‘Put your hand into mine, Princess, and who knows but that in time the tear may come that will wash all the mountain of my sins away.’
She thought: those other two—they refused him their hand; they refused him their tears. A woman, widowed, obsessed with sorrows of her own, a girl too young and uncaring to understand the passion of his need for this sacrifice—this one short step across the threshold of fear to render him succour who cried for it from out of the depths of death. But afterwards, they had remembered and understood…
Not for her should be that remorse, not for her that memory, not if at so small a cost to herself, she might set this damned soul free. A hand clasp across the gulf between the living and the dead… She stretched out her hand to him, her young and lovely hand, and would not let him see how she shivered at the chill of icy fingers closing over hers. Tell me what there is to forgive; and if I can forgive, in the name of “womankind” as you say—I will try to forgive.’
And he told her. The Hell Fire Club—the first light-hearted entering-in upon a world of darkness unimagined, unimaginable; the only half-understood surrendering up of free will; the realisation, too late, that the soul was netted in snares of evil unthought of in the mind of uncontaminated man… ‘It was like walking into a quicksands… A gay evening, laughter and nonsense, a good deal of wine; and then—an invitation whispered behind the back of a hand, a challenge, a wager…’ And the grass at the edge of the quicksands was bright and the first steps innocent and easy and then—‘Then there was no turning, no going back; and, soon no desire to go back. I…’ He shuddered like a man with an ague. ‘There was a woman that night, lying across an altar…’ He broke off. ‘You should not hear these things. And yet—if I don’t tell you, how can you forgive?’
Those others—they had not listened, could not forgive; and so at last in remorse had destroyed themselves. She said: ‘Tell me, then. Tell me.’
So again he told her: the total submission to the antithesis of Good—the sacrilege, the sadism, the revulsion from all things clean and kind; the corruption of the innocent, the young and the beautiful defiled, brought low—the craving for more and more, for worse and worse… He told her, until her own mind caught the infection and, sick with horror, yet cried out, ‘Tell me…’ And he put his cold arms about her to comfort her and only when at last he was done, released her and said: ‘So at last I came back to her; and this load of filth I laid at her feet as I now lay it at yours, and asked her to forgive me, to make me clean again by her tears…’
But she had had no courage to listen, could not forgive; and so through the centuries he had carried the burden of his sins and come again and laid them at the feet of another, and again, and again. And they too had repudiated him, had heard him part way, and the shock of it—at any rate had failed in compassion in the end. But she—? Should she too fail? She faltered out at last: ‘If I speak the words “I forgive you—”?’
She saw the look of doom fore-known, return to his eyes. ‘You know that meaningless words will not set me free.’
‘I could shed tears—’
‘For the victims: for the tortured, the shamed, the denied. But not for me?’ He got up from the place where he had knelt all this time at her feet, and stood before her. ‘You can’t forgive. Only love can forgive. I have failed once more.’ And she felt that the room grew cold again and hushed again and knew that he was leaving her. His sad voice said, ‘For ever… For ever…’
She dragged herself to her feet. She stammered out: ‘At least I can pity you…’
Ice-cold hands caught at her hands again. ‘Love me! Love me! Pity is not enough.’
She put up her hands, she framed his cold face in her hands, she looked into his eyes, she saw all the longing,
She thought: those other two—they refused him their hand; they refused him their tears. A woman, widowed, obsessed with sorrows of her own, a girl too young and uncaring to understand the passion of his need for this sacrifice—this one short step across the threshold of fear to render him succour who cried for it from out of the depths of death. But afterwards, they had remembered and understood…
Not for her should be that remorse, not for her that memory, not if at so small a cost to herself, she might set this damned soul free. A hand clasp across the gulf between the living and the dead… She stretched out her hand to him, her young and lovely hand, and would not let him see how she shivered at the chill of icy fingers closing over hers. Tell me what there is to forgive; and if I can forgive, in the name of “womankind” as you say—I will try to forgive.’
And he told her. The Hell Fire Club—the first light-hearted entering-in upon a world of darkness unimagined, unimaginable; the only half-understood surrendering up of free will; the realisation, too late, that the soul was netted in snares of evil unthought of in the mind of uncontaminated man… ‘It was like walking into a quicksands… A gay evening, laughter and nonsense, a good deal of wine; and then—an invitation whispered behind the back of a hand, a challenge, a wager…’ And the grass at the edge of the quicksands was bright and the first steps innocent and easy and then—‘Then there was no turning, no going back; and, soon no desire to go back. I…’ He shuddered like a man with an ague. ‘There was a woman that night, lying across an altar…’ He broke off. ‘You should not hear these things. And yet—if I don’t tell you, how can you forgive?’
Those others—they had not listened, could not forgive; and so at last in remorse had destroyed themselves. She said: ‘Tell me, then. Tell me.’
So again he told her: the total submission to the antithesis of Good—the sacrilege, the sadism, the revulsion from all things clean and kind; the corruption of the innocent, the young and the beautiful defiled, brought low—the craving for more and more, for worse and worse… He told her, until her own mind caught the infection and, sick with horror, yet cried out, ‘Tell me…’ And he put his cold arms about her to comfort her and only when at last he was done, released her and said: ‘So at last I came back to her; and this load of filth I laid at her feet as I now lay it at yours, and asked her to forgive me, to make me clean again by her tears…’
But she had had no courage to listen, could not forgive; and so through the centuries he had carried the burden of his sins and come again and laid them at the feet of another, and again, and again. And they too had repudiated him, had heard him part way, and the shock of it—at any rate had failed in compassion in the end. But she—? Should she too fail? She faltered out at last: ‘If I speak the words “I forgive you—”?’
She saw the look of doom fore-known, return to his eyes. ‘You know that meaningless words will not set me free.’
‘I could shed tears—’
‘For the victims: for the tortured, the shamed, the denied. But not for me?’ He got up from the place where he had knelt all this time at her feet, and stood before her. ‘You can’t forgive. Only love can forgive. I have failed once more.’ And she felt that the room grew cold again and hushed again and knew that he was leaving her. His sad voice said, ‘For ever… For ever…’
She dragged herself to her feet. She stammered out: ‘At least I can pity you…’
Ice-cold hands caught at her hands again. ‘Love me! Love me! Pity is not enough.’
She put up her hands, she framed his cold face in her hands, she looked into his eyes, she saw all the longing,
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