From the return of Jimi Hendrix, as witnessed by a hero-worshipping spaced-out roadie, to the death of Christ as witnessed by a time-traveling tourist, from the end of the universe to the creation of a new one, these are stories about martyrdom, salvation and apocalypse.
Translated from the French by Rita Barisse
MY name is Richwick, and if I answer to the Christian name of Albert it is out of pure courtesy, for I hate Albert and would have liked to be called Bruce. Anybody can look up my birth certificate at Somerset House in London, in the register for 1892, a leap year, under the date February 29th. I am giving these particulars to enable the incredulous to assure themselves, if they wish, of my existence.
I was born in Richwick Manor and my paternal grandmother brought me up, both my parents having died in a hunting accident deep in the Ardennes forest, where they had been invited by the Baron Antoine van Werpen (a near relation, as everyone knows, of the Dutch royal family). My mother, who was born in Antwerp, was a second cousin of the Baron, whom my father used to supply with stock-bred-i.e. semiwild-foxes. People have often attributed to this Belgian ancestry certain apparently Continental traits in my character, such as-according to my friends-an immoderate liking for statements of principle and for Byzantine arguments. After the death of my parents the stock breeding was abandoned, and my grandmother had the fences pulled down and the animals scattered. I grew up with her in the manor house, a lonely old place isolated from the world, in the midst of fields and woods. When I was old enough to ride to hounds, she passed away, and with her dying breath she made me swear that I would never hunt. I gladly complied, for the stories she had told me together with my parents’ death had left me with a loathing for this bloody sport. My principal pastime, therefore, apart from my work-I manage the farm-was reading.
Ever since childhood I have lived among books. They have formed my character. As far as one can know oneself, I would describe myself thus: I am a good Christian, though doubtless from habit, since my faith lacks vigor. From what I have read I have not gained a high opinion of mankind, despite its supposed mental powers. It shuns stern truths and welcomes flattering errors. The prophets were only human, so how can I be sure that they did not err in interpreting their divine revelations? Nor do I trust churches and men of the cloth any more than philosophers and scholars. Only one artifact seems to me to deserve adherence, and that is the least reasoned and humblest one, yet also the oldest and most enduring: tradition. And with tradition, decorum; and with them religion; and that is why, even without much belief in its dogmas, I do remain faithful to it. It makes for a gentler, easier life among men. It eschews violence. One cannot ask for more, I am sure.
I believe this more than ever since the strange experience which befell me and which I propose to set down today, though not for public consumption. Indeed, I have decided to let three decades pass before publishing these pages-a precaution prompted by elementary prudence. People will only believe in miracles consecrated by the Scriptures; they will refuse to admit a single one, even though it happen under their very eyes, unless it is vouched for by the authorities which they themselves have established.
It must not be inferred from this remark that I have some foolish leaning toward anticonformism. No, on the contrary: I think the existing state of society quite right and proper. I have intimated what great store I set by law and order, and if free thought became too widespread these would soon disappear.
