while he has health, strength, and physical or worldly appetite. And so
long as he is a brute or a fool, were it for a thousand years, he could
indeed go on eating, drinking, and frolicking with his kind. But with
experience there comes a soul, and to that soul in time a weariness
of all that earth contains, be it what it may. Now it is a curious
thing to observe that as the average growth of intellect in England
has increased--I pray ye here put on your studying-caps--the average
of life and the duration of vitality and intelligence has increased
with it. When the great Duke of Marlborough pleaded extreme old age in
asking for merciful indulgence--he was then sixty-three--no one thought
it strange. ’Tis hardly worth the while to say, that now, few people
would lend grace to such a plea, for life is lengthening, and ‘twill
lengthen on slowly--it may be--surely, into wondrous Time.
[5] The frolicsomeness of a panther suggests intoxication. In this it
surpasses all other animals. Therefore the car of Bacchus is drawn by
panthers.
FLAXIUS AND THE WERE-WOLF
THE WONDERFUL STORY TELLING HOW RANDOLPH OF UPSALA ATE THE SHEEP, AND
HOW MR. RANDOLPH OF WALL STREET DEVOURED THE LAMBS.
‘Now there are some people who think that those who believe they are
Were-wolves only suffer from what is called by doctors _Lycanthropia_.
But others hold that they are indeed changed to brutes, and this cannot
be denied, and those who deny it are all infamous liars.’--_Peter
Goldschmied_, _Hexen Advocat._ 1705.
IT happened once in the days of sword-songs and sagas, runic sorcery
and sea-dragons, that Flaxius found himself in Sweden on a summer
eve, gazing at the town of Upsala. He sat upon the little hill before
it, where, as tradition tells, Odin was buried. Ye may see his bones,
to-day, in a paste-board box in a case in the Stockholm Museum, where
I who write these lines was allowed to reverently touch them, which
is indeed a favour only accorded to a pious few who still worship the
gods, disguised as folk-lorists and archæologists--_quorum pars sum_.
Now as Flaxius looked upon the strange city, and the old tower,
with its eight arches typifying the eight rings or armlets of the
All-Father, he observed here and there on the walls, swinging in the
wind, the corpses of the strangers who were caught straying about the
country, and were then sentenced to _sus per coll_, or be hanged, slung
up, or hitched to swing, dangle, swaggle, and go bibbety-bob in the
breezes, as a sacrifice to Odin.
‘A somewhat severe custom,’ mused Flaxius gently, ‘yet doubtless
not without its peculiar advantages. The stranger within our gates
often seems to us well worthy of being gated, when he gets the entire
government of cities into his hands, and runs the taxes--into his own
pocket; as I with eye prophetic do foresee will be the case one day in
Western lands, but late discovered by these valiant Norse.
‘But for the Sacrificed on yonder walls. I remember how upon a time
in Rome when Nero made full oft grim martyrdoms, that a disciple
of Paulus asked--hearing me declare that there was humour in all
things--if it could be found in the awful conception of a God dying
as a criminal to show his humility and love for the world? And I can
recall how Odin once coming as stranger, or in some disguise, into this
very town, he being their god, was seized at once and hung on yonder
wall, as a due sacrifice unto himself. Over which thing he merrily
exults as if it were a wondrous racy joke, as we may read in the Edda:
‘“For nine nights,
I hung on the wind-rocked tree
A sacrifice unto myself.”
‘Truly the idea was too much for me, but not for the All-Father of
the Northern gods, who found a grotesque humour in the conception
of a Creator baffled by his own work. So he carried out the jest by
being hung. Ah well! he lost the game after all, which shows that the
Scandinavians were not good myth-makers. We managed these things much
better in Etruria, Greece, and Rome. “There’s nothing sacred to a
pioneer,” says a French proverb, and Odin was the _Sapeur_ and leader,
and discoverer for all the North. The Norseman and Norman were his
children. Od or Hud was his name as “the traveller,” and Henry Hudson
was of the blood. Like an old traveller, Odin would have his joke.
‘But as to this custom of stringing up, or scragging strangers, and
making them dance upon nothing in honour of the Lord Odin, it behoves
me to look to myself with care unless I too would wear a tight cravat,
and I care not for such worldly vanities.’
Saying this he wandered on and away, till he came to a lonely place
amid rocks and trees by a headlong stream, where he paused. Suddenly
his attention was caught by a cry, which he found came from a pit hard
by. It was a deep and powerful voice. And to it Flaxius replied:
‘Who calls?’
The voice answered:
‘I am one who has fallen into this pit, and have not the power to come
forth.’ Then he sang in staff-rhyme:
‘“To catch the Band-olf,
To take the Adelolf,
Bertolf, Eginolf,
Frekulf, Aistolf,
Hedenolf, Ingolf,
Kelolf and Kunolf,
Orkulf, Ordulf,
Ludolf and Rachulf,
Ralf and Ranulf,
Wolfram and Tackolf,
Theodolf, Unolf,
Wolfart and many a wolf,
Men with the sword,
Bearers of Lances,
Go forth to battle.
To catch the Were-wolf,
They dig the pit-fall,
With runes and sorcery,
Witch-rhyme and magic,
So well they guard it
That the wild wolf-man
Falling into it,
There must remain,
Starving, a prisoner,
Until a sorcerer,
Pitying, comes to him,
Breaking the witch-spell.”’
‘Which means in prose,’ said Flaxius, ‘that a poor devil of a
sheep-stealer, _alias_ a were-wolf, is here in the pit--more’s the
pity! There is to my mind indeed--I know not why--something less of
crime in stealing mutton and venison than some other things; in fact
I remember that a great Etruscan dramatist, now forgotten, once made
deer-poaching almost sacred. And I recall how a bold, brave man said
to a judge in my hearing: “Jedge, I’m glad you punished that mizzable
creeter so severely for stealing hens. Being naterally strong in the
back, it _hes_ befel at times when the country was thinly settled, that
I myself have now and then inadvertently stolen a sheep, but I allays
had the moral grandeur to refrain from Hens. _Hens!_ O the low, poor,
ornery, medium-minded cuss!--he orter to be _ashamed_ of himself!”’
The man in the pit uttered an exclamation not over-pious.
‘It would serve these Swedes right, for their hanging strangers at
Upsala,’ pursued Flaxius, ‘if I were to pull this poor devil up into
the light of day. Let us see how they have laid their hocus-pocus of
runes and witch-knots! Why rubbish and trash!’ he exclaimed with a
scornful laugh, ‘an old Roman witch who tells fortunes for a penny
would undo this sorcery with a pin! Ahem, let me try:
‘Aldebarantiphoscophornio!
Bombochidescluninstaridé sarchides!
Tarchun, Hinthial, Tara!
There--the charm is broken! Were-wolf, my son, come forth!’
And sure enough the pittite came forth. His appearance was _not_,
to draw it mildly, as Flaxius observed unto himself, ‘absolutely
prepossessing.’ _Punchius_, a celebrated Roman jester of the Lower
Empire, once remarked of such an appearance, ‘that he would not be a
nice customer to meet of a dark night in a lonely lane, on the loose.’
For he was red all over, as if with excessive health, and awful in
muscle, an over-done Hercules, like to the Cacus of Baccio or Bandinell
in the Signoria of Florence. His arms hung out from his sides like
a turtle’s fins, because the bulging biceps were so great. His hair
was red and dishevelled, and his eyes glared from under it with
unmitigated ferocity, like those of a wild cat staring from a pig-pen.
He bore on his left arm a wolf’s skin.
But suddenly, ere Flaxius could speak a word, the two found themselves
surrounded by a crowd of furious rustics, who had evidently been
ambushed on the watch, in the forest, about the pit. They rushed upon
the pair with angry cries, accusing Flaxius of having delivered the
Were-wolf, also of being a stranger, and ere they were aware, cast over
them a net in which they were helpless.
‘_Flagrante delicto_,’ thought Flaxius. ‘Misplaced humanity oft leads
to woe. He who lets a rat out of a trap loses his cheese. What next?’
The next was that the culprits found themselves imprisoned in the
witch-tower. Its walls were about twenty-five feet in thickness; there
was just room in it for two to sit on a bench, and there was one grated
window to admit air.
They looked at one another. Flaxius began to sing a song written some
time after by the Trouvère, Marie de France:
‘“When lays abound, ’twould ill beseem
Bisclaveret were not a theme;
Such is the name by Bretons sung,
And Gar-wal in the Norman tongue.”’
‘_Gar-wal!_’ exclaimed the other prisoner. ‘That means me--a were-wolf.
’Tis not our tongue, and yet I know the word.’
‘So I suppose, my son, therefore I sang,’ rejoined Flaxius. ‘So now
while we are resting a space, from our romantic adventure, ere we get
out of this somewhat limited apartment, I pray you tell me all your
story clearly ... in simple words, and few.’
‘By Fenris!’ exclaimed the Were-wolf, ‘I will tell you the truth. Loki
and Hela take me if I lie! I was a free, simple _bonde_, a plain small
farmer, and I lived from a flock of sheep. It was my all, and hard was
my life withal. Now I had a rich neighbour, and one year my pasture
was ruined by flood and storm, and this man being crafty, and I as
simple as a child, he persuaded me to pasture my sheep on his farm for
half the lambs to come. But he so managed by head-craft and law-craft,
as to take from me all I had; and when I followed my claim at the Thing
or court, it went even worse with me, and I was cast into debt, and
made a thrall or slave.
‘Then I was mad with rage. Short words, master--I met a witch who
gave me a spell, and I made myself a were-wolf. Then I slew all that
man’s sheep ... one by one ... I set fire to his home--his family all
perished in the flame--he escaped, lame and a beggar. And I was made a
Wolf’s Head.’
‘Truly a pretty tale!’ remarked Flaxius. ‘Apuleius might have made
something of it. _Entre chien et loup_ in this twilight, my son--or
_entre nous_--hast thou more to narrate?’
‘Yes. I had taken from my foe’s house a goodly treasure of gold rings
and coin, which I have concealed. Now, if any sorcerer would take the
wolf-spell from me and change my face, I would buy me a ship and go
a-pirating as a Viking, and so reform and lead an honest life.’
‘Truly men’s ideas as to _honesty_,’ reflected Flaxius, ‘are indeed
somewhat involved--or as we may say--conventional. But what dost thou
think, my son,’ he said aloud, ‘as to our present prospects?’
‘Simply, my lord, that we shall be burned alive to-morrow in honour of
Odin.’
‘All lost--except honour,’ quoth Flaxius. ‘But, my son, I have no fancy
to figure as a _rôti_, albeit I propose to be a _pièce de résistance_.
Let us for once in our harmless and innocent lives vary the monotony of
moral goodness by evading the law. All novelty is pleasing.’
‘And how shall we do it?’ asked the man amazed.
‘Thou art a strong carl,’ replied Flaxius, ‘and I warrant me that thou
couldst tear yon window grating out of its place. And I--’tis a mere
trick, my son--can increase thy strength ten-fold. Only drink now and
then from this flask. So, so! bully boy, to work! Work while I sing to
thee a magic spell taught by the great Ir-Ving.
‘“Hinculus dinculus trinculus!
Holy boly bum!
The Latin for chain is _Vinculus
Nunc inspiratus sum_!”’
It was with intense awe that the Were-wolf listened to these words, and
in full faith that he attacked the grating, which he pulled away as if
it were straw.
‘Now try a stone, my son!’ exclaimed Flaxius. ‘Nay--take a pull first
from the flask. There is a spirit therein, unknown to thee--_spiritus
vini Gallici, duæ unciæ, fiat potatio_!’
Crash came a stone weighing a ton, then another, then a third. The
Berserker rage was on the giant. Soon he had made a hole through which
one could have driven a coach, but he kept on.
‘Softly, softly, my dear boy!’ interposed Flaxius. ‘Thou art too good
an actor, and wilt bring down the whole house about our ears. Now, if
thou art ready, I see the new moon rising o’er yon trees. Ha! Hesperus!
I give thee greeting fond! Come to the green wood; let us haste away!’
It was a drop of twenty feet from the window, but the red man took
it like a mountain goat, and then caught Flaxius in his arms, like a
ball, albeit the latter was none of your light-weights, neither was he
small. Now, as the Wolf was still _berserk-wode_, or half-mad with the
tremendous magic potion, he gave a fearful yell, turning townwards,
‘And shook his gauntlet at the towers,’
when catching up Flaxius on his back, he ran with him, ‘as a fox might
run with a goose,’ thought the passenger, at headlong speed, along the
road and into the woods, crashing through boughs and thickets, over
rocks leaping, through torrents splashing; a-down a force or waterfall
here, up a hill there, while Flaxius sang:
‘“Va petit postillon!
Va en avant, vite, vite!
Tu vas comme l’aquilon
Sur ta jument favorite?
Go on, my postillion!
Before thee lies the way!
And thou art like an eagle fleet
Upon thy gallant grey!”’
Truly the similes were all a little mixed, but they were in a devil
of a shaking, jumbling hurry, and there was no pause till they found
themselves far away in a lonely land, where it seemed as if the cock
never crew, the sun never shone, and the wind never blew. There the
Berserker threw himself matt and flat on the ground, out of wind, and
dead broke. And then Flaxius noticed that he had in his right hand a
sheep, which he had caught up on the way as he ran.
‘Truly there is a good soldier lost in this man,’ said Flaxius. ‘He
can forage even during a retreat.’ So there was resting, cooking, and
camping _au clair de la lune_; and the next day they went on, and so
to the North for many days more. The wolf-man seemed to be bound for a
certain place, and Flaxius followed to see what would come thereout.
When on a time as they sat in a sunset on a headland overlooking a
fiord, and far away from Upsala, the Wolf-man said:
‘Master, wilt thou take from me the spell which forces me when the moon
is full to don this skin and raven as a wolf? For, anon, I shall begin
to feel fierce convulsions throbbing, and wild commotion in all my
blood, and raging madness for murder in my whole soul, the time for it
being nearly come, and then I spare neither beast nor human being. Now,
if thou dost not care to work the charm, there lives near this place,
a-down in yonder dale, a Finn who is a famed sorcerer, and to him will
I go for relief.’
Flaxius replied musingly, more to himself than to his follower:
‘Yes, it is true. Long, long ago in Greece, I made research into the
_Lycanthropia_, which is one of the oldest mysteries of mad humanity.
And it was in happy, sunny Arcady--_et in Arcadia ego_--where all was
like a proverb of sweet peace, that it first showed itself to the world.
‘In that land, my son, was a wicked king named _Lycaon_. Once it
happened that the great god, who was as the Odin and Frey of your faith
in one, whose name was Zeus or Jupiter, and in Etruscan, Tinia, came
in disguise to this Lycaon, who, to test the divinity or magic of his
visitor, set before him human flesh cooked as mutton.’
‘But that was a _great_ sin!’ exclaimed the Wolf-man, who was listening
with round eyes and full belief. ‘To treat a _guest_, who should be
sacred to the vilest of the vile, in such wise was _nidering_.’
‘It was _très_ low-flung, my son,’ said Flaxius, who had a habit of
prophetically borrowing phrases from vocabularies of the future. ‘Yes,
_niederträchtig_, scandalous, ribald, scrubby, pitiful, vile, infamous
conduct--_infra dignitatem regis_. And it was promptly punished, for
Zeus, on the spot, turned the king and his sons, who had had a hand in
the little game, all into wolves--the first wolves ever seen--and they
ran howling away through the door into the darkness, like mad.’
‘’Tis a fine tale,’ said the Wolf-man. ‘And so the first of us was a
_king_, and if he was wicked, he was bold to dare such a deed.’
‘But whence came this _mania_,’ continued Flaxius, talking to himself,
‘since there is a scientific cause for all things? _H’m-h’m!_ the
Arcadians were of the primæval race of the Pelasgi, who dwelt secluded
from the mob of Asiatics, Egyptians, Levantines, and God knows what
all, who fused into Greeks in time. In lonely valleys, deep in mountain
dales, they pastured flocks, fought with the beasts of prey, and
kept unchanged a mass of the wildest tales of sorcery and witchcraft
in freshest faith. So they knew _fear_ in its strangest form--the
_panicus terror_--which seizes on mobs of men or beasts, and the
_deliria_ of spectres, as no other Greeks knew them. Out of such fear
grew the bewildering _insania zoanthropica_, and the awful _insania
metamorphosis_ of which Nebuchadnezzar was the prototype. Finally
we get to the _dementia lycanthropia_, so interestingly exemplified
in thee--O my son!’ he exclaimed, turning to the other, who had sat
open-mouthed with wonder and admiration at the speech, of which he had
not understood one word. ‘By the way, what is thy name, my son?’ he
continued.
‘Ranulf, the mad wolf, is what men call me,’ said the other proudly.
‘_Mon fils, ce n’est pas l’instant pour la vanité humaine_,’ rejoined
Flaxius mildly; ‘but as regards removing this disorder of thine, I
would fain see how thy Finn will work it. I promise thee a cure in any
case.’
They went down and on, till they came to a large, low cottage, buried
amid birch-trees and willows. At the door sat an old man weaving
baskets, droning to himself an ancient lay, while by him crouched an
immense cat of some wild kind. The Finn was dressed in furs and woven
bast, or softened willow wood in strips; his face was withered, but
his eye was keen as an eagle’s, and as his glance met Flaxius, the two
understood one another,
‘The curse of Ilmarin, or of Fenris, lies heavily on him,’ said the
Finn, indicating Ranulf.
‘He hath a double curse,’ replied Flaxius, ‘with him it is _at leysa
or laedingi eda at drepa or droma_,--the wolf hath two fetters to
break--for he is firstly mad, and secondly outlawed, so that he must be
mentally cured, and then disguised so as to escape the law. And I would
fain see, my brother, how thou workest thy spell.’
‘By the Great Oak!’ exclaimed the sorcerer with a shrewd twinkle of his
eye, ‘I doubt not that our methods are much alike. But if it please
you, O wise lord from the far Out-gard, to see my simple work, I will
most willingly do my best.’
Saying this he took them into a room which was closed and windowless,
but in which burned a large, rude Lapland lamp; and having made Ranulf
drink of a certain potion, he rubbed him over with an ointment, in the
smell of which Flaxius detected certain ingredients which were to him
far from being unknown.
‘Ahem!’ he reflected, ‘extract of mandragora, opium, henbane (order
_solanaceæ_), sulphur, bitumen, verbena, _amico mio, dove diavolo avete
pigliato tutte queste coglionerie_--where the devil didst rake up all
this stuff? Yea, from the very ends of the earth do these Voodoos and
conjurors correspond, and the Shaman of Kamtschatka sends the _Ammanita
muscaria_ unto Timbuctoo for sorceries. Proceed, O friend, I pray thee
with thy work!’
The Finn laid the patient on a bed, lighted a pan, in which were
strange fumigants, and bade the Were-wolf look him long and steadily in
the eyes; which he did with ten owl-power till he began to blink like
a judge after luncheon, and finally went into a deep sleep. Then the
shaman, taking a kind of large, oval-shaped tambourine, covered with
reindeer skin, on which were drawn many mysterious, rude figures, began
to beat it gently, while he sang in strange and evidently carefully
measured and elaborately trained tones, the following:
‘By the soul of him the father!
By the mighty Wainamoinen!
By the sun and moon and planets,
And their light upon the water!
And the water all surrounding,
And the forest by the seashore,
And the bear within the forest!
And the runic mystery written
On his paw, and by the letters,
Which the lightning writes in darkness,
Only read by Ilmarinen!
By the One, Three, Five and Seven,
And the Four which causes growing,
Ever giving, life-begetting:
Wolf, I charge thee leave this mortal!
Fly along the running river,
Fly across the ferny mountains,
Fly into the pine-tree forest!
Flee across the birch-edged meadows!
Hasten to the oak-bound valley,
Or where slopes are dense with beeches,
Wade in haste through shallow water,
Where the fishes dart in terror!
By the rock on which the warriors
Cut of yore their strongest record,
With the mesh of interlaces,
Which avert the witches’ glances:
Wolf, I charge thee, leave this mortal!
Leave him so that when awaking,
He shall never more remember,
That he ever wore the wolf hide!’
Thereupon was heard near by the sound of a wolf howling, and, as one
would think, praying and expostulating with the shaman, who was,
however, very firm, and when the Wolf was over bold, began to sing
again:
‘Fly along the running river!’
Till at last the Wolf was heard at some distance, and then still
further away; his voice ever less audible, until it seem to disappear
amid rustling leaves, and mingle with the wind.
‘Admirably played, my brother,’ exclaimed Flaxius; ‘Apollo never did
the trick better. Hypnotized to perfection and cured--like a ham! Yes,
the wolf will be no longer at his door. And, my dear doctor, I like
your _mise en scène_, your drum and your poetry and perfumery. By the
way I can give you a hint or two as to improving the narcotics in your
ointment, and yet, who knows? perhaps for your rough folk you have the
best _fiat lotio Cras mane sumendus_.’
‘And if Ranulf would like to go a-Viking,’ said the shaman, ‘there is a
rich man hard by who has a fine ship to sell cheap, with forty men all
armed, and well.’
‘Just like your provident kindness,’ responded Flaxius. ‘Always the
same thoughtful old chap. And now for your fee--you won’t take it--ah
yes, _inter doctores_, among us members of the Faculty, of course. But
permit me,’ he said, producing from his pocket a second flask of the
mystic alchemical, spagirical essence, ‘to present to you a medicine
which is as yet unknown in the North. Taste it and try its virtue on
yourself! _Jameson, Dublin._’
Saying this he uncorked the bottle, presented it, and the Finnic
sorcerer, as the saying is, ‘took a sight’; that is to say, the bottle
ascended at an angle of forty-five degrees from his mouth, so that
his vision glanced exactly in a line with the side, as if it were a
pistol. He took very deliberate aim, was in no hurry, being evidently
determined to make a line-shot, hit the bull’s eye and bring down the
game, and then _clucked_. The shot had been fired. Then turning to
Flaxius he spoke no word, but uttered a _wink_, and such a wink as
Flaxius had never seen before in all his mighty experience. The charge
had gone home, and he had brought down his racoon, killing him dead at
a shot.[6]
There was a Finnish shaman sorcerer who had a wondrous interview with
Hibernian spirits all that night, and who was found next morning buried
in a magic trance. And far out at sea there was a solitary Viking sail
bearing southward, and from the oarsmen came the chorus of a song in
Icelandic:
‘Sing hey! sing ho! for the land of flowers!’
* * * * *
Ages had come and gone, and the cobwebs and dust had gathered three
inches deep in crust on many an old bottle of wine in many an ancient
cellar, when Flaxius found himself of a bright, crisp, autumn day in
the city of New York, presenting a letter of introduction to a retired
stockbroker, whose home was situated up the river, in the Catskills.
This gentleman was named Randolph, and Flaxius was much pleased with
him. He was a genial, jovial, merry-go-tumble man in a general way,
with a quaint American _mot_ for every circumstance, and quick at
filling the kettle whenever there was any fun to be boiled; but he
had withal evidently a tremendous hard pan, or substratum, of what is
called _horse-sense_, which is a sixth sense supplied by nature to her
Western children. He was immensely powerful, in fact a perfect picture
of excessive ruddy health, being one of those enviable muscular beasts
who can bend a horse-shoe, or tear in two a pack of cards; and he had a
tremendous shock of red hair.
This ‘powerful party’ took a great liking in turn to Flaxius, forcing
him to come at once, ‘to stay his time and plenty of it,’ at his villa
on the Hudson; where, what between reed-bird, venison, soft shell crab,
terrapin and snapper soup, Spanish mackerel and blue-fish banquets,
pretty faces, festivities, drives, and gaieties, the guest drew
comparisons with the pleasures of ancient Rome and Paris, not in all
respects favourable to the latter.