The White Robe

James Branch Cabell The White Robe

A SAINT’S SUMMARY

“Righteousness shall be the girdle of his loins,

and faithfulness the girdle of his reins;

and the wolf shall dwell with the lamb.”

FOR

FRANCES NEWMAN

— inevitably—

this story of dead lovers that were faithful

1. OF HIS MANNER OF LIFE IN THE SECULAR

Herewith begins the history of that Odo, called Le Noir, who nevertheless, even as the morning star makes light the womb of a black cloud, shone with the bright beams of his life and teaching; who by his radiance led into the light them that shivered in the gray cloud of the shadow of death; and who, like unto the rainbow giving light in the white clouds, set forth in his righteous ending the seal of his fond Master’s covenant.

His life, or legend, narrates at outset that Odo had tended the sheep of Guillaume Diaz for nearly a year before he went into the Druid wood which is called Bovion, with Pierre la Charonne. It was thus that, under an elm tree, young Odo, who was as yet a little stained with the dust of his worldly journeying, first saw the Lord of the Forest.

That dark Master gave a wolf skin to each of the boys and a pot of ointment with which a man might anoint his body whensoever he was wearied of inhabiting it. The Master, also, after they had made a covenant with him and had tendered homage to both of his faces, baptized the boys, after the quaint formula of his very old religion, with the new and secret names of Prettyman and Princox.

After that, the pair used to run coursing in the shape of wolves until, in the unfortunate manner tiffs come about so quickly out of the hot-headed play of youth, the two lads quarreled one night over a particularly fine heifer. They fought; and after Odo had feasted upon two delicacies instead of one, then Black Odo hunted alone.

The best time for this joyous gaming, he found, was an hour or a half-hour before dawn when the moon was on the wane. The lustiness of his chosen overlord was then at prime; and those relatively parvenu gods and archangels, as yet precariously perched up in heaven, seemed not strong enough to deal with rebels. It was then that Odo used to snarl and yelp his praise of the kindly power which enabled him without any hindrance to enjoy the most profound and soul-stirring delights. He exulted, as a zealous Old Believer, thus to attest the strength and shrewdness of his dark Master, which could outwit so cunningly their celestial adversaries.

At this season Odo le Noir went as an animal somewhat shorter and stouter than a real wolf, with a smaller head, a pronged tail, and a rather reddish pelt. He diverted himself with sheep and dogs and cattle of all kinds, but the young of his own race he found to be the daintiest hunting.

There was no little gossip, and some serious complaint, about the wild beast which was ravaging the Val-Ardray district, because, with the habitual impetuosity of youth, Black Odo kept no measure in his recreations. The ill-nourished cattle and children of the lower classes were of no large value. But, at Nointel, Odo had entered the Lord of Basardra’s home, and, finding no one there except the Countess’ last baby, in its gilded and blue-veiled cradle, he had seized and carried off this really important sprig of nobility; and by-and-by, behind a hedge in the garden, he left the remainder of the ruined small body to be discovered, as it happened, by the Lord of Basardra himself. No nobleman could view without displeasure the untidiness of such freedoms with his offspring.

Odo created even more scandal, however, when near Lisuarte he attacked the Castellan’s daughter, a charming and delightfully plump young lady of eleven. Her also he put out of living, by-and-by. But everyone knew there had been something irregular about the affair, because her white and red garments were not torn in quite the way that they would have been if wolves born of a wolf’s body had made the assault; and only the lower portions of her belly had been eaten.

Thus for a while Odo le Noir lived very merrily and was obedient to no one save the Lord of the Forest. This loving master initiated the boy into old and elaborate diversions, and he promised an even finer future.

“I design great things for you, my Prettyman,” the Master would assure Black Odo, “and I intend that you shall go far in the service to which we are both enlisted.”

2. OF HIS ARDENT LOVE AND APPROACH TO MARTYRDOM

Now in these years Ettarre was living, in the appearance of a peasant girl, at the foot of the hills behind Perdigon, and she made her home in the thatched hut of an ancient couple who regarded and treated her as their own child. They loved their fosterling; they did not suspect that she had been fetched from the gray spaces behind the moon to live upon earth, in many bodies, as the eternal victim and the eternal derider of all human poets who for a stinted season have youth in their hearts; and, in fact, there was at this time no talk of any sort about Ettarre, except that here and there people said she was one of the witches of Amneran.

At this time also, on an April afternoon, in open daylight, a wolf attacked the peasant girl Ettarre while she was watching the cow and the four sheep. She defended herself boldly with the fallen branch of an oak tree. After that, the stout reddish-colored animal drew back and sat down like a dog upon his haunches, at a more comfortably remote distance, of about twelve paces, and I thence looked at her for a moment or two. A thrush chirped and twittered overhead. The wolf presently yawned; he trotted away; and Ettarre at supper mentioned, as a curious circumstance, that the beast’s tail was pronged.

It was just after this that young Odo le Noir began his courtship of Ettarre the peasant girl, whom some believed to be a witch-woman, and now the boy followed her everywhither.

“Most charming Ettarre! my own heart’s darling!” he would say, “there was never anybody who was more white and tender than is your body.”

“But you, Black Odo, are much too dark for my taste.”

“I did not speak of taste, Ettarre. Yet your bright eyes so dazzle me that I know not of what I am speaking.”

“Your eyes, Black Odo, are too strange and deep-set. When, as so rarely happens, you look straight into my face, then your wild eyes, Black Odo, are made horrible by that red and flaring light which shows behind them.”

“Do you not laugh at me, Ettarre, but let us two be friends after the manner of the friendly beasts!”

“I would not have you laugh, black beast; for your teeth are long and sharp, and I loathe the sight of them.”

“Yet is my hunger for you very great—”

“And what is that to me, whose dislike of you is so much greater?”

“Let us touch hands, then, in farewell!”

“Not even your hand will I touch willingly, Black Odo, for your finger-nails are unpleasantly long and like the claws of a wolf.”

With that, the beautiful young girl fled away from him, across a meadow where cowslips grew. It seemed to Odo that a strange and troubling music followed after her. In any case, this meeting was but a sample of many other meetings. And never at any time would Ettarre listen to his wooing; but the boy Odo continued to desire this peasant girl.

Yet his most deep desires were for the Lord of Forest, and for the delights which they shared in Druid wood, and for the even larger gustos that were to be the rewards of Odo’s fearlessness by-and-by.

“I design great things for you, my Prettyman,” the Master would assure him, “and I intend that you shall go far in the service to which we are both enlisted.”

Even after Odo had been seized, and in the whiles that he lay in the dark prison at Lisuarte, the Master would come to him at night, and would fondle him, and; would repeat this assurance.

3. OF HIS CONFESSION AND CONVERSION

Black Odo was brought before the criminal court at Yair. He confessed everything, and departed from the truth only in saying it was Ettarre the wicked witch-woman, who had seduced his innocence; who had first led him to the Lord of the Forest; and who upon three occasions had rubbed him all over with the ointment and helped him into the wolf skin. But Ettarre, after she also had been fetched to Yair, would confess nothing. Her stubbornness was a calamity to the patience of her judges: yet these earnest men did not despair, but they tortured her white flesh again and again, even until she died, in their long-suffering attempts to win the obstinate girl to candor and repentance.

The tweezers and hammers and hot irons were not needed in cross-examining Odo, because he confessed freely whatsoever any one of his black-robed judges suggested, and then went edifyingly far beyond any merely judicial imaginings. Odo, called Le Noir, was therefore found guilty upon all counts.

Messire Gui de Puysange, president of the court, pronounced the sentence. His long fingers played idly with the large silver inkstand before him in the while that he was speaking. He pointed out that, thanks to the progress of science, in the enlightened age whose benefits they were all sharing, lycanthropy, or that form of mania in which the patient imagined himself to be, and acted as, a wolf, was now known to be an hallucination, or, as some learned persons thought, a form of chronic insanity; and, in either case, was, to the eyes of the considerate, more properly an affliction than a crime. The said Odo, called Le Noir, in consequence, and in consideration of his youth and of the corrupting influence exerted by his deceased paramour, and in consideration of his lack of educational advantages, should be sent to the monastery at Aigremont, for better restraint and rearing, and for the re-establishment of his mental and spiritual health, said Messire de Puysange. Science, gentlemen, said Messire de Puysange, science was at last, in these progressive times, teaching us how to deal sanely with the insane.

Over this rather neat epigram, felt generally to be a credit to the bench, his confreres blinked and nodded like a roosting line of benevolent owls. But the condemned boy wept a little. Youth parts from its illusions with pain; and Odo saw that it was his dear Lord of the Forest who, in a long black gown and a curled mountain of blond hair, was pronouncing this sentence, so that Odo knew the Master was only the head of the coven of Amneran, a mere sorcerer, and not the glorious being whom Odo had thought him.

So it was that the blessed Odo, as yet a little stained with the dust of his worldly journeying, lost faith in evil as a dependable ally.

Now for what seemed to him a long while Black Odo was not happy in the Monastery of St Hoprig, but went about on all fours, eating only such food as he could find; upon the ground. He still craved the delights of his nocturnal hunting; he thought especially about small girls; and constantly he was hoping it would not be long before he had another taste of the food he desired. Yet by-and-by, a little by a little, he grew reconciled to the quiet and easy life of the monastery.

He became interested in religious matters. He delighted in particular to have the good monks tell him about the suffering of the saints upon this wicked earth, and how these holy persons had been broiled and flayed and hacked into quivering mince-meat for their faith’s sake. When he listened to these stories he sat huddled, with his legs crossed very tightly. At times his shoulders twitched convulsively. Then the boy would growl, and he would wipe away the white foam which was dribbling thinly from the corners of his mouth.

Young Odo, too, was never wearied of discussing with his religious instructors the cunning torments which the damned must suffer eternally: and of the more intimate details of these tortures he began to speak with a fervor which was truly devout. In fine, grace entered into his heart; he desired to become an officially accredited servant of Heaven; and the order of St. Hoprig gladly received this most notable brand from the burning.

Sometimes, even after the novice had entered into his holy vocation, the Lord of the Forest would come to him in the night time, saying as of old,—

“I design great things for you, my Prettyman.”

But Brother Odo could not forget how basely this Gui de Puysange had deceived him, and how the dark and withered sorcerer had abused the faith of an innocent boy, by pretending to be the all-powerful Master of Evil. So Odo would make the sign of the cross, he would repeat the sacred Latin words, and he would thus force his tempter to depart.

And old Gui de Puysange would say: “You treat me very cruelly, my Prettyman. Nevertheless, I love you, and because of that covenant which is between us my love shall yet cherish you vicariously.”

4. OF THE DIVINE CONDESCENSIONS SHOWN UNTO HIM

Brother Odo increased in sanctity. He was blessed with religious fervors, such as the Devil so cunningly mimics with epilepsy, in which the inspired young devotee’s disregard of the flesh caused him to bite and claw at the bodies of all those who came to assist him from the pavement or the walkway where he was writhing in pious ecstasy. He was granted also the biliousness and the upset digestion needful to create an all-overbearing ardor against any compromise with the soft and wheedling ways of evil. A slight hiccough continually interrupted his talking, as his stomach was relieved of gas. He was accorded visions in which he was counselled and instructed by many saints.

These came to confirm the holy man in his faith by showing him from what sins and perversities they themselves had been rescued by faith who now were saints in the higher courts of Paradise.

“Such were the customs of my wicked way of living in Augsburg,” said St. Eutropia, “before the grace of Heaven visited me.”

“It was in this way I paid the ferryman with my body’s beauty,” said St. Mary the Egyptian, “in order that I might get to Jerusalem and obtain salvation.”

“Such was the form of loathsome and unnatural caress for which I was particularly notorious,” said St. Margaret of Cortona, “before I found repentance and true faith.”

All these sacred events the blessed saints would rehearse, with Brother Odo’s aid, so that he might perceive with his own senses from how poisonously sweet and how affable iniquities the most vile of sinners might yet be rescued, and brought into eternal glory, by the true faith.

Even better was to follow, in Heaven’s tender furtherance of the welfare of Heaven’s loving and vigorous servant. For in a while Ettarre, the reputed witch-woman whom Brother Odo had once so ardently desired, and whom communion with no saint had ever quite put out of his mind, now also came to him.

And it was a queer thing, too, that with the coming of Ettarre the appearance of his cell was changed into the appearance of a quiet-colored garden. Lilies seemed to abound everywhere in this garden, and many climbing white roses, also, which were lighted by a clear and tempered radiancy like that of dawn. Moreover, a number of white rabbits were frisking about Brother Odo, and he could hear the sound of doves that called to their mates very softly.

With such a pleasant miracle did Ettarre return to Brother Odo from out of that celestial estate which he had procured for this beautiful girl by contriving her martyrdom. She came to assure him of her gratitude in all possible ways. After that, nobody was happier, night after night, than was Brother Odo.

And in the day time he preached everywhere what these noble ladies had descended from Paradise to teach him. He in particular denounced the impertinences of science,—“of science so called,” as Brother Odo impressively and scathingly described the snare which evil sets for human self-conceit,—and he taught that through faith and divine election lay the one way to salvation. He became the glory of the monastery. The white-robed Abbot declared that of all his children in the spirit Odo was the most worthy to be his successor.

5. OF HIS YET FURTHER INCREASE IN GRACE

Nor, when Odo had been anointed as Abbot of St Hoprig, and went clothed in the white woolen robe of his office, did he cease from reproving evil-doers with unflinching severity. Yet so merciful was the new Abbot that no offender was permitted to die in a state of sin whensoever that could be avoided. Instead, the Abbot would prolong painstakingly the more concrete arguments of the Church so as to win for every backslider and every heretic sufficient time in which to repent and thus to be spared from suffering in the next world.

The Abbot himself would carry humbly his own easy-chair into the torture chamber, and would watch over the torments, lest death end them too speedily, even by one instant, for his erring brother’s real and eternal good. Very often his dinner was brought to him in the torture chamber, and he would eat it there, among the most unappetizing sights and screams and odors, rather than neglect, even for an instant, his spiritual duties.

Nor could you have found anywhere a more eloquent preacher. The Abbot’s sermons made converts right and left, because he so frightened his hearers that no one of them dared risk that Hell of which this blessed gaunt man told them very lovingly. He spoke of Hell’s perpetual and unquenchable fires, of Hell’s pitch and brimstone and toads and adders, of Hell’s horrible hot mists and of giant gray worms which fed upon the broiled damned, and he imitated quite effectively the hoarse howling of lost souls when devils toss them about on muck forks. He spoke of all these things with the particularity of one who rejoiced in these strong discouragements of laxity in well-doing. He appalled his auditors with that faithful rendering of every unpleasant detail which is the essence of realism.

So great was the Abbot’s ardor that in his eyes awoke a red flaring, and a white foam would dribble thinly from his lips, in the while that he called sinners to repentance and spoke of the blood of the Lamb. He thus frightened many of the more impressionable into convulsions; some died of terror; but the survivors crept tremblingly into the sustaining arms of Holy Church, which alone could save them from these torments.

Meanwhile the Abbot labored, too, to convict old Gui de Puysange of his abominable practices. The Abbot labored the more zealously because of that dim yearning and that terrible tenderness which moved in the heart of the white-robed Abbot whensoever he beheld this dark and withered sorcerer. He labored, though, because of this vile wizard’s circumspection, without any success; and blessed Odo could secure no proof that this reprobate was one of the Old Believers, until through Heaven’s grace the well-nigh despairing Abbot was accorded a revelation in this matter.

“Good may very well come of that which merely mortal reason finds blameworthy,” Ettarre declared one night, after the Abbot of St. Hoprig had reached a state of comparative dejection, “for the divinely elect serve Heaven’s will and the true welfare of their fellow beings with every manner of tool. Do you, my darling, who are one of these peculiarly favored persons, but think, for example, of how with perjury you brought about my ascension into the delights of Paradise! By an action which many of the unsanctified might esteem contemptible you then purchased for me such joys, my dearest Odo, that I sometimes leave them half-unwillingly even to come to you.”

The Abbot beat and tore at her white tender flesh, but only with his hands, until she confessed that nowhere in Paradise had she found any joys more dear to her than those they were sharing. Nevertheless, upon reflection, he fairmindedly admitted the logic of his celestial bedfellow’s argument.

Therefore, an hour or two before dawn, he coursed abroad, toward the home of old Gui de Puysange, at Ranee, in the appearance of a stout and reddish-colored animal. There was a quite serviceable moon. The blessed Odo met, at first, no living creature save a real wolf, a virgin female, who accepted him as one of her own kind. Presently they coursed together and the grateful Abbot snarled and yelped his praise of the kindly Heaven, which enabled him, over and yet over again, but without any sinfulness, to enjoy the most profound and soul-stirring delights. He exulted, as a zealous Churchman, thus to attest the strength and shrewdness of Heaven, which could outwit so cunningly their infernal adversaries.

6. OF HIS CONTINUED ZEAL AND EFFICACY

The next day a mangled baby was found in the back garden of Messire de Puysange, and the evidence against him was so made legally complete. Old Gui de Puysange was tried that month, with the white-robed Abbot of St. Hoprig sitting as president of the court; and the accused man was duly condemned to be burned as a werewolf.

Messire de Puysange did not complain. He knew that this was the appointed ninth year for the sacrifice, and that he himself had incited this inevitable sacrifice through the illusions which he had sent to amuse the sleeping of Odo.

“I had vaingloriously designed great things for you, my Prettyman,” this dark and withered sorcerer said at the last, in the market-place, when they were heaping up the faggots about him. “But my arts end with me. There will be no more saints to counsel and to cherish you, as my vicars. Never any more, so long as you wear mortal flesh, will there be any pretty Sendings, my Prettyman, now that the Prince of this world receives his sacrifice.”

The Abbot was troubled; for he now knew that all the consolations of his piety had been the vicars of this persistent sorcerer. The Abbot’s hand went to his chin, and he hiccoughed slightly, but he did not say anything.

Then dark old Gui de Puysange, looking up toward the Abbot Odo, with patient and adoring brown eyes, said fondly:

“Yet there will be one more Sending to convey you home. Meanwhile you, my dear, in your white robe—which once was but the clothing of a witless sheep,—have not any need of my aid, to go further than I might fare in the service to which we are both enlisted.”

And again, a terrible, a treacherous and a damnable sort of yearning and tenderness was troubling the white-robed Abbot, as he looked, now for the last time, upon the fettered wretch who once had so ignobly deceived an innocent boy by pretending to be the all-powerful Master of Evil, and who now had deceived a well-thought-of clergyman with illusive Sendings in the appearance of saints. But decorum has to be preserved in the pursuit of every profession.

So the enthroned and white-robed Abbot, it is recorded, only frowned a little at this unseemly interruption of the impressive ceremony which so many of the faithful had assembled to witness. After that, he gave the signal to the torch-bearers. He settled back in his tall cushioned chair of carved teak-wood and Yemen leather, under the blue and yellow canopy which this unpleasantly warm day necessitated; and he watched pensively the ending of the one person whom he had loved with an entire heart.

7. OF THE SALUTARY POWER OF HIS PREACHING

Thereafter the Abbot found that Messire de Puysange had indeed spoken the truth. Abbot Odo was denied the consolations of religion. No more visions came to him from out of Paradise. He was counselled and instructed by no more saints.

He understood that all these had been vicarious illusions provided by the loving arts of dark and withered Gui de Puysange. The Abbot comprehended that he was not immortal; that there was no Heaven and no Hell; that there would be no auditing of human accounts; and that he travelled, instead, toward annihilation. His biliousness left him, his digestion became perfect, now that he perceived men perish as the beasts perish, and now that he knew every form of religion was a cordial which sustained people through the tedium and discomfort of their stay upon earth.

For he could well perceive the value of human faith now that he had lost it. He spoke everywhere of God’s love for all men and of how gloriously Heaven was to be won through repentance and a putting away of disreputable habits. He inflicted few tortures nowadays, because in Abbot Odo had awakened the fervor of the elect artist who respects the medium of his craft. . . . Dear Gui had been an artist of sorts, the Abbot would reflect, in the great-hearted poor fellow’s limited field, with his peculiarly small audience of one. Yes, Gui de Puysange had created wholly creditable saints, who were finished to the last detail. . . . But the art of a self-respecting clergyman was more general and more noble in its scope, for it appealed to the dull-witted and the unhappy everywhere.

With gaping hundreds to attend him, Abbot Odo swayed the minds of his congregation at will, and he awakened joy and faith, not with the tricks of black magic, not any longer with heated irons and tweezers, but with very lovely words. Since he knew there was no Hell, he hardly ever threatened people with Hell’s pains: instead, he turned from realism to romance, and he improvised brilliantly as to the unfathomable love and the eternal bliss of Heaven, which was the heritage of mankind and awaited every communicant just beyond the tomb. His talking aroused his auditors to the best and purest emotions.

His fame spread. He was summoned to court. The King was greatly moved by the Abbot’s fine sermons, and swore by the belly of St. Gris that this holy man had fire in his belly. The ladies of the court did not approve of this metaphor, but they all found the Abbot of St. Hoprig adorable.

“Especially,” said one of them, “when one’s husband, alas—!”

“But, darling,” cried her friend, “do you mean that you also—?”

“I mean only that if only other men—”

“Yet only a clergyman, my pet, can give you absolution—”

“—Like a digestant tablet—”

“Ah, but one dines so heartily with the dear Abbot—”

Thus did these ladies chatter under their little ermine bonnets and their three-cornered lattice caps and their glittering cauls of silver net wire. So the Abbot of St. Hoprig was a vast social success; he had the entree everywhere; and he made converts right and left.

The Queen herself confessed to him: and after he had gone thoroughly into the personal affairs of this daughter of the Medici and had lovingly absolved her, she saw to it forthwith that this wonderful man was appointed Bishop of Valneres.

8. OF THE KINDLY IMPULSES OF HIS PIETY

In the episcopal palace the blessed Odo lived at his ease very happily. He did not miss the company of his saints now that so many of the parish needed to be consoled and comforted by a bishop who, after all, was aging; and the loss of his own faith was a great aid to him now that it was his métier to awaken faith in so many others. It was a loss which made for unfailing tact without dogmatism. It was a loss which had ridded him forever of those doubts which sometimes trouble the clergy.

For Odo of Valneres lived as an artist. His contentment was here, rather than in any perhaps unattainable places or in any contingently oncoming times. And he made sure of it by creating contentment in every person about him.

Throughout all Naimousin and Piemontais he cherished his little flock as the father cherishes his children, and the artist his audience. He saw to their bodily comforts, he saw above all to their faith. For the plight of the lower orders of mankind, he knew, demanded just this faith which was, for a being of a peasant’s or a shopkeeper’s far from admirable nature, at once a narcotic and a beneficial restraint.

An altruist would dissuade therefore the evilly inclined from all incivic vices like murder and rape and theft and arson which, even when practised upon an international scale and under the direct patronage of the Church, tended always to upset the comfort of society. An altruist would endeavor, to the untrammeled extent of his imaginative gifts, to sustain the cowardly and the feeble-minded, and the aged and the ill and the poverty-stricken, and all other persons who were unbearably afflicted by the normal workings of the laws of life and of human polity. An altruist would hearten all these luckless beings with the appropriate kind of romances about an oncoming heritage which made the dear poor wretches’ present transitory discomforts—from any really considerate point of view—quite unimportant.

It was therefore, to the now aging Bishop, whensoever he put on his mitre and the white linen robe of his office, a privilege and a delight to preach of faith and hope and charity to his little flock. These frightened, foolish, and yet rather lovable men and women did need so dreadfully, in their cheerless and thwarted living, the ever-present threat and the ever-present promise of true religious faith to keep them sane or, for that matter, to keep them at all endurable associates. So the Bishop served his art lovingly; he delighted in the exercise of his art: for he saw that religious faith was highly necessary to the well-being of the lower classes, and was serviceable and comforting to the gentry also as one got on in life.

He had few regrets. He regretted Ettarre, the lost witch-woman, because no Christian whom he had ever known, howsoever charitable and zealous, had approached the charm of that little darling when she was pretending to be a saint come out of Paradise. He regretted that it no longer amused him to run abroad in his wolf’s skin. Once in a while, of course, that was necessary as a professional duty—after loving kindness and the customary dole of soup and blankets had failed,—in order to dispose of some open case of irreligion and ill-living which afforded a really dangerous example to the diocese: but such sinners were, almost always, so anaemic and stringy that the Bishop had come honestly to dislike this branch of his church-work. In fine, he conceded, willingly enough, that Odo of Valneres was approaching the end of his middle age; and that his main delights must be henceforward in his art.

And sometimes he regretted, too, that his art could not extend to yet other mythologies. He admired the clearer character drawing of the gods whom he found in these other mythologies. There were fine themes for a creative artist in the exalted doings of Zeus, the Cloud-collecting, the Thunder-hurler, who was called also Muscarius, because he drove away flies: and in the zoological amours of Zeus you would have had an opportunity for much rich, bold, romantic coloring, with the flesh tints handsomely rendered.

Then the heroic conception of Ragnarok, that final and most great of all battles between good and evil—wherein the Norse gods, and the entire Scandinavian church militant along with them, were to perish intrepidly for the right’s sake,—was a theme which, in view of its sublime possibilities in the pulpit of a sincere artist, thrilled the reflective Bishop like a trumpet music.

It was a dangerous notion, though, thus to portray religion as in the end an unprofitable business enterprise, which broke up in cosmic bankruptcy; and of course his little flock would never in this world appreciate the tragic heroism of Ragnarok. No: for you had to hearten the middle classes with the prospects of exceedingly shiny rewards which would be eternal, in a golden city that you entered through a gate of pearl. Still, as a theme, the Bishop greatly fancied Ragnarok.

Then, too, the Bishop meditated, how charming it would be, once in a way,—or throughout, perhaps, the entire, rather depressing Lenten season,—to make use of the delightfully quaint effects of African or of Polynesian mythology from his pulpit. One had so rarely, from that restrained and over-sedate eminence, the chance to exercise one’s gifts of quiet humor and of that naïveté in which supreme artists alone excel. Yes: it would be wholly pleasant to tell one’s little flock about Gajjimare the Snake God, and about the misadventures of Barin Mutum after this half-being had borrowed a body for nuptial purposes, and about the wonders which Maui-shaped-in-the-topknot-of-Taranga performed with his great-grandmother’s jawbone.

But, after all, the artist must work in that material which is available. After all, Christianity displayed many excellent points and gratifying improvements added since the decease of its founder. And as a theme—whensoever that theme was handled with competence, and touched with true inspiration,—Christianity served handsomely enough to keep one’s little flock contented, by assuring them of oncoming rewards for prudent and respectable conduct. No altruist could ask for more.

The Bishop smiled, and got back to his Christmas sermon.

In brief, there was never a more respected nor a more generally beloved bishop in those parts. And it was a great loss to Naimousin and all Piemontais when one morning the blessed Odo quitted the episcopal palace, he did not remember just when or through what agency.

9. OF THE REWARD APPOINTED FOR HIM

In fact, it was with something of a shock that the blessed Odo awakened to his unclerical circumstances. To be abroad in his nightgown was bad enough: but it seemed out of reason that, in such informal attire, he should be floating thus through a gray void, upborne by what appeared an unusually thick and soft and gaudily colored rug, and sharing its tenancy with this young woman.

“Can you by any chance inform me, madame,” he inquired, with the courtesy for which he was justly famed, “what is the meaning of this exercise in the humorous? and who has had the impudence to put me up here?”

“Do you not fret, poor Odo,” she replied. “It is only that you also, my dear, are dead at last.”

And then the Bishop recognized her. Then he knew that, somehow, some praiseworthy wonder-working had conveyed him back again to Ettarre, the reputed witch-woman. And for that instant nothing else whatever appeared to matter. For this adorable child seemed lovelier and even more desirable than ever: she was near to him: and age and all the sedative impairments of age had very marvelously gone away from the good Bishop of Valneres.

Yet in another instant his handsome countenance was a bit vexed; and he looked not altogether happy as he sat upright upon the smallish gold- and salmon-colored cloud.

“Nevertheless,” the Bishop said, “nevertheless, this is an illogical situation. I do recall now that I was suffering, very slightly, with indigestion last night. A complete atheist never agrees with me. And at my age, of course—Yes, yes, for me to have passed away in my sleep is natural enough. Yet this continued survival of my consciousness—howsoever surprising and pleasant be the result of that consciousness,” he added, with a gallant inclination of his head toward the winsome love of his youth,—“is a very sad blow to science. It upsets all philosophy; and it is a trouble to my common-sense.”

“My dearest,” replied Ettarre, “you have done with such frivolities as common-sense and philosophy and science; and but for my intervention there would have remained for you, as I must tell you frankly, only some heavenly reward or another.”

“Most charming Ettarre! my own heart’s darling!” said the Bishop, “let us not jest about professional matters, not just at present, for everything seems quite topsy turvy here, and I am in no mood for sprightly sallies. So do you instead tell we whither this cloud is conveying us!”

The girl regarded him with a humorous and, yet, a very tender sort of mockery. “Whither, you ask—with that nicety of diction which for so long has characterized your public speaking,—is this cloud conveying us? Well, one must distinguish. I only came for the ride. But you, my dear doomed Odo, are at this moment on your way to the Heaven which you used to promise to your parishioners; and, in fact, you may already see, just yonder, the amethyst ramparts of the Holy City.”

“This is surprising beyond words!” said Odo of Valneres. “Dear me, but this is terrible!”

“You will be finding very few to agree with you yonder,” Ettarre replied, “where you will find, instead, all that quaint Heaven of yours aflutter in honor of your arrival. For in the eloquent excesses of the fine career just ended you have converted many persons. Indeed, you have allured into eternal salvation—as the Archangel Oriphiel has announced officially in this morning’s report,—no less than one thousand and a hundred and seven souls. In consequence, the blessed everywhere are preparing at this instant to welcome home the strong champion of Heaven, with sackbut and with psaltery and with the full resources of the celestial choir.”

“Alas!” said blessed Odo, for the second time, “but this is truly terrible!”

And with that, he thoughtfully re-arranged his nightgown, he pulled up more neatly about his ankles his red flannel footwarmers, and he fell into a moment’s bewildered pondering. Nobody of his well-known modesty would have believed the total to run to four figures, but his eloquence and his lively flow of imagery had, of course, at odd times, converted many persons into accepting the comforting assurances of religion. Nor could the Bishop detect anything blameworthy in his conduct, even now.

He had acted logically. The plight of the lower orders of mankind, in the world which Odo of Valneres had now left behind him, did very certainly appear to demand this faith which was, for a being of a peasant’s or a shopkeeper’s far from admirable nature, at once a narcotic and a beneficial restraint.

“In brief, the situation is perplexing,” the Bishop said, aloud, “and it presents features which no clergyman could have anticipated. Yet I stay convinced that, if only I had been lying, there would have been no flaw in my conduct.”

Now the charming girl, who had cuddled happily beside him, as though once more to be in touch with her dear Odo were all-sufficient to her faithful heart, said nothing, as yet.

But to a well-thought-of bishop, discarnate and adrift in space, clad only in his nightgown and his red flannel footwarmers, it appeared a bit upsetting, thus to find religious notions exceeding their justifiable arena, and pursuing him beyond the grave.

And upon reflection, the unreasonableness of this out come for his long and honorable career was not its only troubling feature. For Odo of Valneres looked now toward the nearing huge white wharf beyond which gleamed the portal of Heaven. That entrance really was an enormous pearl, with a hole in it for you to go through, and above that hole, as he could now perceive, was carved the name “Levi.”

Odo of Valneres recalled his Scriptural studies; and, with augmenting uneasiness, he poked at the plump velvet-soft ribs of his companion upon the little gold and salmon-colored cloud.

“Do you wake up, my darling Ettarre, and tell me if this place is much like the Biblical description!”

The lovely girl sat up obediently.

“The Kingdom of Heaven is as Jehovah created it, and as His Scriptures have revealed it,” said Ettarre; and upon the less luscious lips of any other person her meditative slow smile would have seemed unfeeling.

“Ah, well, but, in any event, I make no doubt that the Holy City has been modernized? and has been kept abreast, so to speak, with progress?”

“In Heaven there is no variableness nor any shadow of turning, as you should well know who used to be so fond of preaching from that text.”

“Oh, my God!” said the good Bishop Odo, from force of habit: and the benevolence went out of his plump face.

For now contrition of the very sincerest sort had smitten him. He thought of his parishioners, of his misled lost flock, all decent, civilized, well-meaning communicants, entrapped, just by his over-fondness for rhetoric, into that fearful lair of multiheaded dragons and of all miscellaneous monstrosities. For these preposterous beasts, it seemed, were not mere figments of speech. There actually before him was one of the twelve pearls through which he had promised the flower of his little flock a glorious entry into Heaven: and the Book of the Revelation of St. John the Divine, in the teeth of all rational interpretation, was turning out to be something much worse than high-flown unintelligibility which you had to pretend to admire.

Inside that shining wall the hapless peasantry and the burghers whom his oratory had betrayed were now looked after by no benevolent bishop but were abandoned to the whims of unaccountable overlords, with hair like wool and with feet made of brass, who spent their time in blowing trumpets, and in opening vials full of plague germs, and in affixing sealing-wax to the foreheads of the defenceless dead. His little flock were now the appalled associates of huge locusts with human heads, and of wild horses with the tails of serpents, and of calves with eyes inset in their posterior parts. Nor were the perplexing customs and the patchwork animal-life of this barbaric bedlam atoned for by its climate, because every moment or two there was—so near as the Bishop could recall his sacred studies,—an earthquake or an uncommonly severe hailstorm: every moment or two the sun turned black, or the moon red, or else the stars came tumbling loose like fruit from a shaken fig tree; and seven thunders were intermittently conversing, for the most part about indelicate topics.

And Odo of Valneres, he also, who was so wholly dependent upon peaceful and refined surroundings, would presently be imprisoned in this awful place, for no real fault, but just through his well-meant endeavors to make life more orderly and more pleasant for his little flock. Already that infernal automatic cloud had moored itself.

10. OF HIS RIGHTEOUS ENDING

Inasmuch as there seemed to be no alternative, the Bishop and the witch-woman disembarked, perforce, upon the bright wharf of Heaven. Now behind and below unhappy Odo of Valneres was only an endless gray abyss; beneath him showed great gleaming slabs like yellowish and bluish glass; and before him loomed inexorably the gate carved out of a giant pearl.

“Come, come!” a somewhat desperate prelate cried aloud, “but even now there must be some way of escape from that existence which I used to promise, in the days of my rash disbelief, as a reward?”

“There is,” Ettarre replied to him, very proudly and happily; “for against love nothing can prevail. Why, but do you not understand! I am permitted to tempt you. Upon a cloud, of course, one feels a trifle insecure. But here we touch firm jasper and lapis lazuli. And now, with such allurements as you have not yet, I do believe, my wonderful enormous darling, quite utterly forgotten the way of, now I am going to preserve you from all sorts of celestial horrors.”

“Eh, and is it possible, even at the last, for the welldoer to evade his doom? Is there some other and more suitable place yet open, upon post-mortem repentance, to a well-thought-of bishop?”

The dear child said then, still with that very touching fondness of which he felt himself to be unworthy:

“At the cost of just one tiny pleasant indiscretion, even now, my own sweetheart, you will be refused admittance. You can then return with me to the more urbane and rationally conducted Paradise of the Pagans. And that is nothing like your so horrible and gaudy Kingdom of Heaven, but instead, it is a democracy which lacks for no modern improvements in the way of culture and of civilization.”

Thereupon Ettarre began to speak as to her present abode in somewhat the opulent vein of an exceedingly young poet. And the good Bishop Odo, looking upon her with the old fondness, and with unforgotten delight in her dear loveliness, was aware of that in the large and curiously glittering eyes of Ettarre which, he was certain, nobody in that dreadful Oriental phantasmagoria just ahead could ever understand with quite that sympathy which moved in him rebelliously.

Ettarre, no doubt, was overcoloring some of her details. One exaggerated, for art’s sake, in these descriptory passages. And he very well remembered how the little darling, when she was pretending to be a saint, had lied to him night after night with the unction of a funeral sermon. Even so, this adorable and cuddling witch-woman was a person whom Odo of Valneres, in his far-off pious youth, when he believed in saints, had cherished with a fervor and with a variousness not ever utterly to be put out of mind. And for the rest, the Bishop might, he felt just now—with all the sedative dilapidations of age thus marvelously repaired,—be happy enough, perhaps, in rewarding the warm loyalty of his Ettarre, among those cultured and broad-minded and intelligent circles which she described.

There remained only to allow for that slight girlish habit of unveracity.

Thus pensively did the Bishop begin to appraise the probabilities, in the while that from force of habit he made the sign of the cross, as he waited there, withholding his dark kindly eyes for a moment from the strangely large and glittering eyes of Ettarre, and looking downward, all through that rather lengthy moment in which he half paternally caressed the soft and the so lovely little hand of the dear love of his far-off, pious, hot-blooded youth; and she cuddled closer and yet closer to him and wriggled very deliciously in her candid and quite flattering affection.

At just this amiable season, the serenity of their reunion was overcast by the arrival of yet another cloud. It moored: and a child disembarked, a boy of seven or thereabouts, but newly dead and come alone through the gray void between Earth and Heaven. This little ghost passed by them as the child went uncertainly but meekly into the Holy City. The narrow shoulders were a trifle huddled, for these slabs of jasper and of lapis lazuli seemed more chilly to the small bare feet than had been the brown carpet of the child’s nursery, and the soft arms of that mother whom he had left far behind him.

Now also Odo of Valneres had raised his very generally admired eyes from the neighborhood of his red flannel footwarrners, toward that huge and dazzling perforated pearl.

“I was thinking,” he observed, with somewhat more of gentleness than of any plain connection, “that I rather, as they put it, get on with children. My people are so flattering as to say I have a way with them. I could, I really do believe, have cheered that forlorn little fellow tremendously with one of my simpler Confirmation addresses, if we had travelled through that abyss together. In fact, a clergyman of real talents, and of my rather varied experience, could probably cheer up any other saved soul in Heaven, in view of what must be the local average of cheerfulness—”

“No doubt you could, my wonderful, kind-hearted, clever darling,” Ettarre replied. “But now that fearful place, my precious, is a place with which you have no further need to be bothering.”

Odo of Valneres, however, was smiling with something of the enthusiast’s fervor. Then, for one instant only, he again looked downward, with the air of a man as yet perplexed and irresolute, and again he crossed himself, and he drew a deep breath which seemed to inform him through and through with unpersuadable determination.

Gently he put aside the love of his youth: and, with that frank fine air of manliness which had always graced his professional utterances, he spoke.

“No, sweetheart: for one of my cloth must not be wholly selfish; and at a pinch a well-thought-of bishop must choose for what seems to him a more noble and a safer investment than is the happiness of which your affection assures me. I had believed religion to be only a narcotic and a restraint for man’s misery upon earth. I was wrong. I confess it, with humble contrition. And my heart is aglow, Ettarre, with no ignoble fervor, to discover that the profession to which I have devoted all my modest abilities—such as they are, my dear,—must always satisfy, for the better conducted of my fellow beings, no merely temporal but an eternal requirement. Even after death, I perceive, I am privileged to remain the spiritual guide and consoler of my little flock—”

“But, my darling, the poor dears are already saved beyond redemption; and so, to me, that sounds like nonsense.”

“That is because you reason hastily, my pet. Yonder, inside that shining wall, my people need me as never before. More sorely now than in their mortal life they require the feeling that some capable and tactful person mediates between them and the uncomfortably contiguous contriver of their surroundings. Now, as not ever in their merely earthly misery, they need the most eloquent assurances that these inconveniences are trivial and by-and-by will prove transient. They need, in this unsanitary, zooplastic, explosive, and perturbing Heaven, as they did not need in the more urbane atmosphere which I was always careful to maintain in my diocese, to be sustained by salutary faith as to the oncoming rewards for prudent and respectable conduct. So, you perceive, my dearest, I could not honorably desert my little flock after having in some sense betrayed them into their present condition. All these strong arguments are passing through my mind, my darling; and they are reinforced by my firm conviction that the Ettarre whom I remember, both as a simple peasant girl and as a blessed saint, did not use to have cloven feet like—shall I say?—a tender-eyed and very charming gazelle.”

But now Ettarre, who during her most recent mortal life had been in practice among the witches of Amneran, as the most lovely of Satan’s traps, had drawn a little away from Odo of Valneres in uncontrollable sorrow and disappointment.

“You have,” she stated, “and you always did have, Odo, a mean and suspicious nature, quite apart from being a long-winded fat hypocrite. And you can talk from now to doomsday if you want to, but I think that to make a cross like that, when I was doing my very best for your real comfort, was cheating!”

“Noblesse oblige,” replied the good Bishop Odo, with that impressiveness which he invariably reserved for any remark a trifle deficient in meaning. Then he went slowly but unfalteringly toward the gate marked “Levi.”

Yet he looked back just once, through a mist of unshed, unepiscopal, and merely human tears, upon the grief of that delicious and so lovely Ettarre. Her distress over this final parting was becoming so passionate and extreme that it had turned the adorable child all black and scaly, and had set her to exhaling diversely colored flames. And Odo sighed to notice these deteriorations in her appearance, and in her deportment also, as his lost love assumed a regrettably dragonish shape, and with many frantic lashings of her tail swept whooping down the abyss.

After that, he removed his red flannel footwarmers, as introductive of an undesirable chromatic note; he tidied his white nightgown into the general effect of a surplice; and the Bishop of Valneres went through that bright and lofty gate with appropriate dignity.

He was a bit surprised, though, when a tender voice said,—

“Welcome home, my Prettyman!”

Black Odo saw that the gates of this dubious, glaring place were now being locked, behind him, by dark, withered, and complacent looking, old Gui de Puysange.

Thus ends the history of that Odo called Le Noir, who nevertheless, even as the morning star makes light the womb of a black cloud, shone with the bright beams of his life and teaching; who by his radiance led into the light them that shivered in the gray cloud of the shadow of death; and who, like unto the rainbow giving light in the white clouds, set forth in his righteous ending the seal of his fond Master’s covenant.