Chapter XIV: A Soul in Hell

It was nearly ten o’clock at night when I cast myself down upon
my bed, and began to gather my scattered wits, and reflect upon
what I had seen and heard. But the more I reflected the less I
could make of it. Was I mad, or drunk, or dreaming, or was I
merely the victim of a gigantic and most elaborate hoax? How was
it possible that I, a rational man, not unacquainted with the
leading scientific facts of our history, and hitherto an absolute
and utter disbeliever in all the hocus-pocus which in Europe goes
by the name of the supernatural, could believe that I had within
the last few minutes been engaged in conversation with a woman
two thousand and odd years old? The thing was contrary to the
experience of human nature, and absolutely and utterly
impossible. It must be a hoax, and yet, if it were a hoax, what
was I to make of it? What, too, was to be said of the figures on
the water, of the woman’s extraordinary acquaintance with the
remote past, and her ignorance, or apparent ignorance, of any
subsequent history? What, too, of her wonderful and awful
loveliness? This, at any rate, was a patent fact, and beyond the
experience of the world. No merely mortal woman could shine with
such a supernatural radiance. About that she had, at any rate,
been in the right—it was not safe for any man to look upon such
beauty. I was a hardened vessel in such matters, having, with the
exception of one painful experience of my green and tender youth,
put the softer sex (I sometimes think that this is a misnomer)
almost entirely out of my thoughts. But now, to my intense
horror, I _knew_ that I could never put away the vision of those
glorious eyes; and alas! the very _diablerie_ of the woman,
whilst it horrified and repelled, attracted in even a greater
degree. A person with the experience of two thousand years at her
back, with the command of such tremendous powers, and the
knowledge of a mystery that could hold off death, was certainly
worth falling in love with, if ever woman was. But, alas! it was
not a question of whether or no she was worth it, for so far as I
could judge, not being versed in such matters, I, a fellow of my
college, noted for what my acquaintances are pleased to call my
misogyny, and a respectable man now well on in middle life, had
fallen absolutely and hopelessly in love with this white
sorceress. Nonsense; it must be nonsense! She had warned me
fairly, and I had refused to take the warning. Curses on the
fatal curiosity that is ever prompting man to draw the veil from
woman, and curses on the natural impulse that begets it! It is
the cause of half—ay, and more than half—of our misfortunes. Why
cannot man be content to live alone and be happy, and let the
women live alone and be happy too? But perhaps they would not be
happy, and I am not sure that we should either. Here is a nice
state of affairs. I, at my age, to fall a victim to this modern
Circe! But then she was not modern, at least she said not. She
was almost as ancient as the original Circe.

I tore my hair, and jumped up from my couch, feeling that if I
did not do something I should go off my head. What did she mean
about the scarabæus too? It was Leo’s scarabæus, and had come out
of the old coffer that Vincey had left in my rooms nearly
one-and-twenty years before. Could it be, after all, that the
whole story was true, and the writing on the sherd was _not_ a
forgery, or the invention of some crack-brained, long-forgotten
individual? And if so, could it be that _Leo_ was the man that
_She_ was waiting for—the dead man who was to be born again!
Impossible! The whole thing was gibberish! Who ever heard of a
man being born again?

But if it were possible that a woman could exist for two thousand
years, this might be possible also—anything might be possible. I
myself might, for aught I knew, be a reincarnation of some other
forgotten self, or perhaps the last of a long line of ancestral
selves. Well, _vive la guerre!_ why not? Only, unfortunately, I
had no recollection of these previous conditions. The idea was so
absurd to me that I burst out laughing, and, addressing the
sculptured picture of a grim-looking warrior on the cave wall,
called out to him aloud, “Who knows, old fellow?—perhaps I was
your contemporary. By Jove! perhaps I was you and you are I,” and
then I laughed again at my own folly, and the sound of my
laughter rang dismally along the vaulted roof, as though the
ghost of the warrior had echoed the ghost of a laugh.

Next I bethought me that I had not been to see how Leo was, so,
taking up one of the lamps which was burning at my bedside, I
slipped off my shoes and crept down the passage to the entrance
of his sleeping cave. The draught of the night air was lifting
his curtain to and fro gently, as though spirit hands were
drawing and redrawing it. I slid into the vault-like apartment,
and looked round. There was a light by which I could see that Leo
was lying on the couch, tossing restlessly in his fever, but
asleep. At his side, half-lying on the floor, half-leaning
against the stone couch, was Ustane. She held his hand in one of
hers, but she too was dozing, and the two made a pretty, or
rather a pathetic, picture. Poor Leo! his cheek was burning red,
there were dark shadows beneath his eyes, and his breath came
heavily. He was very, very ill; and again the horrible fear
seized me that he might die, and I be left alone in the world.
And yet if he lived he would perhaps be my rival with Ayesha;
even if he were not the man, what chance should I, middle-aged
and hideous, have against his bright youth and beauty? Well,
thank Heaven! my sense of right was not dead. _She_ had not
killed that yet; and, as I stood there, I prayed to Heaven in my
heart that my boy, my more than son, might live—ay, even if he
proved to be the man.

Then I went back as softly as I had come, but still I could not
sleep; the sight and thought of dear Leo lying there so ill had
but added fuel to the fire of my unrest. My wearied body and
overstrained mind awakened all my imagination into preternatural
activity. Ideas, visions, almost inspirations, floated before it
with startling vividness. Most of them were grotesque enough,
some were ghastly, some recalled thoughts and sensations that had
for years been buried in the _débris_ of my past life. But,
behind and above them all, hovered the shape of that awful woman,
and through them gleamed the memory of her entrancing loveliness.
Up and down the cave I strode—up and down.

Suddenly I observed, what I had not noticed before, that there
was a narrow aperture in the rocky wall. I took up the lamp and
examined it; the aperture led to a passage. Now, I was still
sufficiently sensible to remember that it is not pleasant, in
such a situation as ours was, to have passages running into one’s
bed-chamber from no one knows where. If there are passages,
people can come up them; they can come up when one is asleep.
Partly to see where it went to, and partly from a restless desire
to be doing something, I followed the passage. It led to a stone
stair, which I descended; the stair ended in another passage, or
rather tunnel, also hewn out of the bed-rock, and running, so far
as I could judge, exactly beneath the gallery that led to the
entrance of our rooms, and across the great central cave. I went
on down it: it was as silent as the grave, but still, drawn by
some sensation or attraction that I cannot define, I followed on,
my stockinged feet falling without noise on the smooth and rocky
floor. When I had traversed some fifty yards of space, I came to
another passage running at right angles, and here an awful thing
happened to me: the sharp draught caught my lamp and extinguished
it, leaving me in utter darkness in the bowels of that mysterious
place. I took a couple of strides forward so as to clear the
bisecting tunnel, being terribly afraid lest I should turn up it
in the dark if once I got confused as to the direction, and then
paused to think. What was I to do? I had no match; it seemed
awful to attempt that long journey back through the utter gloom,
and yet I could not stand there all night, and, if I did,
probably it would not help me much, for in the bowels of the rock
it would be as dark at midday as at midnight. I looked back over
my shoulder—not a sight or a sound. I peered forward into the
darkness: surely, far away, I saw something like the faint glow
of fire. Perhaps it was a cave where I could get a light—at any
rate, it was worth investigating. Slowly and painfully I crept
along the tunnel, keeping my hand against its wall, and feeling
at every step with my foot before I put it down, fearing lest I
should fall into some pit. Thirty paces—there was a light, a
broad light that came and went, shining through curtains! Fifty
paces—it was close at hand! Sixty—oh, great heaven!

I was at the curtains, and they did not hang close, so I could
see clearly into the little cavern beyond them. It had all the
appearance of being a tomb, and was lit up by a fire that burnt
in its centre with a whitish flame and without smoke. Indeed,
there, to the left, was a stone shelf with a little ledge to it
three inches or so high, and on the shelf lay what I took to be a
corpse; at any rate, it looked like one, with something white
thrown over it. To the right was a similar shelf, on which lay
some broidered coverings. Over the fire bent the figure of a
woman; she was sideways to me and facing the corpse, wrapped in a
dark mantle that hid her like a nun’s cloak. She seemed to be
staring at the flickering flame. Suddenly, as I was trying to
make up my mind what to do, with a convulsive movement that
somehow gave an impression of despairing energy, the woman rose
to her feet and cast the dark cloak from her.

It was _She_ herself!

She was clothed, as I had seen her when she unveiled, in the
kirtle of clinging white, cut low upon her bosom, and bound in at
the waist with the barbaric double-headed snake, and, as before,
her rippling black hair fell in heavy masses down her back. But
her face was what caught my eye, and held me as in a vice, not
this time by the force of its beauty, but by the power of
fascinated terror. The beauty was still there, indeed, but the
agony, the blind passion, and the awful vindictiveness displayed
upon those quivering features, and in the tortured look of the
upturned eyes, were such as surpass my powers of description.

For a moment she stood still, her hands raised high above her
head, and as she did so the white robe slipped from her down to
her golden girdle, baring the blinding loveliness of her form.
She stood there, her fingers clenched, and the awful look of
malevolence gathered and deepened on her face.

Suddenly I thought of what would happen if she discovered me, and
the reflection made me turn sick and faint. But, even if I had
known that I must die if I stopped, I do not believe that I could
have moved, for I was absolutely fascinated. But still I knew my
danger. Supposing she should hear me, or see me through the
curtain, supposing I even sneezed, or that her magic told her
that she was being watched—swift indeed would be my doom.

Down came the clenched hands to her sides, then up again above
her head, and, as I am a living and honourable man, the white
flame of the fire leapt up after them, almost to the roof,
throwing a fierce and ghastly glare upon _She_ herself, upon the
white figure beneath the covering, and every scroll and detail of
the rockwork.

Down came the ivory arms again, and as they did so she spoke, or
rather hissed, in Arabic, in a note that curdled my blood, and
for a second stopped my heart.

“Curse her, may she be everlastingly accursed.”

The arms fell and the flame sank. Up they went again, and the
broad tongue of fire shot up after them; and then again they
fell.

“Curse her memory—accursed be the memory of the Egyptian.”

Up again, and again down.

“Curse her, the daughter of the Nile, because of her beauty.

“Curse her, because her magic hath prevailed against me.

“Curse her, because she held my beloved from me.”

And again the flame dwindled and shrank.

She put her hands before her eyes, and abandoning the hissing
tone, cried aloud:—

“What is the use of cursing?—she prevailed, and she is gone.”

Then she recommenced with an even more frightful energy:—

“Curse her where she is. Let my curses reach her where she is and
disturb her rest.

“Curse her through the starry spaces. Let her shadow be accursed.

“Let my power find her even there.

“Let her hear me even there. Let her hide herself in the
blackness.

“Let her go down into the pit of despair, because I shall one day
find her.”

Again the flame fell, and again she covered her eyes with her
hands.

“It is of no use—no use,” she wailed; “who can reach those who
sleep? Not even I can reach them.”

Then once more she began her unholy rites.

“Curse her when she shall be born again. Let her be born
accursed.

“Let her be utterly accursed from the hour of her birth until
sleep finds her.

“Yea, then, let her be accursed; for then shall I overtake her
with my vengeance, and utterly destroy her.”

And so on. The flame rose and fell, reflecting itself in her
agonised eyes; the hissing sound of her terrible maledictions,
and no words of mine can convey how terrible they were, ran round
the walls and died away in little echoes, and the fierce light
and deep gloom alternated themselves on the white and dreadful
form stretched upon that bier of stone.

But at length she seemed to wear herself out and cease. She sat
herself down upon the rocky floor, shook the dense cloud of her
beautiful hair over her face and breast, and began to sob
terribly in the torture of a heartrending despair.

“Two thousand years,” she moaned—“two thousand years have I
wanted and endured; but though century doth still creep on to
century, and time give place to time, the sting of memory hath
not lessened, the light of hope doth not shine more bright. Oh!
to have lived two thousand years, with all my passion eating out
my heart, and with my sin ever before me. Oh, that for me life
cannot bring forgetfulness! Oh, for the weary years that have
been and are yet to come, and evermore to come, endless and
without end!

“My love! my love! my love! Why did that stranger bring thee back
to me after this sort? For five hundred years I have not suffered
thus. Oh, if I sinned against thee, have I not wiped away the
sin? When wilt thou come back to me who have all, and yet without
thee have naught? What is there that I can do? What? What? What?
And perchance she—perchance that Egyptian doth abide with thee
where thou art, and mock my memory. Oh, why could I not die with
thee, I who slew thee? Alas, that I cannot die! Alas! Alas!” and
she flung herself prone upon the ground, and sobbed and wept till
I thought her heart must burst.

Suddenly she ceased, raised herself to her feet, rearranged her
robe, and, tossing back her long locks impatiently, swept across
to where the figure lay upon the stone.

“Oh Kallikrates,” she cried, and I trembled at the name, “I must
look upon thy face again, though it be agony. It is a generation
since I looked upon thee whom I slew—slew with mine own hand,”
and with trembling fingers she seized the corner of the
sheet-like wrapping that covered the form upon the stone bier,
and then paused. When she spoke again, it was in a kind of awed
whisper, as though her idea were terrible even to herself.

“Shall I raise thee,” she said, apparently addressing the corpse,
“so that thou standest there before me, as of old? I _can_ do
it,” and she held out her hands over the sheeted dead, while her
whole frame became rigid and terrible to see, and her eyes grew
fixed and dull. I shrank in horror behind the curtain, my hair
stood up upon my head, and, whether it was my imagination or a
fact I am unable to say, but I thought that the quiet form
beneath the covering began to quiver, and the winding sheet to
lift as though it lay on the breast of one who slept. Suddenly
she withdrew her hands, and the motion of the corpse seemed to me
to cease.

“To what purpose?” she said gloomily. “Of what good is it to
recall the semblance of life when I cannot recall the spirit?
Even if thou stoodest before me thou wouldst not know me, and
couldst but do what I bid thee. The life in thee would be _my_
life, and not _thy_ life, Kallikrates.”

For a moment she stood there brooding, and then cast herself down
on her knees beside the form, and began to press her lips against
the sheet, and weep. There was something so horrible about the
sight of this awe-inspiring woman letting loose her passion on
the dead—so much more horrible even than anything that had gone
before—that I could no longer bear to look at it, and, turning,
began to creep, shaking as I was in every limb, slowly along the
pitch-dark passage, feeling in my trembling heart that I had seen
a vision of a Soul in Hell.

On I stumbled, I scarcely know how. Twice I fell, once I turned
up the bisecting passage, but fortunately found out my mistake in
time. For twenty minutes or more I crept along, till at last it
occurred to me that I must have passed the little stair by which
I had descended. So, utterly exhausted, and nearly frightened to
death, I sank down at length there on the stone flooring, and
sank into oblivion.

When I came to I noticed a faint ray of light in the passage just
behind me. I crept to it, and found it was the little stair down
which the weak dawn was stealing. Passing up it, I gained my
chamber in safety, and, flinging myself on the couch, was soon
lost in slumber or rather stupor.