+
JMJ
I read this story decades ago in the Catholic Family magazine and my wife just brought it to my attention.
It was written by Fr. Robert Hugh Benson who ...
Like both his brothers, Edward Frederic Benson ("Fred") and Arthur Christopher Benson, Robert wrote many ghost and horror stories, as well as children's stories and historical fiction. His horror and ghost fiction are collected in The Light Invisible (1903) and A Mirror of Shallott (1907). His novel, Lord of the World (1907), is generally regarded as one of the first modern dystopian novels. Come Rack! Come Rope! (1912) is a historical novel describing the persecution of English Roman Catholics during the Elizabethan era. (Wikipedia)
This is fiction so enjoy!
P^3
Source: Project Gutenberg
“Consolatrix Afflictorum”
The following letter will explain itself.
The original was read to me by my
friend on one of those days during my stay
with him; and he allowed me, at my
request, to make a copy. The sermon
referred to in the first sentence of the
letter was preached in a foreign watering-place
on Christmas Day.
“Villa––––
“December 29, 18––
“Reverend and Dear Sir,
“I listened with great attention to
your sermon on Christmas Day; I am
getting on in years, and I am an invalid;
so you will understand that I have few
friends––and I think none who would not
think me mad if I told them the story that
I am proposing to tell you. For many
years I have been silent on this subject;
since it always used to be received with
incredulity. But I fancy that you will not
be incredulous. As I watched you and
listened to you on Christmas Day, I
thought I saw in you one to whom the
supernatural was more than a beautiful and
symbolical fairy-story, and one who held
it not impossible that this unseen should
sometimes manifest itself. As you reminded
us, the Religion of the Incarnation
rests on the fact that the Infinite and the
Eternal expresses Himself in terms of
space and time; and that it is in this that
the greatness of the Love of God consists.
Since then, as you said, the Creation, the
Incarnation, and the Sacramental System
alike, in various degree, are the manifestation
of God under these conditions, surely it
cannot be ‘materialistic’ (whatever that
exactly means), to believe that the ‘spiritual’
world and the personages that inhabit
it sometimes express themselves in the same
manner as their Maker. However, will
you have patience with me while I tell you
this story? I cannot believe that such a
grace should be kept in darkness.
“I was about seven years old when my
mother died, and my father left me chiefly
to the care of servants. Either I must have
been a difficult child, or my nurse must
have been a hard woman: but I never gave
her my confidence. I had clung to my
mother as a saint clings to God: and when
I lost her, it nearly broke my heart. Night
after night I used to lie awake, with the
firelight in the room, remembering how she
would look in on her way to bed; when at
last I slept it seems to me now as if I never
did anything but dream of her; and it was
only to wake again to that desolate emptiness.
I would torture myself by closing
my eyes, and fancying she was there; and
then opening them and seeing the room
empty. I would turn and toss and sob
without a sound. I suppose that I was as
near the limit that divides sanity from
madness as it is possible to be. During
the day I would sit on the stairs when I
could get away from my nurse, and pretend
that my mother’s footsteps were moving
overhead, that her door opened, that I
heard her dress on the carpet: again I
would open my eyes, and in self-cruelty
compel myself to understand that she was
gone. Then again I would tell myself that
it was all right: that she was away for the
day, but would come back at night. In
the evenings I would be happier, as the
time for her return drew nearer; even when
I said my prayers I would look forward
to the moment, into which I had cheated
myself in believing, when the door would
open, after I was in bed, and my mother
look in. Then as the time passed, my false
faith would break down, and I would sob
myself to sleep, dream of her, and sob myself
awake again. As I look back it appears
to me as if this went on for months: I
suppose, however, in reality, it could not
have been more than a very few weeks,
or my reason would have given way.
And at last I was caught on the edge of the
precipice, and drawn lovingly back to safety
and peace.
“I used to sleep alone in the night-nursery
at this time, and my nurse occupied
a room opening out of it. The night-nursery
had two doors, one at the foot of
my bed, and one at the further end of the
room, in the corner diagonally opposite to
that in which the head of my bed stood.
The first opened upon the landing, and the
second into my nurse’s room, and this
latter was generally kept a few inches open.
There was no light in my room, but a
night-light was kept burning in the nurse’s
room, so that even without the firelight my
room was not in total darkness.
“I was lying awake one night (I suppose
it would be about eleven o’clock), having
gone through a dreadful hour or two of
misery, half-waking and half-sleeping. I
had been crying quietly, for fear my nurse
should hear through the partly opened door,
burying my hot face in the pillow. I was
feeling really exhausted, listening to my
own heart, and cheating myself into the
half-faith that its throbs were the footsteps
of my mother coming towards my room; I
had raised my face and was staring at the
door at the foot of my bed, when it opened
suddenly without a sound; and there, as I
thought, my mother stood, with the light
from the oil-lamp outside shining upon
her. She was dressed, it seemed, as once
before I had seen her in London, when she
came into my room to bid me good-night
before she went out to an evening party.
Her head shone with jewels that flashed as
the firelight rose and sank in the room, a
dark cloak shrouded her neck and shoulders,
one hand held the edge of the door,
and a great jewel gleamed on one of her
fingers. She seemed to be looking at me.
“I sat up in bed in a moment, amazed
but not frightened, for was it not what I
had so often fancied? and I called out to
her:
“‘Mother, mother!’
“At the word she turned and looked on
to the landing, and gave a slight movement
with her head, as if to some one waiting
there, either of assent or dismissal, and
then turned to me again. The door closed
silently, and I could see in the firelight, and
in the faint glimmer that came through the
other door, that she held out her arms to
me. I threw off the bedclothes in a
moment, and scrambled down to the end of
the bed, and she lifted me gently in her
arms, but said no word. I too said nothing,
but she raised the cloak a little and wrapped
it round me, and I lay there in bliss, my
head on her shoulder, and my arm round
her neck. She walked smoothly and noiselessly
to a rocking-chair that stood beside
the fire and sat down, and then began to
rock gently to and fro. Now it may be
difficult to believe, but I tell you that I
neither said anything, nor desired to say
anything. It was enough that she was
there. After a little while I suppose I fell
asleep, for I found myself in an agony of
tears and trembling again, but those arms
held me firmly, and I was soon at peace;
still she spoke no word, and I did not see
her face.
“When I woke again she was gone, and
it was morning, and I was in bed, and the
nurse was drawing up the blind, and the
winter sunshine lay on the wall. That day
was the happiest I had known since my
mother’s death; for I knew she would come
again.
“After I was in bed that evening I lay
awake waiting, so full of happy content and
certainty that I fell asleep. When I
awoke the fire was out, and there was no
light but a narrow streak that came through
the door from my nurse’s room. I lay there
a minute or two waiting, expecting every
moment to see the door open at the foot of
my bed; but the minutes passed, and then
the clock in the hall below beat three. Then
I fell into a passion of tears; the night was
nearly gone, and she had not come to me.
Then, as I tossed to and fro, trying to stifle
my crying, through my tears there came
the misty flash of light as the door opened,
and there she stood again. Once again I
was in her arms, and my face on her shoulder.
And again I fell asleep there.
“Now this went on night after night,
but not every night, and never unless I
awoke and cried. It seemed that if I
needed her desperately she came, but only
then.
“But there were two curious incidents
that occurred in the order in which I will
write them down. The second I understand
now, at any rate; the first I have
never altogether understood, or rather there
are several possible explanations.
“One night as I lay in her arms by the fire,
a large coal suddenly slipped from the grate
and fell with a crash, awaking the nurse in
the other room. I suppose she thought
something was wrong, for she appeared at the
door with a shawl over her shoulders, holding
the night-light in one hand and shading
it with the other. I was going to speak,
when my mother laid her hand across my
mouth. The nurse advanced into the room,
passed close beside us, apparently without
seeing us, went straight to the empty bed,
looked down on the tumbled clothes, and
then turned away as if satisfied, and went
back to her room. The next day I managed
to elicit from her, by questioning, the
fact that she had been disturbed in the night,
and had come into my room, but had seen
me sleeping quietly in bed.
“The other incident was as follows.
One night I was lying half dozing against
my mother’s breast, my head against her
heart, and not, as I usually lay, with my
head on her shoulder. As I lay there it
seemed to me as if I heard a strange sound
like the noise of the sea in a shell, but more
melodious. It is difficult to describe it,
but it was like the murmuring of a far-off
crowd, overlaid with musical pulsations.
I nestled closer to her and listened; and
then I could distinguish, I thought, innumerable
ripples of church bells pealing, as
if from another world. Then I listened
more intently to the other sound; there
were words, but I could not distinguish
them. Again and again a voice seemed to
rise above the others, but I could hear no
intelligible words. The voices cried in
every sort of tone––passion, content, despair,
monotony. And then as I listened
I fell asleep. As I look back now, I have
no doubt what voices those were that I
heard.
“And now comes the end of the story.
My health began to improve so remarkably
that those about me noticed it. I never
gave way, during the day at any rate, to
those old piteous imaginings; and at night,
when, I suppose, the will partly relaxes its
control, whenever my distress reached a
certain point, she was there to comfort me.
But her visits grew more and more rare, as
I needed her less, and at last ceased. But
it is of her last visit, which took place in
the spring of the following year, that I wish
to speak.
“I had slept well all night, but had
awakened in the dark just before the
dawn from some dream which I forget,
but which left my nerves shaken. When
in my terror I cried out, again the door
opened, and she was there. She stood with
the jewels in her hair, and the cloak across
her shoulders, and the light from the landing
lay partly on her face. I scrambled at once
down the bed, and was lifted and carried to
the chair, and presently fell asleep. When
I awoke the dawn had come, and the birds
were stirring and chirping, and a pleasant
green light was in the room; and I was still
in her arms. It was the first time, except
in the instance I have mentioned, that I had
awakened except in bed, and it was a great
joy to find her there. As I turned a little
I saw the cloak which sheltered us both––of
a deep blue, with an intricate pattern of
flowers and leaves and birds among
branches. Then I turned still more to see
her face, which was so near me, but it was
turned away; and even as I moved she
rose and carried me towards the bed. Still
holding me on her left arm she lifted and
smoothed the bedclothes, and then laid me
gently in bed, with my head on the pillow.
And then for the first time I saw her face
plainly. She bent over me, with one hand
on my breast as if to prevent me from
rising, and looked straight into my eyes;
and it was not my mother.
“There was one moment of blinding
shock and sorrow, and I gave a great
sob, and would have risen in bed, but
her hand held me down, and I seized it
with both my own, and still looked in
her eyes. It was not my mother, and
yet was there ever such a mother’s face
as that? I seemed to be looking into
depths of indescribable tenderness and
strength, and I leaned on that strength in
those moments of misery. I gave another
sob or two as I looked, but I was quieter,
and at last peace came to me, and I had
learnt my lesson.
“I did not at the time know who she
was, but my little soul dimly saw that my
own mother for some reason could not at
that time come to me who needed her so
sorely, and that another great Mother had
taken her place; yet, after the first moment
or so, I felt no anger or jealousy, for one
who had looked into that kindly face could
have no such unworthy thought.
“Then I lifted my head a little, I remember,
and kissed the hand that I held
in my own, reverently and slowly. I do
not know why I did it, except that it was
the natural thing to do. The hand was
strong and white, and delicately fragrant.
Then it was withdrawn, and she was
standing by the door, and the door was
open; and then she was gone, and the
door was closed.
“I have never seen her since, but I have
never needed to see her, for I know who
she is; and, please God, I shall see her
again; and next time I hope my mother
and I will be together; and perhaps it will
not be very long; and perhaps she will allow
me to kiss her hand again.
“Now, my dear sir, I do not know how
all this will appear to you; it may seem to
you, though I do not think it will, merely
childish. Yet, in a sense, I desire nothing
more than that, for our Saviour Himself
told us to be like children, and our Saviour
too once lay on His Mother’s breast. I
know that I am getting an old man, and
that old men are sometimes very foolish;
but it more and more seems to me that
experience, as well as His words, tells me
that the great Kingdom of Heaven has a
low and narrow door that only little children
can enter, and that we must become
little again, and drop all our bundles, if we
would go through.
“That, dear and Reverend Sir, is my
story. And may I ask you to remember
me sometimes at the altar and in your
prayers? for surely God will ask much
from one to whom He has given so much,
and as yet I have nothing to show for it;
and my time must be nearly at an end,
even if His infinite patience is not.
“Believe me,
“Yours faithfully,
“–––– ––––.”
Comments
Post a Comment