Timothy Ferguson's Blog

There’s a plot hook for us in this little piece of Dartmoor folklore. Peasants and monks play capture the flag with Luke Skywalker’s corpse. As a note a “partisan” here is a polearm from after the game period. Thanks to Phil Schemp and his Librivox production team for this reading.

***

Fox Tor has always been connected by tradition with the death of John Childe of Plymstock, or as he is generally called ” Childe the Hunter , a gentleman of considerable possessions ; who , while enjoying his favourite pastime , during an inclement season , was benighted , lost his way , and perished through cold near Fox Tor . He had taken the precaution of killing his horse , and for the sake of warmth had crept into its bowels , leaving a paper denoting that whoever buried his body should have his lands at Plymstock : –

” The fyrst that fyndes , and brings me to my grave, The lands of Plymstock they shal have .

“Having no children , he had previously declared his intention of bestowing his lands on the Church wherein he should be buried. This coming to the knowledge of the Monks at Tavistock, they eagerly seized the body and were conveying it to that place, when learning that some of the people of Plymstock were waiting at a ford to intercept them and seize the prey, they took another route , and ordering a bridge to be built out of the usual track , succeeded in their object and obtained possession of the lands . The bridge so built was named , from that circumstance , ” Guile Bridge . ” A tomb of hewn granite , with an octagonal base three feet high , and a cross fixed to it , was erected to his memory in a plain a little below Fox Tor , and is still called ” Childe’s Cross . “

Fox Tor . The Death of Childe the Hunter

LARGE flakes of snow were falling fast
Before a chilling northern blast ,
That pierc’d the trav’ller through ,
When ‘ mid the wilds of drear Dartmoor ,
Near to the hill that’s call’d Fox Tor ,

A horseman came in view . ‘
Twould seem he knew not where to go ,
He look’d around , and rode so slow ,
Tho ‘ like a hunter dress’d In green ,
a sword was by his side ,
A sharp knife in his belt , beside
A horn upon his breast .

‘ Twas Childe of Plymstock , who that morn
His home had left , at early dawn ,
To chase the fallow deer ;
Throughout the day , with hound and horn ,
Till overtaken by this storm ,
He came benighted here .

He’d lost his way , -all hope was gone
Of finding it , night coming on ,
He knew to try was vain :
Fatigue his horse had overcome ,
The cold intense , his hands so numb ,
He scarce could hold the rein .

Dismounting , he the girths did slack ,
And took the saddle off the back
Of his now failing steed ;
Then , something on a paper wrote ,
And quick across his horse’s throat
He drew his knife with speed .

And while its life – blood ebb’d away ,
Embowell’d it , as there it lay ,
And crept himself in there ,
In hopes the carcase of his steed
Would save him in his hour of need
From the inclement air .

Thus each precaution did he take ,
And strove to keep himself awake ,
Trusting all danger o’er ;
But numbness o’er him ‘ gan to creep ,
And gradually he sank to sleep ,
Alas ! -to wake no more .

Next day a shepherd came t’explore ,
And search about the snow – clad moor
For sheep that went astray
During the storm ; – and looking round ,
He came to that same spot of ground .
Where the dead hunter lay .

He found the carcase of the horse ,
And looking closer saw the corpse
Of its dead master there :
Seeing the paper near him lay ,
He took it , and without delay
To Tavistock did repair .

Vespers were o’er , and one by one ,
The Monks unto their cells were gone ,
For it was getting late ;
When lo ! an unexpected noise ,
The sleepy porter did arouse-
A knocking at the gate .

The porter hurried on his clothes ,
The abbey gate he did unclose ,
To let the stranger in ;
Who said , ” the Abbot I must see
Without delay , because that he
May hear the news I bring . “

Across the court the porter sped ,
And rous’d the Abbot from his bed ,
The peasant’s tale to hear ;
Who bade him usher in the man ,
And then go tell the Sacristan
To be in waiting near .

The peasant enter’d – bow’d his head
With rev’rence , as the Abbot said ,
” What is this news , my son , You bring ?
-tell me that I may know ,
Something important ‘ tis , I trow . “
The peasant thus began , –

” Searching this morn for sheep astray ,
That in the storm of yesterday
Had wandered on the moor :
Not finding them , I still kept on ,
Looking about , till nearly come
Close by to Fox’s Tor .

” Searching around upon the ground ,
Just at that spot , I stumbled on
The carcase of a horse : –
Its bowels out , and in their place
A dead man lay – I knew the face ‘
Twas Childe the hunter’s corpse .

” Close by his side this paper lay ,
Which I took up and brought away ,
Making the utmost speed ;
Thinking , perhaps , that it might be
Something that you might wish to see ,
At least , might wish to read . “

He placed it in the Abbot’s hand ,
Whose eyes , as quickly it was scann’d ,
Were beaming with delight ;
When having call’d the Sacristan ,
He told him to refresh the man ,
And lodge him for the night .

Then loudly rang the Abbot’s bell ,
Summoning the Monks from ev’ry cell ,
Some task to undertake :
Soon they assembled in the room ,
With folded hands , and eyes cast down ,
When thus the Abbot spake , –

” Children , ” he said , ” you all well know ,
This duty to the Church we owe ,
To ever keep in sight Her interest , -which if we can
Aid or promote by any plan ,
To do so will be right .

” I have just learnt , that on the moor ,
Frozen to death , close by Fox Tor ,
A body has been found :
‘ Tis Childe of Plymstock , -so they say ,
Who went out hunting yesterday ,
There lies upon the ground .

” Close by him was this paper laid ,
Now in my hand , where it is said ,
His Plymstock lands shall go
To those who , when his body’s found ,
Bring it to consecrated ground ,
A burial to bestow .

” This we must do , ” the Abbot said ,
” Go quickly , get a coffin made ,
To put the body in ;
Be ready by the break of day ,
The man will guide us on the way ,
Who did this paper bring . “

The Monks then with the utmost care
And skill , a coffin did prepare ,
And by the break of day ,
A litter too they did provide ,
Then with the peasant for their guide ,
For Fox Tor took their way.

Before they left , the Abbot said ,
” A bridge directly must be made
Below the usual ford
By which men now the river cross ,
That will enable us to pass
Unseen by those above . “

Meantime the news to Plymstock flew ,
But how it reach’d there no one knew ,
At least there’s none would say ;
Arming with partisan and sword ,
The townsmen hasten’d to the ford ,
To intercept the prey .

The wily Abbot plac’d a scout
That morning when they first set out ,
And bade him watch the ford ,
That should those come who might surprise ,
And try to rob them of their prize ,
To run and bring him word .

The Monks proceeded on their way
Across the moor , without delay ,
To where the corpse was found ;
Which having coffin’d with great care ,
They plac’d it on the litter there ,
And quickly left the ground .

Their homeward way was scarce begun ,
Before a messenger did come
In haste , to bring them word ,
And tell them , that the Plymstock men ,
All armed with sword and partisan ,
Were waiting at the ford .

Where they intended to remain ,
To seize the corpse , when there it came ,
And wrest it from their hands
By force of arms , which having done ,
To take it back to Plymstock town ,
And so secure the lands .

The Abbot smil’d and shook his head ,
“Thanks for your news , my son , ” he said ,
Then instant orders gave
To change their route , and turn aside
To that part of the river side
Where the new bridge was made .

Letting the Plymstock men remain ,
To watch the ford , – but watch in vain ,
The Monks their new route take ;
From fear of danger thus reliev’d
They cross’d the river unperceiv’d ,
And reach’d the Abbey safe .

Then burying Childe , they did fulfil
All the conditions of his will ,
And thus his lands obtain’d :
The bridge by which they cross’d the stream ,
And brought the body home unseen ,
Was henceforth ” Guile Bridge ” nam’d .

A granite cross they did erect ,
Close to the spot where cold in death
The hunter had been found ,
Which ” Childe’s Tomb , ” or ” Cross ” was nam’d ,
And ever since that time retain’d ,
Through all the country round .

Image source https://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/16275 (CC02.0 Attribution required license)

This traditional ballad could serve as a background for a player character or a pair of covenfolk. I’d make one little note: the word “daughter” and “after” are rhymed here. There are dialects of English in which the word was pronounced “dafter”. Slaughter, similarly, was said “slafter”. It was collected in Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England edited by Robert Bell in 1857 and it’s in the Round Index of folk ballads as 188. An alternate title is The Politick Maid of Suffolk.

Thanks to Rita Louise and her Librivox production team.

***

Of a rich counsellor I write,
Who had one only daughter,
Who was of youthful beauty bright;
Now mark what follows after.
Her uncle left her, I declare,
A sumptuous large possession;
Her father he was to take care
Of her at his discretion.

She had ten thousand pounds a-year,
And gold and silver ready,
And courted was by many a peer,
Yet none could gain this lady.
At length a squire’s youngest son
In private came a-wooing,
And when he had her favour won,
He feared his utter ruin.

The youthful lady straightway cried,
‘I must confess I love thee,
Though lords and knights I have denied,
Yet none I prize above thee:
Thou art a jewel in my eye,
But here,’ said she, ‘the care is,—
I fear you will be doomed to die
For stealing of an heiress.’

The young man he replied to her
Like a true politician;
‘Thy father is a counsellor,
I’ll tell him my condition.
Ten guineas they shall be his fee,
He’ll think it is some stranger;
Thus for the gold he’ll counsel me,
And keep me safe from danger.’

Unto her father he did go,
The very next day after;
But did not let the lawyer know
The lady was his daughter.
Now when the lawyer saw the gold
That he should be she gainer,
A pleasant trick to him he told
With safety to obtain her.

‘Let her provide a horse,’ he cried,
‘And take you up behind her;
Then with you to some parson ride
Before her parents find her:
That she steals you, you may complain,
And so avoid their fury.
Now this is law I will maintain
Before or judge or jury.

‘Now take my writing and my seal,
Which I cannot deny thee,
And if you any trouble feel,
In court I will stand by thee.’
‘I give you thanks,’ the young man cried,
‘By you I am befriended,
And to your house I’ll bring my bride
After the work is ended.’

Next morning, ere the day did break,
This news to her he carried;
She did her father’s counsel take
And they were fairly married,
And now they felt but ill at case,
And, doubts and fears expressing,
They home returned, and on their knees
They asked their father’s blessing,

But when he had beheld them both,
He seemed like one distracted,
And vowed to be revenged on oath
For what they now had acted.
With that bespoke his new-made son—
‘There can be no deceiving,
That this is law which we have done
Here is your hand and sealing!’

The counsellor did then reply,
Was ever man so fitted;
‘My hand and seal I can’t deny,
By you I am outwitted.
‘Ten thousand pounds a-year in store
‘She was left by my brother,
And when I die there will be more,
For child I have no other.

‘She might have had a lord or knight,
From royal loins descended;
But, since thou art her heart’s delight,
I will not be offended;
‘If I the gordian knot should part,
‘Twere cruel out of measure;
Enjoy thy love, with all my heart,
In plenty, peace, and pleasure.’

I remember having a discussion at a writers workshop about 30 years ago, when I suggested that if all you did was respond with aphorisms you were less a person than the sewn together bits of other people. I was insufferable back then. Anyway, I thought of that because in this poem there’s a bibliophile who, in mythic terms, is gradually being replaced by the accidents of his books. He’s effectively changing himself from a human into, in Ars Magica terms, a Magic Thing. I’ve suggest its more like a magic thing than a magic human because he has not had a single traumatic initiation, like a drowned man or a loamwalker.

It’s full of puns based on the book trade. I’ll quickly go through them.

Ragged is another term for what’s now usually called deckled edges. In older times deckled edges, a sort of pleasant unevenness when you look at the stacked pages while the book is closed, were a sign that a book was handmade, or at least hand cut. Now books can be cut deckled and its just an aesthetic choice.

I assume “Foley” is a play on “folio” which was the a popular, large, pre-metric paper size for prestige books. Its also a way of printing and folding the pages. In the modern day, foolscap folios, at 13.5 inches) are a slightly smaller than crown folios (15 inches) which are still larger than A4 folio. Even these these are bigger than most people want and two of the paperback formats have taken it over as the common format, but not the prestige format. By way of comparison standard paperback is up to 8.5 inches tall and mass market paperback is up to 7. So, folio books were chunky.

Fences sell stolen books. Hedge publishers are those selling outside the licensed system of guilds. Many are itinerant.

Books used to be made by printing sheets then folding them to make pages. These were gathered and bound. The pages needed to be cut so that ever second page was readable. I once found an uncut book in my university library that had been on shelf for decades, and therefore had never been read. I didn’t cut it myself: it might still be there.

Rusty, I presume, is a colloquial for what we now call foxing. Foxing is age spotting that appears in books. Here in Australia it’s accelerated by our harsh light. Vellum books can also be rusty because they literally have iron oxide in them. If you make your ink gall ink incorrectly it can turn a rusty, red-brown colour.

The colophon, a name which means “finishing touch”, refers to the publishing information on the verso of the book. It usually contains the publisher’s name, city, mark, and some details about the font. In the modern day it may just mean the imprint’s trademark, like Penguin Book’s little mascot. His name’s Alan, by the way.

Crushed leather is a premium binding, so it’s not well used here. It is goatskin that’s been literally crushed so that its grain snooths out.

n.d. stands for “no date”, so the age of the book is unclear.

Friday is considered an ill-omened day, in some Christian areas because it’s the day Jesus died. Sailors avoid beginning a voyage on Friday, for example.

Marbling is a decorative technique used on the edges of books and their endpapers. It looks like veins in marble. A book with a marbled cover is one that’s been bound in decorated card rather than leather, so marbling on pages is a sign of extra cost, but on covers can be a cheaper form. Some of my modern books use marbled cloth but I’m not sure how common that was when the author was writing.

***

I’ve spent all my money in chasing
For books that are costly and rare;
I’ve made myself bankrupt in tracing
Each prize to its ultimate lair.
And now I’m a ruined collector,
Impoverished, ragged, and thin,
Reduced to a vanishing spectre,
Because of my prodigal sin.

How often I’ve called upon Foley,
The man who’s a friend of the cranks;
Knows books that are witty or holy,
And whether they’re prizes or blanks.
For volumes on paper or vellum
He has a most accurate eye,
And always is willing to sell ’em
To dreamers like me who will buy.

My purse requires fences and hedges,
Alas! it will never stay shut;
My coat-sleeves now have deckle edges,
My hair is unkempt and “uncut.”
My coat is a true first edition,
And rusty from shoulder to waist;
My trousers are out of condition,
Their “colophon” worn and defaced.

My shoes have been long out of fashion,
“Crushed leather” they both seem to be;
My hat is a thing for compassion,
The kind that is labelled “n. d.”
My vest from its binding is broken,
It’s what the French call a relique;
What I think of it cannot be spoken,
Its catalogue mark is “unique.”

I’m a book that is thumbed and untidy,
The only one left of the set;
I’m sure I was issued on Friday,
For fate is unkind to me yet.
My text has been cruelly garbled
By a destiny harder than flint;
But I wait for my grave to be “marbled,”
And then I shall be out of print.

Thanks again to Thomas Copeland whose Librivox read I’m making comments on. My initial plan was to add the rules for the Green Chapel mystery cult to this episode. My health being what it is, instead next month you’ll get the variant of the story that contains a Faerie-raised lady as the motivator for the quest. The month after we’ll go into the Green Chapel Mystery and think about how it can be used to make the Wizard of Alderly Edge’s regio and mystery something other than a method of becoming a faerie and retiring a character.

Over to Thomas Copeland. I’ll butt in with material as necessary.

***

Now the New Year drew nigh, and the night passed, and the day chased the darkness, as is God’s will; but wild weather wakened therewith. The clouds cast the cold to the earth, with enough of the north to slay them that lacked clothing. The snow drave smartly, and the whistling wind blew from the heights, and made great drifts in the valleys. The knight, lying in his bed, listened, for though his eyes were shut he might sleep but little, and hearkened every cock that crew.

He arose ere the day broke, by the light of a lamp that burned in his chamber, and called to his chamberlain, bidding him bring his armour and saddle his steed. The other gat him up, and fetched his garments, and robed Sir Gawain.

The robing of Sir Gawain

Robing scenes are a common starting point in scenes of adventure. Partially its to bring in the knowledge of noble listeners, but it’s also a way of working up tension. Even in today’s superhero stories you often have robing scenes: Iron Man does them a lot. Sometimes their function is to hand over Chekov’s gun: when Bond talks to Q and he’s given his weapon, his magic item, and his steed, you know that they’re part of the plot later.

First he clad him in his clothes to keep off the cold, and then in his harness, which was well and fairly kept. Both hauberk and plates were well burnished, the rings of the rich byrny freed from rust, and all as fresh as at first, so that the knight was fain to thank them.

“Byrnie” is a word for a chain mail tunic.

Then he did on each piece, and bade them bring his steed, while he put the fairest raiment on himself; his coat with its fair cognizance, adorned with precious stones upon velvet, with broidered seams, and all furred within with costly skins. And he left not the lace, the lady’s gift, that Gawain forgot not, for his own good. When he had girded on his sword he wrapped the gift twice about him, swathed around his waist. The girdle of green silk set gaily and well upon the royal red cloth, rich to behold, but the knight ware it not for pride of the pendants, polished though they were, with fair gold that gleamed brightly on the ends, but to save himself from sword and knife, when it behoved him to abide his hurt without question. With that the hero went forth, and thanked that kindly folk full often.

As a reminder, the magic girdle is a cheat on what Gawaine has has promised his enemy: a free swing at his neck.

How Sir Gawain went forth from the castle

Then was Gringalet ready, that was great and strong, and had been well cared for and tended in every wise; in fair condition was that proud steed, and fit for a journey. Then Gawain went to him, and looked on his coat, and said by his sooth, “There is a folk in this place that thinketh on honour; much joy may they have, and the lord who maintains them, and may all good betide that lovely lady all her life long. Since they for charity cherish a guest, and hold honour in their hands, may He who holds the heaven on high requite them, and also ye all. And if I might live anywhile on earth, I would give ye full reward, readily, if so I might.” Then he set foot in the stirrup and bestrode his steed, and his squire gave him his shield, which he laid on his shoulder. Then he smote Gringalet with his golden spurs, and the steed pranced on the stones and would stand no longer.

This smiting horses is, as I’ve mentioned, for showing off. As Xenophon notes, the spur makes the horse bolt, so it’s useful if you are, in his example, leaping an obstacle. Spurring when you’re leaving is basically like peeling out in a car: it’s bad for the car and looks cool to people who like burnouts. Also, note that the drawbridge is down, so the horse can’t bolt. Instead it prances, which is the same as revving your engine at lights, if you car felt pain.

By that his man was mounted, who bare his spear and lance, and Gawain quoth, “I commend this castle to Christ, may He give it ever good fortune.” Then the drawbridge was let down, and the broad gates unbarred and opened on both sides; the knight crossed himself, and passed through the gateway, and praised the porter, who knelt before the prince, and gave him good-day, and commended him to God. Thus the knight went on his way with the one man who should guide him to that dread place where he should receive rueful payment.

The two went by hedges where the boughs were bare, and climbed the cliffs where the cold clings. Naught fell from the heavens, but ’twas ill beneath them; mist brooded over the moor and hung on the mountains; each hill had a cap, a great cloak, of mist. The streams foamed and bubbled between their banks, dashing sparkling on the shores where they shelved downwards. Rugged and dangerous was the way through the woods, till it was time for the sun-rising. Then were they on a high hill; the snow lay white beside them, and the man who rode with Gawain drew rein by his master.

The squire’s warning

“Sir,” he said, “I have brought ye hither, and now ye are not far from the place that ye have sought so specially. But I will tell ye for sooth, since I know ye well, and ye are such a knight as I well love, would ye follow my counsel ye would fare the better.

Of the knight of the Green Chapel

“The place whither ye go is accounted full perilous, for he who liveth in that waste is the worst on earth, for he is strong and fierce, and loveth to deal mighty blows; taller is he than any man on earth, and greater of frame than any four in Arthur’s court, or in any other. And this is his custom at the Green Chapel: there may no man pass by that place, however proud his arms, but he does him to death by force of his hand, for he is a discourteous knight, and shews no mercy. Be he churl or chaplain who rides by that chapel, monk or mass-priest, or any man else, he thinks it as pleasant to slay them as to pass alive himself. Therefore, I tell ye, as sooth as ye sit in saddle, if ye come there and that knight know it, ye shall be slain, though ye had twenty lives; trow me that truly! He has dwelt here full long and seen many a combat; ye may not defend ye against his blows. Therefore, good Sir Gawain, let the man be, and get ye away some other road; for God’s sake seek ye another land, and there may Christ speed ye! And I will hie me home again, and I promise ye further that I will swear by God and the saints, or any other oath ye please, that I will keep counsel faithfully, and never let any wit the tale that ye fled for fear of any man.”

Sir Gawain is none dismayed

“Gramercy,” quoth Gawain, but ill pleased. “Good fortune be his who wishes me good, and that thou wouldst keep faith with me I well believe; but didst thou keep it never so truly, an I passed here and fled for fear as thou sayest, then were I a coward knight, and might not be held guiltless. So I will to the chapel let chance what may, and talk with that man, even as I may list, whether for weal or for woe as fate may have it. Fierce though he may be in fight, yet God knoweth well how to save His servants.”

Gramercy means “many thanks”.

“Well,” quoth the other, “now that ye have said so much that ye will take your own harm on yourself, and ye be pleased to lose your life, I will neither let nor keep ye. Have here your helm and the spear in your hand, and ride down this same road beside the rock till ye come to the bottom of the valley, and there look a little to the left hand, and ye shall see in that vale the chapel, and the grim man who keeps it. Now fare ye well, noble Gawain; for all the gold on earth I would not go with ye nor bear ye fellowship one step further.” With that the man turned his bridle into the wood, smote the horse with his spurs as hard as he could, and galloped off, leaving the knight alone.

Quoth Gawain, “I will neither greet nor groan, but commend myself to God, and yield me to His will.”

Then the knight spurred Gringalet, and rode adown the path close in by a bank beside a grove. So he rode through the rough thicket, right into the dale, and there he halted, for it seemed him wild enough. No sign of a chapel could he see, but high and burnt banks on either side and rough rugged crags with great stones above. An ill-looking place he thought it.

Then he drew in his horse and looked around to seek the chapel, but he saw none and thought it strange. Then he saw as it were a mound on a level space of land by a bank beside the stream where it ran swiftly, the water bubbled within as if boiling. The knight turned his steed to the mound, and lighted down and tied the rein to the branch of a linden; and he turned to the mound and walked round it, questioning with himself what it might be. It had a hole at the end and at either side, and was overgrown with clumps of grass, and it was hollow within as an old cave or the crevice of a crag; he knew not what it might be.

A linden tree is a lime. They have heart-shaped leaves, so they are often associated with love, or goddesses related to love. I’m not clear on why it is here.

The finding of the chapel

“Ah,” quoth Gawain, “can this be the Green Chapel? Here might the devil say his mattins at midnight! Now I wis there is wizardry here. ’Tis an ugly oratory, all overgrown with grass, and ’twould well beseem that fellow in green to say his devotions on devil’s wise. By my five wits, ’tis the foul fiend himself who hath set me this tryst, to destroy me here! This is a chapel of mischance: ill-luck betide it, ’tis the cursedest kirk that ever I came in!”

Gawain’s absolutely wrong here. So, he doesn’t have Sense Holiness and Unholiness.

Helmet on head and lance in hand, he came up to the rough dwelling, when he heard over the high hill beyond the brook, as it were in a bank, a wondrous fierce noise, that rang in the cliff as if it would cleave asunder. ’Twas as if one ground a scythe on a grindstone, it whirred and whetted like water on a mill-wheel and rushed and rang, terrible to hear.

“By God,” quoth Gawain, “I trow that gear is preparing for the knight who will meet me here. Alas! naught may help me, yet should my life be forfeit, I fear not a jot!” With that he called aloud. “Who waiteth in this place to give me tryst? Now is Gawain come hither: if any man will aught of him let him hasten hither now or never.”

The coming of the Green Knight

“Stay,” quoth one on the bank above his head, “and ye shall speedily have that which I promised ye.” Yet for a while the noise of whetting went on ere he appeared, and then he came forth from a cave in the crag with a fell weapon, a Danish axe newly dight, wherewith to deal the blow.

Dight is an archaic word which here means “prepared”.

An evil head it had, four feet large, no less, sharply ground, and bound to the handle by the lace that gleamed brightly. And the knight himself was all green as before, face and foot, locks and beard, but now he was afoot. When he came to the water he would not wade it, but sprang over with the pole of his axe, and strode boldly over the brent that was white with snow.

So, he pole vaults the river. This isn’t as unlikely as it seems: farmers have been crossing irrigation ditches using a sort of pole vaulting since Ancient Egyptian times. It does suggest the handle of his axe is made of ash. This has a mixture of strength and flexibility that was considered superior for vaulting until bamboo superseded it in Europe.

Sir Gawain went to meet him, but he made no low bow. The other said, “Now, fair sir, one may trust thee to keep tryst. Thou art welcome, Gawain, to my place. Thou hast timed thy coming as befits a true man. Thou knowest the covenant set between us: at this time twelve months agone thou didst take that which fell to thee, and I at this New Year will readily requite thee. We are in this valley, verily alone, here are no knights to sever us, do what we will. Have off thy helm from thine head, and have here thy pay; make me no more talking than I did then when thou didst strike off my head with one blow.”

“Nay,” quoth Gawain, “by God that gave me life, I shall make no moan whatever befall me, but make thou ready for the blow and I shall stand still and say never a word to thee, do as thou wilt.”

With that he bent his head and shewed his neck all bare, and made as if he had no fear, for he would not be thought a-dread.

How Sir Gawain failed to stand the blow

Then the Green Knight made him ready, and grasped his grim weapon to smite Gawain. With all his force he bore it aloft with a mighty feint of slaying him: had it fallen as straight as he aimed he who was ever doughty of deed had been slain by the blow. But Gawain swerved aside as the axe came gliding down to slay him as he stood, and shrank a little with the shoulders, for the sharp iron. The other heaved up the blade and rebuked the prince with many proud words:

Of the Green Knight’s reproaches

“Thou art not Gawain,” he said, “who is held so valiant, that never feared he man by hill or vale, but thou shrinkest for fear ere thou feelest hurt. Such cowardice did I never hear of Gawain! Neither did I flinch from thy blow, or make strife in King Arthur’s hall. My head fell to my feet, and yet I fled not, but thou didst wax faint of heart ere any harm befell. Wherefore must I be deemed the braver knight.”

Quoth Gawain, “I shrank once, but so will I no more, though an my head fall on the stones I cannot replace it. But haste, Sir Knight, by thy faith, and bring me to the point, deal me my destiny, and do it out of hand, for I will stand thee a stroke and move no more till thine axe have hit me—my troth on it.”

“Have at thee, then,” quoth the other, and heaved aloft the axe with fierce mien, as if he were mad. He struck at him fiercely but wounded him not, withholding his hand ere it might strike him.

Gawain abode the stroke, and flinched in no limb, but stood still as a stone or the stump of a tree that is fast rooted in the rocky ground with a hundred roots.

Then spake gaily the man in green, “So now thou hast thine heart whole it behoves me to smite. Hold aside thy hood that Arthur gave thee, and keep thy neck thus bent lest it cover it again.”

Then Gawain said angrily, “Why talk on thus? Thou dost threaten too long. I hope thy heart misgives thee.”

How the Green Knight dealt the blow

“For sooth,” quoth the other, “so fiercely thou speakest I will no longer let thine errand wait its reward.” Then he braced himself to strike, frowning with lips and brow, ’twas no marvel that he who hoped for no rescue misliked him. He lifted the axe lightly and let it fall with the edge of the blade on the bare neck. Though he struck swiftly it hurt him no more than on the one side where it severed the skin. The sharp blade cut into the flesh so that the blood ran over his shoulder to the ground. And when the knight saw the blood staining the snow, he sprang forth, swift-foot, more than a spear’s length, seized his helmet and set it on his head, cast his shield over his shoulder, drew out his bright sword, and spake boldly (never since he was born was he half so blithe), “Stop, Sir Knight, bid me no more blows. I have stood a stroke here without flinching, and if thou give me another, I shall requite thee, and give thee as good again. By the covenant made betwixt us in Arthur’s hall but one blow falls to me here. Halt, therefore.”

Of the three covenants

Then the Green Knight drew off from him, and leaned on his axe, setting the shaft on the ground, and looked on Gawain as he stood all armed and faced him fearlessly—at heart it pleased him well. Then he spake merrily in a loud voice, and said to the knight, “Bold sir, be not so fierce, no man here hath done thee wrong, nor will do, save by covenant, as we made at Arthur’s court. I promised thee a blow and thou hast it—hold thyself well paid! I release thee of all other claims. If I had been so minded I might perchance have given thee a rougher buffet. First I menaced thee with a feigned one, and hurt thee not for the covenant that we made in the first night, and which thou didst hold truly. All the gain didst thou give me as a true man should. The other feint I proffered thee for the morrow: my fair wife kissed thee, and thou didst give me her kisses—for both those days I gave thee two blows without scathe—true man, true return. But the third time thou didst fail, and therefore hadst thou that blow. For ’tis my weed thou wearest, that same woven girdle, my own wife wrought it, that do I wot for sooth.

“Weed” here is an Old English word, waed, meaning clothing. It floats as a fossil in English in the phrase “widow’s weeds”, which in some dialects means mourning clothes.

Now know I well thy kisses, and thy conversation, and the wooing of my wife, for ’twas mine own doing. I sent her to try thee, and in sooth I think thou art the most faultless knight that ever trode earth. As a pearl among white peas is of more worth than they, so is Gawain, i’ faith, by other knights. But thou didst lack a little, Sir Knight, and wast wanting in loyalty, yet that was for no evil work, nor for wooing neither, but because thou lovedst thy life—therefore I blame thee the less.”

The shame of Sir Gawain

Then the other stood a great while still, sorely angered and vexed within himself; all the blood flew to his face, and he shrank for shame as the Green Knight spake; and the first words he said were, “Cursed be ye, cowardice and covetousness, for in ye is the destruction of virtue.” Then he loosed the girdle, and gave it to the knight. “Lo, take there the falsity, may foul befall it! For fear of thy blow cowardice bade me make friends with covetousness and forsake the customs of largess and loyalty, which befit all knights. Now am I faulty and false and have been afeard: from treachery and untruth come sorrow and care. I avow to thee, Sir Knight, that I have ill done; do then thy will. I shall be more wary hereafter.”

Then the other laughed and said gaily, “I wot I am whole of the hurt I had, and thou hast made such free confession of thy misdeeds, and hast so borne the penance of mine axe-edge, that I hold thee absolved from that sin, and purged as clean as if thou hadst never sinned since thou wast born.

“Wot” is a tense of the verb “wit” and means “to know”.

And this girdle that is wrought with gold and green, like my raiment, do I give thee, Sir Gawain, that thou mayest think upon this chance when thou goest forth among princes of renown, and keep this for a token of the adventure of the Green Chapel, as it chanced between chivalrous knights.

Note that this style of writing is why individual stories in games are called “adventures”. This is the “Adventure of the Green Chapel”. It’s also the author saying “See, I played fair and gave you a clue.”

And thou shalt come again with me to my dwelling and pass the rest of this feast in gladness.” Then the lord laid hold of him, and said, “I wot we shall soon make peace with my wife, who was thy bitter enemy.”

How Sir Gawain would keep the girdle

“Nay, forsooth,” said Sir Gawain and seized his helmet and took it off swiftly, and thanked the knight: “I have fared ill, may bliss betide thee, and may He who rules all things reward thee swiftly. Commend me to that courteous lady, thy fair wife, and to the other my honoured ladies, who have beguiled their knight with skilful craft. But ’tis no marvel if one be made a fool and brought to sorrow by women’s wiles, for so was Adam beguiled, and many a mighty man of old, Samson, and David, and Solomon—if one might love a woman and believe her not, ’twere great gain! And since all they were beguiled by women, methinks ’tis the less blame to me that I was misled!

Gawaine does a discourteous thing here that in later Courts of Love would see him damned. Saying that you’re great and it’s all the woman’s fault is weak, speaking from the later codes of chivalry.

But as for thy girdle, that will I take with good will, not for gain of the gold, nor for samite, nor silk, nor the costly pendants, neither for weal nor for worship, but in sign of my frailty. I shall look upon it when I ride in renown and remind myself of the fault and faintness of the flesh; and so when pride uplifts me for prowess of arms, the sight of this lace shall humble my heart.

In game terms he’s carrying to boost his Personality rolls.

But one thing would I pray, if it displease thee not: since thou art lord of yonder land wherein I have dwelt, tell me what thy rightful name may be, and I will ask no more.”

How the marvel was wrought

“That will I truly,” quoth the other. “Bernlak de Hautdesert am I called in this land.

That surname means “of the high waste”. A waste means uncultivated land, not a sandy desert.

Morgain le Fay dwelleth in mine house, and through knowledge of clerkly craft hath she taken many.

“Clerky” here notes that she can write, and that there’s a link between writing and sorcery even this early on.

For long time was she the mistress of Merlin, who knew well all you knights of the court. Morgain the goddess is she called therefore, and there is none so haughty but she can bring him low. She sent me in this guise to yon fair hall to test the truth of the renown that is spread abroad of the valour of the Round Table. She taught me this marvel to betray your wits, to vex Guinevere and fright her to death by the man who spake with his head in his hand at the high table. That is she who is at home, that ancient lady, she is even thine aunt, Arthur’s half-sister, the daughter of the Duchess of Tintagel, who afterward married King Uther. Therefore I bid thee, knight, come to thine aunt, and make merry in thine house; my folk love thee, and I wish thee as well as any man on earth, by my faith, for thy true dealing.”

Note that he can’t just go kill Morgana: he’s being offered the role of guest and that precludes violence to other guests. It gives us a potential mystagogue here: there’s a possibility that the Green Knight is less the initiator than the tool in her hand.

But Sir Gawain said nay, he would in no wise do so; so they embraced and kissed, and commended each other to the Prince of Paradise, and parted right there, on the cold ground. Gawain on his steed rode swiftly to the king’s hall, and the Green Knight got him whithersoever he would.

How Sir Gawain came again to Camelot

Sir Gawain, who had thus won grace of his life, rode through wild ways on Gringalet; oft he lodged in a house, and oft without, and many adventures did he have and came off victor full often, as at this time I cannot relate in tale. The hurt that he had in his neck was healed, he bare the shining girdle as a baldric bound by his side, and made fast with a knot ’neath his left arm, in token that he was taken in a fault—and thus he came in safety again to the court.

So he’s wearing it as a belt like a sash, and he’s wearing it in a way that, if you transpose it onto a coat of arms, is called a bendlet sinister, which was a difference for bastard children.

Then joy awakened in that dwelling when the king knew that the good Sir Gawain was come, for he deemed it gain. King Arthur kissed the knight, and the queen also, and many valiant knights sought to embrace him. They asked him how he had fared, and he told them all that had chanced to him—the adventure of the chapel, the fashion of the knight, the love of the lady—at last of the lace. He showed them the wound in the neck which he won for his disloyalty at the hand of the knight, the blood flew to his face for shame as he told the tale.

His mark of shame is part of his investiture in Ars Magica terms.

Sir Gawain makes confession of his fault

“Lo, lady,” he quoth, and handled the lace, “this is the bond of the blame that I bear in my neck, this is the harm and the loss I have suffered, the cowardice and covetousness in which I was caught, the token of my covenant in which I was taken. And I must needs wear it so long as I live, for none may hide his harm, but undone it may not be, for if it hath clung to thee once, it may never be severed.”

Technically “Lo!” means “Look!” but it’s more “Pay attention I’m starting a story.” a bit like the “Hwaet!” at the start of Beowulf.

The knights wear the lace in honour of Gawain

Then the king comforted the knight, and the court laughed loudly at the tale, and all made accord that the lords and the ladies who belonged to the Round Table, each hero among them, should wear bound about him a baldric of bright green for the sake of Sir Gawain. And to this was agreed all the honour of the Round Table, and he who ware it was honoured the more thereafter, as it is testified in the best book of romance.

…and I pinched this for Hermetic hoplites. They aren’t all green and they use enchanted pins rather than knots.

The end of the tale

That in Arthur’s days this adventure befell, the book of Brutus bears witness. For since that bold knight came hither first, and the siege and the assault were ceased at Troy, I wis

Many a venture herebefore

Hath fallen such as this:

May He that bare the crown of thorn

Bring us unto His bliss.

Amen

“Wis” is another verb which means “know” although it can be more variable and mean “I suppose”.

The Book of Brutus here is unclear. Remembering the original is a poem, there’s a chance this was used even for Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain. It might be Layamon’s Brut.

Next month, we put faeries over the top of all of this.

This is an English folksong that has a boar I’m choosing to read as infernally-possessed. It’s a simple sort of monster, but suited for low-combat sagas. The song is often called Sir Robert Bolton had three sons because the trend at the time was to use the first line for indexing. Some performers call it The Jolly Hunter of Bromsgrove. That’s a town in England just south of Birmingham.

This is going to be in Ars Magica Monsters #3, which has a theme of low Might adversaries.

***

Sir Robert Bolton had three sons
Wind well thy horn good hunter
And one of them Sir Rylas
Well he was a jovial hunter

He ranged all round the woodside
Wind well thy horn good hunter
Till in a tree top a lady he spied
For he was a jovial hunter

What dost thou mean fair lady
Wind well thy horn good hunter
The wildest boar has killed my lord
As thou art a jovial hunter

So he put his horn into his mouth
Wind well thy horn good hunter
And he blowed north, east, west and south
For he was a jovial hunter

And the wild board heard him in his den
Wind well thy horn good hunter
And he’s made the best of speed to him
To Rylas the jovial hunter

They fought four hours in a long summer’s day
Wind well thy horn good hunter
Till the wild boar fain would have gotten away
From Rylas the jovial hunter

So Rylas drew his sword with might
Wind well thy horn good hunter
And he fairly cut his head off, quite
For he was a jovial hunter

Then from the wood a wild woman flew
Wind well thy horn good hunter
Saying my pretty spotted pig thou has slew
As thou art a jovial hunter

If there’s one thing I demand of thee
Wind well thy horn good hunter
It’s that my sword and thy neck can agree
I am a jovial hunter

Then Rylas drew his sword again
Wind well thy horn good hunter
And he fairly split her head in twain
For he was a jovial hunter

In Bromsgrove Church they both do lie
Wind well thy horn good hunter
With the wild boar’s head on a spike nearby
To Rylas the jovial hunter

In Ars Magica, magi of House Jerbiton value beauty, but only when created by nature or humans: never faeries. As a plot hook, I’d suggest this has a historical cause, and it’s the Mythic European version of AI model collapse. To define terms, model collapse is caused when the outputs of an algorithm are fed back in as inputs, through so many iterations it fails. As a metaphor, there’s the Dark Square Problem.

If you photocopy an image, the version you create contains more noise than the original. If you then copy your output, it gains further noise. As the number of iterations increases the amount of noise expands until the image degrades so far that it cannot be understood. Eventually the noise takes over entirely and the final copy is just a dark square. The noise that appears in LLMs, being generated algorithmically and tied to the expressed desires of the user, doesn’t just randomly appear, like that in photocopies.

I’d suggest that if you have an artist with a faerie model, you get this same iterative problem. If the artist really focuses on the model’s eyes, then over time the faerie will make its eyes larger. This turns up in the Jerbiton’s art, and further pushes the model toward larger eyes. On a larger scale, with a Jerbiton who has a version of AI psychosis, the model becomes increasingly abstract. The creatures I’d suggest for this are a ghost that obsessively paints a model, and a model so abstract that it’s essentially a live Rothko painting.

In saying this I’m not using Rothko as a shorthand for all abstract art. Rothko’s art doesn’t work on small screens, so it’s hard to demonstrate the effect it has on viewers. It’s massive enough that it takes over your peripheral vision and has subtleties of colour and texture that only make sense under gallery light. Rothkos regularly make viewers burst into tears, and me putting a little square of his art as a background would just look like the swatch fron a hardware store. People who talk about his art often say it’s sublime, and that’s a way in for us as game designers, because we often plunder the Romantics for material, and the sublime was a Romantic fixation. For them, to radically oversimplify, it was about awe, and the path to awe was vastness, and sometimes catastrophe. Some people discussing Rothko say that the emotion is already in his painting, so you need, for spiritual balance, to respond in opposition. So, his dark paintings make you laugh: his bright paintings make you cry, and here I mean “make” literally: they compel.

So, what if the Jerbiton, who we will put in one of the Roman chalets that dot Valnastium, has so long iterated on his model that it has gone past having big eyes and Byrne feet and is now a nebulous wave of colour that forces you to express emotions opposite to the ones it displays. I was thinking of this on a ferry to an art galley in Tasmania, and my initial though was, what if he’d so iterated his model that it looked like a spanish dancer, which is a beautiful nudibranch. Much as it is difficult to do Rothko good service on a screen, it’s hard to explain why a large, motile, sea slug is gorgeous.

So, there’s this place in Valnastium that is haunted by a ghost, that keeps its model pinned with its fixation, and a faerie that people avoid because its awful. It reaches into the devotion centre of your brain and gives you what you want to see. If you were a Merinita and found out about this, would you want to investigate? There’s a curious element here that ghosts arguably don’t have vitality, and so the faerie shouldn’t be here to collect it. Then again, if you accept the tripartite division of the person into body, soul and spirit, with the spirit as the vital energy that allows the soul to control the body, you could argue ghosts do he vitality. One that model, faeries should also bother animals though, because they have bodies and spirits, it’s just the soul that’s unique to humans. On this basis faeries should also taunt demons, unless you suggest their spirits are in some way unpalatable. This could leads us to a new way to look at fairies tainted by the Divine and Infernal realms.

This is one of the rare episodes where I haven’t written up a script, so you’ll pardon me if
I’m very rambly.

This week I had hoped to present to you the episode which involves The Fairy with the Blue Hair, also known as the Blue Fairy, from “The Adventures of Pinocchio”, but having just halfway written her out, it’s already 3,000 words long and most of those are statistics, so it’s clearly not suitable as a podcast episode it will instead become part of the upcoming second issue of Mythic Europe magazine. For those who want a quick look at the art in advance, the inspiration for that article is a painting called The Antique Pottery Painter, also known as Painting Breathes Life Into Sculpture by Jean-Lion Jerome.

And so, to rapidly patch the whole that’s been left in my schedule, let me mention something that I saw in an interview with Professor Ada Palmer who wrote Inventing the Renaissance, which is a book that I intend to plunder for plot ideas because I listened to her speaking for an hour and I thought ah yes I have at least three episodes here. Her point was, and this was new to me, the reason that the libraries in the Arabic parts of Mythic Europe are so much bigger than the libraries in the Catholic parts of Mythic Europe are because the Catholic parts use vellum and the other parts use papyrus. I knew that, but I didn’t understand what that implied.

Her implication is that because, and this is her example, the difference between a page made out of papyrus and a page made out of vellum is that one costs the same as a lettuce and the other costs the same as the leather jacket. That additional cost forces choice. You can’t copy everything, so you only copy the things that are worth, in the case of a vellum book, the equivalent of a small house. Arabic libraries can be larger and, critically,
more diverse because the medium they are copying in does not force choice.

Now in my own defence here I would like to state that I’m a very old person, and when I studied history originally,
the idea that people copied only the things that were most valuable to them was considered old hat and disproven. Everyone had assumed that Mesopotamian writing would all be of great importance and Egyptian writing would all be of great importance and actually no, they’re not. One of the earliest pieces we have of Mesopotamian writing is a recipe for boiling goat in milk. Some of the earliest Egyptian writing we have is just the ephemera of running a public service. So I had been trained to see her insight, that people would choose to record the things that they value the most, was an old fashioned idea that was wrong. She argues it very persuasively and so let’s assume that it is true for the rest of our brief conversation here. You can see that having to slaughter dozens of cattle and scrape their skins, and dry their skins, and stretch their skins, and scrape their skins again, is time consuming. Compare to cutting up a readily growing-reed, essentially a grass, that happens to ooze a sticky glue that binds pieces of it together into large flat sheets if you leave them lying in the sun.

Now I’ve said that Valnastium has the largest mundane library in Western Europe. That is technically only about 600 books to be bigger than Paris and a couple of thousand to be larger than some of the largest Arabic libraries. Clearly Valnastium has got around this problem of cost forcing choice. They could have used magic they could have just said “We can have as many bits of dried sheep as we like”. Fair. It is not, however, all that difficult to create a greenhouse using ring/circle enchantments and just grow papyrus.

Papyrus has certain problems with it. For example it’s quite brittle (which is why scrolls were so important by the way) rather than codices. A codex is made by folding pages and sewing them together. When you do that with
papyrus, the papyrus cracks along the gather. So wouldn’t it have been easier for one of these culture-obsessed people, or someone with a single pawn of Herbam vis, to instead create a massive greenhouse at Valnastium. They don’t even need the glass for the greenhouse: ring/circle magic is relatively cheap. They could therefore have so much papyrus that they were not forced to choose, which would explain why theirs is the largest library in western Europe.

The alternative thought that I was having on this (a very long time ago) was that the development of the paper
industry around Amalfi in Italy was due to House Jerbiton needing paper so that they could maintain their library. I tried to research how Amalfi but couldn’t find a decent history, gave up, moved my attention to Venice and then that worked out as it worked out. So I think there is a distinct possibility that when your magi are touring Valnastium and looking at the ice grape orchards and the wonderful old Roman ruins, now converted into the sancta of magi, there’s a decent chance that they’ll find a large quasi-Egyptian lake growing tropical reeds in the middle of the Alps.

This week: another monster. I originally was writing this up, I wasn’t sure how to approach it. Is it a vampire with a very complicated way of mesmerizing and then consuming you? But then I thought, no. Maybe this is an infestation. Rather like the maggots in Realms of Power, The Infernal or like a couple of creatures that have appeared in Ars Magica Monsters, Baudelaire’s Chimeras, or Stoker’s Blindworm. See what you think about this one.

Thanks to the Librivox recorder. This is a very ancient Librivox recording. I think it’s from somewhere around 2008. I have never included it before because I didn’t quite see how we could use it for Ars Magica statistics. Eventually they will be included in the third volume of Ars Magica Monsters, which I’m working on for the next couple of months.



When the student of medicine, Richard Bracquemont, decided to move
into room #7 of the small Hotel Stevens, Rue Alfred Stevens (Paris 6),
three persons had already hanged themselves from the cross-bar of the
window in that room on three successive Fridays.

The first was a Swiss traveling salesman. They found his corpse on
Saturday evening. The doctor determined that the death must have
occurred between five and six o’clock on Friday afternoon. The corpse
hung on a strong hook that had been driven into the window’s cross-bar
to serve as a hanger for articles of clothing. The window was closed,
and the dead man had used the curtain cord as a noose. Since the
window was very low, he hung with his knees practically touching the
floor-a sign of the great discipline the suicide must have exercised
in carrying out his design. Later, it was learned that he was a
married man, a father. He had been a man of a continually happy
disposition; a man who had achieved a secure place in life. There was
not one written word to be found that would have shed light on his
suicide…not even a will.

Furthermore, none of his acquaintances could recall hearing anything
at all from him that would have permitted anyone to predict his end.

The second case was not much different. The artist, Karl Krause, a
high wire cyclist in the nearby Medrano Circus, moved into room ¹7 two
days later. When he did not show up at Friday’s performance, the
director sent an employee to the hotel. There, he found Krause in the
unlocked room hanging from the window cross-bar in circumstances
exactly like those of the previous suicide. This death was as
perplexing as the first. Krause was popular. He earned a very high
salary, and had appeared to enjoy life at its fullest. Once again,
there was no suicide note; no sinister hints. Krause’s sole survivor
was his mother to whom the son had regularly sent 300 marks on the
first of the month.

For Madame Dubonnet, the owner of the small, cheap guesthouse whose
clientele was composed almost completely of employees in a nearby
Montmartre vaudeville theater, this second curious death in the same
room had very unpleasant consequences. Already several of her guests
had moved out, and other regular clients had not come back. She
appealed for help to her personal friend, the inspector of police of
the ninth precinct, who assured her that he would do everything in his
power to help her. He pushed zealously ahead not only with the
investigation into the grounds for the suicides of the two guests, but
he also placed an officer in the mysterious room.

This man, Charles-Maria Chaumié, actually volunteered for the task.
Chaumié was an old “Marsouin,” a marine sergeant with eleven years of
service, who had lain so many nights at posts in Tonkin and Annam, and
had greeted so many stealthily creeping river pirates with a shot from
his rifle that he seemed ideally suited to encounter the “ghost” that
everyone on Rue Alfred Stevens was talking about.

From then on, each morning and each evening, Chaumié paid a brief
visit to the police station to make his report, which, for the first
few days, consisted only of his statement that he had not noticed
anything unusual. On Wednesday evening, however, he hinted that he had
found a clue.

Pressed to say more, he asked to be allowed more time before making
any comment, since he was not sure that what he had discovered had any
relationship to the two deaths, and he was afraid he might say
something that would make him look foolish.

On Thursday, his behavior seemed a bit uncertain, but his mood was
noticeably more serious. Still, he had nothing to report. On Friday
morning, he came in very excited and spoke, half humorously, half
seriously, of the strangely attractive power that his window had. He
would not elaborate this notion and said that, in any case, it had
nothing to do with the suicides; and that it would be ridiculous of
him to say any more. When, on that same Friday, he failed to make his
regular evening report, someone went to his room and found him hanging
from the cross-bar of the window.

All the circumstances, down to the minutest detail, were the same here
as in the previous cases. Chaumié’s legs dragged along the ground. The
curtain cord had been used for a noose. The window was closed, the
door to the room had not been locked and death had occurred at six
o’clock. The dead man’s mouth was wide open, and his tongue protruded
from it.

Chaumié’s death, the third in as many weeks in room #7, had the
following consequences: all the guests, with the exception of a German
high-school teacher in room #16, moved out. The teacher took advantage
of the occasion to have his rent reduced by a third. The next day,
Mary Garden, the famous Opéra Comique singer, drove up to the Hotel
Stevens and paid two hundred francs for the red curtain cord, saying
it would bring her luck. The story, small consolation for Madame
Dubonnet, got into the papers.

If these events had occurred in summer, in July or August, Madame
Dubonnet would have secured three times that price for her cord, but
as it was in the middle of a troubled year, with elections, disorders
in the Balkans, bank crashes in New York, the visit of the King and
Queen of England, the result was that the affaire Rue Alfred Stevens
was talked of less than it deserved to be. As for the newspaper
accounts, they were brief, being essentially the police reports word
for word.

These reports were all that Richard Bracquemont, the medical student,
knew of the matter.

There was one detail about which he knew nothing because neither the
police inspector nor any of the eyewitnesses had mentioned it to the
press. It was only later, after what happened to the medical student,
that anyone remembered that when the police removed Sergeant Charles-
Maria Chaumié’s body from the window cross-bar a large black spider
crawled from the dead man’s open mouth. A hotel porter flicked it
away, exclaiming, “Ugh, another of those damned creatures.”

When in later investigations which concerned themselves mostly with
Bracquemont the servant was interrogated, he said that he had seen a
similar spider crawling on the Swiss traveling salesman’s shoulder
when his body was removed from the window cross-bar. But Richard
Bracquemont knew nothing of all this.

It was more than two weeks after the last suicide that Bracquemont
moved into the room. It was a Sunday. Bracquemont conscientiously
recorded everything that happened to him in his journal. That journal
now follows.

Monday, February 28 I moved in yesterday evening. I unpacked my two
wicker suitcases and straightened the room a little. Then I went to
bed. I slept so soundly that it was nine o’clock the next morning
before a knock at my door woke me. It was my hostess, bringing me
breakfast herself. One could read her concern for me in the eggs, the
bacon and the superb café au lait she brought me. I washed and
dressed, then smoked a pipe as I watched the servant make up the room.

So, here I am. I know well that the situation may prove dangerous, but
I think I may just be the one to solve the problem. If, once upon a
time, Paris was worth a mass (conquest comes at a dearer rate these
days), it is well worth risking my life pour un si bel enjeu. I have
at least one chance to win, and I mean to risk it. As it is, I’m not
the only one who has had this notion. Twenty-seven people have tried
for access to the room. Some went to the police, some went directly to
the hotel owner. There were even three women among the candidates.
There was plenty of competition. No doubt the others are poor devils
like me.

And yet, it was I who was chosen. Why? Because I was the only one who
hinted that I had some plan-or the semblance of a plan. Naturally, I
was bluffing.

These journal entries are intended for the police. I must say that it
amuses me to tell those gentlemen how neatly I fooled them. If the
Inspector has any sense, he’ll say, “Hm. This Bracquemont is just the
man we need.” In any case, it doesn’t matter what he’ll say. The point
is I’m here now, and I take it as a good sign that I’ve begun my task
by bamboozling the police.

I had gone first to Madame Dubonnet, and it was she who sent me to the
police. They put me off for a whole week-as they put off my rivals as
well. Most of them gave up in disgust, having something better to do
than hang around the musty squad room. The Inspector was beginning to
get irritated at my tenacity. At last, he told me I was wasting my
time. That the police had no use for bungling amateurs. “Ah, if only
you had a plan. Then…”

On the spot, I announced that I had such a plan, though naturally I
had no such thing. Still, I hinted that my plan was brilliant, but
dangerous, that it might lead to the same end as that which had
overtaken the police officer, Chaumié. Still, I promised to describe
it to him if he would give me his word that he would personally put it
into effect. He made excuses, claiming he was too busy but when he
asked me to give him at least a hint of my plan, I saw that I had
picqued his interest.

I rattled off some nonsense made up of whole cloth. God alone knows
where it all came from.

I told him that six o’clock of a Friday is an occult hour. It is the
last hour of the Jewish week; the hour when Christ disappeared from
his tomb and descended into hell. That he would do well to remember
that the three suicides had taken place at approximately that hour.
That was all I could tell him just then, I said, but I pointed him to
The Revelations of St. John.

The Inspector assumed the look of a man who understood all that I had
been saying, then he asked me to come back that evening.

I returned, precisely on time, and noted a copy of the New Testament
on the Inspector’s desk. I had, in the meantime, been at the
Revelations myself without however having understood a syllable.
Perhaps the Inspector was cleverer than I. Very politely-nay-
deferentially, he let me know that, despite my extremely vague
intimations, he believed he grasped my line of thought and was ready
to expedite my plan in every way.

And here, I must acknowledge that he has indeed been tremendously
helpful. It was he who made the arrangement with the owner that I was
to have anything I needed so long as I stayed in the room. The
Inspector gave me a pistol and a police whistle, and he ordered the
officers on the beat to pass through the Rue Alfred Stevens as often
as possible, and to watch my window for any signal. Most important of
all, he had a desk telephone installed which connects directly with
the police station. Since the station is only four minutes away, I see
no reason to be afraid.

Wednesday, March 1 Nothing has happened. Not yesterday. Not today.

Madame Dubonnet brought a new curtain cord from another room-the rooms
are mostly empty, of course. Madame Dubonnet takes every opportunity
to visit me, and each time she brings something with her. I have asked
her to tell me again everything that happened here, but I have learned
nothing new. She has her own opinion of the suicides. Her view is that
the music hall artist, Krause, killed himself because of an unhappy
love affair. During the last year that Krause lived in the hotel, a
young woman had made frequent visits to him. These visits had stopped,
just before his death. As for the Swiss gentleman, Madame Dubonnet
confessed herself baffled. On the other hand, the death of the
policeman was easy to explain. He had killed himself just to annoy
her.

These are sad enough explanations, to be sure, but I let her babble on
to take the edge off my boredom.

Thursday, March 3 Still nothing. The Inspector calls twice a day. Each
time, I tell him that all is well. Apparently, these words do not
reassure him.

I have taken out my medical books and I study, so that my self-imposed
confinement will have some purpose.

Friday. March 4 I ate uncommonly well at noon. The landlady brought me
half a bottle of champagne. It seemed a meal for a condemned man.
Madame Dubonnet looked at me as if I were already three-quarters dead.
As she was leaving, she begged me tearfully to come with her, fearing
no doubt that I would hang myself ‘just to annoy her.’

I studied the curtain cord once again. Would I hang myself with it?
Certainly, I felt little desire to do so. The cord is stiff and rough-
not the sort of cord one makes a noose of. One would need to be truly
determined before one could imitate the others.

I am seated now at my table. At my left, the telephone. At my right,
the revolver. I’m not frightened; but I am curious.

Six o’clock, the same evening Nothing has happened. I was about to
add, “Unfortunately.” The fatal hour has come-and has gone, like any
six o’clock on any evening. I won’t hide the fact that I occasionally
felt a certain impulse to go to the window, but for a quite different
reason than one might imagine.

The Inspector called me at least ten times between five and six
o’clock. He was as impatient as I was. Madame Dubonnet, on the other
hand, is happy. A week has passed without someone in #7 hanging
himself. Marvelous.

Monday, March 7 I have a growing conviction that I will learn nothing;
that the previous suicides are related to the circumstances
surrounding the lives of the three men. I have asked the Inspector to
investigate the cases further, convinced that someone will find their
motivations. As for me, I hope to stay here as long as possible. I may
not conquer Paris here, but I live very well and I’m fattening up
nicely. I’m also studying hard, and I am making real progress. There
is another reason, too, that keeps me here.

Wednesday, March 9 So! I have taken one step more. Clarimonda.

I haven’t yet said anything about Clarimonda. It is she who is my
“third” reason for staying here. She is also the reason I was tempted
to go to the window during the “fateful” hour last Friday. But of
course, not to hang myself.

Clarimonda. Why do I call her that? I have no idea what her name is,
but it ought to be Clarimonda. When finally I ask her name, I’m sure
it will turn out to be Clarimonda.

I noticed her almost at once…in the very first days. She lives
across the narrow street; and her window looks right into mine. She
sits there, behind her curtains.

I ought to say that she noticed me before I saw her; and that she was
obviously interested in me. And no wonder. The whole neighborhood
knows I am here, and why. Madame Dubonnet has seen to that.

I am not of a particularly amorous disposition. In fact, my relations
with women have been rather meager. When one comes from Verdun to
Paris to study medicine, and has hardly money enough for three meals a
day, one has something else to think about besides love. I am then not
very experienced with women, and I may have begun my adventure with
her stupidly. Never mind. It’s exciting just the same.

At first, the idea of establishing some relationship with her simply
did not occur to me. It was only that, since I was here to make
observations, and, since there was nothing in the room to observe, I
thought I might as well observe my neighbor-openly, professionally.
Anyhow, one can’t sit all day long just reading.

Clarimonda, I have concluded, lives alone in the small flat across the
way. The flat has three windows, but she sits only before the window
that looks into mine. She sits there, spinning on an old-fashioned
spindle, such as my grandmother inherited from a great aunt. I had no
idea anyone still used such spindles. Clarimonda’s spindle is a lovely
object. It appears to be made of ivory; and the thread she spins is of
an exceptional fineness. She works all day behind her curtains, and
stops spinning only as the sun goes down. Since darkness comes
abruptly here in this narrow street and in this season of fogs,
Clarimonda disappears from her place at five o’clock each evening.

I have never seen a light in her flat.

What does Clarimonda look like? I’m not quite sure. Her hair is black
and wavy; her face pale.

Her nose is short and finely shaped with delicate nostrils that seem
to quiver. Her lips, too, are pale: and when she smiles, it seems that
her small teeth are as keen as those of some beast of prey.

Her eyelashes are long and dark; and her huge dark eyes have an
intense glow. I guess all these details more than I know them. It is
hard to see clearly through the curtains.

Something else: she always wears a black dress embroidered with a
lilac motif; and black gloves, no doubt to protect her hands from the
effects of her work. It is a curious sight: her delicate hands moving
perpetually, swiftly grasping the thread, pulling it, releasing it,
taking it up again; as if one were watching the indefatigable motions
of an insect.

Our relationship? For the moment, still very superficial, though it
feels deeper. It began with a sudden exchange of glances in which each
of us noted the other. I must have pleased her, because one day she
studied me a while longer, then smiled tentatively. Naturally, I
smiled back. In this fashion, two days went by, each of us smiling
more frequently with the passage of time. Yet something kept me from
greeting her directly.

Until today. This afternoon, I did it. And Clarimonda returned my
greeting. It was done subtly enough, to be sure, but I saw her nod.

Thursday, March 10 Yesterday, I sat for a long time over my books,
though I can’t truthfully say that I studied much. I built castles in
the air and dreamed of Clarimonda.

I slept fitfully.

This morning, when I approached my window, Clarimonda was already in
her place. I waved, and she nodded back. She laughed and studied me
for a long time.

I tried to read, but I felt much too uneasy. Instead, I sat down at my
window and gazed at Clarimonda. She too had laid her work aside. Her
hands were folded in her lap. I drew my curtain wider with the window
cord, so that I might see better. At the same moment, Clarimonda did
the same with the curtains at her window. We exchanged smiles.

We must have spent a full hour gazing at each other.

Finally, she took up her spinning.

Saturday, March 12 The days pass. I eat and drink. I sit at the desk.
I light my pipe; I look down at my book but I don’t read a word,
though I try again and again. Then I go to the window where I wave to
Clarimonda. She nods. We smile. We stare at each other for hours.

Yesterday afternoon, at six o’clock, I grew anxious. The twilight came
early, bringing with it something like anguish. I sat at my desk. I
waited until I was invaded by an irresistible need to go to the
window-not to hang myself; but just to see Clarimonda. I sprang up and
stood beside the curtain where it seemed to me I had never been able
to see so clearly, though it was already dark.

Clarimonda was spinning, but her eyes looked into mine. I felt myself
strangely contented even as I experienced a light sensation of fear.

The telephone rang. It was the Inspector tearing me out of my trance
with his idiotic questions.

I was furious.

This morning, the Inspector and Madame Dubonnet visited me. She is
enchanted with how things are going. I have now lived for two weeks in
room #7. The Inspector, however, does not feel he is getting results.
I hinted mysteriously that I was on the trail of something most
unusual.

The jackass took me at my word and fulfilled my dearest wish. I’ve
been allowed to stay in the room for another week. God knows it isn’t
Madame Dubonnet’s cooking or wine-cellar that keeps me here. How
quickly one can be sated with such things. No. I want to stay because
of the window Madame Dubonnet fears and hates. That beloved window
that shows me Clarimonda.

I have stared out of my window, trying to discover whether she ever
leaves her room, but I’ve never seen her set foot on the street.

As for me, I have a large, comfortable armchair and a green shade over
the lamp whose glow envelopes me in warmth. The Inspector has left me
with a huge packet of fine tobacco-and yet I cannot work. I read two
or three pages only to discover that I haven’t understood a word. My
eyes see the letters, but my brain refuses to make any sense of them.
Absurd. As if my brain were posted: ‘No Trespassing.’ It is as if
there were no room in my head for any other thought than the one:
Clarimonda. I push my books away; I lean back deeply into my chair. I
dream.

Sunday, March 13 This morning I watched a tiny drama while the servant
was tidying my room. I was strolling in the corridor when I paused
before a small window in which a large garden spider had her web.

Madame Dubonnet will not have it removed because she believes spiders
bring luck, and she’s had enough misfortunes in her house lately.
Today, I saw a much smaller spider, a male, moving across the strong
threads towards the middle of the web, but when his movements alerted
the female, he drew back shyly to the edge of the web from which he
made a second attempt to cross it. Finally, the female in the middle
appeared attentive to his wooing, and stopped moving. The male tugged
at a strand gently, then more strongly till the whole web shook. The
female stayed motionless. The male moved quickly forward and the
female received him quietly, calmly, giving herself over completely to
his embraces. For a long minute, they hung together motionless at the
center of the huge web.

Then I saw the male slowly extricating himself, one leg over the
other. It was as if he wanted tactfully to leave his companion alone
in the dream of love, but as he started away, the female, overwhelmed
by a wild life, was after him, hunting him ruthlessly. The male let
himself drop from a thread; the female followed, and for a while the
lovers hung there, imitating a piece of art. Then they fell to the
window-sill where the male, summoning all his strength, tried again to
escape. Too late. The female already had him in her powerful grip, and
was carrying him back to the center of the web. There, the place that
had just served as the couch for their lascivious embraces took on
quite another aspect. The lover wriggled, trying to escape from the
female’s wild embrace, but she was too much for him. It was not long
before she had wrapped him completely in her thread, and he was
helpless. Then she dug her sharp pincers into his body, and sucked
full draughts of her young lover’s blood. Finally, she detached
herself from the pitiful and unrecognizable shell of his body and
threw it out of her web.

So that is what love is like among these creatures. Well for me that I
am not a spider.

Monday, March 14 I don’t look at my books any longer. I spend my days
at the window. When it is dark, Clarimonda is no longer there, but if
I close my eyes, I continue to see her.

This journal has become something other than I intended. I’ve spoken
about Madame Dubonnet, about the Inspector; about spiders and about
Clarimonda. But I’ve said nothing about the discoveries I undertook to
make. It can’t be helped.

Tuesday, March 15 We have invented a strange game, Clarimonda and I.
We play it all day long. I greet her; then she greets me. Then I tap
my fingers on the windowpanes. The moment she sees me doing that, she
too begins tapping. I wave to her; she waves back. I move my lips as
if speaking to her; she does the same. I run my hand through my sleep-
disheveled hair and instantly her hand is at her forehead. It is a
child’s game, and we both laugh over it. Actually, she doesn’t laugh.
She only smiles a gently contained smile. And I smile back in the same
way.

The game is not as trivial as it seems. It’s not as if we were grossly
imitating each other-that would weary us both. Rather, we are
communicating with each other. Sometimes, telepathically, it would
seem, since Clarimonda follows my movements instantaneously almost
before she has had time to see them. I find myself inventing new
movements, or new combinations of movements, but each time she repeats
them with disconcerting speed. Sometimes. I change the order of the
movements to surprise her, making whole series of gestures as rapidly
as possible; or I leave out some motions and weave in others, the way
children play “Simon Says.” What is amazing is that Clarimonda never
once makes a mistake, no matter how quickly I change gestures.

That’s how I spend my days…hut never for a moment do I feel that I’m
killing time. It seems, on the contrary, that never in my life have I
been better occupied.

Wednesday. March 16 Isn’t it strange that it hasn’t occurred to me to
put my relationship with Clarimonda on a more serious basis than these
endless games. Last night, I thought about this…I can, of course,
put on my hat and coat, walk down two flights of stairs, take five
steps across the street and mount two flights to her door which is
marked with a small sign that says “Clarimonda.” Clarimonda what? I
don’t know. Something. Then I can knock and…

Up to this point I imagine everything very clearly, but I cannot see
what should happen next. I know that the door opens. But then I stand
before it, looking into a dark void. Clarimonda doesn’t come. Nothing
comes. Nothing is there, only the black, impenetrable dark.

Sometimes, it seems to me that there can be no other Clarimonda but
the one I see in the window; the one who plays gesture-games with me.
I cannot imagine a Clarimonda wearing a hat, or a dress other than her
black dress with the lilac motif. Nor can I imagine a Clarimonda
without black gloves. The very notion that I might encounter
Clarimonda somewhere in the streets or in a restaurant eating,
drinking or chatting is so improbable that it makes me laugh.

Sometimes I ask myself whether I love her. It’s impossible to say,
since I have never loved before. However, if the feeling that I have
for Clarimonda is really-love, then love is something entirely
different from anything I have seen among my friends or read about in
novels.

It is hard for me to be sure of my feelings and harder still to think
of anything that doesn’t relate to Clarimonda or, what is more
important, to our game. Undeniably, it is our game that concerns me.
Nothing else-and this is what I understand least of all.

There is no doubt that I am drawn to Clarimonda, but with this
attraction there is mingled another feeling, fear. No. That’s not it
either. Say rather a vague apprehension in the presence of the
unknown. And this anxiety has a strangely voluptuous quality so that I
am at the same time drawn to her even as I am repelled by her. It is
as if I were moving in giant circles around her, sometimes coming
close, sometimes retreating…back and forth, back and forth.

Once, I am sure of it, it will happen, and I will join her.

Clarimonda sits at her window and spins her slender, eternally fine
thread, making a strange cloth whose purpose I do not understand. I am
amazed that she is able to keep from tangling her delicate thread.
Hers is surely a remarkable design, containing mythical beasts and
strange masks.

Thursday, March 17 I am curiously excited. I don’t talk to people any
more. I barely say “hello” to Madame Dubonnet or to the servant. I
hardly give myself time to eat. All I can do is sit at the window and
play the game with Clarimonda. It is an enthralling game.
Overwhelming.

I have the feeling something will happen tomorrow.

Friday, March 18 Yes. Yes. Something will happen today. I tell myself-
as loudly as I can–that that’s why I am here. And yet, horribly
enough, I am afraid. And in the fear that the same thing is going to
happen to me as happened to my predecessors, there is strangely
mingled another fear: a terror of Clarimonda. And I cannot separate
the two fears.

I am frightened. I want to scream.

Six o’clock, evening I have my hat and coat on. Just a couple of
words.

At five o’clock, I was at the end of my strength. I’m perfectly aware
now that there is a relationship between my despair and the “sixth
hour” that was so significant in the previous weeks. I no longer laugh
at the trick I played the Inspector.

I was sitting at the window, trying with all my might to stay in my
chair, but the window kept drawing me. I had to resume the game with
Clarimonda. And yet, the window horrified me. I saw the others hanging
there: the Swiss traveling salesman, fat, with a thick neck and a grey
stubbly beard; the thin artist; and the powerful police sergeant. I
saw them, one after the other, hanging from the same hook, their
mouths open, their tongues sticking out. And then, I saw myself among
them.

Oh, this unspeakable fear. It was clear to me that it was provoked as
much by Clarimonda as by the cross-bar and the horrible hook. May she
pardon me…but it is the truth. In my terror, I keep seeing the three
men hanging there, their legs dragging on the floor.

And yet, the fact is I had not felt the slightest desire to hang
myself; nor was I afraid that I would want to do so. No, it was the
window I feared; and Clarimonda. I was sure that something horrid was
going to happen. Then I was overwhelmed by the need to go to the
window-to stand before it. I had to…

The telephone rang. I picked up the receiver and before I could hear a
word, I screamed, “Come. Come at once.”

It was as if my shrill cry had in that instant dissipated the shadows
from my soul. I grew calm.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead. I drank a glass of water. Then I
considered what I should say to the Inspector when he arrived.
Finally, I went to the window. I waved and smiled. And Clarimonda too
waved and smiled.

Five minutes later, the Inspector was here. I told him that I was
getting to the bottom of the matter, but I begged him not to question
me just then. That very soon I would be in a position to make
important revelations. Strangely enough, though I was lying to him. I
myself had the feeling that I was telling the truth. Even now, against
my will, I have that same conviction.

The Inspector could not help noticing my agitated state of mind,
especially since I apologized for my anguished cry over the telephone.
Naturally, I tried to explain it to him, and yet I could not find a
single reason to give for it. He said affectionately that there was no
need ever to apologize to him; that he was always at my disposal; that
that was his duty. It was better that he should come a dozen times to
no effect rather than fail to be here when he was needed. He invited
me to go out with him for the evening. It would be a distraction for
me. It would do me good not to be alone for a while. I accepted the
invitation though I was very reluctant to leave the room.

Saturday, March 19 We went to the Gaieté Rochechouart, La Cigale, and
La Lune Rousse. The Inspector was right: It was good for me to get out
and breathe the fresh air. At first, I had an uncomfortable feeling,
as if I were doing something wrong; as if I were a deserter who had
turned his back on the flag. But that soon went away. We drank a lot,
laughed and chatted. This morning, when I went to my window,
Clarimonda gave me what I thought was a look of reproach, though I may
only have imagined it. How could she have known that I had gone out
last night? In any case, the look lasted only for an instant, then she
smiled again.

We played the game all day long.

Sunday, March 20 Only one thing to record: we played the game.

Monday, March 21 We played the game-all day long.

Tuesday, March 22 Yes, the game. We played it again. And nothing else.
Nothing at all.

Sometimes I wonder what is happening to me? What is it I want? Where
is all this leading? I know the answer: there is nothing else I want
except what is happening. It is what I want…what I long for. This
only.

Clarimonda and I have spoken with each other in the course of the last
few days, but very briefly; scarcely a word. Sometimes we moved our
lips, but more often we just looked at each other with deep
understanding.

I was right about Clarimonda’s reproachful look because I went out
with the Inspector last Friday. I asked her to forgive me. I said it
was stupid of me, and spiteful to have gone. She forgave me, and I
promised never to leave the window again. We kissed, pressing our lips
against each of our windowpanes.

Wednesday, March 23 I know now that I love Clarimonda. That she has
entered into the very fiber of my being. It may be that the loves of
other men are different. But does there exist one head, one ear, one
hand that is exactly like hundreds of millions of others? There are
always differences, and it must be so with love. My love is strange, I
know that, but is it any the less lovely because of that? Besides, my
love makes me happy.

If only I were not so frightened. Sometimes my terror slumbers and I
forget it for a few moments, then it wakes and does not leave me. The
fear is like a poor mouse trying to escape the grip of a powerful
serpent. Just wait a bit, poor sad terror. Very soon, the serpent love
will devour you.

Thursday, March 24 I have made a discovery: I don’t play with
Clarimonda. She plays with me.

Last night, thinking as always about our game, I wrote down five new
and intricate gesture patterns with which I intended to surprise
Clarimonda today. I gave each gesture a number. Then I practiced the
series, so I could do the motions as quickly as possible, forwards or
backwards. Or sometimes only the even-numbered ones, sometimes the
odd. Or the first and the last of the five patterns. It was tiring
work, but it made me happy and seemed to bring Clarimonda closer to
me. I practiced for hours until I got all the motions down pat, like
clockwork.

This morning, I went to the window. Clarimonda and I greeted each
other, then our game began. Back and forth! It was incredible how
quickly she understood what was to be done; how she kept pace with me.

There was a knock at the door. It was the servant bringing me my
shoes. I took them. On my way back to the window, my eye chanced to
fall on the slip of paper on which I had noted my gesture patterns. It
was then that I understood: in the game just finished, I had not made
use of a single one of my patterns.

I reeled back and had to hold on to the chair to keep from falling. It
was unbelievable. I read the paper again-and again. It was still true:
I had gone through a long series of gestures at the window, and not
one of the patterns had been mine.

I had the feeling, once more, that I was standing before Clarimonda’s
wide open door, through which, though I stared. I could see nothing
but a dark void. I knew, too, that if I chose to turn from that door
now. I might be saved; and that I still had the power to leave. And
yet, I did not leave—because I felt myself at the very edge of the
mystery: as if I were holding the secret in my hands.

“Paris! You will conquer Paris,” I thought. And in that instant, Paris
was more powerful than Clarimonda.

I don’t think about that any more. Now, I feel only love. Love, and a
delicious terror.

Still, the moment itself endowed me with strength. I read my notes
again, engraving the gestures on my mind. Then I went back to the
window only to become aware that there was not one of my patterns that
I wanted to use. Standing there, it occurred to me to rub the side of
my nose; instead I found myself pressing my lips to the windowpane. I
tried to drum with my fingers on the window sill; instead, I brushed
my fingers through my hair. And so I understood that it was not that
Clarimonda did what I did. Rather, my gestures followed her lead and
with such lightning rapidity that we seemed to be moving
simultaneously. I, who had been so proud because I thought I had been
influencing her, I was in fact being influenced by her. Her
influence…so gentle…so delightful.

I have tried another experiment. I clenched my hands and put them in
my pockets firmly intending not to move them one bit. Clarimonda
raised her hand and, smiling at me, made a scolding gesture with her
finger. I did not budge, and yet I could feel how my right hand wished
to leave my pocket. I shoved my fingers against the lining, but
against my will, my hand left the pocket; my arm rose into the air. In
my turn, I made a scolding gesture with my finger and smiled.

It seemed to me that it was not I who was doing all this. It was a
stranger whom I was watching.

But, of course, I was mistaken. It was I making the gesture, and the
person watching me was the stranger; that very same stranger who, not
long ago, was so sure that he was on the edge of a great discovery. In
any case, it was not I.

Of what use to me is this discovery? I am here to do Clarimonda’s
will. Clarimonda, whom I love with an anguished heart.

Friday, March 25 I have cut the telephone cord. I have no wish to be
continually disturbed by the idiotic inspector just as the mysterious
hour arrives.

God. Why did I write that? Not a word of it is true. It is as if
someone else were directing my pen.

But I want to…want to…to write the truth here…though it is
costing me great effort. But I want to…once more…do what I want.

I have cut the telephone cord…ah…

Because I had to…there it is. Had to…

We stood at our windows this morning and played the game, which is now
different from what it was yesterday. Clarimonda makes a movement and
I resist it for as long as I can. Then I give in and do what she wants
without further struggle. I can hardly express what a joy it is to be
so conquered; to surrender entirely to her will.

We played. All at once, she stood up and walked back into her room,
where I could not see her; she was so engulfed by the dark. Then she
came back with a desk telephone, like mine, in her hands. She smiled
and set the telephone on the window sill, after which she took a knife
and cut the cord. Then I carried my telephone to the window where I
cut the cord. After that, I returned my phone to its place.

That’s how it happened…

I sit at my desk where I have been drinking tea the servant brought
me. He has come for the empty teapot, and I ask him for the time,
since my watch isn’t running properly. He says it is five fifteen.
Five fifteen…

I know that if I look out of my window, Clarimonda will be there
making a gesture that I will have to imitate. I will look just the
same. Clarimonda is there, smiling. If only I could turn my eyes away
from hers.

Now she parts the curtain. She takes the cord. It is red, just like
the cord in my window. She ties a noose and hangs the cord on the hook
in the window cross–bar.

She sits down and smiles.

No. Fear is no longer what I feel. Rather, it is a sort of oppressive
terror which I would not want to avoid for anything in the world. Its
grip is irresistible, profoundly cruel, and voluptuous in its
attraction.

I could go to the window, and do what she wants me to do, but I wait.
I struggle. I resist though I feel a mounting fascination that becomes
more intense each minute.

Here I am once more. Rashly, I went to the window where I did what
Clarimonda wanted. I took the cord, tied a noose, and hung it on the
hook…

Now, I want to see nothing else-except to stare at this paper. Because
if I look. I know what she will do…now…at the sixth hour of the
last day of the week. If I see her, I will have to do what she wants.
Have to…

I won’t see her…

I laugh. Loudly. No. I’m not laughing. Something is laughing in me,
and I know why. It is because of my…I won’t…

I won’t, and yet I know very well that I have to…have to look at
her. I must…must…and then…all that follows.

If I still wait, it is only to prolong this exquisite torture. Yes,
that’s it. This breathless anguish is my supreme delight. I write
quickly, quickly…just so I can continue to sit here; so I can
attenuate these seconds of pain.

Again, terror. Again. I know that I will look toward her. That I will
stand up. That I will hang myself.

That doesn’t frighten me. That is beautiful…even precious.

There is something else. What will happen afterwards? I don’t know,
but since my torment is so delicious. I feel…feel that something
horrible must follow.

Think…think…Write something. Anything at all…to keep from
looking toward her…

My name…Richard Bracquemont. Richard Bracquemont…Richard
Bracquemont…

Richard…

I can’t…go on. I must…no…no…must look at her…Richard
Bracquemont…no . .

. no more…Richard…Richard Bracque–. . .

The inspector of the ninth precinct, after repeated and vain efforts
to telephone Richard, arrived at the Hotel Stevens at 6:05. He found
the body of the student Richard Bracquemont hanging from the cross-bar
of the window in room #7, in the same position as each of his three
predecessors.

The expression on the student’s face, however, was different,
reflecting an appalling fear.

Bracquemont’s eyes were wide open and bulging from their sockets. His
lips were drawn into a rictus, and his jaws were clamped together. A
huge black spider whose body was dotted with purple spots lay crushed
and nearly bitten in two between his teeth.

On the table, there lay the student’s journal. The inspector read it
and went immediately to investigate the house across the street. What
he learned was that the second floor of that building had not been
lived in for many months.

Yellow water filled the ditches by the roadside. Yellow clouds drifted lazily through tranquil webs of darkness and obscured far, glimmering stars. Horror and misery stared out of sodden eyes, and the night was filled with voices. Men with packs made vivid, grotesque gestures against the yellow sky and swore in their beards. Men ambled over stony paths and climbed hills and passed with disgust through shadowy orchards and gray, deserted vineyards.

Prangois Villon fingered his stained cowl and sighed. The thing above his head moaned and gibbered in the wind and occasionally the chains up on its poor, maimed wrists and ankles clinked like jolly glasses raised to toast a well-fed abbot or a stout, beneficent knight. The night wind whistled through its flailing garments as it swung pathetically to and fro, and Villon pitied it.

Villon pitied all outcast, shameful things. Ho had wasted his lean years in an orgy of pity and exaltation and song. Unfortunately he had lost his teeth and he had no hair to warm his chastened head; but still he pitied. Through the vineyards of Picardy he

strolled in his splendid misery and shame, and he stopped and wept when he met men who could no longer ex¬ change happy memories, or slap unresisting backs or laugh over deliciously calculated jests. High up in the cool, damp air they swung—and no one ever spoke to them.

Villon wiped the comers of his shapeless, dissipated mouth and stared indignantly at the yellow sky. The feet of the thing on the gibbet swept rapidly across his world of clouds and owls and trees and made no sound under the stars. Then the chains clinked out a curt command and the gibbet held itself erect and replied with a barbaric rattle. Villon knew that on still, cold nights gibbets become restless and chafe under their heavy burdens and move about, seeking warmth and companionship. They have been known to stroll at midnight through lonely vineyards; and legends of walking gibbets were rife in Picardy. Villon coughed and shivered, and suddenly he thought: “It is very cold, and that poor man has no covering for his feet!”

Something fumbled nervously with the edge of his ragged cowl. He turned and stared into inconceivable blue eyes wide with horror. The eyes were mild and soft, and tears had gathered in the corners of them.

“A wonderful profile,” thought Villon. “Beautifully proportioned, too. And hair like fields of waving summer com, and Flora or Archipiade or Heloisa did not possess such

While he reflected thus she took him by the hand and dragged him ruthlessly across the road. “I have a favor of great magnitude to beg of you,” she said.

Villon scowled, but he was secretly elated, and he observed how gracefully the small yellow curls clung to the nape of her neck and how buoyantly she held herself as she walked over the hard, frozen ground. He followed her indoors, and watched her spread a table and make a fire. Then she turned to him. Pity and. misery and terror looked together at him out of her vividly unconventional eyes.

“He is my husband, and there is no one else to whom I can appeal. Of course you will get him down. I ask only that. I want yon to climb up and cut him down. It will be difficult, of course, with the wind whistling about your ears, and the horrible birds—” she blushed and dropped her eyes.

Villon nodded. “I understand,” he said. “And as you suggest, it will be exceedingly disagreeable. But when I think of his poor, frozen feet I am prepared to sacrifice both my comfort and peace of mind!”

“And I shall give you a good dinner,” she added shyly, feeling per¬ haps that she owed him some induce-

“Very well,” said Villon, “I shall do it!” It had not occurred to Villon that she might invite him to dinner. Now that he thought of it, he was atrociously hungry. For three days he had tramped through the vineyards, scribbling ballads to Guenevere the mythical and Guillemette the upholstress and Jenny the

hatter, and to his cronies Master Jehan Cornu and the Seigneur de Grigny, to notaries and abbesses and to Merlin, but nought to whet his appetite had he derived therefrom, and he had munched disconsolately at insufficient cheese and tasted of immature wine, and once he had crawled on his hands and knees to a pool by the roadside to cool his thirst with water that stank. It would be good to sit at a merry provincial board, and with such a companion the time would pass right jollily.

“Sit by the fire,” she commanded, “while I cook the meat. Do you like rice and sugar? And would you care for some champagne of the vintage of 1216?”

“I am not at all difficult to please, ’ ’ said Villon, as he slid into a chair and removed his boots.

The fire was warm and luxurious.

Villon spread out his feet and warmed his great, cumbersome toes by shoving them into the glowing coals and withdrawing them before the heat, could painfully or seriously blister them. Then he stretched his fingers above the coals and whistled a Parisian tune.

The wife of the man on the gibbet unwrapped a dozen white loaves, and heated some broth in a bronze kettle and rolled several small casks of wine into the center of the room. The table was spread with embroidered yellow linen, filigreed on the edges with designs of falcons and hydra-headed dogs wrought in gold and silver wire. Upon the gorgeous cloth she laid large wooden spoons, copper cups and knives and tiny containers replete with various seasoning: vermilion pepper, spice, oil of cloves, nutmeg.

The dinner heralded itself by enticing and glorious odors. Villon sat up, and drew into his nostrils the rich variegated smells of roast geese, fried snails, and scrambled ostrich eggs. Villon displayed upon the whole an admirable restraint. Only once did he lose countenance. A loud hissing sound arose from behind his chair, and Villon shook like an aspen-leaf in an October gale. “ What is that 5 ” he demanded, considerably put out.

“Only mussels from Marseilles. I am putting them into hot water. Don’t you like them?”

Villon sighed and relaxed. The fire became less hot, and he permitted his toes the luxury of a longer interval of repose between the blinking coals.

He was fairly famished, and when she invited him to the board he fell to with relish. He ate furiously, immoderately, and with passion. He swallowed, stuffed and crammed. He discarded spoons and knives, and took between his soiled fingers great chunks of firm, white meat. His manners were deplorable, but his enthusiasm deserved commendation.

“Now,” she said, when he had finished, “you must go out and cut him down. I ask only that. It is so cold that his feet will freeze!”

But Villon had forgotten the man upon the gibbet. His hostess was charming. Theoretically, he had noticed it before, but he suddenly dis¬ covered that she was made of flesh and blood. And the champagne had unfortunately gone to his head.

“Perhaps you do not know that I am a poet,” said Villon, holding on to his chair for support.

“I should never have guessed it!”

“But I am, really. And in Paris I am famous, in spite of—er—an unfortunate accident.”

“An accident?”

“I killed a booby. But it doesn’t really matter. And I’m a master of arts at the University of Paris, and I belong by birth to an exceedingly aristocratic family.”

“But that has nothing to do with my husband, whose feet will surely freeze if you do not go out and cut him down.”

“Naturally. But it is not pleasant to go out in the cold, with the wind whistling about your ears, and the

“What more do you wish?”

“Well, you might spare me one little kiss. No one would ever know. Your husband is scarcely in a position to care, and a kiss is never taken seriously outside of Paris.”

Villon’s hostess seemed a little angry, and her eyes narrowed dangerously. Villon preferred this, since he disliked both high-pitched and docile women. The quiet, angry variety pleased him.

He knew that his proposal was odious to her, but he reflected that a hopeless desire frankly expressed was better than innumerable beatings about the bush. She might refuse his request, but he would not have failed through a cowardly reticence. The thought of his courage nerved him, and he released his hold upon the chair. Then he discovered that he was hopelessly drunk. He seemed so pitiful as he swung back and forth above the table, with his crimson cowl rent in twain and covered with stains, that his considerate and adorable hostess could not contemplate him with anger.

“If I kiss you just once,” she asked, “will you go out and cut him

Villon nodded dejectedly, and con¬ fessed that he would do anything within reason to please her.

“Very well,” she said, “you may kiss me.”

Villon wondered if perchance he had fallen asleep, and he tweaked his nose to assure himself that he did not dream. He had scarcely expected a victory so complete. It seemed unreasonable. Nevertheless, he prepared to take advantage of the opportunity offered him. He smoothed his mustache, and endeavored to cover up the rents in his cowl. “So rapid a con-quest is really very flattering,” he reflected.

She stood in the center of the room, and she did not move away when he came up to her and took her into his arms. “Remember,” she said, “you are only to kiss me once! ’ ’

Villon nodded, and sighed. “That is a misfortune!” he said, and kissed her with delectable impudence. She made no attempt to push him away, and he kissed her eyes, and her hair. Then he quailed and released her. Something horrible had taken place in the soul of the woman before him. The skin on her face had gone suddenly bloodless, and her eyes did not blink at him, but simply stared. Her mouth hung agape, and her shoulders rose up until her head seemed lost between them. She threw out her arms, as if warding off some unthinkable spiritual presence, and retreated toward the comer of the room.

Villon stepped forward, and then, all at once, a sense of profound physical fatigue overwhelmed him. He stood .horribly still in the center of the room, and gazed at his hostess reproachfully as shriek after shriek came from between her colorless lips.

“He’s at the window!” she screamed. “Don’t you see him? And he’s holding up his poor frozen hands, and little streams of blood are running out of his eyes down his frozen cheeks! He saw you kiss me, and now he’s come—he’s come!”

Villon turned slowly and gazed stupidly at the window. It was a small, diamond-paned window set high up in the wall, and Villon saw nothing but darkness, and vague, disturbing shadows that occasionally passed to and fro in back of the shimmering blue glass. “You are very idiotic,” said Villon, “to dis¬ turb yourself over shadows!”

He knew that women often behaved unaccountably, but he could

not explain the change in the woman in the comer. A moment before she had been in his arms, and had not objected to his innumerable caresses; but now she lay huddled in the corner, shivering and wailing, which put quite a different complexion upon the affair. “One never knows,” thought Villon, “what they will take it into their heads to think or do!”

Villon wished that he had not accepted the invitation of his erratic hostess, and he cast anxious glances toward the door. The words that came from between her lips did not carry moral conviction, and Villon preferred not to test her allegations in the light of reason. He preferred to ignore them, which was wise.

But he was really quaking from toe to chin, and when he heard a voice without calling him loudly and urgently by name he sought to establish friendly relations with the woman in the corner. She might, conceivably, be able to intercede for him. “You know that my intentions were honor¬ able,” he said, and this might have led to further talk and discussion, but someone pounded heavily upon the

“Don’t let him in!” shrieked the woman in the comer, and tears ran down her sallow face, and her wide, unblinking blue eyes glittered with unspeakable terror. Villon’s actions failed to reassure her, and when she had exhausted a repertoire of conventional emotions she collapsed in a heap upon the floor.

Villon devoted his entire attention to the door. It was an enormous door, fashioned of stout oak, and it was heavily studded with great bronze nails, and it might have resisted Satan; but Villon felt that the bolt was feeble, and the suspense was killing him. The door bulged inward and shook visibly, and Villon re¬ solved to seize the occasion by its tail. He stepped quickly to the door and unbolted it. A gust of wind swept into the room and whistled up the chimney.

And there in the doorway stood what Villon had feared. It had come down from the gibbet and it stood trembling with wrath, and waving its blood-clotted, skeleton arms against a glimmering square of yellow sky.

F or a moment it wavered uncertainly in the doorway, and then it raised its right foot, and stepped over the sill and into the room. The chains on its wrists and ankles clanked as it advanced leeringly over the smooth floor. Its hollow eyes glittered, and phosphorescently illumed a face that was eaten away at the corners. Its mouth gaped, and a portion of the lower jaw had fallen away, and its teeth projected through a surface layer of mottled and striated and nauseously flabby skin. Villon screamed when he saw its flaring eyes, and the tiny rivulets of blood that oozed from beneath its lids and ran out of the corners of its poor mouth. He covered his eyes with his hands, and endeavored to shut out the noisome sight; but the thing from the gibbet was a screeching reality, and Villon was so intent upon trying to turn it into the stuff of dreams that he aided his imagination to his own hurt. He saw it imaginatively, which was imprudent. He was probably un¬ able to seize upon any straw that might have saved him, and he got to explaining the situation in a manner that was ridiculously trite. It was the champagne, he told himself, and he assured himself that the best thing he could do would be to ignore the thing that had come down from the gibbet.

Perhaps that is the reason why he stood still and did nothing when the thing came up to him and breathed heavily into his pinched, frightened face. But the thing was quite blind, in spite of its coruscating eyes, and it somehow failed to get wind of Villon,

and it stood shivering and moaning and showing all of its yellow teeth, and Villon was conspicuously upset.

Villon stared frowningly for a moment, and thought how much the thing reminded him of the woman in the corner. Married women, thought Villon, noticeably resemble their husbands. For himself he began to wonder why he had ever desired to kiss her. He had, for no definite reason, impaired his dignity. He was so deeply moved when he thought of his humiliation that he entirely forgot the insane, hybrid creature that had stumbled into the room. He could not help feeling that the cards were against him. His several fates had played him a scurvy trick, had rubbed it in disconcertingly thick. With something like a grimace he sat down upon the floor.

The thing went tearing past him and collided against the opposite wall. It collapsed with a terrific rattle, and lay still for a few seconds, breathing heavily. Then it got awkwardly to its feet, and prepared to search the room. It made a disastrous circuit of the walls, groping blindly. It could not speak, but it hissed and whistled, and Villon was sorry, for in spite of his affected indifference he strenuously objected to half-articulate vituperation. The thing was facetiously cursing him and Villon’s spleen rose eloquently. He got to his feet, and stepped forward, and affirmed to the creature’s face that while he conceded its hallucinatory nature he was ill-prepared to overlook even imaginary insults. But the thing continued to search the room, and finally it stumbled upon the woman in the comer.

It bent, evidently in a state of pro¬ found agitation, and its thin, bony fingers fastened upon the woman’s left wrist. Then it drew itself erect, and started across the floor, dragging the woman brutally with it. Villon’s drunken and speculative anger was succeeded by white-hot terror. But he valiantly endeavored to intercept the thing he could not subdue.

Unfortunately the initiative dis¬ played by Villon proved curiously worthless. When he stood in the creature’s path and endeavored to wave it back it simply spat at him, and then it extended a long, bony arm and struck him across the face with the flat of its hand. Villon reeled back, and the knowledge that he had deserved the blow sobered him. He made no further attempt to retard the creature’s progress, and he did not even object when the thing from the gibbet pummeled the woman from the corner until she awoke and screamed—and screamed He did nothing when the loathsome thing re¬ leased its grip upon the woman’s arm and seized upon her long, yellow hair. And when it dragged her out through the door into a night of clouds and owls and trees, Villon simply stared and groaned and fell back against the

Later on he found his way out into the cool night, and discovered to his delight that every little wind awoke and sang. Owls were hooting on the twisted, cankerous arms of hopelessly distorted trees and the boles of the great oaks resembled men walking. The night was filled with futile whispering, and men swore roundly, and ambled through gray orchards and lonely vineyards.

Villon fingered Ins stained cowl and sighed. Above his head two gray, amorphous forms swung merrily in the night wind. The wind tore through their fluffing garments, and they made no sound under the stars. Only the chains clanked on their poor, maimed wrists and ankles, and Villon noticed that one figure held the other closely.

He turned on his heels and walked in the opposite direction. “The pity of it!” he murmured. “Oh, the pity of it!”

The following very curious story is from the Eyrbyggja Saga, one of the oldest and noblest of the Icelandic histories. As it results in an action unique in its way,—a lawsuit brought against a party of ghosts who haunted a house,—it well merits attention from all lovers of curiosities.

In the summer of 1000, the year in which Christianity was established in Iceland, a vessel came off the coast near Snæfellness, full of Irish and natives of the Hebrides, with a few Norsemen among them; the ship came from Dublin, and lay alongside of Rif, waiting a breeze which might waft her into the firth to Dögvertharness. Some people went off in boats from the ness to trade with the vessel. They found on board a Hebridean woman called Thorgunna, who, hinted the sailors, had treasures of female attire in her possession the like of which had never been seen in Iceland. Now when Thurida, the housewife at Frod river, heard this, she was all excitement to get a glimpse of these treasures, for she was a dashing, showy sort of a woman. She rowed out to the ship,[Pg 75] and on meeting Thorgunna, asked her if she had really some first-rate ladies’ dresses? Of course she had, was the answer; but she was not going to part with them to any one. Then might she see them? humbly asked Thurida. Yes, she might see them. So the boxes were opened, and the Iceland lady examined the foreign apparel. It was good, but not so very remarkable as she had anticipated; on the whole she was a bit disappointed, still she would like to purchase, and she made a bid. Thorgunna at once refused to sell. Thurida then invited the Hebridean lady home on a visit, and the stranger, only too glad to leave the vessel, accepted the invitation with alacrity.

On the arrival of the lady with her boxes at the farm, she asked to see her bed, and was shown a convenient closet in the lower part of the hall. There she unlocked her largest trunk, and drew forth a suit of bed-clothes of the most exquisite workmanship, and she spread over the bed English linen sheets and a silken coverlet. From the box she also extracted tapestry hangings and curtains to surround the couch; and the like of all these things had never been seen in the island before.

Thurida opened her eyes very wide, and asked her guest to share bed-clothes with her.

“Not for all the world,” replied the strange lady, with sharpness; “I’m not going to pig it in the rushes, for you, ma’am!”

An answer which, the Saga writer assures us, did[Pg 76] not particularly gratify the good woman of the house.

Thorgunna was stout and tall, disposed to become fat, with black eyebrows, a head of thick bushy brown hair, and soft eyes. She was not much of a talker, not very merry, and it was her wont to go to church every day before beginning her daily task. Many people took her to be about sixty years old. She worked at the loom every day except in haymaking time, and then she went forth into the fields and stacked the hay she had made. The summer that year was wet, and the hay had not been carried on account of the rain, so that at Frod river farm, by autumn, the crop was only half cut, and the rest was still standing.

One day appeared bright and cloudless, and the farmer, Thorodd, ordered the house to turn out for a general haymaking. The strange lady worked along with the rest, tossing hay till the hour of nones, when a black cloud crossed the sky from the north, and by the time that prayers had been said such a darkness had come on that it was almost impossible to see. The haymakers, at Thorodd’s command, raked their hay together into cocks, but Thorgunna, for no assignable reason, left hers spread. It now became so dark that there was no seeing a hand held up before the face, and down came the rain in torrents. It did not last many minutes, and then the sky cleared, and the evening was as bright as had been the morning.

[Pg 77]It was observed by the haymakers on their return to their work that it had rained blood, for all the grass was stained. They spread it, and it soon dried up; but Thorgunna tried in vain to dry hers, it had been so thoroughly saturated that the sun went down leaving it dripping blood, and all her clothes were discoloured. Thurida asked what could be the meaning of the portent, and Thorgunna answered that it boded ill to the house and its inmates. In the evening, late, the strange woman returned home, and went to her closet and stripped the stained clothes off her. She then lay down in her bed and began to sigh. It was soon ascertained that she was ill, and when food was brought her she would not swallow it.

Next morning the bonder came to her bedside to inquire how she felt, and to learn what turn the sickness was likely to take. The poor lady told him that she feared her end was approaching, and she earnestly besought him to attend to her directions as to the disposal of her property, not changing any particular, as such a change would entail misery on the family. Thorodd declared his readiness to carry out her wishes to the minutest detail.

“This, then,” said she, “is my last request. I desire my body to be taken to Skalholt, if I die of this disease, for I have a presentiment that that place will shortly become the most sacred in the island, and that clerks will be there who will chant over me; and do you reimburse yourself from my[Pg 78] chattels for any outlay in carrying this into effect. Let your wife Thurida have my scarlet gown, lest she be put out at the further distribution of my effects, which I propose. My gold ring I bequeath to the Church; but my bed, with its curtains, tapestry, coverlet, and sheets, I desire to have burned, so that they go into nobody’s possession. This I desire, not because I grudge the use of these handsome articles to anybody, but because I foresee that the possession of them would be the cause of innumerable quarrels and heart-burnings.”

Thorodd promised solemnly to fulfil every particular to the letter.

The complaint now rapidly gained ground, and before many days Thorgunna was dead. The farmer put her corpse into a coffin; then took all the bed-furniture into the open air, and, raising a pile of wood, flung the clothes on top of it, and was about to fire the pile, when, with a face pale with dismay, forth rushed Thurida to know what in the name of wonder her husband was about to do with those treasures of needlework, the coverlet, sheets, and curtains of the strange lady’s bed.

“Burn them! according to her dying request,” replied Thorodd.

“Burn them?” echoed Thurida, casting up her hands and eyes; “what nonsense! Thorgunna only desired this to be done because she was full of envy lest others should enjoy these incomparable treasures.”

“But she threatened all kinds of misfortunes[Pg 79] unless I strictly obeyed her injunctions; and I promised to do what she bid,” expostulated the worthy man.

“Oh, that is all fancy!” exclaimed the wife; “what misfortune can these articles possibly bring upon us?”

Thorodd still stood out; but in his house, as in many another, the gray mare was the better horse, and what with entreaties, embraces, and tears, he was forced to effect a compromise, and relinquish to his wife the hangings and the coverlet in order that he might secure immunity for burning the pillow and the sheets. Yet neither party was satisfied, says the historian.

Next day preparations were made for flitting the corpse to Skalholt, and trustworthy men were appointed to accompany it. The body was swathed in linen, but not stitched up; it was then put into the coffin and placed on horseback. So they started with it over the moor, and nothing particular happened till they reached Valbjarnar plain, where there are many pools and morasses, and the corpse had repeated falls into the mire. Well, after a bit they crossed the North river at Eyar ford, but the water was very deep, for there had been heavy rains.

At nightfall they reached Stafholt, and asked the farmer to take them in. He declined peremptorily, probably disliking the notion of housing a corpse, and he shut the door in their faces. They could go no farther that night, as the White river was before them, which was very deep and broad and could only[Pg 80] be traversed in safety by day; so they took the coffin into an outhouse, and after some trouble persuaded the farmer to let them sleep in his hall; but he would not give them any food, so they went supperless to bed. Scarcely, however, was all quiet in the house before a strange clatter was heard in the shed serving as larder. One of the farm servants, thinking that thieves were breaking in, stole to the door, and on looking in, beheld a tall naked woman, with thick brown hair, busily engaged in preparing food. The poor fellow was so frightened that he fled back to his bed, quaking like an aspen leaf. In another moment the nude figure stalked into the hall, bearing victuals in both hands, and these she placed on the table. By the dim light the bearers recognised Thorgunna, and they understood now that she resented the churlishness of the host, and had left her coffin to provide food for them. The farmer and his wife were now speedily brought to terms, and leaving their beds they displayed the utmost alacrity in supplying the necessities of their guests. A fire was lighted; the wet clothes were taken off the travellers; curd and beer, and a stew of Iceland-moss were set before them.

Hist!—a little noise in the outhouse! It is only Thorgunna stepping back into her coffin.

Nothing transpired of any moment during the rest of the journey. The bearers had but to narrate the story of the preceding night’s events, and they were sure of a ready welcome wherever they halted.

[Pg 81]At Skalholt all went well; the clerks accepted the gold ring, and chanted over the body: they buried her deep, and put green turf over her. So, their errand accomplished, the servants of Thorodd returned home.

At Frod river there was a large hall, with a closed bedroom at one end of it. On each side of the hall were closets; in one of these closets dried fish were stacked up, and flour was kept in the other. Every evening, about meal-time, a great fire was lighted in the hall, and men used to sit before it ere they adjourned to supper. The same night that the funeral party returned the men were sitting chatting round the fire, when suddenly they perceived a phosphorescent half-moon grow into brilliancy on the wall of the apartment, and travel slowly round the hall against the sun. The appearance continued all the while the men sat by the fire, and was visible every evening after. Thorodd asked Thorir Stumpleg, his bailiff, what this portended; and the man replied that it boded death to some one, but to whom he could not say.

One day a shepherd came in, gloomy, and muttering to himself in a strange manner. When addressed, he answered wildly, and they thought he must have lost his wits. The man remained in this state for some little while. One night he went to bed as usual, but in the morning when the men came to wake him, they found him lying dead in his place.

[Pg 82]He was buried in the church.

A few nights after, strange sounds were heard outside the house; and one night when Thorir Stumpleg went outside the door, he saw the shepherd stride past him. Thorir attempted to slip indoors again, but the shepherd grasped him, and after a short tussle cast him in, so that he fell upon the hall floor bruised and severely injured. He succeeded in crawling to his bed, but he never rose from it again. His body was purple and swollen. After a few days he died, and was buried in the churchyard. Immediately after, his spectre was seen to walk in company with that of the shepherd.

A servant of Thorir now sickened, and after three days’ illness died. Within a few days five more died. The fast preceding Christmas approached, though in those days the fashion of fasting was not introduced. In the closet containing dried fish, the stack was so big that the door could not be closed, and when fish were wanted, a ladder was placed against the pile and the top fish were taken away for use. In the evening, as men sat over the fire, the stack of dried fish was suddenly upset, and when people went to examine it, they could discover no cause. Just before Yule, also, Thorodd, the bonder, went out in a long boat with seven men to Ness, after some fish, and they were out all night. The same evening, the fires having been kindled in the hall at Frod river, a seal’s head was seen to rise out of the floor of the apartment. A servant girl, who[Pg 83] first saw it, rushed to the door, and catching up a bludgeon which lay beside it, struck at the seal’s head. The blow made the head rise higher out of the floor, and it turned its eyes towards the bed-curtains of Thorgunna. A house-churl now took the stick and beat at the apparition, but he fared no better, for the head rose higher at each stroke till its forefins appeared, and the fellow was so frightened that he fainted away. Then up came Kiartan, the bonder’s son, a lad of twelve, and snatching up a large iron mallet for beating the fish, he brought it down with a crash on the seal’s head. He struck again and again, till he drove it into the floor, much as one might drive a pile; he then beat down the earth over it.

It was noticed by all that on every occasion the lad Kiartan was the only one who had any power over the apparitions.

Next morning it was ascertained that Thorodd and his men had been lost, for the boat was driven ashore near Enni; but the bodies were never recovered.

Thurida, and her son Kiartan, immediately invited all their kindred and neighbours to a funeral feast. They had brewed for Yule, and now they kept the banquet in commemoration of the dead. When all the company had arrived, and had taken their places—the seats of the dead men being, as customary, left vacant—the hall door was darkened, and the guests beheld Thorodd and his servants[Pg 84] enter, dripping with water. All were gratified, for at that time it was considered a token of favourable acceptance with the goddess Ran if the dead men came to the wake; “and,” says the Saga writer, “though we are Christian men, and baptized, we have faith in the same token still.” The spectres walked through the hall without greeting any one, and sat down before the fire. The servants fled in all directions, and the dead men sat silently round the flames till the fire died out, then they left the house as they had entered it. This happened every evening as long as the feast continued, and some deemed that at the conclusion of the festivities the apparition would cease. The wake terminated, and the visitors dispersed. The fire was lighted as usual towards dusk, and in, as before, came Thorodd and his retinue, dripping with water; they sat down before the hearth, and began to wring out their clothes. Next came in the spectres of Thorir Stumpleg and the six who had died in bed after him, and had been buried; they were covered with mould, and they proceeded to shake the mould off their clothes upon Thorodd and his men.

The inmates of the house deserted the room, and remained without light and heat in another apartment. Next day the fire was not lighted in the hall but in the other room; the farm-people reckoning upon the ghosts keeping to the hall. But no! in came the spectral train, and upon the living men vacating their seats, the ghosts occupied them, and[Pg 85] sat looking grimly into the red fire till it died out, whilst the terrified servants spent the evening in the hall.

On the third day two fires were kindled—one in the hall for the ghosts, and another in the small chamber for the living men; and so it had to be done throughout the whole of Yule.

Fresh disturbances now began in the fish closet, and it seemed as though a bull were among the fish, tossing them about; and this went on night and day. A man set the ladder against the stack and climbed to the top. He observed emerging from the pile of stockfish a tail like that of a cow which had been singed, but soft and covered with hair like that of a seal. The fellow caught the tail and pulled at it, calling lustily for help. Up ran men and women, and all dragged at the tail, but none of them could pull it out; it seemed stiff and dead, yet suddenly it was whisked out of their hands, and rasped the skin off their palms. The stack was now taken down, but no traces of the tail could be found, only it was discovered that the skin had been peeled off the fish, and at the bottom of the stack not a bit of flesh was left upon them.

Thorgrima, the widow of Thorir Stumpleg, fell ill shortly after this; on the evening of her burial she was seen in company with Thorir and his party. All those who had seen the tail were now attacked, and died—men and women. In the autumn there had been thirty household servants at Frod river, of[Pg 86] these now eighteen were dead, the ghosts had frightened five away, and at the beginning of the month of May there remained but seven.

Things had come to such a pass as to render ruin imminent, unless some decisive measure were pursued to rid the house of the spectres that haunted it. Kiartan, accordingly, determined on consulting Snorri, the Lawman, his mother’s brother, and one of the shrewdest men Iceland ever produced. Kiartan reached his uncle’s house at Helgafell at the same time that a priest arrived from Gizor White, the apostle of Iceland. Snorri advised Kiartan to take the priest with him to Frod river, to burn all the bed-furniture of Thorgunna, to hold a court at his door, and bring a formal action at law against the spectres, and then to get the priest to sprinkle the house with holy water, and to shrive the survivors on the farm. Along with him Snorri sent his son Thord Kausi, with six men, that he might summons Kiartan’s father, considering that there might be a little delicacy in the son bringing an action against the ghost of his own father.

So it was settled, and Kiartan rode home. On his way he called at neighbours’ houses and asked help: so that by the time he reached Frod river his party was considerably swelled. It was Candlemas day, and they drew up at the farm door just after the fires had been lighted and the ghosts had assumed their customary places. Kiartan found his mother in bed, with all the premonitory symptoms[Pg 87] of the same complaint which had carried off so many others in the house. The lad passed the spectres, and going up to the bed of Thorgunna, removed the quilt and curtains and every article which had belonged to her. Then he pushed boldly up to the fire past the ghosts, and took a brand from it.

In a few minutes he had made a pile of brushwood, and had thrown the bed-furniture on the top. The flames roared up around the luckless articles and consumed them. A court was next constituted at the door, according to proper legal forms, and Kiartan summoned Thorir Stumpleg, whilst Thord Kausi summoned Thorodd for entering a gentleman’s house without permission, and bringing mischief and death among his retainers.

Every spectre there present was summoned by name in due and legal form. The plaintiffs argued their case, and witnesses were called and examined. The defendants were asked what exceptions they had to plead, and upon their remaining silent, sentence was pronounced. Each case was taken separately, and the court sat long. The first action disposed of was that against Thorir. He was ordered to leave the house forthwith. Upon hearing this decree of the court, Stumpleg rose from his chair and said—

“I sat whilst sit I might,” and hobbled out of the hall by the door opposite to that before which the court was held.

[Pg 88]The case of the shepherd was next disposed of. On hearing the sentence he rose,—

“I go; better had I been dismissed before,” he vanished through the door.

When Thorgrima was ordered to depart, she followed the others, saying,—

“I remained whilst to remain was lawful.”

Each who left said a few words which evinced a disinclination to desert the fireside for the grave and sea depths.

The last to go was Thorodd, and he said,—

“There is now no peace for us here; we are flitting one by one.”

After this Kiartan went in, and the priest took holy water and sprinkled the walls of the house; then he sang mass, and performed many ceremonies.

So the spectres haunted Frod river no more; Thurida got better rapidly, and the prospects of the farm mended.