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The Image Of The Lost Soul

There were a number of carved stone figures placed at intervals along the parapets of the old Cathedral; some of them represented angels, others kings and bishops, and nearly all were in attitudes of pious exaltation and composure. But one figure, low down on the cold north side of the building, had neither crown, mitre, not nimbus, and its face was hard and bitter and downcast; it must be a demon, declared the fat blue pigeons that roosted and sunned themselves all day on the ledges of the parapet; but the old belfry jackdaw, who was an authority on ecclesiastical architecture, said it was a lost soul. And there the matter rested.

One autumn day there fluttered on to the Cathedral roof a slender, sweet-voiced bird that had wandered away from the bare fields and thinning hedgerows in search of a winter roosting-place. It tried to rest its tired feet under the shade of a great angel-wing or to nestle in the sculptured folds of a kingly robe, but the fat pigeons hustled it away from wherever it settled, and the noisy sparrow-folk drove it off the ledges. No respectable bird sang with so much feeling, they cheeped one to another, and the wanderer had to move on.

Only the effigy of the Lost Soul offered a place of refuge. The pigeons did not consider it safe to perch on a projection that leaned so much out of the perpendicular, and was, besides, too much in the shadow. The figure did not cross its hands in the pious attitude of the other graven dignitaries, but its arms were folded as in defiance and their angle made a snug resting-place for the little bird. Every evening it crept trustfully into its corner against the stone breast of the image, and the darkling eyes seemed to keep watch over its slumbers. The lonely bird grew to love its lonely protector, and during the day it would sit from time to time on some rainshoot or other abutment and trill forth its sweetest music in grateful thanks for its nightly shelter. And, it may have been the work of wind and weather, or some other influence, but the wild drawn face seemed gradually to lose some of its hardness and unhappiness. Every day, through the long monotonous hours, the song of his little guest would come up in snatches to the lonely watcher, and at evening, when the vesper-bell was ringing and the great grey bats slid out of their hiding-places in the belfry roof, the brighteyed bird would return, twitter a few sleepy notes, and nestle into the arms that were waiting for him. Those were happy days for the Dark Image. Only the great bell of the Cathedral rang out daily its mocking message, "After joy . . . sorrow."

The folk in the verger's lodge noticed a little brown bird flitting about the Cathedral precincts, and admired its beautiful singing. "But it is a pity," said they, "that all that warbling should be lost and wasted far out of hearing up on the parapet." They were poor, but they understood the principles of political economy. So they caught the bird and put it in a little wicker cage outside the lodge door.

That night the little songster was missing from its accustomed haunt, and the Dark Image knew more than ever the bitterness of loneliness. Perhaps his little friend had been killed by a prowling cat or hurt by a stone. Perhaps . . . perhaps he had flown elsewhere. But when morning came there floated up to him, through the noise and bustle of the Cathedral world, a faint heart-aching message from the prisoner in the wicker cage far below. And every day, at high noon, when the fat pigeons were stupefied into silence after their midday meal and the sparrows were washing themselves in the street-puddles, the song of the little bird came up to the parapets -- a song of hunger and longing and hopelessness, a cry that could never be answered. The pigeons remarked, between mealtimes, that the figure leaned forward more than ever out of the perpendicular.

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One day no song came up from the little wicker cage. It was the coldest day of the winter, and the pigeons and sparrows on the Cathedral roof looked anxiously on all sides for the scraps of food which they were dependent on in hard weather.

"Have the lodge-folk thrown out anything on to the dust-heap?" inquired one pigeon of another which was peering over the edge of the north parapet.

"Only a little dead bird," was the answer.

There was a crackling sound in the night on the Cathedral roof and a noise as of falling masonry. The belfry jackdaw said the frost was affecting the fabric, and as he had experienced many frosts it must have been so. In the morning it was seen that the Figure of the Lost Soul had toppled from its cornice and lay now in a broken mass on the dustheap outside the verger's lodge.

"It is just as well," cooed the fat pigeons, after they had peered at the matter for some minutes; "now we shall have a nice angel put up there. Certainly they will put an angel there."

"After joy . . . sorrow," rang out the great bell.

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Comments

Submitted by admin on Mon, 10/27/2003 - 14:50

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Apparently someone just learned how to use a compound sentence. Too dense. After wading through the gunk, I discovered that this author had no intention of writing a story. Very close to being a poetic masturbation.

Submitted by admin on Tue, 11/04/2003 - 02:56

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"Apparently someone just learned how to use a compound sentence. Too dense. After wading through the gunk, I discovered that this author had no intention of writing a story. Very close to being a poetic masturbation." ----- Apparently someone just looked up the word "pretentious" in the dictionary. Or perhaps someone feels they are a better writer than Saki? Maybe someone is just too dense to understand the story...

Submitted by admin on Fri, 02/27/2004 - 10:14

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IGNORE those who go past the story and bash the writer. They are basically jealous. That is a very good guess on my part. That is why in my writing class we never *killed* anyone for their amateur attempts. Again, why? Because writers more than anyone else feel threatened and many will criticize to no end without merit those they perceive either greater or lesser than themselves. This story is a fine story. OH my god! compound sentences! How can i go on! lol.

Submitted by admin on Wed, 06/08/2005 - 12:21

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Great story: I think that statues represent all the people, the demon epresent the persons with low self steam because of their physical appearance, the birds represent the spirits of those statues, I mean af all the people, and it shows how the statues that are prettier have a poor spirit because of their arrogance. But the demon, even though its appearance, it has a beautiful gift, which is the singing of the bird. The world, tries to kill this gift or put it on a cage. But we are nor realizing that only that gift maintains the lost soul or the people with low self steam alive

Submitted by admin on Wed, 06/08/2005 - 12:21

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In the begining it was a litle hard to understand, but seconds later I started to think in how our lives can be compared to the pigeonss lives, I really liked it because it give us the opportunity to think and have our own ideia about the topic! Ian

Submitted by admin on Wed, 06/08/2005 - 12:31

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The way the author describe people as pedgeons is really good, its sad to see how sometimes we break people down because they are different (like the statue) or because they are better than them ( like the bird who used to sing a lot). Everybody needs someone who understand him/her, not all can be equal!! everybody is unique!!

Submitted by admin on Tue, 12/06/2005 - 11:07

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it was ok

Submitted by admin on Tue, 01/10/2006 - 08:23

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Beautiful!!!

Submitted by admin on Fri, 01/27/2006 - 05:51

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It is a very nice story, loved the bird analogy bird-human, and the way it is written. However, the content is very familiar (it reminds me, for example, of H.C.Andersen and his Prince), so you can tell very soon which way will the story go. I missed the surprise.

Submitted by admin on Sun, 04/02/2006 - 01:37

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I feel this story is a play on Sakis views of mankind. The smug pigeons that dont appreciate the bird and the statues beauty, and connection. Why when the unfortunate manage to find something special, is it cruelly ripped away? Meanwhile the vain of society remain unscathed. Sakis in your face approach to expose what is so clearly evident in our sick society is ingenious, and sadly necessary for the pigeons of the world. Next time you are so quick to judge the statue of the Lost Soul, or the melodious bird, think twice. All who ignore this story are afraid of the characters in which they relate to, the pigeons of today should be ashamed.

Submitted by admin on Fri, 05/26/2006 - 20:34

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The only thing I dont like is the clumsy foreshadowing with the bell at the end of each page which I think is superfluous. This aside this is an exceptional piece of work, achingly heartbreaking and carrying within it an abyss as deep as the human heart is capable. Im jealous I didnt think of it!
Lee

Submitted by admin on Wed, 11/22/2006 - 04:59

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Really well written and touching. I see it as two outcasts who find refuge with each other but who are torn apart by those who dont understand anyone who is slightly different. I will remember this one.

Submitted by admin on Sun, 02/25/2007 - 00:05

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This story really makes us think of what a difference even the smallest things can make in others lives. The Lost Soul, though portrayed as an unchangeable stone gargoyle, is transformed by the simple love of his tiny bird. Both his softened face and eventual fall demonstrate the power that simple acts of kindness can carry. We should all take a lesson from Saki, and replace our pigeon-like jealously with affection and friendship, for even the tiniest warmth can make a world of difference.

Submitted by admin on Sun, 07/15/2007 - 02:20

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This story is rather a peculiarity. The vast majority of
Sakis short stories are darkly humorous, with a taste
for cruel practical jokes and hints of the unspeakable
lurking behind the elegant facade of English
aristocratic life at the turn of the century. In this
respect he is a sort of malignant P.G. Wodehouse. A
handful of Sakis stories are tragic or shocking without
the humor (e.g. "The Interlopers," "Sredni Vashtar") but
this is the only one of them that is sentimental, in the
same vein as Oscar Wildes "The Happy Prince," "The
Nightingale and the Rose," etc.

The story appears to be genuinely felt, but it seems
too derivative of Wilde and the earnestness doesnt
suit Sakis style. I personally found the effect more
disturbing than moving.

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