Satanella (1932)/Chapter 6
Summer eve to earth descended
Quietly on wings descending;
Bringing gifts to every creature:
Sleep to people, dew to flowers,
And the birds, nest's warmth and comfort.
In the Johannite refect'ry
Night had hung its lengthy shadows,
In the gilded candle-holders
Slowly died the smould'ring candles.
Sad and silent is the chamber
With its floor of mosaic patterns.
On the wall and 'tween the windows
In the circular recesses,
Antique statuettes are standing,
Images of past grand masters,
From the order's first beginning.
In the still, nocturnal twilight,
Ghostly seem the shining mantles,
Long, black mantles with white crosses.
Soon the full moon rose in glory,
Glanced through windows into chamber,
With its lustre but disturbing
Silent birds, the night's black shadows,
That on helmets, shields and crosses
Settled self, at twilight's falling.
Bolder grew the searching moonbeams
With the shadows' play on ceiling,
On the floor and 'tween the windows
And with full light filled refect'ry
'luminating here long tables,
Rows of chairs and massive pulpit,
Even someone's skull, close-shaven,
Yonder in a corner ling'ring,
Heavily o'er goblet bending.
Thus aroused from heavy musings,
Grand master his forehead lifted,
Looked about the long, dark chamber
And then emptying his goblet
Once again his dull eyes fastened
At the goblet's clear-drained bottom.
Whirl of thoughts his head disturbed now,
As a shadow 'cross the mosaics,
Or as clouds on skies in summer.
Queerest dreams and queerest visions
Threw their net about his being.
He knew not what had beset him,
Whether past days' fleeting mem'ry,
Whether unknown grief's forebodings.
Last few days' disturbed occurrence:
Roderigo's stay in prison,
Satanella's cruel judgment,
Pestilence that every moment
Claims new victims on the island;
All this in his mind was seething
As volcanoes' boiling lava,
As the young wine's effervescence.
Long he sat, then filled the goblet,
Drank and fell to further musing.
Till at length the moon's white roundness
Poured its flood of streaming brightness
'cross front wall of refectory,
Where from floor to ceiling reaching
Stood a hearth . . . work queerly fashioned,
As if led by moon's carresses
Grand-master his bald-pate raises
To observe the moonbeams' dancing
O'er the hearth, along its cornice,
Over queerly fashioned flowers,
O'er the arabesques entwining,
And the statues bulging cluster.
Seems the longer he was gazing
He beheld new forms and features
That passed formerly unnoticed.
On the pyramid, he noticed
Many pictured presentations
Taken from those mythful fables
Handed down from olden ages.
Still the moon stole higher, higher,
Over arabesques and garlands
Till it reached the very apex,
Reached the picture of St. Michael
In his struggle with the Satan.
With one foot upon a cloudlet
Stands the archangel while raising
O'er his head a lance of lightning.
Other foot stands on the Satan
In the dust before him cringing,
Vainly with one hand concealing
Forehead, marked with scars of lightning.
What a depth in his expression!
Uncurbed pain and untamed anger,
Shame, disgrace and meek submission,
All are struggling in his features.
In his eyes coarse sneer, ill-hidden.
With his other hand he raises
Heavy shield with eight sharp edges,
Armor 'gainst the angel's lightning.
With an all observing vision,
Long, long while the prelate gazes
At the Satan . . . and what sees he?
As the moon stole higher, higher,
Animated seems the Satan,
Wrinkling up his cloudy forehead.
And it seems to the grand master
That betwixt the Satan's fingers
Stretched across his scar marked forehead,
He beheld a tear that glittered.
But a play of lights and shadows,
Muses on the gazing prelate.
Once again refills the goblet
And sinks back into his musings.
As he mused, he saw injustice
In the fate of Satanella.
How had sinned this child of gypsies
In disturbing the procession,
And in throwing but few date-pits
At the monks and on the bishop?
Should at stake she burn for but this?
But it is the will of people,
Threatening to break in fury,
For they hold that Satanella
Is the cause of plague's appearance.
Yes, it is the will of people
Whom the night had barely scattered
From the stake that stands erected
On the castle's spacious court-yard,
From the stake whose gruesome outline
Gazes through the chamber windows
As a horrible indictment
Of her innocent conviction.
Led by secret inner calling
Gazes on the musing prelate,
As the cautious, frightened, moonbeam
Steals across the Satan's picture.
And at times to him it seems that
Once before, in past now distant,
He had seen those dreadful features;
Where and when? In vain he muses!
Is it only play of moonbeams,
Or is it imagination?
Now he clearly sees the Satan
Drop the hand before his forehead,
Lay aside the shield, eight-pointed,
Sees him stretch his limbs and body
And with slow delib'rate movement
Leave the hearth and walk right towards him.
And his spectral silent paces
Flit as noiselessly as shadows
'cross the floor illumined brightly
By the fickle, changing moonbeams.
Just like this, a flock of ravens
Noiselessly, with black wings flying,
Sweeps across a snow decked country.
Without rustle was his footstep
And his body . . . without shadows.
Ere in fright the old grand-master
Reached down for his scapulary,
Quietly sat at the table
Dreadful quest of this late hour,
Took a goblet off the table,
Filled it with a wine of crimson
And then spoke, voice softly gliding
As a snake through grass is creeping,
As a rustling wind that whispers
O'er a lone tomb's withered garland:
"Long the night, what say, my brother,
Raise your cup, let's drink together!
Long the night and endless, endless
As the sea of human sorrows."
Gazing with a lifeless vision,
Prelate raised his sparkling goblet,
Drank . . . and thought while thus imbibing
That he swallowed burning fires.
Satan crossed his legs before him
And then fixed his piercing gazes
Firmly on the aged prelate . . .
And the latter, wine excited
Asked him in a voice that quivered:
"By what right, my nightly comrade,
By what right you call me brother?"
Hideously sneered the Satan
And began his lengthy answer:
"Night is long, I say, my brother,
And perhaps I'll entertain you.
I know well an old, old story
And if you'll but hear me fully
You shall know why you're my brother.
Night is long, and next time, maybe,
I shall try in vain escaping
From St. Michael's yoke of lightning.
Well, then hear me! . . . fill a goblet,
Night is long and I am thirsty! . . ."
Once again clanged wine-filled goblets
And the Satan spun his story:
"Far beyond the seas and mountains,
Many years since then elapsing,
On their father's ancient castle
Peacefully, two heirs resided,
Lived in concord, two blood-brothers.
Older of the two was master,
Hunted in the hillside forests,
Tilled the soil and planted seeds there.
Younger over books would ponder,
Out of clay queer figures moulding
As he saw them in old bibles,
In the church, or castle's hallways.
Many years they lived thus peacefully,
Till one day they broke in quarrel,
Toward each other deathly angered.
And their break came o'er a woman,
Beautiful as heaven's angel,
Tempting as the Eden's devil.
Yes, it seems that in her blood stream
Coursed a drop of blood of demons,
Blood of Lilith, female devil,
She who was first wife of Adam.
Then one night, upon a pathway
Angered brothers met each other;
Older one armed with a sabre
And the younger one with chisel,
The same tool which from cold marble
Cut Madonna's saintly features.
What then happened, you know better
Than I could repeat in story. . . .
Right next morn young brother vanished
No one even asked about him.
Older one, the girl married,
In a year a son she bore him.
Three days later the son vanished;
Futile all the guards and efforts
Not a clew the wide world over.
And in years, the older brother's
Happy wife bore him a daughter.
Vainly thrice-strong guards are stationed
Fore the gates and cross the pathways.
Futile care . . . before the third day
With night's shadows lost its battle,
New born daughter also vanished. . . .
Moved by this, the older brother
Suddenly became repentant,
And when his wife died soon after
To the church gave all belongings,
Took the cross 'gainst Turkish heathens,
Holy grave to free forever.
He had sought his death in battles
But in vain . . . and soon his courage,
Strength and wisdom made him famous.
Ere he knew it, he was chosen
As the Johannite grand-master.
Younger brother, roamed world over,
Creating no longer statues
Of some angels or of martyrs,
But creating only devils,
And his statues all bore traces
Of his older brother's features.
Soon he took to wildest pleasures,
Fought with drunkards, fought at duels,
Drugged himself with wines of fire;
Just perhaps to drown the snake that
Gnawed him with eternal torment.
And at length, fatigued and ailing
He came to this very island,
Where the Johannitic convent
Let him mend the aged statues
Standing in the refectory.
With his soul fatigued, tormented
By its passion and rebellion,
With the last strength of his spirit
He imbued the Satan's statue
As he struggles in a battle
With St. Michael, the archangel. . . .
And these features were a wonder.
But its masterful creator
Lived not long. . . . Paid daily visit
To behold his last creation,
Stood before it meditating,
Wept aloud for hours . . . hours . . .
Then he vanished . . . soon, however,
They had found him, as if sleeping,
Dead among the cloister ruins. . . .
And they saw beneath the moonbeams
Saw the grave the gypsies made him,
O'er the grave, bitterly weeping,
Dusky child, a barefoot maiden
With a braid of pitch-black tresses
Quickly 'neath red 'kerchief gathered
And in gaily colored bodice,
As if breathed tender body. . . .
I have finished now my story,
In your mind you'll find the balance.
Time is calling, I'm returning
'neath St. Michael's yoke of lightning.
Elsewhere we shall meet tomorrow!"
Once again with solemn footsteps
Walked the Satan without rustling,
Without shadow . . . clambered upward
Laid beneath the foot of Cherub,
With left hand his features covered
And as formerly, self-guarding,
Raised his shield with eight sharp edges.
But upon his horrid features
So much pain and so much sorrow,
That the prelate thought he saw there
'twixt the partly opened fingers
Wealth of pearly tears outpouring
Like a flood of shining rain drops,
Yes, and that with heavy sighing
Tremble walls and trembles ceiling.
Thus, no doubt, felt man in parting
With the Eden's gates for ever,
Thus have felt the subdued demons
When by God thrown in the abyss.
Thus felt God at world's creation
When he realized, thereafter,
That he made the world . . . for sorrow.
Moonlight vanished . . . all is darkness
As within the prelate's bosom.
At the daybreak, Brothers found him
Lying on the slab of marble,
Blood upon his wrinkled features.
They revived him with an effort.
Twice his withered lips yet quivered
As he whispered his last query.
"What happened to Satanella?"
—Burned at stake, as was the judgment!
"What happened to Roderigo?"
—He had tried to leap and perish
At the stake with Satanella.
When restrained—he lost his reason.
Aged prelate asked no further.
Passed away before the evening,
As the Satan had predicted.
