Chiara C. Rizzarda's Blog, page 17

#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.

#MermaidMonday: The Sea Spirit

Here’s another short story by William Harrison Ainsworth, after “The Wanderings of an Immortal”, from his early collection December Tales (1823). It’s one of my favourites, as it’s a story of female strength and revenge.

I do not love to credit tales of magic;
Heaven’s music, which is order, seems unstrung,
And this brave world
(The mystery of God) unbeautified,
Disorder’d, marr’d, where such strange things are acted.

— THE WITCH.

Passing the —— in the summer of the year 17—, we were overtaken by a storm, which rapidly increased, and threatened, by its violence, to engulf us in the waves. To one who has never experienced such a scene, no description could convey an adequate idea of its horrors; and to those who have been so situated, the description would be superfluous. The roaring of the wind, the raging of the waves, the shivering canvas, and the noise of the creaking and straining cordage, can be but faintly imagined by any but those who have known the reality. As night approached, our situation became more dreadful, and darkness added to the other causes of terror. The ship was for hours together darted along, and again hurled back by successive waves. At length day broke, and the light of the morning, in some degree, revived our spirits; but the sight of our vessel was, in itself, enough to destroy all hope. She had lost a mast, her rigging was burst and shivered, and the torn sails flapped about in long strips. It seemed that but little chance remained of the vessel weathering the storm, and the captain ordered the boats to be got out; and being speedily obeyed, the crew and the few passengers crowded into them. We left the ship, and in a few moments lost sight of her.

We were now entirely abandoned to the mercy of the elements. A few boards alone separated us from the ocean; we were exposed to the wind, rain, and the waves, and we had little prospect of escaping death. Added to these evils, our provisions were scanty, and damaged by the water. Our prospects were melancholy enough, and despair sat on every countenance. Each of us gazed at his neighbour, but shuddered at the horror and dismay which met his glance. Some sat in a sullen torpor, whilst others muttered ejaculations of despair, and gazed with wild and intense looks on the waves, which seemed ready to engulf us on every side.

The storm continued for several days; we were faint and weary with exertion and suffering. Some lay down to endeavour to obtain rest, while the others threw out the water which came into the boat. A tremendous wave rolled towards us; and the other boat, which had continued to keep at no great distance from us, was instantly swamped, and one of our men washed overboard. The fate of our comrades contributed to increase our misery, for the same fate might every moment overtake the survivors. Our provisions were exhausted, and famine stared us in the face. We chewed the soft leather of our shoes, to deaden the sense of hunger, for every morsel of food had been consumed. One of our number died. He was to be thrown over into the sea. Two sailors laid hold of the body to perform that sad office to it. A sudden thought seemed to seize their minds; they hesitated, and looked round. It was dreadful; no one spoke, yet every one knew what was meant. The sailors laid the body down; some horrid feeling seemed to agitate every breast, but it could not burst forth in words. It was the deep silence of every one in the boat, the motion of the eye, a certain pervading feeling, which told each man why the body was again placed in the boat, instead of its being committed to its watery grave.

At last the captain spoke; but his voice could scarce be heard, amid the raging of the contending elements. “Why is not the body thrown into the sea?” he said; “will ye keep him here to rot and decay? or do you wish to satisfy your hunger on the carcass of your fellow?” He laid hold of the body, and speaking to a sailor, they lifted it over the side of the boat, and it disappeared.

The weather soon altered, and grew calm. One morning we were greeted with the welcome cry of land. We strained our eyes to see it, and plainly perceived it at a considerable distance.
We laboured at our oars, and towards evening arrived at it. With some difficulty we landed, and looked round on a barren and comfortless track of country, principally level, and occasionally interrupted by rocks jutting out of the ground, or an ill-formed and bare tree. We were, however, too much rejoiced to have escaped from the sea, to examine minutely the spot on which we were thrown. Exhausted with continued fatigue, we lay down on the ground, and enjoyed a profound sleep till morning. When we arose from our slumbers, the bleak and cheerless prospect depressed our spirits; we were without either shelter or food, and the latter want pressed us most severely. For five days we had not tasted food. We wandered about in hopes of meeting with something, but there were no traces that might indicate that any living creatures, save ourselves, existed on this barren spot; a few roots, however, rewarded our search, and in some degree satisfied our hunger. We spoke but little, and that little consisted in useless and unavailing repinings. At length, it occurred, that we were totally destitute of any lodging to protect us from the rigour of the weather, and we therefore set about looking out for a spot, suitable for erecting some kind of shelter. Two rocks, which were considerably elevated above the level ground, formed an angle which would shelter us on two sides. We stuck our oars in the ground, and stretched on them a large piece of canvas, which had been used as a sail, and which we had brought along with us in the boat. We were uncovered and exposed over head, it was true, but we were safe on ground, and even this most of us considered far preferable to being tost about on the ocean, in a boat which one wave might swallow up for ever. The weather was now fine and dry; the few trees on the island were covered with verdure; and the leaves strewed on the ground, composed our humble beds, and were likewise of greater use in another manner. We contrived, by means of a pistol and a little powder, to light a fire with leaves and branches which we broke off the trees. The scene in the evening, when the mists began to gather around, was highly picturesque. The flame rose in high and curling flashes, threw its red glare over the island, and blazed against the rocks. As it increased, it was reflected on the waves, and extended in a long red blaze over the water. My companions, as they moved about in the light, which shewed more plainly their hard and deep marked features, seemed like some strange and fearful beings, performing their unhallowed rites. We gradually grew more cheerful, and hope represented to us the chance, that some vessel might pass by, and relieve us from our present desolate situation. Still our condition was wretched, and our food scarce and unwholesome, consisting merely of roots, and the few fish of various kinds that we occasionally found on the shore.

An incident occurred, which rather startled us, and did not contribute to add to our comfort. A sailor, who had been wandering about the island, had remained out later than usual, and came running into our enclosure out of breath, his eyes starting from their sockets, and exhibiting all the marks of violent terror. We inquired earnestly the reason of this appearance. As soon as he had sufficiently recovered himself, he exclaimed “I have seen a ghost!” Sailors are generally superstitious, and we stared at each other with wild looks, as if each expected to encounter the eyeless scull and bloody winding-sheet of some terrible apparition. The captain only preserved his composure unmoved; he laughed at our fears, and joked the ghost-seer unmercifully. The man, however, persisted in his tale. He was walking on the shore, at a part of the island to which we had seldom resorted in our peregrinations, on account of its particularly rugged and barren appearance. Here, as he was picking up some shell fish, which lay at his feet, his attention was engaged by a slight noise, and looking up, he perceived, to his horror, the figure of a man, which seemed to skim along the surface of the water, and was followed by a female form who pursued him, and whom he strove, but in vain, to avoid. The woman overtook him, and with a tremendous laugh, plunged him into the waves. In a moment after, the apparition disappeared, and he saw it no more.

Various were the speculations which this narration gave birth to, among the members of our society. A degree of fear prevailed among us, and whispers were circulated, as if every one had dreaded to hear the sound of his own voice. The captain, too, it was remarked, who had at first made the circumstance an object of merriment, now seemed inwardly troubled, and strove in vain to dispel the melancholy which clouded his brow.

On retiring to rest, all huddled together in the farthest angle of the rocks. Sleep came over us; but the imaginations of many tormented them with ghostly dreams, and occasionally, an exclamation of horror would burst from some one, and disturb the others, who, scared at the noise, joined in the hubbub, thus increasing the general confusion.

Morning broke, and dispelled the visions which had haunted us. Our first operation was, to accompany the man to the place where, according to his narration, the spirits had appeared. Nothing was, however, to be found, excepting (what were much more acceptable than ghosts) some shell fish, which, however, the superstitious apprehensions of one or two of our number prevented their touching. Others, who paid less respect to the supernatural visitors, or were more hungry, speedily devoured this sort of food. The day wore away without any novelty occurring, and the shades of the evening began to descend. The sun, which had sunk beneath the sea, still illuminated the edges of the light clouds that skirted the horizon. It was a sweet evening; one of those whose soft and gentle influence steal upon the soul, conjuring up those delightful reminiscences and lang-syne ideas, that the mind dwells upon with unfading pleasure. The wind was quite still, and we sat down near our habitation (if such a name may be given to such a spot). The captain, who had been silent all day, now spoke, and informed us, that he thought he was able to disclose some particulars relating to the last night’s occurrence. Every one drew nearer to his neighbour, and prepared to listen, with long faces and open mouths, not unmixed with sundry twists of the eyes over the left and right shoulders, to have due warning, in case any unearthly visitant should clandestinely attempt to attack us in the rear. To obviate the possibility of this, however, we drew, as by instinct, into a circle, in which position, every side being guarded, no undue advantage could be taken by any emissary from the invisible world. “When I was a cabin boy on board the Thunderproof,” said the captain, who, as orator, was stationed in the centre of the assembly, “a plot was concerted by the greater part of the crew, to murder the captain, and take possession of the vessel. I, with several others who were unconcerned in the scheme, knew nothing of it till the moment of its execution. We were suddenly seized and pinioned; and the captain, after being severely wounded, was thrown overboard. His wife was in the ship, and hearing the noise, came on deck.

“The villain who had concerted the plot, caught her in his arms; she struggled, and escaping his grasp, ran to the ship’s side, where stumbling, she was again seized. Perceiving herself in the wretch’s power, she desisted from her endeavours to free herself; and he, deceived by her apparent submission, relaxed his hold. At this moment she caught him in her grasp, and with a violent effort, sprung over the ship’s side, dragging the ruffian along with her. We heard them fall into the water; we heard the shrill and heart-rending scream of her victim, as he received his well-merited punishment. We were afterwards unbound; perhaps the villains considered us too few and too insignificant to excite alarm among them. They did not long enjoy the fruits of their crimes. The vessel was wrecked, and I and two others alone escaped; and since that time, the seas near that spot have been considered as haunted by the spirits of the victims and the murderers. Doubtless, it was near this island that the events took place; but having lost our compass, we can only guess at it; and the appearance which was seen by Jenkins last night, bears relation to the events I have mentioned.”

This narrative by no means tended to quiet our fears, which rose to a considerable height. After much deliberation, it was proposed that we should sit up and wait in expectation of the unwelcome visitants, which proposal was agreed to by many, with fear and trembling, who, however, assented, that they might not be thought to possess less courage than their fellows.

Hour after hour passed; but we neither saw nor heard anything to justify our fears. The disagreeableness of the situation made the time seem much longer than it was in reality. We began to grow uneasy of waiting for spirits, and some spoke of giving up the watch. Still we delayed, when, on the surface of the ocean, far off, a dim light appeared. Certainly it would be highly indecorous in me to speak aught reflecting on the courage of British sailors; but, nathless, I will venture to affirm, that the hair of every individual stood in a more upright and porcupine position than they were wont to do. The appearance presently assumed a more definite form; it seemed the likeness of a woman, and we perceived, with feelings by no means pleasant, that it approached the shore. A second figure was perceived in the act of avoiding the first. It fled towards the shore, and was pursued with incredible speed by the other. It had almost reached the shore, when it was overtaken by the female form. She seized on the hair of his head, dragged him round, and with a laugh, that curdled the blood in my veins, seemingly plunged her victim in the waves, and disappeared. My companions were petrified with terror, and the captain lay senseless on the ground. At last we regained some degree of self-possession, and raising the captain, with much difficulty restored him to the use of his faculties. But the impression made upon him by the scene was so strong, that it was a considerable time before he perfectly recovered from the effects of it. He declared that he knew the features of the figures as well as he knew any one living. He became extremely uneasy, as did the rest of us, at our abode on this island, and we thought of again trusting to the boat for our deliverance, when we were fortunately taken up by a vessel, and conveyed to England. Our joy at revisiting our native country may be conceived, but not described; but, if I may judge of my own feelings, none of us wish again to tempt like dangers.

Hello Darkness My Old Friend

TW: Everything

Yesterday I was at a friend’s place: we got together over some oysters and the plan was to have a cry together. Which we did. She had a nice bottle of Pigato, too, a wine from Liguria I’m usually fond of. Thing is, I didn’t feel like drinking. Didn’t feel much like eating either.

Which is weird, because I adore every single thing she had on the table.
Which is weirder because I’m usually what some people would define as a heavy drinker.

I’m not an alcoholic, mind you: I have rules, and I do cleanse periods to check for dependencies, but I’m not the kind of person who has the occasional single glass of wine over dinner, and my drinking is connected to emotions, which is a tricky sign and one to look out for.

I drink when I’m angry, for instance. I also drink when I’m sad, sometimes, but it’s usually that kind of sad that’s looking towards some sort of possibility to be cheered up. Most of the time, I drink because I’m happy. I like drinking. I like the flavours of wine and beer and the stronger stuff, and I like the way it makes you feel, which, for me, is lightheaded and lighthearted. As much as I’ve jested about it, I never drink to drown my sorrows because the motherfuckers are far better swimmers than I am.

To fight my sorrows, I usually write. So here I am.

The last few weeks have been super tough, both from a physical standpoint and from an emotional one.
We’re still in the process of moving back into our house, and lots of my stuff still is at my father’s, and he doesn’t like it, and I know it, and he makes sure you know it. Moving is hard work. Moving in winter doubles the fun because of the rain and the resulting traffic, which means I’m mostly doing short trips by foot, carrying more weight than I should.
Also, my grandmother’s passing meant I made frequent trips to the nursing home, also by foot, in an effort to ensure she was well cared for and wasn’t suffering. I’ve walked 51 km in two weeks, which isn’t a lot, but it doesn’t feel like resting either.

Finally, my grandmother’s passing has been as tough as anyone with a bit of empathy might understand.
You look back at a life spent in sorrow, marked by illness and grief, you sift through the memory for little sparks or short periods of happiness, and you can find very few of them.

We used to play pretend when I was little, and I played Robin Hood and she had to be the sheriff, and she crafted me a little hat with a paper feather.
She was fond of Harry Potter, and we went to the theatre together to see the first three movies, until she didn’t want to come anymore because I was “too grown up”. I was 17 when the first movie came out. Maybe we weren’t doing it because I was a kid, were we?
She liked Elvis Presley, but only the music he did “when he was good-looking”.
She still had a pair of sandals Grandpa gifted her on Christmas day. Who gifts out-of-season shoes? Grandpa.
Still, as soon as you find them, you can find a glimpse of comfort, I suppose.

Toughest than the passing, the mourning unearthed memories of when I was sitting at that very same desk, at the funeral parlor, making the very same decisions for my own mother. What kind of coffin. What kind of flowers. Where is she going to be buried. Pick the car. Who the fuck cares about the car?

And the funeral. By God, the funeral. I’m not religious, and hearing a perfect stranger trying to guess what kind of person we’re mourning always feels like the utmost hypocrisy to me. Maybe I’m just jealous for the kind of comfort people are finding in religion.

And then there’s some petty stuff I won’t get into detail here.

Bottom line is: don’t be fooled by the content being published on the blog, because that was planned during the holidays. I hope you enjoy it, don’t get me wrong, but truth is I’m drowning. I know it because I’ve been here before. Bear with me.

This bear will do.

Among the Gnomes: In the Dragon’s Den

About a thousand feet below the summit of the Untersberg, and not very far from the top of one of its spurs, that reaches out into the valley through which runs the limpid stream coming from the renowned lake called the “Koenigsee,” there is a spacious cave, within an almost perpendicular slope of rocks, several hundred feet in height. This cave or hole, called the “Dragon’s Den,” is large enough for affording shelter to a whole herd of cattle, and high enough so that a good-sized church, steeple and all, might be put therein. Its roof is formed by an overhanging rock (as is shown in our picture), and the hole extends like a tunnel from one side of the hill to the other; so that if seen from below it appears like an archway through which the sky and the stars on the other side may be seen.

This den is said to have been inhabited in ancient times by a villainous dragon of a very peculiar kind, having no conscience, reason, or common sense, but being exceedingly selfish. His greatest pleasure was to dissect and analyse everything, and to destroy all that was of an ideal nature; to tear the clothes away from everything exalted and beautiful for the purpose of exposing bare facts. These he liked so well, that he imagined the bones of every creature were its only essential parts; so he tore the flesh of his victims away and devoured their bones. From the altitude of his den he would overlook both sides of the hill, and whenever he saw a pretty maiden wandering among the rocks in search of the Alpine rose or the Edelweiss, he would pounce upon her, drag her to his den, dissect her, and strip her of all flesh, and devour the bones piece by piece. It is said that later on the dragon emigrated into the valley, but his den was selected by the committee for the investigation concerning the non-existence of gnomes.

Before we proceed further, it will be necessary to introduce the reader to our friends. There was, first of all, Professor Thomas Cracker, a member of nearly all scientific societies in the world, a great sceptic, who, by a long course of scientifically training his imagination, had acquired such a degree of scientific scepticism that he always knew everything without taking the trouble of looking at it. There was no fact in Nature for which he had not invented a theory; and if the theory did not fit it, so much the worse for the facts. He had become celebrated; because, owing to his superior sagacity, and after years of persevering study, he had succeeded in discovering that a certain book entitled “Little Alice in Wonderland,” was only a fable, not based upon historical facts, and whose object was to bamboozle the ignorant and take in unwary and gullible people. Owing to the great merit obtained by this work the honour and title of a member of the Academy was bestowed upon him.

Mr Cracker’s father had been the keeper of a variety shop, and was in the habit of ignoring and treating with contempt everything that was not of his own manufacture or kept in his shop. Nevertheless, among the good articles which he kept for sale, there were many things that had gone out of fashion. These he used to fit up in a new style, varnish and paint them over, give them new labels with modern names, and advertise them as something brand new. Thus he did a good trade and gained a reputation.

Professor Cracker, junior, resembled his father to a dot, only he traded in less tangible goods. He also was in the habit of ignoring and treating with contempt everything that did not agree with the theories that were manufactured by himself or his colleagues; nevertheless there were among his articles of creed certain doctrines taught centuries ago, but having gone out of fashion. These he used to take down from the garret where they had been forgotten, dress them up in modern style, varnish them over with modern expressions, label them with newly invented names, and advertise them as brand-new discoveries, or goods of his own invention. In this way Professor Cracker traded in science and gained a reputation.

The next was the Reverend Jeremiah Stiffbone, a clergyman, who had received from his congregation a liberal amount of money to enable him to travel in search of the truth that could not be found at home. Mr Stiffbone was well versed in all sorts of authorities, and able to quote almost any number of books in support of almost any opinion, for he knew the contents of many scientific and religious writings,—that is to say, he knew what was written therein; but as to his knowledge in regard to the subjects themselves, it would be difficult to decide what it was; for he one day believed in this and the next day in another author’s veracity, and the one into whom he put his faith was for the time being to him the only infallible one. Thus he stumbled along upon the path of wisdom, falling from one opinion into another like a person in a state of intoxication. It should not be supposed, however, that Jeremiah loved this state of uncertainty and wavering. What he wanted, above all, was to establish a scientific and religious system that could be fully depended on as being true and reliable, and containing articles and scientific doctrines which everyone would have to accept as true, and go to sleep quietly, being firmly convinced that the opinions therein were the final dictates of science, incontrovertible, not subject to improvement, and fully correct.

As to the external appearance of the above-named two gentlemen, Professor Cracker was of short stature, thickly set, with a rubicund face, smoothly shaven, except a pair of grey side-whiskers. His little eyes continually wandered restlessly from one object to another, his arms were unusually long, but his legs short and bow-shaped, and all this somehow contributed to give him the appearance of a Mandril (Cynocephalus Maimon), as may be said without giving offence to the Professor; for he was himself firmly of the opinion that the whole of man had descended[34] from the ape. He even looked with satisfaction upon his long line of ancestors, and prided himself on having become somehow superior to them in the art of reasoning, if not in bodily strength.

As to the Reverend Stiffbone, he seemed the reverse of Professor Cracker. He was thin and tall, looking like a collection of bones of some antediluvian bird. His features were sharp, his head almost bald, and his mouth wide, while his chin and nose were long and protruding, as if they were trying to meet each other. Upon his nose he wore a pair of green goggles of great size, causing him to appear not unlike an owl; but his nose and chin gave him a resemblance to one of the well-known wooden nut-crackers, which are manufactured in the city of Nuremberg, and are the delight of the children all over the world.

Finally, there was Moses Abraham Scalawag, Esq., the commercial business manager of the expedition. His external appearance went to show that he was not much of an idealist, but preferred the good and material things of this life, and had no aversion to a certain kind in spirits. Although he denounced the belief in hobgoblins, ghosts, gnomes, etc., as a degraded superstition, he somehow thought that, if the story of Burkhart von Tollenstein were true, it might be worth the while to investigate the financial condition of the gnomes in the Untersberg.

We were accompanied by a guide, carrying our provisions and scientific instruments. This guide was a direct descendant of the reputed Lazarus Gitschner, who in the year 1529 spent ten days among the gnomes in the Untersberg. We attempted to draw him out, but the guide would not reveal what his ancestor had seen during that visit; nor is this surprising, for Lazarus himself never revealed it to anybody except to the priest in the confessional. All that has become known about it is, that he came out of the Untersberg a man entirely changed from what he was before he went in, and the priest also, after hearing the confession, became very much changed himself, even so that he left off playing ninepins on Sunday morning, led a retired life, and died not long afterwards in the odour of sanctity.

Bright was the day, and the earth looked refreshed from the morning dew that still rested upon the daffodils and ferns, where it glittered in the light of the sun like so many small diamonds. The air was fragrant from the odour of pines and wild thyme, and the breeze carried up from the valley an aroma of new-mown hay. Peacefully grazed the goats upon the sides of a hill, from which rushed a small cataract in a thousand cascades, while an air of tranquillity and solemnity rested upon the scene below, interrupted only by the tolling of the bell in the distant village church, which sounded harmoniously into the solitude.

Of all this, however, our members of the committee saw, heard, smelt, and knew nothing; for each was absorbed in his own thoughts. Professor Cracker moved slowly on, carrying his wig on his walking-stick over his shoulder, and revelling in the anticipation of the glory which the annihilation of the gnome theory would bring upon him. The Rev. Stiffbone’s long coat-tails fluttered in the wind as he marched on, taking long strides upon the uneven path, and his thoughts were absorbed in the prospect of being able to add another incontrovertible doctrine in regard to the non-existing of gnomes to his Bible of Science. Mr Scalawag wobbled along as well as he could, thinking nothing particular, but stopping frequently and wiping the sweat from his brow. At last he exclaimed:

“Confound these gnomes! Is it worth the while to climb up to that den and waste our valuable time in disproving that such animals exist?”

To this the Reverend Stiffbone replied:

“Gnomes are not animals, but imaginary beings. Theophrastus Paracelsus describes them as being intellectual forces in nature, whatever that may mean. They are about six inches in height, but able to change and to elongate their bodies.”

“But how can you determine their height,” asked Mr Scalawag, “if they are merely imaginary? You may just as well imagine them to be a thousand feet, if you try.”

“Rot!” interrupted Professor Cracker; for that was his favourite impression whenever anything was mentioned that was unknown to him. “Rot! there are no such things as intelligent forces of nature, neither imaginary ones nor others. This degrading superstition has now lasted long enough, and this day will make an end to such vagaries.”

“Are you then firmly convinced,” asked Mr Scalawag, rather dejectedly, “that the treasures of the gnomes in the Untersberg do not exist?”

“They exist only in the imagination of fools,” replied the Professor. “There can be no such thing as a spirit, as I shall demonstrate to you to-day by means of my new spiritoscope.”

“It is strange,” now remarked the Rev. Stiffbone, “that there are still some respectable authorities favouring such a superstitious belief. Even the Bible mentions the existence of spirits in more than one instance.”

“Rot!” replied the Professor. “There is no theory so absurd that it may not find admirers among otherwise intelligent people. Only think of the many fools who imagine it to be possible to make cars that are pulled by steam!”

“Do you then believe it to be absolutely impossible to make railways?” asked Mr Scalawag.

“Railways!” sneeringly exclaimed Cracker. “Rot! No man in his sane senses would ever think of such a thing. Steam can blow; but it cannot pull cars; if a steam-engine were invented, it would scald everybody to death. As to those eccentric and fanatical people who now fancy it possible to make a railway between Manchester and Liverpool, I have only to say that we, the scientists of this century, decline to waste our time in examining such wild and extravagant schemes. Even if the tales told in some of the newspapers were true, instead of being deplorable vagaries, and if it were possible to invent such an engine, it would not interest us, for surely nobody would be insane enough to trust his life and his safety to an engine going at the terrible speed of sixteen miles an hour! No, my dear sir! To make a railway is as impossible as that stones should fall from heaven; the reason of which impossibility the Academy of Science has pointed out, namely, because there are no stones in the sky.”

It may be observed that this conversation took place before the time when meteors were known and railways in action; at the present time such a display of scientific ignorance would of course be impossible.

“Suppose,” said the Rev. Stiffbone, “we admit for argument’s sake that a railway could be made on a level plain. What would they do if they were to come to a mountain? They would have to dig a hole through it, pass through it in the dark, and coming out at the other end the passengers would suddenly emerge into the light. This sudden change would undoubtedly strike them blind.”

“Undoubtedly it would,” added Professor Cracker, “unless they were to wear travelling-goggles for protection. You may however rest assured that, if railways could be made, we would have discovered it long ago, and the same may be said in regard to gnomes, ghosts, spirits, or intelligent forces of any kind. If there were such things we would know it.”

“How is it then possible,” I asked, “that the ancient philosophers believed such things?”

“To a layman like you,” answered the Professor, “such a question may be pardoned. The ancient philosophers were fools; they did not know as much as one of our schoolboys knows to-day. As to Lord Lytton, Goethe, and other more modern writers who spoke of such things, they only did so because they loved to make jokes for the amusement of the wise, and to have some fun at the expense of the gullible. We know that spirit without matter does not exist. Matter is visible; consequently the spirits would have to possess visible forms. We also know that no kind of living beings can exist within solid rocks, where they would be without water and air, and finally, if there were any intelligent forces in nature, they would know the importance of coming forward and proving their existence to men of science.”

I remarked that a belief in gnomes was quite common in this country, and asked whether this could be explained.

“Ridiculously easy!” said the Professor. “The sources of error are—inherited idiosyncrasies; a want of scientific training in making observations; subjective, objective, and epidemic hallucinations; credulity, hysteria, suggestion, dreams, hypnotism, post-hypnotic auto-suggestion, and so forth.”

“Nevertheless,” I objected, “there are those who have been touched by gnomes, have seen and conversed with them, received tangible objects from them.”

“Rot!” replied Cracker. “It is all due to wilful deception, humbug, swindle, trumpery, fraud, plagiarism, coincidence, telepathic impact, thought-transfer, unconscious cerebration, mediumship, sympathetic association of ideas, etc. Only recently I have discovered, after making a long research and consulting many authorities, that the accounts given in Gulliver’s Travels were not based upon historical facts, but are only the products of the imagination of the author, who for thus imposing upon the credulity of the public, must be regarded as being one of the greatest cheats of his age. Fetch me a spirit or gnome, and let me dissect it to see of what it is made. Unless you do so, I say that it is nothing but rot, the product of the disordered fancy of a scientifically untrained brain.”

I did not quite agree with Cracker’s views, and I therefore said: “I believe that there are still people capable of telling a pigtail from a broomstick without dissecting it and having it certified to by a professor of science.”

Cracker and Stiffbone exchanged an ominous look.

“This,” said Stiffbone, “comes from the increased disrespect for the authorities. Nowadays everybody imagines that he has a right to think and say what he pleases. It is time that a law ought to be made punishing heresy in science, as it used to be punished in regard to religion. Not long ago I heard a new heresy preached about what they call ‘conservation of energy.’ Men ought not to be permitted to go about and poison the minds of the public by spreading erroneous scientific doctrines. We absolutely need a Bible of Science, stating exactly what scientific beliefs the people are to accept.”

“Such a book,” answered the Professor, “would be of the greatest benefit to the world, and prevent the injurious and misleading self-thinking done by laymen and ignorant tramps. What business have the common people to do their own thinking? No one ever attempts to make his own shoes or clothes, but leaves this to his shoemaker or tailor, who can do it much better, cheaper and quicker than he could do it himself. Why not apply the same system to deciding scientific or religious questions? Let the thinking in regard to such things be left to those who are trained and entitled to it.”

With these views the Rev. Stiffbone fully agreed. “Science,” he said, “ought to be left to the scientists, religion to the clergy, morality to the police, medicine to the physicians, money matters to bankers, and ideal things to legally appointed idealists. This would enable the people to give more attention to their own material interests. Instead of thinking about things which bring them no profit, they might employ their time for useful things, such as the raising of hogs. Religion ought not to be neglected, for the fear of the devil is the security of the Church; but one authentic sermon printed and posted every Sunday in public places would save the employment of an army of preachers, and moreover secure conformity to the doctrines taught everywhere. If the people must have music, one or two organ-grinders would be enough for a town of no more than a thousand inhabitants; if they wanted poetry, one well-trained and diplomatised verse-maker could supply the whole country.”

“These questions,” said M. Scalawag, Esq., “deserve the most careful consideration. Time is money. The struggle for existence is the first law among all beings; the survival of the fittest its necessary result. Let everyone take as much care as he can of his own interest, and leave it to those who are appointed for that purpose to look out for the rest.”

“We are appointed for that,” exclaimed Professor Cracker, “and we will attend to it. I have just discovered a new system of hypnotism by means of which large crowds can be hypnotised at once. Instead of sending the children to school, we will hypnotise into their heads all that we want them to know, and cause them to post-hypnotically forget all which we do not wish them to remember. Thus we will be the kings of the world, and all mankind will dance as we pull the strings!”

While carrying on these discussions we arrived at the “Dragon’s Den,” where our investigations were to begin. The place showed no indication of the presence of spirit; there was nothing dismal about it; on the contrary, an air of peace seemed to rest upon the scene. At the entrance of the cave there was a wild rosebush of considerable size and some Alpine flowers, among which I noticed the Larkspur and Belladonna. The walls consisted of marble rocks, exhibiting a variety of colours, and were covered in some places with mosses and ferns. In a shady corner there was still a remnant of snow, resembling a miniature glacier, and rendering the air cool and pleasant. The two openings at the sides offered a magnificent view.

The guide—who had remained a little behind, as his movements were greatly impeded by the legs of Professor Cracker’s spiritoscope, which he carried—now arrived with his bag of provisions, and unpacked his treasures. Cold meats, poultry and cheese, ham and eggs, butter and bread, made their appearance, and were soon disposed of by the committee. Beer and wine had not been forgotten, and Professor Cracker, filling his glass with champagne, lifted it up and offered a toast, “to the annihilation of the gnomes;” which was followed by another toast, pronounced by Jeremiah Stiffbone, “to Professor Cracker, the king of science, and inventor of the spiritoscope,” while Mr Scalawag, in offering his sentiments, said he hoped to find some of the treasures of the Untersberg.

After the refreshments were taken, the investigations began. To begin with, the committee carefully examined the rocks and walls and every nook and corner of the “Dragon’s Den” for the purpose of convincing themselves that there was no place where anybody might hide himself and play a practical joke upon the investigators. They measured the size of the rocks, and made sure of their solidity and the entire absence of any subterranean caves or holes. The floor was found to be perfectly solid, and no gnomes were to be seen. Thereupon they carefully noted the hour and the minute, as is always necessary on such occasions, and evidence was taken that the sky was clear. The direction of the wind was determined with great accuracy, and found to be E.N.E.; the temperature was taken and the various thermometers indicated—25° Celsius, 20° Reaumur, and 77° Fahrenheit; the barometer showed an elevation of 5800 feet above the sea and a medium atmospheric pressure. No gnome or spirit of any kind appeared upon the scene, nor was there to be found anything whatever of a spiritual character. After all the necessary preparations were made Professor Cracker produced his spiritoscope, whose description we are permitted to give for the benefit of all psychical researchers; and as a boon to the whole of mankind:

Dr Cracker’s Spiritoscope.

This ingeniously constructed and very simple, although somewhat ponderous instrument was the original invention of Professor Cracker, and enabled him, instead of directly looking at an object, to behold and examine it by means of a series of reflections produced by four scientifically arranged mirrors bent towards each other at angles of 45 degrees.

 

Bye Grandma

Yesterday my grandmother passed away. If you believe in this kind of stuff, she’s joined my mother and they’re currently harassing my grandfather over how many dogs he keeps and how many hours he spends pretending to work in the garden. I hope they have pubs and mountains up there but hey, if they don’t how they can even call it heaven?

#MermaidMonday: A Water Witch (3)

…continuing from last week, a story by Henrietta Dorothy Huskisson aka H.D. Everett, from “The Death-Mask and Other Ghosts”.

I did not like Dr. Vickers and his Italian lessons, and I had the impression Freda would have been better pleased by their intermission. On the third day she had a headache and charged me to make her excuses, so it fell to me to receive this friend of Robert’s, who seemed quite unruffled by her absence. He took advantage of the opportunity to cross- examine me about the water-dropping: had I heard it again since that first occasion, and what explanation of the sounds appeared satisfactory to myself?

The fact was, I had heard it again, twice when I was alone in my room, and once more when sitting with Freda. Then we both sat listening—listening, such small nothings as we had to say to each other dying away, waiting to see which of us would first admit it to the other, and this went on for more than an hour. At last Freda broke out into hysterical crying, the result of over-strained nerves, and with her outburst the sounds ceased. I had been inclined to entertain a notion of the spiritist order, that they might be connected with her presence as medium; but I suppose that must be held disproved, as I also heard them when alone in my own room.

I admitted as little as possible to Dr. Vickers, and was stout in asserting that a natural cause would and must be found, if the explanation were diligently sought for. But I confess I was posed when confronted with the fact that these sounds heard by Freda were inaudible to her husband, also present—to Robert, who has excellent hearing, in common with all our family. Until I came, and was also an auditor, no one in the house but Freda had noticed the dropping, so there was reason for assuming it to be hallucination. Yes, I was sorry for her trouble (answering a question pressed on me) but I maintained that, pending discovery, the best course was to take no notice of drops that wet nothing and left no stain, and did not proceed from overflowing cisterns or faulty pipes.

“They will leave off doing it if not noticed; is that what you think, Miss Larcomb?” And when I rashly assented—”Now perhaps you will define for me what you mean by they? Is it the ‘natural cause’?”

Here again was a poser: I had formulated no idea that I cared to define. Probably the visitor divined the subject was unwelcome, for he turned to others, conversing agreeably enough for another quarter of an hour. Then he departed, leaving a message of concern for Freda’s headache. He hoped it would have amended by next day, when he would call to inquire.

He did call on the following day, when the Italian lesson was mainly conversational, and I had again a feeling Freda was distressed by what was said, though I could only guess at what passed between them under the disguise of a foreign tongue. But at the end I recognised the words “not to-morrow” as spoken by her, and when some protest appeared to follow, she dumbly shook her head.

Dr. Vickers did not stay on for tea as before. Did Freda think she had offended him, for some time later I noticed she had been crying?

That night I had an odd dream that the Roscawen house was sliding down from its foundations into the river at the call of the white woman, and I woke suddenly with the fright.

The next day was the last of Robert’s stay at Shepstow. In the evening he and Captain Falkner returned, and at once a different atmosphere seemed to pervade the house. Freda recovered cheerfulness, I heard no more dropping water, and except at dinner on the second evening we saw nothing of Dr. Vickers. But he sent an Italian book with many scored passages, and a note in it, also in Italian, which I saw her open and read, and then immediately tear up into the minutest pieces. I supposed he wished her to keep up her studies, though the lessons were for a while suspended; I heard him say at dinner that he was busy correcting proofs.

So passed four days out of the seven Robert should have spent at Roscawen. But on the fourth evening came a telegraphic summons: his presence was needed in London, at the office, and he was bound to go up to town by the early express next day. And the arrangement was that in returning he should go straight to Shepstow and join Captain Falkner there; this distant moor was to be reached from a station on another line.

Freda must have known that Robert could not help himself, but it was easy to see how her temporarily restored spirits fell again to zero. I hope I shall never be so dependent on another person’s society as she seemed to be on Robert’s. I got up to give him his early breakfast, but Freda did not appear; she had a headache, he said, and had passed a restless night. She would not rise till later: perhaps I would go up and see her by-and-bye.

I did go later in the morning, to find her lying like a child that had sobbed itself to sleep, her eyelashes still wet, and a tear sliding down her cheek. So I took a book, and drew a chair to the bedside, waiting for her to wake.

It was a long waiting; she slept on, and slept heavily. And as I sat and watched, there began again the dropping of water, and, for the first time in my experience of them, the drops were wet.

I could find traces now on the carpet of where they fell, and on the spread linen of the sheet; were they made, I wondered fantastically, out of Freda’s tears? But they had ceased before she woke, and I did not remark on them to her. Yes, she had a headache, she said, answering my question: it was better, but not gone: she would lie quietly where she was for the present. The servants might bring her a cup of tea when I had luncheon, and she would get up later in the afternoon.

So, as I was not needed, I went out after lunch for a solitary walk. Not being governed by Freda’s choice of direction, I determined to explore the course of the river, and especially how it flowed under the steep bank below the house, where I saw the wreath of foam rise in the air on my first evening at Roscawen. I expected to find a fall at this spot, but there was only broken water and rapids, alternating with smoother reaches and deep pools, one of which, I concluded, had been the death-trap of the Elliotts’ cow. It was a still, perfect autumn day, warm, but not with the oppression of summer heat, and I walked with enjoyment, following the stream upward to where it issued from the miniature lake among the hills, in which it slept for a while in mid-course. Then I turned homewards, and was within sight of our dwelling when I again beheld the phenomenon of the pillar of foam.

It rose above the rapids, as nearly as I could guess in the same spot as before; and as there was now little or no wind, it did not so quickly spread out and dissipate. I could imagine that at early morning, or in the dimness of evening, it might be taken for a figure of the ghostly sort, especially as, in dissolving, it seemed to move and beckon. I smiled to myself to think that, according to local superstition, I too had seen the white woman; but I felt no least inclination to rush to the river and precipitate myself into its depths. Nor would I gratify Dr. Vickers by telling him what had been my experience, or confide in Freda lest she should tell again.

On reaching home, I turned into the snuggery to see if Freda was downstairs; it must, I thought, be nearly tea-time. She was there; and, as I pushed the door open and was still behind the screen, I heard Dr. Vickers’ voice. “Mind,” he was saying in English, “I do not press you to decide at once. Wait till you are convinced he does not care. To my thinking he has already made it plain.”

I stood arrested, not intending to play eavesdropper, but stricken with surprise. As I moved into sight, the two were standing face to face, and the doctor’s figure hid Freda from me. I think his hands were on her shoulders, holding her before him, but of this I am not sure. He was quick of hearing as a cat, and he turned on me at once.

“Ah, how do you do, Miss Larcomb? I was just bidding adieu to your sister-in-law, for I do not think she is well enough to-day to take her lesson. In fact, I think she is very far from well. These headaches spell slow progress with our study, but we must put up with delay.”

He took up the slim book from the table and bestowed it in his pocket, bowed over my hand and was gone.

If Freda had been agitated she concealed any disturbance, and we talked as usual over tea, of my walk, and even of Robert’s journey. But she surprised me later in the evening by an unexpected proposition.

“Do you think Mrs. Larcomb would have me to stay at Aston Bury? It would be very kind of her if she would take me in while Robert has these shootings. I do not like Roscawen, and I am not well here. Will you ask her, Mary?”

I answered that I was sure mother would have her if she wished to come to us; but what would Robert say when he had asked me to companion her here? If Robert was willing, I would write—of course. Did he know what she proposed?

No, she said, and there would be no time to consult him. She would like to go as soon as to-morrow. Could we send a telegram, and set out in the morning, staying the night in York, to receive an answer there? That she was very much in earnest about this wish of hers there could be no doubt. She was trembling visibly, and a red fever-spot burned on her cheek.

I wish I had done as she asked. But my Larcomb common-sense was up in arms, and I required to know the reason why. Mother would think it strange if we rushed off to her so, and Robert might not like it; but, given time to make the arrangement, she could certainly pay the visit, and would be received as a welcome guest. I would write to mother and post on the morrow, and she could write to Robert and send the letter by Captain Falkner. Then I said: “Are you nervous here, Freda? Is it because these water-droppings are unexplained?” And when she made a sort of dumb assent, I went on: “You ought not to dwell on anything so trivial; it isn’t fair to Robert. It cannot be only this. Surely there is something more?”

The question seemed to increase her distress.

“I want to be a good wife to Robert; oh, I want that, Mary. I can do my duty if I go away; if you will keep me safe at Aston Bury for only a little while. Robert does not understand; he thinks me crazed with delusions. I tried to tell him—I did indeed; hard as it was to tell.” While this was spoken she was torn with sobs. “I am terrified to be alone. What is compelling me is too strong. Oh Mary, take me away.”

I could get no fuller explanation than this of what was at the root of the trouble. We agreed at last that the two letters should be written and sent on the morrow, and we would hold ourselves in readiness to set out as soon as answers were received. It might be no more than an hysterical fancy on Freda’s part, but I was not without suspicion of another sort. But she never mentioned their neighbour’s name, and I could not insult her by the suggestion.

The letters were written early on that Thursday morrow, and then Grey Madam was brought round for Freda’s drive. The direction chosen took us past the cross-roads in the outward going, and also in return. I

remember Freda talked more cheerfully and freely than usual, asking questions about Aston Bury, as if relieved at the prospect of taking refuge there with us. As we went, Grey Madam shied badly at the same spot as before, though there was no visible cause for her terror. I suggested we had better go home a different way; but this appeared impracticable, as the other direction involved an added distance of several miles, and the crossing of a bridge which was thought to be unsafe. In returning, the mare went unwillingly, and, though our pace had been a sober one and the day was not warm, I could see she had broken out into a lather of sweat. As we came to the cross-roads for the second time, the poor creature again shied away from the invisible object which terrified her, and then, seizing the bit between her teeth, she set off at a furious gallop.

Freda was tugging at the reins, but it was beyond her power to stop that mad career, or even guide it; but the mare kept by instinct to the middle of the road. The home gate was open, and I expected she would turn in stablewards; but instead she dashed on to the open moor, making for the river.

We might possibly have jumped out, but there was no time even for thought before we were swaying on the edge of the steep bank. The next moment there was a plunge, a crash, and I remember no more.

The accident was witnessed from the further side—so I heard later. A man left his digging and ran, and it was he who dragged me out, stunned, but not suffocated by the immersion. I came to myself quickly on the bank, and my instant thought was of Freda, but she, entangled with the reins, had been swept down with the mare into the deeper pool. When I staggered up, dizzy and half-blind, begging she might be sought for, he ran on downstream, and there he and Dr. Vickers and another man drew her from the water—lifeless it seemed at first, and it was long before any spark of animation repaid their utmost efforts.

That was a strange return to Roscawen house, she tenderly carried, I able to walk thither; both of us dripping water, real drops, of which the ghostly ones may have been some mysterious forecast, if that is not too fantastic for belief!

It was impossible to shut Dr. Vickers out, and of course he accompanied us; for all my doubt of him, I welcomed the service of his skill when Freda’s life was hanging in the balance, and she herself was too remote from this world to recognise who was beside her. But I would have preferred to owe that debt of service to any other; and the feeling I had against him deepened as I witnessed his anguished concern, and caught some unguarded expressions he let fall.

I wired to Robert to acquaint him with what had happened, and he replied “I am coming.” And upon that I resolved to speak out, and tell him what I had guessed as the true cause of Freda’s trouble, and why she must be removed, not so much from a haunted house, as from an overmastering influence which she dreaded.

Did the risk of loss—the peril barely surmounted, restore the old tenderness between these two? I think it did, at any rate for the time, when Robert found her lying white as a broken lily, and when her weak hands clung about his neck. Perhaps this made him more patient than he would have been otherwise with what I had to say.

He could hardly tax me with being fancy-ridden, but he was aghast—angry—incredulous, all in one. Vickers, of all people in the world; and Freda so worked upon as to be afraid to tell him—afraid to claim the protection that was hers by right. And now the situation was complicated by the fact that Vickers had saved her life, so that thanks were due to him as well as a kicking out of doors. And there was dignity to be thought of too: Freda’s dignity as well as his own. Any open scandal must be avoided; she must neither be shamed nor pained.

I do not know what passed between him and Dr. Vickers when they met, but the latter came no more to Roscawen, and after a while I heard incidentally that he had gone abroad. As soon as Freda could be moved, her wish was fulfilled, and I took her to Aston Bury.

Mother was very gentle with her, and I think before the end a genuine affection grew up between the two.

The end was not long delayed; a few months passed, and then she faded out of life in a sort of decline; the shock to the system, so they said, had been greater than her vitality could repair. Robert was a free man again, war had been declared, and he was one of the earliest volunteers for service.

That service won distinction, as everybody knows; and now he is convalescent from his second wound, and here at Aston Bury on leave. And I think the wiser choice his sisters made for him in the first place is now likely to be his own. A much more suitable person than Frederica, and her name is quite a plain one—a real Larcomb name: it is Mary, like my own. I am glad; but in spite of all, poor Freda has a soft place in my memory and my heart. Whatever were her faults and failings, I believe she strove hard to be loyal. And I am sure that she loved Robert well.

The End

Just a quick update

Just a quick bullet point update because I think it’s important that you get an understanding of where I’m at.

my grandmother literally sent her body on strike because she doesn’t want to live anymore, and it’s a matter of days before she passes, maybe hours;one of my closest friends has troubles with her parents, and they’re giving her hell, and it’s such a difficult situation that I wouldn’t know how to help even without point 1;another friend of mine is brokenhearted and spent last night sleeping on my floor;half of my clients aren’t paying overdue invoices just because they can;the day I decided to rest, I came down with a cold and period pains are killing me;my favourite living author turned out to be a rapist monster;David Lynch is dead.

2024 went out with a bang, with us being able to return to our house at last, but 2025 sucks so far.

Winter Tales: The Ash-tree

Today’s story was written by Montague Rhodes James, known as M.R. James and it comes from the collection Ghost Stories of an Antiquary. I already published a story from the same collection for last year’s Advent Calendar. Enjoy.

Everyone who has travelled over Eastern England knows the smaller country-houses with which it is studded—the rather dank little buildings, usually in the Italian style, surrounded with parks of some eighty to a hundred acres. For me they have always had a very strong attraction: with the gray paling of split oak, the noble trees, the meres with their reed-beds, and the line of distant woods. Then, I like the pillared portico—perhaps stuck on to a red-brick Queen Anne house which has been faced with stucco to bring it into line with the ‘Grecian’ taste of the end of the eighteenth century; the hall inside, going up to the roof, which hall ought always to be provided with a gallery and a small organ. I like the library, too, where you may find anything from a Psalter of the thirteenth century to a Shakespeare quarto. I like the pictures, of course; and perhaps most of all I like fancying what life in such a house was when it was first built, and in the piping times of landlords’ prosperity, and not least now, when, if money is not so plentiful, taste is more varied and life quite as interesting. I wish to have one of these houses, and enough money to keep it together and entertain my friends in it modestly.

But this is a digression. I have to tell you of a curious series of events which happened in such a house as I have tried to describe. It is Castringham Hall in Suffolk. I think a good deal has been done to the building since the period of my story, but the essential features I have sketched are still there—Italian portico, square block of white house, older inside than out, park with fringe of woods, and mere. The one feature that marked out the house from a score of others is gone. As you looked at it from the park, you saw on the right a great old ash-tree growing within half a dozen yards of the wall, and almost or quite touching the building with its branches. I suppose it had stood there ever since Castringham ceased to be a fortified place, and since the moat was filled in and the Elizabethan dwelling-house built. At any rate, it had well-nigh attained its full dimensions in the year 1690.

In that year the district in which the Hall is situated was the scene of a number of witch-trials. It will be long, I think, before we arrive at a just estimate of the amount of solid reason—if there was any—which lay at the root of the universal fear of witches in old times. Whether the persons accused of this offence really did imagine that they were possessed of unusual power of any kind; or whether they had the will at least, if not the power, of doing mischief to their neighbours; or whether all the confessions, of which there are so many, were extorted by the mere cruelty of the witch-finders—these are questions which are not, I fancy, yet solved. And the present narrative gives me pause I cannot altogether sweep it away as mere invention. The reader must judge for himself.

Castringham contributed a victim to the auto-da-fè. Mrs. Mothersole was her name, and she differed from the ordinary run of village witches only in being rather better off and in a more influential position. Efforts were made to save her by several reputable farmers of the parish. They did their best to testify to her character, and showed considerable anxiety as to the verdict of the jury.

But what seems to have been fatal to the woman was the evidence of the then proprietor of Castringham Hall—Sir Matthew Fell. He deposed to having watched her on three different occasions from his window, at the full of the moon, gathering branches ‘from the ash-tree near my house.’ She had climbed into the branches, clad only in her shift, and was cutting off small twigs with a peculiarly curved knife, and as she did so she seemed to be talking to herself. On each occasion Sir Matthew had done his best to capture the woman, but she had always taken alarm at some accidental noise he had made, and all he could see when he got down to the garden was a hare running across the path in the direction of the village.

On the third night he had been at the pains to follow at his best speed, and had gone straight to Mrs. Mothersole’s house; but he had had to wait a quarter of an hour battering at her door, and then she had come out very cross, and apparently very sleepy, as if just out of bed; and he had no good explanation to offer of his visit.

Mainly on this evidence, though there was much more of a less striking and unusual kind from other parishioners, Mrs. Mothersole was found guilty and condemned to die. She was hanged a week after the trial, with five or six more unhappy creatures, at Bury St. Edmunds.

Sir Matthew Fell, then Deputy-Sheriff, was present at the execution. It was a damp, drizzly March morning when the cart made its way up the rough grass hill outside Northgate, where the gallows stood. The other victims were apathetic or broken down with misery; but Mrs. Mothersole was, as in life so in death, of a very different temper. Her ‘poysonous Rage,’ as a reporter of the time puts it, ‘did so work upon the Bystanders—yea, even upon the Hangman—that it was constantly affirmed of all that saw her that she presented the living Aspect of a mad Divell. Yet she offer’d no Resistance to the Officers of the Law; onely she looked upon those that laid Hands upon her with so direfull and venomous an Aspect that—as one of them afterwards assured me—the meer Thought of it preyed inwardly upon his Mind for six Months after.’

However, all that she is reported to have said was the seemingly meaningless words: ‘There will be guests at the Hall.’ Which she repeated more than once in an undertone.

Sir Matthew Fell was not unimpressed by the bearing of the woman. He had some talk upon the matter with the Vicar of his parish, with whom he travelled home after the assize business was over. His evidence at the trial had not been very willingly given; he was not specially infected with the witch-finding mania, but he declared, then and afterwards, that he could not give any other account of the matter than that he had given, and that he could not possibly have been mistaken as to what he saw. The whole transaction had been repugnant to him, for he was a man who liked to be on pleasant terms with those about him; but he saw a duty to be done in this business, and he had done it. That seems to have been the gist of his sentiments, and the Vicar applauded it, as any reasonable man must have done.

A few weeks after, when the moon of May was at the full, Vicar and Squire met again in the park, and walked to the Hall together. Lady Fell was with her mother, who was dangerously ill, and Sir Matthew was alone at home; so the Vicar, Mr. Crome, was easily persuaded to take a late supper at the Hall.

Sir Matthew was not very good company this evening. The talk ran chiefly on family and parish matters, and, as luck would have it, Sir Matthew made a memorandum in writing of certain wishes or intentions of his regarding his estates, which afterwards proved exceedingly useful.

When Mr. Crome thought of starting for home, about half-past nine o’clock, Sir Matthew and he took a preliminary turn on the gravelled walk at the back of the house. The only incident that struck Mr. Crome was this: they were in sight of the ash-tree which I described as growing near the windows of the building, when Sir Matthew stopped and said:

‘What is that that runs up and down the stem of the ash? It is never a squirrel? They will all be in their nests by now.’

The Vicar looked and saw the moving creature, but he could make nothing of its colour in the moonlight. The sharp outline, however, seen for an instant, was imprinted on his brain, and he could have sworn, he said, though it sounded foolish, that, squirrel or not, it had more than four legs.

Still, not much was to be made of the momentary vision, and the two men parted. They may have met since then, but it was not for a score of years.

Next day Sir Matthew Fell was not downstairs at six in the morning, as was his custom, nor at seven, nor yet at eight. Hereupon the servants went and knocked at his chamber door. I need not prolong the description of their anxious listenings and renewed batterings on the panels. The door was opened at last from the outside, and they found their master dead and black. So much you have guessed. That there were any marks of violence did not at the moment appear; but the window was open.

One of the men went to fetch the parson, and then by his directions rode on to give notice to the coroner. Mr. Crome himself went as quick as he might to the Hall, and was shown to the room where the dead man lay. He has left some notes among his papers which show how genuine a respect and sorrow was felt for Sir Matthew, and there is also this passage, which I transcribe for the sake of the light it throws upon the course of events, and also upon the common beliefs of the time:

‘There was not any the least Trace of an Entrance having been forc’d to the Chamber: but the Casement stood open, as my poor Friend would always have it in this Season. He had his Evening Drink of small Ale in a silver vessel of about a pint measure, and tonight had not drunk it out. This Drink was examined by the Physician from Bury, a Mr. Hodgkins, who could not, however, as he afterwards declar’d upon his Oath, before the Coroner’s quest, discover that any matter of a venomous kind was present in it. For, as was natural, in the great Swelling and Blackness of the Corpse, there was talk made among the Neighbours of Poyson. The Body was very much Disorder’d as it laid in the Bed, being twisted after so extream a sort as gave too probable Conjecture that my worthy Friend and Patron had expir’d in great Pain and Agony. And what is as yet unexplain’d, and to myself the Argument of some Horrid and Artfull Designe in the Perpetrators of this Barbarous Murther, was this, that the Women which were entrusted with the laying-out of the Corpse and washing it, being both sad Persons and very well Respected in their Mournfull Profession, came to me in a great Pain and Distress both of Mind and Body, saying, what was indeed confirmed upon the first View, that they had no sooner touch’d the Breast of the Corpse with their naked Hands than they were sensible of a more than ordinary violent Smart and Acheing in their Palms, which, with their whole Forearms, in no long time swell’d so immoderately, the Pain still continuing, that, as afterwards proved, during many weeks they were forc’d to lay by the exercise of their Calling; and yet no mark seen on the Skin.

‘Upon hearing this, I sent for the Physician, who was still in the House, and we made as carefull a Proof as we were able by the Help of a small Magnifying Lens of Crystal of the condition of the Skinn on this Part of the Body: but could not detect with the Instrument we had any Matter of Importance beyond a couple of small Punctures or Pricks, which we then concluded were the Spotts by which the Poyson might be introduced, remembering that Ring of Pope Borgia, with other known Specimens of the Horrid Art of the Italian Poysoners of the last age.

‘So much is to be said of the Symptoms seen on the Corpse. As to what I am to add, it is meerly my own Experiment, and to be left to Posterity to judge whether there be anything of Value therein. There was on the Table by the Beddside a Bible of the small size, in which my Friend—punctuall as in Matters of less Moment, so in this more weighty one—used nightly, and upon his First Rising, to read a sett Portion. And I taking it up—not without a Tear duly paid to him which from the Study of this poorer Adumbration was now pass’d to the contemplation of its great Originall—it came into my Thoughts, as at such moments of Helplessness we are prone to catch at any the least Glimmer that makes promise of Light, to make trial of that old and by many accounted Superstitious Practice of drawing the Sortes: of which a Principall Instance, in the case of his late Sacred Majesty the Blessed Martyr King Charles and my Lord Falkland, was now much talked of. I must needs admit that by my Trial not much Assistance was afforded me: yet, as the Cause and Origin of these Dreadfull Events may hereafter be search’d out, I set down the Results, in the case it may be found that they pointed the true Quarter of the Mischief to a quicker Intelligence than my own.

‘I made, then, three trials, opening the Book and placing my Finger upon certain Words: which gave in the first these words, from Luke xiii. 7, Cut it down; in the second, Isaiah xiii. 20, It shall never be inhabited; and upon the third Experiment, Job xxxix. 30, Her young ones also suck up blood.’

This is all that need be quoted from Mr. Crome’s papers. Sir Matthew Fell was duly coffined and laid into the earth, and his funeral sermon, preached by Mr. Crome on the following Sunday, has been printed under the title of ‘The Unsearchable Way; or, England’s Danger and the Malicious Dealings of Antichrist,’ it being the Vicar’s view, as well as that most commonly held in the neighbourhood, that the Squire was the victim of a recrudescence of the Popish Plot.

His son, Sir Matthew the second, succeeded to the title and estates. And so ends the first act of the Castringham tragedy. It is to be mentioned, though the fact is not surprising, that the new Baronet did not occupy the room in which his father had died. Nor, indeed, was it slept in by anyone but an occasional visitor during the whole of his occupation. He died in 1735, and I do not find that anything particular marked his reign, save a curiously constant mortality among his cattle and live-stock in general, which showed a tendency to increase slightly as time went on.

Those who are interested in the details will find a statistical account in a letter to the Gentleman’s Magazine of 1772, which draws the facts from the Baronet’s own papers. He put an end to it at last by a very simple expedient, that of shutting up all his beasts in sheds at night, and keeping no sheep in his park. For he had noticed that nothing was ever attacked that spent the night indoors. After that the disorder confined itself to wild birds, and beasts of chase. But as we have no good account of the symptoms, and as all-night watching was quite unproductive of any clue, I do not dwell on what the Suffolk farmers called the ‘Castringham sickness.’

The second Sir Matthew died in 1735, as I said, and was duly succeeded by his son, Sir Richard. It was in his time that the great family pew was built out on the north side of the parish church. So large were the Squire’s ideas that several of the graves on that unhallowed side of the building had to be disturbed to satisfy his requirements. Among them was that of Mrs. Mothersole, the position of which was accurately known, thanks to a note on a plan of the church and yard, both made by Mr. Crome.

A certain amount of interest was excited in the village when it was known that the famous witch, who was still remembered by a few, was to be exhumed. And the feeling of surprise, and indeed disquiet, was very strong when it was found that, though her coffin was fairly sound and unbroken, there was no trace whatever inside it of body, bones, or dust. Indeed, it is a curious phenomenon, for at the time of her burying no such things were dreamt of as resurrection-men, and it is difficult to conceive any rational motive for stealing a body otherwise than for the uses of the dissecting-room.

The incident revived for a time all the stories of witch-trials and of the exploits of the witches, dormant for forty years, and Sir Richard’s orders that the coffin should be burnt were thought by a good many to be rather foolhardy, though they were duly carried out.

Sir Richard was a pestilent innovator, it is certain. Before his time the Hall had been a fine block of the mellowest red brick; but Sir Richard had travelled in Italy and become infected with the Italian taste, and, having more money than his predecessors, he determined to leave an Italian palace where he had found an English house. So stucco and ashlar masked the brick; some indifferent Roman marbles were planted about in the entrance-hall and gardens; a reproduction of the Sibyl’s temple at Tivoli was erected on the opposite bank of the mere; and Castringham took an entirely new, and, I must say, a less engaging, aspect. But it was much admired, and served as a model to a good many of the neighbouring gentry in after-years.

One morning, (it was in 1754) Sir Richard woke after a night of discomfort. It had been windy, and his chimney had smoked persistently, and yet it was so cold that he must keep up a fire. Also something had so rattled about the window that no man could get a moment’s peace. Further, there was the prospect of several guests of position arriving in the course of the day, who would expect sport of some kind, and the inroads of the distemper (which continued among his game) had been lately so serious that he was afraid for his reputation as a game-preserver. But what really touched him most nearly was the other matter of his sleepless night. He could certainly not sleep in that room again.

That was the chief subject of his meditations at breakfast, and after it he began a systematic examination of the rooms to see which would suit his notions best. It was long before he found one. This had a window with an eastern aspect and that with a northern; this door the servants would be always passing, and he did not like the bedstead in that. No, he must have a room with a western look-out, so that the sun could not wake him early, and it must be out of the way of the business of the house. The housekeeper was at the end of her resources.

‘Well, Sir Richard,’ she said, ‘you know that there is but the one room like that in the house.’

‘Which may that be?’ said Sir Richard.

‘And that is Sir Matthew’s—the West Chamber.’

‘Well, put me in there, for there I’ll lie to-night,’ said her master. ‘Which way is it? Here, to be sure;’ and he hurried off.

‘Oh, Sir Richard, but no one has slept there these forty years. The air has hardly changed since Sir Matthew died there.’

Thus she spoke, and rustled after him.

‘Come, open the door, Mrs. Chiddock. I’ll see the chamber, at least.’

So it was opened, and, indeed, the smell was very close and earthy. Sir Richard crossed to the window, and, impatiently, as was his wont, threw the shutters back, and flung open the casement. For this end of the house was one which the alterations had barely touched, grown up as it was with the great ash-tree, and being otherwise concealed from view.

‘Air it, Mrs. Chiddock, all to-day, and move my bed-furniture in in the afternoon. Put the Bishop of Kilmore in my old room.’

‘Pray, Sir Richard,’ said a new voice, breaking in on this speech, ‘might I have the favour of a moment’s interview?’

Sir Richard turned round and saw a man in black in the doorway, who bowed.

‘I must ask your indulgence for this intrusion, Sir Richard. You will, perhaps, hardly remember me. My name is William Crome, and my grandfather was Vicar here in your grandfather’s time.’

‘Well, sir,’ said Sir Richard, ‘the name of Crome is always a passport to Castringham. I am glad to renew a friendship of two generations’ standing. In what can I serve you? for your hour of calling—and, if I do not mistake you, your bearing—shows you to be in some haste.’

‘That is no more than the truth, sir. I am riding from Norwich to Bury St. Edmunds with what haste I can make, and I have called in on my way to leave with you some papers which we have but just come upon in looking over what my grandfather left at his death. It is thought you may find some matters of family interest in them.’

‘You are mighty obliging, Mr. Crome, and, if you will be so good as to follow me to the parlour, and drink a glass of wine, we will take a first look at these same papers together. And you, Mrs. Chiddock, as I said, be about airing this chamber. . . . Yes, it is here my grandfather died. . . . Yes, the tree, perhaps, does make the place a little dampish. . . . No; I do not wish to listen to any more. Make no difficulties, I beg. You have your orders—go. Will you follow me, sir?’

They went to the study. The packet which young Mr. Crome had brought—he was then just become a Fellow of Clare Hall in Cambridge, I may say, and subsequently brought out a respectable edition of Polyænus—contained among other things the notes which the old Vicar had made upon the occasion of Sir Matthew Fell’s death. And for the first time Sir Richard was confronted with the enigmatical Sortes Biblicæ which you have heard. They amused him a good deal.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘my grandfather’s Bible gave one prudent piece of advice—Cut it down. If that stands for the ash-tree, he may rest assured I shall not neglect it. Such a nest of catarrhs and agues was never seen.’

The parlour contained the family books, which, pending the arrival of a collection which Sir Richard had made in Italy, and the building of a proper room to receive them, were not many in number.

Sir Richard looked up from the paper to the bookcase.

‘I wonder,’ says he, ‘whether the old prophet is there yet? I fancy I see him.’

Crossing the room, he took out a dumpy Bible, which, sure enough, bore on the flyleaf the inscription: ‘To Matthew Fell, from his Loving Godmother, Anne Aldous, 2 September, 1659.’

‘It would be no bad plan to test him again, Mr. Crome. I will wager we get a couple of names in the Chronicles. H’m! what have we here? “Thou shalt seek me in the morning, and I shall not be.” Well, well! Your grandfather would have made a fine omen of that, hey? No more prophets for me! They are all in a tale. And now, Mr. Crome, I am infinitely obliged to you for your packet. You will, I fear, be impatient to get on. Pray allow me—another glass.’

So with offers of hospitality, which were genuinely meant (for Sir Richard thought well of the young man’s address and manner) they parted.

In the afternoon came the guests—the Bishop of Kilmore, Lady Mary Hervey, Sir William Kentfield, etc. Dinner at five, wine, cards, supper, and dispersal to bed.

Next morning Sir Richard is disinclined to take his gun with the rest. He talks with the Bishop of Kilmore. This prelate, unlike a good many of the Irish Bishops of his day, had visited his see, and, indeed, resided there, for some considerable time. This morning, as the two were walking along the terrace and talking over the alterations and improvements in the house, the Bishop said, pointing to the window of the West Room:

‘You could never get one of my Irish flock to occupy that room, Sir Richard.’

‘Why is that, my lord? It is, in fact, my own.’

‘Well, our Irish peasantry will always have it that it brings the worst of luck to sleep near an ash-tree, and you have a fine growth of ash not two yards from your chamber window. Perhaps,’ the Bishop went on, with a smile, ‘it has given you a touch of its quality already, for you do not seem, if I may say it, so much the fresher for your night’s rest as your friends would like to see you.’

‘That, or something else, it is true, cost me my sleep from twelve to four, my lord. But the tree is to come down to-morrow, so I shall not hear much more from it.’

‘I applaud your determination. It can hardly be wholesome to have the air you breathe strained, as it were, through all that leafage.’

‘Your lordship is right there, I think. But I had not my window open last night. It was rather the noise that went on—no doubt from the twigs sweeping the glass—that kept me open-eyed.’

‘I think that can hardly be, Sir Richard. Here—you see it from this point. None of these nearest branches even can touch your casement unless there were a gale, and there was none of that last night. They miss the panes by a foot.’

‘No, sir, true. What, then, will it be, I wonder, that scratched and rustled so—ay, and covered the dust on my sill with lines and marks?’

At last they agreed that the rats must have come up through the ivy. That was the Bishop’s idea, and Sir Richard jumped at it.

So the day passed quietly, and night came, and the party dispersed to their rooms, and wished Sir Richard a better night.

And now we are in his bedroom, with the light out and the Squire in bed. The room is over the kitchen, and the night outside still and warm, so the window stands open.

There is very little light about the bedstead, but there is a strange movement there; it seems as if Sir Richard were moving his head rapidly to and fro with only the slightest possible sound. And now you would guess, so deceptive is the half-darkness, that he had several heads, round and brownish, which move back and forward, even as low as his chest. It is a horrible illusion. Is it nothing more? There! something drops off the bed with a soft plump, like a kitten, and is out of the window in a flash; another—four—and after that there is quiet again.

‘Thou shalt seek me in the morning, and I shall not be.’

As with Sir Matthew, so with Sir Richard—dead and black in his bed!

A pale and silent party of guests and servants gathered under the window when the news was known. Italian poisoners, Popish emissaries, infected air—all these and more guesses were hazarded, and the Bishop of Kilmore looked at the tree, in the fork of whose lower boughs a white tom-cat was crouching, looking down the hollow which years had gnawed in the trunk. It was watching something inside the tree with great interest.

Suddenly it got up and craned over the hole. Then a bit of the edge on which it stood gave way, and it went slithering in. Everyone looked up at the noise of the fall.

It is known to most of us that a cat can cry; but few of us have heard, I hope, such a yell as came out of the trunk of the great ash. Two or three screams there were—the witnesses are not sure which—and then a slight and muffled noise of some commotion or struggling was all that came. But Lady Mary Hervey fainted outright, and the housekeeper stopped her ears and fled till she fell on the terrace.

The Bishop of Kilmore and Sir William Kentfield stayed. Yet even they were daunted, though it was only at the cry of a cat; and Sir William swallowed once or twice before he could say:

‘There is something more than we know of in that tree, my lord. I am for an instant search.’

And this was agreed upon. A ladder was brought, and one of the gardeners went up, and, looking down the hollow, could detect nothing but a few dim indications of something moving. They got a lantern, and let it down by a rope.

‘We must get at the bottom of this. My life upon it, my lord, but the secret of these terrible deaths is there.’

Up went the gardener again with the lantern, and let it down the hole cautiously. They saw the yellow light upon his face as he bent over, and saw his face struck with an incredulous terror and loathing before he cried out in a dreadful voice and fell back from the ladder—where, happily, he was caught by two of the men—letting the lantern fall inside the tree.

He was in a dead faint, and it was some time before any word could be got from him.

By then they had something else to look at. The lantern must have broken at the bottom, and the light in it caught upon dry leaves and rubbish that lay there, for in a few minutes a dense smoke began to come up, and then flame; and, to be short, the tree was in a blaze.

The bystanders made a ring at some yards’ distance, and Sir William and the Bishop sent men to get what weapons and tools they could; for, clearly, whatever might be using the tree as its lair would be forced out by the fire.

So it was. First, at the fork, they saw a round body covered with fire—the size of a man’s head—appear very suddenly, then seem to collapse and fall back. This, five or six times; then a similar ball leapt into the air and fell on the grass, where after a moment it lay still. The Bishop went as near as he dared to it, and saw—what but the remains of an enormous spider, veinous and seared! And, as the fire burned lower down, more terrible bodies like this began to break out from the trunk, and it was seen that these were covered with grayish hair.

All that day the ash burned, and until it fell to pieces the men stood about it, and from time to time killed the brutes as they darted out. At last there was a long interval when none appeared, and they cautiously closed in and examined the roots of the tree.

‘They found,’ says the Bishop of Kilmore, ‘below it a rounded hollow place in the earth, wherein were two or three bodies of these creatures that had plainly been smothered by the smoke; and, what is to me more curious, at the side of this den, against the wall, was crouching the anatomy or skeleton of a human being, with the skin dried upon the bones, having some remains of black hair, which was pronounced by those that examined it to be undoubtedly the body of a woman, and clearly dead for a period of fifty years.’

Among the Gnomes: Introduction

Who has ever occupied himself seriously with the investigation of the “night-side of Nature,” or studied the works of Theophrastus Paracelsus, and not become acquainted with the celebrated “Untersberg” (the “mountain of the lower world”) and its mysterious inhabitants, the fairies and gnomes? Like a gigantic outpost of the Austrian Alps, this snow-capped wing of the mountains stands on the frontier of Germany, overlooking the Bavarian plains, dotted with hills, forests, and lakes. Its summit, dwelling above the clouds, dominates the valley through which the Salzach river winds its way to the Inn and the Danube. Seen from the north side, where the city of Salzburg is nestled among the hills, the mountain looks tame enough, rising in undulating forest-covered lines up to a height of some seven thousand feet; but on the south side it exhibits an almost endless variety of perpendicular walls, formed of marble rocks thousands of feet high, and interrupted by deep ravines and chasms, craggy cliffs, spurs, and precipices, over which in the time of spring, when the snow begins to melt, great avalanches come thundering down, and a sharp eye may detect in many an inaccessible spot mysterious caves, that seem to penetrate into the bowels of that mysterious mountain. If you will take the trouble of climbing up to these dizzy heights, you will find yourself in a new world, for there the Untersberg appears not as one single mountain, but as a mountain chain, of which each separate link has its special aspect and character, being separated from its neighbour by deep chasms, through which the mountain streams rush. There is no end of waterfalls, caves and labyrinths of boulders, where the inexperienced wanderer may lose his way, especially if he is misled by the gnomes—which may easily occur if his intentions are not pure.

The Untersberg is known to be inhabited by certain kinds of elemental spirits of Nature, some of which are good and benevolent, others of a wicked and malicious nature, and inimical to mankind; and there are innumerable tales circulating among the people in the neighbourhood, telling about the doings of the gnomes, fairies, wild women, and giants, dwelling within caves and in gorgeous marble halls and grottoes filled with gold and precious stones that will turn into dead leaves and stones when seen in the light of day. Some of the friendly tribes come out of the Untersberg on certain occasions, and they are said to have sometimes associated with the inhabitants of our plane of existence, partaking in the dances and amusements of the peasants, and even taking stray children with them into the Untersberg; and, incredible as it may appear, it is even asserted by “those who know” that marriages have taken place between citizens of our world and the inhabitants of the kingdom of gnomes, and that these spirits of Nature, being themselves not immortal, seek to obtain immortality by their union with immortal man. The majority of the gnomes, therefore, also love plain, truthful, and unsophisticated human beings, such as possess a soul in which the light of the immortal spirit may be perceived, and with these they are ready to associate; but with soulless beings, such as sophisticated, sceptical, arrogant, short-sighted and opinionated scientists, whose hearts are dead, and whose brains are swollen with the products of their own fancy, they will have nothing to do; to such they never show themselves, but love to play tricks upon them whenever they come with a view of invading their kingdom.

Of course it is known to everybody that within the mysterious depths of the Untersberg there dwells the soul of a great emperor in his astral form. There, together with his retinue, he sleeps an enchanted sleep, waiting for the liberation of his country. Sometimes very suddenly, even on a clear summer day, clouds are seen to issue from the sides of the mountain; grotesquely-formed ghost-like mists arise from caverns and precipices, crawling and gliding slowly upwards toward the top, and from the neighbouring peaks also clouds of monstrous shapes and sometimes of gigantic proportions come floating on, until the head of the Untersberg is surrounded by a surging sea of vapours growing dense and dark. Then a clap of thunder reverberates through the rocks, awakening hundreds of echoes, and forked streaks of lightning flash down into the valley; the storm-king arises, howling dismally through the forest, breaking down old trees and hurling them into the precipices below. On such occasions the people in the valleys piously make the sign of the cross, and whisper to each other: “The great emperor has awakened and is reviewing his troops. He is angry because he sees that the black ravens are still flying around the top of the Untersberg.” This, of course, I hold to be a fable, and the “emperor in the Untersberg” is well known to the wise; but as to the dark birds referred to, they are typified by certain black-robed and stiff-necked gentlemen, whom you may frequently meet. The liberation for which the emperor waits also seems to me not that from any foreign yoke, but the redemption from selfishness with its consequent evils. Poor emperor! You may have to wait still another thousand years in the world of the gnomes before you will be able to resume control over your kingdom. Sleep in peace! The time will not seem to you long; for it is not you who suffers, and there is no measurement of time during sleep or in eternity.

Owing to the increase of modern culture, and its accompanying sophistry and scepticism, visible intercourse with the gnomes has become of comparatively rare occurrence, especially because their kindness has often been abused and their services misapplied, as the following story will show, which I may be permitted to insert, as it is not without bearing upon the events told in the succeeding chapters.

A short distance from the city of Salzburg, and upon a hill covered by a forest of pines, there stood in ancient times the castle of Tollenstein, of which now only some remnants are left. The walls are in ruins, but these go to show that formerly they were parts of a palatial building. One remnant composed of huge square stones still indicates the extent of the large banqueting-hall, where festivals took place; and it is said that on certain nights the orgies which these stones witnessed are spectrally repeated and enacted in the astral light by the ghost-like shapes of deceased ladies and knights; while not far off there is a dilapidated tower of massive structure, enclosing a deep hole in the ground, where the subterranean dungeon was located—the “oubliette” or living tomb, in which poor wretches for some offence were buried alive and “forgotten,” left to starve or suffocate. It is said that, during the nights when the ghosts in the banqueting-hall hold gruesome carousals, cries and groans and wails may be heard coming from the bottom of that well. These things I do not find difficult to believe; for we often find similar instances of the proximity of luxury and misery among the living in this our material world.

In ancient times the owner of the castle was Burkhart von Tollenstein, a youthful and valorous knight, admired by all the ladies in the country on account of the voluminous mass of golden hair which adorned his head. This, together with his manliness and beauty, gained for him the hearts of all those fair ladies, except one, and this was the very one for whose possession he craved, namely, the very beautiful but proud Julia von Horst.

He had seen her only once, but that was enough to make him fall desperately in love with her face and figure. He had been happy enough until he was so unfortunate as to have the tranquillity of his heart destroyed by the sight of her dark and languishing eyes. From that time forward an image of the beautiful Julia was formed in his mind, whose contemplation absorbed him so that he thought of nothing else; henceforth nothing but the thought of Julia had any attraction for him. He sought to woo and to win the ideal of his thoughts; but alas! his sighs and tears were all in vain, for his home was poor, and the proud Julia cared far more for money than for love! She knew that Burkhart’s fortune was too small to supply her with all the luxuries she desired; therefore, when he offered her his heart, she rejected it, and sneeringly said:

“Of what use will be your heart to me, if starvation waits for me in your home?”

This offensive remark was more than a knight of these times was able to bear in patience, and Burkhart, cursing his poverty, went home in despair. From day to day he became more and more morose and melancholy, grieving on account of the insufficiency of his means. At last he determined to enrich himself by whatever means he might find, and resolved to rob the gnomes of the Untersberg of their treasures.

In these times it was customary for almost everybody to have a wise and faithful steward ready to give good advice. Burkhart’s steward did his best to dissuade the knight from this wicked and dangerous undertaking; but in vain did old Bruno, for this was his name, entreat him to desist from evil thoughts, and to forget the proud Julia, as she was entirely unworthy of his affection. The knight would not listen.

“The Lord be merciful to you!” exclaimed Bruno. “Shake off this delusion, O noble knight; think of your high descent and what your ancestors would say. Look upwards, to where your salvation rests; the spirits of the lower world will mislead and ruin you.”

But the knight answered, “I am not a coward. I am not afraid of losing my life, which is worthless to me without the possession of Julia. More than once I have looked into the face of death while engaged in battle. I want the gold of the gnomes, and must have it, let the consequences be what they may. If the gnomes are not willing to surrender their gold, I shall take it by force.”

Thus spurning good advice, the knight gave orders that his black war-horse be brought forth. This he bestrode, and trotted towards the Untersberg.

It was a gloomy evening in November; the leaves of the trees had turned yellow and red, and rustled in the wind, and their voices seemed to warn him not to proceed, while the waving boughs motioned to him to return. Soon the queen of the night began to spread her mantle over the face of the earth, and there arose in the gloom, like a gigantic shadow, the outlines of the mysterious Untersberg. For a moment fear overcame the youth, and he stopped; but his desire overcame his fear, and pronouncing an oath he spurred his horse, determined to push on. Just then the horse shied, and, looking up, Burkhart saw sitting by the roadside a dwarf clothed in a steel-blue gown. The dwarf looked steadily with glittering eyes at the knight.

“Avaunt!” exclaimed Burkhart angrily. “What are you sitting here and frightening my horse for?”

“Ho! ho!” laughed the dwarf. “Know, you creeping worm of the earth, I am Pypo, the king of the gnomes. Mine is the Untersberg with its treasures. What have you to seek in my territory?”

When Burkhart heard these words he deemed it prudent to speak politely to the king of the gnomes. He therefore explained to him his situation, and asked for the loan of a sum of money, for which he promised his everlasting gratitude.

The king groaned. “Confound your gratitude,” he said; “there would be plenty of wretches like you coming to borrow money from me, if it could be had at such a cheap price.”

“What then do you demand?” asked the knight. “State your terms, and I will accept them, for I must have gold at any price!”

“Listen then,” said the gnome; “it is not much that I ask. Only one hair from your head for each thousand of florins.” Thus saying, his eyes rested searchingly upon the face of the knight.

“Only one hair from my head?” exclaimed Burkhart in great astonishment. “A whole lot of hair you shall have, and be welcome, if you only furnish me the money necessary for obtaining the favour of Julia.”

“I am putting no limits to the amount you may draw,” laughed the king. “For each thousand of florins which you receive from me you will have to leave me one hair from your head.”

“It is a bargain!” exclaimed the knight joyfully, and, drawing his dagger, he was about to proceed to cut a lock of hair from his forehead to offer it to the king.

“Not so,” said Pypo. “Only one hair at a time, and I will have to pull it out myself by the root.”

So the knight dismounted, and as he bent down the dwarf tore a single hair from his scalp, after which he threw a bag of gold at Burkhart’s feet.

“Thanks!” exclaimed the knight, as he hugged the bag and gloated over its contents.

“No thanks are wanted,” replied the gnome; “see to it that the hairs upon your head will not become too few in time to purchase enough gold for satisfying the greed of your Julia.”

So saying the gnome vanished; but the knight returned with his bag of gold to the castle. He now at once began to enlarge and improve his house in exquisite style; he bought costly furniture and ornaments, hired servants and cooks, sent out invitations for dinners and balls, and every evening he went to the Untersberg for another bag of gold, leaving in return one of his hairs.

Soon the news of the riches of Burkhart von Tollenstein began to spread, and everybody wondered and came to see and admire the luxury displayed by the knight. Now the consent of Julia was easily gained, and before many days the walls of the castle resounded with gay music, merry-making, and laughter; for the marriage of the valorous knight with the beautiful countess took place. All the nobility in the country were invited, and took part in the revel.

Henceforth the castle of Tollenstein became the scene of an uninterrupted succession of festivities of all kinds; there was a merry-go-round, and the doors of the house were open day and night to visitors. Parasites of all kinds peopled the castle. Dinners, dances, masquerades, tournaments, theatrical performances and hunting excursions followed each other without end, and the beautiful Julia had the sweet satisfaction of being surrounded by flatterers and admirers to her heart’s content; but her desires grew in proportion as they[17] were gratified, her vanity in proportion as it was tickled: her whims were incalculable, but the resources of her husband seemed to be inexhaustible, and he was an object of envy to everyone.

More and more frequent grew his visits to the Untersberg, from each of which he returned with a thousand florins in gold, but with one less hair from his head; and for all that, he seemed not to be happy, for he saw only too clearly that he had bought only the appearance of love, and that his wife loved not him but only his money; and whenever he did not at once comply with her unreasonable and extravagant demands, she would treat him with contempt, so as to render life a burden to him. All this caused him a great deal of grief, which he sought to drown in the wine-cup. Thus he became at last a confirmed drunkard and an object of disgust. All the evil germs in his nature began to grow luxuriantly and to bear fruit. He became a weakling, a cruel tyrant[18] towards his subjects, an abject coward in the presence of his wife, who treated him as if he were a slave. His troubles caused him to grow prematurely old, and the hair upon his head grew thinner from day to day.

Thus a few years passed away in great misery, and at last poor Burkhart was entirely bald-headed. The last florin was gone; but the countess had ordered a great tournament and dinner, to which many noblemen and ladies of rank were invited. Once more Burkhart went to the Untersberg for the purpose of asking the king of the gnomes for money; but no more hair did he have to give in return. The gnome appeared, and the knight, removing his helmet, showed him the deplorable condition of his scalp, hoping to arouse the pity of the king.

“Ah, Burkhart!” exclaimed Pypo; “did I not tell you to beware that your hairs may not become too few?”

“I now see my folly,” sighed the knight; “but for pity’s sake let me have only one more bag of gold, to save myself from disgrace.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed the gnome. “Nothing brings nothing. No hair, no money; our bargain is at a end!”

“Ask what you will!” cried the knight; “but hair I have no more to give. Take my soul; but give me only one bag of money. Only one bag of gold I am asking of you!”

But in vain Burkhart implored the gnome. Pypo was inexorable, and laughed at him. This exasperated Burkhart, and becoming enraged, he cried: “Hell-hound! you have completed your devilish work. With each hair that you took from my head you robbed me of a part of my manhood. Now I recognise you as the fiend that you are. Give me back my lost energy. Give me back the beautiful golden hair of which you have despoiled me by means of your accursed gold. Give it back to me, or look out for the revenge of the Tollensteins!”

[20]But the gnome laughed. “Fool!” he said; “do you wish to frighten me? Would you now curse the one from whom you received all that you wanted? I laugh at you and your threats; but if you wish your hair returned, be it so!”

So saying the gnome drew forth a cord twisted from Burkhart’s hair, and threw it at the feet of the knight. He then disappeared within the depths of the Untersberg, while from all sides a mocking laughter shook the air, as if coming from a multitude of invisible spectators; but the knight went home and locked himself up in his bedroom.

At the castle of Tollenstein everything was in readiness for the beginning of the great tournament. Knights in glittering armour and ladies in costly dresses were thronging the halls; while in the courtyard below richly decked steeds, attended by grooms in bright colours, neighed and stamped the ground, impatient for the opening of the sham fight; for the beginning of which nothing was now needed but the presence of the host. The trumpets sounded, but nothing was seen of Burkhart. Repeatedly were messengers sent to his room, but they found the door locked and were not admitted. At last Julia, losing her patience, went up with clenched fists to inquire about the cause of this delay, but her knocks at the door elicited no reply. She therefore ordered the door to be forced open, and then a ghastly sight met her eyes. Burkhart von Tollenstein was lying dead on his bed, his features distorted as if he had died in great agony; around his neck was tied a cord of yellow human hair, with which he had been strangled; his eyes were protruding as if starting from their sockets; while his fingers were spasmodically closed around a bag containing one thousand florins in gold. This was the end of the Tollensteins.

And now the excuses for writing the following tale:

If this story of Burkhart of Tollenstein had never been exhumed from the archives containing the family histories of the ancient knights of the Duchy of Salzburg, the following chapters would never have been written; for it was the discovery of these reliable documents which recalled to my memory the history told to me by my now deceased friend, Mr Schneider, who was himself a participant in the adventure which I am about to describe.

It appears that, long after the death of Burkhart von Tollenstein, three very learned gentlemen, having heard of that story, arrived from some far-off country—presumably from the dark continent. Being of a very sceptical turn of mind, they did not believe in gnomes, and had undertaken their journey for the purpose of disproving the existence of the spirits of Nature. They belonged to a scientific Society, whose object was the abolition of the supernatural, and to sober up mankind by drawing away their attention from all sorts of ideals, and bring them back to the dry and hard facts of material life. That Society had already accomplished a great deal of important work. They had by a certain system of logic disproved the existence of God, spirit and soul, and shown that all that is called life or consciousness is nothing else but the result of friction brought on by the mechanical motion of molecules of dead matter accidentally coming into contact with each other. The three gentlemen with whom we shall directly become acquainted were appointed by the Society for the Abolition of the Supernatural as a committee, for the purpose of giving the last death-blow to the superstitious belief in spirits and gnomes, and arrived for that purpose. They were firmly determined that the belief in anything that could not be seen by means of corporeal eyes, or grasped with fingers of flesh, should be relegated into the garret, where antiquated superstitions are stowed away.

After due consultation, these gentlemen resolved to make a scientific expedition to one of the caves of the Untersberg, reported to be haunted; and Mr Schneider, being then a young and vigorous man, well acquainted with the topography of the mountain, was invited to accompany them. The excursion took place on the day preceding St John’s, it being the 23rd of June; but the date of the year escaped my memory. The adventures which Mr Schneider experienced are told by him in the following pages.

 

Among the Gnomes: An Occult Tale of Adventure in the Untersberg is a fantasy novel by Franz Hartmann, published in 1895. The story is set in the mystical Untersberg mountain and weaves together themes of adventure, the occult, and moral lessons as it follows Knight Burkhart von Tollenstein in his desires for wealth and love. His quest leads him to seek the treasures of the gnomes, mythical beings believed to inhabit the Untersberg. Burkhart’s obsession with acquiring gold to win the affection of Julia von Horst compels him to strike a deal with Pypo, the king of the gnomes, trading his hair for riches. This pact sets off a series of transformative events that ultimately reveal the futility of seeking love through material wealth.

This is the 1st of 8 chapters.

More about the Author

Franz Hartmann was a writer on esoteric subjects and a prominent figure in the Theosophical movement. He was, unfortunately, also a doctor, which by the life of me will always be a mystery. Born on November 22, 1838, in Donauwörth, Bavaria, he pursued medical studies and graduated from the University of Munich in 1865, before emigrating to the United States where he practised medicine in various frontier regions, including Missouri and Texas.

Hartmann’s engagement with Theosophy began in 1882 when he joined the Theosophical Society (TS) after being inspired by Alfred P. Sinnett‘s book, The Occult World. He arrived at the movement’s headquarters in Adyar, India, in 1883, where he interacted closely with Helena Blavatsky and H. S. Olcott. Hartmann became a close observer of the controversies surrounding Blavatsky, including investigations into her alleged supernatural abilities and the phenomena associated with her teachings. Her influence on Hartmann is evident in his writings, where he adopted and expanded upon many of her ideas. He translated her work The Secret Doctrine into German, which helped disseminate her teachings to a broader audience, alongside documenting his experiences in Report of Observations Made During a Nine Months’ Stay at the Headquarters of the Theosophical Society at Adyar (Madras), India, published in 1884.
Hartmann’s association with Blavatsky provided him with a platform to establish himself as a prominent figure within the Theosophical community. However, it also exposed him to challenges, particularly during the controversies that arose from accusations against Blavatsky regarding fraud and deception. His own works, such as Magic, White and Black and Occult Science in Medicine, reflect a synthesis of Theosophical thought and his interpretations of esoteric practices, showcasing how Blavatsky’s ideas shaped his philosophical outlook.

After leaving Adyar in 1885, Hartmann returned to Europe and became involved with Rosicrucianism. He founded an independent group called the Internationale Theosophische Verbrüderung (International Theosophical Brotherhood) in 1897, which thrived until World War I disrupted its activities. His other notable publications include The Life of Paracelsus and the Substance of His Teachings (1887), and The Secret Symbols of the Rosicrucians of the 16th and 17th Century (1888).

In his later years, Hartmann’s interests shifted more towards Western esotericism, and he became less aligned with Blavatsky’s teachings. He played a role in founding the Ordo Templi Orientis alongside notable figures like Carl Kellner and Theodor Reuss, and he held significant positions within this organization until its consolidation under Kellner’s leadership in 1906. He passed away on August 7, 1912, in Kempten, Bavaria.

That being said, I’m not a fan of the guy or what he and his buddies represented over time.

Rosicrucianism in particular emerged in a period marked by colonial expansion and racial theories that categorized people hierarchically based on perceived spiritual and intellectual capacities. Influential figures in the movement, such as Max Heindel and those associated with the Theosophical Society, often propagated ideas that reinforced existing racial discourses. These teachings suggested that certain races were more spiritually advanced than others, reflecting broader societal prejudices and other bullshit we still can’t shake.
Organizations like the Ancient Mystical Order of the Rosy Cross have attempted to distance themselves from these historical associations with racism. In a 1930 article from The Rosicrucian Digest, AMORC emphasized that there was no discrimination against any race within their teachings, asserting that all members were considered equal regardless of their racial background. However, this claim is disingenuous at best, given the historical context in which these organizations operated.

Theosophy too was intertwined with colonial ideologies, where British colonization was seen as a necessary step towards achieving a universal brotherhood, which inherently suggested a belief in the superiority of Western civilization over others, and Hartmann’s Internationale Theosophische Verbrüderung wasn’t any better.