(Luciferians of the Middle Ages ritually stab a stolen sacramental wafer before a demonic idol)

May 26th, St. Philip's feast, is the squire's birthday, and every year he celebrates the day by giving a little dinner party to a few very intimate friends. But, as he says, rather sadly, "I have outlived most of my generation;" and, for some years past, the whole number, including the host and a guest or two who may be staying at the Hall, has seldom reached as many as ten.

On the first birthday for which I was present there were only half a dozen of us in all at the dinner. These were, first, Father Bertrand, an English Dominican Friar, and one of the squire's oldest friends, who usually spent some weeks with him every summer. Second, Sir John Gervase, a local baronet and antiquarian, who, besides being an F.S.A., and one of the greatest living authorities on stained glass, was also one of the few Catholic gentry in the neighbourhood of Stanton Rivers. The third was Herr Aufrecht, a German professor, who had come to England to study some manuscripts in the British Museum, and had brought a letter of introduction from a common friend in Munich. Fourth, there was the rector of the next parish, who had been a Fellow of one of the colleges at Cambridge for most of his life, but had accepted the living, which was in the gift of his college, a few years previously, and had since become very intimate with the old squire, who, with myself, completed the number.

The mansion of Stanton Rivers is built round a little quadrangle, of which the servants' quarters and kitchen occupy the north side, the dining-room being at the north end of the west wing. When we are alone, however, the squire has all meals served in the morning-room; a small, cheerful apartment on the east side of the house, with dull, ivory-coloured walls, hung with exquisite old French pastels, and furnished entirely with Chippendale furniture, designed expressly for the squire's grandfather by the famous cabinet maker; the original contract and bills for which are preserved in the family archives.

The birthday dinner, however, as befits an "institution," is always served in the dining-room proper, which is approached through the beautiful long apartment, stretching the whole length of the west wing, which the squire has made into the library. The dining-room is large and finely proportioned, and has its original Jacobean decoration, the walls being panelled in dark oak, with a carved cornice and plaster ceiling delicately moulded with a strapwork design, in which the cockle shells of the Rivers escutcheon are repeated again and again in combination with the leopards' heads of Stanton. The broad, deep fireplace has polished steel "dogs" instead of a grate, and above it is a carved over-mantel reaching to the ceiling, and emblazoned with all the quarterings the united families can boast, with their two mottoes, which combine so happily, Sans Dieu rien and Garde ta Foy.

I think the squire would prefer not to use the dining-room even for his birthday dinner, but he hasn't the heart to sadden Avison, the butler, by suggesting this. Indeed, the occasion is Avison's annual opportunity, and he glories in decking out the table with the finest things the house possesses in the way of family plate, glass, and china while Mrs. Parkin, the cook, and Saunders, the gardener, in their respective capacities, second his efforts with the utmost zeal.

The evening was an exquisite one, and we sat in the library talking and watching the changing effects of the fading lights as they played on the garden before the windows, until Avison threw open the folding doors and announced that dinner was served. Hitherto I had only seen the room in deshabille, and it was quite a surprise to see how beautiful it now looked. The dark panelling, reflecting the warm sunset glow which came in through the broad mullioned windows, formed a perfect background to the dinner-table, with its shaded candles, delicate flowers, and gleams of light from glass and plate: and I felt that Avison's effort was really an artistic triumph. The same thought, I fancy, struck the rest of the guests, for no sooner had Father Bertrand said grace than Sir John burst out in admiration:

"My dear squire, what exquisite things you do possess! Some day I shall come and commit a burglary on you. Your glass and silver are a positive temptation."

The host smiled, but I noticed that his eyes were fixed on the centre of the table, and that the eyelids were slightly drawn down, an expression I had learned to recognise as a sign of annoyance, carefully controlled. Following his gaze, I glanced at the table-centre, but before I could decide what it was, the German professor, who was sitting next me, broke out in a genial roar:

"Mein Gott, Herr Pater, but what is this? " and he pointed to the exquisite piece of plate in the centre of the table.

"We call it the Cellini fountain, Herr Aufrecht," answered the squire, "though it is certainly not a fountain, but a rose-water dish, and I can give you very little evidence that it is really Cellini's work."

"Effidence," exclaimed the German-" it has its own effidence. What more want you? None but Benvenuto could broduce such a one. But how did you come to possess it?"

There was no doubt about the eyelids now, and I feared the other guests would notice their host's annoyance, but the squire controlled his voice perfectly as he answered:

"Oh, it has been in the family for more than three centuries; Sir Hubert Rivers, the ancestor whose portrait hangs at the foot of the stairs, is believed to have brought it back from Italy."

I thought I could guess the cause of his annoyance now, for the ancestor in question had possessed a most unenviable reputation, and, by a strange trick of heredity, the squire's features were practically a reproduction of Sir Hubert's -- a fact which was a source of no little secret chagrin to the saintly old priest. Fortunately, at this point, the rector turned the conversation down another channel; Herr Aufrecht did not pursue the subject further, and the squire's eyelids soon regained their normal elevation.

As the meal advanced the German came out as quite a brilliant talker, and the conversational ball was kept up so busily between Father Bertrand, the rector, and himself that the other three of us had little to do but listen and be entertained. A good deal of the talk was above my head, however, and during these periods my attention came back to the great rose-water dish which shone and glittered in the centre of the table.

In the first place I had never seen it before, which struck me as a little odd, for Avison had discovered my enthusiasm for old silver, and so had taken me to the pantry and displayed all the plate for my benefit. However, I concluded that so valuable a piece was probably put away in the strong-room, which would account for its not appearing with the rest.

What puzzled me more was the unusual character of the design, for every curve and line of the beautiful piece seemed purposely arranged to concentrate the attention on a large globe of rock crystal, which formed the centre and summit of the whole. The actual basin, filled with rose-water, extended beneath this ball, which was supported by four exquisite silver figures, and the constant play of reflected lights between the water and the crystal was so fascinating that I wondered the idea had never been repeated; yet, so far as my knowledge went, the design was unique.

Seated as I was, at the foot of the table, I faced the squire, and after a while I noticed that he, too, had dropped out of the conversation, and had his gaze fixed on the crystal globe. All at once his eyes dilated and his lips parted quickly, as if in surprise, while his gaze became concentrated with an intensity that startled me. This lasted for fully a minute, and then Avison happened to take away his plate. The distraction evidently broke the spell, whatever it was, for he began to talk again, and, as it seemed to me, kept his eyes carefully away from the crystal during the rest of the meal.

After we had drunk the squire's health, we retired to the library, where Avison brought us coffee, and about ten o'clock Sir John's carriage was announced. He had promised to give the rector a lift home, so the two of them soon departed together, and only the professor and Father Bertrand were left with the squire and myself. I felt a little afraid lest Herr Aufrecht should return to the subject of the Cellini fountain, but to my surprise, as soon as the other two were gone, the squire himself brought up the subject, which I thought he wished to avoid.

"You seemed interested in the rose-water fountain, Herr Aufrecht," he remarked, "would you like to examine it now that the others are gone?"

The German beamed with delight, and accepted the proposal volubly, while the squire rang the bell for Avison, and ordered him to bring the Cellini fountain to the library for Herr Aufrecht to see. The butler looked almost as pleased as the professor, and in a minute the splendid piece of plate was placed on a small table, arranged in the full light of a big shaded lamp.

The professor's flow of talk stopped abruptly as the conversationalist gave place to the connoisseur. Seating himself beside the little table, he produced a pocket lens, and proceeded to examine every part of the fountain with minute care, turning it slowly round as he did so. For fully five minutes he sat in silence, absorbed in his examination, and I noticed that his attention returned continually to the great crystal globe, supported by the four lovely figures, which formed the summit of the whole. Then he leaned back in his chair and delivered his opinion.

"It is undoubtedly by Cellini," he said, "and yet the schema is not like him. I think the patron for whom he laboured did compel him thus to fashion it. That great crystal ball at top -- no, it is not what Benvenuto would do of himself. Think you not so?" and he turned to the squire with a look of interrogation.

"I will tell you all I know about it in a minute, professor," answered the old priest, "but first please explain to me why you think Cellini was not left free in the design."

"Ach so," replied the German, "it is the crystal globe. He is too obvious, too assertive; how is it you say in English, he 'hit you in the eye.' You haf read the Memoirs of Benvenuto?" The squire nodded. "Ach, then you must see it, yourself. Do you not remember the great morse he make, the cope-clasp for Clemens septimus? The Pope show to him his great diamond, and demand a model for a clasp with it set therein. The other artists, all of them, did make the diamond the centre of the whole design. But Cellini? No. He put him at the feet of God the Father, so that the lustre of the great gem would set off all the work, but should not dominate the whole, for ars est celare artem. Now here," and he laid his hand upon the crystal globe, " here it is otherwise. These statuette, they are perfection, in efery way they are worth far more than is the crystal. Yet, the great ball, he crush them, he kill them. You see him first, last, all the time. No, he is there for a purpose, but the purpose is not that of the design, not an artistic purpose, no. I am sure of it, he is there for use."

As he finished speaking, he turned quickly towards the squire, and looked up at him with an air of conviction. I followed his example, and saw the old priest smiling quietly with an expression of admiration and agreement.

"You are perfectly right, professor," he said quietly, "the crystal was put there with a purpose, at least so I firmly believe and I expect you can tell us also what the purpose was."

"No, no, Herr Pater," answered the other. "If you know the reason, why make I guesses at it? Better you should tell us all about it, is it not so?"

"Very well," replied the squire, and he seated himself beside the little table. Father Bertrand and myself did the same, and when we were all settled, he turned to the professor and began:

"I mentioned at dinner that this piece of plate was brought from Italy by Sir Hubert Rivers, and, first of all, I must tell you something about him. He was born about the year 1500, and lived to be over ninety years old, so his life practically coincides with the sixteenth century. His father died soon after Hubert came of age, and he thus became a person of some importance while still quite young. He was knighted by Henry VIII a year or two later, and soon afterwards was sent to Rome in the train of the English Ambassador.

"There his brilliant parts attracted attention, and he soon abandoned his diplomatic position to become a member of the Papal entourage, though without any official position. When the breach between Henry and the Pope took place, he attached himself to the suite of the Imperial Ambassador, thus avoiding any trouble with his own sovereign, who could not afford to quarrel still further with the Emperor, as well as any awkward questions as to his religious opinions.

"Of his life in Rome I can tell you practically nothing, but if tradition be true, he was a typical son of the Renaissance. He played with art, literature, and politics; and he more than played with astrology and the black arts, being, in fact, a member of the famous, or infamous, Academy. You may remember how that institution, which was founded in the fifteenth century by the notorious Pomponlo Leto, used to hold its meetings in one of the catacombs. Under Paul II the members were arrested and tried for heresy, but nothing could be actually proved against them, and afterwards they were supposed by their contemporaries to have reformed. We know now that in reality things went from bad to worse. The study of paganism led them on to the worship of Satan, and eventually suspicion was again aroused, and a further investigation ordered.

"Sir Hubert got wind of this in time, however, so he availed himself of his position in the household of the Imperial Ambassador, and quietly retired to Naples. There he lived till he was over eighty, and no one in England ever expected him to return. But he did so, bringing with him a great store of books and manuscripts, some pictures, and this piece of plate; and he died and was buried here in the last decade of the sixteenth century.

"His nephew, who came in for the estates on his death, was a devout Catholic, and had been educated at St. Omers. He made short work with Sir Hubert's manuscripts, most of which he burned, as being heretical or worse, but he spared one volume, which contains an inventory of the things brought from Naples. Among the items mentioned is this fountain. In fact, it has a whole page to itself, with a little sketch and a note of its attribution to Cellini, besides some other words, which I have never been able to make out. But I think it is clear that the crystal was used for evil purposes, and that is why I dislike seeing it on the table. If Avison had asked me, I should have forbidden him to produce it."

"Then I am ver' glad he did not ask you, mein Herr," observed the German, bluntly, "for I should not then have seen him. But this inventory you speak of, is it permitted that I study it?"

"Certainly, Herr Aufrecht," replied the squire, and walking to one of the bookcases, he unlocked the glass doors and took out a small volume, bound in faded red leather with gilt ornaments.

"This is the book," he said; "I will find you the page with the sketch," and a minute later he handed the volume to the professor. I glanced across and saw a little drawing, unquestionably depicting the piece of plate before us, with some lines of writing beneath; the whole in faded ink, almost the colour of rust.

The professor's lens came out again and, with its aid, he read out the description beneath the picture.

"'Item. Vasculum argenteum, crystallo ornatum in quattuor statuas imposito. Opus Benevenuti, aurificis clarissimi. Quo crystallo Romae in ritibus nostris pontifex noster Pomponius olim uti solebat.'" ["Item. A vessel of silver, adorned with a crystal supported on four statuettes. The work of Benvenuto, the most famous of goldsmiths. This crystal our Pontiff Pomponious was wont to use in our rites at Rome in days gone by."]

"Well, that sounds conclusive enough," said Father Bertrand, who had been listening intently. "Opus Benevenuti, aurificis clarissimi, could only mean Cellini; and the last sentence certainly sounds very suspicious, though it doesn't give one much to go upon as to the use made of the crystal."

"But there is more yet," broke in Herr Aufrecht, "it is in another script and much fainter." He peered into the page with eyes screwed up, and then exclaimed in surprise, "Why it is Greek!"

"Indeed," said the squire, with interest, "that accounts for my failure to read it. I'm afraid I forgot all the Greek I ever knew as soon as I left school."

Meanwhile the professor had produced his pocket-book, and was jotting down the words as he deciphered them, while Father Bertrand and myself took the opportunity to examine the work on the little plaques which adorned the base of the fountain.

"I haf him all now," announced Herr Aufrecht, triumphantly, after a few minutes." Listen and I will translate him to you," and after a little hesitation he read out the following:

"In the globe all truth is recorded, of the present, the past and the future. To him that shall gaze it is shown; whosoever shall seek he shall find. O Lucifer, star of the morn, give ear to the voice of thy servant, Enter and dwell in my heart, who adore thee as master and lord."

Fabius Britannicus.

"Fabius Britannicus," exclaimed the squire, as the professor ceased reading, "why, those are the words on the base of the pagan altar in the background of Sir Hubert's portrait!"

"I doubt not he was named Fabius Britannicus in the Academia," answered the German; "all the members thereof did receive classical names in place of their own."

It must be that," said the squire; "so he really was a worshipper of Satan. No wonder tradition paints him in such dark colours. But, why -- of course," he burst out, " I see it all now, that explains everything."

We all looked up, surprised at his vehemence, but he kept silent, until Father Bertrand said gently:

I think, Philip, you can tell us something more about all this: will you not do so?"

The old man hesitated for a little while and then answered:

"Very well, if you wish it, you shall hear the story; but I must ask you to excuse me giving you the name. Although the principal actor in it has been dead many years now, I would rather keep his identity secret.

"When I was still quite a young man, and before I decided to take orders, I made friends in London with a man who was a spiritualist. He was on terms of intimacy with Home, the medium, and he himself possessed considerable gifts in the same direction. He often pressed me to attend some of their seances, which I always refused to do, but our relations remained quite friendly, and at length he came down here on a visit to Stanton Rivers.

"The man was a journalist by profession, a critic and writer on matters artistic, so one evening, although we were quite alone at dinner, I told the butler, Avison's predecessor, to put out the Cellini fountain for him to see. I did not warn him what to expect, as I wanted to get his unbiased opinion, but the moment he set eyes on it, he burst out in admiration, and, like our friend the professor to-night, he pronounced it to be unquestionably by Benvenuto himself.

"I said it was always believed to be his work, but purposely told him nothing about Sir Hubert, or my suspicions as to the original use of the crystal, and he did not question me about its history. As the meal advanced, however, he became curiously silent and self-absorbed. Sometimes I had to repeat what I was saying two or three times before he grasped the point; and I began to feel uncomfortable and anxious, so that it was a real relief when the butler put the decanters on the table and left us to ourselves.

"My friend was sitting on my right, at the side of the table, so that we could talk to each other more easily, and I noticed that he kept his gaze fixed on the fountain in front of him. After all it was a very natural thing for him to do, and at first I did not connect his silence and distraction with the piece of plate.

"All at once he leaned forward until his eyes were not two feet away from the great crystal globe, into which he gazed with the deepest attention, as if fascinated. It is difficult to convey to you how intense and concentrated his manner became. It was as if he looked right into the heart of the globe -- not at it, if you understand, but at something inside it, something beneath the surface, and that something of a compelling, absorbing nature which engrossed every fibre of his being in one act of profound attention.

"For a minute or two he sat like this in perfect silence, and I noticed the sweat beginning, to stand out on his forehead, while his breath came audibly between his lips, under the strain. Then, all at once, I felt I must do something, and without stopping to deliberate I said in a loud tone, 'I command you to tell me what it is you see.'

"As I spoke, a kind of shiver ran through his frame, but his eyes never moved from the crystal ball. Then his lips moved, and after some seconds came a faint whisper, uttered as if with extreme difficulty, and what he said was something like this:

"'There is a low, flat arch, with a kind of slab beneath it, and a picture at the back. There is a cloth on the slab, and on the cloth a tall gold cup, and lying in front of it is a thin white disc. By the side is a monster, like a huge toad,' and he shuddered, 'but it is much too big to be a toad. It glistens, and its eyes have a cruel light in them. Oh, it is horrible 'Then all at once the voice leaped to a shrill note, and he spoke very rapidly, as if the scene were changing quicker than he could describe it.

"'The man in front -- the one with a cross on the back of his cloak -- is holding a dagger in his band. He raises it and strikes at the white disc. He has pierced it with the dagger. It bleeds! The white cloth beneath it is all red with blood. But the monster -- some of the blood has fallen upon it as it spurted out, and the toad is writhing as if in agony. Ah it leaps down from the slab, it is gone. All present rise up in confusion; there is a tumult. They rush away down the dark passages. Only one remains, the man with the cross on his back. He is lying insensible upon the ground. On the slab still stands the gold cup and white disc with the bloodstained cloth, and the picture behind --' and the voice sank to an inaudible whisper, as if the speaker were exhausted.

"Almost without thinking, I put a question to him before the sight should fade entirely. 'The picture, what is it like?' But instead of answering he merely whispered 'Irene, da calda,' and fell back as if exhausted in his chair."

There was silence for a few moments.

"And your friend, the spiritualist," began Father Bertrand, "could he tell you nothing more of what he saw?"

"I did not ask him," answered the old priest, "for, when he came to himself, he seemed quite ignorant of what he had told me during his trance. But, some years afterwards, I got some further light on the incident, and that in quite an unexpected way. Just wait a minute, and I will show you what I believe to be the picture he saw at the back of the niche!" And the old man walked to one of the bookcases and selected a large folio volume.

"The picture I am going to show you is an exact copy of one of the frescoes in the catacombs of SS. Peter and Marcellinus, where I came upon it, quite unexpectedly, during my period in Rome as a student; it has been reproduced since by Lanciani in one of his books. Ah, here it is," and he laid the album on the table. There, before us, was a copy of an undeniable catacomb fresco depicting an "agape" or love-feast; a group of figures symbolical both of the Last Supper and the communion of the elect. Above it were the contemporary inscriptions, "IRENE DA CALDA" and "AGAPE MISCE MI," while round about were scrawled, in characters evidently much more recent, a number of names: "PONIUS, FABIANUS, RUFFUS, LETUS, VOLSCUS, FABIUS" and others, all of them members of the notorious Academy. There they had written them in charcoal, and there they still remain to-day, as evidence how the innermost recesses of a Christian catacomb were profaned, and the cult of Satan practised there, by the neo-pagans of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.

We sat looking at the picture in silence for a minute or so, and then Herr Aufrecht turned to the Dominican.

"Fra Bertrand," he said, "you are Master in Theologia, what is your opinion of all this?"

The friar hesitated for a moment before he answered.

"Well, Herr Aufrecht," he said at length, "the Church has never ceased to teach the possibility of diabolical possession, and for my part I see no reason why a thing," and he pointed to the crystal, "should not become 'possessed' in much the same way as a person can. But if you ask my opinion on the practical side of the question, I should say that, since Father Philip here cannot legally part with his heirloom, he certainly acts wisely in keeping it under lock and key."

(ritual cyrstal set in frame, from Barrett's The Magus, 1801)

This story was published in 1923. As a work of fiction, it is woefully deficient in action, but its central subject has some interest. Benvenuto Cellini (1500-1571) was renowned as a sculptor and goldsmith. He was also an amateur necromancer. In his Autobiography Cellini describes his attempt to evoke spirits in the Colosseum at Rome in order to compel a woman to accept his amorous advances. He was aided in the attempt by a priest-magician, an accomplice of the priest, a friend, and a young shop boy, presumably included in the affair to act as a scryer in the event the spirits were not visible to the rest of the group. The evocations were done on two nights, and were a success on both occasions. I cannot resist giving a quotation of the second necromantic evocation, from the excellent translation by George Bull:

The necromancer began to make his terrible incantations, calling up by name a whole host of major demons and commanding them by the virtue and power of the uncreated, living, and eternal God, in Hebrew, as well as in Latin and Greek. The result was that in a short space of time the Colosseum was filled with a hundred times more demons than there had been on the previous occasion. Vincenzio Romoli and Agnolo were busy with the fire and the great heap of precious perfumes; and then, when the necromancer prompted me, I again asked to be united with Angelica. He turned to me and said: 'Did you hear them say that you will be where she is inside a month?'

Then he added once again that he begged me to hold fast, because there were a thousand more legions than he had called up, and they were the most dangerous kind. Since they had agreed to what I asked, he said, we must treat them gently and dismiss them patiently. Meanwhile on the other side, the boy, who was under the pentacle, cried out in terror that there were a million tremendously fierce-looking men there, who were all threatening us; then he added that four enormous giants had appeared and that they were all armed and advancing as if to break in on us. All the time the necromancer was trembling with fear and was trying as best he could to persuade them to go away, pleading with them softly and gently. Vincenzio Romoli, who was shaking like a reed, was still busy with the perfumes. I was as frightened as the rest of them, but I tried to show it less and I bolstered up their courage magnificently, though I nearly dropped dead when I saw how frightened the necromancer was.

The boy had stuck his head between his knees and was crying: 'I will die like this -- we're all going to die!'

At this, I said to him: 'These creatures are only our slaves; all you can see is only smoke and shadow. So come on, look up!'

He lifted his head, and then he cried out again: 'The whole Colosseum is on fire and the flames are rushing towards us.'

Then he clapped his hands over his eyes, and started crying that he was dead and didn't want to see any more. The necromancer implored my help, begging me to stand firm and telling me to have some asafoetida fumes made. So I turned to Vincenzio Romoli and told him to do this straight away. While I was saying this I stared at Agnolo Gaddi, whose eyes were popping out of his head, and who was half-dead with terror.

'Agnolo,' I cried, 'there's no room for fear in a situation like this -- you must lend a hand. Throw some of the asafoetida on at once.'

The instant he went to make a move, Agnolo blew off and shat himself so hard that it was more effective than the asafoetida. The tremendous stench and noise made the boy lift his head a little, and when he heard me laughing he plucked up courage and said that the demons were running away like mad. We stayed where we were until matins were rung. Then the boy spoke up again and said that there were only a few devils left, some distance away from us.

After the necromancer had completed his ceremonies he took off his robes and gathered up a great pile of books that he had brought with him; then we all left the circle, pressing tightly together -- especially the boy, who had got in the middle and was clutching the necromancer by his robe and me by my cloak. While we were walking towards our homes in the Banchi, he kept crying out that two of the demons he had seen in the Colosseum were leaping along in front of us, on the roof-tops and along the ground.

It is not at all unlikely that Cellini would have dealings with wealthy noblemen engaged in heretical rites, or that he might fashion a device for one of them.

It appears that in the vision described by the psychic in the story, the ritual involved the piercing of the circular white wafer of the Catholic host with a knife, probably as a desecration, and that miraculously the blood of Christ sprang from the wafer and fell upon the toad-god, banishing it and ending the ritual in confusion. Pater evidently derived this scene from the lore of the Luciferians, as the image at the top of this page indicates.

Those familiar with my own system of ritual magic, described in my book New Millennium Magic, may wish to note that the arrangement of the names of the four Kerubic angels around the frame of the crystal from Barrett's The Magus, shown above, is the same as the arrangement of the Kerubic angels around the magic circle in my magical system, if we presume that the top of the frame -- the quarter of the archangel Michael -- is the direction of elemental Fire and the south. This gives us Michael (south), Gabriel (west), Raphael (north), and Uriel (east). It is merely a coincidence that this aspect of my system corresponds with Barrett's image, but an interesting coincidence.