# 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.