The Nightcharmer
and Other Tales
by
Claude Seignolle
Edited and translated with an introduction by Eric Hollingsworth Deudon
Foreword by Lawrence Durrell
Drawings by Kristin Parsons
TEXAS A&M UNIVERSITY PRESS College Station
Copyright © 1983 by Eric Hollingsworth Deudon
All rights reserved
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Seignolle, Claude.
The nightcharmer and other tales of Claude Seignolle.
Bibliography: p.
Contents: The nightcharmer—A dog story—The healer—[etc.]
1. Seignolle, Claude—Translations, English.
2. Horror tales, French—Translations into English.
3. Horror tales, English—Translations from French.
I. Deudon, Eric Hollingsworth.
II. Title.
PQ2637.E39A23 1983 843'.912 83-45104 ISBN 0-89096-169-7
Manufactured in the United States of America
FIRST EDITION
Table of Contents
Foreword
Introduction
The Nightcharmer
A Dog Story
The Healer
Starfish
The Outlander
The Last Rites
Hitching a Ride
Night Horses
Selected Bibliography
Foreword
THE invitation to write a foreword to the first English translation of Claude Seignolle's tales could not be more opportune. I have long struggled against the apathy and the lack of imagination of British publishers - vainly hoping to interest them in these unique, macabre, and demoniac stories.
Claude Seignolle's work could be characterized by suggesting that it belongs to the Anglo-Germanic Gothic tradition - to the lineage of Ernst Hoffman, Anne Radcliffe, and Mary Shelley. But it is more than that. The particular nature of Seignolle's stories separates him from these authors. He brings into play authentic material and real-life subjects, not just fictitious characters. Glancing through one of Seignolle's huge compilations on French folklore, any reader would understand that the werewolf and the vampire are as alive today in the rustic mind as they were in the past. He would also realize that even though Seignolle's books can be read as works of fiction, they actually reveal to some of us a most disquieting and personal message. And perhaps it is that new awareness that might lead the reader to wonder if...
The sorcerers are still alive today, acting invisibly on the secret life of man: they are not the dead subject matter of scholarship alone, but also fitting material for the poet who is always turning over the stones of the human mind to see what might lie underneath. It does not take long to become completely seduced, completely Seignollise. It is this curious taste of mystery that gives him poetic density in his work, even when he is writing of things very far removed from the diabolical.
For example, in La Gueule, his war memoirs, there is little enough about vampires or such matters; but the tone of his prose charges the atmosphere with the feeling of poetry and mystery. Poetic mystery hangs like a mist over his work. And yet - diable! - he is not dreamy, diffuse, sentimental; he is gay, strong, truthful, and intense.
In the actual execution of Seignolle there is a very special quality that comes, I believe, from the fact that he is a Frenchman and neither a German nor an Englishman; he treats his frightening subject matter with a rather tern lying lucidity and intellectual control that makes it most convincing. He is of course a born storyteller, but you never feel with his work (as you so often do with the Gothic school) that the writer has set out to épater you, or to frighten you.
The short stories here assembled and translated by Professor Deudon will widen the circle of those of us who like Gothic tales. I can predict that Claude Seignolle will draw a large audience in the United States and that his place in literature eventually will be as assured as Ambrose Bierce's is today.
LAWRENCE DURRELL
Introduction
In 1976, les Presses de la Renaissance in Paris undertook the publication of Claude Seignolle's complete fiction works - a task of some magnitude, since this new edition comprised no less than twenty-three volumes! But though Seignolle's works have already been translated into eight languages, adapted for both theatre and cinema, and chosen as the topic of more than one hundred literary articles, books, essays, and theses, they still remain practically unknown in the United States.
Several reasons can be found for this oversight: first, his writings have long awaited an English translation to make them available to the American public. Another reason, more subtle perhaps, concerns the author's orientation - that of an untiring and thorough exploration of the fantastic. The very nature of this subject matter seems to have pre-disposed certain critics to confine Seignolle's books within the lesser category of popular literature, thereby strengthening a prevailing contemporary attitude that offhandedly banishes the bizarre and the unearthly from the spheres of "literary respectability." Lawrence Durrell readily discerned the critics' biases when he wrote, "It is the diversity of his gifts and talent which have so far deprived Seignolle of the popularity his works deserve. His own particular blend of poetry, mystery and irony places him outside and above contemporary writers."
If Seignolle's fiction is still being ignored by many modem literature scholars, his name is not unfamiliar to American ethnologists. As a life member of the prestigious Société Préhistorique Française, into which he was inducted by Teilhard de Chardin, Seignolle published his first scholarly book in 1937, at the age of twenty. Collaborating with Professor Van Gennep, he wrote several definitive reference books on French folklore (Les Fouilles de Robinson, 1945; Eu Sologne, 1945; Le Folklore du Languedoc, I960; Le Folklore de la Provence, 1963; Le Berry traditionnel, 1969; Histoires et légendes de la Gascogne et de la Guyenne mystérieuses, 1973).
Seignolle's first incursion into literature dates back to 1945 when he published his first novel, followed in 1958 by his first short story. From that time on he wrote more than twenty consecutive volumes.
Two distinct types of short stories can be identified in Seignolle's writings: the "rustic" tale, which depicts folklore traditions by inducting the reader into the particular and eerie confines of the French countryside; and the "modem" narrative, in which primitive topics such as superstitions and black magic come alive within our contemporary society. Thus the reader will not be surprised to encounter such protagonists as the werewolf the damned, and a whole retinue of the creatures of the night. The author, however, does not portray them merely as frightening characters, for the totality of these themes represents a direct transposition from his research on folklore into the literary domain. The sorcerer and the accursed belong to ancient traditions, to which Seignolle has devoted a substantial part of his ethnological research. All are revived for a moment and depicted with the same fervour that still keeps them alive today among many residents of the French countryside. Seignolle does not write Gothic tales simply to intrigue, or even to terrorize, the reader. Above all, he writes in order to revive at the literary level a popular oral tradition in danger of becoming extinct.
Thus when he deals with the occult Seignolle portrays the Devil as he still survives in many rustic legends of France.
No need for blood-curdling or gruesome settings: the author incarnates Satan as an entity sharing many human traits, and this anthropomorphism reflects the essence of today's French folklore - simplicity and ruggedness within the ever-present influence of nature.
Following the path of Giono and Bosco, Seignolle revitalizes a wealth
of popular legends. The rusticity of this folklore, however, does not entail what is still too frequently scorned as peasants' incredulity and backwardness. Where Georges Bemanos depicted the Devil as conforming to Catholic traditions (a spirit who, summoned by Mouchette, "appeared instantly, without any commotion or tumult, frighteningly quiet and self-assured"), Seignolle portrays an evil spirit of popular inspiration - a man playing the role of a blacksmith in a small and remote village. This Satan repudiates his designs when he falls in love with a beautiful but mentally retarded young woman, the village idiot, who is the only one capable of recognizing his true identity. And when she is murdered by the villagers, the Devil is brought to identify himself with human suffering, transcending both his human disguise and his cosmic diabolical nature.
The works of Claude Seignolle are a true initiation into the patrimony of the rustic soul. They allow us to discover on this side of the Atlantic an author who deserves his place in the lineage of the great French storytellers. It would indeed be propitious to restore the Gothic tale to a place of prominence in the history of French literature. More than a theme or a genre, the fantastic reflects an original and privileged inspiration that still survives in the popular imagination. Through the medium of his short stories, Seignolle creates a certain nostalgia that our modem civilization is unable to eradicate.
ERIC H. DEUDON
The Nightcharmer
My old friend, Dr. M. from Chateauroux, had recommended that I visit the manor of Guernipin in Brenne, between Mezières and Rosnay, if the master of the house was kind enough to invite me, his mood being such that he was seldom inclined to grant the requests of the strangers who solicited him.
I thus discovered Guernipin and Geoffrey de la Tibaldière, an unrepentant zoologist and, quite fortunately, for a man with his passion, a bachelor sacrificing his comfort to accommodate an exceptional collection of animals, stuffed or preserved in jars. The man lived in a small room furnished with a simple cot, each of the other twenty comfortable rooms packed with a dusty and docile wildlife. He introduced me with enthusiasm to his domestic zoo, confessing that he had come down with that persistent and invasive collector’s fever in his childhood. He had foolishly caught the infection by the age of eight when he playfully trapped all the insects wandering about the property of Guernipin, and encased them in empty matchboxes, carefully labelled – admirable tiny coffins, once brand-new but now withered by time like the skin of their owner, who appeared to be the trusting type, to the point that he let me handle his treasures.
Guided by the most perfect of experts, as Mr. Tibaldière was a brisk old man of eighty-five and a collector’s piece in his own right, I was invited to peruse a shambles of feathers, bristles, and scales.
That first afternoon, we explored only the rooms of the ground floor, and when dusk drew the curtain on those local or exotic marvels, I was left with a craving to see more pieces. But having acquired a taste for this hunt so devoid of danger and exertion, I did not know how to hint at my desire to see the rest. He whetted my appetite by suggesting that I should sleep in the tall four-poster in the country-style bedroom he had set up in the garret of Guernipin. We would dine informally in the kitchen and continue to explore his scholarly memories, while eating an omelette with chanterelles and a truffled confit of duck. Sylvain, the servant, would see to replenishing our glasses with a Reuilly wine that was lordly in its small ways. Indeed, Mr. Tibaldière being talkative, my attention would satisfy his imperious desire to describe his treasures.
The bouquet of the Reuilly enhanced the aroma of truffles and chanterelles, and quickened the already nimble speech of my host. At midnight, which was lazily spelt out by an ancient, potbellied grandfather clock, he was still speaking, his back to the fire, assisted by Sylvain, a fifty-year-old man tanned up to his hairline. Sylvain looked like a Moorish crone, a common feature in this part of Berry, so close to Poitou, where the Saracen occupation had left traces in the peasants’ blood.
Mr. Tibaldière recounted his remote and adventurous hunts, when cross hairs on his rifle did not quiver in front of his eye; he lovingly dwelled on the local tradition, his youthful hours spent in patient exploration of burrows, nests and lairs, and he glorified the vibrant life of this country suspended between water and earth, an unparalleled paradise to sedentary and migratory fauna. At one o’clock in the morning, my head swam with new knowledge in ornithology: mallard (Anas platyrhynchos), gadwall (Chaublasmus stepera), shelduck – I will spare you the Latin – pochard, heron, coot, wheatear, water rail (Rallus aquaticus – but, I have not forgotten), all minutely described: appearance, calls, habits and more.
Sylvain slouched over an oak bench near the fireplace and, as patient as a dog that calculates in advance all the bones coming its way, yawned, loyalty incarnate. As for me, despite the strain of that long day, I dared not interrupt a host so prodigal with hospitality and words, nevertheless hoping that he, too, would soon grow sleepy. But Tibaldière rambled on about the mythical wildlife that the fiendishly superstitious peasants imagined prowling Brenne’s night. He told me about the Ghoulbird.
My curiosity rekindled, I straightened my back. A Ghoulbird! Even though I was tired, the promise of a brief legend-hunting enchanted me. Hearing that name, Sylvain had slid further on the bench, drawing near the fire as if he wished to move away from us, studying the crackling embers with the intensity of a man who sees flames for the first time.
"You should know," said Mr. Tibaldière, "that there was a time when this family of birds had spread to the point that every marsh across France and beyond had its own mind-calling spirit, a sly winged creature that lured the naive to utter horror."
I nodded while he moved onto a brilliant enumeration: Dreadfowl of Normandy, Owlfear of Ardennes, Shrikedeath of Brittany or the Tufted Screamers of Limousin, protean creatures spawned by the popular imagination in days of yore, brewed by the peasants’ gullible minds during troubled nights. Locally, they had a Ghoulbird, the only one still living in the country, and probably the last remaining anywhere.
Then my host raised his voice and, taking aim with an imaginary rifle, threatened, ‘I’ve never seen it. Otherwise –!’ And that sceptical man shot me a mischievous wink before turning to his servant and saying in a compassionate tone, ‘Is it so, Sylvain?’ But, failing for once in his perfect obedience, the man did not answer.
Finally, I was released. My host rose and entrusted me to his servant, giving him orders to make sure all my needs would be satisfied, and then he dismissed us with an abrupt about-face of enviable agility. Sylvain took a jug of water, a lamp and, walking ahead of me, led me slowly, never turning around, across long corridors and steep stairways up to the attic, my room.
I was not disappointed as I had feared. Quite the contrary. The place, though stifling because of the heat absorbed through the roof, was clean and pleasant. Vast, too, with beautiful glazed beams that sparkled as we passed. The curtained bed, made of walnut, smelled of wax, and the slightly rough bedclothes released a scent of lavender as I pulled them back. As for the four bouquets of cotton-cloth flowers tied to the posts, I feared there might be spiders hiding in there, but I reassured myself by thinking that they would certainly be pinned, labelled by species, and therefore harmless prisoners. Sensing my fears, Sylvain promptly unfolded the cloths and shook them to show me no spiders dwelled between printed petals. And he deigned to smile for the first time. Mr. Tibaldière’s authority must have been a heavy constraint to him, and he clearly wanted to chat.
He introduced me to the various features of the place, with great courtesy, and directed me to the dressing table and the small round-shaped dormer window, which he immediately opened to let in fresh air. In this regard, as I pointed out to him that this narrow opening might be insufficient, he beckoned me to a door, which he unlocked and pushed open. We climbed a narrow stone stairway and came out on the terrace of a crenellated tower that I hadn’t noticed upon arriving at Guernipin. The view, stretching in all directions,
was outstanding. Everywhere, as far as the eye could see, marshes, ponds and lakes glistened in the full moonlight and appeared to join and mingle into infinite lacings of water on dark earth. Encased in a vegetation thickened by shadows but made in fact of meagre shrubbery, the aquatic countryside shone like a jewel discarded for some minor flaw and relegated to this forgotten corner of opulent Berry.
I felt that Sylvain took great pride in my surprise. Showing the extent to which his offering moved me, I asked for details. The man knew his region by heart. I soon learned the name of each mirror consecrated to the moon, each moor and slough, the nearest so close we could have touched it with the toes of our boots, a harsh land, now in the process of drying up and hardening but still rotting, a traitor to the imprudent foot: the marsh of Gobble-Ox.
All need for sleep forgotten, I was loath to leave this wondrous nocturnal scenery, where the only missing element was a touch of life. I said to Sylvain, ‘What a pity that this fabled Ghoulbird of yours is only a legend; otherwise, I would have listened to its song and applauded with enthusiasm!’ The servant grabbed my arm and squeezed it. I realised that my words had robbed him of his pleasure. His voice dropped to a whisper.
"Never ever make such a wish, sir," he breathed out. "Particularly not under a full moon…It’s the kind of night the creature would choose to lead us to our deaths…" And he forced me to leave the roof terrace. Back in the garret room, he carefully locked the door to the tower.
In the light of the lamps, I was surprised to see his crumbling face covered with perspiration. Not to mention his manifest apprehension, so strong I felt almost compelled to reassure him by patting him in the back. But, made curious by his extreme reaction and exploiting my previous display of disbelief, I used a more artful way to restore his trust. I managed to have him sit with me on the edge of the bed and, matching the tone of my questions to his concern, I obtained a few details about this dreadful bird.
The Nightcharmer and Other Tales Page 1