by John Fowles
I'll take her there, Eliduc said to himself, I'll bury her in his chapel. Then bestow land and found an abbey or a monastery. Nuns or canons, who can pray for her every day, may God have mercy on her soul.
He had horses brought and ordered everyone to mount, then made them promise they would never betray him. He carried Guilliadun's body in front of him, on his own horse. They took the most direct road and soon entered the forest. At last they came to the chapel, and called and knocked. But no voice answered and the door stayed closed. Eliduc made one of his men climb in and open it. They found a fresh tomb: the pure and saintly hermit had died that previous week. They stood there sad and dismayed. The men wanted to prepare the grave in which Eliduc must leave Guilliadun for ever, but he made them withdraw outside the chapel.
'This isn't right. I need advice first from the experts on how I can glorify this place with an abbey or a convent. For now we'll lay Guilliadun before the altar and leave her in God's care.'
He had bedding brought and they quickly made a restingplace for the girl; then laid her there, and left her for dead. But when Eliduc came to leave the chapel, he thought he would die of pain. He kissed her eyes, her face.
'Darling heart, may it please God I'll never bear arms again or live in the outer world. I damn the day you ever saw me. Dear gentle thing, why did you come with me? Not even a queen could have loved me more trustingly. More deeply. My heart breaks for you. On the day I bury you, I'll enter a monastery. Then come here every day and weep all my desolation out on your tomb.'
Abruptly then he turned from the girl's body and closed the chapel door.
He had sent a messenger on ahead to tell his wife he was coming, but tired and worn. Full of happiness at the news, she dressed to meet him; and welcomed him back affectionately. But she had little joy of it. Eliduc gave her not a single smile or a kind word. No one dared to ask why. He stayed like that for a couple of days--each early morning, having heard mass, he took the road to the forest and the chapel where Guilliadun lay... still unconscious, without breathing, no sign of life. Yet something greatly puzzled him: she had hardly lost colour, her skin stayed pink and white, only very faintly pale. In profound despair, Eliduc wept and prayed for her soul. Then having done that, he returned home.
The following day, when he came out of the church after mass, there was a spy--a young servant his wife had promised horses and arms to if he could follow at a distance and see which way his master went. The lad did as she ordered. He rides into the forest after Eliduc without being seen. He watched well, saw how Eliduc went into the chapel, and heard the state he was in. As soon as Eliduc came out, the servant went home and told his mistress everything--all the sounds of anguish her husband had made inside the chapel. From being resentful, she now felt touched.
'We'll go there as soon as possible and search the place. Your master must be off soon to court, to confer with the king. The hermit died some time ago. I know Eliduc was very fond of him, but that wouldn't make him behave like this. Not show such grief.'
Thus for the time being she left the mystery.
That very same afternoon Eliduc set off to speak with the King of Brittany. His wife took the servant with her and he led her to the hermitage chapel. As soon as she went in she saw the bed and the girl lying on it, as fresh as a first rose. She pulled back the covering and revealed the slender body, the slim arms, the white hands with their long and delicately smooth-skinned fingers. She knew the truth at once--why Eliduc had his tragic face. She called the servant forward and showed him the miraculous corpse.
'Do you see this girl? She's as lovely as a jewel. She's my husband's mistress. That's why he's so miserable. Somehow it doesn't shock me. So pretty... to have died so young. I feel only pity for her. And I still love him. It's a tragedy for us all.'
She began to cry, in sympathy for Guilliadun. But as she sat by the death-bed with tears in her eyes a weasel darts out from beneath the altar. The servant struck at it with a stick to stop it running over the corpse. He killed it, then threw the small body into the middle of the chance! floor. It had not been there long when its mate appeared and saw where it lay. The living animal ran round the dead one's head and touched it several times with a foot. But when this failed, it seemed distressed. Suddenly it ran out of the chapel into the forest grass. There it picked a deep red flower with its teeth, then carried it quickly back and placed it in the mouth of the weasel the servant had killed. Instantly the animal came back to life. The wife had watched all this, and now she cried out to the servant.
'Catch it! Throw, boy! Don't let it escape!'
He hurled his stick and hit the weasel. The blossom fell from between its teeth. Eliduc's wife went and picked it up, then returned and placed the exquisite red flower in Guilliadun's mouth. For a second or two nothing happened, but then the girl stirred, sighed, and opened her eyes.
'Good lord,' she murmured, 'how long I've slept!'
When the wife heard her speak, she thanked heaven. Then she asked Guilliadun who she was.
'My lady, I'm British born, the daughter of a king there. I fell hopelessly in love with a knight, a brave mercenary called Eliduc. He eloped with me. But he was wicked, he deceived me. He had a wife all the time. He never told me, never gave me the least hint. WThen I heard the truth, I fainted with the agony of it. Now he's brutally left me helpless here in a foreign country. He tricked me, I don't know what will become of me. Women are mad to trust in men.'
'My dear,' said the lady, 'he's been quite inconsolable. I can assure you of that. He thinks you're dead, he's been mad with grief. He's come here to look at you every day. But obviously you've always been unconscious. I'm his real wife, and I'm deeply sorry for him. He was so unhappy... r wanted to find out where he was disappearing to, so I had him followed, and that's how I found you. And now I'm glad you're alive after all. I'm going to take you away with me. And give you back to him. I'll tell the world he's not to blame for anything. Then I shall take the veil.'
She spoke so comfortingly that Guilliadun went home with her. The wife made the servant get ready and sent him after Eliduc. He rode hard and soon came up with him. The lad greeted Eliduc respectfully, then tells him the whole story. Eliduc leaps on a horse, without waiting for his friends. That same night he was home, and found Guilliadun restored to life. He gently thanks his wife, he's in his seventh heaven, he's never known such happiness. He can't stop kissing Guilliadun; and she keeps kissing him shyly back. They can't hide their joy at being reunited. When Eliduc's wife saw how things stood, she told her husband her plans. She asked his formal permission for a separation, she wished to become a nun and serve God. He must give her some of his land and she would found an abbey on it. And then he must marry the girl he loved so much, since it was neither decent nor proper, besides being against the law, to live with two wives. Eliduc did not try to argue with her; he'll do exactly as she wants and give her the land.
In the same woodlands near the castle that held the hermitage chapel he had a church built, and all the other offices of a nunnery. Then he settled a great deal of property and other possessions on it. When everything was ready, his wife took the veil, along with thirty other nuns. Thus she established her order and her new way of life.
Eliduc married Guilliadun. The wedding was celebrated with great pomp and circumstance, and for a long time they lived happily together in a perfect harmony of love. They gave a great deal away and performed many good deeds, so much so that in the end they also turned religious. After great deliberation and forethought, Eliduc had a church built on the other side of his castle and endowed it with all his money and the greater part of his estate. He appointed servants and other religious people to look after the order and its buildings. When all was ready, he delayed no mote: he surrenders himself with his servants to omnipotent God. And Guilliadun, whom he loved so much, he sent to join his first wife. GuildelŸec received her as if she were her own sister and did her great honour, teaching her how to serve God and live th
e religious life of the order. They prayed for the salvation of Eliduc's soul, and in his turn he prayed for both of them. He found out by messengers how they were, how they comforted each other. All three tried in their own ways to love God with true faith; and in the end, by the mercy of God in whom all truth reposes, each died a peaceful death.
The noble Celts composed this story long ago to enshrine the strange adventure of these three. May it never be forgotten!
Poor Koko
Byth dorn re ver dhe'n tavas re hyr,
Mes den hep tavas a-gollas y dyr.
Certain melodramatic situations derived from the detective story and the thriller have been so done to death by the cinema and television that I suspect a new and nonsensical law of inverse probability has been established--the more frequently one of these situations is shown on the screen, the less chance there is of its taking place in the viewer's real life. Ironically enough I had maintained an analogous argument with a bright young genius from the B. B. C. only a month or two before the deeply distressing experience that is the subject of this narrative. He had been rather humourlessly upset by my cynical declaration that the more abhorrent a news item the more comforting it was to the recipient, since the fact that it had happened elsewhere proved that it had not happened here, was not happening here, and would therefore never happen here. I had to climb down, needless to say, and to admit that the latterday Pangloss in all of us who regards tragedy as a privilege of other people was a thoroughly wicked and anti-social creature.
None the less, when I first woke, that night of my ordeal, I lay as much in a state of incredulity as of fear. I told myself I had been dreaming, that what had seemed to shatter must have done so in my nocturnal unconscious, not in external reality. Propped on one elbow, I surveyed the darkened room, then listened on with straining ears. Yet still reason told me that what I feared was a thousand times more probable in London than where I actually found myself. Indeed I was on the point of sinking back and putting my somewhat childish reaction down to this first night alone in a comparatively strange house. I have never been a lover of silence, in people or in places, and I missed the familiar all-night sounds from outside my London flat.
But then there came from below a light chink, or clink, as if something metallic had accidentally touched an edge of glass or china. A mere creak, the thump of a door banging gently to, might have allowed of other possibilities. This was a sound that did not. From vaguely alarmed I very swiftly became exceedingly frightened.
A friend of mine once maintained that there is a class of experiences we should all have had before death if we wished to claim to have lived fully. Believing one was certain to be drowned was an example. Being caught in bed all this took place at a not very serious dinner-party--with someone else's wife was another; seeing a ghost was a third, and killing another human being a fourth. I recall that although I added one or two equally preposterous suggestions of my own I was a little peeved to have to admit in secret that not one of these experiences had ever in reality been mine. My life has had its problems, but murder has never appeared a viable solution to them--or only momentarily, in the case of one or two unforgivably unfair reviews of my books. My atrocious eyesight prevented me from any sort of active service in the Second World War. I had been in bed once with someone else's wife--during that same war--but the husband was safely in North Africa during the whole of our brief liaison. My inadequacy as a swimmer has kept me very secure from any danger of drowning, and ghosts, with an unaccountable lack of interest in their own cause, appear resolutely to shun sceptics like myself. But here I finally was, after a safe sixty-six years of existence, undergoing yet another of those 'vital' experiences: knowing one was not alone in a house where one believed one was.
If books have not taught me to admire and desire truth in writing, I have wasted my entire life, and the last thing I wish to do in this account is to present myself as other than I am. I have never pretended to be a man of action, though I like to think a certain sense of self-humour, an irony, makes the word bookish a little unjust. I learnt very early, at boarding-school, that a small reputation for wit--or at least a certain skill at puncturing the pretentious--can offset in part the damning labels of 'bookworm' and 'swot' with all but the most crassly athletic. No doubt I have indulged the characteristic malice of the physically deprived, and I certainly won't pretend that I haven't always enjoyed--and I'm afraid, helped propagate on occasion--the kind of gossip that redounds to another writer's discredit. Nor was my most successful pot-boiler, The Dwarf in Literature, quite the model of objective and erudite analysis it pretended to be. Very regrettably I have always found my own faults more interesting than other people's virtues; nor can I deny that books--writing them, reading, reviewing, helping to get them into print--have been my life rather more than life itself. It seems fitting that I should have been where I was that night entirely because of one.
Of the two suitcases that had accompanied me in the taxi from the station at Sherborne the previous day, the larger had been full of paper--notes, drafts and essential texts. I was near the end of a lifetime's ambition--a definitive biography and critical account of Thomas Love Peacock. I must not exaggerate, I hadn't begun serious work until some four years previously; but the desire to have such a book to my credit had been with me since my twenties. There had always been good practical reasons why my other efforts should have had the priority they seemed to demand; but this was the closest to my heart. I had duly cleared decks for the assault on the final summit, only to find London, the abominable new London that seems determined to ape New York, had vetoed my small project. A long-threatened and much larger one was suddenly in course of execution across the street from my Maida Vale flat. It was not only the din and the dust of the initial demolition and the knowledge that the wretched pseudo-skyscraper progress intended to erect on the rubble of what had been a quietly solid Italianate terrace would very soon deprive me of a treasured westward view. I came to see it as the apotheosis of all that Peacock had stood against; all that was not humane, intelligent and balanced. Resentment at this intrusion began to affect what work I did; certain draft passages merely used Peacock as an excuse for irrelevant diatribes against my own age. I have nothing against such diatribes in their proper place, but I knew that in giving way to them here I was betraying both my subject and my own better judgment.
I expatiated one evening on all this with some distress (and not without some benefice aforethought) to two old friends in their Hampstead home. I had over the years spent a number of agreeable weekends at Maurice and Jane's cottage in North Dorset, though I must confess my pleasure there was rather more in the company than the rural environment. I am not a country-lover, having always much preferred nature in art to nature in actuality. However, I now thought of Holly Cottage and its isolated combe as nostalgically as one could wish and as a perfect refuge in my hour of need. My demurs when the refuge was offered were very perfunctory. I smilingly submitted to Jane's teasing over my sudden yearning for a countryside whose presiding genius she adored and for whom I had, in her view, a disgracefully lukewarm regard... Thomas Hardy has never been my cup of tea. I was duly furnished with keys, an impromptu shopping guide from Jane and a run-down on the functional esoterica of the electric water-pump and the central heating from Maurice. Thus armed and briefed I had, in the late afternoon that preceded this rude awakening in the night, taken possession of my humble temporary version of the Sabine farm with a very genuine sense of joy. A part of my shock--and incredulity--was undoubtedly caused by my having gone to sleep in that prospective certainty of fertile concentration I had so comprehensively lacked during the previous two weeks.
I was acutely aware, as I sat bolt upright in my bed, that the sound I was now listening for was not in the living-room below, but on the stairs. My frozen position was absurd--and of course highly uncourageous. But it was not simply that I was alone. The cottage was alone. There was a farm four hundred yards down the lane, and beyon
d that, some half a mile or so on, the village, where no doubt the constable was fast asleep in his bed. The telephone was in the living-room below, so he might as well have been on the other side of the world as regards present assistance. To be sure, I could have made loud noises, in the hope that the intruder would find discretion the better part of burglary. I had a notion that professional thieves eschew violence. But common sense told me that a remote Dorset upland was hardly the place where professional burglars would pursue their métier. My visitor was much more likely to be some nervous village amateur. A conversation I had once had with Maurice came wryly to mind: how the only reason the crime rate was so low in rural areas such as this was the close-knit social structure. When everyone knew everyone else, crime was either difficult or desperate.