_Extract from first letter:_
"I cannot tell you, my dear Joyce, what a haven of peace this place is
to me after the racket and fret of town. I am almost quite recovered
already, and am growing stronger every day; and, joy of joys, my brain
has come back to me, fresher and more vigorous, I think, for its
holiday. In this silence and solitude my thoughts flow freely, and the
difficulties of my task are disappearing as if by magic. We are perched
upon a tiny plateau halfway up the mountain. On one side the rock rises
almost perpendicularly, piercing the sky; while on the other, two
thousand feet below us, the torrent hurls itself into black waters of
the fiord. The house consists of two rooms--or, rather, it is two cabins
connected by a passage. The larger one we use as a living room, and the
other is our sleeping apartment. We have no servant, but do everything
for ourselves. I fear sometimes Muriel must find it lonely. The nearest
human habitation is eight miles away, across the mountain, and not a
soul comes near us. I spend as much time as I can with her, however,
during the day, and make up for it by working at night after she has
gone to sleep, and when I question her, she only laughs, and answers
that she loves to have me all to herself. (Here you will smile
cynically, I know, and say, 'Humph, I wonder will she say the same when
they have been married six years instead of six months.') At the rate I
am working now I shall have finished my first volume by the end of
August, and then, my dear fellow, you must try and come over, and we
will walk and talk together 'amid these storm-reared temples of the
gods.' I have felt a new man since I arrived here. Instead of having to
'cudgel my brains,' as we say, thoughts crowd upon me. This work will
make my name."
_Part of the third letter, the second being mere talk about the
book (a history apparently) that the man was writing:_
"My dear Joyce,--I have written you two letters--this will make the
third--but have been unable to post them. Every day I have been
expecting a visit from some farmer or villager, for the Norwegians are
kindly people towards strangers--to say nothing of the inducements of
trade. A fortnight having passed, however, and the commissariat question
having become serious, I yesterday set out before dawn, and made my way
down to the valley; and this gives me something to tell you. Nearing the
village, I met a peasant woman. To my intense surprise, instead of
returning my salutation, she stared at me, as if I were some wild
animal, and shrank away from me as far as the width of the road would
permit. In the village the same experience awaited me. The children ran
from me, the people avoided me. At last a grey-haired old man appeared
to take pity on me, and from him I learnt the explanation of the
mystery. It seems there is a strange superstition attaching to this
house in which we are living. My things were brought up here by the two
men who accompanied me from Dronthiem, but the natives are afraid to go
near the place, and prefer to keep as far as possible from anyone
connected with it.
"The story is that the house was built by one Hund, 'a maker of runes'
(one of the old saga writers, no doubt), who lived here with his young
wife. All went peacefully until, unfortunately for him, a certain maiden
stationed at a neighbouring saeter grew to love him.--Forgive me if I am
telling you what you know, but a 'saeter' is the name given to the
upland pastures to which, during the summer, are sent the cattle,
generally under the charge of one or more of the maids. Here for three
months these girls will live in their lonely huts entirely shut off from
the world. Customs change little in this land. Two or three such
stations are within climbing distance of this house, at this day, looked
after by the farmers' daughters, as in the days of Hund, 'maker of
runes.'
"Every night, by devious mountain paths, the woman would come and tap
lightly at Hund's door. Hund had built himself two cabins, one behind
the other (these are now, as I think I have explained to you, connected
by a passage); the smaller one was the homestead, in the other he carved
and wrote, so that while the young wife slept the 'maker of runes' and
the saeter woman sat whispering.
[Illustration: "THE WOMAN WOULD TAP LIGHTLY AT HUND'S DOOR."]
"One night, however, the wife learnt all things, but said no word. Then,
as now, the ravine in front of the enclosure was crossed by a slight
bridge of planks, and over this bridge the woman of the saeter passed
and re-passed each night. On a day when Hund had gone down to fish in
the fiord, the wife took an axe, and hacked and hewed at the bridge, yet
it still looked firm and solid; and that night, as Hund sat waiting in
his workshop, there struck upon his ears a piercing cry, and a crashing
of logs and rolling rock, and then again the dull roaring of the torrent
far below.
"But the woman did not die unavenged, for that winter a man, skating far
down the fiord, noticed a curious object embedded in the ice; and when,
stooping, he looked closer, he saw two corpses, one gripping the other
by the throat, and the bodies were the bodies of Hund and his young
wife.
"Since then, they say the woman of the saeter haunts Hund's house, and
if she sees a light within she taps upon the door, and no man may keep
her out. Many, at different times, have tried to occupy the house, but
strange tales are told of them. 'Men do not live at Hund's saeter,' said
my old grey-haired friend, concluding his tale, 'they die there.' I have
persuaded some of the braver of the villagers to bring what provisions
and other necessaries we require up to a plateau about a mile from the
house and leave them there. That is the most I have been able to do. It
comes somewhat as a shock to one to find men and women--fairly educated
and intelligent as many of them are--slaves to fears that one would
expect a child to laugh at. But there is no reasoning with
superstition."
_Extract from the same letter, but from a part seemingly written
a day or two later:_
"At home I should have forgotten such a tale an hour after I had heard
it, but these mountain fastnesses seem strangely fit to be the last
stronghold of the supernatural. The woman haunts me already. At night,
instead of working, I find myself listening for her tapping at the door;
and yesterday an incident occurred that makes me fear for my own common
sense. I had gone out for a long walk alone, and the twilight was
thickening into darkness as I neared home. Suddenly looking up from my
reverie, I saw, standing on a knoll the other side of the ravine, the
figure of a woman. She held a cloak about her head, and I could not see
her face. I took off my cap, and called out a good-night to her, but she
never moved or spoke. Then, God knows why, for my brain was full of
other thoughts at the time, a clammy chill crept over me, and my tongue
grew dry and parched. I stood rooted to the spot, staring at her across
the yawning gorge that divided us, and slowly she moved away, and passed
into the gloom; and I continued my way. I have said nothing to Muriel,
and shall not. The effect the story has had upon myself warns me not
to."
_From a letter dated eleven days later:_
"She has come. I have known she would since that evening I saw her on
the mountain, and last night she came, and we have sat and looked into
each other's eyes. You will say, of course, that I am mad--that I have
not recovered from my fever--that I have been working too hard--that I
have heard a foolish tale, and that it has filled my overstrung brain
with foolish fancies--I have told myself all that. But the thing came,
nevertheless--a creature of flesh and blood? a creature of air? a
creature of my own imagination? what matter; it was real to me.
"It came last night, as I sat working, alone. Each night I have waited
for it, listened for it--longed for it, I know now. I heard the passing
of its feet upon the bridge, the tapping of its hand upon the door,
three times--tap, tap, tap. I felt my loins grow cold, and a pricking
pain about my head, and I gripped my chair with both hands, and waited,
and again there came the tapping--tap, tap, tap. I rose and slipped the
bolt of the door leading to the other room, and again I waited, and
again there came the tapping--tap, tap, tap. Then I opened the heavy
outer door, and the wind rushed past me, scattering my papers, and the
woman entered in, and I closed the door behind her. She threw her hood
back from her head, and unwound a kerchief from about her neck, and laid
it on the table. Then she crossed and sat before the fire, and I noticed
her bare feet were damp with the night dew.
[Illustration: "THE WOMAN ENTERED."]
"I stood over against her and gazed at her, and she smiled at me--a
strange, wicked smile, but I could have laid my soul at her feet. She
never spoke or moved, and neither did I feel the need of spoken words,
for I understood the meaning of those upon the Mount when they said,
'Let us make here tabernacles: it is good for us to be here.'
"How long a time passed thus I do not know, but suddenly the woman held
her hand up, listening, and there came a faint sound from the other
room. Then swiftly she drew her hood about her face and passed out,
closing the door softly behind her; and I drew back the bolt of the
inner door and waited, and hearing nothing more, sat down, and must have
fallen asleep in my chair.
"I awoke, and instantly there flashed through my mind the thought of the
kerchief the woman had left behind her, and I started from my chair to
hide it. But the table was already laid for breakfast, and my wife sat
with her elbows on the table and her head between her hands, watching me
with a look in her eyes that was new to me.
"She kissed me, though her lips were a little cold, and I argued to
myself that the whole thing must have been a dream. But later in the
day, passing the open door when her back was towards me, I saw her take
the kerchief from a locked chest and look at it.
"I have told myself it must have been a kerchief of her own, and that
all the rest has been my imagination--that if not, then my strange
visitant was no spirit, but a woman, and that, if human thing knows
human thing, it was no creature of flesh and blood that sat beside me
last night. Besides, what woman would she be? The nearest saeter is a
three hours' climb to a strong man, the paths are dangerous even in
daylight: what woman would have found them in the night? What woman
would have chilled the air around her, and have made the blood flow cold
through all my veins? Yet if she come again I will speak to her. I will
stretch out my hand and see whether she be mortal thing or only air."
_The fifth letter:_
"My dear Joyce,--Whether your eyes will ever see these letters is
doubtful. From this place I shall never send them. They would read to
you as the ravings of a madman. If ever I return to England I may one
day show them to you, but when I do it will be when I, with you, can
laugh over them. At present I write them merely to hide away--putting
the words down on paper saves my screaming them aloud.
"She comes each night now, taking the same seat beside the embers, and
fixing upon me those eyes, with the hell-light in them, that burn into
my brain; and at rare times she smiles, and all my Being passes out of
me, and is hers. I make no attempt to work. I sit listening for her
footsteps on the creaking bridge, for the rustling of her feet upon the
grass, for the tapping of her hand upon the door. No word is uttered
between us. Each day I say: 'When she comes to-night I will speak to
her. I will stretch out my hand and touch her.' Yet when she enters, all
thought and will goes out from me.
[Illustration: "I STOOD GAZING AT HER."]
"Last night, as I stood gazing at her, my soul filled with her wondrous
beauty as a lake with moonlight, her lips parted, and she started from
her chair, and, turning, I thought I saw a white face pressed against
the window, but as I looked it vanished. Then she drew her cloak about
her, and passed out. I slid back the bolt I always draw now, and stole
into the other room, and, taking down the lantern, held it above the
bed. But Muriel's eyes were closed as if in sleep."
_Extract from the sixth letter:_
"It is not the night I fear, but the day. I hate the sight of this woman
with whom I live, whom I call 'wife.' I shrink from the blow of her cold
lips, the curse of her stony eyes. She has seen, she has learnt; I feel
it, I know it. Yet she winds her arms around my neck, and calls me
sweetheart, and smooths my hair with her soft, false hands. We speak
mocking words of love to one another, but I know her cruel eyes are ever
following me. She is plotting her revenge, and I hate her, I hate her, I
hate her!"
_Part of the seventh letter:_
"This morning I went down to the fiord. I told her I should not be back
until the evening. She stood by the door watching me until we were mere
specks to one another, and a promontory of the mountain shut me from
view. Then, turning aside from the track, I made my way, running and
stumbling over the jagged ground, round to the other side of the
mountain, and began to climb again. It was slow, weary work. Often I had
to go miles out of my road to avoid a ravine, and twice I reached a high
point only to have to descend again. But at length I crossed the ridge,
and crept down to a spot from where, concealed, I could spy upon my own
house. She--my wife--stood by the flimsy bridge. A short hatchet, such
as butchers use, was in her hand. She leant against a pine trunk, with
her arm behind her, as one stands whose back aches with long stooping in
some cramped position; and even at that distance I could see the cruel
smile about her lips.
"Then I recrossed the ridge, and crawled down again, and, waiting until
evening, walked slowly up the path. As I came in view of the house she
saw me, and waved her handkerchief to me, and, in answer, I waved my
hat, and shouted curses at her that the wind whirled away into the
torrent. She met me with a kiss, and I breathed no hint to her that I
had seen. Let her devil's work remain undisturbed. Let it prove to me
what manner of thing this is that haunts me. If it be a Spirit, then the
bridge will bear it safely; if it be woman----
"But I dismiss the thought. If it be human thing why does it sit gazing
at me, never speaking; why does my tongue refuse to question it; why
does all power forsake me in its presence, so that I stand as in a
dream? Yet if it be Spirit, why do I hear the passing of her feet; and
why does the night-rain glisten on her hair?
[Illustration: "TO THE UTMOST EDGE."]
"I force myself back into my chair. It is far into the night, and I am
alone, waiting, listening. If it be Spirit, she will come to me; and if
it be woman, I shall hear her cry above the storm--unless it be a demon
mocking me.
"I have heard the cry. It rose, piercing and shrill, above the storm,
above the riving and rending of the bridge, above the downward crashing
of the logs and loosened stones. I hear it as I listen now. It is
cleaving its way upward from the depths below. It is wailing through the
room as I sit writing.
"I have crawled upon my belly to the utmost edge of the still standing
pier until I could feel with my hand the jagged splinters left by the
fallen planks, and have looked down. But the chasm was full to the brim
with darkness. I shouted, but the wind shook my voice into mocking
laughter. I sit here, feebly striking at the madness that is creeping
nearer and nearer to me. I tell myself the whole thing is but the fever
in my brain. The bridge was rotten. The storm was strong. The cry is but
a single one among the many voices of the mountain. Yet still I listen,
and it rises, clear and shrill, above the moaning of the pines, above
the mighty sobbing of the waters. It beats like blows upon my skull, and
I know that she will never come again."
_Extract from the last letter:_
"I shall address an envelope to you, and leave it among them. Then,
should I never come back, some chance wanderer may one day find and post
them to you, and you will know.
"My books and writings remain untouched. We sit together of a
night--this woman I call 'wife' and I--she holding in her hands some
knitted thing that never grows longer by a single stitch, and I with a
volume before me that is ever open at the same page. And day and night
we watch each other stealthily, moving to and fro about the silent
house; and at times, looking round swiftly, I catch the smile upon her
lips before she has time to smooth it away.
"We speak like strangers about this and that, making talk to hide our
thoughts. We make a pretence of busying ourselves about whatever will
help us to keep apart from one another.
"At night, sitting here between the shadows and the dull glow of the
smouldering twigs, I sometimes think I hear the tapping I have learnt to
listen for, and I start from my seat, and softly open the door and look
out. But only the Night stands there. Then I close-to the latch, and
she--the living woman--asks me in her purring voice what sound I heard,
hiding a smile as she stoops low over her work, and I answer lightly,
and, moving towards her, put my arm about her, feeling her softness and
her suppleness, and wondering, supposing I held her close to me with one
arm while pressing her from me with the other, how long before I should
hear the cracking of her bones.
"For here, amid these savage solitudes, I also am grown savage. The old
primeval passions of love and hate stir within me, and they are fierce
and cruel and strong, beyond what you men of the later ages could
understand. The culture of the centuries has fallen from me as a flimsy
garment whirled away by the mountain wind; the old savage instincts of
the race lie bare. One day I shall twine my fingers about her full white
throat, and her eyes will slowly come towards me, and her lips will
part, and the red tongue creep out; and backwards, step by step, I shall
push her before me, gazing the while upon her bloodless face, and it
will be my turn to smile. Backwards through the open door, backwards
along the garden path between the juniper bushes, backwards till her
heels are overhanging the ravine, and she grips life with nothing but
her little toes, I shall force her, step by step, before me. Then I
shall lean forward, closer, closer, till I kiss her purpling lips, and
down, down, down, past the startled sea-birds, past the white spray of
the foss, past the downward peeping pines, down, down, down, we will go
together, till we find my love where she lies sleeping beneath the
waters of the fiord."
With these words ended the last letter, unsigned. At the first streak of
dawn we left the house, and, after much wandering, found our way back to
the valley. But of our guide we heard no news. Whether he remained still
upon the mountain, or whether by some false step he had perished upon
that night, we never learnt.
[Illustration: ALPHONSE DAUDET.]
_Alphonse Daudet at Home._