Salome and other Decadent Fantasies. Brian Stableford

I regained my feet, unsteadily, and staggered towards the door. I found it somehow, and launched myself into the corridor beyond. I closed the door behind me, and only then did I lower the protective arm from my face.

      I ran to my own room, which was as darkly shadowed as it had always been. I went quickly to the window, there to stare out into the comforting darkness, which veiled the high, blank walls that men had labored so hard to build in the cause of civilization.

      You might think me a coward, but I told no one what had happened. I dared not speak to anyone about what I had seen, lest they should conclude—as I already had—that I had glimpsed the fires of Hell, and the legion of the damned. Many years passed before I felt able to speak of those events even to my most intimate friends. You will readily understand, therefore, how it came about that several days passed without my making any attempt to enter the room next door to mine. I tried with all my might to pretend that the world was exactly as it had always been: firm; dependable; fixed by the indomitable will of God.

      During those days I heard no sound from within the neighboring room, and never saw the door open, until the day when a new tenant moved in.

      It was only then that I recovered my lost courage, and I went to bid the newcomer welcome, as a good neighbor should—but when I asked him, belatedly, what had become of Clement Folle’s canvases, he replied that he did not know.

      Later, I discovered that the landlord had sold the bed, the table and the easel. He had tried to sell the completed paintings too, but having been assured by everyone to whom he showed them that they were absurd and utterly worthless, he had consigned them to the cold, still waters of the canal behind the house. I have no doubt that the mysterious stone accompanied them.

      Now, in looking back on that far-distant time, I cannot regret that I made no effort to acquire one of Clement’s paintings, and I certainly cannot regret the loss of that infernal stone. I know only too well that, had I had such a painting on my wall, I would not have been able to resist looking at it, and wondering, and remembering. Such things have always had a fascination for me, and I am very well aware of the dangers of Satanic seduction.

      I firmly believe that it is the divinely-ordained task of mankind to find the clarity and solidity that is in the world, to oppose change and inconstancy, and to strive for certainty and perfection. I understand, therefore, that it is the appointed duty of all God-fearing men to keep Proteus at bay, and I am glad that his last worshipper is dead and gone, and that the world is safe in the sovereign charge of science, truth and certainty.

      And yet....there was such luminosity in that uncertain world which I glimpsed, such awful glory in its infinite possibility, that somewhere deep inside me there has ever burned a flickering flame of hellish doubt. Now that I am old, I can no longer believe that it will one day die, but still I dare to hope that it will not prevent my salvation.