Flaxius

The Sun had drowned himself in the sea, and his widow, the Sky, after dissipating the evening gold which he had left, was contracting a second marriage with Night, who brought her as settlement the silver moon and the whole heavenly sack of stars, when Flaxius wandered along alone by the wild, wailing waves, seeing, smelling, tasting, feeling, and hearing the sweet-salt, vapoury ocean breeze. So he went on—it was a lonely coast—till he encountered a shepherd established in a hut of stones and turf; a tenement so small as to bear to its inhabitant the relation a shell bears to a tortoise.

‘Is there any place hereabout,’ asked Flaxius, ‘where I could lodge for the night?’

‘None for near a five mile,’ answered the herd, removing the slender pipe of clay from his lips; ‘leastwise none where yer could get hin. That is, ’cept the Devil’s Den, a hold ouse, furder on, and there,’ he added emphatically, ‘I reckon yer’d only be too glad to get hout.’

‘Why?’ inquired Flaxius.

‘’Cos it’s ruined—wuss than Jane Shoree hever wus by the royal rep‑ro‑bate,’ replied the herd, who appeared to have some tincture of letters.

‘Is it roofed?’

‘Roofed and water-proofed,’ was the reply. ‘’Taint there that the affliction commences. I mean ruined in reppertation and char‑ac‑ter. It’s mellincolly and hin bad sperits—leastways bad sperits is in hit—an’ always were—since the smugglers left hoff usin’ hof hit. Hits ‘osts his ghosts.’

Flaxius gave the man a deeply pensive look, and a small silver coin. The herd replied with a six-pence-ive smile of gratitude. ‘Sir,’ he exclaimed, ‘“you are a good Lot,” as the lady said to her ’usband before she turned to a piller hof salt.’

‘How can I be a lot, being but one?’ inquired Flaxius.

‘Hi call a cove good com‑peny when a penny come to me from ’im,’ replied the shepherd. ‘You stand six hof ’em. You’re more’n a cove, you’re a whole covey hof birds, a multitood o’ virtues, a ‘arf dozener.’

The sage went on from pile to pile of pebbles, or earth, marked with whitewash to serve the coast-guards as guides in darkness, till he beheld before him the shelter which he sought. It was a dilapidated stone house of the Jacobean time and style; not unpicturesque, gracefully draped with ivy, and as it stood in the light of a full moon on a rising rocky platform, with a sea-view circling round, there was in it something which irresistibly recalled scenes in theatres and novels, smugglers, witches, Guy Mannering, and Anne the uncanny of Geierstein.

But what gave it specially this appearance to Flaxius was the gleam from within of a light, which he knew at once was lit by no mortal match and fed by no earthly oil or fuel. It rose and fell, quivering and thrilling like a Northern light, sometimes causing the building to appear as if in flame, and then shrinking to an arrowy ray, or a mere needle, changing to many hues in which, however, a sulphur blue ever predominated. And with its changes there rang in time and measure, high or low, unearthly laughter, strange shouts or ululations, sinking to stranger humming or buzzing, and passing to a dreamy melody in softened shade, all at once broken up by a startling blare and flare and wild vociferation in strange tongues.

It required little reflection for the Magian to conjecture the nature of the company from whom such sounds proceeded, nor was he astonished, after opening the door, entering the hall, and uttering the wizard greeting, which proclaimed his nature, to see the sight which met his eyes.

Round about a great block of sandstone, which served for a table, and on which stood two open cases of gin, several loose bottles, a ten-gallon demijohn of whisky, a raisin box full of Perique, or favori du diable tobacco, and an ancient, much-thumbed manuscript bound in sheet-iron, sat lolling and sprawling in all the extravagance of unconventional ease, on divans or seats, also of stone, twelve demons, or spirits of that kind whose mission it is in life to busy themselves especially with all that is mischievous, reckless, stirring, wild, eccentric, or subversive. That is to say, they are always occupied with what they call ‘whooping it up’; aiding and encouraging youth to paint towns red, inspiring Celtic politics, whether French or Irish, organising riots, editing society newspapers, evoking up divorces, anarchising, and filling police courts with cases. They were all smoking and drinking, and seemed to be earnestly occupied with some extremely interesting subject of debate; the intensity or moderation of which was manifested in the crescendo, or diminuendo, of a flame rising from a great terra-cotta vase, and by the tones of their voices.

‘Hallo, old Flax, is that you?’ cried the only one of this precious company with whom the Sage had ever before made acquaintance. This was Slang—not by any means the worst of them, since his mission merely was to corrupt language, and invent all kinds of new, grotesque forms of speech. ‘Mozeltoff! luck to you, old cove, sās tute a kairin tiro kokero?’ he continued in the tongue generally spoken among devils and goblins, ‘how have you been doing since they let you out?’

‘Kūshti adosta, well enough,’ replied Flaxius in the same tone and tongue, for there never was man on earth who could so adapt himself gracefully to the most varied society or ‘all shorts and editions’ of life. ‘May I venture to ask for what purpose you gentlemen are here assembled?’

‘Lel a swägler an’ a cutter a mūl-tatto-pani, take a pipe and a drop of brandy before we get to biz,’ exclaimed Slang, dusting a seat obsequiously as he spoke; and indeed it was quite evident, despite their swaggering impudence and their feet on the tables, that the whole party of demons were deeply sensible of the honour of entertaining such a distinguished guest. Flaxius accepted the refreshment, and sat down.

‘What you behold,’ said Moloch, the diavolo of Pessimism, ‘is a sad spectacle and a melancholy instance of diabolical deterioration, showing how even natures which have received every blessing of hell and all infernal advantages from the devil himself can become depraved to mere inertia. We are now a jury here assembled to try one of our number for his reputation. You, sir, though happily exempted from all such mutations, are aware that the limit of moral existence is one thousand years for a member of our order, unless he by progressive energy or genius advances himself, in which case he receives a renewal of his social lease. Now there is one of our number known as Sneak, who during all his snivelling millennium has never got beyond where he begun—or vulgarity and idle folly—including carrying and retailing petty gossip, teaching foolish old club-men and ladies how to twaddle about divorces and marriages, elopements, and relationships, gleaning trash and mean slander from low servants, and sticking just there. Such an existence, we hold, is too contemptible for even the meanest devil in Inferno; hence this jury, to decide whether the creature shall exist among us any longer; and as our judge has failed to put in an appearance we respectfully request your Wisdom to take his place as referee.’

‘I consent with pleasure,’ said Flaxius. ‘Produce the culprit!’

A truculent-looking demon named Dobble, whose department was quarrelling, the prize-ring, rencounters, and rows, here arose, went to a corner, put a box under his arm, brought it to the table, opened it, and took from it a form pressed flat like a pair of trousers in a trunk. This he unfolded—blew it up like a bladder by means of the stem of his clay-pipe—and gave it a drink of whisky, when lo! the form assumed some semblance of, if not humanity, at least demonity. It was a wretched-looking phantom, something in it recalling a battered Punch or tattered Ally Sloper, a Paul Pry, a thing without a conscience or moral sense, yet not without prying inquisitiveness or petty cunning—a poor simulacrum of a popular, paltry jest. It sat up and grinned, and leered, without a trace of fear, as if—all its function finished—it had nothing else to do but to die game, as vulgar, second-hand tradition enjoined its kind to do.

‘I appear here,’ said Moloch, not without dignity, ‘as advocatus diaboli, or public prosecutor. The entire life and actions of this sneak, whom I will not honour with the name of devil, or even imp, are so well known to all here present as to render a formal indictment a work of supererogation. Yet that all due formalities may be properly fulfilled, I ask the accused if he demands that any accusation be made?’

To which the culprit replied by casting up his head, and saying, in a tone which would have elicited roars of applause in a music hall:

‘Ya-ap! Who’re you? Shut up!’

‘An indictment is therefore needless. Let me here remark, gentlemen,’ said Moloch, with great impressiveness, ‘that though we may all be demons, and even the humblest of our order, our mission is not, as is vulgarly supposed, to do evil. It is simply agitation and action.’

‘To keep things a-bilin’,’ interposed Slang.

‘Quite true. The honourable gentleman who has just interrupted me is, for example, often accused of mere vulgarity, but unjustly. He may be a rude poet, but he invents new similes and vigorous racy words which are often wanting. I myself—in many ways—by introducing Pessimism to society, and by raising the question as to whether life is worth living, caused a discussion which rendered me worthy of receiving a renewal of my lease of life. The pugnacity of my colleague Dobble has its silver lining—it provokes resistance, argument, and conclusion. We may all be a rough lot with a hard bark, but there is wood in us. But the accused is all rotten bark and no bite, and hollow. Vulgarity, twaddle, gossip, and small-talk are all one and the same thing; and the mind devoted to them alone stagnates and putrefies. The spirit of it dies very slowly, gentlemen; but if nothing better can be said of this fin de siècle, it must be at least admitted that this century has witnessed no advance in vulgarity and the pettiness which kills for everything. Gentlemen, I await your verdict?’

‘Guilty, in large capitals,’ cried Slang, who seemed to be foreman. ‘We’re all agreed like a rope of inyons.’

‘Prisoner,’ exclaimed Flaxius, ‘have you anything to say why sentence of non-renewal of existence should not be passed on you.’

‘Oh, a’nt I just?’ screamed Sneak in a Punch tone. ‘Call me vulgar do yer, yer vaggabones—me that moves in the highest circles among the biggest suckers! Listen to this!’ And with that, he drew from his pocket a fashionable weekly newspaper, well known on every stand, and proceeded to read from it such a mass of drivelling silliness relating to the pettiest acts or tastes of the upper classes, including that of royalty itself, and all that constituted what it regarded as ‘Society,’ that even Flaxius was fain to drink another glass of brandy, and light a cigar to enable him to sustain the infliction. At last it came to an end.

‘There!’ exclaimed Sneak triumphantly. ‘That’s what Erbamala, the great noveliste, and I call human nature. The best art is the depicting that—it pays best—and I’m the spirit who inspires it all. There I rest my defence.’

‘The defence,’ said Flaxius, ‘has aggravated the offence.’

‘Well, my time is not out, and you’ll find that I shall drag on awhile longer.’

‘True,’ observed Flaxius, ‘but observe that there was a time when you had a place, such as it was, among those who are here present. Now it is lost; even the demons of the present day disown you. Therefore I pronounce you dead de facto, for those for whom you now live among mortals have no intellects. Begone!’

The foreman opened a window, and the living dead whisked out of it, like a great carrion blue-bottle with a buzz.

‘Did the deceased leave any property on which to administer?’ asked Boodle, the modern incarnation of Mammon.

‘Yes, he left ME,’ piped a small voice. And a sharp little imp, two inches in height, sprang on the table. ‘I’m Puttuli.’

‘Immortalised by Musæus,’ said Moloch. ‘You were used to go about to people’s pockets and report what you found therein to your master.’

‘Yes, but I can do more than that,’ replied Puttuli. ‘I can observe and report anything.’

‘Well, none of us want you,’ cried Slang, ‘you little, sneaking, spying villain. So be off with you by the first boat—quicker than immediately, if not sooner.’

‘Nay,’ said Flaxius, ‘he may be useful if properly employed. With your permission, gentlemen, I will take him.’

And as there was no dissenting voice, the wise Flaxius departed with Puttuli in his pocket. And he soon found that he had indeed a pocket-companion, and voluble—if not valuable—vade-mecum, for the diminutive imp was what a distinguished American writer calls an ‘amoosin’ little cuss,’ and ‘especially good at beguiling off the odd corners of the weary hours.’

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‘Haec fabula docet,’ wrote Flaxius, ‘or its moral is—not what too many satirists so sadly wail—that Sneak actually represents the spirit of this bottom of the century, but its very dregs, which are, however, stirred up too much by the spoons of small writers into what would be, but for them, a clear, exhilarating beverage. The very devils, whose agitation in a certain way leads ever to something that is good, find their work hindered by this imp of pettiness. Prosperity and peace, or its stagnation, engender the birth of such mosquitoes. A roaring torrent of even dirty water is better, for it will wash itself clean ere long, but a standing pool only creates vile insects and malaria.