_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 the 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 spring, 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 Drontheim, but the
natives are afraid to go near the place, and prefer to keep as far as
possible from any one 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 sæter grew to love him.
“Forgive me if I am telling you what you know, but a ‘sæter’ 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 sæter woman sat whispering.
“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 sæter
passed and repassed 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 sæter 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 sæter,’ 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 do so.”
_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.
“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 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 sæter is a
three-hours’ climb to a strong man, and 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.
“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 smoothes 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
wilt 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?
“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 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 these letters.
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 the thing that 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.