“You seem to know a good deal about witches,” remarked Satan. “But you were going to say what you thought about me.”
She shook her head.
“Go on,” he said encouragingly. “You compared me to a knight-errant. That’s very pretty. I believe you have also compared me to a hunter, a poaching sort of hunter, prowling through the woods after dark. Not so flattering to my vanity as the knight-errant, but more accurate, I daresay.”
“O Satan! Why do you encourage me to talk when you know all my thoughts?”
“I encourage you to talk, not that I may know all your thoughts, but that you may. Go on, Laura. Don’t be foolish. What do you think about me?”
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I don’t think I do think. I only rhapsodize and make comparisons. You’re beyond me, my thought flies off you like the centrifugal hypothesis. And after this I shall be more at a loss than ever, for I like you so much, I find you so kind and sympathetic. But it is obvious that you can’t be merely a benevolent institution. No, I must be your witch in blindness.”
“You don’t take warlocks so seriously, I know. But you might find their point of view illuminating. As it’s a spiritual difficulty, why not consult Mr. Jones?”
“Poor Mr. Jones!” Laura began to laugh. “He can’t call his soul his own.”
“Hush! Have you forgotten that he has sold it to me?”
“Then why did you mortgage it to Mr. Gurdon? Mr. Jones isn’t even allowed to attend the Sabbath.”
“You are a little dense at times. Hasn’t it occurred to you that other people might share your sophisticated dislike for the Sabbath?”
“You don’t attend the Sabbath either, if it comes to that.”
“How do you know? Don’t try to put me in your pocket, Laura. You are not my only conquest, and I am not a human master to have favorites among my servants. All are souls that come to my net. I apologize for the pun, but it is apt.”
She had been rebuked, but she did not feel particularly abashed. It was true, then, what she had read of the happy relationship between the Devil and his servants. If Euphan Macalzean had rated him—why, so, at a pinch, might she. Other things that she had read might also be true, she thought, things that she had till now been inclined to reject. So easy-going a Master who had no favorites among his servants might in reality attend the Sabbath, might unbend enough to eat black-puddings at a picnic without losing his dignity.
“That offensive young man at the Sabbath,” she remarked, “I know he wasn’t you. Who was he?”
“He’s one of these brilliant young authors,” replied the Devil. “I believe Titus knows him. He sold me his soul on the condition that once a week he should be without doubt the most important person at a party.”
“Why didn’t he sell his soul in order to become a great writer? Then he could have had the party into the bargain.”
“He preferred to take a short-cut, you see.”
She didn’t see. But she was too proud to inquire further, especially as Satan was now smiling at her as if she were a pet lamb.
“What did Mr. Jones—”
“That’s enough! You can ask him that yourself, when you take your lessons in demonology.”
“Do you suppose for one moment that Mr. Gurdon would let me sit closeted with Mr. Jones taking lessons in plain needlework even? He would put his face in at the window and say: ‘How much longer are them Mothers to be kept waiting?’ or: ‘I should like to know what your reverence is doing about that there dung?’ or: ‘I suppose you know that the cowman’s girl may go off at any minute.’ And then he’d take him down to the shrubbery and scold him. My heart bleeds for the poor old gentleman!”
“Mr. Jones”—Satan spoke demurely—“will have his reward in another life.”
Laura was silent. She gazed at the Maulgrave Folly with what she could feel to be a pensive expression. But her mind was a blank.
“A delicate point, you say? Perhaps it is bad taste on my part to jest about it.”
A midge settled on Laura’s wrist. She smacked at it.
“Dead!” said Satan.
The word dropped into her mind like a pebble thrown into a pond. She had heard it so often, and now she heard it once more. The same waves of thought circled outwards, waves of startled thought spreading out on all sides, rocking the shadows of familiar things, blurring the steadfast pictures of trees and clouds, circling outward one after the other, each wave more listless, more imperceptible than the last, until the pool was still again.
There might be some questions that even the Devil could not answer. She turned her eyes to him with their question.
Satan had risen to his feet. He picked up the flag basket and the shears, and made ready to go.
“Is it time?” asked Laura.
He nodded, and smiled.
She got up in her turn, and began to shake the dust off her skirt. Then she prodded a hole for the bag which had held the apples, and buried it tidily, smoothing the earth over the hole. This took a little time to do, and when she looked round for Satan, to say good-bye, he was out of sight.
Seeing that he was gone she sat down again, for she wanted to think him over. A pleasant conversation, though she had done most of the talking. The tract of flattened grass at her side showed where he had rested, and there was the rampion flower he had held in his hand. Grass that has been lain upon has always a rather popular bank-holidayish look, and even the Devil’s lair was not exempt from this. It was as though the grass were in league with him, faithfully playing-up to his pose of being a quite everyday phenomenon. Not a blade of grass was singed, not a clover-leaf blasted, and the rampion flower was withering quite naturally; yet he who had sat there was Satan, the author of all evil, whose thoughts were a darkness, whose roots went down into the pit. There was no action too mean for him, no instrument too petty; he would go into a milk-jug to work mischief. And presently he would emerge, imperturbable, inscrutable, enormous with the dignity of natural behavior and untrammeled self-fulfillment.
To be this—a character truly integral, a perpetual flowering of power and cunning from an undivided will—was enough to constitute the charm and majesty of the Devil. No cloak of terrors was necessary to enlarge that stature, and to suppose him capable of speculation or metaphysic would be like offering to crown him with a few casual straws. Very probably he was quite stupid. When she had asked him about death he had got up and gone away, which looked as if he did not know much more about it than she did herself: indeed, being immortal, it was unlikely that he would know as much. Instead, his mind brooded immovably over the landscape and over the natures of men, an unforgetting and unchoosing mind. That, of course—and she jumped up in her excitement and began to wave her arms—was why he was the Devil, the enemy of souls. His memory was too long, too retentive; there was no appeasing its witness, no hoodwinking it with the present; and that was why at one stage of civilization people said he was the embodiment of all evil, and then a little later on that he didn’t exist.
For a moment Laura thought that she had him: and on the next, as though he had tricked himself out of her grasp, her thoughts were scattered by the sudden consciousness of a sort of jerk in the atmosphere. The sun had gone down, sliding abruptly behind the hills. In that case the bus would have gone too, she might as well hope to catch the one as the other. First Satan, then the sun and the bus—adieu, mes gens! With affectionate unconcern she seemed to be waving them farewell, pleased to be left to herself, left to enter into this new independence acknowledged by their departure.
The night was at her disposal. She might walk back to Great Mop and arrive very late: or she might sleep out and not trouble to arrive until tomorrow. Whichever she did Mrs. Leak would not mind. That was one of the advantages of dealing with witches; they do not mind if you are a little odd in your ways, frown if you are late for meals, fret if you are out all night, pry and commiserate when at length you return. Lovely to be with people who prefer their thoughts to
yours, lovely to live at your own sweet will, lovely to sleep out all night! She had quite decided, now, to do so. It was an adventure, she had never done such a thing before, and yet it seemed most natural. She would not sleep here: Wickendon was too close. But presently, later on, when she felt inclined to, she would wander off in search of a suitable dry ditch or an accommodating loosened haystack; or wading through last year’s leaves and this year’s fern she would penetrate into a wood and burrow herself a bed. Satan going his rounds might come upon her and smile to see her lying so peaceful and secure in his dangerous keeping. But he would not disturb her. Why should he? The pursuit was over, as far as she was concerned. She could sleep where she pleased, a hind couched in the Devil’s coverts, a witch made free of her Master’s immunity; while he, wakeful and stealthy, was already out after new game. So he would not disturb her. A closer darkness upon her slumber, a deeper voice in the murmuring leaves overhead—that would be all she would know of his undesiring and unjudging gaze, his satisfied but profoundly indifferent ownership.
THIS IS A NEW YORK REVIEW BOOK
PUBLISHED BY THE NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS
Introduction copyright © 1999 by Alison Lurie.
All rights reserved.
Cover image: August Neter, Witches' Heads (detail), before 1919
Cover design: Katy Homans
First published by The Viking Press, 1926
This edition first published in 1999 in the United States of America by The New York Review of Books
435 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
www.nyrb.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Warner, Sylvia Townsend, 1893–
Lolly Willowes, or, The loving huntsman / by Sylvia Townsend Warner; introduction by Alison Lurie.
p. cm.
I. Title. II. Title: Lolly Willowes. III. Title: Loving huntsman.
PR6045.A812L65 1999
823'.912—dc 21 99-14569
ISBN 978-0-940322-16-5
eISBN: 978-1-59017-405-0
v1.0
For a complete list of books in the NYRB Classics series, visit www.nyrb.com or write to:
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Lolly Willowes Page 16