The Woman of the Satyr by Jerome k Jerome. Wild Reindeer stalking is hardly
so exciting a sport as the evening's veranda talk in Norway hotels would lead the
trustful traveler to suppose, under the charge of your guide, a very young
man with the dreamy, wistful eyes of those who live in valleys, you
leave the farmstead early in the forenoon, arriving towards twilight at the desolate hut,
which, for so long as you remain upon the uplands, will be
your somewhat cheerless headquarters. Next morning, in the chill, mist laden dawn,
you rise, and, after a breakfast of coffee and dried fish,
shoulder your remington and step forth silently into the raw, damp air, the
guide locking the door behind you, the key grating harshly in the rusty lock.
For hour after hour you toil over the steep, stony ground, or
wind through the pines, speaking in whispers lest your voice reached the quick ears
of your prey that keeps its head ever pressed against the wind. Here and
there, in the hollows of the hills lie wide fields of snow over which
you pick your steps thoughtfully listening to the smothered thunder of the Torrent tunneling its
way beneath your feet, and wondering whether the frozen arch above it be at
all points as firm as is desirable. Now and again, as in single
file you walk cautiously along some jagged ridge, you catch glimpses of the green
world three thousand feet below you, though you gaze not long upon the view,
for your attention is chiefly directed to watching the footprints of the guide,
lest, by deviating to the right or left, you find yourself at one
stride back in the valley, or, to be more correct, are found
there. These things you do, and as exercise they are healthful and invigorating.
But a reindeer you never see, and, unless overcoming the prejudices of
your British bred conscience, you care to take an occasional pop at a fox,
you had better have left your rifle at the hut, and instead have
brought a stick, which would have been helpful. Notwithstanding which, the guide
continues, sanguine, and in broken English, helped out by stirring gesture,
tells of the terrible slaughter generally done by sportsmen under his superintendence, and of
the vast herds that generally infest these fields. And when you grow skeptical upon
the subject of rains, he whispers alluringly of bears. Once in a way
he will come across a track and will follow it breathlessly for hours, and
it will lead to a sheer precipice. Whether the explanation is suicide or a
reprehensible tendency on the part of the animal towards practical joking, you are left
to decide for yourself. Then, with many rough miles between you and your
rest, you abandon the chase. But I speak from personal experience. Merely
all day long we had tramped through the pitiless rain, stopping only for an
hour at noon to eat some dried venison and smoke a pipe beneath the shelter
of an overhanging cliff. Soon afterwards, Michael knocked over a riper, a
bird that will hardly take the trouble to hop out of your way with his
gun barrel, which incident cheered us a little, and later on our flagging
spirits were still further revived by the discovery of apparently very recent deer tracks.
These we followed forgetful in our eagerness of the lengthening distance back to the hut
of the fading daylight of the gathering mist. The track led us higher and
higher, farther and farther into the mountains, until on the shores of a
desolate, rock bound vand it abruptly ended, and we stood staring at one
another, and the snow began to fall. Unless in the next half hour
we could chance upon a satya, this meant passing the night upon the mountain.
Michael and I looked at the guide, but though with characteristic Norwegian sturdiness,
he put a bold face upon it, we could see that in that
deepening darkness he knew no more than we did. Wasting no time on words,
we made straight for the nearest point of descent, knowing that any human
habitation must be far below us. Down we scrambled, heedless of torn clothes
and bleeding hands, the darkness pressing close round us. Then suddenly it became
black, black as pitch, and we could only hear each other. Another
step might mean death. We stretched out our hands and felt each other.
Why we spoke in whispers, I do not know, but we seemed afraid
of our own voices. We agreed. There was nothing for it but to
stop where we were till morning, clinging to the short grass. So we
lay there side by side for what may have been five minutes, or may
have been an hour. Then, attempting to turn, I lost my grip
and rolled. I made convulsive efforts to clutch the ground, but the incline
was too steep. How far I fell I could not say. But at
last something stopped me. I felt it cautiously with my foot. It did
not yield, so I twisted myself round and touched it with my hand.
It seemed planted firmly in the earth. I passed my arm along to the
right, then to the left. I shouted with joy. It was a
fence rising and groping about me. I found an opening and passed through,
and crept forward with palms outstretched, until I touched the logs of a hut.
Then feel my way round, discovered the door and knocked. There came
no response, so I knocked louder, then pushed, and the heavy woodwork
yielded groaning, But the darkness within was even darker than the darkness without.
The others had contrived to crawl down and join me. Michael struck a wax
vesta and held it up, and slowly the room came out of the darkness
and stood round us. Then something rather startling happened. Giving one swift glance
about him, our guide uttered a cry and rushed out into the night.
We followed to the door and called after him, but only a voice came
to us out of the blackness, and the only words we could catch shrieked
back in terror, were seta fraunen sata frawnen the women of the satyr.
Some foolish superstition about the place, I suppose, said Michael. In these
mountain solitudes, men breed ghosts for company. Let us make a fire.
Perhaps when he sees the light, his desire for food and shelter may get
the better of his fears. We felt about the small enclosure round the house,
and gathered juniper and birch twigs, and kindled a fire upon the open
stove built in the corner of the room. Fortunately, we had some dried
reindeer and bread in our bag, and on that and the riper and the
contents of our flasks, we supped afterwards for a while. Away the time
we made an inspection of the strange eerie we had lighted on. It was
an old lock built Satya. Some of these mountain farmsteads are as old as
the stone ruins of other countries. Carvings of strange beasts and demons were upon
its blackened rafters, and on the lintel in runic letters ran this legend Hunt
builded me in the days of hard Fager. The house consisted of two large
apartments. Originally, no doubt these had been separate dwellings standing beside one another,
but they were now connected by a long, low gallery. Most of
the scanty furniture was almost as ancient as the walls themselves, but many articles
of a comparatively recent date had been added. All was, now, however,
rotting and falling into decay. The place appeared to have been deserted suddenly
by its last occupants. Household utensils lay as they were left, rust and
dirt encrusted on them. An open book, limp and mildewed, lay face
downwards on the table, while many others were scattered about both rooms, together
with much paper scored with faded ink. The curtains hung in shreds about the
windows. A woman's cloak of an antiquated fashion, drooped from a nail behind
the door. In an oak chest, we found a tumbled heap of yellow.
They were of various dates, extending over a period of four months,
and with them, apparently intended to receive them, lay a large envelope inscribed
with an address in London that has since disappeared. Strong curiosity overcoming faint scruples,
we read them by the dull glow of the burning juniper twigs, and
as we lay aside the last of them, there rose from the depths below
us a wailing cry, And all night long it rose and died away,
and rose again, and died away again, Whether born of our brain or
of some human thing, God knows. And these a little altered and shortened,
are the letters extract from first letter. I cannot tell you, my
dear Joyce, what a haven of peace this place is to me. After
the rackish and fret of 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 gray
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
Hunt, a maker of runs, 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 neighboring Satya, grew to
love him. Forgive me if I am telling you what you know. But
a Satya 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 live in their lonely huts,
entirely shut off from the world. Customs change a little in this land.
Two or three such stations are within climbing distance of this house at this day,
looked after by the farmer's daughters. As in the days of Hunt,
Maker of Ruins. Every night, by devious mountain paths, the woman would
come and tap lightly at Hunt's door. Hunt 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 runs and the sat 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 sater passed and
repassed each night. On a day when Hunt 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 Hunt
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
Hunt and his young wife. Since then, they say, the woman of
the Sata haunts Hunt'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 Hunt's Satyr, said my old gray 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 heard it, But these
mountain fastnesses seemed 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 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 that 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 hear make 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 must have been a
kerchief of her own, and that all the rest has been my imagination.
That if not, then my strain 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? Satya is a three hours climb to a strong
man, and the path is 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 li lips. The curse of
her stony eyes. She has seen she has lat 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 where concealed I could spy
upon my own house. She, my wife, stood by the flimsy bridge.
A short hatchet, such as butcher's 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.
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 writhing 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 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 pretense 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 smoldering twigs. I sometimes think I hear the tapping I have learnt
to listen for, and I start from my seat softly, open the door
and look out, but only the knight 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 arms 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 sentries has fallen from me as a flimsy garment
whirled away by the mountain wind. The old savage instincts of the race I
bear. 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
put 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 golden 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 few.
Ward 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 end of the woman of the satyr