Evening stole up out of mysterious lands and came down on the streets
of Paris, and the things of the day withdrew themselves and hid away,
and the beautiful city was strangely altered, and with it the hearts
of men. And with lights and music, and in silence and in the dark, the
other life arose, the life that knows the night, and dark cats crept
from the houses and moved to silent places, and dim streets became
haunted with dusk shapes. At this hour in a mean house, near to the
Moulin Rouge, La Traviata died; and her death was brought to her by
her own sins, and not by the years of God. But the soul of La Traviata
drifted blindly about the streets where she had sinned till it struck
against the wall of Notre Dame de Paris. Thence it rushed upwards,
as the sea mist when it beats against a cliff, and streamed away to
Paradise, and was there judged. And it seemed to me, as I watched from
my place of dreaming, when La Traviata came and stood before the seat
of judgment, that clouds came rushing up from the far Paradisal hills
and gathered together over the head of God, and became one black cloud;
and the clouds moved swiftly as shadows of the night when a lantern is
swung in the hand, and more and more clouds rushed up, and ever more
and more, and, as they gathered, the cloud a little above the head of
God became no larger, but only grew blacker and blacker. And the halos
of the saints settled lower upon their heads and narrowed and became
pale, and the singing of the choirs of the seraphim faltered and sunk
low, and the converse of the blessed suddenly ceased. Then a stern look
came into the face of God, so that the seraphim turned away and left
Him, and the saints. Then God commanded, and seven great angels rose up
slowly through the clouds that carpet Paradise, and there was pity on
their faces, and their eyes were closed. Then God pronounced judgment,
and the lights of Paradise went out, and the azure crystal windows that
look towards the world, and the windows rouge and verd, became dark and
colourless, and I saw no more. Presently the seven great angels came
out by one of Heaven’s gates and set their faces Hellwards, and four
of them carried the young soul of La Traviata, and one of them went
on before and one of them followed behind. These six trod with mighty
strides the long and dusty road that is named the Way of the Damned.
But the seventh flew above them all the way, and the light of the fires
of Hell that was hidden from the six by the dust of that dreadful road
flared on the feathers of his breast.
Presently the seven angels, as they swept Hellwards, uttered speech.
‘She is very young,’ they said; and ‘She is very beautiful,’ they said;
and they looked long at the soul of La Traviata, looking not at the
stains of sin, but at that portion of her soul wherewith she had loved
her sister a long while dead, who flitted now about an orchard on one
of Heaven’s hills with a low sunlight ever on her face, who communed
daily with the saints when they passed that way going to bless the
dead from Heaven’s utmost edge. And as they looked long at the beauty
of all that remained beautiful in her soul they said: ‘It is but a
young soul;’ and they would have taken her to one of Heaven’s hills,
and would there have given her a cymbal and a dulcimer, but they knew
that the Paradisal gates were clamped and barred against La Traviata.
And they would have taken her to a valley in the world where there
were a great many flowers and a loud sound of streams, where birds
were singing always and church bells rang on Sabbaths, only this they
durst not do. So they swept onwards nearer and nearer Hell. But when
they were come quite close and the glare was on their faces, and they
saw the gates already divide and prepare to open outwards, they said:
‘Hell is a terrible city, and she is tired of cities;’ then suddenly
they dropped her by the side of the road, and wheeled and flew away.
But into a great pink flower that was horrible and lovely grew the
soul of La Traviata; and it had in it two eyes but no eyelids, and
it stared constantly into the faces of all the passers-by that went
along the dusty road to Hell; and the flower grew in the glare of the
lights of Hell, and withered but could not die; only, one petal turned
back towards the heavenly hills as an ivy leaf turns outwards to the
day, and in the soft and silvery light of Paradise it withered not nor
faded, but heard at times the commune of the saints coming murmuring
from the distance, and sometimes caught the scent of orchards wafted
from the heavenly hills, and felt a faint breeze cool it every evening
at the hour when the saints to Heaven’s edge went forth to bless the
dead.
But the Lord arose with His sword, and scattered His disobedient angels
as a thresher scatters chaff.