all to love as she could not love, to love enough to forgive…’
‘Your sins were not sins against me,’ she said.
‘They were sins against womankind.’ He moved now, he came close to her, and she was not afraid. And he saw that she was not afraid and came closer and knelt at her feet, but not touching her; and now for the first time smiled at her, gently and whimsically. ‘It is like the child’s fairy story—isn’t it? The prince caught in the heart of the mountain of ice and one tear from the princess will melt the mountain away and set him free.’
‘That’s in the fairy stories.’
‘Yes, but… Fairy stories have deep roots, you know. Fairy stories come from old, ancient legends and legends from myths; and myths from the uttermost womb of religious time.’ And he held out his hand, the lace ruffle falling away like foam from the narrow wrist, and said,
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