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Tales of My Landlord #1 part 1
The Black Dwarf
The story is set just after the Union of Scotland and England (1707), in the Liddesdale hills of the Scottish Borders, familiar to Scott from his work collecting ballads for The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. The main character is based on David Ritchie, whom Scott met in the autumn of 1797. In the tale, the dwarf is Sir Edward Mauley, a hermit regarded by the locals as being in league with the Devil, who becomes embroiled in a complex tale of love, revenge, betrayal, Jacobite schemes and a threatened forced marriage.
Scott began the novel well, "but tired of the ground I had trode so often before... I quarrelled with my story, & bungled up a conclusion." Critics and public found it poor in comparison with its popular companion Old Mortality. One of the harshest reviews was in the Quarterly Review, written anonymously by Scott himself.
The introduction to The Black Dwarf attributes the work to Jedediah Cleishbotham, whom Scott had invented as a fictional editor of the Landlord series. It is here that we have the most complete view of this character.
Scott began the novel well, "but tired of the ground I had trode so often before... I quarrelled with my story, & bungled up a conclusion." Critics and public found it poor in comparison with its popular companion Old Mortality. One of the harshest reviews was in the Quarterly Review, written anonymously by Scott himself.
The introduction to The Black Dwarf attributes the work to Jedediah Cleishbotham, whom Scott had invented as a fictional editor of the Landlord series. It is here that we have the most complete view of this character.
262 pages, Library Binding
First published December 2, 1816
About the author
Walter Scott
5,206 books2,155 followersLibrarian Note: There is more than one author in the GoodReads database with this name.
Sir Walter Scott was a Scottish novelist, poet, historian, and biographer, widely recognized as the founder and master of the historical novel. His most celebrated works, including Waverley, Rob Roy, and Ivanhoe, helped shape not only the genre of historical fiction but also modern perceptions of Scottish culture and identity.
Born in Edinburgh in 1771, Scott was the son of a solicitor and a mother with a strong interest in literature and history. At the age of two, he contracted polio, which left him with a permanent limp. He spent much of his childhood in the Scottish Borders, where he developed a deep fascination with the region's folklore, ballads, and history. He studied at Edinburgh High School and later at the University of Edinburgh, qualifying as a lawyer in 1792. Though he worked in law for some time, his literary ambitions soon took precedence.
Scott began his literary career with translations and collections of traditional ballads, notably in his Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. He gained early fame with narrative poems such as The Lay of the Last Minstrel and The Lady of the Lake. As the popularity of poetic storytelling declined, especially with the rise of Lord Byron, Scott turned to prose. His first novel, Waverley, published anonymously in 1814, was set during the Jacobite rising of 1745 and is considered the first true historical novel. The success of Waverley led to a long series of novels, known collectively as the Waverley Novels, which blended historical events with compelling fictional narratives.
Over the following years, Scott produced a remarkable number of novels, including Old Mortality, The Heart of Midlothian, and The Bride of Lammermoor, each contributing to the romantic image of Scotland that became popular throughout Europe. With Ivanhoe, published in 1819, he turned his attention to medieval England, broadening his appeal and confirming his status as a major literary figure. His works were not only popular in his own time but also laid the groundwork for historical fiction as a respected literary form.
Scott married Charlotte Genevieve Charpentier in 1797, and they had five children. In 1820, he was granted a baronetcy and became Sir Walter Scott. He built a grand home, Abbotsford House, near Melrose, which reflected his passion for history and the Scottish past. However, in 1825, financial disaster struck when his publishers went bankrupt. Rather than declare bankruptcy himself, Scott chose to work tirelessly to pay off the debts through his writing. He continued to produce novels and non-fiction works at a staggering pace despite declining health.
Walter Scott died in 1832, leaving behind a literary legacy that influenced generations of writers and readers. His works remain widely read and studied, and he is credited with helping to revive interest in Scottish history and culture. Abbotsford House, now a museum, stands as a monument to his life and achievements.
Sir Walter Scott was a Scottish novelist, poet, historian, and biographer, widely recognized as the founder and master of the historical novel. His most celebrated works, including Waverley, Rob Roy, and Ivanhoe, helped shape not only the genre of historical fiction but also modern perceptions of Scottish culture and identity.
Born in Edinburgh in 1771, Scott was the son of a solicitor and a mother with a strong interest in literature and history. At the age of two, he contracted polio, which left him with a permanent limp. He spent much of his childhood in the Scottish Borders, where he developed a deep fascination with the region's folklore, ballads, and history. He studied at Edinburgh High School and later at the University of Edinburgh, qualifying as a lawyer in 1792. Though he worked in law for some time, his literary ambitions soon took precedence.
Scott began his literary career with translations and collections of traditional ballads, notably in his Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. He gained early fame with narrative poems such as The Lay of the Last Minstrel and The Lady of the Lake. As the popularity of poetic storytelling declined, especially with the rise of Lord Byron, Scott turned to prose. His first novel, Waverley, published anonymously in 1814, was set during the Jacobite rising of 1745 and is considered the first true historical novel. The success of Waverley led to a long series of novels, known collectively as the Waverley Novels, which blended historical events with compelling fictional narratives.
Over the following years, Scott produced a remarkable number of novels, including Old Mortality, The Heart of Midlothian, and The Bride of Lammermoor, each contributing to the romantic image of Scotland that became popular throughout Europe. With Ivanhoe, published in 1819, he turned his attention to medieval England, broadening his appeal and confirming his status as a major literary figure. His works were not only popular in his own time but also laid the groundwork for historical fiction as a respected literary form.
Scott married Charlotte Genevieve Charpentier in 1797, and they had five children. In 1820, he was granted a baronetcy and became Sir Walter Scott. He built a grand home, Abbotsford House, near Melrose, which reflected his passion for history and the Scottish past. However, in 1825, financial disaster struck when his publishers went bankrupt. Rather than declare bankruptcy himself, Scott chose to work tirelessly to pay off the debts through his writing. He continued to produce novels and non-fiction works at a staggering pace despite declining health.
Walter Scott died in 1832, leaving behind a literary legacy that influenced generations of writers and readers. His works remain widely read and studied, and he is credited with helping to revive interest in Scottish history and culture. Abbotsford House, now a museum, stands as a monument to his life and achievements.
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August 9, 2026
they used to say that in the borderlands, roses shouldn't be planted near graves. their roots would drink in whatever they found below.
i never believed it.
not until sir edward mauley plucked me.
that day, it felt as though an old story ran from my stem instead of sap. i didn't yet know of the evening when one man was killed, the iron doors that closed behind another, or the woman who took another man's name.
roses know nothing of such things. but some hands, when they hold a flower, betray how long they've been carrying hatred.
his was very heavy.
he held me out to isabella vere.
i didn't understand then why he'd chosen me. in the border country, people sealed their bargains with things made to last: silver, land, a knife, sometimes blood. i had only a few days to live. and yet this man, who hadn't given his word to anyone in years, entrusted it to me.
then isabella took me away and i entered the house of vere.
everyone there owed something to someone. only none of the debts had been written in the same ledger.
richard vere owed the past. langley wanted to take the future in advance. isabella mistook her love for her father for a debt. earnscliff didn't yet know that a blood account had been left in his name.
sir edward, meanwhile, believed he was owed more than all of them.
in the old border ballads, a murdered man doesn't stay in his grave. his brother takes up the sword in his place, his son carries his father's name, blood spilled at one house is sought at the door of another. the years pass, but the reckoning lives on. in the end, no one remembers who the first dead man was; only that someone is supposed to hate someone else.
a ballad like that kept turning inside sir edward too.
once, richard vere had been his friend. then friendship became something else.
the woman he loved became richard's wife. sir edward killed a man. he was imprisoned. his property passed into other hands. the years folded over one another. and in the end, what remained wasn't a life that had been lived, but an old account no one could finish balancing, of who owed what to whom.
sir edward didn't close that account. he fed it.
he didn't stop richard from falling. he even gave him, for years, the height from which he might fall. he gave him money, gave him time. not like pouring salt at the roots of a tree; quite the opposite, he waited while watering it so the roots would sink deeper.
because some kinds of revenge don't want to leave an enemy poor.
they give him enough rope. then watch how he ties the knot.
richard really did tie it.
with politics.
with debt.
with his own ambition.
and finally, with his daughter's life.
when he wanted to give isabella to langley, no one in the castle called her a sacrifice. in old houses, ugly things often go about under respectable names. they called it duty, family, necessity. they think if you pile enough heavy words on top of a girl's fear, you won't hear her voice underneath.
richard didn't seize his daughter's wrist and drag her to the altar.
he used an older method. he placed his own ruin before her.
if isabella wanted to save her father, she had to give herself away. that way, the knife still seemed to be in someone else's hand.
by then, i had already dried.
they say a rose grows lighter when it dies.
wrong.
some things grow heavier as they dry.
when isabella took me from where she'd hidden me, i was no longer a flower. i was the remains of a promise. my petals had hardened enough to break between her fingers. still, that night she carried me with her; she made for the little hut among the stones and heather, the one people feared more than they feared spirits
when sir edward saw me, the past didn't return. the past had never left. what returned was the promise he'd made years before.
richard vere's daughter was asking for help. for her father, no less.
it was the sort of knot blood debts love. payment for what richard had done could be taken from his daughter. even if no one called that justice, revenge has a way of making such things resemble one another. the father's sin is left to the daughter, one man's death to his son, yesterday's hatred to today's body. most border ballads go on like that.
one dies.
the other pays.
then someone else takes his place.
but that night, it felt as though all those old dead had been laid on the table beside me.
the man he'd killed.
the woman he'd lost.
the friend who'd betrayed him.
the years spent in a cell.
his own youth.
they all wanted something from him.
perhaps richard's ruin.
perhaps for isabella to carry her father's guilt.
perhaps for earnscliff to pay for a death he knew nothing about.
all sir edward had to do was sing one more verse of the old ballad.
he didn't.
when he came to the chapel at midnight, he didn't come like a saviour. to me, he looked more like a dead man who'd risen from his grave by mistake.
the stone likeness of isabella's mother was there. langley was there. richard vere was there. the whole story that had begun years before had gathered the living and the dead beneath the same roof.
and that small man everyone thought ill-omened walked into the middle of his own past.
he stopped a wedding. but what he really stopped wasn't a wedding.
it was a debt being collected from the wrong person.
perhaps the true ill omen wasn't inside sir edward at all. perhaps it was that an account opened years ago could live long enough to create new debtors of its own.
isabella was innocent of what her father had done.
but pain doesn't care about that.
earnscliff knew nothing of his father's death.
but blood doesn't care about that.
when one generation's wound goes looking for a new body, innocence isn't much use. someone has to close the account.
perhaps sir edward didn't forgive that night. forgiveness was a word that made what had happened look too clean.
he merely pulled the dead men's ledger away from the living. what followed was strangely quiet.
the road opened for isabella and earnscliff.
hobbie returned to his own life.
richard wore himself out chasing other dreams.
langley came to the gallows at the end of another rebellion.
sir edward never returned to live among people.
in fairy tales, when the curse is broken, the misshapen man is restored to what he once was.
that didn't happen here. no bell rang backwards. no grave opened and gave the past back. sir edward's body didn't change. the man he'd killed didn't rise. the woman he'd loved didn't return. the years he'd lost weren't restored to him. the story simply stopped asking for another victim.
then he too withdrew into the border hills.
no one ever really knew where he died.
i don't think any other ending would've suited him.
they used to say that in the borderlands, roses shouldn't be planted near graves. now i understand the warning differently.
the danger wasn't that our roots might reach the dead. the dead had already found a way to reach us.
what mattered was whether, one night, one of the living could turn to the dead and say this debt will go into the earth with you,
and mean it.
●
sınır topraklarında gülleri mezarların yakınına dikmemek gerektiğini söylerlerdi. kökleri aşağıda ne bulursa onu içermiş.
ben buna hiç inanmadım.
ta ki beni sir edward mauley koparana kadar.
o gün sapımdan süt değil, eski bir hikâye aktı sanki. bir adamın öldüğü akşamı, başka bir adamın kapatıldığı demir kapıları, bir kadının başkasının soyadını alışını bilmiyordum henüz.
bunların hiçbirini güller bilmez. fakat bazı eller bir çiçeği tuttuğunda ne kadar zamandır kin taşıdığını ele verir.
onunki çok ağırdı.
beni isabella vere’ye uzattı.
beni neden seçtiğini o zaman anlamadım. sınır boylarında insanlar anlaşmalarını daha dayanıklı şeylerle mühürlerdi: gümüşle, toprakla, bıçakla, bazen kanla. benim ömrüm birkaç güne bakardı. yine de yıllardır kimseye söz vermeyen bu adam, sözünü bana emanet etti.
sonra isabella beni götürdü ve ben vere ailesinin evine girdim.
orada herkesin birbirine bir borcu vardı. yalnız hiçbiri aynı deftere yazılmamıştı.
richard vere geçmişe borçluydu. langley geleceği peşin almak istiyordu. isabella babasına sevgisini borç sanıyordu. earnscliff henüz kendisine bırakılmış bir kan hesabından habersizdi.
sir edward ise hepsinden fazlasını alacaklı olduğuna inanıyordu.
eski sınır türkülerinde öldürülen adam mezarında durmaz. kardeşi onun yerine kılıç kuşanır, oğlu babasının adını taşır, bir evde dökülen kan başka bir evin kapısında aranır. yıllar geçer ama hesap yaşar. sonunda kimse ilk ölünün kim olduğunu hatırlamaz; yalnızca birilerinin birilerinden nefret etmesi gerektiği bilinir.
sir edward’ın içinde de böyle bir türkü dönüp duruyordu.
bir zamanlar richard vere onun dostuydu. sonra dostluk başka bir şeye dönüştü.
sevdiği kadın richard’ın karısı oldu. sir edward bir adam öldürdü. hapsedildi. malı başkalarının ellerine geçti. yıllar birbirinin üzerine kapandı. en sonunda ortada yaşanmış bir hayat değil, kimin kime ne borçlu olduğunu kimsenin tamamlayamadığı eski bir hesap kaldı.
sir edward o hesabı kapatmadı. onu besledi.
richard’ın düşmesine engel olmadı. hatta düşebileceği yüksekliği ona yıllarca kendisi verdi. para verdi, zaman verdi. bir ağacın dibine tuz döker gibi değil; aksine, kökleri daha derine insin diye sulayarak bekledi.
çünkü bazı intikamlar düşmanını yoksul bırakmak istemez.
ona yeterince ip verir. sonra düğümünü nasıl attığını seyreder.
richard gerçekten de attı.
siyasetle.
borçlarla.
kendi ihtirasıyla.
en sonunda kızının hayatıyla.
isabella’yı langley’ye vermek istediğinde şatoda kimse ona kurban demedi. eski evlerde kötü şeyler çoğu zaman düzgün isimlerle dolaşır. buna görev dediler, aile dediler, zorunluluk dediler. bir kızın korkusunun üzerine yeterince ağır kelime koyarsanız alttan sesi gelmez sanıyorlar.
richard kızının bileğini tutup sunağa sürüklemedi.
daha eski bir yöntem kullandı. kendi felaketini onun önüne bıraktı.
isabella babasını kurtarmak istiyorsa kendisini vermeliydi. böylece bıçak yine bir başkasının elindeymiş gibi göründü.
ben o sırada çoktan kurumuştum.
bir gül öldüğünde hafifler sanılır.
yanlış.
bazı şeyler kurudukça ağırlaşır.
isabella beni sakladığı yerden çıkardığında artık çiçek değildim. bir sözün kalıntısıydım. yapraklarım parmaklarının arasında kırılacak kadar sertleşmişti. yine de o gece beni yanında taşıdı; taşların, fundalıkların ve insanların cinlerden bile fazla korktuğu o küçük kulübenin yolunu tuttu.
sir edward beni görünce geçmiş geri gelmedi. geçmiş zaten hiç gitmemişti. asıl geri gelen, yıllar önce verdiği sözdü.
richard vere’nin kızı yardım istiyordu. üstelik babası için.
kan borçlarının sevdiği türden bir düğümdü bu. richard’ın yaptıklarının karşılığı kızından alınabilirdi. kimse buna adalet demese bile intikam böyle şeyleri kolayca birbirine benzetir. babanın günahı kızına, bir adamın ölümü oğluna, dünün kini bugünün bedenine bırakılır. sınır türkülerinin çoğu böyle devam eder.
biri ölür.
öteki öder.
sonra onun yerine bir başkası.
ama o gece sanki bütün o eski ölüler de benimle birlikte masaya bırakılmıştı.
öldürdüğü adam.
kaybettiği kadın.
ihanet eden dost.
hücrede geçen yıllar.
kendi gençliği.
hepsi ondan bir şey istiyordu.
belki richard’ın mahvolmasını.
belki isabella’nın babasının suçunu taşımasını.
belki earnscliff’in hiç bilmediği bir ölümün bedelini.
sir edward’ın yapması gereken tek şey eski türkünün bir kıtasını daha söylemekti.
söylemedi.
gece yarısında şapele geldiğinde bunu bir kurtarıcı gibi yapmadı. bana daha çok mezarından yanlışlıkla kalkmış bir ölü gibi göründü.
isabella’nın annesinin taş sureti oradaydı. langley oradaydı. richard vere oradaydı. yıllar önce başlamış bütün hikâye, yaşayanlarla ölüleri aynı çatının altına toplamıştı.
ve o küçük, herkesin uğursuz saydığı adam, kendi geçmişinin ortasına yürüdü.
bir düğünü durdurdu. ama aslında durdurduğu şey düğün değildi.
bir borcun yanlış kişiden tahsil edilmesiydi.
asıl uğursuzluk sir edward’ın içinde değildi belki. yıllar önce açılmış bir hesabın, kendisine yeni borçlular yaratabilecek kadar uzun yaşamasındaydı.
isabella babasının yaptıklarında suçsuzdu.
ama acı bununla ilgilenmez.
earnscliff babasının ölümünden habersizdi.
ama kan bununla ilgilenmez.
bir kuşağın yarası kendisine yeni bir beden aradığında masumiyet pek işe yaramıyor. birinin hesabı kapatması gerekiyor.
sir edward o gece bağışlamadı belki. bağışlamak, olan biteni fazla temiz gösteren bir kelimeydi.
yalnızca ölülerin defterini yaşayanların önünden çekti. sonrası tuhaf biçimde sessizdir.
isabella ile earnscliff’in önündeki yol açılır.
hobbie kendi hayatına döner.
richard başka hayallerin peşinde tükenir.
langley başka bir isyanın sonunda darağacına varır.
sir edward ise insanların arasına geri dönmez.
masallarda lanet çözüldüğünde biçimi bozulan adam yeniden eski hâline gelir.
burada öyle olmadı. hiçbir çan tersine çalmadı. hiçbir mezar açılıp geçmişi geri vermedi. sir edward’ın bedeni değişmedi. öldürdüğü adam dirilmedi. sevdiği kadın dönmedi. kaybettiği yıllar yerine konmadı. yalnızca hikâye başka bir kurban istemeyi bıraktı.
sonra o da sınır tepelerinden çekilip gitti.
nerede öldüğünü kimse doğru dürüst bilmedi.
bence ona başka türlü bir son da yakışmazdı.
sınır topraklarında gülleri mezarların yakınına dikmemek gerektiğini söylerlerdi. şimdi nedenini başka türlü anlıyorum.
mesele köklerimizin ölülere ulaşması değildi. ölüler zaten bize ulaşmanın bir yolunu buluyordu.
asıl mesele, yaşayanlardan birinin bir gece ölülere dönüp bu borç sizinle toprağa girecek,
diyebilmesiydi.
i never believed it.
not until sir edward mauley plucked me.
that day, it felt as though an old story ran from my stem instead of sap. i didn't yet know of the evening when one man was killed, the iron doors that closed behind another, or the woman who took another man's name.
roses know nothing of such things. but some hands, when they hold a flower, betray how long they've been carrying hatred.
his was very heavy.
he held me out to isabella vere.
i didn't understand then why he'd chosen me. in the border country, people sealed their bargains with things made to last: silver, land, a knife, sometimes blood. i had only a few days to live. and yet this man, who hadn't given his word to anyone in years, entrusted it to me.
then isabella took me away and i entered the house of vere.
everyone there owed something to someone. only none of the debts had been written in the same ledger.
richard vere owed the past. langley wanted to take the future in advance. isabella mistook her love for her father for a debt. earnscliff didn't yet know that a blood account had been left in his name.
sir edward, meanwhile, believed he was owed more than all of them.
in the old border ballads, a murdered man doesn't stay in his grave. his brother takes up the sword in his place, his son carries his father's name, blood spilled at one house is sought at the door of another. the years pass, but the reckoning lives on. in the end, no one remembers who the first dead man was; only that someone is supposed to hate someone else.
a ballad like that kept turning inside sir edward too.
once, richard vere had been his friend. then friendship became something else.
the woman he loved became richard's wife. sir edward killed a man. he was imprisoned. his property passed into other hands. the years folded over one another. and in the end, what remained wasn't a life that had been lived, but an old account no one could finish balancing, of who owed what to whom.
sir edward didn't close that account. he fed it.
he didn't stop richard from falling. he even gave him, for years, the height from which he might fall. he gave him money, gave him time. not like pouring salt at the roots of a tree; quite the opposite, he waited while watering it so the roots would sink deeper.
because some kinds of revenge don't want to leave an enemy poor.
they give him enough rope. then watch how he ties the knot.
richard really did tie it.
with politics.
with debt.
with his own ambition.
and finally, with his daughter's life.
when he wanted to give isabella to langley, no one in the castle called her a sacrifice. in old houses, ugly things often go about under respectable names. they called it duty, family, necessity. they think if you pile enough heavy words on top of a girl's fear, you won't hear her voice underneath.
richard didn't seize his daughter's wrist and drag her to the altar.
he used an older method. he placed his own ruin before her.
if isabella wanted to save her father, she had to give herself away. that way, the knife still seemed to be in someone else's hand.
by then, i had already dried.
they say a rose grows lighter when it dies.
wrong.
some things grow heavier as they dry.
when isabella took me from where she'd hidden me, i was no longer a flower. i was the remains of a promise. my petals had hardened enough to break between her fingers. still, that night she carried me with her; she made for the little hut among the stones and heather, the one people feared more than they feared spirits
when sir edward saw me, the past didn't return. the past had never left. what returned was the promise he'd made years before.
richard vere's daughter was asking for help. for her father, no less.
it was the sort of knot blood debts love. payment for what richard had done could be taken from his daughter. even if no one called that justice, revenge has a way of making such things resemble one another. the father's sin is left to the daughter, one man's death to his son, yesterday's hatred to today's body. most border ballads go on like that.
one dies.
the other pays.
then someone else takes his place.
but that night, it felt as though all those old dead had been laid on the table beside me.
the man he'd killed.
the woman he'd lost.
the friend who'd betrayed him.
the years spent in a cell.
his own youth.
they all wanted something from him.
perhaps richard's ruin.
perhaps for isabella to carry her father's guilt.
perhaps for earnscliff to pay for a death he knew nothing about.
all sir edward had to do was sing one more verse of the old ballad.
he didn't.
when he came to the chapel at midnight, he didn't come like a saviour. to me, he looked more like a dead man who'd risen from his grave by mistake.
the stone likeness of isabella's mother was there. langley was there. richard vere was there. the whole story that had begun years before had gathered the living and the dead beneath the same roof.
and that small man everyone thought ill-omened walked into the middle of his own past.
he stopped a wedding. but what he really stopped wasn't a wedding.
it was a debt being collected from the wrong person.
perhaps the true ill omen wasn't inside sir edward at all. perhaps it was that an account opened years ago could live long enough to create new debtors of its own.
isabella was innocent of what her father had done.
but pain doesn't care about that.
earnscliff knew nothing of his father's death.
but blood doesn't care about that.
when one generation's wound goes looking for a new body, innocence isn't much use. someone has to close the account.
perhaps sir edward didn't forgive that night. forgiveness was a word that made what had happened look too clean.
he merely pulled the dead men's ledger away from the living. what followed was strangely quiet.
the road opened for isabella and earnscliff.
hobbie returned to his own life.
richard wore himself out chasing other dreams.
langley came to the gallows at the end of another rebellion.
sir edward never returned to live among people.
in fairy tales, when the curse is broken, the misshapen man is restored to what he once was.
that didn't happen here. no bell rang backwards. no grave opened and gave the past back. sir edward's body didn't change. the man he'd killed didn't rise. the woman he'd loved didn't return. the years he'd lost weren't restored to him. the story simply stopped asking for another victim.
then he too withdrew into the border hills.
no one ever really knew where he died.
i don't think any other ending would've suited him.
they used to say that in the borderlands, roses shouldn't be planted near graves. now i understand the warning differently.
the danger wasn't that our roots might reach the dead. the dead had already found a way to reach us.
what mattered was whether, one night, one of the living could turn to the dead and say this debt will go into the earth with you,
and mean it.
●
sınır topraklarında gülleri mezarların yakınına dikmemek gerektiğini söylerlerdi. kökleri aşağıda ne bulursa onu içermiş.
ben buna hiç inanmadım.
ta ki beni sir edward mauley koparana kadar.
o gün sapımdan süt değil, eski bir hikâye aktı sanki. bir adamın öldüğü akşamı, başka bir adamın kapatıldığı demir kapıları, bir kadının başkasının soyadını alışını bilmiyordum henüz.
bunların hiçbirini güller bilmez. fakat bazı eller bir çiçeği tuttuğunda ne kadar zamandır kin taşıdığını ele verir.
onunki çok ağırdı.
beni isabella vere’ye uzattı.
beni neden seçtiğini o zaman anlamadım. sınır boylarında insanlar anlaşmalarını daha dayanıklı şeylerle mühürlerdi: gümüşle, toprakla, bıçakla, bazen kanla. benim ömrüm birkaç güne bakardı. yine de yıllardır kimseye söz vermeyen bu adam, sözünü bana emanet etti.
sonra isabella beni götürdü ve ben vere ailesinin evine girdim.
orada herkesin birbirine bir borcu vardı. yalnız hiçbiri aynı deftere yazılmamıştı.
richard vere geçmişe borçluydu. langley geleceği peşin almak istiyordu. isabella babasına sevgisini borç sanıyordu. earnscliff henüz kendisine bırakılmış bir kan hesabından habersizdi.
sir edward ise hepsinden fazlasını alacaklı olduğuna inanıyordu.
eski sınır türkülerinde öldürülen adam mezarında durmaz. kardeşi onun yerine kılıç kuşanır, oğlu babasının adını taşır, bir evde dökülen kan başka bir evin kapısında aranır. yıllar geçer ama hesap yaşar. sonunda kimse ilk ölünün kim olduğunu hatırlamaz; yalnızca birilerinin birilerinden nefret etmesi gerektiği bilinir.
sir edward’ın içinde de böyle bir türkü dönüp duruyordu.
bir zamanlar richard vere onun dostuydu. sonra dostluk başka bir şeye dönüştü.
sevdiği kadın richard’ın karısı oldu. sir edward bir adam öldürdü. hapsedildi. malı başkalarının ellerine geçti. yıllar birbirinin üzerine kapandı. en sonunda ortada yaşanmış bir hayat değil, kimin kime ne borçlu olduğunu kimsenin tamamlayamadığı eski bir hesap kaldı.
sir edward o hesabı kapatmadı. onu besledi.
richard’ın düşmesine engel olmadı. hatta düşebileceği yüksekliği ona yıllarca kendisi verdi. para verdi, zaman verdi. bir ağacın dibine tuz döker gibi değil; aksine, kökleri daha derine insin diye sulayarak bekledi.
çünkü bazı intikamlar düşmanını yoksul bırakmak istemez.
ona yeterince ip verir. sonra düğümünü nasıl attığını seyreder.
richard gerçekten de attı.
siyasetle.
borçlarla.
kendi ihtirasıyla.
en sonunda kızının hayatıyla.
isabella’yı langley’ye vermek istediğinde şatoda kimse ona kurban demedi. eski evlerde kötü şeyler çoğu zaman düzgün isimlerle dolaşır. buna görev dediler, aile dediler, zorunluluk dediler. bir kızın korkusunun üzerine yeterince ağır kelime koyarsanız alttan sesi gelmez sanıyorlar.
richard kızının bileğini tutup sunağa sürüklemedi.
daha eski bir yöntem kullandı. kendi felaketini onun önüne bıraktı.
isabella babasını kurtarmak istiyorsa kendisini vermeliydi. böylece bıçak yine bir başkasının elindeymiş gibi göründü.
ben o sırada çoktan kurumuştum.
bir gül öldüğünde hafifler sanılır.
yanlış.
bazı şeyler kurudukça ağırlaşır.
isabella beni sakladığı yerden çıkardığında artık çiçek değildim. bir sözün kalıntısıydım. yapraklarım parmaklarının arasında kırılacak kadar sertleşmişti. yine de o gece beni yanında taşıdı; taşların, fundalıkların ve insanların cinlerden bile fazla korktuğu o küçük kulübenin yolunu tuttu.
sir edward beni görünce geçmiş geri gelmedi. geçmiş zaten hiç gitmemişti. asıl geri gelen, yıllar önce verdiği sözdü.
richard vere’nin kızı yardım istiyordu. üstelik babası için.
kan borçlarının sevdiği türden bir düğümdü bu. richard’ın yaptıklarının karşılığı kızından alınabilirdi. kimse buna adalet demese bile intikam böyle şeyleri kolayca birbirine benzetir. babanın günahı kızına, bir adamın ölümü oğluna, dünün kini bugünün bedenine bırakılır. sınır türkülerinin çoğu böyle devam eder.
biri ölür.
öteki öder.
sonra onun yerine bir başkası.
ama o gece sanki bütün o eski ölüler de benimle birlikte masaya bırakılmıştı.
öldürdüğü adam.
kaybettiği kadın.
ihanet eden dost.
hücrede geçen yıllar.
kendi gençliği.
hepsi ondan bir şey istiyordu.
belki richard’ın mahvolmasını.
belki isabella’nın babasının suçunu taşımasını.
belki earnscliff’in hiç bilmediği bir ölümün bedelini.
sir edward’ın yapması gereken tek şey eski türkünün bir kıtasını daha söylemekti.
söylemedi.
gece yarısında şapele geldiğinde bunu bir kurtarıcı gibi yapmadı. bana daha çok mezarından yanlışlıkla kalkmış bir ölü gibi göründü.
isabella’nın annesinin taş sureti oradaydı. langley oradaydı. richard vere oradaydı. yıllar önce başlamış bütün hikâye, yaşayanlarla ölüleri aynı çatının altına toplamıştı.
ve o küçük, herkesin uğursuz saydığı adam, kendi geçmişinin ortasına yürüdü.
bir düğünü durdurdu. ama aslında durdurduğu şey düğün değildi.
bir borcun yanlış kişiden tahsil edilmesiydi.
asıl uğursuzluk sir edward’ın içinde değildi belki. yıllar önce açılmış bir hesabın, kendisine yeni borçlular yaratabilecek kadar uzun yaşamasındaydı.
isabella babasının yaptıklarında suçsuzdu.
ama acı bununla ilgilenmez.
earnscliff babasının ölümünden habersizdi.
ama kan bununla ilgilenmez.
bir kuşağın yarası kendisine yeni bir beden aradığında masumiyet pek işe yaramıyor. birinin hesabı kapatması gerekiyor.
sir edward o gece bağışlamadı belki. bağışlamak, olan biteni fazla temiz gösteren bir kelimeydi.
yalnızca ölülerin defterini yaşayanların önünden çekti. sonrası tuhaf biçimde sessizdir.
isabella ile earnscliff’in önündeki yol açılır.
hobbie kendi hayatına döner.
richard başka hayallerin peşinde tükenir.
langley başka bir isyanın sonunda darağacına varır.
sir edward ise insanların arasına geri dönmez.
masallarda lanet çözüldüğünde biçimi bozulan adam yeniden eski hâline gelir.
burada öyle olmadı. hiçbir çan tersine çalmadı. hiçbir mezar açılıp geçmişi geri vermedi. sir edward’ın bedeni değişmedi. öldürdüğü adam dirilmedi. sevdiği kadın dönmedi. kaybettiği yıllar yerine konmadı. yalnızca hikâye başka bir kurban istemeyi bıraktı.
sonra o da sınır tepelerinden çekilip gitti.
nerede öldüğünü kimse doğru dürüst bilmedi.
bence ona başka türlü bir son da yakışmazdı.
sınır topraklarında gülleri mezarların yakınına dikmemek gerektiğini söylerlerdi. şimdi nedenini başka türlü anlıyorum.
mesele köklerimizin ölülere ulaşması değildi. ölüler zaten bize ulaşmanın bir yolunu buluyordu.
asıl mesele, yaşayanlardan birinin bir gece ölülere dönüp bu borç sizinle toprağa girecek,
diyebilmesiydi.
June 3, 2020
A good story with elements of the supernatural. I had to look up quite a few Scottish words but an entertaining yarn. This was Scott’s shortest novel with my copy 165 pages long. The author also based it on a dwarf he met called David Ritchie.
The story is centers around a dwarf living amongst some stones which are seen as haunted by the locals. He builds a cottage there and does not tolerate human company. Although he does cure people with his medicines and his bark is worse than his bite.
Enter damsel being forced to marry against her will due to a profligate father. The dwarf is not all what he seems and is linked to the girl Isobel Vere. There is also a subplot with a possible rebellion and another local called Hobbie who has his fiancée kidnapped. A swashbuckling story but the characters lack depth.
The story is centers around a dwarf living amongst some stones which are seen as haunted by the locals. He builds a cottage there and does not tolerate human company. Although he does cure people with his medicines and his bark is worse than his bite.
Enter damsel being forced to marry against her will due to a profligate father. The dwarf is not all what he seems and is linked to the girl Isobel Vere. There is also a subplot with a possible rebellion and another local called Hobbie who has his fiancée kidnapped. A swashbuckling story but the characters lack depth.
May 4, 2019
In his other large book series, Tales of My Landlord, the author attempts a different approach by writing a series of stories. This is the first book of this series and is the smallest for a number of reasons not directly related to its writing. This small size means that unlike the other books of the author, the pace is fast and there is not much room for anything else that would make things complicated. It's an adventurous story against the backdrop of the fierce scottish landscape and with the equally fierce inhabitants of the area as protagonists that the passionate way of dealing with their lives leads to permanent conflicts (I think I have already write this in another review) and at a time of intense political disputes shortly after the final union between Scotland and England are even more intense. Embezzles, acts of revenge, destruction, kidnappings of beautiful women are on the everyday agenda and only the intervention of the brightest can restore order. The Black Dwarf of our story is a deformed and ugly man who lives away from people and witnesses this situation, which confirms his the choice of isolation from the people who are capable only for evil was the ideal and of course this choice gives the writer the opportunity to speak through him about the evils of human nature. In the end, however, it turns out that this man is hiding a secret that will prove important later when the young heroes of our history will have big problems. A nice beginning, a book that can be read quickly and easily without this meaning that there is not Shakti Kapoor substance in it.
Στην άλλη μεγάλη σειρά βιβλίων του, Tales of My Landlord, ο συγγραφέας επιχειρεί μία διαφορετική προσέγγιση γράφοντας μία σειρά ιστοριών. Αυτό είναι το πρώτο βιβλίο αυτής της σειράς και είναι το μικρότερο για διάφορους λόγους που δεν έχουν άμεση σχέση με τη συγγραφή του. Αυτό το μικρό μέγεθος σημαίνει ότι σε αντίθεση με τα άλλα βιβλία του συγγραφέα ο ρυθμός είναι γρήγορος και δεν υπάρχει πολύς χώρος για οτιδήποτε άλλο που θα έκανε τα πράγματα περίπλοκα. Είναι μία περιπετειώδης ιστορία με φόντο το άγριο σκωτσέζικο τοπίο και πρωταγωνιστές τους εξίσου άγριους κατοίκους της περιοχής που ο παθιασμένος τρόπος που αντιμετωπίζουν τη ζωή τους οδηγεί σε μόνιμες συγκρούσεις (αυτό νομίζω το έχω ξαναγράψει) και σε μία εποχή έντονων πολιτικών διαφορών λίγο μετά την οριστική ένωση της Σκωτίας με την Αγγλία είναι ακόμα πιο έντονες. Ενέδρες, πράξεις εκδίκησης, καταστροφές, απαγωγές όμορφων γυναικών είναι στην ημερήσια διάταξη και μόνο η παρέμβαση των γενναιότερων μπορείς να επαναφέρει την τάξη. Ο Μαύρος Νάνος της ιστορίας μας είναι ένας παραμορφωμένος και άσχημος άντρας που ζει μακριά από τους ανθρώπους και γίνεται μάρτυρας αυτής της κατάστασης, κάτι που του επιβεβαιώνει ότι η επιλογή της απομόνωσης από τους ανθρώπους που μόνο για κακό είναι ικανοί ήταν η ιδανικότερη και φυσικά αυτή η επιλογή δίνει την ευκαιρία στον συγγραφέα να μιλήσει μέσα από αυτόν για τα κακά της της ανθρώπινης φύσης. Στο τέλος, όμως, αποδεικνύεται ότι ο άνθρωπος αυτός κρύβει ένα μυστικό που θα αποδειχθεί σημαντικό στη συνέχεια όταν οι νεαροί ήρωες της ιστορίας μας θα έχουν μεγάλα προβλήματα. Μία ωραία αρχή, ένα βιβλίο που διαβάζεται γρήγορα και εύκολα, χωρίς αυτό να σημαίνει ότι δεν υπάρχει περιεχόμενο.
Στην άλλη μεγάλη σειρά βιβλίων του, Tales of My Landlord, ο συγγραφέας επιχειρεί μία διαφορετική προσέγγιση γράφοντας μία σειρά ιστοριών. Αυτό είναι το πρώτο βιβλίο αυτής της σειράς και είναι το μικρότερο για διάφορους λόγους που δεν έχουν άμεση σχέση με τη συγγραφή του. Αυτό το μικρό μέγεθος σημαίνει ότι σε αντίθεση με τα άλλα βιβλία του συγγραφέα ο ρυθμός είναι γρήγορος και δεν υπάρχει πολύς χώρος για οτιδήποτε άλλο που θα έκανε τα πράγματα περίπλοκα. Είναι μία περιπετειώδης ιστορία με φόντο το άγριο σκωτσέζικο τοπίο και πρωταγωνιστές τους εξίσου άγριους κατοίκους της περιοχής που ο παθιασμένος τρόπος που αντιμετωπίζουν τη ζωή τους οδηγεί σε μόνιμες συγκρούσεις (αυτό νομίζω το έχω ξαναγράψει) και σε μία εποχή έντονων πολιτικών διαφορών λίγο μετά την οριστική ένωση της Σκωτίας με την Αγγλία είναι ακόμα πιο έντονες. Ενέδρες, πράξεις εκδίκησης, καταστροφές, απαγωγές όμορφων γυναικών είναι στην ημερήσια διάταξη και μόνο η παρέμβαση των γενναιότερων μπορείς να επαναφέρει την τάξη. Ο Μαύρος Νάνος της ιστορίας μας είναι ένας παραμορφωμένος και άσχημος άντρας που ζει μακριά από τους ανθρώπους και γίνεται μάρτυρας αυτής της κατάστασης, κάτι που του επιβεβαιώνει ότι η επιλογή της απομόνωσης από τους ανθρώπους που μόνο για κακό είναι ικανοί ήταν η ιδανικότερη και φυσικά αυτή η επιλογή δίνει την ευκαιρία στον συγγραφέα να μιλήσει μέσα από αυτόν για τα κακά της της ανθρώπινης φύσης. Στο τέλος, όμως, αποδεικνύεται ότι ο άνθρωπος αυτός κρύβει ένα μυστικό που θα αποδειχθεί σημαντικό στη συνέχεια όταν οι νεαροί ήρωες της ιστορίας μας θα έχουν μεγάλα προβλήματα. Μία ωραία αρχή, ένα βιβλίο που διαβάζεται γρήγορα και εύκολα, χωρίς αυτό να σημαίνει ότι δεν υπάρχει περιεχόμενο.
February 4, 2018
*The Black Dwarf* has a host of components--a hint of the supernatural, the threat of a forced marriage, Jacobite conspirators in the cause of the Old Pretender, and the "feeling" of Border life in the years following the establishment of Great Britain in the early years of the 18th century. After a slow start, the pace picks up when Scott introduces the mysterious and unsightly person the folks in the neighborhood call the Black Dwarf, a misanthrope whose history is a mystery but who keeps appearing at every turn. At the end of the novel, one realizes that it has largely been the tale of three women--a woman already dead when the story opens, her daughter, and a commoner who is abducted and nearly sold into slavery, all of whom are affected by the Black Dwarf in one way or another. It is not a feminist novel by any means, but it gives a glimpse of female life in a time when dowry and property--and revenge--were (nearly) everything. The various threads of the story all come together in the final chapters when various unexplained elements are finally resolved. Sir Walter himself wrote a harsh, anonymous critique of the work, but my only criticism would be that not enough foreshadowing was provided to set the reader up to accept several twists in the plot. Instead of one development growing out of another, the complications seem to happen randomly, leaving the reader wondering, "Did I miss something?" It would have been helpful, for example, to have been made aware of the beautiful tomb in the chapel before the end when it becomes key to the story's resolution. However, I enjoyed the novel and very much like the way Scott fleshed out the truth of I Samuel 16:7: "The Lord does not look at the things people look at, but the Lord looks at the heart."
January 24, 2015
Sir Walter Scott released an anonymous review of his novel, The Black Dwarf, in which he was very critical, especially with the ending. (I wasn't able to find a copy of the review, so I haven't read it, but it is described in the Wikipedia entry for the novel.) I had some problems with the way the story wrapped up, but it was the beginning that gave me the most trouble. It took me awhile to get used to Scott's writing. There are a few reasons for this, which have more to do with my reading than the writing.
1. It’s 19th Century literature and it always takes me awhile to get used to classics after a period of reading modern works.
2. Some of the characters have Scottish accents, which I had to handle by reading out loud and ignoring some unfamiliar words. Here’s an example:
“Hout awa, man,” answered the farmer, “ye'll hae heard o' Canny Elshie the Black Dwarf, or I am muckle mistaen – A' the warld tells tales about him, but it's but daft nonsense after a' – I dinna believe a word o't frae beginning to end.”
3. I was expecting the dwarf to appear earlier than he did. Instead he was discussed in conversations before he showed up.
Two things kept me reading. First of all, my daughter, who loves 19th Century literature, said this was her favorite Sir Walter Scott novel. Secondly, one of the reviews I read said another reader had trouble getting into the story, but like it once he did. I’m glad I kept going.
The plot is about a dwarf who was betrayed by the few people he trusted. Because he feels people have let him down, he decides to escape to the forest to become a hermit. The villagers who live near this man believe him to be a demon with supernatural powers, but the animals in the forest treat him as they would treat any other human. He finds solace in the animals and just wants the people to leave him alone. Of course, that doesn’t happen. Throughout the story Scott contrasts compassionate people with others who are manipulative and selfish in ways that bring home the points he was trying to make.
I thought Scott hit the readers a little too hard at times and I also didn't like the way the story wrapped up a bit too perfectly. But I loved the idea of a man who decided to escape from humanity and find peace through a natural, solitary life.
Steve Lindahl - author of Motherless Soul and White Horse Regressions
1. It’s 19th Century literature and it always takes me awhile to get used to classics after a period of reading modern works.
2. Some of the characters have Scottish accents, which I had to handle by reading out loud and ignoring some unfamiliar words. Here’s an example:
“Hout awa, man,” answered the farmer, “ye'll hae heard o' Canny Elshie the Black Dwarf, or I am muckle mistaen – A' the warld tells tales about him, but it's but daft nonsense after a' – I dinna believe a word o't frae beginning to end.”
3. I was expecting the dwarf to appear earlier than he did. Instead he was discussed in conversations before he showed up.
Two things kept me reading. First of all, my daughter, who loves 19th Century literature, said this was her favorite Sir Walter Scott novel. Secondly, one of the reviews I read said another reader had trouble getting into the story, but like it once he did. I’m glad I kept going.
The plot is about a dwarf who was betrayed by the few people he trusted. Because he feels people have let him down, he decides to escape to the forest to become a hermit. The villagers who live near this man believe him to be a demon with supernatural powers, but the animals in the forest treat him as they would treat any other human. He finds solace in the animals and just wants the people to leave him alone. Of course, that doesn’t happen. Throughout the story Scott contrasts compassionate people with others who are manipulative and selfish in ways that bring home the points he was trying to make.
I thought Scott hit the readers a little too hard at times and I also didn't like the way the story wrapped up a bit too perfectly. But I loved the idea of a man who decided to escape from humanity and find peace through a natural, solitary life.
Steve Lindahl - author of Motherless Soul and White Horse Regressions
July 11, 2018
Sir Walter Scott so well portrays the broken spirit and eventual misanthropy of a man who has been persecuted by the general public and cast aside by society as a whole. A fair amount of scotch dialect, as one would expect from Scott. Beautiful story in a similar theme as The Hunchback of Norte Dame. Also, a strong argument for the practice of mutual aid.
August 14, 2014
"The Black Dwarf" is a novel by Sir Walter Scott published in December 1816 by William Blackwood, Edinburgh, and John Murray, London. It was part of his Tales of My Landlord series, the first in the series which was originally intended to comprise four volumes, each volume containing a separate story set in a different region of Scotland: the Borders, the Southwest, the Highlands, and Fife. However because of the length of the second novel Old Mortality only two of the volumes were written, Old Mortality came to occupy three of volumes. Here we go with the first of the stories The Black Dwarf.
I found it very interesting that the main character in our novel is based on David Ritchie, whom Scott met in the autumn of 1797. Ritchie was born at the nearby town of Stobo, he was known also as David of Manor Water, Bow'd Davie, Crooked David & of course The Black Dwarf. He was the son of a labourer in the slate-quarries and is believed to have been born in his misshapen form, though he sometimes imputed it to physical abuse when a child. Tired of being the object of laughter and derision, David Ritchie resolved to retreat to some wilderness, where he might have the least possible communication with the world. He lived in a cottage on the banks of Manor Water near Peebles, Scotland. The cottage which he built was extremely small, but the walls, as well as those of a little garden that surrounded it were composed of layers of large stones and turf; and some of the stones were so weighty, they puzzled the spectators how such a person as the dwarf could possibly have lifted them. Scott says:
"His skull," says this authority, "which was of an oblong and rather unusual shape, was said to be of such strength, that he could strike it with ease through the panel of a door, or the end of a barrel. His laugh is said to have been quite horrible; and his screech-owl voice, shrill, uncouth, and dissonant, corresponded well with his other peculiarities."
"The author has invested Wise Elshie with some qualities which made him appear, in the eyes of the vulgar, a man possessed of supernatural power. Common fame paid David Ritchie a similar compliment, for some of the poor and ignorant, as well as all the children, in the neighbourhood, held him to be what is called uncanny. He himself did not altogether discourage the idea; it enlarged his very limited circle of power, and in so far gratified his conceit; and it soothed his misanthropy, by increasing his means of giving terror or pain. But even in a rude Scottish glen thirty years back, the fear of sorcery was very much out of date".
Moving on to the story, I will say that while I did eventually start enjoying the story it certainly took me awhile to get to that enjoyment. The book begins with an introduction written by Jedediah Cleishbotham, a character whom Scott had invented as a fictional editor of the series. We are told that these stories are collected and reported by Jedediah Cleishbotham, schoolmaster and parish-clerk of Gandercleugh. Just the first line of the introduction makes my head begin to ache:
"As I may, without vanity, presume that the name and official description prefixed to this Proem will secure it, from the sedate and reflecting part of mankind, to whom only I would be understood to address myself, such attention as is due to the sedulous instructor of youth, and the careful performer of my Sabbath duties, I will forbear to hold up a candle to the daylight, or to point out to the judicious those recommendations of my labours which they must necessarily anticipate from the perusal of the title-page."
To my mind this sentence is so very wordy and said in such a way I found hard to understand. I had to read just the first sentence twice and we're not even at the story yet. We are told, after a lot of other things, that Mr. Cleishbotham had been a teacher for a young man named Peter or Patrick Pattieson,
"who delighted in the collection of olden tales and legends, and in garnishing them with the flowers of poesy, whereof he was a vain and frivolous professor. For he followed not the example of those strong poets whom I proposed to him as a pattern, but formed versification of a flimsy and modern texture, to the compounding whereof was necessary small pains and less thought."
When Mr. Pattieson dies as a young man Mr. Cleishbotham takes his papers he had written over the years, arranges them, and publishes them. It is these stories we are now about to read, the first of these collected stories; "The Black Dwarf".
Now on to what really was annoying to me, the Scotch dialect. Almost any character in the book who speaks talks this dialect, and that means that almost any time any character in the book speaks there is a very good chance I have no idea what they just said. Here are some examples:
"he'll be unco busy amang the morts this season"
"Your father believed it unco stievely, though"
" and the bonny broomy knowe, where he liked sae weel to sit at e'en, wi' his plaid about him, and look at the kye as they cam down the loaning, ill wad he hae liked to hae seen that braw sunny knowe a' riven out wi' the pleugh in the fashion it is at this day."
"but ye ken we maun hae turnips for the lang sheep, billie, and muckle hard wark to get them, baith wi' the pleugh and the howe; and that wad sort ill wi' sitting on the broomy knowe, and cracking about Black Dwarfs, and siccan clavers, as was the gate lang syne, when the short sheep were in the fashion."
"The carline, she sits in the neuk yonder, upbye"
Are you getting the idea? That's just the first two chapters. As to the story itself, we have a dwarf (no kidding) that most everyone in the novel is afraid of, they think he has special powers given to him by the devil. He never bothers to confirm or deny this, he just wants to be left alone by all humans. There is a reason for his hatred besides that of how he's been treated all these years, we find the reason toward the end of the novel, but you'll have to find that all by yourself. We have Hobbie Elliot and the woman he loves and wants to marry, also Patrick Earnscliff and the woman he loves and wants to marry; Mr. Vere, the father of one of the women, Sir Frederick Langley, another suitor for Vere's daughter, among others. The story is interesting, there is a kidnapping, burning of houses, lots of people fighting with lots of other people for no reason, raids and wars just for fun as far as I could tell. I liked the story, I liked the dwarf, maybe because I felt sorry for him especially after the story of his youth is told and I and never thought he was as hateful as others thought him.
At the beginning of each chapter there is a small quote a line or two of poetry. This one interested me:
"Three ruffians seized me yester morn,
Alas! a maiden most forlorn;
They choked my cries with wicked might,
And bound me on a palfrey white:
As sure as Heaven shall pity me,
I cannot tell what men they be."
—CHRISTABELLE.
I kept wondering how, if ruffians kidnapped that maiden, choked her cries, bound her on a horse and she has no idea where they are going or who these men are, when did she find the time to compose and write a poem? :-} As I said, I liked the story but don't ask me what the characters were saying, I hope it wasn't important. :-}
I found it very interesting that the main character in our novel is based on David Ritchie, whom Scott met in the autumn of 1797. Ritchie was born at the nearby town of Stobo, he was known also as David of Manor Water, Bow'd Davie, Crooked David & of course The Black Dwarf. He was the son of a labourer in the slate-quarries and is believed to have been born in his misshapen form, though he sometimes imputed it to physical abuse when a child. Tired of being the object of laughter and derision, David Ritchie resolved to retreat to some wilderness, where he might have the least possible communication with the world. He lived in a cottage on the banks of Manor Water near Peebles, Scotland. The cottage which he built was extremely small, but the walls, as well as those of a little garden that surrounded it were composed of layers of large stones and turf; and some of the stones were so weighty, they puzzled the spectators how such a person as the dwarf could possibly have lifted them. Scott says:
"His skull," says this authority, "which was of an oblong and rather unusual shape, was said to be of such strength, that he could strike it with ease through the panel of a door, or the end of a barrel. His laugh is said to have been quite horrible; and his screech-owl voice, shrill, uncouth, and dissonant, corresponded well with his other peculiarities."
"The author has invested Wise Elshie with some qualities which made him appear, in the eyes of the vulgar, a man possessed of supernatural power. Common fame paid David Ritchie a similar compliment, for some of the poor and ignorant, as well as all the children, in the neighbourhood, held him to be what is called uncanny. He himself did not altogether discourage the idea; it enlarged his very limited circle of power, and in so far gratified his conceit; and it soothed his misanthropy, by increasing his means of giving terror or pain. But even in a rude Scottish glen thirty years back, the fear of sorcery was very much out of date".
Moving on to the story, I will say that while I did eventually start enjoying the story it certainly took me awhile to get to that enjoyment. The book begins with an introduction written by Jedediah Cleishbotham, a character whom Scott had invented as a fictional editor of the series. We are told that these stories are collected and reported by Jedediah Cleishbotham, schoolmaster and parish-clerk of Gandercleugh. Just the first line of the introduction makes my head begin to ache:
"As I may, without vanity, presume that the name and official description prefixed to this Proem will secure it, from the sedate and reflecting part of mankind, to whom only I would be understood to address myself, such attention as is due to the sedulous instructor of youth, and the careful performer of my Sabbath duties, I will forbear to hold up a candle to the daylight, or to point out to the judicious those recommendations of my labours which they must necessarily anticipate from the perusal of the title-page."
To my mind this sentence is so very wordy and said in such a way I found hard to understand. I had to read just the first sentence twice and we're not even at the story yet. We are told, after a lot of other things, that Mr. Cleishbotham had been a teacher for a young man named Peter or Patrick Pattieson,
"who delighted in the collection of olden tales and legends, and in garnishing them with the flowers of poesy, whereof he was a vain and frivolous professor. For he followed not the example of those strong poets whom I proposed to him as a pattern, but formed versification of a flimsy and modern texture, to the compounding whereof was necessary small pains and less thought."
When Mr. Pattieson dies as a young man Mr. Cleishbotham takes his papers he had written over the years, arranges them, and publishes them. It is these stories we are now about to read, the first of these collected stories; "The Black Dwarf".
Now on to what really was annoying to me, the Scotch dialect. Almost any character in the book who speaks talks this dialect, and that means that almost any time any character in the book speaks there is a very good chance I have no idea what they just said. Here are some examples:
"he'll be unco busy amang the morts this season"
"Your father believed it unco stievely, though"
" and the bonny broomy knowe, where he liked sae weel to sit at e'en, wi' his plaid about him, and look at the kye as they cam down the loaning, ill wad he hae liked to hae seen that braw sunny knowe a' riven out wi' the pleugh in the fashion it is at this day."
"but ye ken we maun hae turnips for the lang sheep, billie, and muckle hard wark to get them, baith wi' the pleugh and the howe; and that wad sort ill wi' sitting on the broomy knowe, and cracking about Black Dwarfs, and siccan clavers, as was the gate lang syne, when the short sheep were in the fashion."
"The carline, she sits in the neuk yonder, upbye"
Are you getting the idea? That's just the first two chapters. As to the story itself, we have a dwarf (no kidding) that most everyone in the novel is afraid of, they think he has special powers given to him by the devil. He never bothers to confirm or deny this, he just wants to be left alone by all humans. There is a reason for his hatred besides that of how he's been treated all these years, we find the reason toward the end of the novel, but you'll have to find that all by yourself. We have Hobbie Elliot and the woman he loves and wants to marry, also Patrick Earnscliff and the woman he loves and wants to marry; Mr. Vere, the father of one of the women, Sir Frederick Langley, another suitor for Vere's daughter, among others. The story is interesting, there is a kidnapping, burning of houses, lots of people fighting with lots of other people for no reason, raids and wars just for fun as far as I could tell. I liked the story, I liked the dwarf, maybe because I felt sorry for him especially after the story of his youth is told and I and never thought he was as hateful as others thought him.
At the beginning of each chapter there is a small quote a line or two of poetry. This one interested me:
"Three ruffians seized me yester morn,
Alas! a maiden most forlorn;
They choked my cries with wicked might,
And bound me on a palfrey white:
As sure as Heaven shall pity me,
I cannot tell what men they be."
—CHRISTABELLE.
I kept wondering how, if ruffians kidnapped that maiden, choked her cries, bound her on a horse and she has no idea where they are going or who these men are, when did she find the time to compose and write a poem? :-} As I said, I liked the story but don't ask me what the characters were saying, I hope it wasn't important. :-}
May 11, 2017
Not the strongest of the author's works, but still very much worth reading. The plot is really very good, but the telling is difficult to follow. Perhaps a little more time and some rewriting would have taken this book from good to great. The feel of life on the borderlands in this time period comes through, but the most interesting aspect of the book is the use of a marginalized character to play a key role in the plot, as was the case in his previous novels. A good screenwriter could make a grand movie based on this book, and Peter Dinklage would be fantastic in the title role.
February 2, 2015
Its ending was seriously wanting, and the author's attempt to imitate a Scottish brogue made it almost impossible to read.
March 1, 2022
Scott's The Black Dwarf (first published, 1816), as is usual with Scott, brings together a cast of interesting and contrasted characters. While I expect this is not remembered as one of Scott's best novels, it is worth reading. I was a bit startled as I realized that the plot was winding down about halfway through the book. I then realized that I’d picked up a university edition with half of the book occupied by scholarly notes and papers by English lit Scott specialists discussion variations between different editions of the The Black Dwarf. Oh well... I am rarely drawn to such material...
May 31, 2024
It's short and the plot was okay but it came across as a long~short story. It's my first Walter Scott work and I have no doubt he's done better, just have to get round to reading more.
May 14, 2013
A small, dark mysterious figure is sighted amongst the gloaming on a winter's eve on Mucklestane Moor assembling a makeshift dwelling from the rocks and rubble.
The moor is said to be haunted by an old hag and her gaggle of geese turned to stone, or as one of the locals puts it, "they do say there's a sort o' worricows and lang-nebbit things about the land".
Elshender the Recluse is the frightful figure mistaken for the legendary Brown Man, a supernatural figure whose past appearances have always coincided with Jacobite uprisings.
He is a swarthy dwarf and becomes a hostile, misanthropic presence for any who approach him, but also something of a herbalist and soothsayer who gains the nickname "Canny Elsie".
Family feuds, political intrigue and insurrection, enforced marriages, a suggestion of the supernatural added to the stew, with great meaty dollops of Scotch dialect divvied up throughout - all the classic ingredients for a Waverley novel are present and correct in an early, uncharacteristically slim volume from Scott.
Though short, three quarters of the way through I thought that The Black Dwarf's brevity (sic) was proving to be something of a strength as most of Scott's stories tend to become bogged down in overblown romantic rhetoric, but not this one.
Come the resolution, however, Scott completely dropped the ball and all the tensions were resolved in the lamest possible way.
The Black Dwarf ended a little short of a good finish.
The moor is said to be haunted by an old hag and her gaggle of geese turned to stone, or as one of the locals puts it, "they do say there's a sort o' worricows and lang-nebbit things about the land".
Elshender the Recluse is the frightful figure mistaken for the legendary Brown Man, a supernatural figure whose past appearances have always coincided with Jacobite uprisings.
He is a swarthy dwarf and becomes a hostile, misanthropic presence for any who approach him, but also something of a herbalist and soothsayer who gains the nickname "Canny Elsie".
Family feuds, political intrigue and insurrection, enforced marriages, a suggestion of the supernatural added to the stew, with great meaty dollops of Scotch dialect divvied up throughout - all the classic ingredients for a Waverley novel are present and correct in an early, uncharacteristically slim volume from Scott.
Though short, three quarters of the way through I thought that The Black Dwarf's brevity (sic) was proving to be something of a strength as most of Scott's stories tend to become bogged down in overblown romantic rhetoric, but not this one.
Come the resolution, however, Scott completely dropped the ball and all the tensions were resolved in the lamest possible way.
The Black Dwarf ended a little short of a good finish.
March 27, 2014
Never having read any Walter Scott, I chose this one for its resonant and non-PC title. I thought it would be a plod, and it is certainly slow to get under way. But as I became acclimatised to the style and the dialect, the book began to grip me. It's high melodrama and the structure is uneasy to this reader, nearly 200 years after publication. However, there are psychological truths in much of the human behaviour; the background of a campaign for Scottish independence chimes with today; and in the end I found it a compelling book and read the last quarter in one session.
On the strength of this, would I read or recommend Walter Scott? Definitely. Well worth overcoming the unfamiliarities that a 200-year gap creates.
On the strength of this, would I read or recommend Walter Scott? Definitely. Well worth overcoming the unfamiliarities that a 200-year gap creates.
Read
May 17, 2017By far the shortest of all the Waverley novels, Scott himself thought little of this work, which he claims to have 'bungled up' a conclusion for in order to dispense with it. Set in the early eighteenth century, just after the union of Scotland and England, it tells of the encounters of a group of characters with the mysterious title character, one Edward Mauley, who is a hermit. In its few pages, it nonetheless presents a complex tale of love, revenge, betrayal, Jacobite schemes and a threatened forced marriage. One of the most scathing reviews it received at the time of its publication was supposedly written by Scott himself. Not as bad as the above suggests.
July 19, 2014
Terrible book. Poor plot, abysmal characterisation, no sense of why he was writing this at all. It doesn't hang together and is implausible in the extreme. I don't mind hokum if it's well written. This isn't.
February 3, 2011
Not very good. Hard to follow what was going on, and not much really happened anyway. Good thing it was short.
March 20, 2017
Short story but a good one. A kind of a fairy tale.
November 6, 2019
A perfect October read because it's just the right amount of creepy. This is one of his shorter novels so it was a quick and fun.
March 7, 2021
I have become a Sir Walter Scott superfan. Wasn't expecting to.
I can stipulate that the novels of Sir Walter Scott contain problematic language and attitudes. The intolerance we see toward Roma folk, autistic people, and Jews (the first two in Guy Mannering, the last in Ivanhoe) and the insensitive language used to describe many types of people is jarring to modern sensibilities. In this novel, which even has a coarse title, Elshie, the titular character, is regarded as horrifying and frightening because of his appearance. But despite the intolerance and casual cruelty displayed in the stories as part of cultural norms, the author never seems to join in. The authorial voice behind the narrator feels much more progressive than the characters he invented, so much so that it one could argue that his novels are an exercise in humanizing those who had been marginalized in our thoughts. This is somewhat true of the Jewish characters in Ivanhoe, but even more so with the Roma woman and the autistic scholar in Guy Mannering, the incredible character of the beggar in The Antiquary, and the little person in The Black Dwarf. In each case, Scott has created a character that is not just sympathetic but memorable and even inspiring. None of them are wholly good, but all of them are so well drawn that their personalities exceed the limits placed on them by their condition or ethnicity.
Elshie (who I couldn't help but picture as Peter Dinklage) isn't a nice man and is deservedly called a misanthrope. Over the course of this short novel we discover the cause of it, but that isn't what makes him sympathetic. It's his capacity for altruism in spite of his personal feelings that makes him exceptional. He's complex and interesting and a real person--not the monster or sorcerer or brute that his neighbors think him.
In the introduction, the author admits that he planned a longer novel but was convinced by a friend that his readers would not be interested in such a character. That's a shame. It's an outstanding novel anyway (IMO) but could have been nearer his usual length. Never mind the fact that there are a number of interesting and complex characters in the novel; Elshie was a worthy protagonist and could have sustained a fuller narrative.
Oh, well. What we have is exceptional.
Recommended (for readers of classic adventure novels, anyway).
I can stipulate that the novels of Sir Walter Scott contain problematic language and attitudes. The intolerance we see toward Roma folk, autistic people, and Jews (the first two in Guy Mannering, the last in Ivanhoe) and the insensitive language used to describe many types of people is jarring to modern sensibilities. In this novel, which even has a coarse title, Elshie, the titular character, is regarded as horrifying and frightening because of his appearance. But despite the intolerance and casual cruelty displayed in the stories as part of cultural norms, the author never seems to join in. The authorial voice behind the narrator feels much more progressive than the characters he invented, so much so that it one could argue that his novels are an exercise in humanizing those who had been marginalized in our thoughts. This is somewhat true of the Jewish characters in Ivanhoe, but even more so with the Roma woman and the autistic scholar in Guy Mannering, the incredible character of the beggar in The Antiquary, and the little person in The Black Dwarf. In each case, Scott has created a character that is not just sympathetic but memorable and even inspiring. None of them are wholly good, but all of them are so well drawn that their personalities exceed the limits placed on them by their condition or ethnicity.
Elshie (who I couldn't help but picture as Peter Dinklage) isn't a nice man and is deservedly called a misanthrope. Over the course of this short novel we discover the cause of it, but that isn't what makes him sympathetic. It's his capacity for altruism in spite of his personal feelings that makes him exceptional. He's complex and interesting and a real person--not the monster or sorcerer or brute that his neighbors think him.
In the introduction, the author admits that he planned a longer novel but was convinced by a friend that his readers would not be interested in such a character. That's a shame. It's an outstanding novel anyway (IMO) but could have been nearer his usual length. Never mind the fact that there are a number of interesting and complex characters in the novel; Elshie was a worthy protagonist and could have sustained a fuller narrative.
Oh, well. What we have is exceptional.
Recommended (for readers of classic adventure novels, anyway).
December 13, 2020
Классная история, с элементами мистики. Хороший сюжет: таинственный карлик, молодой лэрд, веселый фермер и несчастная наследница, которую хочет выдать замуж эгоистичный отец. Но не хватило глубины и предистории характерам. По якобитам прошлись вскользь, из главных героев мы знаем что-то об Эллиоте и о карлике, и то из речей одного из героев. Кажется, Скотт немного поторопился с выпуском романа. Ассоциация со штамповкой Дарьи Донцовой с поправкой на 19 век.
Тем не менее, читается быстро и интересно.
Тем не менее, читается быстро и интересно.
Read
December 27, 2020Well done, with just a bit of romantic flourish in excess of strict adherence to reality. The principal touch of reality are the real locations of Westburnflat and Castleton, located by the Liddel water 5 miles above where it serves the west end of the England-Scotland border. ~N 55.19594 W 2.79091, the forking of Liddel Water and Hermitage Water, ~2 miles above modern Newcastleton. Most of the story takes place north of Westburnflat.
February 20, 2025
This was my first Sir Walter Scott, and I really enjoyed the story. Reminded me of Alexander Dumas and his adventurous plots, damsels in distress and heroes that save the day. The jargon was a but much in the beginning but luckily it was only a few characters that spoke with such strong dialects. It mellowed out and I didn’t have to focus so much. I will try another book of his when I feel the need for an adventure.
September 26, 2023
Scott is always difficult for me to get through sometimes. But as always his settings are described wonderfully and the main characters are built with immense detail. I struggled a lot with the names in this book and sometimes couldn’t remember who was who. Nothing of a great deal happened but I found the messages within to be relevant and deep.
April 7, 2018
UKUPNA OCENA ★★★ 3
- Radnja ★★★
- Okruženje ★★★✫
- Pripovedanje ★★★
- Likovi ★★★
UTISAK - kratka istorijska fikcija sa primesama romanse u klasičnom piščevom stilu, zasnovana na legendi o crnom patuljku.
- Radnja ★★★
- Okruženje ★★★✫
- Pripovedanje ★★★
- Likovi ★★★
UTISAK - kratka istorijska fikcija sa primesama romanse u klasičnom piščevom stilu, zasnovana na legendi o crnom patuljku.
December 6, 2023
I loved this book! An excellently told story that ties up all the loose ends. The Scottish brogue slowed me down at first, but after a few chapters, my brain adapted, and I didn't have any more trouble.
September 29, 2017
Really enjoyed this yarn.
July 19, 2018
Brush up on your Scots before attempting to read this work. I would estimate that from a fourth to a third of it is written in that dialect.
September 11, 2022
Elshie the recluse of Mucklestane Moor.
September 18, 2024
I thought it was ok.
November 23, 2012
I am re-reading all Scott’s novels in chronological order and now I have got to his fourth, I can see what a disappointment it was compared to the previous three. It is by no means a complete stinker, though. The eponymous dwarf is well done, and there are all the kind of things one looks for and enjoys in Scott: Jacobite plots, damsels in distress, gallant gentlemen galloping to the rescue, Scotch mist, Gothicisms a-plenty, etc etc. So why is it so inferior to its predecessors?
Scott had a number of tiresome features which in many cases got worse as he went on and indulged them even more. One is that he seems to take forever to get going…here we have the Introduction by the supposed collator of the tales, the not-very-funny joke schoolmaster Jedediah Cleishbotham, followed by the real Introduction, followed by the first chapter, entitled “Preliminary.” Get on with it, man! And it isn’t long before we are treated to huge indigestible gobbets of dialect – that other Scotticism which is fun in reasonable doses but, when overdone, is like trying to swallow down a bucketful of cold porridge. Usually, once Scott gets into his stride we get a splendid yarn and a deeply satisfying ending. Here, it feels rushed and in need of better editing. One suspects Scott just couldn’t write a really good short novel – he needs space to expand and fill the tale.
I like that the misanthropic midget is treated as a thoroughly miserable and anti-social recluse and yet also given remarkably sympathetic treatment by the author (if not by many of the other characters in the novel). Scott, as so often, is great at putting marginalised characters centre stage and showing a profoundly noble sympathy for them. It’s just a pity he makes the dwarf (slight spoiler) a secret toff. The real dwarf was no such thing, but perhaps Scott felt it would be stretching the sympathy of his readers a little too far if he made his central character both incredibly ugly and a plebeian as well.
Scott had a number of tiresome features which in many cases got worse as he went on and indulged them even more. One is that he seems to take forever to get going…here we have the Introduction by the supposed collator of the tales, the not-very-funny joke schoolmaster Jedediah Cleishbotham, followed by the real Introduction, followed by the first chapter, entitled “Preliminary.” Get on with it, man! And it isn’t long before we are treated to huge indigestible gobbets of dialect – that other Scotticism which is fun in reasonable doses but, when overdone, is like trying to swallow down a bucketful of cold porridge. Usually, once Scott gets into his stride we get a splendid yarn and a deeply satisfying ending. Here, it feels rushed and in need of better editing. One suspects Scott just couldn’t write a really good short novel – he needs space to expand and fill the tale.
I like that the misanthropic midget is treated as a thoroughly miserable and anti-social recluse and yet also given remarkably sympathetic treatment by the author (if not by many of the other characters in the novel). Scott, as so often, is great at putting marginalised characters centre stage and showing a profoundly noble sympathy for them. It’s just a pity he makes the dwarf (slight spoiler) a secret toff. The real dwarf was no such thing, but perhaps Scott felt it would be stretching the sympathy of his readers a little too far if he made his central character both incredibly ugly and a plebeian as well.
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