Chiara C. Rizzarda's Blog, page 16

#MerfolkMonday: The Water Snake

Another folk-tale translated by William Ralston Shedden-Ralston in his A Choice Collection of Muscovite Folk-lore (1887). It’s grouped in Chapter III, “Miscellaneous Impersonations”, together with “The Water King and Vasilissa the Wise” I gave you last week. The scholar who collected this one is of this one is A.A. Erlenwein, in a collection called Folk Tales Collected by Rural Teachers from 1863.

There was once an old woman who had a daughter; and her daughter went down to the pond one day to bathe with the other girls. They all stripped off their shifts, and went into the water. Then there came a snake out of the water, and glided on to the daughter’s shift. After a time the girls all came out, and began to put on their shifts, and the old woman’s daughter wanted to put on hers, but there was the snake lying on it. She tried to drive him away, but there he stuck and would not move. Then the snake said:

“If you’ll marry me, I’ll give you back your shift.”

Now she wasn’t at all inclined to marry him, but the other girls said:

“As if it were possible for you to be married to him! Say you will!” So she said, “Very well, I will.” Then the snake glided off from the shift, and went straight into the water. The girl dressed and went home. And as soon as she got there, she said to her mother,

“Mammie, mammie, thus and thus, a snake got upon my shift, and says he, ‘Marry me or I won’t let you have your shift;’ and I said, ‘I will.’”

“What nonsense are you talking, you little fool! as if one could marry a snake!”

And so they remained just as they were, and forgot all about the matter.

A week passed by, and one day they saw ever so many snakes, a huge troop of them, wriggling up to their cottage. “Ah, mammie, save me, save me!” cried the girl, and her mother slammed the door and barred the entrance as quickly as possible. The snakes would have rushed in at the door, but the door was shut; they would have rushed into the passage, but the passage was closed. Then in a moment they rolled themselves into a ball, flung themselves at the window, smashed it to pieces, and glided in a body into the room. The girl got upon the stove, but they followed her, pulled her down, and bore her out of the room and out of doors. Her mother accompanied her, crying like anything.

They took the girl down to the pond, and dived right into the water with her. And there they all turned into men and women. The mother remained for some time on the dike, wailed a little, and then went home.

Three years went by. The girl lived down there, and had two children, a son and a daughter. Now she often entreated her husband to let her go to see her mother. So at last one day he took her up to the surface of the water, and brought her ashore. But she asked him before leaving him,

“What am I to call out when I want you?”

“Call out to me, ‘Osip, [Joseph] Osip, come here!’ and I will come,” he replied.

Then he dived under water again, and she went to her mother’s, carrying her little girl on one arm, and leading her boy by the hand. Out came her mother to meet her—was so delighted to see her!

“Good day, mother!” said the daughter.

“Have you been doing well while you were living down there?” asked her mother.

“Very well indeed, mother. My life there is better than yours here.”

They sat down for a bit and chatted. Her mother got dinner ready for her, and she dined.

“What’s your husband’s name?” asked her mother.

“Osip,” she replied.

“And how are you to get home?”

“I shall go to the dike, and call out, ‘Osip, Osip, come here!’ and he’ll come.”

“Lie down, daughter, and rest a bit,” said the mother.

So the daughter lay down and went to sleep. The mother immediately took an axe and sharpened it, and went down to the dike with it. And when she came to the dike, she began calling out,

“Osip, Osip, come here!”

No sooner had Osip shown his head than the old woman lifted her axe and chopped it off. And the water in the pond became dark with blood.

The old woman went home. And when she got home her daughter awoke.

“Ah! mother,” says she, “I’m getting tired of being here; I’ll go home.”

“Do sleep here to-night, daughter; perhaps you won’t have another chance of being with me.”

So the daughter stayed and spent the night there. In the morning she got up and her mother got breakfast ready for her; she breakfasted, and then she said good-bye to her mother and went away, carrying her little girl in her arms, while her boy followed behind her. She came to the dike, and called out:

“Osip, Osip, come here!”

She called and called, but he did not come.

Then she looked into the water, and there she saw a head floating about. Then she guessed what had happened.

“Alas! my mother has killed him!” she cried.

There on the bank she wept and wailed. And then to her girl she cried:

“Fly about as a wren, henceforth and evermore!”

And to her boy she cried:

“Fly about as a nightingale, my boy, henceforth and evermore!”

“But I,” she said, “will fly about as a cuckoo, crying ‘Cuckoo!’ henceforth and evermore!”

Alexander Nikolayevich Afanasyev, “The Soldier and the Vampire”

Alexander Nikolayevich Afanasyev (1826–1871) was a folklorist and ethnographer who collected nearly 600 East Slavic and Russian fairy tales between 1855 and 1867. His collection is considered one of the largest folklore collections worldwide and earned him a reputation as the Russian counterpart to the Brothers Grimm. This tale, known as “The Fiend” or “The Vampire”, is a number 363 in the Aarne-Thompson-Uther Index as it deals with the theme of the Corpse-Eater.

The version here provided comes from an English translation by one William Ralston Shedden-Ralston of the British Museum, a corresponding member of the Imperial Geographical Society of Russia,  who also compiled collections called The Songs of the Russian People and Krilof and his Fables. The collection is dedicated to Alexander Afanasyev, and it’s called A Choice Collection of Muscovite Folk-lore, and it was published in 1887. I already gave you “The Fiend”. This tale comes near the end of the book.

This time, I also included Shedden-Ralston’s commentary.

A certain soldier was allowed to go home on furlough. Well, he walked and walked, and after a time he began to draw near to his native village. Not far off from that village lived a miller in his mill. In old times the Soldier had been very intimate with him: why shouldn’t he go and see his friend? He went. The Miller received him cordially, and at once brought out liquor; and the two began drinking, and chattering about their ways and doings. All this took place towards nightfall, and the Soldier stopped so long at the Miller’s that it grew quite dark.

When he proposed to start for his village, his host exclaimed:

“Spend the night here, trooper! It’s very late now, and perhaps you might run into mischief.”

“How so?”

“God is punishing us! A terrible warlock has died among us, and by night he rises from his grave, wanders through the village, and does such things as bring fear upon the very boldest! How could even you help being afraid of him?”

“Not a bit of it! A soldier is a man who belongs to the crown, and ‘crown property cannot be drowned in water nor burnt in fire.’ I’ll be off: I’m tremendously anxious to see my people as soon as possible.”

Off he set. His road lay in front of a graveyard. On one of the graves he saw a great fire blazing. “What’s that?” thinks he. “Let’s have a look.” When he drew near, he saw that the Warlock was sitting by the fire, sewing boots.

“Hail, brother!” calls out the Soldier.

The Warlock looked up and said:

“What have you come here for?”

“Why, I wanted to see what you’re doing.”

The Warlock threw his work aside and invited the Soldier to a wedding.

“Come along, brother,” says he, “let’s enjoy ourselves. There’s a wedding going on in the village.”

“Come along!” says the Soldier.

They came to where the wedding was; there they were given drink, and treated with the utmost hospitality. The Warlock drank and drank, revelled and revelled, and then grew angry. He chased all the guests and relatives out of the house, threw the wedded pair into a slumber, took out two phials and an awl, pierced the hands of the bride and bridegroom with the awl, and began drawing off their blood. Having done this, he said to the Soldier:

“Now let’s be off.”

Well, they went off. On the way the Soldier said:

“Tell me; why did you draw off their blood in those phials?”

“Why, in order that the bride and bridegroom might die. To-morrow morning no one will be able to wake them. I alone know how to bring them back to life.”

“How’s that managed?”

“The bride and bridegroom must have cuts made in their heels, and some of their own blood must then be poured back into those wounds. I’ve got the bridegroom’s blood stowed away in my right-hand pocket, and the bride’s in my left.”

The Soldier listened to this without letting a single word escape him. Then the Warlock began boasting again.

“Whatever I wish,” says he, “that I can do!”

“I suppose it’s quite impossible to get the better of you?” says the Soldier.

“Why impossible? If any one were to make a pyre of aspen boughs, a hundred loads of them, and were to burn me on that pyre, then he’d be able to get the better of me. Only he’d have to look out sharp in burning me; for snakes and worms and different kinds of reptiles would creep out of my inside, and crows and magpies and jackdaws would come flying up. All these must be caught and flung on the pyre. If so much as a single maggot were to escape, then there’d be no help for it; in that maggot I should slip away!”

The Soldier listened to all this and did not forget it. He and the Warlock talked and talked, and at last they arrived at the grave.

“Well, brother,” said the Warlock, “now I’ll tear you to pieces. Otherwise you’d be telling all this.”

“What are you talking about? Don’t you deceive yourself; I serve God and the Emperor.”

The Warlock gnashed his teeth, howled aloud, and sprang at the Soldier—who drew his sword and began laying about him with sweeping blows. They struggled and struggled; the Soldier was all but at the end of his strength. “Ah!” thinks he, “I’m a lost man—and all for nothing!” Suddenly the cocks began to crow. The Warlock fell lifeless to the ground.

The Soldier took the phials of blood out of the Warlock’s pockets, and went on to the house of his own people. When he had got there, and had exchanged greetings with his relatives, they said:

“Did you see any disturbance, Soldier?”

“No, I saw none.”

“There now! Why we’ve a terrible piece of work going on in the village. A Warlock has taken to haunting it!”

After talking awhile, they lay down to sleep. Next morning the Soldier awoke, and began asking:

“I’m told you’ve got a wedding going on somewhere here?”

“There was a wedding in the house of a rich moujik,” replied his relatives, “but the bride and bridegroom have died this very night—what from, nobody knows.”

“Where does this moujik live?”

They showed him the house. Thither he went without speaking a word. When he got there, he found the whole family in tears.

“What are you mourning about?” says he.

“Such and such is the state of things, Soldier,” say they.

“I can bring your young people to life again. What will you give me if I do?”

“Take what you like, even were it half of what we’ve got!”

The Soldier did as the Warlock had instructed him, and brought the young people back to life. Instead of weeping there began to be happiness and rejoicing; the Soldier was hospitably treated and well rewarded. Then—left about, face! off he marched to the Starosta, and told him to call the peasants together and to get ready a hundred loads of aspen wood. Well, they took the wood into the graveyard, dragged the Warlock out of his grave, placed him on the pyre, and set it alight—the people all standing round in a circle with brooms, shovels, and fire-irons. The pyre became wrapped in flames, the Warlock began to burn. His corpse burst, and out of it crept snakes, worms, and all sorts of reptiles, and up came flying crows, magpies, and jackdaws. The peasants knocked them down and flung them into the fire, not allowing so much as a single maggot to creep away! And so the Warlock was thoroughly consumed, and the Soldier collected his ashes and strewed them to the winds. From that time forth there was peace in the village.

The Soldier received the thanks of the whole community. He stayed at home some time, enjoying himself thoroughly. Then he went back to the Tsar’s service with money in his pocket. When he had served his time, he retired from the army, and began to live at his ease.

The stories of this class are very numerous, all of them based on the same belief—that in certain cases the dead, in a material shape, leave their graves in order to destroy and prey upon the living. This belief is not peculiar to the Slavonians but it is one of the characteristic features of their spiritual creed. Among races which burn their dead, remarks Hertz in his exhaustive treatise on the Werwolf (p. 126), little is known of regular “corpse-spectres.” Only vague apparitions, dream-like phantoms, are supposed, as a general rule, to issue from graves in which nothing more substantial than ashes has been laid. But where it is customary to lay the dead body in the ground, “a peculiar half-life” becomes attributed to it by popular fancy, and by some races it is supposed to be actuated at intervals by murderous impulses. In the East these are generally attributed to the fact of its being possessed by an evil spirit, but in some parts of Europe no such explanation of its conduct is given, though it may often be implied. “The belief in vampires is the specific Slavonian form of the universal belief in spectres (Gespenster),” says Hertz, and certainly vampirism has always made those lands peculiarly its own which are or have been tenanted or greatly influenced by Slavonians.

But animated corpses often play an important part in the traditions of other countries. Among the Scandinavians and especially in Iceland, were they the cause of many fears, though they were not supposed to be impelled by a thirst for blood so much as by other carnal appetites, or by a kind of local malignity. In Germany tales of horror similar to the Icelandic are by no means unknown, but the majority of them are to be found in districts which were once wholly Lettic or Slavonic, though they are now reckoned as Teutonic, such as East Prussia, or Pomerania, or Lusatia. But it is among the races which are Slavonic by tongue as well as by descent, that the genuine vampire tales flourish most luxuriantly: in Russia, in Poland, and in Servia—among the Czekhs of Bohemia, and the Slovaks of Hungary, and the numerous other subdivisions of the Slavonic family which are included within the heterogeneous empire of Austria. Among the Albanians and Modern Greeks they have taken firm root, but on those peoples a strong Slavonic influence has been brought to bear. Even Prof. Bernhard Schmidt, although an uncompromising opponent of Fallmerayer’s doctrines with regard to the Slavonic origin of the present inhabitants of Greece, allows that the Greeks, as they borrowed from the Slavonians a name for the Vampire, may have received from them also certain views and customs with respect to it. Beyond this he will not go, and he quotes a number of passages from Hellenic writers to prove that in ancient Greece spectres were frequently represented as delighting in blood, and sometimes as exercising a power to destroy. Nor will he admit that any very great stress ought to be laid upon the fact that the Vampire is generally called in Greece by a name of Slavonic extraction; for in the islands, which were, he says, little if at all affected by Slavonic influences, the Vampire bears a thoroughly Hellenic designation. But the thirst for blood attributed by Homer to his shadowy ghosts seems to have been of a different nature from that evinced by the material Vampire of modern days, nor does that ghastly revenant seem by any means fully to correspond to such ghostly destroyers as the spirit of Gello, or the spectres of Medea’s slaughtered children. It is not only in the Vampire, however, that we find a point of close contact between the popular beliefs of the New-Greeks and the Slavonians. Prof. Bernhard Schmidt’s excellent work is full of examples which prove how intimately they are connected.

The districts of the Russian Empire in which a belief in vampires mostly prevails are White Russia and the Ukraine. But the ghastly blood-sucker, the Upir, whose name has become naturalized in so many alien lands under forms resembling our “Vampire,” disturbs the peasant-mind in many other parts of Russia, though not perhaps with the same intense fear which it spreads among the inhabitants of the above-named districts, or of some other Slavonic lands. The numerous traditions which have gathered around the original idea vary to some extent according to their locality, but they are never radically inconsistent.

Some of the details are curious. The Little-Russians hold that if a vampire’s hands have grown numb from remaining long crossed in the grave, he makes use of his teeth, which are like steel. When he has gnawed his way with these through all obstacles, he first destroys the babes he finds in a house, and then the older inmates. If fine salt be scattered on the floor of a room, the vampire’s footsteps may be traced to his grave, in which he will be found resting with rosy cheek and gory mouth.

The Kashoubes say that when a Vieszcy, as they call the Vampire, wakes from his sleep within the grave, he begins to gnaw his hands and feet; and as he gnaws, one after another, first his relations, then his other neighbors, sicken and die. When he has finished his own store of flesh, he rises at midnight and destroys cattle, or climbs a belfry and sounds the bell. All who hear the ill-omened tones will soon die. But generally he sucks the blood of sleepers. Those on whom he has operated will be found next morning dead, with a very small wound on the left side of the breast, exactly over the heart. The Lusatian Wends hold that when a corpse chews its shroud or sucks its own breast, all its kin will soon follow it to the grave. The Wallachians say that a murony—a sort of cross between a werwolf and a vampire, connected by name with our nightmare—can take the form of a dog, a cat, or a toad, and also of any blood-sucking insect. When he is exhumed, he is found to have long nails of recent growth on his hands and feet, and blood is streaming from his eyes, ears, nose and mouth.

The Russian stories give a very clear account of the operation performed by the vampire on his victims. Thus, one night, a peasant is conducted by a stranger into a house where lie two sleepers, an old man and a youth. “The stranger takes a pail, places it near the youth, and strikes him on the back; immediately the back opens, and forth flows rosy blood. The stranger fills the pail full, and drinks it dry. Then he fills another pail with blood from the old man, slakes his brutal thirst, and says to the peasant, ‘It begins to grow light! let us go back to my dwelling.’”

Many skazkas also contain, as we have already seen, very clear directions how to deprive a vampire of his baleful power. According to them, as well as to their parallels elsewhere, a stake must be driven through the murderous corpse. In Russia an aspen stake is selected for that purpose, but in some places one made of thorn is preferred. But a Bohemian vampire, when staked in this manner in the year 1337, says Mannhardt, merely exclaimed that the stick would be very useful for keeping off dogs; and a strigon (or Istrian vampire) who was transfixed with a sharp thorn cudgel near Laibach, in 1672, pulled it out of his body and flung it back contemptuously. The only certain methods of destroying a vampire appear to be either to consume him by fire, or to chop off his head with a grave-digger’s shovel. The Wends say that if a vampire is hit over the back of the head with an implement of that kind, he will squeal like a pig.

The origin of the Vampire is hidden in obscurity. In modern times it has generally been a wizard, or a witch, or a suicide, or a person who has come to a violent end, or who has been cursed by the Church or by his parents, who takes such an unpleasant means of recalling himself to the memory of his surviving relatives and acquaintances. But even the most honorable dead may become vampires by accident. He whom a vampire has slain is supposed, in some countries, himself to become a vampire. The leaping of a cat or some other animal across a corpse, even the flight of a bird above it, may turn the innocent defunct into a ravenous demon. Sometimes, moreover, a man is destined from his birth to be a vampire, being the offspring of some unholy union. In some instances the Evil One himself is the father of such a doomed victim, in others a temporarily animated corpse. But whatever may be the cause of a corpse’s “vampirism,” it is generally agreed that it will give its neighbors no rest until they have at least transfixed it. What is very remarkable about the operation is, that the stake must be driven through the vampire’s body by a single blow. A second would restore it to life. This idea accounts for the otherwise unexplained fact that the heroes of folk-tales are frequently warned that they must on no account be tempted into striking their magic foes more than one stroke. Whatever voices may cry aloud “Strike again!” they must remain contented with a single blow.

Among the Gnomes

Chapter 4

While I was sleeping I experienced a horrible dream. The jumping-jack before me assumed the features of a baboon, having a great resemblance to Professor Cracker, and besides this there were two grotesque figures standing at the foot of the pole. One was wooden nut-cracker with goggle eyes, a long nose and protruding chin, the very image of Jeremiah Stiffbone; and the other a curiously shaped whisky-jug of stoneware, having the form and features of Mr Scalawag; and while the monkey was moving up and down on the pole, the nut-cracker and the whisky-jug danced, and all three sang the following song:

Huzza and hey-day! Up and down we go;
There being nothing that we do not know.
We prove that black is white and white is black,
And all the world admires the jumping-jack.
And as we jump go jumping all the rest;
Who jumps the highest knows his business best.
Forward and backward on the beaten track:
There’s nothing greater than a jumping-jack.
And to our stick we cling from first to last;
Who asks for more is only a fantast.
Thus up and down we go, upward and back:
This is the glory of a jumping-jack.

After they finished singing, the nut-cracker sniffed the air with his nose and turned his goggle eyes in the direction where I was hidden, after which his jaws began to move, and he said:

“I am smelling human flesh. There is some one present.”

To this the whisky-jug replied, while grinning from ear to ear:

“Who knows but it may be Mr Schneider, or his ghost.”

“Mr Schneider has no ghost,” said the baboon. “If we were to find one, we would have to destroy it immediately, to save the reputation of science.”

“I am quite sure that something of that kind is hidden somewhere,” replied the nut-cracker, and turning to the baboon, he asked: “Do you see anything?”

“Seeing is deceptive,” answered the baboon, “but we will see whether we cannot reason it out. Wait till I come down.”

So saying, the monkey stopped his motions, and to my horror I saw him unfastening his hands from the crossbar. Climbing down the yellow stick, he joined the whisky-jug and the nut-cracker, and all three searched the place and almost stumbled over me, but they did not see me.

“There is nothing,” said the baboon. “However, there can be no doubt that Schneider is dead, and the only thing to be regretted about it is that he did not die in the interest of science. If we had known that he was going to die anyhow, we might have subjected him to certain experiments.”

Strange to say, during this dream I had no thought of being a Mulligan; but my individuality was changed back to Mr Schneider. When I awoke Schneider was gone, and I was once more Mulligan.

“De mortuis nil nisi bene!” drawled out the nut-cracker. “But if Schneider had died in the interest of science, it would have been the first useful thing he ever did.” So saying, the nut-cracker clapped his jaws.

The whisky-jug blinked with his little eyes and added, “He meant well, but——”

I knew what he was going to say, and this made me very angry. I therefore jumped at him and gave him a box on the ear; but my fist went quite through his head, and it had no other effect upon him than stopping his sentence. He did not seem to notice it; but I now knew that I had died and become a spirit. I also saw that I could take possession of people and use their organs of speech, and as the nut-cracker was nearest to me, I went inside of him and caused him to exclaim:—

“I will show you whether or not I am a well-meaning fool! Confound you and your science! I have been among the gnomes and know that they exist! but you are the blind fools who cannot see anything because you are too stupid to open your eyes.”

“Brother Stiffbone has become insane,” said the baboon; “let us tie him before he does us any injury.”

Thereupon the baboon and the whisky-jug went for me while I was in the nut-cracker’s body, and I went in that shape for them. I snapped at the baboon’s ear and gave him a black eye, and I tore out a handful of hair from the head of the whisky-jug, who in his turn broke my—that is to say, the nut-cracker’s nose. At last they got the best of me; because the wooden limbs of the nut-cracker were so stiff and I could not move them quickly enough. We fell down, and the baboon was kneeling upon my breast when I awoke.

Once more I was Mr Mulligan. I opened my eyes and found myself in inky darkness. The first thing I did was to feel my nose to see whether it was broken. The nose was all right, and its solidity convinced me that I was no ghost, and my adventure with the nut-cracker’s body, however real it seemed, had been only a dream. I groped about for the purpose of finding the jumping-jack, but it was gone; neither did I regret its absence, for with the sight of it all my affection for it had departed, and I could not understand how I could have been so foolish as to permit myself to be attracted by it. My desire for the purple monkey had left me; but my love for the princess returned. I yearned for her presence and called her name; but no answer came; there was nothing around me but darkness and solitude.

Ever since that event I have often asked myself, Why do we hate to be for a long time alone? The only answer I could find is, that when we are alone with ourselves, the company of our self is not sufficiently satisfactory and agreeable to us. Perhaps we do not sufficiently know that self to fully enjoy its presence. Perhaps we do not know that self at all, and then of course we are in company with something we do not know, which means in company with nothing, and to enjoy the presence of nothing is to have no enjoyment at all.

I confess that I never realised my own nothingness so much as on that occasion. The old doubts returned again. I did not know whether I was living or whether something which imagined itself to be “I” seemed to live, and if that which only seemed to be myself was to be vivisected, why should I trouble myself about it, as the vivisection of something unknown to me did not concern me at all, unless I voluntarily chose to take any interest in it? But how could I think of making any choice at all if that “I” was something unknown? I instinctively refused to recognise as myself that personality which was governed by the spell of a jumping-jack, and I spoke to myself as if I were another person.

“Well, Mulligan!” I said, “how could you be such an idiot as to submit yourself to the power of a baboon! Really, I doubt whether you are a man. Pshaw! the gnomes are right. You are a monkey yourself, and even inferior to a monkey, because the baboon was your master. A nice lord of creation you are, being controlled by the creation of your own foolish fancy. A lord of creation, indeed! One who cannot even resist the attraction of a jumping-jack!”

Thus I went on moralising, and wondered what my real Ego was, and whether it had anything at all to do with what seemed to be myself. I wished to know whether I—that is to say, my real self—was; for what purpose I was in the world, and where I had been before I entered the world, and what that was which caused me to be born, and whether I would be born again after I—that is to say, my body—had been dissected. Alas, for all these questions Cracker’s science had no answer to give, and I envied the gnomes who had the ability to dissolve and condense into bodies at will.

The darkness was very oppressive, and I wished that I could be self-luminous like a gnome, and not be dependent upon an external light for the purpose of seeing. I wondered whether, perhaps, after the dissection of my body, my spirit would have a light of its own, or whether Bimbam was right when he pronounced the suggestive word, “Empty!” Then something, of which I do not know what it was, made me think that the worst thing anybody could possibly do was to doubt or deny the presence of a spiritual light within himself, and while I studied as to what may be that which made me think so, I came to the conclusion that it was my own spirit reminding me of its presence, and this was a more convincing proof to me that I actually had a spirit than all the arguments offered to the contrary by Professor Cracker and his ilk.

With this conviction a great deal of calmness and satisfaction came over me. At the same time the darkness grew less in intensity; a silvery mist, tinged with blue, arose like the dawn that precedes the rising sun; the light grew stronger and condensed in a luminous ball, and the next instant the princess stood before me.

“Dearest Adalga!” I said, “where have you been so long, and why did you leave me alone in this horrible darkness?”

To this the princess answered, “Truth never departs, but error always attracts us. Never for an instant have I deserted you; I was with you and around you all the time, but you kept your eyes closed and refused to see.”

“On the contrary,” I replied, “I strained my eyes to look through the darkness, but there was nothing.”

“You strained your eyes,” answered the princess, “for the purpose of seeing my form, which was not formed, and which could not be seen; but you made no effort to see that which is without form, but which may be seen with the inner eye. Know, my beloved, that when you see my form you do not see me, and when you do not see my form you may see me in truth.”

“This,” I said, “is contrary to all the doctrines of our science, which teaches that we can see nothing whatever unless it has a shape of some kind.”

“The eye of science sees only the outward form,” answered Adalga; “but the eye of wisdom sees the reality itself.”

“I understand,” I replied. “I have learned a lesson, and henceforth the delusion caused by forms shall have no more power over me. But tell me, dear, is the hour of vivisection approaching? Is there no way for escape?”

“Alas, no!” sighed the princess. “There is a jumping-jack at every door.”

A thrill of horror swept through me when I heard these words, and made me tremble. A moment before I had called myself a fool for being afraid of a jumping-jack, and now at the very mention of such a toy the old terror came back. I knew that I could not escape, because I would not dare to face a jumping-jack again. I would be sure to succumb to its influence.

“But,” continued Adalga, “why should you be afraid of being dissected? Can you not create for yourself a new body again?”

“Nonsense!” I cried. “I am not a creator.”

“But, sure enough,” answered the princess, “you have a creative spirit in you. Oh, my dear Mulligan, why will you remain incognito among us? Why do you continue to be dark? Why will you disguise yourself before me? Is it that I am not worthy to behold your true light, or that my eyes would be dazzled by its splendour? Lord of my heart, unveil yourself to me! Show yourself to me in your own essence!”

“Dearest princess!” I replied, “I do not know what you are talking about. I am not luminous, and I never saw a luminous man. In our country nobody has a light of his own.”

“Alas!” said the princess, “what a fearful fate it must be to have no light, and to live in a country of perpetual darkness.”

To this I replied—

“This is not so. Nobody in our country needs a light of his own, because we have one great luminary, called the sun, right over our head, and the light of that sun illuminates our world.”

“And can everybody see that sun?” asked the princess.

“Of course,” I said. “Everybody, unless he is as blind as a bat.”

When I had spoken these words, the princess threw her arms around my neck, and whispered to me—

“Dearest Mulligan! I have a favour to ask you. Please fetch me the sun!”

“This is quite impossible,” I said, “for although we all live in the light of the sun, nevertheless we cannot approach the sun, nor put him into our pockets.”

But the princess was not satisfied with that answer. “Surely,” she exclaimed, “you told me that the sun was right above your heads. You ought not to refuse me the first kindness I ever asked of you. I implore you to bring me the sun. I will not be contented unless I have it.”

I became alarmed. “This is a foolish request, madame,” I said. “If somebody, or anybody, could claim the sun as his own, and carry it away, there would be little chance for anyone else to enjoy it. The Government would monopolise it, and put a tax upon the use of his light; the doctors would dissect him to see of what material he is made; and there are lots of amorous fools who would not hesitate a moment to make him explode, merely for the purpose of amusing their sweethearts.”

But it was of no use to argue such a thing with a being unacquainted with the first rules of logic, and the princess went on with tears and sobs to beg me to fetch her the sun. I tried my best to explain to her the absurdity of the request, but she would not listen; and, weeping bitterly, she cried—

“O Mulligan, you do not love me! Is this your gratitude for bestowing my affection upon you?”

I felt very miserable, and began to look upon myself as the most ungrateful wretch, and to appease her I promised that I would try to do all I could.

At this moment a blast of trumpets and the tinkling of bells announced the arrival of the king. He was accompanied by the queen and her suite, and with them came all the nobility, the ministers, officers, and also the whole of the medical faculty, together with the head executioner and his assistants. The queen was a little fat woman, and rather homely. Upon her head shone a great emerald, throwing a soft green light around her. She was accompanied by her maids of honour, all of whom appeared in a green colour.

I made my bow to the queen, who, after looking at me through the spiritoscope, turned to the king and said—

“Is this the green hobgoblin who has the impudence of claiming that he is a man-spirit?”

“Yes,” answered the king; “only, as you will observe, he is not green, but red.”

“Your majesty is pleased to jest,” replied the queen. “Everybody sees that he is green.”

“He is red,” said the king sternly, being evidently annoyed by her contradiction.

“Let him be red then, if you must have it so,” answered the queen, while her voice indicated vexation; “but he is green for all that.”

“Well, I declare!” exclaimed Bimbam I., growing still more red. “I never saw a woman in my life that did not love to contradict. I say he is red, and I will leave it to Cravatu to decide.”

Cravatu stepped forward, letting his yellow light fall directly upon me, and after scanning me very carefully, he said: “I beg pardon, your majesties, but the hobgoblin is of a bright yellow colour.”

“Are you all making sport of me?” cried the king in a rage; and turning to the princess, he asked: “What does Adalga say?”

“He appears to me in a silvery light shaded with blue,” answered the princess; “but according to his own statement he does not shine at all.”

The gnomes looked at each other in amazement, and Cravatu said—

“He is a wizard who appears to everyone in another light.”

But the princess continued—

“Although he does not shine, he has a much greater light than we all, for it shines upon everything. He calls it a sun, and he has promised to fetch it to me.”

Therefore the king ordered that I should immediately show him the sun, and when I succeeded in making him understand that it could not be removed from its place in the universe, and that the only way of convincing oneself of its existence was to step within the sphere of its light, the king ordered Cravatu to select immediately a committee of three of the most clever gnomes for the purpose of going to the country of dreams and to hunt for the sun.

Accordingly three gnomes of rank were selected. They were of a white colour, and the light that radiated from them was so brilliant that it dazzled one’s eyes to look at it. They immediately assumed their spherical shapes and floated away; but the king ordered that my execution should be stayed until after their discovery of the sun.

When I heard these words I felt much relieved in my mind, for I had now some hope of escape.

“May your majesty persevere in that resolution!” I said to the king. “For these three messengers will never discover the sun. They have too splendid lights of their own to be able to see beyond it. They will be dazzled and blinded by their own radiance, and not look for the light of the sun.”

Upon hearing these words everybody seemed highly astonished. The gnomes looked at each other in surprise, and whispered: “He is a prophet! He can foretell future events! This is quite supernatural!”

“It does not require any supernatural power,” I said, “to be able to foretell that a thing cannot take place, on account of its being impossible. Everybody knows that a certain amount of darkness is required for the purpose of enabling one to perceive light. Those who are full of their own light cannot see the light of another, just as those who love to hear only themselves talking will not listen to what another one says.”

“Wonderful!” exclaimed the king, and Cravatu whispered to him: “He is one of those who see what is not.”

But I continued saying: “If your majesty wishes to obtain information regarding the existence of truth, I would advise you to send a committee of such as are less conceited and capable of seeing beyond the wall which their egoism has built around them.”

I was still speaking when the three gnomes returned, and they reported unanimously that they had been to dreamland, and that they had seen no other light but their own, and that it was an absurdity to believe in the existence of a universal sun; for if there were such a light it could not have escaped their notice, and, moreover, the presence of such a light would make everybody look of the same colour, so that not one person could be distinguished from another.

Thereupon all the dark gnomes, such as had as little light and intelligence as possible, were gathered, and out of them the king selected three almost entirely dark dwarfs. They were surely the most sorry-looking imbeciles which it has ever been my misfortune to behold. Big-headed, hydrocephalic, with shrunken brains, they were the very personification of abject stupidity; they seemed to have not more understanding than an oyster, although their power of seeing appeared good enough. These were appointed as a committee to seek for the sun, and it was ordered that they should be conducted to the frontier of the outer world, there to be left to their own fate and to begin their researches. This was accordingly done: the three idiots were taken away, and I pitied them, for I doubted whether they would ever have sense enough to find their way back.

“I am curious to hear the report of this committee,” remarked the queen, “perhaps it would have been still better to blindfold them.”

To this I replied—

“I fear that your majesty will be disappointed; for, even if the dwarfs perceive the sun, they will be incapable to understand what they see, or to describe it.”

“Hear! hear!” exclaimed the king, and all the gnomes began to regard me with awe and respect; but Cravatu said—

“Really there is more behind this person than we suspected. He is one of those who sees that which cannot be.”

Thereupon the king conferred upon me the office of head fortune-teller to the court, and I was treated with great respect. The whole behaviour of the gnomes changed; the queen smiled at me, and invited me to the palace; but the princess was delighted, and as she took my arm, she said to me with a triumphant smile: “I knew that you were more than a spook after all.”

#WerewolvesWednesday: The Wolf-Leader (introduction)

Alexandre Dumas père is the famous one, the one you have in mind when I say “Dumas”: he was born on July 24, 1802, in Villers-Cotterêts, France, and wrote both The Three Musketeers and The Count of Monte Cristo.

The Wolf-Leader (original title: Le Meneur de Loups), was written in 1857 and it’s a lesser-known work, set around 1780 in Villers-Cotterêts, Dumas’s native town. The story revolves around the character of Thibault, a shoemaker who wants more from life, and his encounter with a large humanoid wolf with whom he strikes a pact.
The English version provided is the one translated by Alfred Allinson, published in London by Methuen in 1904 under the title The Wolf-Leader. If you want to look it up, there’s another edition from the United States edited and cut by L. Sprague de Camp. The text was also serialized in eight parts in the pulp magazine Weird Tales from August 1931 to March 1932.

Our serialization will keep us company for 15 weeks, including today.

Introduction to the English translation

Although the introductory chapters were not signed until May 31st, 1856, The Wolf-Leader is to be associated in conception with the group of romances which Dumas wrote at Brussels between the years 1852 and 1854, that is to say, after his financial failure and the consequent defection of his collaborator Maquet, and before his return to Paris to found his journal Le Mousquetaire. Like Conscience V Innocent and Catherine Blum, which date from that period of exile, the present story was inspired by reminiscences of our author’s native place Villers-Cotterets, in the
department of the Aisne.

In The Wolf-Leader Dumas, however, allows his imagination and fancy full play. Using a legend told to him nearly half a century before, conjuring up the scenes of his boyhood, and calling into requisition his wonderful gift of improvisation, he contrives in the happiest way to weave a romance in which are combined a weird tale of diablerie and continual delightful glimpses of forest life. Terror, wood-craft, and humour could not be more felicitously intermingled. The reader, while kept under the spell of the main theme of the story, experiences all the charm of an open-air life in the great forest of Villers-Cotterets the forest in which the little town seemed to occupy a small clearing, and into which the boy Alexandre occasionally escaped for days together from the irksome routine of the school or from the hands of relatives who wanted to make a priest of him.

Thus Dumas, the most impressionable of men, all his life remained grateful to the forest for the poetic fancies derived from its beauty and the mysteries of its recesses, as well as for the hiding-places it afforded him, and for the game and birds which he soon learnt to shoot and snare there. Listen to his indignation at the destruction of the trees in the neighbouring park. We quote from his Memoires: “That park, planted by Francois I., was put down by Louis Philippe. Beautiful trees under whose shade once reclined Francois I. and Madame d’Etarrpes, Henri II. and Diana of Poitiers, Henri IV. and Gabrielle you had a right to believe that a Bourbon would have respected you, that you would have lived your long life the life of beech trees and oaks; that the birds would have warbled on your branches when green and leafy. But over and above your inestimable value of poetry and memories, you had, unhappily, a material value. You beautiful beeches with your polished silvery cases! you beautiful oaks with your sombre wrinkled bark! you were worth a hundred thousand crowns. The King of France, who, with his six millions of private revenue, was too poor to keep you the King of France sold you. For my part, had you been my sole fortune, I would have preserved you; for, poet as I am, there is one thing that I would set before all the gold of the earth, and that is the murmur of the wind in your leaves; the shadow that you made to flicker beneath my feet; the sweet visions, the charming phantoms which, at evening time, betwixt the
day and night, in twilight’s doubtful hour would glide between your age-long trunks as glide the shadows of the ancient Abencerrages amid the thousand columns of Cordova’s royal mosque.”

The Wolf-Leader was published in 1857, in three volumes (Paris: Cadot). Dumas reprinted it in his journal Le Monte-Crisio in 1860.

Introduction: who Mocquet was, and how this tale became known to the narratorI.

Why, I ask myself, during those first twenty years of my literary life, from 1827 to 1847, did I so rarely turn my eyes and thoughts towards the little town where I was born, towards the woods amid which it lies embowered, and the villages that cluster round it? How was it that during all that time the world of my youth seemed to me to have disappeared, as if hidden behind a cloud, whilst the future which lay before me shone clear and resplendent, like those magic islands which Columbus and his companions mistook for baskets of flowers floating on the sea?

Alas! simply because during the first twenty years of our life, we have Hope for our guide, and during the last twenty, Reality.

From the hour when, weary with our journey, we ungird ourselves, and dropping the traveller’s staff, sit down by the way side, we begin to look back over the road that we have traversed; for it is the way ahead that now is dark and misty, and so we turn and gaze into the depths of the past.

Then with the wide desert awaiting us in front, we are astonished, as we look along the path which we have left behind, to catch sight of first one and then another of those delicious oases of verdure and shade, beside which we never thought of lingering for a moment, and which, in deed we had passed by almost without notice.

But, then, how quickly our feet carried us along in those days! we were in such a hurry to reach that goal of happiness, to which no road has ever yet brought any one of us.

It is at this point that we begin to see how blind and ungrateful we have been; it is now that we say to ourselves, if we could but once more come across such a green and wooded resting-place, we would stay there for the rest of our lives, would pitch our tent there, and there end our days.

But the body cannot go back and renew its existence, and so memory has to make its pious pilgrimage alone; back to the early days and fresh beginnings of life it travels, like those light vessels that are borne upward by their white sails against the current of a river. Then the body once more pursues its journey; but the body without memory is as the night without stars, as the lamp without its flame … And so body and memory go their several ways.

The body, with chance for its guide, moves towards the unknown.

Memory, that bright will-o’-the-wisp, hovers over the landmarks that are left behind; and memory, we may be sure, will not lose her way. Every oasis is revisited, every association recalled, and then with a rapid flight she returns to the body that grows ever more and more weary, and like the humming of a bee, like the song of a bird, like the murmur of a stream, tells the tale of all that she has seen.

And as the tired traveller listens, his eyes grow bright again, his mouth smiles, and a light steals over his face. For Providence in kindness, seeing that he cannot return to youth, allows youth to return to him. And ever after he loves to repeat aloud what memory tells, him in her soft, low voice.

And is our life, then, bounded by a circle like the earth? Do we, unconsciously, continue to walk towards the spot from which we started? And as we travel nearer and nearer to the grave, do we again draw closer, ever closer, to the cradle?

[image error] The royal huntsman François Antoine kills the Beast of Gévaudan in 1765 (18th-century engraving)II.

I can not say. But what happened to myself, that much at any rate I know. At my first halt along the road of life, my first glance backwards, I began by relating the tale of Bernard and his uncle Berthelin, then the story of Ange Pitou, his fair fiancée, and of Aunt Angelique; after that I told of Conscience and Mariette; and lastly of Catherine Blum and Father Vatrin.

I am now going to tell you the story of Thibault and his wolves, and of the Lord of Vez. And how, you will ask, did I become acquainted with the events which I am now about to bring before you? I will tell you.

Have you read my Memoires, and do you remember one, by name Mocquet, who was a friend of my father’s?

If you have read them, you will have some vague recollection of this personage. If you have not read them, you will not remember anything about him at all.

In either case, then, it is of the first importance that I should bring Mocquet clearly before your mind’s eye.

As far back as I can remember, that is when I was about three years of age, we lived, my father and mother and I, in a little château called Les Fosses, situated on the boundary that separates the departments of Aisne and Oise, between Haramont and Longpré. The little house in question had doubtless been named Les Fosses on account of the deep and broad moat, filled with water, with which it was surrounded.

I do not mention my sister, for she was at school in Paris, and we only saw her once a year, when she was home for a month’s holiday.

The household, apart from my father, mother, and myself, consisted firstly of a large black dog, called Truffe, who was a privileged animal and made welcome wherever he appeared, more especially as I regularly went about on his back; secondly, of a gardener named Pierre, who kept me amply provided with frogs and snakes, two species of living creatures in which I was particularly interested; thirdly, of a negro, a valet of my father’s, named Hippolyte, a sort of black merry-andrew, whom my father, I believe, only kept that he might be well primed with anecdotes wherewith to gain the advantage in his encounters with Brunei and beat his wonderful stories; fourthly, of a keeper named Mocquet, for whom I had a great admiration, seeing that he had magnificent stories to tell of ghosts and werewolves, to which I listened every evening, and which were abruptly broken off the instant the General—as my father was usually called—appeared on the scene; fifthly, of a cook, who answered to the name of Marie, but this figure I can no longer recall. It is lost to me in the misty twilight of life; I remember only the name, as given to someone of whom but a shadowy outline remains in my memory, and about whom, as far as I recollect, there was nothing of a very poetic character.

Mocquet, however, is the only person that need occupy our attention for the present. Let me try to make him known to you, both as regards his personal appearance and his character.

The werewolf, or “The Cannibal” Peter Stumpp, engraved by Lucas Cranach the Elder.Ill.

Mocquet was a man of about forty years of age, short, thick-set, broad of shoulder, and sturdy of leg. His skin was burnt brown by the sun, his eyes were small and piercing, his hair grizzled, and his black whiskers met under his chin in a half-circle.

As I look back, his figure rises before me, wearing a three-cornered hat, and clad in a green waistcoat with silver buttons, velveteen cord breeches, and high leathern gaiters, with a game-bag over his shoulder, his gun in his hand, and a cutty-pipe in his mouth.

Let us pause for a moment to consider this pipe, for this pipe grew to be, not merely an accessory, but an integral part of Mocquet. Nobody could remember ever having seen Mocquet without it. If by any chance Mocquet did not happen to have it in his mouth, he had it in his hand.

This pipe, having to accompany Mocquet into the heart of the thickest coverts, it was necessary that it should be of such a kind as to offer the least possible opportunity to any other solid body of bringing about its destruction; for the destruction of his old, well-coloured cutty would have been to Mocquet a loss that years alone could have repaired. Therefore the stem of Mocquet’s pipe was not more than half an inch long; moreover, you might always wager that half that half-inch at least was supplied by the quill of a feather.

This habit of never being without his pipe, which, by causing the almost entire disappearance of both canines, had hollowed out a sort of vice for itself on the left side of his mouth, between the fourth incisor and the first molar, had given rise to another of Mocquet’s habits; this was to speak with his teeth clenched, whereby a certain impression of obstinacy was conveyed by all he said. This became even more marked if Mocquet chanced at any moment to take his pipe out of his mouth, for there was nothing then to prevent the jaws closing and the teeth coming together in a way which prevented the words passing through them at all except in a sort of whistle, which was hardly intelligible.

Such was Mocquet with respect to outward appearance. In the following pages, I will endeavour to give some idea of his intellectual capacity and moral qualities.

An attack of the Gévaudan Beast.IV.

Early one morning, before my father had risen, Mocquet walked into his room and planted himself at the foot of the bed, stiff and upright as a signpost.

“Well, Mocquet,” said my father, “what’s the matter now? What gives me the pleasure of seeing you here at this early hour?”

“The matter is, General,” replied Mocquet with the utmost gravity, “the matter is that I am nightmared.”

Mocquet had, quite unawares to himself, enriched the language with a double verb, both active and passive.

“You are nightmared?” responded my father, raising himself on his elbow. “Dear, dear, that’s a serious matter, my poor Mocquet.”

“You are right there, General.”

And Mocquet took his pipe out of his mouth, a thing he did rarely and only on the most important occasions.

“And how long have you been nightmared?” continued my father compassionately.

“For a whole week, General.”

“And who by, Mocquet?”

“Ah! I know very well who by,” answered Mocquet, through his teeth, which were so much the more tightly closed that his pipe was in his hand, and his hand behind his back.

“And may I also know by whom?”

“By Mother Durand of Haramont, who, as you will have heard, is an old witch.”

“No, indeed, I assure you I had no idea of such a thing.”

“Ah! but I know it well enough; I’ve seen her riding past on her broomstick to her Witches’ Sabbath.”

“You have seen her go by on her broomstick?”

“As plainly as I see you, General; and more than that, she has an old black billy-goat at home that she worships.”

“And why should she come and nightmare you?”

“To revenge herself on me, because I came upon her once at midnight on the heath of Gondreville, when she was dancing round and round in her devil’s circle.”

“This is a most serious accusation which you bring against her, my friend; and before repeating to anyone what you have been telling me in private, I think it would be as well if you tried to collect some more proofs.”

“Proofs! What more proofs do I want! Does not every soul in the village know that in her youth she was the Mistress of Thibault, the wolf-leader?”

“Indeed! I must look carefully into this matter, Mocquet.”

“I am looking very carefully into it myself, and she shall pay for it, the old mole!”

“Old mole” was an expression that Mocquet had borrowed from his friend Pierre, the gardener, who, as he had no worse enemies to deal with than moles, gave the name of mole to everything and everybody that he particularly detested.

“I must look carefully into this matter”—these words were not said by my father by reason of any belief he had in the truth of Mocquet’s tale about his nightmare; and even the fact of the nightmare being admitted by him, he gave no credence to the idea that it was Mother Durand who had nightmared the keeper. Far from it; but my father was not ignorant of the superstitions of the people, and he knew that belief in spells was still widespread among the peasantry in the country districts. He had heard of terrible acts of revenge carried out by the victims on some man or woman who they thought had bewitched them, in the belief that the charm would thus be broken; and Mocquet, while he stood denouncing Mother Durand to my father, had had such an accent of menace in his voice and had given such a grip to his gun that my father thought it wise to appear to agree with everything he said, in order to gain his confidence and so prevent him from doing anything without first consulting him.

So, thinking that he had so far gained an influence over Mocquet, my father ventured to say:

“But before you make her pay for it, my good Mocquet, you ought to be quite sure that no one can cure you of your nightmare.”

“No one can cure me, General,” replied Mocquet in a tone of conviction.

“How! No one able to cure you?”

“No one; I have tried the impossible.”

“And how did you try?”

“First of all, I drank a large bowl of hot wine before going to bed.”

“And who recommended that remedy? Was it Monsieur Lecosse?” Monsieur Lecosse was the doctor in repute at Villers-Cotterets.

“Monsieur Lecosse?” exclaimed Mocquet. “No, indeed! What should he know about spells! By my faith, no! It was not Monsieur Lecosse.”

“Who was it, then?”

“It was the shepherd of Longpré.”

“But a bowl of wine, you dunderhead! Why, you must have been dead drunk.”

“The shepherd drank half of it.”

“I see; now I understand why he prescribed it. And did the bowl of wine have any effect?”

“Not any, General; she came trampling over my chest that night, just as if I had taken nothing.”

“And what did you do next? You were not obliged, I suppose, to limit your efforts to your bowl of hot wine?”

“I did what I do when I want to catch a wily beast.”

Mocquet made use of a phraseology which was all his own; no one had ever succeeded in inducing him to say a wild beast; every time my father said wild beast, Mocquet would answer, “Yes, General, I know, a wily beast.”

“You still stick to your wily beast, then?” my father said to him on one occasion.

“Yes, General, but not out of obstinacy.”

“And why then, may I ask?”

“Because, General, with all due respect to you, you are mistaken about it.”

“Mistaken? I? How?”

“Because you ought not to say a wild beast, but a wily beast.”

“And what is a wily beast, Mocquet?”

“It is an animal that only goes about at night; that is, an animal that creeps into the pigeon-houses and kills the pigeons, like the polecat, or into the chicken-houses, to kill the chickens, like the fox, or into the folds, to kill the sheep, like the wolf; it means an animal which is cunning and deceitful—in short, a wily beast.”

It was impossible to find anything to say after such a logical definition as this. My father, therefore, remained silent, and Mocquet, feeling that he had gained a victory, continued to call wild beasts wily beasts, utterly unable to understand my father’s obstinacy in continuing to call wily beasts wild beasts.

So now you understand why, when my father asked him what else he had done, Mocquet answered, “I did what I do when I want to catch a wily beast.”

We have interrupted the conversation to give this explanation, but as there was no need of explanation between my father and Mocquet, they had gone on talking, you must understand, without any such break.

VI.

“And what is it you do, Mocquet, when you want to catch this animal of yours?” asked my father.

“I set a trarp, General.” Mocquet always called a trap a trarp.

“Do you mean to tell me you have set a trap to catch Mother Durand?”

My father had, of course, said trap, but Mocquet did not like anyone to pronounce words differently from himself, so he went on:

“Just so, General; I have set a trarp for Mother Durand.”

“And where have you put your trarp? Outside your door?”

My father, you see, was willing to make concessions.

“Outside my door! Much good that would be! I only know she gets into my room, but I cannot even guess which way she comes.”

“Down the chimney, perhaps?”

“There is no chimney, and besides, I never see her until I feel her.”

“And you do see her, then?”

“As plainly as I see you, General.”

“And what does she do?”

“Nothing agreeable, you may be sure; she tramples all over my chest: thud, thud! thump, thump!”

“Well, where have you set your trap, then?”

“The trarp, why, I put it on my own stomach.”

“And what kind of a trarp did you use?”

“Oh! a first-rate trarp!”

“What was it?”

“The one I made to catch the grey wolf with, that used to kill M. Destournelles’ sheep.”

“Not such a first-rate one, then, for the grey wolf ate up your bait and then bolted.”

“You know why he was not caught, General.”

“No, I do not.”

“Because it was the black wolf that belonged to old Thibault, the sabot-maker.”

“It could not have been Thibault’s black wolf, for you said yourself just this moment that the wolf that used to come and kill M. Destournelles’ sheep was a grey one.”

“He is grey now, General; but thirty years ago, when Thibault the sabot-maker was alive, he was black; and, to assure you of the truth of this, look at my hair, which was black as a raven’s thirty years ago, and now is as grey as the Doctor’s.”

The Doctor was a cat, an animal of some fame, that you will find mentioned in my Memoires and known as the Doctor on account of the magnificent fur which nature had given it for a coat.

“Yes,” replied my father, “I know your tale about Thibault, the sabot-maker; but if the black wolf is the devil, Mocquet, as you say he is, he would not change colour.”

“Not at all, General; only it takes him a hundred years to become quite white, and the last midnight of every hundred years, he turns black as a coal again.”

“I give up the case, then, Mocquet: all I ask is that you will not tell my son this fine tale of yours until he is fifteen at least.”

“And why, General?”

“Because it is no use stuffing his mind with nonsense of that kind until he is old enough to laugh at wolves, whether they are white, grey, or black.”

“It shall be as you say, General; he shall hear nothing of this matter.”

“Go on, then.”

“Where had we got to, General?”

“We had got to your trarp, which you had put on your stomach, and you were saying that it was a first-rate trarp.”

“By my faith, General, that was a first-rate trarp! It weighed a good ten pounds. What am I saying! Fifteen pounds at least, with its chain! I put the chain over my wrist.”

“And what happened that night?”

“That night? Why, it was worse than ever! Generally, it was in her leather overshoes she came and kneaded my chest, but that night she came in her wooden sabots.”

“And she comes like this…?”

“Every blessed one of God’s nights, and it is making me quite thin; you can see for yourself, General, I am growing as thin as a lath. However, this morning I made up my mind.”

“And what did you decide upon, Mocquet?”

“Well, then, I made up my mind I would let fly at her with my gun.”

“That was a wise decision to come to. And when do you think of carrying it out?”

“This evening, or to-morrow at latest, General.”

“Confound it! And just as I was wanting to send you over to Villers-Hellon.”

“That won’t matter, General. Was it something that you wanted done at once?”

“Yes, at once.”

“Very well, then, I can go over to Villers-Hellon, it’s not above a few miles, if I go through the wood and get back here this evening; the journey both ways is only twenty-four miles, and we have covered a few more than that before now out shooting, General.”

“That’s settled, then; I will write a letter for you to give to M. Collard, and then you can start.”

“I will start, General, without a moment’s delay.”

My father rose and wrote to M. Collard; the letter was as follows:

My dear Collard,

I am sending you that idiot of a keeper of mine, whom you know; he has taken into his head that an old woman nightmares him every night, and, to rid himself of this vampire, he intends nothing more nor less than to kill her.

Justice, however, might not look favourably on this method of his for curing himself of indigestion, and so I am going to start him off to you on a pretext of some kind or other. Will you, also, on some pretext or other, send him on, as soon as he gets to you, to Danre, at Vouty, who will send him on to Dulauloy, who, with or without pretext, may then, as far as I care, send him on to the devil?

In short, he must be kept going for a fortnight at least. By that time we shall have moved out of here and shall be at Antilly, and as he will then no longer be in the district of Haramont, and as his nightmare will probably have left him on the way, Mother Durand will be able to sleep in peace, which I should certainly not advise her to do if Mocquet were remaining anywhere in her neighbourhood.

He is bringing you six brace of snipe and a hare, which we shot while out yesterday on the marshes of Vallue.

A thousand-and-one of my tenderest remembrances to the fair Herminie, and as many kisses to the dear little Caroline.

Your friend,
ALEX. DUMAS

An hour later Mocquet was on his way, and, at the end of three weeks, he rejoined us at Antilly.

“Well,” asked my father, seeing him reappear in robust health, “well, and how about Mother Durand?”

“Well, General,” replied Mocquet cheerfully, “I’ve got rid of the old mole; it seems she has no power except in her own district.”

VII.

Twelve years had passed since Mocquet’s nightmare, and I was now over fifteen years of age. It was the winter of sixty-six; ten years before that date I had, alas! lost my father.

We no longer had a Pierre for gardener, a Hippolyte for valet, or a Mocquet for keeper; we no longer lived at the Château of Les Fosses or in the villa at Antilly, but in the marketplace of Villers-Cotterêts, in a little house opposite the fountain, where my mother kept a bureau de tabac, selling powder and shot as well over the same counter.

As you have already read in my Mémoires, although still young, I was an enthusiastic sportsman. As far as sport went, however, that is, according to the usual acceptation of the word, I had none, except when my cousin, M. Deviolaine, the ranger of the forest at Villers-Cotterêts, was kind enough to ask leave of my mother to take me with him. I filled up the remainder of my time with poaching.

For this double function of sportsman and poacher, I was well provided with a delightful single-barrelled gun, on which was engraved the monogram of the Princess Borghese, to whom it had originally belonged. My father had given it to me when I was a child, and when, after his death, everything had to be sold, I implored so urgently to be allowed to keep my gun that it was not sold with the other weapons, the horses, and the carriages.

The most enjoyable time for me was the winter; then the snow lay on the ground, and the birds, in their search for food, were ready to come wherever grain was sprinkled for them. Some of my father’s old friends had fine gardens, and I was at liberty to go and shoot the birds there as I liked. So I used to sweep the snow away, spread some grain, and, hiding myself within easy gunshot, fire at the birds, sometimes killing six, eight, or even ten at a time.

Then, if the snow lasted, there was another thing to look forward to—the chance of tracing a wolf to its lair, and a wolf so traced was everybody’s property. The wolf, being a public enemy, a murderer beyond the pale of the law, might be shot at by all or anyone, and so, in spite of my mother’s cries, who dreaded the double danger for me, you need not ask if I seized my gun and was first on the spot, ready for sport.

The winter of 1817 to 1818 had been long and severe; the snow was lying a foot deep on the ground, and so hard frozen that it had held for a fortnight past, and still there were no tidings of anything.

Towards four o’clock one afternoon, Mocquet called upon us; he had come to lay in his stock of powder. While so doing, he looked at me and winked with one eye. When he went out, I followed.

“What is it, Mocquet?” I asked. “Tell me.”

“Can’t you guess, Monsieur Alexandre?”

“No, Mocquet.”

“You don’t guess, then, that if I come and buy powder here from Madame, your mother, instead of going to Haramont for it—in short, if I walk three miles instead of only a quarter of that distance—that I might possibly have a bit of a shoot to propose to you?”

“Oh, you good Mocquet! And what and where?”

“There’s a wolf, Monsieur Alexandre.”

“Not really?”

“He carried off one of M. Destournelles’ sheep last night. I have traced him to the Tillet woods.”

“And what then?”

“Why then, I am certain to see him again tonight and shall find out where his lair is, and tomorrow morning we’ll finish his business for him.”

“Oh, this is luck!”

“Only, we must first ask leave…”

“Of whom, Mocquet?”

“Leave of Madame.”

“All right, come in, then, we will ask her at once.”

My mother had been watching us through the window; she suspected that some plot was hatching between us.

“I have no patience with you, Mocquet,” she said as we went in. “You have no sense or discretion.”

“In what way, Madame?” asked Mocquet.

“To go exciting him in the way you do; he thinks too much of sport as it is.”

“Nay, Madame, it is with him as with dogs of breed; his father was a sportsman, he is a sportsman, and his son will be a sportsman after him; you must make up your mind to that.”

“And supposing some harm should come to him?”

“Harm come to him with me? With Mocquet? No, indeed! I will answer for it with my own life that he shall be safe. Harm happen to him, to him, the General’s son? Never, never, never!”

But my poor mother shook her head; I went to her and flung my arms around her neck.

“Mother, dearest,” I cried, “please let me go.”

“You will load his gun for him, then, Mocquet?”

“Have no fear—sixty grains of powder, not a grain more or less, and a twenty-to-the-pound bullet.”

“And you will not leave him?”

“I will stay by him like his shadow.”

“You will keep him near you?”

“Between my legs.”

“I give him into your sole charge, Mocquet.”

“And he shall be given back to you safe and sound. Now, Monsieur Alexandre, gather up your traps, and let us be off; your mother has given her permission.”

“You are not taking him away this evening, Mocquet.”

“I must, Madame; tomorrow morning will be too late to fetch him; we must hunt the wolf at dawn.”

“The wolf! It is for a wolf-hunt that you are asking for him to go with you?”

“Are you afraid that the wolf will eat him?”

“Mocquet! Mocquet!”

“But when I tell you that I will be answerable for everything!”

“And where will the poor child sleep?”

“With Father Mocquet, of course. He will have a good mattress laid on the floor, and sheets white as those which God has spread over the fields, and two good warm coverlids; I promise you that he shall not catch cold.”

“I shall be all right, mother, you may be sure! Now then, Mocquet, I am ready.”

“And you don’t even give me a kiss, you poor boy, you!”

“Indeed, yes, dear mother, and a good many more than one!”

And I threw myself on my mother’s neck, stifling her with my caresses as I clasped her in my arms.

“And when shall I see you again?”

“Oh, do not be uneasy if he does not return before tomorrow evening.”

“How, tomorrow evening! And you spoke of starting at dawn!”

“At dawn for the wolf; but if we miss him, the lad must have a shot or two at the wild ducks on the marshes of Vallue.”

“I see! You are going to drown him for me!”

“By the name of all that’s good, Madame, if I was not speaking to the General’s widow, I should say—”

“What, Mocquet? What would you say?”

“That you will make nothing but a wretched milksop of your boy… If the General’s mother had been always behind him, pulling at his coattails, as you are behind this child, he would never even have had the courage to cross the sea to France.”

“You are right, Mocquet! Take him away! I am a poor fool.”

And my mother turned aside to wipe away a tear.

A mother’s tear, that heart’s diamond, more precious than all the pearls of Ophir! I saw it running down her cheek. I ran to the poor woman and whispered to her, “Mother, if you like, I will stay at home.”

“No, no, go, my child,” she said. “Mocquet is right; you must, sooner or later, learn to be a man.”

I gave her another last kiss; then I ran after Mocquet, who had already started.

After I had gone a few paces, I looked round; my mother had run into the middle of the road so that she might keep me in sight as long as possible. It was my turn now to wipe away a tear.

“How now?” said Mocquet, “You crying too, Monsieur Alexandre!”

“Nonsense, Mocquet! It’s only the cold makes my eyes run.”

But Thou, O God, who gavest me that tear, Thou knowest that it was not because of the cold that I was crying.

Werewolf illustration for ‘Legendes Rustiques’ by George Sand, 19th Century. The werewolves are famously waiting outside the walls of a cemetery.VIII.

It was pitch dark when we reached Mocquet’s house. We had a savoury omelette and stewed rabbit for supper, and then Mocquet made my bed ready for me. He kept his word to my mother, for I had a good mattress, two white sheets, and two good warm coverlids.

“Now,” said Mocquet, “tuck yourself in there and go to sleep; we may probably have to be off at four o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“At any hour you like, Mocquet.”

“Yes, I know, you are a capital riser over night, and tomorrow morning I shall have to throw a jug of cold water over you to make you get up.”

“You are welcome to do that, Mocquet, if you have to call me twice.”

“Well, we’ll see about that.”

“Are you in a hurry to go to sleep, Mocquet?”

“Why, whatever do you want me to do at this hour of the night?”

“I thought, perhaps, Mocquet, you would tell me one of those stories that I used to find so amusing when I was a child.”

“And who is going to get up for me at two o’clock tomorrow if I sit telling you tales till midnight? Our good priest, perhaps?”

“You are right, Mocquet.”

“It’s fortunate you think so!”

So I undressed and went to bed. Five minutes later, Mocquet was snoring like a bass viol.

I turned and twisted for a good two hours before I could get to sleep. How many sleepless nights have I not passed on the eve of the first shoot of the season! At last, towards midnight, fatigue gained the mastery over me. A sudden sensation of cold awoke me with a start at four o’clock in the morning; I opened my eyes. Mocquet had thrown my bedclothes off over the foot of the bed and was standing beside me, leaning both hands on his gun, his face beaming out upon me as, at every fresh puff of his short pipe, the light from it illuminated his features.

“Well, how have you got on, Mocquet?”

“He has been tracked to his lair.”

“The wolf? And who tracked him?”

“This foolish old Mocquet.”

“Bravo!”

“But guess where he has chosen to take covert, this most accommodating of good wolves!”

“Where was it, then, Mocquet?”

“If I gave you a hundred chances, you wouldn’t guess! In the Three Oaks Covert.”

“We’ve got him, then?”

“I should rather think so.”

The Three Oaks Covert is a patch of trees and undergrowth, about two acres in extent, situated in the middle of the plain of Largny, about five hundred paces from the forest.

“And the keepers?” I went on.

“All had notice sent them,” replied Mocquet. “Moynat, Mildet, Vatrin, Lafeuille—all the best shots, in short, are waiting in readiness just outside the forest. You and I, with Monsieur Charpentier from Vallue, Monsieur Hochedez from Largny, and Monsieur Destournelles from Les Fosses, are to surround the covert. The dogs will be slipped, the field-keeper will go with them, and we shall have him, that’s certain.”

“You’ll put me in a good place, Mocquet?”

“Haven’t I said that you will be near me? But you must get up first.”

“That’s true. Brrrrou!”

“And I am going to have pity on your youth and put a bundle of wood in the fireplace.”

“I didn’t dare ask for it; but, on my word of honour, it will be kind of you if you will.”

Mocquet went out, brought in an armful of wood from the timber-yard, and threw it onto the hearth, poking it down with his foot. Then he threw a lighted match among the twigs, and in another moment, the clear, bright flames were dancing and crackling up the chimney. I went and sat on the stool by the fireside and dressed myself there; you may be sure that I was not long over my toilette. Even Mocquet was astonished at my celerity.

“Now, then,” he said, “a drop of this, and then off!”

Saying this, he filled two small glasses with a yellowish-coloured liquor, which did not require any tasting on my part to recognize.

“You know I never drink brandy, Mocquet.”

“Ah, you are your father’s son all over! What will you have, then?”

“Nothing, Mocquet, nothing.”

“You know the proverb: ‘Leave the house empty; the devil will be there.’ Believe me, you had better put something into your stomach while I load your gun, for I must keep my promise to that poor mother of yours.”

“Well, then, I will have a crust of bread and a glass of pignolet.”

Pignolet is a light wine made in non-winegrowing districts, generally said to require three men to drink it—one to drink and two to hold him. I was, however, pretty well accustomed to pignolet and could drink it up without help. So I swallowed my glass of wine while Mocquet loaded my gun.

“What are you doing, Mocquet?” I asked him.

“Making a cross on your bullet,” he replied. “As you will be near me, we shall probably let fly together, and although I know you would give me up your share, still, for the glory of it, it will be as well to know which of us killed him if the wolf falls. So, mind you aim straight.”

“I’ll do my best, Mocquet.”

“Here’s your gun, then, loaded for bird-shooting; and now, gun over your shoulder, and off we start.”

Illustration of a werewolf in woodland at night in the story “The Werewolf Howls”, November 1941IX.

The meeting-place was on the road leading to Chavigny. Here we found the keepers and some of the huntsmen, and within another ten minutes, those who were missing had also joined us. Before five o’clock struck, our number was complete, and then we held a council of war to decide our further proceedings. It was finally arranged that we should first take up our position around the Three Oaks Covert at some considerable distance from it, and then gradually advance so as to form a cordon around it. Everything was to be done with the utmost silence, it being well known that wolves decamp on hearing the slightest noise. Each of us was ordered to look carefully along the path he followed, to make quite sure that the wolf had not left the covert. Meanwhile, the field-keeper was holding Mocquet’s hounds in leash.

One by one, we took our stand facing the covert, on the spot to which our particular path had conducted us. As it happened, Mocquet and I found ourselves on the north side of the warren, which was parallel with the forest.

Mocquet had rightly said that we should be in the best place, for the wolf would, in all probability, try and make for the forest and so would break covert on our side of it.

We took our stand, each in front of an oak tree, fifty paces apart from one another, and then we waited, without moving and hardly daring to breathe. The dogs on the farther side of the warren were now uncoupled; they gave two short barks and were then silent. The keeper followed them into the covert, calling halloo as he beat the trees with his stick. But the dogs, their eyes starting out of their heads, their lips drawn back, and their coats bristling, remained as if nailed to the ground. Nothing would induce them to move a step further.

“Halloa, Mocquet!” cried the keeper. “This wolf of yours must be an extra plucky one. Rocador and Tombelle refuse to tackle him.”

But Mocquet was too wise to make any answer, for the sound of his voice would have warned the wolf that there were enemies in that direction.

The keeper went forward, still beating the trees, the two dogs after him, cautiously advancing step by step, without a bark, only now and then giving a low growl.

All of a sudden, there was a loud exclamation from the keeper, who called out, “I nearly trod on his tail! The wolf! The wolf! Look out, Mocquet, look out!”

And at that moment, something came rushing towards us, and the animal leapt out of the covert, passing between us like a flash of lightning. It was an enormous wolf, nearly white with age. Mocquet turned and sent two bullets after him; I saw them bound and rebound along the snow.

“Shoot, shoot!” he called out to me.

Only then did I bring my gun to my shoulder. I took aim and fired; the wolf made a movement as if he wanted to bite his shoulder.

“We have him! We have him!” cried Mocquet. “The lad has hit his mark! Success to the innocent!”

But the wolf ran on, making straight for Moynat and Mildet, the two best shots in the country round.

Both their first shots were fired at him in the open; the second, after he had entered the forest.

The two first bullets were seen to cross one another and ran along the ground, sending up spurts of snow. The wolf had escaped them both, but he had no doubt been struck down by the others; that the two keepers who had just fired should miss their aim was an unheard-of thing. I had seen Moynat kill seventeen snipe one after the other; I had seen Mildet cut a squirrel in two as he was jumping from tree to tree.

The keepers went into the forest after the wolf; we looked anxiously towards the spot where they had disappeared. We saw them reappear, dejected, and shaking their heads.

“Well?” cried Mocquet interrogatively.

“Bah!” answered Mildet, with an impatient movement of his arm. “He’s at Taille-Fontaine by this time.”

“At Taille-Fontaine!” exclaimed Mocquet, completely taken aback. “What! The fools have gone and missed him, then!”

“Well, what of that? You missed him yourself, did you not?”

Mocquet shook his head.

“Well, well, there’s some devilry about this,” he said. “That I should miss him was surprising, but it was perhaps possible; but that Moynat should have shot twice and missed him is not possible. No, I say, no.”

“Nevertheless, so it is, my good Mocquet.”

“Besides, you hit him,” he said to me.

“I… are you sure?”

“We others may well be ashamed to say it. But as sure as my name is Mocquet, you hit the wolf.”

“Well, it’s easy to find out. If I did hit him, there would be blood on the snow. Come, Mocquet, let us run and see.” And, suiting the action to the word, I set off running.

“Stop, stop, do not run, whatever you do,” cried Mocquet, clenching his teeth and stamping. “We must go quietly until we know better what we have to deal with.”

“Well, we will go quietly, then; but at any rate, let us go!”

Mocquet then began to follow the wolf’s track, step by step.

“There’s not much fear of losing it,” I said.

“It’s plain enough.”

“Yes, but that’s not what I am looking for.”

“What are you looking for, then?”

“You will know in a minute or two.”

The other huntsmen had now joined us, and as they came along after us, the keeper related to them what had taken place. Meanwhile, Mocquet and I continued to follow the wolf’s footprints, which were deeply indented in the snow. At last, we came to the spot where he had received my fire.

“There, Mocquet,” I said to him, “you see I did miss him after all!”

“How do you know that you missed him?”

“Because there are no blood marks.”

“Look for the mark of your bullet, then, in the snow.”

I looked to see which way my bullet would have sped if it had not hit the wolf and then went in that direction; but I tracked for more than a quarter of a mile to no purpose, so I thought I might as well go back to Mocquet. He beckoned to the keepers to approach, and then, turning to me, said:

“Well, and the bullet?”

“I cannot find it.”

“I have been luckier than you, then, for I have found it.”

“What, you found it?”

“Right about and come behind me.”

I did as I was told, and the huntsmen having come up, Mocquet pointed out a line to them beyond which they were not to pass. The keepers Mildet and Moynat now joined us.

“Well?” said Mocquet to them in their turn.

“Missed,” they both answered at once.

“I saw you had missed him in the open, but when he had reached covert…?”

“Missed him there too.”

“Are you sure?”

“Both the bullets have been found, each of them in the trunk of a tree.”

“It is almost past belief,” said Vatrin.

“Yes,” rejoined Mocquet, “it is almost past belief, but I have something to show you which is even more difficult to believe.”

“Show it to us, then.”

“Look there. What do you see on the snow?”

“The track of a wolf; what of that?”

“And close to the mark of the right foot there—what do you see?”

“A little hole.”

“Well, do you understand?”

The keepers looked at each other in astonishment.

“Do you understand now?” repeated Mocquet.

“The thing’s impossible!” exclaimed the keepers.

“Nevertheless, it is so, and I will prove it to you.”

And so saying, Mocquet plunged his hand into the snow, felt about for a moment or two, and then, with a cry of triumph, pulled out a flattened bullet.

#MerfolkMonday: The Water King and Vasilissa the Wise

Yesterday I gave you a folk-tale by Alexander Nikolayevich Afanasyev as translated by William Ralston Shedden-Ralston and collected in his A Choice Collection of Muscovite Folk-lore (1887). Here’s another one, called “The Water King and Vasilissa the Wise”. Incidentally, it’s the only one illustrated in the version I have.

Once upon a time there lived a King and Queen, and the King was very fond of hunting and shooting. Well one day he went out hunting, and he saw an Eaglet sitting on an oak. But just as he was going to shoot at it the Eaglet began to entreat him, crying:—

“Don’t shoot me, my lord King! better take me home with you; some time or other I shall be of service to you.”

The King reflected awhile and said, “How can you be of use to me?” and again he was going to shoot.

Then the Eaglet said to him a second time:—

“Don’t shoot me, my lord King! better take me home with you; some time or other I shall be of use to you.”

The King thought and thought, but couldn’t imagine a bit the more what use the Eaglet could be to him, and so he determined to shoot it. Then a third time the Eaglet exclaimed:—

“Don’t shoot me, my lord King! better take me home with you and feed me for three years. Some time or other I shall be of service to you!”

The King relented, took the Eaglet home with him, and fed it for a year, for two years. But it ate so much that it devoured all his cattle. The King had neither a cow nor a sheep left. At length the Eagle said:—

“Now let me go free!”

The King set it at liberty; the Eagle began trying its wings. But no, it could not fly yet! So it said:—

“Well, my lord King! you have fed me two years; now, whether you like it or no, feed me for one year more. Even if you have to borrow, at all events feed me; you won’t lose by it!”

Well, this is what the King did. He borrowed cattle from everywhere round about, and he fed the Eagle for the space of a whole year, and afterwards he set it at liberty. The Eagle rose ever so high, flew and flew, then dropt down again to the earth and said:—

“Now then, my lord King! Take a seat on my back! we’ll have a fly together?”

The King got on the Eagle’s back. Away they went flying. Before very long they reached the blue sea. Then the Eagle shook off the King, who fell into the sea, and sank up to his knees. But the Eagle didn’t let him drown! it jerked him on to its wing, and asked:—

“How now, my lord King! were you frightened, perchance?”

“I was,” said the King; “I thought I was going to be drowned outright!”

Again they flew and flew till they reached another sea. The Eagle shook off the King right in the middle of the sea; the King sank up to his girdle. The Eagle jerked him on to its wing again, and asked:—

“Well, my lord King, were you frightened, perchance?”

“I was,” he replied, “but all the time I thought, ‘Perhaps, please God, the creature will pull me out.’”

Away they flew again, flew, and arrived at a third sea. The Eagle dropped the King into a great gulf, so that he sank right up to his neck. And the third time the Eagle jerked him on to its wing, and asked:—

“Well, my lord King! Were you frightened, perchance?”

“I was,” says the King, “but still I said to myself, ‘Perhaps it will pull me out.’”

“Well, my lord King! now you have felt what the fear of death is like! What I have done was in payment of an old score. Do you remember my sitting on an oak, and your wanting to shoot me? Three times you were going to let fly, but I kept on entreating you not to shoot, saying to myself all the time, ‘Perhaps he won’t kill me; perhaps he’ll relent and take me home with him!’”

Afterwards they flew beyond thrice nine lands: long, long did they fly. Says the Eagle, “Look, my lord King! what is above us and what below us?”

The King looked.

“Above us,” he says, “is the sky, below us the earth.”

“Look again; what is on the right hand and on the left?”

“On the right hand is an open plain, on the left stands a house.”

“We will fly thither,” said the Eagle; “my youngest sister lives there.”

They went straight into the courtyard. The sister came out to meet them, received her brother cordially, and seated him at the oaken table. But on the King she would not so much as look, but left him outside, loosed greyhounds, and set them at him. The Eagle was exceedingly wroth, jumped up from table, seized the King, and flew away with him again.

Well, they flew and flew. Presently the Eagle said to the King, “Look round; what is behind us?”

The King turned his head, looked, and said, “Behind us is a red house.”

“That is the house of my youngest sister—on fire, because she did not receive you, but set greyhounds at you.”

They flew and flew. Again the Eagle asked:

“Look again, my lord King; what is above us, and what below us?”

“Above us is the sky, below us the earth.”

“Look and see what is on the right hand and on the left.”

“On the right is the open plain, on the left there stands a house.”

“There lives my second sister; we’ll go and pay her a visit.”

They stopped in a wide courtyard. The second sister received her brother cordially, and seated him at the oaken table; but the King was left outside, and she loosed greyhounds, and set them at him. The Eagle flew into a rage, jumped up from table, caught up the King, and flew away farther with him. They flew and flew. Says the Eagle:

“My lord King! look round! what is behind us?”

The King looked back.

“There stands behind us a red house.”

“That’s my second sister’s house burning!” said the Eagle. “Now we’ll fly to where my mother and my eldest sister live.”

Well, they flew there. The Eagle’s mother and eldest sister were delighted to see them, and received the King with cordiality and respect.

“Now, my lord King,” said the Eagle, “tarry awhile with us, and afterwards I will give you a ship, and will repay you for all I ate in your house, and then—God speed you home again!”

So the Eagle gave the King a ship and two coffers—the one red, the other green—and said:

“Mind now! don’t open the coffers until you get home. Then open the red coffer in the back court, and the green coffer in the front court.”

The King took the coffers, parted with the Eagle, and sailed along the blue sea. Presently he came to a certain island, and there his ship stopped. He landed on the shore, and began thinking about the coffers, and wondering whatever there could be in them, and why the Eagle had told him not to open them. He thought and thought, and at last couldn’t hold out any more—he longed so awfully to know all about it. So he took the red coffer, set it on the ground, and opened it—and out of it came such a quantity of different kinds of cattle that there was no counting them: the island had barely room enough for them.

When the King saw that, he became exceedingly sorrowful, and began to weep and therewithal to say:

“What is there now left for me to do? how shall I get all this cattle back into so little a coffer?”

Lo! there came out of the water a man—came up to him, and asked:

“Wherefore are you weeping so bitterly, O lord King?”

“How can I help weeping!” answers the King. “How shall I be able to get all this great herd into so small a coffer?”

“If you like, I will set your mind at rest. I will pack up all your cattle for you. But on one condition only. You must give me whatever you have at home that you don’t know of.”

The King reflected.

“Whatever is there at home that I don’t know of?” says he. “I fancy I know about everything that’s there.”

He reflected, and consented. “Pack them up,” says he. “I will give you whatever I have at home that I know nothing about.”

So that man packed away all his cattle for him in the coffer. The King went on board ship and sailed away homewards.

When he reached home, then only did he learn that a son had been born to him. And he began kissing the child, caressing it, and at the same time bursting into such floods of tears!

“My lord King!” says the Queen, “tell me wherefore thou droppest bitter tears?”

“For joy!” he replies.

He was afraid to tell her the truth, that the Prince would have to be given up. Afterwards he went into the back court, opened the red coffer, and thence issued oxen and cows, sheep and rams; there were multitudes of all sorts of cattle, so that all the sheds and pastures were crammed full. He went into the front court, opened the green coffer, and there appeared a great and glorious garden. What trees there were in it to be sure! The King was so delighted that he forgot all about giving up his son.

Many years went by. One day the King took it into his head to go for a stroll, and he came to a river. At that moment the same man he had seen before came out of the water, and said:

“You’ve pretty soon become forgetful, lord King! Think a little! surely you’re in my debt!”

The King returned home full of grief, and told all the truth to the Queen and the Prince. They all mourned and wept together, but they decided that there was no help for it, the Prince must be given up. So they took him to the mouth of the river and there they left him alone.

The Prince looked around, saw a footpath, and followed trusting God would lead him somewhere. He walked and walked, and came to a dense forest: in the forest stood a hut, in the hut lived a Baba Yaga.

“Suppose I go in,” thought the Prince, and went in.

“Good day, Prince!” said the Baba Yaga. “Are you seeking work or shunning work?”

“Eh, granny! First give me to eat and to drink, and then ask me questions.”

So she gave him food and drink, and the Prince told her everything as to whither he was going and with what purpose.

Then the Baba Yaga said: “Go, my child, to the sea-shore; there will fly thither twelve spoonbills, which will turn into fair maidens, and begin bathing; do you steal quietly up and lay your hands on the eldest maiden’s shift. When you have come to terms with her, go to the Water King, and there will meet you on the way Obédalo and Opivalo, and also Moroz Treskum—take all of them with you; they will do you good service.”

The Prince bid the Yaga farewell, went to the appointed spot on the sea-shore, and hid behind the bushes. Presently twelve spoonbills came flying thither, struck the moist earth, turned into fair maidens, and began to bathe. The Prince stole the eldest one’s shift, and sat down behind a bush—didn’t budge an inch. The girls finished bathing and came out on the shore: eleven of them put on their shifts, turned into birds, and flew away home. There remained only the eldest, Vasilissa the Wise. She began praying and begging the good youth:

“Do give me my shift!” she says. “You are on your way to the house of my father, the Water King. When you come I will do you good service.”

So the Prince gave her back her shift, and she immediately turned into a spoonbill and flew away after her companions. The Prince went further on; there met him by the way three heroes—Obédalo, Opivalo, and Moroz Treskum; he took them with him and went on to the Water King’s.

The Water King saw him, and said:

“Hail, friend! why have you been so long in coming to me? I have grown weary of waiting for you. Now set to work. Here is your first task. Build me in one night a great crystal bridge, so that it shall be ready for use to-morrow. If you don’t build it—off goes your head!”

The Prince went away from the Water King, and burst into a flood of tears. Vasilissa the Wise opened the window of her upper chamber, and asked:

“What are you crying about, Prince?”

“Ah! Vasilissa the Wise! how can I help crying? Your father has ordered me to build a crystal bridge in a single night, and I don’t even know how to handle an axe.”

“No matter! lie down and sleep; the morning is wiser than the evening.”

She ordered him to sleep, but she herself went out on the steps, and called aloud with a mighty whistling cry. Then from all sides there ran together carpenters and workmen; one levelled the ground, another carried bricks. Soon had they built a crystal bridge, and traced cunning devices on it; and then they dispersed to their homes.

Early next morning Vasilissa the Wise awoke the Prince:

“Get up, Prince! the bridge is ready: my father will be coming to inspect it directly.”

Up jumped the Prince, seized a broom, took his place on the bridge, and began sweeping here, clearing up there.

The Water King bestowed praise upon him:

“Thanks!” says he. “You’ve done me one service: now do another. Here is your task. Plant me by to-morrow a garden green—a big and shady one; and there must be birds singing in the garden, and flowers blossoming on the trees, and ripe apples and pears hanging from the boughs.”

Away went the Prince from the Water King, all dissolved in tears. Vasilissa the Wise opened her window and asked:

“What are you crying for, Prince?”

“How can I help crying? Your father has ordered me to plant a garden in one night!”

“That’s nothing! lie down and sleep: the morning is wiser than the evening.”

She made him go to sleep, but she herself went out on the steps, called and whistled with a mighty whistle. From every side there ran together gardeners of all sorts, and they planted a garden green, and in the garden birds sang, on the trees flowers blossomed, from the boughs hung ripe apples and pears.

Early in the morning Vasilissa the Wise awoke the Prince:

“Get up, Prince! the garden is ready: Papa is coming to see it.”

The Prince immediately snatched up a broom, and was off to the garden. Here he swept a path, there he trained a twig. The Water King praised him and said:

“Thanks, Prince! You’ve done me right trusty service. So choose yourself a bride from among my twelve daughters. They are all exactly alike in face, in hair, and in dress. If you can pick out the same one three times running, she shall be your wife; if you fail to do so, I shall have you put to death.”

Vasilissa the Wise knew all about that, so she found time to say to the Prince:

“The first time I will wave my handkerchief, the second I will be arranging my dress, the third time you will see a fly above my head.”

And so the Prince guessed which was Vasilissa the Wise three times running. And he and she were married, and a wedding feast was got ready.

Now the Water King had prepared much food of all sorts more than a hundred men could get through. And he ordered his son-in-law to see that everything was eaten. “If anything remains over, the worse for you!” says he.

“My Father,” begs the Prince, “there’s an old fellow of mine here; please let him take a snack with us.”

“Let him come!”

Immediately appeared Obédalo—ate up everything, and wasn’t content then! The Water King next set out two score tubs of all kinds of strong drinks, and ordered his son-in-law to see that they were all drained dry.

“My Father!” begs the Prince again, “there’s another old man of mine here, let him, too, drink your health.”

“Let him come!”

Opivalo appeared, emptied all the forty tubs in a twinkling, and then asked for a drop more by way of stirrup-cup.

The Water King saw that there was nothing to be gained that way, so he gave orders to prepare a bath-room for the young couple—an iron bath-room—and to heat it as hot as possible. So the iron bath-room was made hot. Twelve loads of firewood were set alight, and the stove and the walls were made red-hot—impossible to come within five versts of it.

“My Father!” says the Prince; “let an old fellow of ours have a scrub first, just to try the bath-room.”

“Let him do so!”

Moroz Treskum went into the bath room, blew into one corner, blew in another—in a moment icicles were hanging there. After him the young couple also went into the bath-room, were lathered and scrubbed, and then went home.

After a time Vasilissa said to the Prince, “Let us get out of my father’s power. He’s tremendously angry with you; perhaps he’ll be doing you some hurt.”

“Let us go,” says the Prince.

Straightway they saddled their horses and galloped off into the open plain. They rode and rode; many an hour went by.

“Jump down from your horse, Prince, and lay your ear close to the earth,” said Vasilissa. “Cannot you hear a sound as of pursuers?”

The prince bent his ear to the ground, but he could hear nothing. Then Vasilissa herself lighted down from her good steed, laid herself flat on the earth, and said: “Ah Prince! I hear a great noise as of chasing after us.” Then she turned the horses into a well, and herself into a bowl, and the Prince into an old, very old man. Up came the pursuers.

“Heigh, old man!” say they, “haven’t you seen a youth and a maiden pass by?”

“I saw them, my friends! only it was a long while ago. I was a youngster at the time when they rode by.”

The pursuers returned to the Water King.

“There is no trace of them,” they said, “no news: all we saw was an old man beside a well, and a bowl floating on the water.”

“Why did not ye seize them?” cried the Water King, who thereupon put the pursuers to a cruel death, and sent another troop after the Prince and Vasilissa the Wise.

The fugitives in the mean time had ridden far, far away. Vasilissa the Wise heard the noise made by the fresh set of pursuers, so she turned the Prince into an old priest, and she herself became an ancient church. Scarcely did its walls hold together, covered all over with moss. Presently up came the pursuers.

“Heigh, old man! haven’t you seen a youth and a maiden pass by?”

“I saw them, my own! only it was long, ever so long ago. I was a young man when they rode by. It was just while I was building this church.”

So the second set of pursuers returned to the Water King, saying:

“There is neither trace nor news of them, your Royal Majesty. All that we saw was an old priest and an ancient church.”

“Why did not ye seize them?” cried the Water King louder than before, and having put the pursuers to a cruel death, he galloped off himself in pursuit of the Prince and Vasilissa the Wise. This time Vasilissa turned the horses into a river of honey with kissel banks, and changed the Prince into a Drake and herself into a grey duck. The Water King flung himself on the kissel and honey-water, and ate and ate, and drank and drank until he burst! And so he gave up the ghost.

The Prince and Vasilissa rode on, and at length they drew nigh to the home of the Prince’s parents. Then said Vasilissa,

“Go on in front, Prince, and report your arrival to your father and mother. But I will wait for you here by the wayside. Only remember these words of mine: kiss everyone else, only don’t kiss your sister; if you do, you will forget me.”

The Prince reached home, began saluting every one, kissed his sister too—and no sooner had he kissed her than from that very moment he forgot all about his wife, just as if she had never entered into his mind.

Three days did Vasilissa the Wise await him. On the fourth day she clad herself like a beggar, went into the capital, and took up her quarters in an old woman’s house. But the Prince was preparing to marry a rich Princess, and orders were given to proclaim throughout the kingdom, that all Christian people were to come to congratulate the bride and bridegroom, each one bringing a wheaten pie as a present. Well, the old woman with whom Vasilissa lodged, prepared, like everyone else, to sift flour and make a pie.

“Why are you making a pie, granny?” asked Vasilissa.

“Is it why? you evidently don’t know then. Our King is giving his son in marriage to a rich princess: one must go to the palace to serve up the dinner to the young couple.”

“Come now! I, too, will bake a pie and take it to the palace; may be the King will make me some present.”

“Bake away in God’s name!” said the old woman.

Vasilissa took flour, kneaded dough, and made a pie. And inside it she put some curds and a pair of live doves.

Well, the old woman and Vasilissa the Wise reached the palace just at dinner-time. There a feast was in progress, one fit for all the world to see. Vasilissa’s pie was set on the table, but no sooner was it cut in two than out of it flew the two doves. The hen bird seized a piece of curd, and her mate said to her:

“Give me some curds, too, Dovey!”

“No I won’t,” replied the other dove: “else you’d forget me, as the Prince has forgotten his Vasilissa the Wise.”

Then the Prince remembered about his wife. He jumped up from table, caught her by her white hands, and seated her close by his side. From that time forward they lived together in all happiness and prosperity.

Super Bowl LIX menu

Every year, my significant otter and I organize to view the Superbowl (which carries through the night since we’re based in Italy), and he cooks a menu inspired by the venue where the Superbowl is hosted. So here’s this year’s menu. The text comes from this excellent book:

Crab Cakes

Crab cakes are not native to New Orleans, they arrived from Maryland in the early 1990s, replacing the deep-fried crab ball.

Ingredients: White Remoulade Sauce

1 cup mayonnaise
1 Tbsp. Creole mustard
1 Tbsp. lemon juice
1 tsp. Worcestershire sauce
Dash of Tabasco
Dash of granulated garlic

Ingredients: Crab Cakes

1 stick (8 Tbsp.) butter
¼ cup flour
½ tsp. salt
¼ tsp. ground white pepper
1 cup warm milk
2 lb. lump crabmeat
¼ cup finely chopped red bell pepper
2 green onions, thinly sliced
1 tsp. chopped fresh tarragon (or ½ tsp. dried)
¼ cup plain bread crumbs
2 tsp. salt-free Creole seasoning
¼ cup clarified butter

Instructions:

To make the sauce: mix all of the rémoulade ingredients in a bowl and set aside.

To make the crab cakes: make a blond roux by melting the butter in a small saucepan over low heat. Add the flour, salt, and white pepper, and cook, stirring constantly, until the mixture just barely starts browning. Whisk in the warm milk until the blend has the texture of runny mashed potatoes. Cook it for three minutes. (You’ve just made a béchamel.)

Remove any shells from the crabmeat, trying to keep the lumps as whole as possible. In a large bowl, combine the crabmeat with the bell pepper, green onions, and tarragon. Add ¾ cup of the cooled béchamel and mix with your fingers, being careful not to break up the crabmeat.

Season the bread crumbs with Creole seasoning and spread the seasoned crumbs out on a plate. Use an ice-cream scoop to measure 12 balls of the crabmeat mixture. Gently form each into cakes about ¾ inch thick. Press them gently onto the bread crumbs on each side and shake off the excess.

Heat the clarified butter in a medium skillet. Sauté the crab cakes until they are golden brown on the outside and heated all the way through. (The way to test this is to push the tines of a kitchen fork into the center of the cake, then touch the fork to your lips. That will tell you whether the heat has penetrated all the way through.) Serve crab cakes with the rémoulade on the side.

Makes twelve large crab cakes.

Crabmeat and Corn Bisque

A bisque is a type of French soup known for its rich, creamy texture and smooth consistency. Traditionally, bisques were made with shellfish such as lobster, crab, or shrimp, and the shells were often ground into a paste to thicken the soup and enhance its flavor.

Ingredients:

Shells of 6 crabs or picked crab shells
1 medium yellow onion, coarsely chopped
1 rib celery, coarsely chopped
2 cloves garlic
1 bay leaf
½ tsp. dried thyme
10 whole black peppercorns
4 Tbsp. (½ stick) butter
¼ cup dry vermouth
2 ears fresh corn, kernels shaved off the cobs
2 cups heavy whipping cream
1 cup chopped green onion, green parts only
½ tsp. salt
¼ tsp. Tabasco
½ lb. lump crabmeat, carefully picked through

Instructions:

Make the stock by putting the crabs or the shells into a large, heavy saucepan over high heat and cooking them until the edges of the shells brown a little.

Lower the heat and add the brandy. If you’re comfortable with flaming dishes and have a fire extinguisher nearby, carefully ignite the brandy. Otherwise, just let it cook and boil the alcohol away. Add the onion, celery, bay leaf, thyme, peppercorns, and 8 cups of water, and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer for 30 minutes.

Strain the stock and discard the solids. Return the stock to a boil and reduce to about 2 cups. You can make this ahead and freeze it.

Make a blond roux by melting the butter in a medium saucepan over medium-high heat. Add the flour and cook, stirring constantly, until the roux just begins to turn light brown. Add the garlic and sauté until fragrant, about a minute.

Whisk in the vermouth and bring to a boil. Add the crab stock and simmer, stirring occasionally, for about 15 minutes. Add the corn and simmer 5 minutes more. Add the cream, green onion, salt, and Tabasco. Stir until smooth and bring back up to a simmer.

Add the crabmeat and blend it in gently, so as not to break the lumps. Adjust the seasoning and serve hot.

Serves four to six.

Pecan Pie

Pecan pie is a beloved American dessert with roots tracing back to the late 19th century. Pecans had been used by Native Americans for over 8,000 years, primarily in the southern United States, and their name comes from the Algonquin word “pakani,” meaning a nut that requires a stone to crack.

Ingredients:

2 cups coarsely broken pecans
½ cup light Karo syrup
½ cup dark Karo syrup
½ cup light brown sugar
3 whole eggs plus 1 egg yolk
1 Tbsp. lemon juice
1 tsp. vanilla extract
1 Tbsp. flour
Pinch of salt
1 stick (8 Tbsp.) butter, melted
1 one 10-inch pie shell, unbaked

Instructions:

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees F. Spread the pecans out on a baking sheet and bake on the top shelf of the oven until they just begin to brown. Set the pecans aside.

In a microwave-safe bowl, combine the syrups, sugar, eggs (minus 1 egg white), lemon juice, vanilla, flour, and salt. Add the butter and microwave the bowl at 20 percent power for about 15 seconds. Stir again and repeat this process until the mixture feels slightly warm to the touch and begins to get thick.

Brush the unbaked pie-shell bottom with the reserved egg white. This keeps the crust from getting soggy. Pour the filling into the pie shell. Top with the pecans, pushing them down with a spoon, if necessary, so that all the pecans are at least touching the filling. Bake for 10 minutes, then lower the temperature to 275 degrees F and continue to bake for 30–40 minutes more. Cool to room temperature.

Serves eight to twelve.

Egg Nog

Eggnog’s origins are linked to early medieval Britain with a drink called “posset,” which was expensive due to its ingredients. It became popular in America during the Christmas season after being introduced by European settlers. It’s a rich, creamy, sweetened beverage traditionally made with milk, cream, sugar, egg yolks, and whipped egg whites, flavored with spices like cinnamon and nutmeg. George Washington played a role in popularizing eggnog in America by serving it at Mount Vernon.

Ingredients:

1 dozen egg yolks
1½ cups sugar
2 Tbsp. vanilla extract
½ tsp. nutmeg, plus more to taste
2 cups heavy whipping cream
4 cups half-and-half

Instructions:

Whisk the egg yolks with the sugar, vanilla, and nutmeg together in a saucepan until creamy-looking. Add the cream and 2 cups of the half-and-half, and whisk until blended.

Cook over very low heat while stirring. Look for a temperature reading of 175 degrees F on a meat thermometer. Don’t overheat or cook longer than needed to reach this temperature.

Remove from the heat. Strain the egg nog into the container you will store it in and add the remaining half-and-half. Refrigerate.

If you’d like to add something interesting (i.e., brandy, bourbon, or dark rum), a cup of the stuff should be about right. Serve with some more nutmeg (freshly grated, if possible) over the top.

Alexander Nikolayevich Afanasyev, “The Fiend”

Alexander Nikolayevich Afanasyev (1826–1871) was a folklorist and ethnographer who collected nearly 600 East Slavic and Russian fairy tales between 1855 and 1867. His collection is considered one of the largest folklore collections worldwide and earned him a reputation as the Russian counterpart to the Brothers Grimm. This tale, known as “The Fiend” or “The Vampire”, is a number 363 in the Aarne-Thompson-Uther Index as it deals with the theme of the Corpse-Eater.

The version here provided comes from an English translation by one William Ralston Shedden-Ralston of the British Museum, a corresponding member of the Imperial Geographical Society of Russia,  who also compiled collections called The Songs of the Russian People and Krilof and his Fables. The collection is dedicated to Alexander Afanasyev, and it’s called A Choice Collection of Muscovite Folk-lore, and it was published in 1887. “The Fiend” is the first in the book.

In a certain country there lived an old couple who had a daughter called Marusia (Mary). In their village, it was customary to celebrate the feast of St. Andrew the First-Called (November 30). The girls used to assemble in some cottage, bake pampushki, and enjoy themselves for a whole week, or even longer. Well, the girls met together once when this festival arrived, and brewed and baked what was wanted. In the evening came the lads with the music, bringing liquor with them, and dancing and revelry commenced. All the girls danced well, but Marusia the best of all. After a while there came into the cottage such a fine fellow! Marry, come up! regular blood and milk, and smartly and richly dressed.

“Hail, fair maidens!” says he.

“Hail, good youth!” say they.

“You’re merry-making?”

“Be so good as to join us.”

Thereupon he pulled out of his pocket a purse full of gold, ordered liquor, nuts and gingerbread. All was ready in a trice, and he began treating the lads and lasses, giving each a share. Then he took to dancing. Why, it was a treat to look at him! Marusia struck his fancy more than anyone else; so he stuck close to her. The time came for going home.

“Marusia,” says he, “come and see me off.”

She went to see him off.

“Marusia, sweetheart!” says he, “would you like me to marry you?”

“If you like to marry me, I will gladly marry you. But where do you come from?”

“From such and such a place. I’m clerk at a merchant’s.”

Then they bade each other farewell and separated. When Marusia got home, her mother asked her:

“Well, daughter! have you enjoyed yourself?”

“Yes, mother. But I’ve something pleasant to tell you besides. There was a lad there from the neighborhood, good-looking and with lots of money, and he promised to marry me.”

“Harkye Marusia! When you go to where the girls are to-morrow, take a ball of thread with you, make a noose in it, and, when you are going to see him off, throw it over one of his buttons, and quietly unroll the ball; then, by means of the thread, you will be able to find out where he lives.”

Next day Marusia went to the gathering, and took a ball of thread with her. The youth came again.

“Good evening, Marusia!” said he.

“Good evening!” said she.

Games began and dances. Even more than before did he stick to Marusia, not a step would he budge from her. The time came for going home.

“Come and see me off, Marusia!” says the stranger.

She went out into the street, and while she was taking leave of him she quietly dropped the noose over one of his buttons. He went his way, but she remained where she was, unrolling the ball. When she had unrolled the whole of it, she ran after the thread to find out where her betrothed lived. At first the thread followed the road, then it stretched across hedges and ditches, and led Marusia towards the church and right up to the porch. Marusia tried the door; it was locked. She went round the church, found a ladder, set it against a window, and climbed up it to see what was going on inside. Having got into the church, she looked—and saw her betrothed standing beside a grave and devouring a dead body—for a corpse had been left for that night in the church.

She wanted to get down the ladder quietly, but her fright prevented her from taking proper heed, and she made a little noise. Then she ran home—almost beside herself, fancying all the time she was being pursued. She was all but dead before she got in. Next morning her mother asked her:

“Well, Marusia! did you see the youth?”

“I saw him, mother,” she replied. But what else she had seen she did not tell.

In the morning Marusia was sitting, considering whether she would go to the gathering or not.

“Go,” said her mother. “Amuse yourself while you’re young!”

So she went to the gathering; the Fiend[20] was there already. Games, fun, dancing, began anew; the girls knew nothing of what had happened. When they began to separate and go homewards:

“Come, Marusia!” says the Evil One, “see me off.”

She was afraid, and didn’t stir. Then all the other girls opened out upon her.

“What are you thinking about? Have you grown so bashful, forsooth? Go and see the good lad off.”

There was no help for it. Out she went, not knowing what would come of it. As soon as they got into the streets he began questioning her:

“You were in the church last night?”

“No.”

“And saw what I was doing there?”

“No.”

“Very well! To-morrow your father will die!”

Having said this, he disappeared.

Marusia returned home grave and sad. When she woke up in the morning, her father lay dead!

They wept and wailed over him, and laid him in the coffin. In the evening her mother went off to the priest’s, but Marusia remained at home. At last she became afraid of being alone in the house. “Suppose I go to my friends,” she thought. So she went, and found the Evil One there.

“Good evening, Marusia! why arn’t you merry?”

“How can I be merry? My father is dead!”

“Oh! poor thing!”

They all grieved for her. Even the Accursed One himself grieved; just as if it hadn’t all been his own doing. By and by they began saying farewell and going home.

“Marusia,” says he, “see me off.”

She didn’t want to.

“What are you thinking of, child?” insist the girls. “What are you afraid of? Go and see him off.”

So she went to see him off. They passed out into the street.

“Tell me, Marusia,” says he, “were you in the church?”

“No.”

“Did you see what I was doing?”

“No.”

“Very well! To-morrow your mother will die.”

He spoke and disappeared. Marusia returned home sadder than ever. The night went by; next morning, when she awoke, her mother lay dead! She cried all day long; but when the sun set, and it grew dark around, Marusia became afraid of being left alone; so she went to her companions.

“Why, whatever’s the matter with you? you’re clean out of countenance!” say the girls.

“How am I likely to be cheerful? Yesterday my father died, and to-day my mother.”

“Poor thing! Poor unhappy girl!” they all exclaim sympathizingly.

Well, the time came to say good-bye. “See me off, Marusia,” says the Fiend. So she went out to see him off.

“Tell me; were you in the church?”

“No.”

“And saw what I was doing?”

“No.”

“Very well! To-morrow evening you will die yourself!”

Marusia spent the night with her friends; in the morning she got up and considered what she should do. She bethought herself that she had a grandmother—an old, very old woman, who had become blind from length of years. “Suppose I go and ask her advice,” she said, and then went off to her grandmother’s.

“Good-day, granny!” says she.

“Good-day, granddaughter! What news is there with you? How are your father and mother?”

“They are dead, granny,” replied the girl, and then told her all that had happened.

The old woman listened, and said:—

“Oh dear me! my poor unhappy child! Go quickly to the priest, and ask him this favor—that if you die, your body shall not be taken out of the house through the doorway, but that the ground shall be dug away from under the threshold, and that you shall be dragged out through that opening. And also beg that you may be buried at a crossway, at a spot where four roads meet.”

Marusia went to the priest, wept bitterly, and made him promise to do everything according to her grandmother’s instructions. Then she returned home, bought a coffin, lay down in it, and straightway expired.

Well, they told the priest, and he buried, first her father and mother, and then Marusia herself. Her body was passed underneath the threshold and buried at a crossway.

Soon afterwards a seigneur’s son happened to drive past Marusia’s grave. On that grave he saw growing a wondrous flower, such a one as he had never seen before. Said the young seigneur to his servant:—

“Go and pluck up that flower by the roots. We’ll take it home and put it in a flower-pot. Perhaps it will blossom there.”

Well, they dug up the flower, took it home, put it in a glazed flower-pot, and set it in a window. The flower began to grow larger and more beautiful. One night the servant hadn’t gone to sleep somehow, and he happened to be looking at the window, when he saw a wondrous thing take place. All of a sudden the flower began to tremble, then it fell from its stem to the ground, and turned into a lovely maiden. The flower was beautiful, but the maiden was more beautiful still. She wandered from room to room, got herself various things to eat and drink, ate and drank, then stamped upon the ground and became a flower as before, mounted to the window, and resumed her place upon the stem. Next day the servant told the young seigneur of the wonders which he had seen during the night.

“Ah, brother!” said the youth, “why didn’t you wake me? To-night we’ll both keep watch together.”

The night came; they slept not, but watched. Exactly at twelve o’clock the blossom began to shake, flew from place to place, and then fell to the ground, and the beautiful maiden appeared, got herself things to eat and drink, and sat down to supper. The young seigneur rushed forward and seized her by her white hands. Impossible was it for him sufficiently to look at her, to gaze on her beauty!

Next morning he said to his father and mother, “Please allow me to get married. I’ve found myself a bride.”

His parents gave their consent. As for Marusia, she said:

“Only on this condition will I marry you—that for four years I need not go to church.”

“Very good,” said he.

Well, they were married, and they lived together one year, two years, and had a son. But one day they had visitors at their house, who enjoyed themselves, and drank, and began bragging about their wives. This one’s wife was handsome; that one’s was handsomer still.

“You may say what you like,” says the host, “but a handsomer wife than mine does not exist in the whole world!”

“Handsome, yes!” reply the guests, “but a heathen.”

“How so?”

“Why, she never goes to church.”

Her husband found these observations distasteful. He waited till Sunday, and then told his wife to get dressed for church.

“I don’t care what you may say,” says he. “Go and get ready directly.”

Well, they got ready, and went to church. The husband went in—didn’t see anything particular. But when she looked round—there was the Fiend sitting at a window.

“Ha! here you are, at last!” he cried. “Remember old times. Were you in the church that night?”

“No.”

“And did you see what I was doing there?”

“No.”

“Very well! To-morrow both your husband and your son will die.”

Marusia rushed straight out of the church and away to her grandmother. The old woman gave her two phials, the one full of holy water, the other of the water of life, and told her what she was to do. Next day both Marusia’s husband and her son died. Then the Fiend came flying to her and asked:—

“Tell me; were you in the church?”

“I was.”

“And did you see what I was doing?”

“You were eating a corpse.”

She spoke, and splashed the holy water over him; in a moment he turned into mere dust and ashes, which blew to the winds. Afterwards she sprinkled her husband and her boy with the water of life: straightway they revived. And from that time forward they knew neither sorrow nor separation, but they all lived together long and happily.

Another lively sketch of a peasant’s love-making is given in the introduction to the story of “Ivan the widow’s son and Grisha.” The tale is one of magic and enchantment, of living clouds and seven-headed snakes; but the opening is a little piece of still-life very quaintly portrayed. A certain villager, named Trofim, having been unable to find a wife, his Aunt Melania comes to his aid, promising to procure him an interview with a widow who has been left well provided for, and whose personal appearance is attractive—“real blood and milk! When she’s got on her holiday clothes, she’s as fine as a peacock!” Trofim grovels with gratitude at his aunt’s feet. “My own dear auntie, Melania Prokhorovna, get me married for heaven’s sake! I’ll buy you an embroidered kerchief in return, the very best in the whole market.” The widow comes to pay Melania a visit, and is induced to believe, on the evidence of beans (frequently used for the purpose of divination), that her destined husband is close at hand. At this propitious moment Trofim appears. Melania makes a little speech to the young couple, ending her recommendation to get married with the words:—

“I can see well enough by the bridegroom’s eyes that the bride is to his taste, only I don’t know what the bride thinks about taking him.”

“I don’t mind!” says the widow. “Well, then, glory be to God! Now, stand up, we’ll say a prayer before the Holy Pictures; then give each other a kiss, and go in Heaven’s name and get married at once!” And so the question is settled.

Among the Gnomes: Within the Untersberg

It seems that during the consternation caused by this event, I must have unconsciously wandered off, for when I gathered my senses again, I found myself in a strange labyrinth of rocks. In vain I tried to find my way back to the Dragon’s Den; there were perpendicular walls and precipices encompassing me on all sides, and the only outlet which I discovered led me still higher up towards the main body of the Untersberg.

The storm-clouds had disappeared and the sky was clear; but my mind (if there is such a thing) was somewhat confused; I did not know which was which. Owing to Professor Cracker’s exposition about the unreliability of direct vision, I could not tell whether the things around me were actually there, or whether they were merely the products of auto-suggestion, trumpery, etc. More than once I bumped my head against a projecting rock, because my method of observation was not scientifically trained enough to enable me to realise the actuality of the rock without a knock-down argument. I had always fancied before that if one receives an impression from an object, be it in the waking state or in a dream, an object or image of some kind must be actually present, from which that impression comes; but now I saw that, according to science, impressions may come from nothing and may be only the products of the accidental friction of brain molecules. I was therefore no longer sure of the existence of anything that had not been analysed and attested to by a scientific expert.

It seemed to me that the sun was about to set, and that I was still wandering on, querying whether I actually was myself or whether some gnome was playing a trick upon my imagination, making me believe that I was I. There was nothing to prove to me scientifically that the something or nothing which imagined itself to be myself was not something else, entirely unknown to me, provided there was such a thing as “myself” at all, which seemed rather doubtful, it having not yet been analysed and its composition shown. I can, in truth, only say that something which somehow seemed to be myself (but to whom it seemed so, I do not know) imagined itself to be I; but, for all I know, there may be no “I,” and it may have been nothing but space.

It seemed to me, or to something, that the setting sun was gilding the ice-fields of the neighbouring mountain-peaks with floods of light, and I (or something) received or seemed to receive the impression somehow, that tints of various hues, beginning with a dainty rose-colour, followed by orange, yellow, sea-green, and ending with blue, were adorning the sky (if there was any), while clouds, apparently floating within the depths of space (whose existence has not yet been proved scientifically), seemed to appear like fleecy masses of pure silver, lined with fluid gold. The vegetation (provided that there actually was one) appeared to be more scanty than below, and to consist mainly of clusters of Rhododendron, and occasionally a specimen of Mandrake, Gentian, or Thyme was to be seen or imagined. Judging from certain impressions, which something that seemed to be myself appeared to receive, I seemed to arrive at the conclusion that there were rocks covered with green moss, upon which grew various ferns and some Ericas. Tranquillity somehow seemed to reign supreme in this altitude, although this is a mere assertion, which I am not prepared to prove; and I seemed to perceive nothing which could have led anyone to infer that the stillness was in any way interrupted, except by the song of a finch that was sitting or appeared to sit upon the branch of a tree—always supposing that the tree was actually there—and the croaking of a flock of ravens, which were flying or seemed to be flying around the tops of the Untersberg. I say all this with a certain reserve, and confess myself unable to prove it; because direct vision is unreliable, and I had no spiritoscope at my command.

I say that all this seemed (to whom?) to be as described; but even this is not scientifically exact or correct; for not knowing myself, how could I have the cheek to assert that I actually perceived anything, or nothing, or everything? How could I make any exact statement about myself if I am not acquainted with myself, and do not know whether or not I exist? I love to be scientifically exact in my statements, and to avoid making wild assertions. I wish (or imagine to wish) to express myself in a manner leaving no room for the learned critic to misunderstand or misinterpret my words, and to speak so plainly that everybody must necessarily understand what I mean; but I find that this philosophical and round-about way of describing things is very inconvenient, and that for the reader’s own sake I cannot persevere in it. Everything in this world seems to be only relatively true, and if we were bound to speak nothing but absolute truth, and express it in a manner that could not possibly be misunderstood by anybody, we would surely be doomed to eternal silence. I must therefore ask the permission of the reader to depart from this exact and strictly scientific method of speaking and circumscribing, and to do like people of common sense, and tell what I experienced or believed to experience, as if I were really something whose existence had been proved and recognised by science, even if I have no other proof of my existence to offer, except that I am. This being myself is a reality to me, but it may be discredited by another; for there can be nothing real to anybody except what he or she realises, and if they realise it, it is, or seems to be, real to them. During my visit in the Untersberg I realised my existence, or seemed to realise it just as much as at any other time in my life (always provided that I exist and live), and the experiences through which I passed were just as real to me as any other experiences before or after that event. Let those who doubt my words, or deny the possibility of what I describe as having occurred, doubt or deny to their heart’s content; they cannot rob me of the satisfaction of knowing what I know.

Somehow I felt myself more free than usual; my body moved without experiencing any fatigue, and I seemed to have no weight. Owing, perhaps, to the invigorating influence of the mountain air, I felt myself filled with strength; my mind was tranquil, my heart full of joy, and, as it were, one with the spirit of all nature—if I may be permitted to use such an expression—and it may be for this reason that I understood the language of nature as plainly as if it had been expressed in audible words, for the rushing of a distant waterfall spoke to me of eternal motion; the presence of the earth of the substantiality of the universe, nourishing all things; the wide expanse of the air of universal freedom; and the fiery orb of the sinking sun of an universal consciousness whose existence cannot be proved, but which may be experienced by souls that are free. Even the flowers had a language of their own, speaking to me of purity, beauty, modesty, and similar principles unknown to modern science, and not yet analysed and classified.

As I scrambled on the scenery grew more wild. Huge boulders of enormous size often blocked the way, throwing fantastic shadows upon the ground. Slowly the sun disappeared behind the slopes of the western range, and solitary stars began to glitter here and there in the sky. The song of the finch had ceased, and the ravens gone to roost among the tops of the pines; but the more all animated things became silent and quiet, the more seemed life to become active in those things which are called inanimate—it was as if the inner life of nature awakened while the outward life went to rest. There is a voice that speaks to the soul in the stillness of night with words that are not to be found in the dictionary. Of course, Professor Cracker would surely call this an hallucination or lie; but, for all that, I know it to be true. The boulders around me looked like gigantic sentinels guarding the entrance to the kingdom of the gnomes, and asking me in their own language by what right I dared to enter upon the forbidden precinct. Here and there the trunk of a stunted tree, a larch or fir with crooked boughs, added to the grotesqueness of the picture, complaining to me bitterly in silent but nevertheless eloquent words that the soil in that place was too poor and the climate too rough to permit a full development of its qualities and a luxuriant evolution of form. At last I stood before a wall of rocks, at the bottom of which a dark cavern held its jaws permanently open, and a feeling of curiosity attracted me towards the entrance. I felt a sort of premonition that the mysterious depths of that cavern was holding for me a new revelation.

The night had now fairly set in, but the moon arose in her glory. It was, as already stated, the eve of St John’s Day, when fairies and elves are said to come nearer to our world to hold intercourse with mortals; the mysterious night, when the ruby spark in the heart of the fern may be seen. A feeling of awe came over me as I looked into the cave and saw the silvery rays of the rising moon shining through the opening, revealing within the interior a lake of considerable extent. I went nearer, and now I beheld, as far as I could see, perpendicular rocks bordering the lake, with projecting nooks, holes, and crevices of unknown extent, while, from the vaulted roofs, appearing like huge stalactites of curious shapes, a curtain of icicles descended, and the surface of the water glittered and sparkled in the moonlight, and the grotto looked like the cave of the nymphs in a fairy tale. I strained my eyes to behold the further end of the lake, but the background was veiled in darkness, and my sight could not penetrate through the mysterious gloom.

Something seemed to draw my soul towards the realm of that shadow which the rays of the moon could not reach, and, as I stood listening, a soft melody was wafted over the waters. Was it the breeze causing a rippling upon the surface which produced that melodious sound while playing among the icicles, or was it the rhythmic dripping of drops of water from the vault overhead, causing faint echoes within these secret recesses? I cannot tell, but it seemed to me like a tiny voice of a woman, but of a woman of some ethereal kind. The melody seemed to express a longing for something unknown. It was like the cry of a new-born soul, desiring to live and exist.

It seems to me an impossibility to fully express in words the sentiments that were embodied in that song. It contained a desire for death or transformation—terms which mean the same thing, namely, the abandoning one state of existence for another one. It embodied a wish for entering upon a higher plane of life and consciousness. The melody which I heard formed itself into a language, whose meaning may perhaps be approximately expressed in the following words:—

“O what is this secret longing,
Welling up within my heart?
Unknown powers, surging, thronging,
Rending solid rocks apart.
New-born joys and dying sadness,
Bursting clouds and opening sight!
Something whispers, full of gladness,
This is love, is life and light!”

These words formed themselves within myself without any conscious volition or ratiocination of my own; and, what is still more surprising, they had a certain magical effect upon me. I felt as if I were myself entering into a new state of consciousness, such as I never experienced before or afterwards, and as if I had become a new being, endowed with a new kind of perception and memory; it was as if I had been asleep all my life and suddenly awakened for the first time. I now somehow knew that I was I; but I could dissect or analyse my Self. I knew that my Self was a unity and not a compound, and therefore incapable of being taken to pieces. I had never known it before, and knew of no authority on whose strength I would have accepted that theory; nevertheless I was certain of it; because I found that my self-consciousness was not composed of parts.

And lo! as I stood at the border of that lake, bending forwards, and with all my senses on the alert listening to the song, I saw a radiance within the depths of that darkness, issuing from a circular luminous centre; and as I concentrated all my attention upon it, this light grew brighter, and there appeared in it the shape of a human being—a woman of supernatural beauty, in a mist-like, silvery garment dotted with stars. Her long golden hair was flowing over her shoulders, and a radiant light shone upon her forehead. It was that light, issuing, as I found afterwards, from a precious gem, which illuminated her person and all the objects within its sphere.

I dislike to tell what followed, because I have no means of demonstrating its truth, and there will be undoubtedly many inclined to doubt it or to dispute it away; but if I had to give evidence before a notary-public, I could not describe what followed otherwise than by saying that I was filled with an irresistible desire to approach that ethereal being, and that I made a step forward, quite without being aware that I was stepping upon a lake. To my surprise, the water supported me, and I now think that it must have been solid ice, for I passed safely over it, and a moment afterwards I stood in mute admiration before the most charming apparition of a lady of noble mien. The lady of the lake looked at me with wondering eyes and smiled. This encouraged me, so I said:

“Who are you, angelic being? if you will permit an intruder this question. Are you one of the angels of heaven or a spirit of nature?”

“My name is Adalga,” answered the lady, and her voice sounded like the music of the spheres. “I am the daughter of Bimbam I., King of the gnomes. But what are you? Are you a spirit, hobgoblin, or spook?”

“I am neither the one nor the other,” I answered. “I am——” but at this moment I could not for the sake of my life remember who or what I was; I had entirely forgotten my name and all that referred to my past life. At last, while I was trying hard to remember who I was, it suddenly dawned upon me that I was an Irishman, born near the Lakes of Killarney, and living at Limerick. I am sure that if I ever was an Irishman, it must have been before I was born; but at that moment I was quite certain of it, and remembered my home and my family. I therefore said:—

“I am Patrick Mulligan, Esq., if it pleases your worship.”

“There is a great deal of power in that name,” replied the princess; “but what is your essential nature?”

“A tailor, if you please,” was my answer; but seeing that the lady did not understand what I meant, I explained that I was in the habit of making clothes. Upon this she asked:

“Are you, then, one of these semi-intelligent forces of nature, capable of assuming a form, which according to our traditions are believed to inhabit the solid vastness of the element called the air?—one of these airy elementals whose bodies are subject to change—mischievous beings, that often cause explosions in our mines?”

The princess stared at me and I stared at her. What she said about the solid vastnesses of the air was incomprehensible to me, until I found out later on that the element of the air is just as impenetrable to the gnomes as the earth is to us; but what astonished me most was, that after having doubted the existence of elemental spirits of nature, I now found myself by one of them regarded as an elemental spirit of the air. At last I said: “With your permission, I flatter myself to be somewhat more than semi-intelligent, and if I am a force, I am surely a substantial one. The fact is that I am a man, a member of the human family, a gentleman from the ancient kingdom of Ireland and a descendant of Caolbha, the 123rd king of Ulster.”

“A man! a gentleman!” exclaimed the princess, full of astonishment and surprise—as if it was the most unheard-of thing that one should be a man; and as if men and gentlemen were not much more plentiful in our world than gnomes and ghosts. This rather amused me, and I said to the princess:

“I hope that I did not give offence to your honour. It seems that you are leading a very retired life, as you have never seen a man.”

But the princess paid little attention to what I said. Looking at me with her eyes wide open, she repeated, as if trying to persuade herself: “A man!”

“Of course a man,” said I. “What else could I be?”

“I have been told of the existence of such superior beings,” at last said the princess. “Our sages teach that they belonged to a now extinct race of divine or semi-divine beings, who were kings of creation, and to whom all the laws of nature were subservient. They were said to be gods, and even superior to the gods in wisdom and power; and that they were spirits, who sometimes assumed material bodies for the purpose of studying the conditions of the lower kingdom of matter.”

My vanity became excited by the description which the princess made of aboriginal man, and I did not wish to depreciate the good opinion which she had formed of me; so I merely nodded consent.

“And from what region of the wide empyrean have you descended?” continued the princess, folding her hands, as if filled with admiration and reverence.

“It is from Limerick that I come,” was my answer.

“I have never heard of that region of space,” said the princess, “nor did I ever see any of the immortal beings who inhabit that sphere; but it is sufficient for me to know that you are a man, and that I am permitted to worship you. My love to you is unbounded; all that I am belongs to you; to become united with you for ever is my only desire. Let me adore you. In you I shall find eternal life!”

No words can express the looks of love and affection which the princess bestowed upon me while her rosy lips expressed these sentiments, and she sank down before me in an attitude of worship. I at once thought that there must be a mistake somewhere, and that she took me for something higher than I knew myself to be; but I did not wish to disappoint her. The straightforwardness of the princess in speaking out her sentiments in plain language and without any mock modesty delighted me very much. I then did not know that this was originally a natural quality of the gnomes, who, being themselves born out of emotions, cannot disguise the emotions which cause them to live. So I replied:

“I highly appreciate your condescension, madame. I do not doubt the sincerity of your words; and as I am fortunately not a married man, there is no objection to our entering into very friendly and intimate relations with each other.”

I do not know whether or not the princess understood what I said; but she continued to indulge in her expressions of love and admiration. Bending low, and extending her beautiful white arms towards me, she cried out in rapture—

“Let me worship thee, O self-born, self-existent one, thee who was before the world came into existence, and who will remain what he is even if all things perish! Thou, who knowest no death, let me embrace thee, and become one with thy divine nature! Let me hail thee, O son of wisdom and lord of creation, whose kingdom encompasses the sky, the earth, and the whole universe, whose Self includes and penetrates all, to whom all power belongs and all glory is due. O infinite one, having shown thyself to me in a limited form, let me dissolve in the infinitude of thy being. Tell me, O man, how I may serve thee!”

I was very much puzzled by this speech, and somehow felt that I did not deserve it. I had never known myself to be such a superior being as the princess described; but I saw that she was happy in her delusion, which afforded me a good opportunity to get my wish fulfilled, and obtain some knowledge in regard to the life of the gnomes. There was now a good chance to get the better of Professor Cracker and the likes of him. I therefore said:

“It is I, madame, who would always be at your service; but if you would do me a favour, I would, with your permission, take a look into the kingdom of the gnomes.”

Thereupon the princess crossed her hands upon her bosom and bowing low, she said:

“Thy wish, O beloved and all-knowing one, is to me a command. Nothing shall hereafter separate me from thy glorious presence. Follow me, O my lord!”

Having spoken these words, her form dissolved, losing its human shape, and becoming, as it were, a ball of light with a fiery centre. This ball floated away and I followed. Was it that there was something the matter with the rocks or with myself? The walls of rock offered no resistance; we passed through them as we would pass through a London fog. It was such a strange experience that, if I did not know myself, I should be inclined to doubt my own words.

We might have been travelling for about ten minutes at the rate of what I should judge to have been about ten miles an hour, the princess literally acting as my guiding star, when the fog seemed to retreat on both sides, and in the open space I saw at a short distance a lot of other luminous balls, and in the midst of each there was a human-like form with a star upon the forehead, from which issued the light that formed the luminous spheres in which these beings lived and moved, each having its own peculiar light. Directly we entered, and were in the midst of the gnomes. They were of various sizes and colours. Some were nearly as tall as I, others like dwarfs. They were not all of the same brightness; some were more luminous than others and their stars more radiant. They had all some sort of an occupation. Some were quarrying marble, from which they made works of art and curious implements; others were engaged in mining. By some means, which I afterwards found to be the application of a substantial energy, which might be called liquid electricity, they rendered fluid the gold that glittered in yellow veins within the snow-white quartz, and after letting it run into moulds the gold became again solid and hard. There was no other light than what emanated from the gnomes themselves, and I saw that the amount of light in each individual indicated the amount of his or her spiritual energy and intelligence. Those that were luminous seemed to be very clever; others, emitting only a faint glow, looked dull and stupid, and between these two extremes there were luminous spheres and radiating stars of different degrees of brightness, exhibiting various tints and hues; but in the majority of them a tint of green could be perceived. They were what may be called “spirits,” in spite of all that may be said to the contrary by Professor Cracker, and their bodies were of a substantial kind. Their forms were not permanent, nor were they, as spirits, dependent upon the existence of their forms. In their normal and spiritual condition they were like individual currents of air, that blow here and there, having no particular shape; but they assumed or projected corporeal and organised bodies whenever it was necessary for them to do so for the purpose of accomplishing some labour requiring a form; and in such cases each spirit assumed the same form again which he had before he dissolved, and which corresponded to his individual character; and he did this, not as a matter of choice, but of necessity, for such is the law of their nature, that to each character belongs a certain form of expression. A good gnome always assumes the same beautiful shape which he had in his previous embodiment, and whenever a wicked gnome dissolved and again took form, he acquired again the same distorted shape, the same features and clothing as before.

But this is a digression, and I must continue my account.

At my approach those who beheld me first were very much frightened, and dissolved into spheres of light, which grew less luminous as they expanded. This called the attention of the rest to my presence, whereupon what I would call a general scattering and dissolving took place; everybody vanished, and from all sides resounded the cries: “A spook! a hobgoblin! a ghost!”

Even the princess became affected by the general panic, so that she lost her presence off mind and disappeared, and the place would have been completely dark but for the fact that in the place of each gnome there was a fiery spark, corresponding in colour to the light that belonged to each individual. Thus the whole place was dotted with sparks of various colours, resembling jewels emitting magnetic rays. In the place of Adalga there was a beautiful pearl; there were brilliant diamonds, sapphires emitting a fine blue light, red-glowing rubies, glittering emeralds, amethysts, smaragds, and other jewels of various kinds—some very tiny, others of considerable size, but all had the same mysterious lustre, the same quality of fire; the difference was only in the amount and colour of the light they emitted.

I then remembered some tale which I had heard of people who went into the Untersberg and found untold treasures of gold and silver and precious stones, but were too much dazzled by the sight of so much wealth that they entirely forgot to pocket any of the jewels, and thought of it only after returning with empty hands. I therefore made up my mind not to lose this opportunity, and started to take one precious emerald, but a faint, childlike voice cried out to me:—

“Touch me not! touch me not!”

I then stretched out my hand towards others; but from each and every one came the same answer—“Touch me not!” However, I was not to be disappointed; so I gathered my courage and made a resolute grab at a great diamond; but on doing so I received an electric shock that threw me upon the ground. At the same time a clap of thunder reverberated through the hall, and the next moment the precious stones had disappeared, and I stood in the midst of a crowd of gnomes, who were talking and gesticulating in an excited manner. They all looked upon me with indignation, and even Adalga’s face expressed disappointment and doubt. But one of the gnomes, a very bright fellow, the one who had been the diamond, came forward, and, assuming a threatening attitude, shook his fist at me and angrily exclaimed—

“This spectre has attempted my life. Why should we be afraid of a ghost that has no substance and is merely a compound of delusions? Let us drive it away! Make it vanish!”

In answer to this, and as if by common consent, all the gnomes shook their fists and cried—

“Put it out! let it be evaporated!”

“This is a queer reception,” I said to the princess. “It is quite unexpected. I am neither a spectre nor a ghost, and not prepared to evaporate. I am a man!”

Then the princess came forward, and holding up her hand as a sign that everyone should be silent, she said—

“Do him no harm. Touch him not. He is a man!”

“A man!” exclaimed the gnomes, pushing forward and staring at me, while the one who had spoken first asked the princess—

“How do you perceive him to be a man?”

“He told me so himself!” answered the princess.

A general “Ah!” was the reply of the gnomes. “He said so himself! He told it to her!” they whispered to each other. The threatening attitude of the gnomes at once changed into one of respect. “A man!” they exclaimed, and the cry was repeated until from all parts of the open space it was echoed back by many voices shouting, “A man!” And through all the caves of the Untersberg the cry was resounded, “A man has come among us! A man! Let his name be blessed! All hail to Mulligan, the saviour of our world!”

Now from all sides gnomes came forward and stared at me. Some were old and others were young, men, women, and children, some dressed in jackets, others in gowns, many wearing hoods upon their heads, whose pointed ends hung down over their backs. I could not quite understand why they should be so much surprised at seeing a man, and expressed my surprise about it, saying that in the world where I lived men were as plentiful as bugs on a tree, while gnomes were exceedingly scarce, so that hardly anybody seriously believed in their existence, and that nobody would dare to say openly that he ever saw a gnome, for fear that somebody might laugh in his face.

Much better would it have been for me if I had been less loquacious, for I saw that some of the more intelligent gnomes looked now very indignant, and one of the wise ones came forward and said—

“Although you said yourself that you were a man, nevertheless I perceive in you only an inferior being, perhaps a hobgoblin; for how is it possible that men, being omnipotent and all-knowing spirits, should not know that we exist, and that they would be afraid of speaking the truth? Only a blaspheming elemental would dare to say that real men were subject to animal passions. How could the creator of all be ignorant of the existence of his creatures? How could he who rests on his own self-consciousness, and is affected by nothing, suffer from fear?”

I did not know what to say; but while trying to think of an answer to subdue the rising storm, for I saw that the gnomes were getting angry, the attention of the crowd was attracted towards the further end of the hall, where a large globe of yellow light appeared, which in coming nearer became condensed into a human form, appearing as a gnome of venerable aspect, with a jewel looking like a fiery topaz upon his head. He had a white beard, and was dressed in a black cloak or cape, and short trousers, stockings, and buckled shoes. In his hand he held something that looked like a tube or telescope. He was, as I heard them say, Prince Cravatu, minister to the king.

As he approached, all the gnomes became silent and waited in mute expectation for what he would have to say. He came up to me very close, and looked at me through his tube, which turned out to be a spiritoscope. The time during which he examined me seemed to me an eternity, but at last he finished, and spoke the ominous words—“Umbra simiæ vulgaris.”

I knew enough Latin to understand that he said I was the ghost of a common ape. A general laughter arose, which was followed by murmurs of dissatisfaction. Cravatu’s unkind remark wounded my feelings, and I therefore said—

“It is perhaps yourself who is a ghost and a monkey, Mr Smarty! I am a man, and never had any monkey in my family. My father was Thomas Mulligan, a member of as good standing in the Church as anybody, and my mother’s name was Bridget O’Flannigan, and they were married by Father Murphy, the parish priest.” And talking myself into a sort of excitement, I proceeded to pull off my coat, and continued: “Just come out of here, you brute, and I will show you whether or not I am a man. I will blacken your eyes and turn you into a kettle-drum. I will make you think that a thousand monkeys have come to scratch your head, you blackguard!”

It was evident that among all present there was none who understood my speech, and Adalga seemed to listen to it with delight. Cravatu looked again and said, addressing the gnomes—

“He is from the land of dreams, and the product of an illusion. There is not a spark of spiritual energy discoverable in him. His language appears to belong to a certain tribe of monkeys inhabiting the dark and impenetrable continent that lies beyond the confines of our kingdom, where all sorts of hobgoblins, devils, and monsters exist, whose greatest pleasure it is to torture each other. Among them you will find different degrees of insanity: they wander about in the dark, without knowing from whence they came or what will be the end of their journey; turning around in a circular dance, sometimes whirling in one direction and then again in another, always returning to the place from which they started, without making any progress. Nevertheless, some of them are said to enjoy their condition, because they do not know anything better. They do not know their own selves, and they are not alive; they only dream that they live, and mistake their dreams for realities. Some of them may even dream to be men. They are dreams in a dream. They have their imaginary dream-knowledge, dream-pleasures, and dream-sorrows, and imagine them to be real. After a certain time they evaporate.”

Something in Cravatu’s manner made me feel that there was a grain of truth in what he said, and kept me from getting angry; but I did not like to hear a gnome speaking so disrespectfully of the human race. I therefore said—

“I beg pardon. The place which you describe may be Purgatory or something worse, but not our world, in which it is, after all, very pleasant to live. We are neither fools nor idiots, but we have among us people of great learning, scientists and inventors, and we have many things which are quite beyond the power of the comprehension of a gnome.”

“Listen to that phantom!” exclaimed Cravatu. “How every word of his confirms what I said. It would be impossible to convince the product of a delusion that he is only an illusion, because, believing himself to be real, all his delusions seem real to him. Not knowing their own real self, but only what appears to be their self, they do not perceive anything real, but see only that which appears to be, and never that which really is.”

Upon this a general discussion took place. Some of the gnomes expressed their opinion that I might be a man after all without knowing it; others said that they perceived that I was only a spook; some thought I was a cheat, and others expressed their belief that I was the product of an auto-suggestion. At last some of the brightest gnomes held a consultation together, and when it was ended, one of the wisest-looking came up to me and said—

“We will allow you fair play. Men are all-knowing, and, if you are a man, you will be able to answer a question. Will you therefore have the kindness to tell us what is the cube-root of the diameter of a circle having a periphery of 3,1415, if you please?”

This of course I did not know, and therefore I said—

“I am not a mathematician, and you will therefore have to ask me something easier. But, even if I were an expert in mathematics, I would require a piece of paper and a pencil to figure it out.”

This remark of mine caused a great deal of merriment among all the gnomes present. They jumped and yelled, and punching each others’ ribs with the tips of their fingers, they cried—

“Ho! Ho! He does not know the cube-root of the diameter of a circle having a periphery of 3,1415,” and from every corner of the place, where groups of gnomes were standing, and from every projecting rock, where some of them were perching and listening, shouts of derisive laughter came back, repeating the suggestive and exasperating words: “Ho! Ho! He does not know the cube-root of the diameter of a circle having a periphery of 3,1415.”

“This is very idiotic!” I cried. “How could anybody know anything without figuring it out or being informed about it?”

A triumphant smile appeared upon Cravatu’s face, and Adalga looked downcast and perplexed, but my remarks only increased the hilarity of the gnomes, many of whom stood upon their heads, and swinging their legs, roared—

“He sees nothing! He knows nothing! He imagines to know what he is informed about! He knows nothing himself!”

In the midst of this uproar a blast of trumpets was heard. Order was immediately restored, and the gnomes whispered to each other—

“The king!”

A sound as of many tinkling silver bells announced the arrival of his majesty, and immediately afterwards I saw a globe of red light of unusual size, accompanied by many smaller ones approaching, and directly I stood in the presence of Bimbam I., king of the gnomes.

The king, whenever he condescended to assume a corporeal form, appeared as a gnome of noble bearing, medium-sized, and of middle age, having a yellow beard, while upon his head rested a crown with many stars; the greatest of them being a large carbuncle, emitting a living red light, which enveloped his person, and caused everything upon which it radiated to appear in a red colour.

“What is all this row about?” asked the king. “Has Kalutho again forgotten to collect electricity from the clouds, and to supply with vitality the roots of the buttercups on the eastern side of the mountain?”

“Worse than that, your Majesty,” replied Cravatu, saluting the king. “A spectre from the country of dreams has dared to penetrate into your kingdom, and it remains with your majesty to decide what is to be done with it. It is an animal hobgoblin belonging to the third dimension of space.”

Thus speaking, he handed to the king the spiritoscope, through which Bimbam I. took a long look at me, and returning it to the minister, he spoke only one word—

“Empty!”

“What is most curious about it, if your majesty will permit,” continued Cravatu, “is that this three-dimensional apparition dreams that it is one of those supernatural beings which once existed upon the earth and were called men!”

Upon hearing these words the king broke out into such a roar of laughter that it was fearful to behold. He held his sides and laughed so that it shook the rocks and disintegrated some of them, while all the gnomes laughed with him. When the noise had subsided, Cravatu again spoke and said—

“If it pleases your majesty to observe that the semi-intellectual forces in nature produce such elemental forms. They do nothing by their own volition, but act only according to the influences which act upon them. Anybody can make them do as he pleases.”

So saying, Cravatu made a sign to one of the gnomes, whom I afterwards learned to know as Clavo, the commanding general of the army. He was a robust fellow, and very quick. Before I knew what he was about, he drew a pin, which he carried in a scabbard by his side, and stuck it into my back. I cried out, and made a jump.

“It is evident,” said the king, “that he is an elemental. Spirits do not squeal and jump when they are stuck with a pin.”

This remark annoyed me, and I howled—

“I do not claim to be a spirit; I only said that I am a man!”

His majesty grinned ironically.

“Who ever heard,” he said, “of a real man who is not a spirit?”

Cravatu then motioned to another gnome who carried a fiddle under his arm, and that fellow, understanding the order, began to play a jig. I am a great lover of music, and love to dance, and this surely was the best Irish jig I ever listened to; but I did not want to make an exhibition of myself before the king, and resisted the impulse. At last, however, the music got the best of me, my legs began to jerk, and before I really knew what I was doing, I danced the jig as lively as I ever danced one in my life.

“He dreams that he is a man,” said the king, “but he is only a product of nature. If you stick his body with a pin, it jumps; if you fiddle to his legs, he dreams that he must dance. I do not perceive any spirit nor anything supernatural in him; he is only a composition of semi-intelligent forces of nature. One can make such a compound do what one likes. We can make it amiable or disagreeable, gay or sorry, angry or contented, envious or generous, jealous, furious, or whatever one likes.”

While the king spoke these words, the princess gave a faint cry, and as I looked at her I saw that the silvery white of her star had assumed a bluish tint. This was noticed by all the gnomes, and they became very much alarmed.

“Her royal highness, the princess, has fallen in love,” cried Cravatu, in a sorrowful tone, and the king quickly replied—

“Let the physician of the court be summoned immediately.”

These words were hardly spoken when the doctor made his appearance. He was an old fellow, with a benevolent expression, wearing a blue cape with yellow borders. He had a grey beard, and wore a pair of golden spectacles.

Unlike our doctors, he did not ask the patient any questions; he did not feel her pulse, nor even look at her tongue; but, like all gnomes, he knew things by direct perception, and saw immediately what was the matter with her. Turning to the king he expressed his sorrow that such an unfortunate accident should have happened to a member of the royal family, and for the purpose of removing the cause of the disease, he advised the king that the object of the affection of the princess—meaning myself—should have his head sawed off immediately.

To my horror, Adalga consented cheerfully, and the king was about to give the required order, when the doctor spoke again, and said—

“If her royal highness would consent to wait until the next night, I would propose to preserve the subject, and instead of sawing its head off, have it dissected alive in the presence of the medical faculty, as it would be very interesting to our physiologists to see of what material spooks are made. If the princess would consent to have that much patience, the whole profession would be thankful to her.”

The princess declared herself willing to wait, and said that the sensation she experienced was rather pleasant that painful to her. Thereupon the king said in a stern manner—

“See that he does not escape. Put him under the jumping-jack!” So saying, the king and his suite turned to go.

“The jumping-jack!”—what a horror crept over me when I heard these terrible words. My frame began to tremble, and my hair stood on one end at the very thought of this jumping-jack, although I had not the faintest idea of what it was, but imagined it to be some instrument of torture. Soon, however, I had my doubts cleared up; for the head executioner, a strong fellow in a scarlet robe, together with his attendants, brought forth the instrument. It consisted of a yellow stick, upon which a wooden monkey, painted purple, was with its hands attached to a movable crossbar at the top, leaving the body free to climb up and down. This they placed before me, planting the stick into the ground, and by means of some contrivance unknown to me, they set the wooden monkey a-going, and quietly walked away, leaving me alone with the princess.

I do not know how it came, but that wooden monkey exerted a powerful influence over me. I had often seen such jumping-jacks at toy-shops, but never experienced such an attraction before. I could not divert my eyes from that monkey. I called myself a thousand times a fool for paying any attention at all to a jumping-jack, and nevertheless it kept me spell-bound. I could do nothing else but sit there with my eyes rivetted upon that monkey. I knew that the princess was still with me, and I heard her imploring me with tears, by all that was sacred to me, to desist from paying attention to that jumping-jack.

“Dearest Mulligan!” she cried, “why will you not desist from worshipping that monkey? Why will you not make love to me? See, the doors are open, and there is nothing to hinder us to depart. Have I not promised you to follow you wherever you go?”

“Let me alone!” I cried in rage. “I cannot take my eyes away from that confounded jack.”

“Is this your manhood?” continued Adalga, weeping and wringing her hands. “Are you a supernatural being, and the sight of a monkey can make you forget yourself and your promises? Is this your love and affection for me, which a purple monkey can steal away? O Mulligan! Mulligan! leave off looking at that jumping-jack and remember your duty! Come into my arms!”

“I wish that confounded hypnotism had never been invented!” I cried; but for all that I was not able to break the spell. The princess kept on crying bitterly, and begging me to desist. I heard her speak, but what she said had no effect upon me. What did I care for a princess, while I enjoyed the sight of that dear jumping-jack? I knew that if I did not control myself I would have to remain in this situation and be tortured to death at the appointed hour; but what was that to me? I cared for nothing else but for the sight of that monkey in whom all my affections were centred. I thought of the princess with entire indifference. Oh, how I loved that jumping-jack! It was as dear to me as if it had been my own self. I could not think of anything but of that jumping-jack, and I involuntarily hummed the song in which my situation was so well portrayed by the words of a well-known poet:—

“Willie had a purple monkey
Climbing on a yellow stick.”

It never occurred to me to lick off the paint. I knew nothing more. I was asleep, with the jumping-jack in my arms.

 

#MerfolkMonday: Hilda Marion Hechle

Hilda Marion Hechle (1886-1939) was a British painter known for her mountain landscapes and her significant contributions to the Ladies Alpine Club, so it might be a little counterintuitive to feature her work in a category called “Merfolk Monday”, but hear me out or, better still, take a look at this Fairy Love Boat (1860), which went on sale a few years ago and tell me it isn’t fitting.

She was was born in Brassington, Derbyshire, and received her education at St. John’s Wood Art School before furthering her studies at the Royal Academy Schools in London. She was an experienced climber, and primarily focused on alpine scenes; she was a member of the Ladies Alpine Club, and her works were exhibited at the Alpine Club Gallery’s annual Picture Exhibition starting in 1925, showcasing her deep appreciation for mountain landscapes. One of her notable works is titled “Nocturne des Alpes”, but my favourites include a knack for the supernatural, such as this ghostly and haunting “The Hiker’s Apparition”.

Her most popular work nowadays seem to be the whimsical “A Moonlight Phantasy”, painted around 1930.

Among the Gnomes: The Scientific Investigation

Part Three of Eight.

 

The main body of the instrument consisted of a wooden box in which the four above-named mirrors were placed so as to face each other, and to the box was attached a telescope-tube. Thus a ray of light coming from an outside object and entering the box would produce an image in the first mirror; this would become reflected in the second and third, and finally in the fourth, where it could be seen through the telescope.

The whole apparatus was mounted upon a tripod with movable legs, so that it could be turned in every direction.

It will naturally be asked, how could Professor Cracker expect by such natural means to discover anything supernatural, and what is the benefit of looking at the reflection of a thing in a mirror, if it might be just as well seen directly with the eye? As to the first question, Professor Cracker did not admit the existence of anything beyond the common aspect of nature, and needed therefore no instrument for its discovery; while in regard to the second question, he said that direct vision was unscientific and unreliable, because what a man sees, or believes to see, may be caused by irregular cerebral action, hallucination, defective sight, ecstasy, trance, clairvoyance, or other diseases; but mirrors could not be deceived—they would not become hallucinated, or enter into a state of ecstasy:—they only showed what was actually true, and there was no humbug about them. Direct sight was well enough for common people with common sense, but indirect vision for science.

Heretofore the great merit of this spiritoscope was, as Professor Cracker repeatedly pointed out, that it had never produced any other than negative results, but these had been obtained unfailingly on all occasions, for it had actually never indicated the presence of any genius, gnome, ghost, or spirit whatever; but as the instrument was constructed according to unquestionable principles, these negative results were fully sufficient to prove the correctness of Professor Cracker’s theory.

On this occasion, however, there seemed to be something the matter with the spiritoscope. Be it that the mirrors were not in order, or that even scientific and indirect vision may be deceptive, there was evidently some kind of an obscuration within the tube, which could not be explained by natural causes. In vain Professor Cracker repeatedly cleaned his spectacles, and ultimately substituted coloured glasses for them; the fact was undeniable that something dark, some sort of a shadow, appeared repeatedly within the field of indirect vision, and this something must have been alive, for it moved about by means of some energy contained within itself, and without being kinetically impelled by any discoverable extraneous force. Repeatedly the Professor exclaimed the ominous word: “rot!” and “bosh!” and “impossible!” His scepticism had to give way before the evidence produced by his spiritoscope, and at last he was overcome by the conviction of having discovered a gnome. He looked somewhat pale, as with bated breath and with ill-suppressed excitement he announced the discovery to his colleagues.

It was now Rev. Stiffbone’s turn to take a look through the spiritoscope. He, too, saw the shadow, and saw it move. Owing to the circumstance that the light fell into the instrument from the side opposed to the standpoint of the observer, the part of the spirit turned toward Stiffbone’s eye could not be clearly seen, but its outlines seemed to grow sometimes larger and sometimes smaller, from which he inferred that the spirit was a gnome, as they were said to be able to change the size of their forms.

These observations were corroborated by Mr Scalawag. Professor Cracker looked again, and having satisfied himself that there could be no possible mistake, he made a speech, in which he said that it had been reserved for him to make the greatest discovery of this age, and that the existence of gnomes—which had heretofore been doubted by certain too sceptical people—was now an established fact, demonstrated by him for the first time in human history.

But alas! “this world is but a fleeting show,” and even the demonstrations of science cannot always be depended upon as absolutely true, for while the Professor made his speech, the head of a little mouse appeared at the opening of the tube, and seeing the coast clear, the mouse jumped to the ground and ran away. How the mouse happened to come into the spiritoscope has never been satisfactorily explained. The committee looked perplexed, and Cracker grew red in the face.

“Errare humanum est!” exclaimed Stiffbone, and Mr Scalawag added: “We are all liars. The best plan will be to say nothing about it.”

Although the committee did not believe thenceforth in spirits, it can nevertheless not be denied that a spirit of gloom rested upon them after this incident; a scowl rested upon the Professor’s face, and he admitted that for once in his life he had been mistaken.

While they discussed this matter the wind had changed from E.N.E. to N., and now a light puff of air brought a piece of paper flying into the cave. Rev. Stiffbone saw it, and picked it up. There were written upon it the following verses:—

O foolish mortal, by dull senses bound;
Within thyself the spirit must be found.
Know thou thyself, and by self-knowledge know
The lives above and in the world below.
In every sphere each being knows its own;
To spirits only spirits can be shown.

After reading these lines, Mr Stiffbone handed the paper to the Professor, and asked him what he thought. The Professor carefully examined the structure of the paper and said:

“This is nothing but an ordinary piece of notepaper, manufactured in this country. There is nothing supernatural about it.”

“But the verses,” answered Stiffbone. “They seem to refer to the subject of our conversation. How is this coincidence to be explained?”

“In a very simple manner,” replied Professor Cracker, growing more and more excited as he spoke. “You, sir, have written these miserable verses yourself, for the purpose of playing it on me; but let me assure you that, even if I have been imposed on by a mouse, I am not going to be fooled by such a ragamuffin as yourself; your trick was not clever enough for that.”

During this speech the Rev. Stiffbone, with open mouth, stared aghast at the Professor, and the word “ragamuffin” aroused his temper. He said that such an ill-founded accusation was calculated to greatly lessen his respect for one whose capacity to judge he had anyhow always regarded as doubtful, and that he owed it to his own respectability as a clergyman to regard Mr Cracker’s calumnies as being those of a man in his dotage, if not a wilful perverter of truth.

Cracker retorted again, and it is doubtful how the matter would have ended, but just at that moment a long-drawn sigh was heard, coming from some invisible source, and at the next moment a gust of wind followed that overthrew the spiritoscope, and sent Stiffbone’s hat flying out at the other end of the Dragon’s Den. Directly afterwards the cave became illumined by a flash of lightning, and this was succeeded by a clap of thunder which caused the ground to tremble, and reverberated like the firing of a battery of guns through the clefts in the neighbourhood. The committee stood aghast and terrified, looking at each other in a perplexed manner and not knowing what to do.

It appears that the sky had become suddenly overcast with clouds, and a storm gathered at the top of the Untersberg, while our friends were too much absorbed in their scientific researches to notice it, and now the rain began to come down in torrents, and the archway offered but little protection, for sheets of rain were blown in at the open side of the cave, and streams of water began to flow in every direction over the ground.

In a few moments the members of the committee and myself were drenched to the skin, and did not know what to begin; but our guide, drawing aside the branches of the rosebush that stood at the entrance, pointed out to us an excavation in the rock, which had escaped the observation of the committee, and he invited us to enter. Into this hole we crawled one after another; and after proceeding a few feet it grew wider, and formed a hollow of considerable size. Here we were comfortable enough, only we were wet, and the place was perfectly dark.

Professor Cracker struck a light, and lit a candle which he happened to have in his pocket, and by that aid we discovered a passage leading still further into the interior of the hill. This we decided to explore. Professor Cracker entered with his candle, then came Rev. Stiffbone, after him Mr Scalawag, and finally myself, each man holding on to the coat-tail of the one who preceded.

Thus we went on for a considerable distance, when suddenly a draught of cold air blew out the Professor’s light. At the same time Mr Cracker’s foot hit against some soft elastic substance of an unknowable kind, and directly afterwards he received a fearful blow upon his abdomen from something unseen. Turning round for escaping the invisible enemy, he received another blow that sent him flying heels over head, overturning the Rev. Stiffbone, who in his turn upset Mr Scalawag. They were all lying in a heap, and I heard Cracker’s voice producing a series of most unearthly yells; but the Rev. Stiffbone, while begging for mercy and blindly grasping about, clutched the air and got hold of Mr Scalawag’s hair, who defended himself with his fists; but my observations were also cut short, for I had just time, as my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, to see a still darker object rushing at me over the prostrate forms of my friends, when I myself received a severe blow upon my stomach, that caused me to lose my senses, and for a moment I knew nothing more.