The Man Who Collected Machen and Other Weird Tales (12 page)

Perhaps it might be apposite for me, at this juncture, to give some indication of the
circumstances
that led me to make the acquaintance of “Mr. Arnold”. Such was his remarkable and lengthy term of isolation I believe it to have been his design to see not another living soul during the remaining years of his drear sojourn on the earth. And yet there remains at least one profession with which civilized mankind does come into contact, alas, if only in moments of extreme distress.

To elucidate, not to say continue with, my narrative, then; “Mr. Arnold” had need of a physician, in which profession I have the honor to practice. And the melancholy truth of the matter was this:
the patient was dying
, though at the time he knew it not. Indeed, he seemed to labor under the absurd notion that to die was not part of the natural order of providence, but rather a consequence of a
lack of mental effort to stay alive
. Naturally this afforded me with substance for wonder, and I debated whether he held the philosophical view derived from Bishop Berkeley, or some variant of a cast even more outlandish than the assertion there is no matter in existence, only pure mentation.

Even had he held such an
outré
perspective on the riddle of being itself—and why I thought, if all creation exists as thought, cannot pain be dismissed, as one might cease to think of any object and thus extinguish its existence? —it did not prevent him from summoning me, a man who deals with the physical body,
not as a phantom
, to assist him. And this summons on the first occasion he experienced the
violently
hideous manifestation of that pain to which all sufferers of his fatal intestinal malady are eventually subject. So I found myself at the abbey whence this “Mr. Arnold” dwelt in supreme isolation.

Chronic and intolerable costiveness, accompanied, as is usual in such cases, by fever and delirium, had been the sum of “Mr. Arnold’s” existence for several weeks, and when he had begun to vomit faecal matter, finally, only in this extremity and profound loss of dignity, had his aged valet arranged for my attendance,
despite
the objections of “Mr. Arnold” himself.

This defiant course of action on the part of a servant—one undertaken in the wild but earnest certitude his master might obtain relief through the ministrations of a specialist—commenced my own involvement in the affair. It is only with a confused recollection I bring to mind the memory of that summons.

Nevertheless, thus it was, one gaunt, pale and mist-sodden day in January 1868, I found myself alone on horseback, a lone traveler through the barren and weed-choked landscape that surrounded the abbey in which dwelt the fabulously wealthy,
outré
and dying “Mr. Arnold”.

Situated on a plateau, the half-cavernous structure was bounded on one side by a moor and by a precipitous cliff on the other. It was said by the local fisherman that all of the sea within sight of the cliff returned empty nets, and they had ceased to trawl it for years—for the life had been drained therefrom. And if it did not give up any catches, neither did it rage in union with the heavens during a storm. It remained seemingly aloof from the rest of nature, being always inert. The villagers said nine of their number had gone down to doom in that sea’s clammy embrace, and suicidal madness claimed anyone who saw the full moon’s ghastly reflection upon its surface, a reflection gray and motionless, like the face of a corpse.

My journey to the abbey took me across the shingled beach beneath the cliff and, as I spurred my mount up the hewn pathway that climbed to the plateau, I tried not to look back at the gaunt expanse of water behind me. At last I cleared the region of the cliff side, left all sight of the sea behind, and crossed the plateau. Although I had hoped for some relief from the spectral atmosphere, such relief was not forthcoming—the plateau only intensified my gloom. Its sole form of life consisted of curiously horrible weeds that sprang from a gray soil more like dust than earth. The masses of knee-high weeds seemed to undulate, though no wind was present to stir them. Strange indeed it was, but in that place even the shadows played tricks, appearing without a visible source, as amorphous as disordered dreams. I thought them at first to be cast by immense ebony-feathered wings swooping overhead, but upon proceeding further I discovered, without exception, all wildlife shunned the region.

Let me now attempt a description of the castellated abbey in which “Mr. Arnold” had ensconced himself. It was an edifice of verdant decay, over which gray vines had slithered like tentacles, and what restoration had been carried out was seemingly confined to the chambers within. Without, the edifice remained the very soul of antique England, a survivor from that ancient land where, for hundreds of years, cowled monks had held mystic rites before becoming victims of the upheaval during the English Reformation.

But within, ah
within
! Once I had dismounted from my horse and been admitted into the abbey’s precincts by the aged valet, my astonishment continued, not only unabated, but also actually
intensified
in degree. My gaze scanned the magnificence of his apartments and it was apparent “Mr. Arnold” had engaged himself upon an extensive form of repair, but a form in which
modernity
played no part; other than to facilitate the return of the
glory of the past
.

Amidst the plethora of vanished civilizations that have gone down into destruction, “Mr. Arnold” had settled upon one to whom he owed primary spiritual and intellectual allegiance, and, thus, were the solemn carvings and cryptic sarcophagi of infinitely mysterious Egypt the chief ornaments in the gloomy and dreary grandeur of the building. Fitting was it that his dwelling place should pay tribute to a civilization that, down immemorial centuries, retains a mystique for its fascination with death and with the enigma of the afterlife.

“
I perceive,” said “Mr. Arnold” shortly after my arrival, “you evince some astonishment at my choice of decor. Well might you be astonished, for nowhere else in England can there be an interior to rival it for dark splendor.”

“
It is indeed remarkable, and quite as remarkable as the territory without, across which I have traveled in order to reach you. But I am here as a physician, and, it is this duty to which I must apply myself rather than the distractions of untrammeled imagination. Come, let me examine you,” I replied.

We retired to a chamber into which boiling water might be brought easily by his aged valet, and it was therein I commenced my ministrations. They were successful, and afforded “Mr. Arnold” instant relief, but I saw the benefits provided were strictly in the nature of a temporary respite. His condition was hopeless. In order for any relief to be obtained, it would be necessary for me to remain close at hand during the few weeks of life he had left to him. I informed him of this intelligence, and he agreed at once, not surprisingly, that I should be domiciled within the abbey until such time as my ministrations were no longer required. But upon these, the details of his malady, his deeply held shame and keen sense of dependency let me dwell no longer. And so it was, suffice to say, despite my trepidations, I became resident within the confines of that isolated place, a place isolated, I felt, not only by distance but also by an aura of spiritual desolation.

I had believed us three in number; “Mr. Arnold”, his stealthy and aged valet, and myself—but upon my continued existence within the abbey I thought I detected the presence of another. Such detection was, at first, of the most nebulous type; a fleeting shadow crossing a loggia, a distant bell-like tinkling of laughter and the faint trace lingering in the air of some exquisite perfume, but no more.

I owned it possible the parlous state of his mind might have come to exert an influence upon mine. Nevertheless these signs, upon which I did not at first see fit to remark to my host, soon developed into an indication of a fourth presence I could not ascribe entirely to hallucination. However, though I might have accounted for such signs of occupancy as mere fancies on the part of “Mr. Arnold”—for, as the days passed, it soon became evident that my host was a slave to his imagination; an imagination that had, furthermore, been abnormally stimulated, nay, perhaps even
diseased
, by frequent recourse to tincture of opium—I was, alas, never certain whether opium formed the sole begetter of the phantasm.

Naturally, I should have realized that his
predilection for the drug was the cause of his costiveness, for, as well as provoking day-dreams, so too does opium-eating affect those
bodily
as well those
mental
functions upon which the individual is dependent. By way of corroboration, I was aware—increasingly—of my patient’s habit to lie abed long into the afternoon, lost in search of sleep, a result directly attributable to the after-effects of an opium debauch undertaken during the small hours of the previous night. Often would he not emerge until such hour as the sun had exhausted its dying light and had seemed to be consumed utterly by the gaunt corpse-sea beyond the darkening horizon.

Much time he spent in his extensive library, consulting the rare and curious volumes he had accumulated. They were riddled with strips of paper serving as bookmarks, and their battered condition told of research conducted with scant regard for the objects’ value in and of themselves, attention being paid only to what information they might yield up to a scholar of transcendent mysteries. The contents of the library, he told me, had been gathered together through the design of his first wife and accurately reflected the gigantic acquisition of knowledge she had attained. The modern dialects were well represented—roughly equal in proportion to those of classical antiquity—but it was the recondite subject matter of the collection that most aroused within me a sense of bewildered wonder. Almost all of the tomes represented some facet of an outwardly chaotic scheme of metaphysical investigation, and so I cannot hope to give more than an inkling of the wide survey of esoteric learning encompassed.

It is true that amongst works by the church divines (such as Berkeley and Hampole) there were represented, too, obscure treatises on alchemy, meditations on the Egyptian
Hermetica,
and worm-eaten grimoires from the Middle Ages. Yet these latter and barbarous items were, I believe, chosen for a purpose not entirely in accordance with the dubious intent of their authors, for these tomes were mingled too, indiscriminately, with modern publications from scientific men; the likes of Lobachevsky, the Marquis de Laplace, Volta and dozens more whose names I cannot recall, but whose researches have been doubtless celebrated by the Academy.

“
The purpose?” “Mr. Arnold” replied, when I made enquiry as to the nature of his scholarly investigations. “Why, when
she
was numbered amongst the living, and was my guide, we sought together nothing less than the ultimate wisdom. And now?
And now
, I fear my only hope is to ward off an impending eternity of madness.”

His pale, trembling hand snaked across the tabletop for the decanter of ruby-colored liquid and he proceeded to drink.

•

“
You have doubtless heard,” said “Mr. Arnold” some considerable days later and apropos of nothing, as he emerged into my room unannounced, “rumors concerning the disappearance of my second wife, the Lady Rowena of Trevanion?”

“
A gentleman, and, it is needless to add, one’s personal physician,” I replied, “would scarcely give much credence to the idle speculations of the multitude.”

“
You are wise to hold such a view. These rumors are naught but base lies! No living person, save myself, knows the awful truth!” he cried, his teeth grinding together against each other.

There was, in this abstracted and unselfconscious manner, proof he had once again recently consumed a large quantity of opium, despite the prohibition I had issued against its continued use. Indeed, his degree of intoxication became apparent when he fairly staggered across the room and finally collapsed upon the divan situated in the far corner. His nightclothes were disheveled. His flesh had a yellow-gray pallor—of exactly that shade I have seen previously
only in those already dead
. His gaze seemed incapable of focusing intently upon any external object but wandered aimlessly around the chamber, as if he were inwardly mesmerized by visions—and such visions as are found in hellish nightmare.

“
Pray excuse my air of distraction,” he said, suddenly conscious of my gaze upon him, “the melancholy truth is that my thoughts seem scarcely my own. Say rather they are consumed by she
who cannot be forgotten
.”

“
You refer again to the Lady Rowena?” I replied.

“
Rowena?” He laughed, stuffing the knuckles of his left hand into his lips to arrest an unbecoming display of emotion. “Rowena, you say? Nay, I speak not of the weak-willed Rowena Trevanion of Tremaine. She, of the fair-hair and the blue eyes? No, and again I say no. I speak, rather, of my first wife. My true wife. She of the dark eyes and the hair that is raven-black as midnight! Ligeia! She, whose breadth of knowledge has no equal in our sublunary world. Aye! I speak of
the Lady Ligeia
, she whose origins lie in Mystery and whose goal is the ultimate wisdom. Ligeia the Undying. She, more than mere woman, she, whose Will is immortal!”

“
I thought—” and although I hesitated to utter it aloud, nevertheless, I
did say
, after a momentary pause, “—the Lady Ligeia, alas, like the Lady Rowena, to be no more.”

“
Mr. Arnold” lapsed into silence, responding only with a twisted, sarcastic smile. The effects of his opium debauch now overwhelmed him. His eyes rolled up into his sockets just before his eyelids closed and he drifted insensibly into the realm of Morpheus. I noticed, at this juncture, he held within his grasp a crumpled scrap of paper. I confess that my curiosity was aroused and, when he had reached the nadir of temporary oblivion, his clutch upon the item loosened. It fell fluttering to the floor, and I could not refrain myself from picking it up and casting my gaze over the contents, before laying it on his heaving breast.