Tag: history
African American Folklore, Magical Realism and Horror in Toni Morrison novels
Source: African American Folklore, Magical Realism and Horror in Toni Morrison novels
The Saturday Night Special: “Sredni Vashtar” by Saki (1911)
Conradin was ten years old, and the doctor had pronounced his professional opinion that the boy would not live another five years. The doctor was silky and effete, and counted for little, but his opinion was endorsed by Mrs. De Ropp, who
(Hector Hugh Munro)
1870-1916
counted for nearly everything. Mrs. De Ropp was Conradin’s cousin and guardian, and in his eyes she represented those three-fifths of the world that are necessary and disagreeable and real; the other two-fifths, in perpetual antagonism to the foregoing, were summed up in himself and his imagination. One of these days Conradin supposed he would succumb to the mastering pressure of wearisome necessary things—such as illnesses and coddling restrictions and drawn-out dullness. Without his imagination, which was rampant under the spur of loneliness, he would have succumbed long ago.
Mrs. De Ropp would never, in her honestest moments, have confessed to herself that she disliked Conradin, though she might have been dimly aware that thwarting him “for his good” was a duty which she did not find particularly irksome. Conradin hated her with a desperate sincerity which he was perfectly able to mask. Such few pleasures as he could contrive for himself gained an added relish from the likelihood that they would be displeasing to his guardian, and from the realm of his imagination she was locked out—an unclean thing, which should find no entrance.
In the dull, cheerless garden, overlooked by so many windows that were ready to open with a message not to do this or that, or a reminder that medicines were due, he found little attraction. The few fruit-trees that it contained were set jealously apart from his plucking, as though they were rare specimens of their kind blooming in an arid waste; it would probably have been difficult to find a market-gardener who would have offered ten shillings for their entire yearly produce. In a forgotten corner, however, almost hidden behind a dismal shrubbery, was a disused tool-shed of respectable proportions, and within its walls Conradin found a haven, something that took on the varying aspects of a playroom and a cathedral. He had peopled it with a legion of familiar phantoms, evoked partly from fragments of history and partly from his own brain, but it also boasted two inmates of flesh and blood. In one corner lived a ragged-
plumaged Houdan hen, on which the boy lavished an affection that had scarcely another outlet. Further back in the gloom stood a large hutch, divided into two compartments, one of which was fronted with close iron bars. This was the abode of a large polecat-ferret, which a friendly butcher-boy had once smuggled, cage and all, into its present quarters, in exchange for a long-secreted hoard of small silver. Conradin was dreadfully afraid of the lithe, sharp-fanged beast, but it was his most treasured possession. Its very presence in the tool-shed was a secret and fearful joy, to be kept scrupulously from the knowledge of the Woman, as he privately dubbed his cousin. And one day, out of Heaven knows what material, he spun the beast a wonderful name, and from that moment it grew into a god and a religion. The Woman indulged in religion once a week at a church near by, and took Conradin with her, but to him the church service was an alien rite in the House of Rimmon. Every Thursday, in the dim and musty silence of the tool-shed, he worshipped with mystic and elaborate ceremonial before the wooden hutch where dwelt Sredni Vashtar, the great
ferret. Red flowers in their season and scarlet berries in the winter-time were offered at his shrine, for he was a god who laid some special stress on the fierce impatient side of things, as opposed to the Woman’s religion, which, as far as Conradin could observe, went to great lengths in the contrary direction. And on great festivals powdered nutmeg was strewn in front of his hutch, an important feature of the offering being that the nutmeg had to be stolen. These festivals were of irregular occurrence, and were chiefly appointed to celebrate some passing event. On one occasion, when Mrs. De Ropp suffered from acute toothache for three days, Conradin kept up the festival during the entire three days, and almost succeeded in persuading himself that Sredni Vashtar was personally responsible for the toothache. If the malady had lasted for another day the supply of nutmeg would have given out.
The Houdan hen was never drawn into the cult of Sredni Vashtar. Conradin had long ago settled that she was an Anabaptist. He did not pretend to have the remotest knowledge as to what an Anabaptist was, but he privately hoped that it was dashing and not very respectable. Mrs. De Ropp was the ground plan on which he based and detested all respectability.
After a while Conradin’s absorption in the tool-shed began to attract the notice of his guardian. “It is not good for him to be pottering down there in all weathers,” she promptly decided, and at breakfast one morning she announced that the Houdan hen had been sold and taken away overnight. With her short-sighted eyes she peered at Conradin, waiting for an outbreak of rage and sorrow, which she was ready to rebuke with a flow of excellent precepts and reasoning. But Conradin said nothing: there was nothing to be said. Something perhaps in his white set face gave her a momentary qualm, for at tea that afternoon there was toast on the table, a delicacy which she usually banned on the ground that it was bad for him; also because the making of it “gave trouble,” a deadly offence in the middle-class feminine eye.
“I thought you liked toast,” she exclaimed, with an injured air, observing that he did not touch it.
“Sometimes,” said Conradin.
In the shed that evening there was an innovation in the worship of the hutch-god. Conradin had been wont to chant his praises, tonight be asked a boon.
“Do one thing for me, Sredni Vashtar.”
The thing was not specified. As Sredni Vashtar was a god he must be supposed to know. And choking back a sob as he looked at that other empty comer, Conradin went back to the world he so hated.
And every night, in the welcome darkness of his bedroom, and every evening in the dusk of the tool-shed, Conradin’s bitter litany went up: “Do one thing for me, Sredni Vashtar.”
Mrs. De Ropp noticed that the visits to the shed did not cease, and one day she made a further journey of inspection.
“What are you keeping in that locked hutch?” she asked. “I believe it’s guinea-pigs. I’ll have them all cleared away.”
Conradin shut his lips tight, but the Woman ransacked his bedroom till she found the carefully hidden key, and forthwith marched down to the shed to complete her discovery. It was a cold afternoon, and Conradin had been bidden to keep to the house. From the furthest window of the dining-room the door of the shed could just be seen beyond the corner of the shrubbery, and there Conradin stationed himself. He saw the Woman enter, and then be imagined her opening the door of the sacred hutch and peering down with her short-sighted eyes into the thick straw bed where his god lay hidden. Perhaps she would prod at the straw in her clumsy impatience. And Conradin fervently breathed his prayer for the last time. But he knew as he prayed that he did not believe. He knew that the Woman would come out presently with that pursed smile he loathed so well on her face, and that in an hour or two the gardener would carry away his wonderful god, a god no longer, but a simple brown ferret in a hutch. And he knew that the Woman would triumph always as she triumphed now, and that he would grow ever more sickly under her pestering and domineering and superior wisdom, till one day nothing would matter much more with him, and the doctor would be proved right. And in the sting and misery of his defeat, he began to chant loudly and defiantly the hymn of his threatened idol:
Sredni Vashtar went forth,
His thoughts were red thoughts and his teeth were white,
His enemies called for peace, but he brought them death.
Sredni Vashtar the beautiful.
And then of a sudden he stopped his chanting and drew closer to the window-pane. The door of the shed still stood ajar as it had been left, and the minutes were slipping by. They were long minutes, but they slipped by nevertheless. He watched the starlings running and flying in little parties across the lawn; he counted them over and over again, with one eye always on that swinging door. A sour-faced maid came in to lay the table for tea, and still Conradin stood and waited and watched. Hope had crept by inches into his heart, and now a look of triumph began to blaze in his eyes that had only known the wistful patience of defeat. Under his breath, with a furtive exultation, he began once again the pæan of victory and devastation. And presently his eyes were rewarded: out through that doorway came a long, low, yellow-and-brown beast, with eyes a-blink at the waning daylight, and dark wet stains around the fur of jaws and throat. Conradin dropped on his knees. The great polecat-ferret made its way down to a small brook at the foot of the garden, drank for a moment, then crossed a little plank bridge and was lost to sight in the bushes. Such was the passing of Sredni Vashtar.
“Tea is ready,” said the sour-faced maid; “where is the mistress?” “She went down to the shed some time ago,” said Conradin. And while the maid went to summon her mistress to tea, Conradin fished a toasting-fork out of the sideboard drawer and proceeded to toast himself a piece of bread. And during the toasting of it and the buttering of it with much butter and the slow enjoyment of eating it, Conradin listened to the noises and silences which fell in quick spasms beyond the dining-room door. The loud foolish screaming of the maid, the answering chorus of wondering ejaculations from the kitchen region, the scuttering footsteps and hurried embassies for outside help, and then, after a lull, the scared sobbings and the shuffling tread of those who bore a heavy burden into the house.
“Whoever will break it to the poor child? I couldn’t for the life of me!” exclaimed a shrill voice. And while they debated the matter among themselves, Conradin made himself another piece of toast.
Beyond Castle Frankenstein – A Lump of Death
Mary Shelley, Queen of the Gothic Thriller (WIHM)
Portrait by Richard Rothwell
Real World Zombies
Source: Real World Zombies
Mark Justice 1959-2016
The Saturday Night Special: “The Inn” by Guy de Maupassant
Resembling in appearance all the wooden hostelries of the High Alps situated at the foot of glaciers in the barren rocky gorges that intersect the summits of the mountains, the Inn of Schwarenbach serves as a resting place for travellers crossing the Gemini Pass.
It remains open for six months in the year and is inhabited by the family of Jean Hauser; then, as soon as the snow begins to fall and to fill the valley so as to make the road down to Loeche impassable, the father and his three sons go away and leave the house in charge of the old guide, Gaspard Hari, with the young guide, Ulrich Kunsi, and Sam, the great mountain dog.
The two men and the dog remain till the spring in their snowy prison, with nothing before their eyes except the immense white slopes of the Balmhorn, surrounded by light, glistening summits, and are shut in, blocked up and buried by the snow which rises around them and which envelops, binds and crushes the little house, which lies piled on the roof, covering the windows and blocking up the door.
It was the day on which the Hauser family were going to return to Loeche, as winter was approaching, and the descent was becoming dangerous. Three mules started first, laden with baggage and led by the three sons. Then the mother, Jeanne Hauser, and her daughter Louise mounted a fourth mule and set off in their turn and the father followed them, accompanied by the two men in charge, who were to escort the family as far as the brow of the descent. First of all they passed round the small lake, which was now frozen over, at the bottom of the mass of rocks which stretched in front of the inn, and then they followed the valley, which was dominated on all sides by the snow-covered summits.
A ray of sunlight fell into that little white, glistening, frozen desert and illuminated it with a cold and dazzling flame. No living thing appeared among this ocean of mountains. There was no motion in this immeasurable solitude and no noise disturbed the profound silence.
By degrees the young guide, Ulrich Kunsi, a tall, long-legged Swiss, left old man Hauser and old Gaspard behind, in order to catch up the mule which bore the two women. The younger one looked at him as he approached and appeared to be calling him with her sad eyes. She was a young, fairhaired little peasant girl, whose milk-white cheeks and pale hair looked as if they had lost their color by their long abode amid the ice. When he had got up to the animal she was riding he put his hand on the crupper and relaxed his speed. Mother Hauser began to talk to him, enumerating with the minutest details all that he would have to attend to during the winter. It was the first time that he was going to stay up there, while old Hari had already spent fourteen winters amid the snow, at the inn of Schwarenbach.
Ulrich Kunsi listened, without appearing to understand and looked incessantly at the girl. From time to time he replied: “Yes, Madame Hauser,” but his thoughts seemed far away and his calm features remained unmoved.
They reached Lake Daube, whose broad, frozen surface extended to the end of the valley. On the right one saw the black, pointed, rocky summits of the Daubenhorn beside the enormous moraines of the Lommern glacier, above which rose the Wildstrubel. As they approached the Gemmi pass, where the descent of Loeche begins, they suddenly beheld the immense horizon of the Alps of the Valais, from which the broad, deep valley of the Rhone separated them.
In the distance there was a group of white, unequal, flat, or pointed mountain summits, which glistened in the sun; the Mischabel with its two peaks, the huge group of the Weisshorn, the heavy Brunegghorn, the lofty and formidable pyramid of Mount Cervin, that slayer of men, and the Dent- Blanche, that monstrous coquette.
Then beneath them, in a tremendous hole, at the bottom of a terrific abyss, they perceived Loeche, where houses looked as grains of sand which had been thrown into that enormous crevice that is ended and closed by the Gemmi and which opens, down below, on the Rhone.
The mule stopped at the edge of the path, which winds and turns continually, doubling backward, then, fantastically and strangely, along the side of the mountain as far as the almost invisible little village at its feet. The women jumped into the snow and the two old men joined them. “Well,” father Hauser said, “good-by, and keep up your spirits till next year, my friends,” and old Hari replied: “Till next year.”
They embraced each other and then Madame Hauser in her turn offered her cheek, and the girl did the same.
When Ulrich Kunsi’s turn came, he whispered in Louise’s ear, “Do not forget those up yonder,” and she replied, “No,” in such a low voice that he guessed what she had said without hearing it. “Well, adieu,” Jean Hauser repeated, “and don’t fall ill.” And going before the two women, he commenced the descent, and soon all three disappeared at the first turn in the road, while the two men returned to the inn at Schwarenbach.
They walked slowly, side by side, without speaking. It was over, and they would be alone together for four or five months. Then Gaspard Hari began to relate his life last winter. He had remained with Michael Canol, who was too old now to stand it, for an accident might happen during that long solitude. They had not been dull, however; the only thing was to make up one’s mind to it from the first, and in the end one would find plenty of distraction, games and other means of whiling away the time.
Ulrich Kunsi listened to him with his eyes on the ground, for in his thoughts he was following those who were descending to the village. They soon came in sight of the inn, which was, however, scarcely visible, so small did it look, a black speck at the foot of that enormous billow of snow, and when they opened the door Sam, the great curly dog, began to romp round them.
“Come, my boy,” old Gaspard said, “we have no women now, so we must get our own dinner ready. Go and peel the potatoes.” And they both sat down on wooden stools and began to prepare the
The next morning seemed very long to Kunsi. Old Hari smoked and spat on the hearth, while the young man looked out of the window at the snow- covered mountain opposite the house.
In the afternoon he went out, and going over yesterday’s ground again, he looked for the traces of the mule that had carried the two women. Then when he had reached the Gemmi Pass, he laid himself down on his stomach and looked at Loeche.
The village, in its rocky pit, was not yet buried under the snow, from which it was sheltered by the pine woods which protected it on all sides. Its low houses looked like paving stones in a large meadow from above. Hauser’s little daughter was there now in one of those gray-colored houses. In which? Ulrich Kunsi was too far away to be able to make them out separately. How he would have liked to go down while he was yet able!
But the sun had disappeared behind the lofty crest of the Wildstrubel and the young man returned to the chalet. Daddy Hari was smoking, and when he saw his mate come in he proposed a game of cards to him, and they sat down opposite each other, on either side of the table. They played for a long time a simple game called brisque and then they had supper and went to bed.
The following days were like the first, bright and cold, without any fresh snow. Old Gaspard spent his afternoons in watching the eagles and other rare birds which ventured on those frozen heights, while Ulrich returned regularly to the Gemmi Pass to look at the village. Then they played cards, dice or dominoes and lost and won a trifle, just to create an interest in the game.
One morning Hari, who was up first, called his companion. A moving, deep and light cloud of white spray was falling on them noiselessly and was by degrees burying them under a thick, heavy coverlet of foam. That lasted four days and four nights. It was necessary to free the door and the windows, to dig out a passage and to cut steps to get over this frozen powder, which a twelve hours’ frost had made as hard as the granite of the moraines.
They lived like prisoners and did not venture outside their abode. They had divided their duties, which they performed regularly. Ulrich Kunsi undertook the scouring, washing and everything that belonged to cleanliness. He also chopped up the wood while Gaspard Hari did the cooking and attended to the fire. Their regular and monotonous work was interrupted by long games at cards or dice, and they never quarrelled, but were always calm and placid. They were never seen impatient or ill- humored, nor did they ever use hard words, for they had laid in a stock of patience for their wintering on the top of the mountain.
Sometimes old Gaspard took his rifle and went after chamois, and occasionally he killed one. Then there was a feast in the inn at Schwarenbach and they revelled in fresh meat. One morning he went out as usual. The thermometer outside marked eighteen degrees of frost, and as the sun had not yet risen, the hunter hoped to surprise the animals at the approaches to the Wildstrubel, and Ulrich, being alone, remained in bed until ten o’clock. He was of a sleepy nature, but he would not have dared to give way like that to his inclination in the presence of the old guide, who was ever an early riser. He breakfasted leisurely with Sam, who also spent his days and nights in sleeping in front of the fire; then he felt low-spirited and even frightened at the solitude, and was-seized by a longing for his daily game of cards, as one is by the craving of a confirmed habit, and so he went out to meet his companion, who was to return at four o’clock.
The snow had levelled the whole deep valley, filled up the crevasses, obliterated all signs of the two lakes and covered the rocks, so that between the high summits there was nothing but an immense, white, regular, dazzling and frozen surface. For three weeks Ulrich had not been to the edge of the precipice from which he had looked down on the village, and he wanted to go there before climbing the slopes which led to Wildstrubel. Loeche was now also covered by the snow and the houses could scarcely be distinguished, covered as they were by that white cloak.
Then, turning to the right, he reached the Loemmern glacier. He went along with a mountaineer’s long strides, striking the snow, which was as hard as a rock, with his ironpointed stick, and with his piercing eyes he looked for the little black, moving speck in the distance, on that enormous, white expanse.
When he reached the end of the glacier he stopped and asked himself whether the old man had taken that road, and then he began to walk along the moraines with rapid and uneasy steps. The day was declining, the snow was assuming a rosy tint, and a dry, frozen wind blew in rough gusts over its crystal surface. Ulrich uttered a long, shrill, vibrating call. His voice sped through the deathlike silence in which the mountains were sleeping; it reached the distance, across profound and motionless waves of glacial foam, like the cry of a bird across the waves of the sea. Then it died away and nothing answered him.
He began to walk again. The sun had sunk yonder behind the mountain tops, which were still purple with the reflection from the sky, but the depths of the valley were becoming gray, and suddenly the young man felt frightened. It seemed to him as if the silence, the cold, the solitude, the winter death of these mountains were taking possession of him, were going to stop and to freeze his blood, to make his limbs grow stiff and to turn him into a motionless and frozen object, and he set off running, fleeing toward his dwelling. The old man, he thought, would have returned during his absence. He had taken another road; he would, no doubt, be sitting before the fire, with a dead chamois at his feet. He soon came in sight of the inn, but no smoke rose from it. Ulrich walked faster and opened the door. Sam ran up to him to greet him, but Gaspard Hari had not returned. Kunsi, in his alarm, turned round suddenly, as if he had expected to find his comrade hidden in a corner. Then he relighted the fire and made the soup, hoping every moment to see the old man come in. From time to time he went out to see if he were not coming. It was quite night now, that wan, livid night of the mountains, lighted by a thin, yellow crescent moon, just disappearing behind the mountain tops.
Then the young man went in and sat down to warm his hands and feet, while he pictured to himself every possible accident. Gaspard might have broken a leg, have fallen into a crevasse, taken a false step and dislocated his ankle. And, perhaps, he was lying on the snow, overcome and stiff with the cold, in agony of mind, lost and, perhaps, shouting for help, calling with all his might in the silence of the night.. But where? The mountain was so vast, so rugged, so dangerous in places, especially at that time of the year, that it would have required ten or twenty guides to walk for a week in all directions to find a man in that immense space. Ulrich Kunsi, however, made up his mind to set out with Sam if Gaspard did not return by one in the morning, and he made his preparations.
He put provisions for two days into a bag, took his steel climbing iron, tied a long, thin, strong rope round his waist, and looked to see that his ironshod stick and his axe, which served to cut steps in the ice, were in order. Then he waited. The fire was burning on the hearth, the great dog was snoring in front of it, and the clock was ticking, as regularly as a heart beating, in its resounding wooden case. He waited, with his ears on the alert for distant sounds, and he shivered when the wind blew against the roof and the walls. It struck twelve and he trembled: Then, frightened and shivering, he put some water on the fire, so that he might have some hot coffee before starting, and when the clock struck one he got up, woke Sam, opened the door and went off in the direction of the Wildstrubel. For five hours he mounted, scaling the rocks by means of his climbing irons, cutting into the ice, advancing continually, and occasionally hauling up the dog, who remained below at the foot of some slope that was too steep for him, by means of the rope. It was about six o’clock when he reached one of the summits to which old Gaspard often came after chamois, and he waited till it should be daylight.
The sky was growing pale overhead, and a strange light, springing nobody could tell whence, suddenly illuminated the immense ocean of pale mountain summits, which extended for a hundred leagues around him. One might have said that this vague brightness arose from the snow itself and spread abroad in space. By degrees the highest distant summits assumed a delicate, pink flesh color, and the red sun appeared behind the ponderous giants of the Bernese Alps.
Ulrich Kunsi set off again, walking like a hunter, bent over, looking for tracks, and saying to his dog: “Seek, old fellow, seek!”
He was descending the mountain now, scanning the depths closely, and from time to time shouting, uttering aloud, prolonged cry, which soon died away in that silent vastness. Then he put his ear to the ground to listen. He thought he could distinguish a voice, and he began to run and shouted again, but he heard nothing more and sat down, exhausted and in despair. Toward midday he breakfasted and gave Sam, who was as tired as himself, something to eat also, and then he recommenced his search.
When evening came he was still walking, and he had walked more than thirty miles over the mountains. As he was too far away to return home and too tired to drag himself along any further, he dug a hole in the snow and crouched in it with his dog under a blanket which he had brought with him. And the man and the dog lay side by side, trying to keep warm, but frozen to the marrow nevertheless. Ulrich scarcely slept, his mind haunted by visions and his limbs shaking with cold.
Day was breaking when he got up. His legs were as stiff as iron bars and his spirits so low that he was ready to cry with anguish, while his heart was beating so that he almost fell over with agitation, when he thought he heard a noise.
Suddenly he imagined that he also was going to die of cold in the midst of this vast solitude, and the terror of such a death roused his energies and gave him renewed vigor. He was descending toward the inn, falling down and getting up again, and followed at a distance by Sam, who was limping on three legs, and they did not reach Schwarenbach until four o’clock in the afternoon. The house was empty and the young man made a fire, had something to eat and went to sleep, so worn out that he did not think of anything more.
He slept for a long time, for a very long time, an irresistible sleep. But suddenly a voice, a cry, a name, “Ulrich!” aroused him from his profound torpor and made him sit up in bed. Had he been dreaming? Was it one of those strange appeals which cross the dreams of disquieted minds? No, he heard it still, that reverberating cry-which had entered his ears and remained in his flesh-to the tips of his sinewy fingers. Certainly somebody had cried out and called “Ulrich!” There was somebody there near the house, there could be no doubt of that, and he opened the door and shouted, “Is it you, Gaspard?” with all the strength of his lungs. But there was no reply, no murmur, no groan, nothing. It was quite dark and the snow looked wan.
The wind had risen, that icy wind that cracks the rocks and leaves nothing alive on those deserted heights, and it came in sudden gusts, which were more parching and more deadly than the burning wind of the desert, and again Ulrich shouted: “Gaspard! Gaspard! Gaspard.” And then he waited again. Everything was silent on the mountain.
Then he shook with terror and with a bound he was inside the inn, when he shut and bolted the door, and then he fell into a chair trembling all over, for he felt certain that his comrade had called him at the moment he was expiring.
He was sure of that, as sure as one is of being alive or of eating a piece of bread. Old Gaspard Hari had been dying for two days and three nights somewhere, in some hole, in one of those deep, untrodden ravines whose whiteness is more sinister than subterranean darkness. He had been dying for two days and three nights and be had just then died, thinking of his comrade. His soul, almost before it was released, had taken its flight to the inn where Ulrich was sleeping, and it had called him by that terrible and mysterious power which the spirits of the dead have to haunt the living. That voiceless soul had cried to the worn-out soul of the sleeper; it had uttered its last farewell, or its reproach, or its curse on the man who had not searched carefully enough.
And Ulrich felt that it was there, quite close to him, behind the wall, behind the door which be had just fastened. It was wandering about, like a night bird which lightly touches a lighted window with his wings, and the terrified young man was ready to scream with horror. He wanted to run away, but did not dare to go out; he did not dare, and he should never dare to do it in the future, for that phantom would remain there day and night, round the inn, as long as the old man’s body was not recovered and had not been deposited in the consecrated earth of a churchyard.
When it was daylight Kunsi recovered some of his courage at the return of the bright sun. He prepared his meal, gave his dog some food and then remained motionless on a chair, tortured at heart as he thought of the old man lying on the snow, and then, as soon as night once more covered the mountains, new terrors assailed him. He now walked up and down the dark kitchen, which was scarcely lighted by the flame of one candle, and he walked from one end of it to the other with great strides, listening, listening whether the terrible cry of the other night would again break the dreary silence outside. He felt himself alone, unhappy man, as no man had ever been alone before! He was alone in this immense desert of Snow, alone five thousand feet above the inhabited earth, above human habitation, above that stirring, noisy, palpitating life, alone under an icy sky! A mad longing impelled him to run away, no matter where, to get down to Loeche by flinging himself over the precipice; but he did not even dare to open the door, as he felt sure that the other, the dead man, would bar his road, so that he might not be obliged to remain up there alone:
Toward midnight, tired with walking, worn out by grief and fear, he at last fell into a doze in his chair, for he was afraid of his bed as one is of a haunted spot. But suddenly the strident cry of the other evening pierced his ears, and it was so shrill that Ulrich stretched out his arms to repulse the ghost, and he fell backward with his chair.
Sam, who was awakened by the noise, began to howl as frightened dogs do howl, and he walked all about the house trying to find out where the danger came from. When he got to the door, he sniffed beneath it, smelling vigorously, with his coat bristling and his tail stiff, while he growled angrily. Kunsi, who was terrified, jumped up, and, holding his chair by one leg, he cried: “Don’t come in, don’t come in, or I shall kill you.” And the dog, excited by this threat, barked angrily at that invisible enemy who defied his master’s voice. By degrees, however, he quieted down and came back and stretched himself in front of the fire, but he was uneasy and kept his head up and growled between his teeth.
Ulrich, in turn, recovered his senses, but as he felt faint with terror, he went and got a bottle of brandy out of the sideboard, and he drank off several glasses, one after anther, at a gulp. His ideas became vague, his courage revived and a feverish glow ran through his veins.
He ate scarcely anything the next day and limited himself to alcohol, and so he lived for several days, like a drunken brute. As soon as he thought of Gaspard Hari, he began to drink again, and went on drinking until he fell to the ground, overcome by intoxication. And there he remained lying on his face, dead drunk, his limbs benumbed, and snoring loudly. But scarcely had he digested the maddening and burning liquor than the same cry, “Ulrich!” woke him like a bullet piercing his brain, and he got up, still staggering, stretching out his hands to save himself from falling, and calling to Sam to help him. And the dog, who appeared to be going mad like his master, rushed to the door, scratched it with his claws and gnawed it with his long white teeth, while the young man, with his head thrown back drank the brandy in draughts, as if it had been cold water, so that it might by and by send his thoughts, his frantic terror, and his memory to sleep again.
In three weeks he had consumed all his stock of ardent spirits. But his continual drunkenness only lulled his terror, which awoke more furiously than ever as soon as it was impossible for him to calm it. His fixed idea then, which had been intensified by a month of drunkenness, and which was continually increasing in his absolute solitude, penetrated him like a gimlet. He now walked about the house like a wild beast in its cage, putting his ear to the door to listen if the other were there and defying him through the wall. Then, as soon as he dozed, overcome by fatigue, he heard the voice which made him leap to his feet.
At last one night, as cowards do when driven to extremities, he sprang to the door and opened it, to see who was calling him and to force him to keep quiet, but such a gust of cold wind blew into his face that it chilled him to the bone, and he closed and bolted the door again immediately, without noticing that Sam had rushed out. Then, as he was shivering with cold, he threw some wood on the fire and sat down in front of it to warm himself, but suddenly he started, for somebody was scratching at the wall and crying. In desperation he called out: “Go away!” but was answered by another long, sorrowful wail.
Then all his remaining senses forsook him from sheer fright. He repeated: “Go away!” and turned round to try to find some corner in which to hide, while the other person went round the house still crying and rubbing against the wall. Ulrich went to the oak sideboard, which was full of plates and dishes and of provisions, and lifting it up with superhuman strength, he dragged it to the door, so as to form a barricade. Then piling up all the rest of the furniture, the mattresses, palliasses and chairs, he stopped up the windows as one does when assailed by an enemy.
But the person outside now uttered long, plaintive, mournful groans, to which the young man replied by similar groans, and thus days and nights passed without their ceasing to howl at each other. The one was continually walking round the house and scraped the walls with his nails so vigorously that it seemed as if he wished to destroy them, while the other, inside, followed all his movements, stooping down and holding his ear to the walls and replying to all his appeals with terrible cries. One evening, however, Ulrich heard nothing more, and he sat down, so overcome by fatigue, that he went to sleep immediately and awoke in the morning without a thought, without any recollection of what had happened, just as if his head had been emptied during his heavy sleep, but he felt hungry, and he ate.
The winter was over and the Gemmi Pass was practicable again, so the Hauser family started off to return to their inn. As soon as they had reached the top of the ascent the women mounted their mule and spoke about the two men whom they would meet again shortly. They were, indeed, rather surprised that neither of them had come down a few days before, as soon as the road was open, in order to tell them all about their long winter sojourn. At last, however, they saw the inn, still covered with snow, like a quilt. The door and the window were closed, but a little smoke was coming out of the chimney, which reassured old Hauser. On going up to the door, however, he saw the skeleton of an animal which had been torn to pieces by the eagles, a large skeleton lying on its side.
They all looked close at it and the mother said:
“That must be Sam,” and then she shouted: “Hi, Gaspard!” A cry from the interior of the house answered her and a sharp cry that one might have thought some animal had uttered it. Old Hauser repeated, “Hi, Gaspard!” and they heard another cry similar to the first.
Then the three men, the father and the two sons, tried to open the door, but it resisted their efforts. From the empty cow-stall they took a beam to serve as a battering-ram and hurled it against the door with all their might. The wood gave way and the boards flew into splinters. Then the house was shaken by a loud voice, and inside, behind the side board which was overturned, they saw a man standing upright, with his hair falling on his shoulders and a beard descending to his breast, with shining eyes, and nothing but rags to cover him. They did not recognize him, but Louise Hauser exclaimed:
“It is Ulrich, mother.” And her mother declared that it was Ulrich, although his hair was white.
He allowed them to go up to him and to touch him, but he did not reply to any of their questions, and they were obliged to take him to Loeche, where the doctors found that he was mad, and nobody ever found out what had become of his companion.
Little Louise Hauser nearly died that summer of decline, which the physicians attributed to the cold air of the mountains.
###
Text from http://www.eastoftheweb.com accessed on Feb. 14, 2016.
S.K. Tremayne, Sarah Waters, and Creepy Kids
Master of Horror L.A. Banks and her contribution to Horror
7 Deadly Sins Acrostic
Source: 7 Deadly Sins Acrostic
Here is an interesting way to do acrostics.
Movie Review: The Phantom Carriage
The Saturday Night Special: “The Spider” by Hanns Heinz Ewers
The Spider
by Hanns Heinz Ewers
(1915)
The Project Gutenberg Australia E-Text
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When the student of medicine, Richard Bracquemont, decided to move
into room #7 of the small Hotel Stevens, Rue Alfred Stevens (Paris 6),
three persons had already hanged themselves from the cross-bar of the
window in that room on three successive Fridays.
The first was a Swiss traveling salesman. They found his corpse on
Saturday evening. The doctor determined that the death must have
occurred between five and six o’clock on Friday afternoon. The corpse
hung on a strong hook that had been driven into the window’s cross-bar
to serve as a hanger for articles of clothing. The window was closed,
and the dead man had used the curtain cord as a noose. Since the
window was very low, he hung with his knees practically touching the
floor-a sign of the great discipline the suicide must have exercised
in carrying out his design. Later, it was learned that he was a
married man, a father. He had been a man of a continually happy
disposition; a man who had achieved a secure place in life. There was
not one written word to be found that would have shed light on his
suicide…not even a will.
Furthermore, none of his acquaintances could recall hearing anything
at all from him that would have permitted anyone to predict his end.
The second case was not much different. The artist, Karl Krause, a
high wire cyclist in the nearby Medrano Circus, moved into room ¹7 two
1871-1943
days later. When he did not show up at Friday’s performance, the
director sent an employee to the hotel. There, he found Krause in the
unlocked room hanging from the window cross-bar in circumstances
exactly like those of the previous suicide. This death was as
perplexing as the first. Krause was popular. He earned a very high
salary, and had appeared to enjoy life at its fullest. Once again,
there was no suicide note; no sinister hints. Krause’s sole survivor
was his mother to whom the son had regularly sent 300 marks on the
first of the month.
For Madame Dubonnet, the owner of the small, cheap guesthouse whose
clientele was composed almost completely of employees in a nearby
Montmartre vaudeville theater, this second curious death in the same
room had very unpleasant consequences. Already several of her guests
had moved out, and other regular clients had not come back. She
appealed for help to her personal friend, the inspector of police of
the ninth precinct, who assured her that he would do everything in his
power to help her. He pushed zealously ahead not only with the
investigation into the grounds for the suicides of the two guests, but
he also placed an officer in the mysterious room.
This man, Charles-Maria Chaumié, actually volunteered for the task.
Chaumié was an old “Marsouin,” a marine sergeant with eleven years of
service, who had lain so many nights at posts in Tonkin and Annam, and
had greeted so many stealthily creeping river pirates with a shot from
his rifle that he seemed ideally suited to encounter the “ghost” that
everyone on Rue Alfred Stevens was talking about.
From then on, each morning and each evening, Chaumié paid a brief
visit to the police station to make his report, which, for the first
few days, consisted only of his statement that he had not noticed
anything unusual. On Wednesday evening, however, he hinted that he had
found a clue.
Pressed to say more, he asked to be allowed more time before making
any comment, since he was not sure that what he had discovered had any
relationship to the two deaths, and he was afraid he might say
something that would make him look foolish.
On Thursday, his behavior seemed a bit uncertain, but his mood was
noticeably more serious. Still, he had nothing to report. On Friday
morning, he came in very excited and spoke, half humorously, half
seriously, of the strangely attractive power that his window had. He
would not elaborate this notion and said that, in any case, it had
nothing to do with the suicides; and that it would be ridiculous of
him to say any more. When, on that same Friday, he failed to make his
regular evening report, someone went to his room and found him hanging
from the cross-bar of the window.
All the circumstances, down to the minutest detail, were the same here
as in the previous cases. Chaumié’s legs dragged along the ground. The
curtain cord had been used for a noose. The window was closed, the
door to the room had not been locked and death had occurred at six
o’clock. The dead man’s mouth was wide open, and his tongue protruded
from it.
Chaumié’s death, the third in as many weeks in room #7, had the
following consequences: all the guests, with the exception of a German
high-school teacher in room #16, moved out. The teacher took advantage
of the occasion to have his rent reduced by a third. The next day,
Mary Garden, the famous Opéra Comique singer, drove up to the Hotel
Stevens and paid two hundred francs for the red curtain cord, saying
it would bring her luck. The story, small consolation for Madame
Dubonnet, got into the papers.
If these events had occurred in summer, in July or August, Madame
Dubonnet would have secured three times that price for her cord, but
as it was in the middle of a troubled year, with elections, disorders
in the Balkans, bank crashes in New York, the visit of the King and
Queen of England, the result was that the affaire Rue Alfred Stevens
was talked of less than it deserved to be. As for the newspaper
accounts, they were brief, being essentially the police reports word
for word.
These reports were all that Richard Bracquemont, the medical student,
knew of the matter.
There was one detail about which he knew nothing because neither the
police inspector nor any of the eyewitnesses had mentioned it to the
press. It was only later, after what happened to the medical student,
that anyone remembered that when the police removed Sergeant Charles-
Maria Chaumié’s body from the window cross-bar a large black spider
crawled from the dead man’s open mouth. A hotel porter flicked it
away, exclaiming, “Ugh, another of those damned creatures.”
When in later investigations which concerned themselves mostly with
Bracquemont the servant was interrogated, he said that he had seen a
similar spider crawling on the Swiss traveling salesman’s shoulder
when his body was removed from the window cross-bar. But Richard
Bracquemont knew nothing of all this.
It was more than two weeks after the last suicide that Bracquemont
moved into the room. It was a Sunday. Bracquemont conscientiously
recorded everything that happened to him in his journal. That journal
now follows.
Monday, February 28 I moved in yesterday evening. I unpacked my two
wicker suitcases and straightened the room a little. Then I went to
bed. I slept so soundly that it was nine o’clock the next morning
before a knock at my door woke me. It was my hostess, bringing me
breakfast herself. One could read her concern for me in the eggs, the
bacon and the superb café au lait she brought me. I washed and
dressed, then smoked a pipe as I watched the servant make up the room.
So, here I am. I know well that the situation may prove dangerous, but
I think I may just be the one to solve the problem. If, once upon a
time, Paris was worth a mass (conquest comes at a dearer rate these
days), it is well worth risking my life pour un si bel enjeu. I have
at least one chance to win, and I mean to risk it. As it is, I’m not
the only one who has had this notion. Twenty-seven people have tried
for access to the room. Some went to the police, some went directly to
the hotel owner. There were even three women among the candidates.
There was plenty of competition. No doubt the others are poor devils
like me.
And yet, it was I who was chosen. Why? Because I was the only one who
hinted that I had some plan-or the semblance of a plan. Naturally, I
was bluffing.
These journal entries are intended for the police. I must say that it
amuses me to tell those gentlemen how neatly I fooled them. If the
Inspector has any sense, he’ll say, “Hm. This Bracquemont is just the
man we need.” In any case, it doesn’t matter what he’ll say. The point
is I’m here now, and I take it as a good sign that I’ve begun my task
by bamboozling the police.
I had gone first to Madame Dubonnet, and it was she who sent me to the
police. They put me off for a whole week-as they put off my rivals as
well. Most of them gave up in disgust, having something better to do
than hang around the musty squad room. The Inspector was beginning to
get irritated at my tenacity. At last, he told me I was wasting my
time. That the police had no use for bungling amateurs. “Ah, if only
you had a plan. Then…”
On the spot, I announced that I had such a plan, though naturally I
had no such thing. Still, I hinted that my plan was brilliant, but
dangerous, that it might lead to the same end as that which had
overtaken the police officer, Chaumié. Still, I promised to describe
it to him if he would give me his word that he would personally put it
into effect. He made excuses, claiming he was too busy but when he
asked me to give him at least a hint of my plan, I saw that I had
picqued his interest.
I rattled off some nonsense made up of whole cloth. God alone knows
where it all came from.
I told him that six o’clock of a Friday is an occult hour. It is the
last hour of the Jewish week; the hour when Christ disappeared from
his tomb and descended into hell. That he would do well to remember
that the three suicides had taken place at approximately that hour.
That was all I could tell him just then, I said, but I pointed him to
The Revelations of St. John.
The Inspector assumed the look of a man who understood all that I had
been saying, then he asked me to come back that evening.
I returned, precisely on time, and noted a copy of the New Testament
on the Inspector’s desk. I had, in the meantime, been at the
Revelations myself without however having understood a syllable.
Perhaps the Inspector was cleverer than I. Very politely-nay-
deferentially, he let me know that, despite my extremely vague
intimations, he believed he grasped my line of thought and was ready
to expedite my plan in every way.
And here, I must acknowledge that he has indeed been tremendously
helpful. It was he who made the arrangement with the owner that I was
to have anything I needed so long as I stayed in the room. The
Inspector gave me a pistol and a police whistle, and he ordered the
officers on the beat to pass through the Rue Alfred Stevens as often
as possible, and to watch my window for any signal. Most important of
all, he had a desk telephone installed which connects directly with
the police station. Since the station is only four minutes away, I see
no reason to be afraid.
Wednesday, March 1 Nothing has happened. Not yesterday. Not today.
Madame Dubonnet brought a new curtain cord from another room-the rooms
are mostly empty, of course. Madame Dubonnet takes every opportunity
to visit me, and each time she brings something with her. I have asked
her to tell me again everything that happened here, but I have learned
nothing new. She has her own opinion of the suicides. Her view is that
the music hall artist, Krause, killed himself because of an unhappy
love affair. During the last year that Krause lived in the hotel, a
young woman had made frequent visits to him. These visits had stopped,
just before his death. As for the Swiss gentleman, Madame Dubonnet
confessed herself baffled. On the other hand, the death of the
policeman was easy to explain. He had killed himself just to annoy
her.
These are sad enough explanations, to be sure, but I let her babble on
to take the edge off my boredom.
Thursday, March 3 Still nothing. The Inspector calls twice a day. Each
time, I tell him that all is well. Apparently, these words do not
reassure him.
I have taken out my medical books and I study, so that my self-imposed
confinement will have some purpose.
Friday. March 4 I ate uncommonly well at noon. The landlady brought me
half a bottle of champagne. It seemed a meal for a condemned man.
Madame Dubonnet looked at me as if I were already three-quarters dead.
As she was leaving, she begged me tearfully to come with her, fearing
no doubt that I would hang myself ‘just to annoy her.’
I studied the curtain cord once again. Would I hang myself with it?
Certainly, I felt little desire to do so. The cord is stiff and rough-
not the sort of cord one makes a noose of. One would need to be truly
determined before one could imitate the others.
I am seated now at my table. At my left, the telephone. At my right,
the revolver. I’m not frightened; but I am curious.
Six o’clock, the same evening Nothing has happened. I was about to
add, “Unfortunately.” The fatal hour has come-and has gone, like any
six o’clock on any evening. I won’t hide the fact that I occasionally
felt a certain impulse to go to the window, but for a quite different
reason than one might imagine.
The Inspector called me at least ten times between five and six
o’clock. He was as impatient as I was. Madame Dubonnet, on the other
hand, is happy. A week has passed without someone in #7 hanging
himself. Marvelous.
Monday, March 7 I have a growing conviction that I will learn nothing;
that the previous suicides are related to the circumstances
surrounding the lives of the three men. I have asked the Inspector to
investigate the cases further, convinced that someone will find their
motivations. As for me, I hope to stay here as long as possible. I may
not conquer Paris here, but I live very well and I’m fattening up
nicely. I’m also studying hard, and I am making real progress. There
is another reason, too, that keeps me here.
Wednesday, March 9 So! I have taken one step more. Clarimonda.
I haven’t yet said anything about Clarimonda. It is she who is my
“third” reason for staying here. She is also the reason I was tempted
to go to the window during the “fateful” hour last Friday. But of
course, not to hang myself.
Clarimonda. Why do I call her that? I have no idea what her name is,
but it ought to be Clarimonda. When finally I ask her name, I’m sure
it will turn out to be Clarimonda.
I noticed her almost at once…in the very first days. She lives
across the narrow street; and her window looks right into mine. She
sits there, behind her curtains.
I ought to say that she noticed me before I saw her; and that she was
obviously interested in me. And no wonder. The whole neighborhood
knows I am here, and why. Madame Dubonnet has seen to that.
I am not of a particularly amorous disposition. In fact, my relations
with women have been rather meager. When one comes from Verdun to
Paris to study medicine, and has hardly money enough for three meals a
day, one has something else to think about besides love. I am then not
very experienced with women, and I may have begun my adventure with
her stupidly. Never mind. It’s exciting just the same.
At first, the idea of establishing some relationship with her simply
did not occur to me. It was only that, since I was here to make
observations, and, since there was nothing in the room to observe, I
thought I might as well observe my neighbor-openly, professionally.
Anyhow, one can’t sit all day long just reading.
Clarimonda, I have concluded, lives alone in the small flat across the
way. The flat has three windows, but she sits only before the window
that looks into mine. She sits there, spinning on an old-fashioned
spindle, such as my grandmother inherited from a great aunt. I had no
idea anyone still used such spindles. Clarimonda’s spindle is a lovely
object. It appears to be made of ivory; and the thread she spins is of
an exceptional fineness. She works all day behind her curtains, and
stops spinning only as the sun goes down. Since darkness comes
abruptly here in this narrow street and in this season of fogs,
Clarimonda disappears from her place at five o’clock each evening.
I have never seen a light in her flat.
What does Clarimonda look like? I’m not quite sure. Her hair is black
and wavy; her face pale.
Her nose is short and finely shaped with delicate nostrils that seem
to quiver. Her lips, too, are pale: and when she smiles, it seems that
her small teeth are as keen as those of some beast of prey.
Her eyelashes are long and dark; and her huge dark eyes have an
intense glow. I guess all these details more than I know them. It is
hard to see clearly through the curtains.
Something else: she always wears a black dress embroidered with a
lilac motif; and black gloves, no doubt to protect her hands from the
effects of her work. It is a curious sight: her delicate hands moving
perpetually, swiftly grasping the thread, pulling it, releasing it,
taking it up again; as if one were watching the indefatigable motions
of an insect.
Our relationship? For the moment, still very superficial, though it
feels deeper. It began with a sudden exchange of glances in which each
of us noted the other. I must have pleased her, because one day she
studied me a while longer, then smiled tentatively. Naturally, I
smiled back. In this fashion, two days went by, each of us smiling
more frequently with the passage of time. Yet something kept me from
greeting her directly.
Until today. This afternoon, I did it. And Clarimonda returned my
greeting. It was done subtly enough, to be sure, but I saw her nod.
Thursday, March 10 Yesterday, I sat for a long time over my books,
though I can’t truthfully say that I studied much. I built castles in
the air and dreamed of Clarimonda.
I slept fitfully.
This morning, when I approached my window, Clarimonda was already in
her place. I waved, and she nodded back. She laughed and studied me
for a long time.
I tried to read, but I felt much too uneasy. Instead, I sat down at my
window and gazed at Clarimonda. She too had laid her work aside. Her
hands were folded in her lap. I drew my curtain wider with the window
cord, so that I might see better. At the same moment, Clarimonda did
the same with the curtains at her window. We exchanged smiles.
We must have spent a full hour gazing at each other.
Finally, she took up her spinning.
Saturday, March 12 The days pass. I eat and drink. I sit at the desk.
I light my pipe; I look down at my book but I don’t read a word,
though I try again and again. Then I go to the window where I wave to
Clarimonda. She nods. We smile. We stare at each other for hours.
Yesterday afternoon, at six o’clock, I grew anxious. The twilight came
early, bringing with it something like anguish. I sat at my desk. I
waited until I was invaded by an irresistible need to go to the
window-not to hang myself; but just to see Clarimonda. I sprang up and
stood beside the curtain where it seemed to me I had never been able
to see so clearly, though it was already dark.
Clarimonda was spinning, but her eyes looked into mine. I felt myself
strangely contented even as I experienced a light sensation of fear.
The telephone rang. It was the Inspector tearing me out of my trance
with his idiotic questions.
I was furious.
This morning, the Inspector and Madame Dubonnet visited me. She is
enchanted with how things are going. I have now lived for two weeks in
room #7. The Inspector, however, does not feel he is getting results.
I hinted mysteriously that I was on the trail of something most
unusual.
The jackass took me at my word and fulfilled my dearest wish. I’ve
been allowed to stay in the room for another week. God knows it isn’t
Madame Dubonnet’s cooking or wine-cellar that keeps me here. How
quickly one can be sated with such things. No. I want to stay because
of the window Madame Dubonnet fears and hates. That beloved window
that shows me Clarimonda.
I have stared out of my window, trying to discover whether she ever
leaves her room, but I’ve never seen her set foot on the street.
As for me, I have a large, comfortable armchair and a green shade over
the lamp whose glow envelopes me in warmth. The Inspector has left me
with a huge packet of fine tobacco-and yet I cannot work. I read two
or three pages only to discover that I haven’t understood a word. My
eyes see the letters, but my brain refuses to make any sense of them.
Absurd. As if my brain were posted: ‘No Trespassing.’ It is as if
there were no room in my head for any other thought than the one:
Clarimonda. I push my books away; I lean back deeply into my chair. I
dream.
Sunday, March 13 This morning I watched a tiny drama while the servant
was tidying my room. I was strolling in the corridor when I paused
before a small window in which a large garden spider had her web.
Madame Dubonnet will not have it removed because she believes spiders
bring luck, and she’s had enough misfortunes in her house lately.
Today, I saw a much smaller spider, a male, moving across the strong
threads towards the middle of the web, but when his movements alerted
the female, he drew back shyly to the edge of the web from which he
made a second attempt to cross it. Finally, the female in the middle
appeared attentive to his wooing, and stopped moving. The male tugged
at a strand gently, then more strongly till the whole web shook. The
female stayed motionless. The male moved quickly forward and the
female received him quietly, calmly, giving herself over completely to
his embraces. For a long minute, they hung together motionless at the
center of the huge web.
Then I saw the male slowly extricating himself, one leg over the
other. It was as if he wanted tactfully to leave his companion alone
in the dream of love, but as he started away, the female, overwhelmed
by a wild life, was after him, hunting him ruthlessly. The male let
himself drop from a thread; the female followed, and for a while the
lovers hung there, imitating a piece of art. Then they fell to the
window-sill where the male, summoning all his strength, tried again to
escape. Too late. The female already had him in her powerful grip, and
was carrying him back to the center of the web. There, the place that
had just served as the couch for their lascivious embraces took on
quite another aspect. The lover wriggled, trying to escape from the
female’s wild embrace, but she was too much for him. It was not long
before she had wrapped him completely in her thread, and he was
helpless. Then she dug her sharp pincers into his body, and sucked
full draughts of her young lover’s blood. Finally, she detached
herself from the pitiful and unrecognizable shell of his body and
threw it out of her web.
So that is what love is like among these creatures. Well for me that I
am not a spider.
Monday, March 14 I don’t look at my books any longer. I spend my days
at the window. When it is dark, Clarimonda is no longer there, but if
I close my eyes, I continue to see her.
This journal has become something other than I intended. I’ve spoken
about Madame Dubonnet, about the Inspector; about spiders and about
Clarimonda. But I’ve said nothing about the discoveries I undertook to
make. It can’t be helped.
Tuesday, March 15 We have invented a strange game, Clarimonda and I.
We play it all day long. I greet her; then she greets me. Then I tap
my fingers on the windowpanes. The moment she sees me doing that, she
too begins tapping. I wave to her; she waves back. I move my lips as
if speaking to her; she does the same. I run my hand through my sleep-
disheveled hair and instantly her hand is at her forehead. It is a
child’s game, and we both laugh over it. Actually, she doesn’t laugh.
She only smiles a gently contained smile. And I smile back in the same
way.
The game is not as trivial as it seems. It’s not as if we were grossly
imitating each other-that would weary us both. Rather, we are
communicating with each other. Sometimes, telepathically, it would
seem, since Clarimonda follows my movements instantaneously almost
before she has had time to see them. I find myself inventing new
movements, or new combinations of movements, but each time she repeats
them with disconcerting speed. Sometimes. I change the order of the
movements to surprise her, making whole series of gestures as rapidly
as possible; or I leave out some motions and weave in others, the way
children play “Simon Says.” What is amazing is that Clarimonda never
once makes a mistake, no matter how quickly I change gestures.
That’s how I spend my days…hut never for a moment do I feel that I’m
killing time. It seems, on the contrary, that never in my life have I
been better occupied.
Wednesday. March 16 Isn’t it strange that it hasn’t occurred to me to
put my relationship with Clarimonda on a more serious basis than these
endless games. Last night, I thought about this…I can, of course,
put on my hat and coat, walk down two flights of stairs, take five
steps across the street and mount two flights to her door which is
marked with a small sign that says “Clarimonda.” Clarimonda what? I
don’t know. Something. Then I can knock and…
Up to this point I imagine everything very clearly, but I cannot see
what should happen next. I know that the door opens. But then I stand
before it, looking into a dark void. Clarimonda doesn’t come. Nothing
comes. Nothing is there, only the black, impenetrable dark.
Sometimes, it seems to me that there can be no other Clarimonda but
the one I see in the window; the one who plays gesture-games with me.
I cannot imagine a Clarimonda wearing a hat, or a dress other than her
black dress with the lilac motif. Nor can I imagine a Clarimonda
without black gloves. The very notion that I might encounter
Clarimonda somewhere in the streets or in a restaurant eating,
drinking or chatting is so improbable that it makes me laugh.
Sometimes I ask myself whether I love her. It’s impossible to say,
since I have never loved before. However, if the feeling that I have
for Clarimonda is really-love, then love is something entirely
different from anything I have seen among my friends or read about in
novels.
It is hard for me to be sure of my feelings and harder still to think
of anything that doesn’t relate to Clarimonda or, what is more
important, to our game. Undeniably, it is our game that concerns me.
Nothing else-and this is what I understand least of all.
There is no doubt that I am drawn to Clarimonda, but with this
attraction there is mingled another feeling, fear. No. That’s not it
either. Say rather a vague apprehension in the presence of the
unknown. And this anxiety has a strangely voluptuous quality so that I
am at the same time drawn to her even as I am repelled by her. It is
as if I were moving in giant circles around her, sometimes coming
close, sometimes retreating…back and forth, back and forth.
Once, I am sure of it, it will happen, and I will join her.
Clarimonda sits at her window and spins her slender, eternally fine
thread, making a strange cloth whose purpose I do not understand. I am
amazed that she is able to keep from tangling her delicate thread.
Hers is surely a remarkable design, containing mythical beasts and
strange masks.
Thursday, March 17 I am curiously excited. I don’t talk to people any
more. I barely say “hello” to Madame Dubonnet or to the servant. I
hardly give myself time to eat. All I can do is sit at the window and
play the game with Clarimonda. It is an enthralling game.
Overwhelming.
I have the feeling something will happen tomorrow.
Friday, March 18 Yes. Yes. Something will happen today. I tell myself-
as loudly as I can–that that’s why I am here. And yet, horribly
enough, I am afraid. And in the fear that the same thing is going to
happen to me as happened to my predecessors, there is strangely
mingled another fear: a terror of Clarimonda. And I cannot separate
the two fears.
I am frightened. I want to scream.
Six o’clock, evening I have my hat and coat on. Just a couple of
words.
At five o’clock, I was at the end of my strength. I’m perfectly aware
now that there is a relationship between my despair and the “sixth
hour” that was so significant in the previous weeks. I no longer laugh
at the trick I played the Inspector.
I was sitting at the window, trying with all my might to stay in my
chair, but the window kept drawing me. I had to resume the game with
Clarimonda. And yet, the window horrified me. I saw the others hanging
there: the Swiss traveling salesman, fat, with a thick neck and a grey
stubbly beard; the thin artist; and the powerful police sergeant. I
saw them, one after the other, hanging from the same hook, their
mouths open, their tongues sticking out. And then, I saw myself among
them.
Oh, this unspeakable fear. It was clear to me that it was provoked as
much by Clarimonda as by the cross-bar and the horrible hook. May she
pardon me…but it is the truth. In my terror, I keep seeing the three
men hanging there, their legs dragging on the floor.
And yet, the fact is I had not felt the slightest desire to hang
myself; nor was I afraid that I would want to do so. No, it was the
window I feared; and Clarimonda. I was sure that something horrid was
going to happen. Then I was overwhelmed by the need to go to the
window-to stand before it. I had to…
The telephone rang. I picked up the receiver and before I could hear a
word, I screamed, “Come. Come at once.”
It was as if my shrill cry had in that instant dissipated the shadows
from my soul. I grew calm.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead. I drank a glass of water. Then I
considered what I should say to the Inspector when he arrived.
Finally, I went to the window. I waved and smiled. And Clarimonda too
waved and smiled.
Five minutes later, the Inspector was here. I told him that I was
getting to the bottom of the matter, but I begged him not to question
me just then. That very soon I would be in a position to make
important revelations. Strangely enough, though I was lying to him. I
myself had the feeling that I was telling the truth. Even now, against
my will, I have that same conviction.
The Inspector could not help noticing my agitated state of mind,
especially since I apologized for my anguished cry over the telephone.
Naturally, I tried to explain it to him, and yet I could not find a
single reason to give for it. He said affectionately that there was no
need ever to apologize to him; that he was always at my disposal; that
that was his duty. It was better that he should come a dozen times to
no effect rather than fail to be here when he was needed. He invited
me to go out with him for the evening. It would be a distraction for
me. It would do me good not to be alone for a while. I accepted the
invitation though I was very reluctant to leave the room.
Saturday, March 19 We went to the Gaieté Rochechouart, La Cigale, and
La Lune Rousse. The Inspector was right: It was good for me to get out
and breathe the fresh air. At first, I had an uncomfortable feeling,
as if I were doing something wrong; as if I were a deserter who had
turned his back on the flag. But that soon went away. We drank a lot,
laughed and chatted. This morning, when I went to my window,
Clarimonda gave me what I thought was a look of reproach, though I may
only have imagined it. How could she have known that I had gone out
last night? In any case, the look lasted only for an instant, then she
smiled again.
We played the game all day long.
Sunday, March 20 Only one thing to record: we played the game.
Monday, March 21 We played the game-all day long.
Tuesday, March 22 Yes, the game. We played it again. And nothing else.
Nothing at all.
Sometimes I wonder what is happening to me? What is it I want? Where
is all this leading? I know the answer: there is nothing else I want
except what is happening. It is what I want…what I long for. This
only.
Clarimonda and I have spoken with each other in the course of the last
few days, but very briefly; scarcely a word. Sometimes we moved our
lips, but more often we just looked at each other with deep
understanding.
I was right about Clarimonda’s reproachful look because I went out
with the Inspector last Friday. I asked her to forgive me. I said it
was stupid of me, and spiteful to have gone. She forgave me, and I
promised never to leave the window again. We kissed, pressing our lips
against each of our windowpanes.
Wednesday, March 23 I know now that I love Clarimonda. That she has
entered into the very fiber of my being. It may be that the loves of
other men are different. But does there exist one head, one ear, one
hand that is exactly like hundreds of millions of others? There are
always differences, and it must be so with love. My love is strange, I
know that, but is it any the less lovely because of that? Besides, my
love makes me happy.
If only I were not so frightened. Sometimes my terror slumbers and I
forget it for a few moments, then it wakes and does not leave me. The
fear is like a poor mouse trying to escape the grip of a powerful
serpent. Just wait a bit, poor sad terror. Very soon, the serpent love
will devour you.
Thursday, March 24 I have made a discovery: I don’t play with
Clarimonda. She plays with me.
Last night, thinking as always about our game, I wrote down five new
and intricate gesture patterns with which I intended to surprise
Clarimonda today. I gave each gesture a number. Then I practiced the
series, so I could do the motions as quickly as possible, forwards or
backwards. Or sometimes only the even-numbered ones, sometimes the
odd. Or the first and the last of the five patterns. It was tiring
work, but it made me happy and seemed to bring Clarimonda closer to
me. I practiced for hours until I got all the motions down pat, like
clockwork.
This morning, I went to the window. Clarimonda and I greeted each
other, then our game began. Back and forth! It was incredible how
quickly she understood what was to be done; how she kept pace with me.
There was a knock at the door. It was the servant bringing me my
shoes. I took them. On my way back to the window, my eye chanced to
fall on the slip of paper on which I had noted my gesture patterns. It
was then that I understood: in the game just finished, I had not made
use of a single one of my patterns.
I reeled back and had to hold on to the chair to keep from falling. It
was unbelievable. I read the paper again-and again. It was still true:
I had gone through a long series of gestures at the window, and not
one of the patterns had been mine.
I had the feeling, once more, that I was standing before Clarimonda’s
wide open door, through which, though I stared. I could see nothing
but a dark void. I knew, too, that if I chose to turn from that door
now. I might be saved; and that I still had the power to leave. And
yet, I did not leave—because I felt myself at the very edge of the
mystery: as if I were holding the secret in my hands.
“Paris! You will conquer Paris,” I thought. And in that instant, Paris
was more powerful than Clarimonda.
I don’t think about that any more. Now, I feel only love. Love, and a
delicious terror.
Still, the moment itself endowed me with strength. I read my notes
again, engraving the gestures on my mind. Then I went back to the
window only to become aware that there was not one of my patterns that
I wanted to use. Standing there, it occurred to me to rub the side of
my nose; instead I found myself pressing my lips to the windowpane. I
tried to drum with my fingers on the window sill; instead, I brushed
my fingers through my hair. And so I understood that it was not that
Clarimonda did what I did. Rather, my gestures followed her lead and
with such lightning rapidity that we seemed to be moving
simultaneously. I, who had been so proud because I thought I had been
influencing her, I was in fact being influenced by her. Her
influence…so gentle…so delightful.
I have tried another experiment. I clenched my hands and put them in
my pockets firmly intending not to move them one bit. Clarimonda
raised her hand and, smiling at me, made a scolding gesture with her
finger. I did not budge, and yet I could feel how my right hand wished
to leave my pocket. I shoved my fingers against the lining, but
against my will, my hand left the pocket; my arm rose into the air. In
my turn, I made a scolding gesture with my finger and smiled.
It seemed to me that it was not I who was doing all this. It was a
stranger whom I was watching.
But, of course, I was mistaken. It was I making the gesture, and the
person watching me was the stranger; that very same stranger who, not
long ago, was so sure that he was on the edge of a great discovery. In
any case, it was not I.
Of what use to me is this discovery? I am here to do Clarimonda’s
will. Clarimonda, whom I love with an anguished heart.
Friday, March 25 I have cut the telephone cord. I have no wish to be
continually disturbed by the idiotic inspector just as the mysterious
hour arrives.
God. Why did I write that? Not a word of it is true. It is as if
someone else were directing my pen.
But I want to…want to…to write the truth here…though it is
costing me great effort. But I want to…once more…do what I want.
I have cut the telephone cord…ah…
Because I had to…there it is. Had to…
We stood at our windows this morning and played the game, which is now
different from what it was yesterday. Clarimonda makes a movement and
I resist it for as long as I can. Then I give in and do what she wants
without further struggle. I can hardly express what a joy it is to be
so conquered; to surrender entirely to her will.
We played. All at once, she stood up and walked back into her room,
where I could not see her; she was so engulfed by the dark. Then she
came back with a desk telephone, like mine, in her hands. She smiled
and set the telephone on the window sill, after which she took a knife
and cut the cord. Then I carried my telephone to the window where I
cut the cord. After that, I returned my phone to its place.
That’s how it happened…
I sit at my desk where I have been drinking tea the servant brought
me. He has come for the empty teapot, and I ask him for the time,
since my watch isn’t running properly. He says it is five fifteen.
Five fifteen…
I know that if I look out of my window, Clarimonda will be there
making a gesture that I will have to imitate. I will look just the
same. Clarimonda is there, smiling. If only I could turn my eyes away
from hers.
Now she parts the curtain. She takes the cord. It is red, just like
the cord in my window. She ties a noose and hangs the cord on the hook
in the window cross–bar.
She sits down and smiles.
No. Fear is no longer what I feel. Rather, it is a sort of oppressive
terror which I would not want to avoid for anything in the world. Its
grip is irresistible, profoundly cruel, and voluptuous in its
attraction.
I could go to the window, and do what she wants me to do, but I wait.
I struggle. I resist though I feel a mounting fascination that becomes
more intense each minute.
Here I am once more. Rashly, I went to the window where I did what
Clarimonda wanted. I took the cord, tied a noose, and hung it on the
hook…
Now, I want to see nothing else-except to stare at this paper. Because
if I look. I know what she will do…now…at the sixth hour of the
last day of the week. If I see her, I will have to do what she wants.
Have to…
I won’t see her…
I laugh. Loudly. No. I’m not laughing. Something is laughing in me,
and I know why. It is because of my…I won’t…
I won’t, and yet I know very well that I have to…have to look at
her. I must…must…and then…all that follows.
If I still wait, it is only to prolong this exquisite torture. Yes,
that’s it. This breathless anguish is my supreme delight. I write
quickly, quickly…just so I can continue to sit here; so I can
attenuate these seconds of pain.
Again, terror. Again. I know that I will look toward her. That I will
stand up. That I will hang myself.
That doesn’t frighten me. That is beautiful…even precious.
There is something else. What will happen afterwards? I don’t know,
but since my torment is so delicious. I feel…feel that something
horrible must follow.
Think…think…Write something. Anything at all…to keep from
looking toward her…
My name…Richard Bracquemont. Richard Bracquemont…Richard
Bracquemont…
Richard…
I can’t…go on. I must…no…no…must look at her…Richard
Bracquemont…no . .
. no more…Richard…Richard Bracque–. . .
The inspector of the ninth precinct, after repeated and vain efforts
to telephone Richard, arrived at the Hotel Stevens at 6:05. He found
the body of the student Richard Bracquemont hanging from the cross-bar
of the window in room #7, in the same position as each of his three
predecessors.
The expression on the student’s face, however, was different,
reflecting an appalling fear.
Bracquemont’s eyes were wide open and bulging from their sockets. His
lips were drawn into a rictus, and his jaws were clamped together. A
huge black spider whose body was dotted with purple spots lay crushed
and nearly bitten in two between his teeth.
On the table, there lay the student’s journal. The inspector read it
and went immediately to investigate the house across the street. What
he learned was that the second floor of that building had not been
lived in for many months.
The Saturday Night Special: “The Last Kiss” by Maurice Level
The Last Kiss
by Maurice Level
(1912)
The Project Gutenberg E-Text
This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
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http://gutenberg.net.au/licence.html
“Forgive me…Forgive me.”
His voice was less assured as he replied:
“Get up, dry your eyes. I, too, have a good deal to reproach myself with.”
“No, no,” she sobbed.
He shook his head.
“I ought never to have left you; you loved me. Just at first after it all happened…when I could still feel the fire of the vitriol burning my face, when I began to realize that I should never see again, that all my life I should be a thing of horror, of Death, certainly I wasn’t able to think of it like that. It isn’t possible to resign oneself all at once to such a fate…But living in this eternal darkness, a man’s thoughts pierce far below the surface and grow quiet like those of a person falling asleep, and gradually calm comes. To-day, no longer able to use my eyes, I see with my imagination. I see again our little house, our peaceful days, and your smile. I see your poor little face the night I said that last good-bye.”
“The judge couldn’t imagine any of that, could he? And it was only fair to try to explain, for they thought only of your action, the action that made me into…what I am. They were going to send you to prison where you would slowly have faded . . No years of such punishment for you could have given me back my eyes…When you saw me go into the witness-box you were
1875-1926
afraid, weren’t you? You believed that I would charge you, have you condemned? No, I could never have done that never…”
She was still crying. Her face buried in her hands.
“How good you are!…”
“I am just…”
In a voice that came in jerks she repeated:
“I repent, I repent; I have done the most awful thing to you that a woman could do, and you—you begged for my acquittal! And now you can even fid words of pity for me! What can I do to prove my sorrow? Oh, you are wonderful…wonderful…”
He let her go on talking and weeping; his head thrown back, his hands on the arms of his chair, he listened apparently without emotion. When she was calm again, he asked:
“What are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know…I shall rest for a few days…I am so tired hen I shall go back to work. I shall try to find a place in a shop or as a mannequin.”
His voice was a little stifled as he asked:
“You are still as pretty as ever?”
She did not reply.
“I want to know if you are as pretty as you used to be?”
She remained silent. With a slight shiver, he murmured: “It is dark now, isn’t it? Turn on the light. Though I can no longer see, I like to feel that there is light around me…Where are you?…Near the mantelpiece?…Stretch out your hand. You will find the switch there.”
No sense even of light could penetrate his eyelids, but from the sudden sound of horror she stifled, he knew that the lamp was on. For the first time she was able to see the result of her work, the terrifying face streaked with white swellings, seamed with red furrows, a narrow black band around the eyes. While he had pleaded for her in court, she had crouched on her seat weeping, not daring to look at him; now, before this abominable thing, she grew sick with a kind of disgust. But it was without any anger that he murmured:
“I am very different from the man you knew in the old days–I horrify you now, don’t I? You shrink from me?…”
She tried to keep her voice steady.
“Certainly not. I am here, in the same place…”
“Yes, now…and I want you to come still nearer. If you knew how the thought of your hands tempt me in my darkness. How I should love to feel their softness once again. But I dare not…And yet that is what I wanted to ask you: to let me feel your hand for a minute in mine. We, the blind, can get such marvelous memories from just a touch.”
Turning her head away, she held out her arm. Caressing her fingers, he murmured:
“Ah, how good. Don’t tremble. Let me try to imagine we are lovers again just as we used to be…but you are not wearing my ring. Why? I have not taken yours oft. Do you remember? You said, ‘It is our wedding-ring. Why have you taken it off?”
“I dare not wear it…”
“You must put it on again. You will wear it? Promise me.”
She stammered:
“I promise you.”
He was silent for a little while; then in a calmer voice:
“It must be quite dark now. How cold I am! If you only knew how cold it feels when one is blind. Your hands are warm; mine are frozen. I have not yet developed the fuller sense of touch.”
“It takes time, they say…At present I am like a little child learning.”
She let her fingers remain in his, sighing:
“Oh, Mon Dieu…Mon Dieu…”
Speaking like a man in a dream, he went on:
“How glad I am that you came. I wondered whether you would, and I felt I wanted to keep you with me for a long, long time: always…But that wouldn’t be possible. Life with me would be too sad. You see, little one, when people have memories like ours, they must be careful not to spoil them, and it must be horrible to look at me now, isn’t it?”
She tried to protest; what might have been a smile passed over his face.
“Why lie? I remember I once saw a man whose mistress had thrown vitriol over him. His face was not human. Women turned their heads away as they passed, while he, not being able to see and so not knowing, went on talking to the people who were shrinking away from him. I must be, I am like that poet wretch, am I not? Even you who knew me as I used to be, you tremble with disgust; I can feel it. For a long time you will be haunted by the remembrance of my face…it will come in between you and everything else…How the thought hurts…but don’t let us go on talking about me…You said just now that you were going back to work. Tell me your plans; come nearer, I don’t hear as well as I used to…Well?”
Their two armchairs were almost touching. She was silent. He sighed:
“Ah, I can smell your scent! How I have longed for it. I bought a bottle of the perfume you always used, but on me it didn’t smell the same. From you it comes mixed with the scent of your skin and hair. Come nearer, let me drink it in…You are going away, you will never come back again; let me draw in for the last time as much of you as I can…You shiver…am I then so horrible?”
She stammered:.”No…it is cold…”
“Why are you so lightly dressed? I don’t believe you brought a cloak. In November, too. It must be damp and dreary in the streets. How you tremble! How warm and comfortable it was in our little home…do you remember? You used to lay your face on my shoulder, and I used to hold you close to me. Who would want to sleep in my arms now? Come nearer. Give me your hand…There…What did you think when your lawyer told you I had asked to see you?”
“I thought I ought to come.”
“Do you still love me?”
Her voice was only a breath:
“Yes…”
Very slowly, his voice full of supplication, he said:
“I want to kiss you for the last time. I know it will be almost torture for you…Afterwards I Won’t ask anything more. You can go…May I?…Will you let me?…”
Involuntarily she shrank back; then, moved by shame and pity, not daring to refuse a joy to the poor wretch, she laid her head on his shoulder, held up her mouth and shut her eyes. He pressed her gently to him, silent, prolonging the happy moment. She opened her eyes, and seeing the terrible face so near, almost touching her own, for the second time she shivered with disgust and would have drawn sharply away. But he pressed her closer to him, passionately.
“You would go away so soon?…Stay a little longer…You haven’t seen enough of me…Look at me…and give me your mouth again…more of it than that…It is horrible, isn’t it?”
She moaned:
“You hurt me…”
“Oh, no,” he sneered, “I frighten you.”
She struggled.
“You hurt me! You hurt me!”
In a low voice he said:
“Sh-h. No noise; be quiet. I’ve got you now and I’ll keep you. For how many days have I waited for this moment…Keep still, I say, keep still! No nonsense! You know I am much stronger than you.”
He seized both her hands in one of his, took a little bottle from the pocket of his coat, drew out the stopper with his teeth, and went on in the same quiet voice:
“Yes, it is vitriol; bend your head…there…You will see; we are going to be incomparable lovers, made for each other…Ah, you tremble? Do you understand now why I had you acquitted, and why I made you come here to-day? Your pretty face will be exactly like mine. You will be a monstrous thing, and like me, blind!…Ah, yes, it hurts, hurts terribly.”
She opened her mouth to implore. He ordered:
“No! Not that! Shut your mouth! I don’t want to kill you, that would make it too easy for you.”
Gripping her in the bend of his arm, he pressed his hand on her mouth and poured the acid slowly over her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks. She struggled desperately, but he held her too firmly and kept on pouring as he talked:
“There…a little more…you bite, but that’s nothing…It hurts, doesn’t it? It is Hell. . .”
Suddenly he flung her away, crying:
“I am burning myself.”
She fell writhing on the floor. Already her face was nothing but a red rag.
Then he straightened himself, stumbled over her, felt about the wall to find the switch, and put out the light. And round them, as in them, was a great Darkness…
[Go to https://vimeo.com/65903388 to see a stage production of this work, one of the most popular of the Grand Guignol. Follow these links to articles on Slattery’s Art of Horror to find out more about Maurice Level, the Grand Guignol, and the Conte Cruel.]
Kbatz: The Ghosts of Dickens’ Past
Source: Kbatz: The Ghosts of Dickens’ Past
Merry Christmas! Here’s a different take on “A Christmas Carol”.
Phil Slattery, Writer, Publisher 