"Because it is barbarous. You would be sent to gaol."
"But she was my wife."
"Nevertheless it would not be tolerated. The law steps in and protects women from ill-usage."
"How shameful! Not allowed to do what you like with your own wife!"
"Most a.s.suredly not. Then you remarked that this was how you dealt with one of your wives. How many did you possess?"
"Off and on, seventeen."
"_Now_, no man is suffered to have more than one."
"What--one at a time?"
"Yes," I replied.
"Ah, well. Then if you had an old and ugly wife, or one who was a scold, you could kill her and get another, young and pretty."
"That would not be allowed."
"Not even if she were a scold?"
"No, you would have to put up with her to the bitter end."
"Humph!" H. P. remained silent for a while wrapped in thought. Presently he said: "There is one thing I do not understand. In the wine-shop overhead the men get very quarrelsome, others drunk, but they never kill one another."
"No. If one man killed another he would have his head cut off--here in France--unless extenuating circ.u.mstances were found. With us in England he would be hanged by the neck till he was dead."
"Then--what is your sport?"
"We hunt the fox."
"The fox is bad eating. I never could stomach it. If I did kill a fox I made my wives eat it, and had some mammoth meat for myself. But hunting is business with us--or was so--not sport."
"Nevertheless with us it is our great sport."
"Business is business and sport is sport," he said. "Now, we hunted as business, and had little fights and killed one another as our sport."
"We are not suffered to kill one another."
"But take the case," said he, "that a man has a nose-ring, or a pretty wife, and you want one or the other. Surely you might kill him and possess yourself of what you so ardently covet?"
"By no means. Now, to change the topic," I went on, "you are totally dest.i.tute of clothing. You do not even wear the traditional garment of fig leaves."
"What avail fig leaves? There is no warmth in them."
"Perhaps not--but out of delicacy."
"What is that? I don"t understand." There was clearly no corresponding sensation in the vibrating tympanum of his psychic nature.
"Did you never wear clothes?" I inquired.
"Certainly, when it was cold we wore skins, skins of the beasts we killed. But in summer what is the use of clothing? Besides, we only wore them out of doors. When we entered our homes, made of skins. .h.i.tched up to the rock overhead, we threw them off. It was hot within, and we perspired freely."
"What, were naked in your homes! you and your wives?"
"Of course we were. Why not? It was very warm within with the fire always kept up."
"Why--good gracious me!" I exclaimed, "that would never be tolerated nowadays. If you attempted to go about the country unclothed, even get out of your clothes freely at home, you would be sent to a lunatic asylum and kept there."
"Humph!" He again lapsed into silence.
Presently he exclaimed: "After all, I think that we were better off as we were eight thousand years ago, even without your matches, Benedictine, education, _chocolat menier_, and commercials, for then we were able to enjoy real sport--we could kill one another, we could knock old wives on the head, we could have a dozen or more squaws according to our circ.u.mstances, young and pretty, and we could career about the country or sit and enjoy a social chat at home, stark naked. We were best off as we were. There are compensations in life at every period of man. Vive la liberte!"
At that moment I heard a shout--saw a flash of light. The workmen had pierced the barrier. A rush of fresh air entered. I staggered to my feet.
"Oh! mon Dieu! Monsieur vit encore!"
I felt dizzy. Kind hands grasped me. I was dragged forth. Brandy was poured down my throat. When I came to myself I gasped: "Fill in the hole! Fill it all up. Let H. P. lie where he is. He shall not go to the British Museum. I have had enough of prehistoric antiquities. Adieu, pour toujours la Vezere."
GLaMR
The following story is found in the Gretla, an Icelandic Saga, composed in the thirteenth century, or that comes to us in the form then given to it; but it is a redaction of a Saga of much earlier date. Most of it is thoroughly historical, and its statements are corroborated by other Sagas. The following incident was introduced to account for the fact that the outlaw Grettir would run any risk rather than spend the long winter nights alone in the dark.
At the beginning of the eleventh century there stood, a little way up the Valley of Shadows in the north of Iceland, a small farm, occupied by a worthy bonder, named Thorhall, and his wife. The farmer was not exactly a chieftain, but he was well enough connected to be considered respectable; to back up his gentility he possessed numerous flocks of sheep and a goodly drove of oxen. Thorhall would have been a happy man but for one circ.u.mstance--his sheepwalks were haunted.
Not a herdsman would remain with him; he bribed, he threatened, entreated, all to no purpose; one shepherd after another left his service, and things came to such a pa.s.s that he determined on asking advice at the next annual council. Thorhall saddled his horses, adjusted his packs, provided himself with hobbles, cracked his long Icelandic whip, and cantered along the road, and in due time reached Thingvellir.
Skapti Thorodd"s son was lawgiver at that time, and as everyone considered him a man of the utmost prudence and able to give the best advice, our friend from the Vale of Shadows made straight for his booth.
"An awkward predicament, certainly--to have large droves of sheep and no one to look after them," said Skapti, nibbling the nail of his thumb, and shaking his wise head--a head as stuffed with law as a ptarmigan"s crop is stuffed with blaeberries. "Now I"ll tell you what--as you have asked my advice, I will help you to a shepherd; a character in his way, a man of dull intellect, to be sure but strong as a bull."
"I do not care about his wits so long as he can look after sheep,"
answered Thorhall.
"You may rely on his being able to do that," said Skapti. "He is a stout, plucky fellow; a Swede from Sylgsdale, if you know where that is."
Towards the break-up of the council--"Thing" they call it in Iceland--two greyish-white horses belonging to Thorhall slipped their hobbles and strayed; so the good man had to hunt after them himself, which shows how short of servants he was. He crossed Sletha-asi, thence he bent his way to Armann"s-fell, and just by the Priest"s Wood he met a strange-looking man driving before him a horse laden with f.a.ggots. The fellow was tall and stalwart; his face involuntarily attracted Thorhall"s attention, for the eyes, of an ashen grey, were large and staring, the powerful jaw was furnished with very white protruding teeth, and around the low forehead hung bunches of coa.r.s.e wolf-grey hair.
"Pray, what is your name, my man?" asked the farmer pulling up.
"Glamr, an please you," replied the wood-cutter.
Thorhall stared; then, with a preliminary cough, he asked how Glamr liked f.a.ggot-picking.