#the bewitched canoe
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La Chasse-Galerie - art by Henri Julien (1906)
#henri julien#la chasse-galerie#art québécois#quebec art#fantasy art#french canadian folk tales#the flying canoe#the bewitched canoe#the devil#demons#lumberjacks#1900s#1906
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𝒪𝓀𝒶𝓎𝓎𝓎!! 𝒮𝑜 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒴𝒶𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇𝑒! 𝒟𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝒜𝑔𝓇𝒾𝒸𝒽𝑒 𝓍 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇. 𝐼 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒹𝑜𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝒶 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝓁𝑒 𝓃𝑜𝓌, 𝓈𝑜 𝐼 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝑔𝑒𝓉 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒶𝓁𝓈𝑜 𝒾𝓉𝓈 𝟤𝓀 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹𝓈.
WARNINGS: Yandere behavior and Dion Agriche
Word count : 2171
E/c eyes gleamed under the moonlight. Lanterns with people's hopes and dreams floated in the air, she was seated on a small wooden canoe. Nothing too fancy, for once she wanted to live simply. She let go of her lantern as it flew high up, perhaps one day her wish would come true. Sighing slightly she paddled her canoe to shore and made her way back home, she simply came outside for some fresh air and peace of mind. She stared at the stars with delight and wonder, she was so small compared to the universe, how did anything even matter? Everything was so insignificant, just now life was blooming on earth, there are so many lovely people but if another planet were to collage with them everything could possibly end. It was like that, life was never guaranteed so it must be lived to its fullest. She should tell Cassis Pedelian how she felt, she should see every full moon, she should watch every sunset, she should dance with the wind on windy days, she should make snow angels on snowy days. Life is not something meant to take for granted, she loved life, it was simply so beautiful. She plucked a dianhong rose from a bush nearby and brought it close to her nostrils, taking a whiff of the sweet scent. It's unbelievable how nature could produce something so alluring. No one appreciates the simple things in life. Everyone wants all the luxuries, yet a simple rock has taken millions of years to form, flowers have the most fascinating internal structures, and human bodies are so well crafted. Everything made by nature was simply so ethereal, she felt that nature itself was the most beautiful thing she could ever own.
“Lady Y/n, you should come inside, it's getting dark,” A boy with the charming golden eyes spoke.
“Yes, of course,” She walked inside, she was staying over at her friend, Sylvia’s house for the week as her parents had left for business matters. Cassis Pedelian had always admired her calm and kind nature, he had fallen in love with her but who hadn't? Everyone was crazy for Y/n, and he truly didn’t feel very special. He was just a boy in the crowd but he still had some hope that perhaps someday she would return his feelings. Unknown to him she did love him, she adored how he looked like a prince not to mention that he was so gentle, kind and sweet, everything Y/n would have wanted in a man. She blushed slightly as Cassis put his jacket around her arms,
“You were shivering Lady Y/n, so I uh-” Cassis stumbled across words
“Thank you,” Y/n smiled, her smile was like a breath of spring and her voice was soft like summer rain
Walking down the hallway, the two glanced around nervously, neither could admit their feelings for the other. A silver haired girl came dashing down the hallway, she embraced Y/n tightly and started smooching her face
“Y/nnnnn where were youuuuu~~~~” She screamed
“I was outside, getting some fresh air,” Y/n laughed
‘Beautiful, dazzling, gorgeous, delightful, appealing, heavenly, stunning, glamorous, bewitching’ Sylvia thought with heart eyes as she saw Y/n laugh, even Cassis blushed, he was glad the woman he liked was happy. He would do anything to see her charming smile
However what Y/n didn’t know was that her wonderful life would change one fateful day,
The maids smoothed out Y/n’s dress for the banquet, she wore a beautiful sleeveless f/c gown that was adorned with lace. As she walked into the banquet all eyes were on her stunning figure. Her aura felt so different from everyone else present, she gave off the aura of royalty or that of a goddess. She looked so majestic, walking down the staircase, the click clack of her heels. The banquet was in pin drop silence as she made her appearance.
“She looks ravishing,” Founatine licked his lips
Roxana gave him a disgusted glare, she did not want to hear him mention about making her his wife after all, that Y/n woman was far too good for him from what she heard.
Walking away from Fountain, Roxana was about to trip as the fabric of her dress got caught in her heels however instead of feeling the ground she realized that she had been stopped. Only to look up and see a Divine woman, Y/n. She had caught her.
“Are you alright?” Y/n inquired
Why was she being so kind to an Agriche? Y/n caught Roxana’s interest.
“Yes, i’m alright, thank you,” Roxana attempted to give a smile
“If you don’t mind Lady Y/n, may I stay with you for the rest of the banquet? I don’t have anyone else to socialize with,” Roxana asked
“Of course, I don’t have anyone either,” Y/n smiled
Sylvia refused to go to the banquet and it would be a bit awkward to go with Cassis, after all people might get the wrong idea.
“Who is that?” Dion asked Roxana while the two girls were chatting, he completely ignored her beauty.
“This is Y/n, a friend of mine,” Roxana spoke, which made Dion raise his eyebrows slightly
“Friends? With an Agriche? You could die,” He told Y/n
“Are you not afraid of death?” He asked calmly
“Fearing death would mean fearing life and I love life,” Y/n said confidently
“Ah, then I shall leave you to be,” He walked away
However her answer made him wonder…. What was it about life that she loved so much? Until now he really never found anything loveable about living; it was simply a chore to him. Y/n must know something that he doesn’t, perhaps one day he too could enjoy life as it is.
He saw Roxana leave Y/n to get a dish, now was his chance
He sat down on the purple couch next to y/n
“What is it about life that you love?” He asked
“Hmm… perhaps it's the way that everything and everyone is designed so perfectly. We have evolved to become so beautiful, a few centuries back people wouldn’t have been able to dream of the accomplishments we have made. To think that the world changed so much, a simple rock in itself takes millions of years to form, isn’t the world just so fascinating? When you start to question and understand every little thing you truly start to see the allure of life,” She smiled so sweetly. Oh did she even know what a monster he was? How could she smile at him so bright, despite knowing about what he was like?
As Dion stared at her in amusement a refined young man with silver hair sat next to Y/n. Cassis Pedelian, Cassis felt a bit of jealousy seeing Y/n speak to the good looking man, he had to admit Dion was certainly better looking than him but deep down he knew that Y/n would never like a man like Dion. By now Roxana had also gotten her dish and taken a seat in front of Y/n, only for her face to mold in utter disgust when she saw her half brother seated next to her friend.
“Dion? Shouldn’t you be with Fountaine?” Her tone made it clear that she did not want him around. Scoffing slightly Dion looked Fountaine’s way, as usual Fountaine was busy boasting about himself.
“He seems quite full of himself,” Cassis whispered to Y/n
“He really does, do you really think Dion begged for mercy from him?” Y/n asked, Fountaine had been telling everyone that he beat Dion in duel and Dion got down on his knees and begged for mercy
“I have never once talked to him,” Dion admitted
Roxana remained quite, she didn’t like either of the boys and did not want to seem like she preferred one over the other
“He just keeps lying! Won’t anyone stop him?” Y/n asked
“I could put him in his place but I don’t even care,” Dion mumbled blowing on his tea
“Goodness! Men like him truly annoy me,” Roxana finally spoke up, implying that she disliked Fountaine
“ I agree Lady Agriche, I despise liars,” Y/n scoffs
𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓉𝒶𝓁𝓀𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉. 𝒟𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓁 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝒷𝑒𝒶𝓉 𝒶𝓉 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒸𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝒴/𝓃'𝓈 𝓂𝑜𝓊𝓉𝒽, 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝑜𝓃𝓁𝓎 𝒹𝒾𝒹 𝓈𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝑜𝑜𝓀 𝓈𝑜 𝑒𝓃𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝓋𝑜𝒾𝒸𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓅𝑒𝓇𝓈𝑜𝓃𝒶𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓎 𝓌𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝑒𝓆𝓊𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝒶𝓈 𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓊𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔. 𝑀𝑒𝒶𝓃𝓌𝒽𝒾𝓁𝑒, 𝒞𝒶𝓈𝓈𝒾𝓈 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝒻𝒶𝓁𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒾𝓃 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒴/𝓃 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒, 𝓈𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝓈𝑜 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝒻𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓎𝑒𝓉 𝓀𝒾𝓃𝒹, 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝓈𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝑜 𝓅𝑒𝓇𝒻𝑒𝒸𝓉? 𝑅𝑜𝓍𝒶𝓃𝒶 𝒻𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹 𝒶 𝒻𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒹 𝒾𝓃 𝒴/𝓃 𝓅𝑒𝓇𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓈 𝒾𝓉 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹𝓃'𝓉 𝒷𝑒 𝓈𝑜 𝒷𝒶𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝓇𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝓈𝑜��𝑒𝑜𝓃𝑒. 𝒜𝒻𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒶𝓁𝓁, 𝒴/𝓃 𝒹𝒾𝒹𝓃'𝓉 𝓈𝑒𝑒𝓂 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓀𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝑜𝒻 𝓌𝑜𝓂𝒶𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒷𝑒𝓉𝓇𝒶𝓎 𝓎𝑜𝓊.
“Lady Y/n, would you care to join me for a dance?” Cassis asked
Y/n blushed lightly as she gently placed her hand in his making their way to the dance floor
Dion’s grip on his glass tightened, Who did he think he was?
It was above him how he managed to fall for a woman within just one night but who was he to complain?
Perhaps he would just have to lock her up, so that she would only love him
His dull maroon eyes watched Cassis and Y/n dance and laugh, they were in love. He felt utter disgust at the sight of this, Cassis may have known Y/n longer but he was Dion Agriche and he ALWAYS got what he wanted and if he didn’t he would just need to force it.
That morning, Y/n sat down in her carriage to be taken home. The pathway was extremely bumpy and rough but Y/n didn’t mind, she was enjoying looking out the window. The early morning sky was so breathtaking.
All of a sudden the carriage stopped abruptly making Y/n lean forward. She walked out the door to see what could have caused this and froze in place when she saw assassins. Specifically Agriche Assassins, her mind went blank after feeling something being injected into her. Her body went limp and was about to fall onto the dusty ground when a guard caught her. They placed Y/n’s body in a carriage and set off for the Agriche mansion. A few hours later Y/n’s vision began to come back, she saw things blurry but could still here
“Do you think master Dion will be okay with the fact that we drugged her?” A guard asked
“He told us to bring her to him, he didn’t mention how,” Another guard said
“She is very pleasing to look at, no wonder Master Dion wants her!!” A guard exclaimed
Y/n put the pieces together and realized that she had been ordered to be kidnapped by Dion Agriche. She did not understand his thought process behind this but decided to go with it, she would question him later.
When they reached the Mansion a guard helped Y/n off. She slowly opened her eyes, pretending that she had just woken up and acted surprised on seeing the mansion. A guard yanked her tightly by the wrist and dragged her off to Dion’s room, on the way they met Maria and she screamed when she noticed how roughly the dazzling girl was being handled.
“OH you vile man, get your hands off her, women are to be treated with more respect. How dare you hurt her like this!?” She seethed
“But my lady, sir Dion-” He reasoned
“Dion!! My horrible son, how dare he kidnap such a lovely girl, MY WORD that boy has NO MANNERS,” Maria stomped her feet angrily while the knight ushered Y/n to Dion’s room, dealing with her slightly gently this time.
“Master, I have brought her,” the guard bowed and took his leave
You were now alone in a dark room with a dangerous man. You felt a harsh weight on your shoulder as you felt yourself getting pinned to the wall, eyes slightly adjusting to the darkness you realized this man was none other than Dion Agriche. His maroon eyes were piercing into your skin as he said,
“I never cared about someone seeing the good in me, I wanted someone who would see me in my worst and yet still want me, that would be you, you won’t be going anywhere now doll,” His eyes locked with yours
“I love Cassis,” She lied,
She had never loved Cassis, she found him to be a close friend but mistook it for feelings.
“I know but you will learn to love me,” He glared
“In that case love me,” Y/n laughed as pulled him down to her level to kiss him.
Dion twirled the necklace in y/n’s neck around his fingers as he slipped a knee between her legs, kissing her roughly.
#agriche#dion agriche#dion agriche x reader#yandere dion agriche x reader#roxana agriche#cassis pedelian#sylvia pedelian#agriche family x reader#maria agriche#manwaha x reader#webtoon x reader#wtptflob#way to protect the female leads older brother
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Henri Julien ''Birch bark Canoe that Flies'' pen & ink Christmas in Quebec...'Bewitched Canoe'.. appears to be over St. Louis Bay, Duluth
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Does anyone else remember growing up with this Canadian folktale?
•The Legend of the Bewitched Canoe•
The Canadian folktale of La Chasse-Gallerie, also known as The Bewitched Canoe, is an old folktale about the dangers of witchcraft and the devil that has persisted for centuries. The tale, which dates back to the 1800s, centres on a Frenchman named Chasse Galerie, who was an avid hunter. As the story goes, Chasse Galerie frequently misses Sunday mass to go hunting, leading to a curse that causes him to fly through the night while being chased by howling wolves and wild horses Over time, the folktale has evolved and has gone through various versions. The First Nations' one is the most favourite out of the lot. The First Nations added to the story by depicting Chasse Galerie as being cursed to fly through the night in a flying canoe. According to the First Nations' version of the folktale, a group of voyageurs, after a night of heavy drinking and missing their families back in Montreal, Chasse Galerie tells them about his magic canoe and convinces them that they would get there before midnight and back before sunrise the next day, However, the folktale also has Chasse Galerie warning that the devil will claim all their souls if any of the passengers in the canoe mentions the name of the Christian God, or touch any churches or steeples along the way there or back. True to his word, Chasse Galerie managed to return the men to their loved ones before midnight on New Year’s Eve by flying through the air in the magic canoe. But in the attempt to make it back home to the logging camp after a long night of drinking and partying with their families, the men embark back in the flying canoe with the drunken Chasse Galerie as the navigator who would seal their doom when he forgets his warning and says the Christian God's name when he becomes spooked. (Note: Chasse Galerie, from my point of view seems to have a lot in common with the wild hunt with the whole thing of taking the souls he comes across and forcing them to join him forever in his doom. But that may just be me.)
#canada#pagans of tumblr#witchcraft#witch#folklore#folk tales#canadian#canadian folktales#canadian folklore#canada & magic#witch blog#witchythings#witchblr#magick#witches#witch community#pagan witch
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Tag Game
Thank you for the tag @softguarnere ! As it turns out if I get tagged on a Friday, likelihood is high that I will bunk off work to answer personal questions.
Are you named after anyone?
Yep, Samantha from Bewitched. My dad was a fan.
2. When was the last time you cried?
Probably during one of my war shows though I'm not much of a crier. Is that why I watch war shows? Did we uncover something?
3. Do you have kids?
I do not. I have some very silly nephews though!
4. Do you use sarcasm a lot?
Definitely not. (Constantly.) I think you can elevate it. I think sarcasm can be clever.
5. What is the first thing you notice about people?
Personality-wise? If we can mess with each other a little. Physically? Probably height. I'm tall - I'll notice if you're taller than me since if you are, you're pretty tall! And I'll notice if you're a small pal I can put in a backpack.
6. Eye color
Blue.
7. Scary movies or happy endings?
God. Both? Mood-specific.
8. Any special talents?
The spirit of this question is definitely 'do you have a party trick' and the answer is tragically no. I can tell you who's singing at any point in any One Direction song! Is that a brag at age 34? Maybe not.
9. What are your hobbies?
The great outdoors! Hiking, camping, kayaking, canoeing, snowshoeing, (ice) skating. I play on a couple of softball teams and I take a Latin dance class. Long-time gym rat. I like to read historical non-fiction. I love to write! Travel (who doesn't like to travel?). I'm a craft beer fan, I like to visit a brewery or two if I'm in a new city. If this sounds like I am a girl who does not know when to tap out and do nothing, you are correct. Very conscious of the fact that I will only be going around once.
10. Where were you born?
Canada - I would say Toronto to you if you weren't from Canada, but people from Toronto would get my ass for having the audacity so in fact, we'll call it Toronto-adjacent.
11. Do you have any pets?
Nope. I barely remember to water my plants.
12. What sports do you play/have you played?
I have played many a sport in my time but currently I have it narrowed down to softball, golf, kickboxing, running (is this is a sport? We'll say yes) and my aforementioned outdoor activities.
13. How tall are you?
5'11". If you're a cis man between 5'7" and 5'10" who lies about his height I have probably been used at a party to out you as not, in fact, being 6'.
14. Favorite subject in school?
History and English, classic. Now I'm working on my accounting designation like some kind of math girl. Truly wild. Oh, the places you'll go!
15. Dream job?
Writer, probably. Though I have never actually tried to get anything published. You know what I've been thinking about? When I retire, I want to be one of those people who only works summers and leads guided backcountry hikes. That would be rad.
Tagging the following people who might also be bunking off today: @cody-helix02 @georgelust @latibvles @multifandomlover01 @fayestardust and actually @gyunikum who's been popping up in my notifs and was kind enough to act like it was relatable that I'm an adult who gets white girl wasted on the weekends sometimes.
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A Latino Haloween Party Mix | Tu me hiciste brujería
I love Monster Mash as much as the next person but as a Latin American I miss some Latino set on the Haloween Party. This is my humble suggestion as spooky / mosnter and death bangers in Spanish (some info about the songs below).
TU ME HICISTE BRUJERIA - SPANISH HALOWEEN PARTY MIX
In Latin America we celebrate during this month either Dia de los Muertos or the Catholic All Saint Day and Day of the Dearly departed. Viene la Muerte Echando Rasero by Mexican singer Lila Downs reminds us death is inevitable and come for all in this catchy cumbia.
Two song about real horror scenarios in Este Muerto no lo Cargo Yo (I won’t charge with this body) after a murdered is found death on a river this cumbia is the POV of a suspect cliaming his innocence. The longest song of the mix La Cancion del Final del Mundo (The Song of the End of the world) by Ruben Blades is about 5 minutes. The time a Nuclear Bomb will take to obliterate a city.
On the spookier side: La Ciguapa by Chichi Peralta is an ultra famous merengue featuring a man enchanted by a Ciguapa, a creature of Dominican folklore a forest spirit knew for having backward feets. Brujas (Witches), A misterious legendary canoe, La Piragua, and of course Brujeria (Witchcraft).
Two rock songs: Lobo Hombre en París (Were-Human in Paris) by Spanish Band La Union and based on a Boris Vian short stoty tells the story of a Wolf turned human in Paris while Decimo Tercera (The 13th time) by Panamian Cienfue tells the story of a man bewitched by a mysterious woman.
#spooky season#halloween#fanmix#tw: death#day of the dearly departed#dia de finados#muerte#death#latino music#tw: violence
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kk. hello...........i am here for the fanfic writer strength ask. i tried to do a rhyme but i ran out of thyme (for my soup, and i can't rhyme without soup). i could've used time, of course, for the rhyme, but then i realized that the passage of time is a great stength of yours and better highlighted through the mention of your perfect pacing and your ability to stretch scenes however you want them, short or long, they're always just right. your characterization never requires any notes (the duffers should put The Guys in your custody) and you have this great ability to capture feelings that are so hard to describe with grace and subtlety, like anticipation, of small-town ennui. your words feel like embarking in a canoe and letting yourself be swayed by the gentle current of the true blue lake. 💗
ahh!! my dear sweet anon, thank you so so much for your sweet words!! can i make you some soup some time?
you've highlighted some things i never would have thought were strengths of mine. seriously, pacing? something i struggle with so much!! capturing difficult to describe feelings? honestly goals.
i'm so honored my characterization hits just right!! i just love writing these guys, they've bewitched me body and soul. i can't thank you enough for this heartfelt message.
what can i say, it feels good to be known so well <333
#i know who you are and how dare you#this is too sweet you are too nice to me#i've been holding on to this all week until i could make some words out of the alphabet soup that is my brain#just cradling it gently in my cupped hands and holding it up to my ear like a seashell#let's to go the beach let's go stargazing#feel goods folder#anon
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Drawtober 2022 Season of the Witch
Bewitched Bog 10.24.22 “Boundary Waters”
When I was sixteen I dragged myself
Canoe, paddle, and all
Across lakes, rivers, and logging trails
Watching the pebbled bottom
Ripple through clear water
Fade with my juvenile delinquency
Into the kicked up dirt
I dragged myself through hail,
Hale waters, and pale mornings bright
Praying to the voice inside me
Not to stand or sink
But swim across mossy bogs
Where deer skulls bubbled up
In our crawling wake
Face to face with the corpse of my surname
Sure came fast and fearful
Only two miles of shoreline
Free of treelines, thanks to loggers
We could find our way
With half our weight breaking our back
But high school trained us well
Knowledge is a heavy burden
There is no brag to admit what is true
To ascend through the bog
Clawing to breathe the air that’s new
Like rats from a sinking ship
We too can form a bridge of bodies
Together we’ll all escape this without drowning
@env0writes C.Buck
Ko-Fi & Venmo: @Zenv0
Support Your Local Artist!
#writeblrcafe#poeticstories#drawtober 2022#drawtober#spilled ink#env0 writes#twcpoetry#inkstay#poetryportal#themonkeyreview#writerscreed#heartsacrossthestreet#abstractcommunity#savage words#smittenbypoetry#poetscreed#poetryriot#poets and writers#poets community#new poets society#new p.s.#drawtober2022#season of the witch#bewitched bog#boy scout#boundary waters#canoeing#bog bodies#death#growing up
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Is This a Laundry Room Delusion?
Solicitous ghosts are in this house;
they want to switch the wallpaper
and have me bewitch the china.
A gas leak last autumn accounts
for my spasmed nerves,
but I used to sparkle like a midday lake.
I used to have verve – Yes, before
the methane, the alkanes, it was June,
and I rowed a canoe out from the shore,
alone, bronzing in the sun,
seeking nixies; on that day
I could have been one.
If I…
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I think i’m gonna use my free time during the holidays to make various post about historical event/myth about my hometown that i find interesting including:
- Hull’s matchstick girls
- The Bewitched Canoe
- That one really tall dude who kept beating the ever lasting christ out of the english (this was a real person and my city’s courthouse is named after him, which tells you everything you need to know about the state of the relation between french-canadians and english in the 19th century)
- Also frère Marie-Victorin and Marcelle Gauvreau but that’s Québécois history in general, not my hometown
#there's litteral thousand of version of the bewitched canoe tale but one of them include a local church i like a lot so yeah#(this is the church where i took my first communion picture so i feel a connection to this place lmao)#btw the really tall dude is said to once have thrown no less than 150 english speaking guys off a bridge i cross everyday#that's the type of thing you did if you wanted to be a french-canadian hero a century ago#the thing about matchstick girls is gonna be incredibly depressing just so you're ready
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The Wild Hunt is a folklore motif. Wild Hunts typically involve a 'soul-raving' chase led by a folkloric figure(s) escorted by a ghostly or supernatural group of hunters passing in wild pursuit.
THREAD BELOW:
In German folklore, it is known as the Wilde Jagd or Wütendes Heer. The leader, often called der Schimmelreiter, is generally identified with the god Wotan. Seeing the Wild Hunt was thought to presage some catastrophe, it was also believed that people could be pulled away.
In Scandinavia, the leader of the hunt was Odin & the event was called Odens jakt or Oskoreien. Odin's hunt was heard but rarely seen, and a trait is that one of his dogs was barking louder and a second one fainter. When it was heard, it meant changing weather, war, or unrest.
In France, the 'Host' was known as Familia Hellequini and Maisnie Hellequin. This hunt was usually led by the devil or a demonic entity. Other similar figures appear in the French folklore, such as 'Le Grand-Veneur', a hunter who chased with dogs in the forest of Fontainebleau.
In England, it was known as Herlaþing, Woden's Hunt, Herod's Hunt, Cain's Hunt and Gabriel's Hounds. Different interpretations of the hunt had different leaders, some by demons, others by cursed men, and others by pagan gods, fairies, or angels. They are said to carry people off.
In parts of Britain, the hunt is said to be that of hell-hounds chasing sinners or the unbaptised. In Devon these are known as Yeth or Wisht Hounds. In Cornwall, they are Dando and his Dogs or the Devil and his Dandy Dogs. The hunt is particularly associated with Wistman's Wood.
The American country song "Ghost Riders in the Sky" from 1948, tells of cowboys condemned to chase the Devil's cattle through the night sky of the Western USA. Cowboys can be condemned to chase the Devil's cattle when they die if they do not repent for their sins.
In Welsh folklore, Cŵn Annwn were the spectral hounds of Annwn, the otherworld. They were associated with a form of the Wild Hunt, presided over by Arawn, king of Annwn. In Wales, they were associated with migrating geese, and are considered a portent of death.
The Santa Compaña is a folkloric belief in rural northwest Iberia: Galicia, Asturias (Spain) and Northern Portugal. The common belief is that of a procession of the dead that wander through the village paths of a parish beginning at midnight wearing white, hooded cloaks.
In Welsh folklore, Gwyn ap Nudd was depicted as a wild huntsman riding a demon horse who hunts souls at night along with a pack of white-bodied and red-eared 'dogs of hell'. He is the king of the Underworld who makes sure that the imprisoned devils do not destroy human souls.
In the Czech Republic, divoký hon or štvaní is a term for a group of demonic beings, often considered the souls of the dead or hunters, who roam the sky or the earth with their leader, often at night. Stories of them are more common in the Bohemia region, and during Christmas.
In León, Span it is called "La Hueste de Animas", and involves a procession of the dead in forests or the sky at night. It is also called La Estadea, led by a woman who wanders the roads and cemeteries. It has no face and smells of the humidity of the tombs.
Dziki Łów or Dziki Gon is the Wild Hunt of Polish folklore. It is very similar to the Germanic variants but the leader is usually a Slavic deity instead of a German one, or the leader of the host is the devil himself.
The Jinetes en el Cielo is the Wild Hunt of Mexico and some of the US Southwest. It involves Hispanic cowboys (vaqueros, jinetes, or charros) condemned to chase the Devil's cattle through the night sky. Vaqueros can join them if they do not repent for their sins.
In Italy, especially in the Alpine area, the Caccia infernale is associated with distant lights, hoofs, dog barking, demonic screams, and a loud hiss of the wind. It is associated with the figure of Theodoric the Great or the Devil. Catholic faith can drive away the procession.
Count Arnau (el comte Arnau), a legendary nobleman from Ripollès, Catalunya, who for his cruelty and lechery is condemned to ride to hounds for eternity while his flesh is devoured by flames. He is the subject of a classic traditional Catalan ballad.
Hyakki Yagyō (Night Parade of One Hundred Demons) is from Japanese folklore. Sometimes an orderly procession, other times a riot, it refers to an uncontrolled horde of countless numbers of supernatural creatures known as oni and yōkai.
In Slovenia, the hunt is usually led by Jarnik (Jarilo), also called Volčji pastir (Wolf Herdsman). In some variations mythical wild Baba leads the hunt.
In Hawaiian legend, Nightmarchers (huaka'i pō) are the spirits of ancient Hawaiian warriors. On the nights honoring the Hawaiian gods Kane, Ku, Lono, or on the nights of Kanaloa they are said to come forth from their burial sites, or to rise up from the ocean, and to march.
In the Netherlands, the hunt is led by Wodan or Gait/Derk met de hunties (Gait/Derk and his little dogs).
La Chasse-galerie also known as "The Bewitched Canoe" or "The Flying Canoe" is a popular French-Canadian tale of Coureurs des bois who make a deal with the devil, a variant of the Wild Hunt.
The sluagh sídhe—"the fairy host"—is sometimes depicted in Irish and Scottish folklore as a crowd of airborne spirits, perhaps the cursed, evil or restless dead. They are also known as "the horde". The siabhra, may be a type of these lesser spirits, prone to evil and mischief.
The missa dos mortos is a Brazilian legend. One night a church caretaker sees lights in the church. Thinking they were thieves, he investigates. To his surprise, he sees that the temple is full of the the Faithful, chandeliers lit and a priest preparing to celebrate a mass.
Everyone was wearing dark clothes and remained with their heads down. He also realizes that the environment was colder than the open one outside. When the priest turned, he saw that his face was a skull, and that everyone in the church was dead, a chapel full of skeletons!
The Flying Dutchman is a legendary ghost ship which was said to never be able to make port, doomed to sail the oceans forever. The legend is likely to have originated from the 17th-century Golden Age of the Dutch East India Company (VOC) and Dutch maritime power.
#wild hunt#the wild hunt#folklore#the witcher#myths#mythology#paganism#christianity#catholicism#catholic#christian#europe#usa#america#mexico#canada#myth#japan#japanese#hawaii#france#spain#norse#pagan#norse mythology#thor#odin#religion#religious#map
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Mistress Anna Chapter 22
Summary: It wasn’t uncommon for the women to be eventually cast aside, Anna was just naive enough to believe it would never happen to her.
Rating: M
Words: 2,676
Relationship: Anna/Kristoff
Canadian Frontier AU
AO3
Masterlist
Notes: I think now it is a good point to point out the M rating on this fic, because from here on out there are going to be M themes. Also, there is a bit of a POV switch.
Anna’s head lulls back against the water, as she allows the current to carry her, floating on her back. The cold water felt wonderful against her scorching skin, a tinge of pink kissing her shoulders. Her clothing sits on the riverbank in a heap, leaving the young woman in only her linen chemise.
She flips onto her belly, her arms moving against the river current as she moves through the water. Her auburn hair sticks to her back and cheeks as she swims towards the riverbank so her feet can touch the riverbed.
The young woman kneels in the sand, approaching the shore to grab the bar of castile soap resting on her apron. She submerges the bar into the water, lathering it over her hands to produce bubbles. Once satisfied with the amount of soap lathered onto her hands, Anna tosses the bar back onto her apron.
Raising her arms in the air, Anna dunks her head into the water. Emerging from the river, Anna lathers her hair with the soap, scrubbing her scalp thoroughly before leaning back to submerge herself. Her fingertips scrape against her skin as she washes the soap out.
Sitting up, Anna pushes her dripping bangs out of her eyes, blinking the water from her lashes as she rinses her hands. The water from her shoulders has nearly evaporated from her skin, the June heat is nearly too intense for her liking. She and Eliza had been finding refuge in the water more than usual, finding temperature almost unbearable.
With her chores done in the morning and Eliza being down for her nap, Anna has managed to steal away for an hour or two. She allows herself to float away from the riverbank, giggling as she splashes some water against her chest.
Her skin breaks out in goose-pimples as a cloud covers the sun, a slight breeze brushes through the river, her nipples pebble as a sudden coolness overtakes her body. The young woman considers leaving the river but stays as the sun emerges from behind the cloud.
She closes her eyes, enjoying the cold water against her skin as the sun beats down on her face, her cheeks warming up. Splashing it against her face, Anna wipes the water from her eyes as she focuses on the figure standing on the bank.
“You look like you’re enjoying yourself.” The man comments with a grin. Regularly Anna would submerge herself into the water, wanting to disappear from view. Instead, she sinks slightly below to water to cover her chest as her chemise outlines the shape of her breasts.
“I am.” She responds, smirking up at her friend standing on the shore. “Why are you on my land?”
“Elsa said I could look for clams and mussels. Your family’s section of the river has always had the best population in this end.” Kristoff comments, rolling up his khaki trousers to his knees. She watches him as he wades into the water, bending over as he searches the riverbed carefully.
Anna notices he is not dressed in a shirt, only in a white undershirt, not an uncommon sight in Ahtohallan during the summer. Even still, she sees how the muscles in his shoulders are tense every time he leans over; how his bicep flexes every time he shucks open a bivalve.
As a teenager Kristoff, like the majority of the men in Ahtohallan, was broad. Now, as an adult, his muscles are more defined from canoeing. Kristoff catches her gaze, smirking as she looks away with a blush.
She swims towards the shore, finding her footing as her feet touch the riverbed. Walking on the sand Anna comes to a stop as the water reaches her hips.
“Do you want help?” She inquires, her auburn tresses falling over her breasts. Kristoff smiles at the young woman, taking her in as she stands before him.
“I would like that.” He nods, bending over to pick up a mollusc resting at his feet.
Anna races a few paces in front of him, water splashing as she picks up her legs. She squeals as her toes brush against a flat surface, bending over quickly she grabs the item. As her hands emerge from the water a clam rests in them. She feels like a child, rushing back to Kristoff with a grin, but is unable to find it in herself to care.
Approaching the young man, Anna’s foot slips against an alga covered rock. As she stumbles forward, Kristoff races forward to catch Anna by her elbows. He peers down at her with concern. “Are you alright?”
“I am.” She breathes, withdrawing from him as she looks down at her hand; the clam gone from her grasp. Shyly she brushes her hair behind her ear as she squats in the water, searching for the shellfish that had escaped from her grasp.
Kristoff chuckles as he watches Anna flounder in the water, her hair wild and frizzy as it slowly dries. He studies the way her sun-kissed cheeks make her sky eyes somehow sparkle more. His eyes gloss over her shoulders, her freckles scattered throughout her skin. The young man blinks, trying to push away thoughts of kissing every one of the freckles on her shoulders and how her skin would feel under his touch.
Taking a deep breath, Kristoff finally wills himself to look back at Anna as she calls out to him, holding up a mollusc up with a grin. He chuckles as the auburn-haired woman makes her way to him, smiling up at him as she places a clam into his bucket.
She runs back into the river, feeling for clams or mussels with her feet. Running a hand through her hair, Anna giggles as she feels a fish swim brush against her leg. Kristoff smiles, over these past few months it came as a relief to see his childhood friend slowly return to her old self.
Kristoff’s face drops as guilt soon replaces the feeling of nostalgia; he should have never left Ahtohallan when Anna announced her engagement. He should have remained at home; he could have protected Anna from Hans and everything that man had done to her.
If only he had told Anna how he had felt about her, how he still felt about her. She nearly consumes his every waking thought. Despite the desire to tell her that he loves her, he knows it isn’t fair.
One day, he tells himself every day. Once, she has found herself again when she has reconnected with herself and sister. But even then, the young man isn’t sure where it may go; he couldn’t stay in Ahothallan forever. He would have to leave.
Everything had been simple when he first came west; he would stay with his ma and pa for a few months and spend time with his family before he sought refuge behind the Medicine Line. It became more complicated when Sven became involved with Marguerite, but he had accepted the possibility of going south by himself.
Then, Anna had arrived back in Ahtohallan with Eliza. Kristoff had tried his best to remain distanced from her. It had nothing to do with the hurt she had inflicted that caused him to leave in the first place. The young man felt that it would remain easier that way. It had already been a difficult decision to leave Rupert’s Land. He did not need another person tying him to this land.
It did not take Anna long to become a complication in Kristoff’s life, once the truth had come out about Hans, Kristoff found himself unwittingly falling back into his relationship with her. Eliza had become a complication as well; he initially wanted nothing to do with Hans’ child. But as he quickly learned the little girl was nothing like that man. Kristoff quickly found himself bewitched by the same charm Eliza possessed as her mother.
He was only supposed to remain in Ahothallan for six months; it had been an entire year as of February. It’s dangerous he knows, the potential that company men could show up on his land any day from now to have him hanged. But still found himself unable to leave.
Even now, he isn’t sure if it’s fair to Anna and Eliza; he inserted himself into their lives, a life they were trying to build together, only to leave again. Knowing he could never ask Anna to leave her home again, he would never be like Hans.
Kristoff looks away from the opposite shore, tearing his eyes from the dam where Anna wades in the water, studying the water carefully. A thin line creasing in her forehead as she concentrates, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.
As she looks up at him with a smile, that familiar constricting feeling returns to his chest, his breath hitching as she stalks towards him, a suspicious smile crossing her features.
Anna’s laughter echoes through the forest as she splashes Kristoff with the cold water, causing the man to yell out. He glares at the young woman, making her second guess her action, afraid that she may have overstepped her boundary.
The feeling dissipates as he smirks at her. “Alright, get over here!” without hesitation, Kristoff wades deeper into the water, following after Anna as he discards his undershirt. She swims quickly to retreat from her hunter, hoping to reach the opposite side of the river before he can catch her.
Anna is jerked back as an arm wraps around her waist, her back pressing against his chest as his hand rests on her sternum, holding her against him. Kristoff laughs as he captures her.
“I have you now.” He states, his breath hot against Anna’s neck. The blonde withdraws his hand from Anna’s abdomen, resting it on her waist instead as his other arm loops under her knees, carrying her bridal style. Anna flails, trying desperately to get out of the hold, concerned what his payback would be.
Smirking down at the woman in his arms, Kristoff throws Anna into the water. She shrieks, flying through the air before meeting the water with a splash. Kristoff laughs as she re-emerges with a gasp, glaring at the man who had tossed her as if she was nothing more than a bag of potatoes.
He shrugs in a cocky manner, half apologetically, with a slight justification of his previous actions. Anna sighs as she relaxes, allowing the river current to carry her body away as she once did as a teenager. She smirks, hearing Kristoff groan and the splashing of water as he races after her.
Anna laughs as Kristoff’s hands wrap around her back, making the woman sit up and rest her hands on the young man’s shoulders as her laughter resounds. On instinct, Anna wraps her legs around his waist.
She doesn’t notice the blush the spreads across Kristoff’s face as she throws her head back with laughter. Calming down, Anna looks down at her friend, his hands resting dangerously low on her waist. Her breasts pressed against his bare chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against her own.
Her breaths become short as she continues to peer at him, his pupils dilating as he holds her close. Anna’s hand slips from his shoulder to the side of his neck, her heart hammering in her chest. The urge to touch him overwhelming as a familiar heat pools lowly in her belly.
“Kristoff.” Anna breaths, her eyes not leaving his for a moment. His embrace tightens around her, somehow pressing her body closer to his; her pebbled nipples noticeable to the young man.
A loud shriek belonging to a toddler causes Anna to look towards the shore, blushing as she becomes aware of her situation.
“I-I need to go.” She untangles her legs from his waist as he lets go of her hips, nodding. Pushing herself away from him, Anna swims towards the shore, suddenly self-conscious about her chemise’s transparency.
She doesn’t turn, fearing that he would see her breasts and the auburn patch at the apex of her thighs if she does so. Neither of them say anything as Anna collects her clothing, ascending the riverbank to the cabin.
Shame overtakes her as she changes into a dry chemise, the guilt that she allowed herself to be held that close and expose her body to a man that is not her husband. Throughout the night, Anna tries to deflect her sister’s questioning gaze about the perpetual blush across Anna’s cheeks.
It is too hot to sleep in the house, much less with three people in one bed. Elsa has recently joined Anna and Eliza in the bed, stating it is too hot to sleep in the loft overnight. Anna recalls summer nights, she and Elsa often slept outside to escape the loft’s unbearable heat.
She carefully rolls off the end of the bed, quietly padding across the cabin to not wake up her daughter or sister. Grabbing a point blanket and a thin cotton blanket, Anna slips out of the house, the door already open to let air into the small space.
Anna steps across the porch, walking around the house to the fields next to the cottage, full of prairie grass and yellow cornflowers. Laying the woollen point blanket on the earth, Anna lies on it, the wool scratching against her bare arms.
She folds the thin blanket up, tucking it under her head as she stares up at the sky. Sweat and dirt cling to her skin from the air’s humidity, nearly driving the young woman mad. Anna contemplates going back to the river to wash.
The river.
She had managed to push away what happened at the river from her mind while she completed her chores for the day but now finds herself unable to think about it. How she walked away from the river, desire still pooling inside of her as she stalked away from Kristoff.
Squeezing her thighs together, Anna tries to relieve the ache between her legs, which she had not felt in a long time. Anna bites her bottom lip as she tentatively bunches her nightgown to her thighs, reaching between her legs. Sighing, she circles her clit gently, unable to recall the last time she had touched herself like this. Or the last time anyone had paid any attention to her in this way. The thought of Kristoff consuming her mind as her touches become bolder.
The way his hands would feel on her bare skin. Caressing her breasts, trailing down the plain of her abdomen as they come to her core.
His hands would be calloused from work, but gentle while he strokes her, his eyes boring into her own. His breath would be hot against her neck, ragged as he whispers in her ear.
Kissing her neck and every freckle scattered on her shoulders as he inserts a finger into her. They feel nothing like her own. How he would feel inside of her, groaning as he presses into her.
Inhaling Anna’s hand comes to rest on her breast, her fingertips brushing lightly against her nipple. Keening as she rolls the sensitive bud between her fingers.
He would kiss her small breasts before taking one into his mouth while she rolls her hips against his. Feeling the weight of him on top of her as her legs would wrap around his hips, similarly to this afternoon. Unable to deny any longer that her core was pressed against him, how she felt his stiffening cock against her leg.
Breathing deeply, Anna focuses on her ministrations on her sensitive bud, closing her eyes as she feels her release building. Anna’s hips buck as she comes undone, crying out loudly as pleasure overtakes her. Collapsing against the blankets, her breasts heaving as she comes down from her release.
Sweat clings to her skin as Anna stares up at the night sky once more, thinking about the name that had been on her lips when she climaxed.
Kristoff.
More Notes: I think now it is a good point to point out the M rating on this fic, because from here on out there are going to be M themes.Also, there is a bit of a POV switch.
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A Quebecois inspired couple from two of my favorite urban legend! La corriveau and La chasse galerie(the bewitched canoe)!
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SENTENCE MEME ⟶ REVOLTING PEOPLE / 3.01
always feel free to tweak the sentence to fit your muse.
‘what month is it?’
‘you ever do that? forget what year it is?’
‘i drink to numb the pain.’
‘none taken, you insensitive pig.’
‘you planning to step in and stop their frolicking?’
‘if they want to do that they can go to the churchyard and do it behind a gravestone like any normal young couple.’
‘why’re you looking at me like that?’
‘that’d be disrespectful. as was once pointed out to me.’
‘no doubt my fame goes before me.’
‘now, don’t be modest.’
‘it was a shame about the massacre.’
‘you seem familiar.’
‘have we met?’
‘the man brought shame on our family.’
‘yeah, he has quite a few twin brothers who’ve brought shame on his family.’
‘would you like to buy something?’
‘they’re playing cards.’
‘perhaps you’d like to go.’
‘i just like the way you whistle, it’s very melodious.’
‘but his whistling has no melody whatsoever.’
‘have you heard about our cheese museum?’
‘what a delightful surprise! i wasn’t expecting you.’
‘i have much to be contrary about.’
‘i can speak when i choose.’
‘why have you not replied to my letter?’
‘it’s what made the royal family what it is today.’
‘i don’t want to.’
‘don’t want to? what does that have to do with anything?’
‘she’s got a face that can stop a clock!’
‘women are not things.’
‘how would i know? nobody’s asked her.’
‘she doesn’t give up, does she?’
‘your days are numbered.’
‘i’m gonna lay down.’
‘hello birds. hello clouds. hello girl with parasol.’
‘please don’t stop what you’re doing on my account.’
‘what are you doing?’
‘i’m staring at the sky. i like staring at the sky.’
‘my name’s... no, wait, it’ll come. _____!’
‘i wish i was big.’
‘that sounds exciting.’
‘everything sounds exciting to me.’
‘i’m afraid it’s actually rather tedious.’
‘sometimes i think about how pleasant it would be if i could just go on a killing spree and butcher all of them in their sleep.’
‘you have deep, sensitive eyes.’
‘do you want to see me wrestle a bear?’
‘it’s such a warm day, do you think it’s wise for you to wrestle a bear without taking your shirt off?’
‘i think you should take your shirt off.’
‘the flame of liberty is going to engulf you.’
‘impressive speech.’
‘she’s also a rebellious traitor.’
‘she’s bewitched you!’
‘that’s my brother you’re talking about!’
‘you went out with a nine foot tall woman?’
‘she kept saying i should have mentioned it.’
‘being married sounds like fun!’
‘he’s not a moron, he’s... he’s small-brained.’
‘well, he makes a good exit.’
‘they’re young, there’s no harm in it.’
‘do you believe in love at first sight.’
‘sometimes she imagines all the cynics having their livers torn out by giant metal birds!’
‘can we have jugglers at the wedding?’
‘are jugglers expensive?’
‘he can’t get married; they only met an hour ago.’
‘what did i do to deserve that?’
‘are you going to talk about the terrible hand that life has dealt you?’
‘we have this thing called knocking.’
‘i can tell that you’re a man of experience from the fact that so many of your limbs are missing.’
‘you look like you’ve played the game of life. and lost. heavily.’
‘your opinion is of no interest to me.’
‘you are of no interest to me.’
‘i shall do no such thing.’
‘love is a powerful thing.’
‘do you think i’d sell the future happiness of my loved ones for fifty pounds? i’d never do that.’
‘you’re not listening. i said i would never do it.’
‘that’s it. get out!’
‘____, give me a term of abuse.’
‘you rushed me.’
‘who does he take me for?’
‘what’d you say that for?’
‘why would anyone in the future want to listen to this conversation? i’m here now and i don’t want to listen to it.’
‘have you been at the funny tobacco again?’
‘it’d be wrong. and it’s not right to do wrong, right? it’s right to do right, right? that can’t be wrong.’
‘it’s not my place to interfere.’
‘it does throw up an interesting ethical question.’
‘i’ve a feeling that the old testament says that accepting money to end foolish romances is morally justified.’
‘jesus said it was compulsory.’
‘you wanted to see me?’
‘don’t worry, that was an old chair.’
‘i wouldn’t trade this feeling for a thousand pounds.’
‘whenever i’m with her i feel all toasty. and marmaladey.’
‘you don’t even know about the birds and the bees.’
‘i know all about the birds and the bees. that’s how babies get made.’
‘the bees grow the baby in their hive and then get the birds to deliver them to the mummy.’
‘what the hell is that?’
‘i don’t want to know. nobody does.’
‘see what you’ve done with your revolting diagram!’
‘i love her. and i love the way she makes me feel.’
‘don’t make me give all that up. or i won’t ever eat again! unless it’s pie. i like pie. but apart from that, nothing!’
‘sensitively handled.’
‘you know nothing about affairs of the heart.’
‘it won’t work.’
‘stay away from lightning, it smarts.’
‘i’m not scared of him.’
‘why are you trying to turn me against my own heart?’
‘i don’t understand why you’re doing this.’
‘america is basically just cornwall.’
‘and will you a, be put up against the wall and shot, or b, just shot with no wall in the vicinity?’
‘you must end it now. before it ends in tears. not to mention that hail of bullets.’
‘go home.’
‘you’ve not been to england, have you?’
‘fate is stacked against our love.’
‘he puts it about.’
‘we’ve had to confiscate his canoe.’
‘he thinks babies are grown in beehives.’
‘i find all this hard to believe.’
‘i don’t understand what you’re getting at.’
‘he disinherited me.’
‘what do you think, ____? what sort of person would do that? what sort of lying, interfering person would do something like that?’
‘i don’t know who you’re referring to, but he sounds like the sort of bloke who might push your teeth down your throat.’
‘i think that’s just the way he walks.’
‘i’m gonna do something adolescent. i’m gonna carve her name on my forehead with this hunting knife!’
‘this is all my fault.’
‘this is my responsibility.’
‘could you put down that knife?’
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Getaway
Summary: when Daehyun springs an island getaway on you, you’re too busy having fun making memories with him to realise there is an ulterior motive to why he took you away on a holiday right now.
Pairing: Jung Daehyun x reader
Genre: fluff / a little bit of angst?
A/N: so I find it really beneficial heal through the written word. This is another one of those moments. Some of the facts shared in this story are from my own personal life, though I know I’m not the only one to suffer from loss and grief. Mine just unfortunately falls on Daehyun’s birthday so here we are addressing some of it! I hope you appreciate this storyline even with the personal addition to it, and enjoy celebrating Daehyun’s birthday with me! I love this man more than anything else in this world.
Word count: 1889
You stirred when you felt soft kisses upon your neck, your eyelids still heavy against the world, yet you rolled your head over on the pillow so he could have more access.
Daehyun chuckled, the vibration of the gesture against your skin sending a shiver down your spine. Must he sound so delicious first thing in the morning?
His lips painstakingly moved up to your ear before he said, “You have two hours to pack.”
Wait, what?
Sitting up with a start as your boyfriend moved away, you blearily stared at him now placing clothes into his luggage trunk. “Where are we going?”
Daehyun pointed to his empty spot beside you and you turned to see a brochure for an island getaway there instead. Blinking, you leafed through it slowly and then glanced back at Daehyun. “You're kidding?!”
“Do you think I would go to the extremes of packing my own luggage just to trick you?” he asked with a hearty laugh and you gave him a look that only made the joyous sound increase. Pausing his current packing task, Daehyun climbed back onto the bed, reaching for your body and pulling you into his embrace. “I booked everything whilst you were asleep and let your editor know I was stealing you for a week. Everything is ready except you so you need to get up and start moving. We need to be at the airport in just under three hours, and now you have one hour and fifty minutes to pack.”
“We’re really going there?” you questioned in disbelief and Daehyun nodded. “What’s the special occasion?”
“Can’t I escape this dreary wintry weather with you without having a reason?”
You grinned, dashing over to the wardrobe to start sorting out what to take. You didn’t have a second to waste.
It didn’t seem real to wake up with an endless view of the vast blue outside of your beachfront villa but as you stirred from your slumber, you were compelled to pull yourself out of the plush bedding and pad over to the large balcony. Sliding the door open, you stepped outside, amazed by the sight before you. You didn’t know how the locals of this island could start their day without getting lost in the natural beauty all around first. You were certain you could spend all day gazing at this view and not grow bored of it.
Smiling when you felt arms slide around you from behind, you leaned back into Daehyun’s chest as he nuzzled into you. He let out a little huff. “Why did you leave me?”
“I saw the sea. It was already magical last night when the clerk led us over here but waking up and seeing it in daylight bewitched me.”
“Mmm,” he mumbled into you, kissing your shoulder gently. His grip tightened around you and you playfully slapped his arm with how he was choosing to remove the remnants of his slumber. “Maybe the view bewitched me too. You looked like a goddess standing over here just now.”
“I hope you don’t plan on spending the majority of this holiday exploring my body in this bedroom, Daehyun,” you stated disapprovingly, sighing all the same when his lips moved over a sensitive patch of skin. Your head naturally rolled back onto his shoulder with his touch and you cursed yourself for easily falling into the realm of desire he had opened up.
“Of course not,” he replied matter-of-fact, littering kisses in between his words. “But I definitely need to explore you before we head out onto the island today.”
After your sensual start to the day, you went out to see the sights the island bolstered. You walked, you swam, you hiked and you canoed. There was so much to see and do that the next four days were full of activities during the day, grand dinners at night with social festivities and dancing finishing off the hours of the night. You slept exceptionally well, fully rested to rise for another day of adventure with Daehyun.
It wasn’t until you took a quiet day off from travelling around the island exploring that you realised what the date was.
Today was Daehyun’s birthday.
How could you have possibly forgotten your partner’s birthday? You had been with him for years now, and his birthday was hardly a day you could ever forget. It hadn’t been the easiest finding out that the day Daehyun would celebrate each year was one you had learned to mourn over the year before you met him. It was always a troubling time for you yet you never wanted to let Daehyun feel underappreciated either. It wasn’t his fault your father had died on his birthday, and so each year you went overboard to make the day special at least for him.
So how did you forget it this time?
You had been swamped with work, but you recalled starting your birthday planning the day before Daehyun had whisked you away on this getaway. It meant you hadn’t yet picked up all of his special surprises, though you did have his present safely hidden in your at-home office. All the same, not a single day since you had been here had you thought of his birthday, and guilt immediately washed over you for having such a great time being spoiled by him and not linking this special trip as a birthday getaway instead.
As the morning progressed, you retreated further into your mind, worrying over how to make today special enough with the little amount of time you had to prepare something within. You could make something happen for dinner, but it wouldn’t as spectacular had you realised the date yesterday instead. You cursed agreeing to being device-free whilst here and for not even looking on your camera at the date either.
Daehyun picked up on your frantic internalising and after breakfast, he suggested a walk along the beach, allowing you to ruminate for only a few minutes longer before he let out a heavy sigh. “What’s bothering you today?”
“I’m fine,” you lied and you knew he didn’t buy it whatsoever. You grimaced. “You noticed, huh?”
“How could I not? You haven’t been laughing nearly as much as you have every other day this week. I was hoping to hear you laugh the most today, actually.”
You nodded slowly, trying to squash down your ever-present remorse. “Did you plan this trip for your birthday?”
“No, I planned this all for you.”
“For me?” you repeated, confused by his statement. “But Dae-”
“Do you think I don’t see how difficult this time of year is for you every year? I know you try not to let on that my birthday is hard for you, and you really go all out to spoil me. I appreciate your efforts more than anything, you know?”
You couldn’t answer, the lump forming in your throat blocking your ability to speak. You attempted to smile though and Daehyun stopped walking, pulling you towards him so he could wipe away the first tear that tumbled from your eyes. He blinked back his own emotions, pressing on with a wide smile instead. “Every year though, you hide this side to you. When you think I don’t see it, I find you hiding away sobbing alone. As if you don’t feel it’s okay to be sad today too. It really is okay to be.”
“No, I don’t want to be sad on your birthday.”
“But it’s not just my birthday, is it?” he replied and you sniffled, nodding slowly. You still couldn’t understand how you had gotten so lucky to meet someone with such a beautiful and caring soul like Daehyun, but you always believed that your father had sent him to you now that he was gone. To protect and cherish you in his stead.
Daehyun was the most selfless person you knew.
“I wanted us to have fun this year. Away from the usual schedule, leaving the forced smiles and brooding hours behind us. You needed the fresh salty air, the wind in your hair and my hand in yours to remind you that every day is precious and magical. You are the most genuine and relaxed you’ve ever been around this time of year on this holiday. I don’t regret choosing to do this, even if it meant you forgot what today is.”
“You are too much, you know that?” you told him, resting against him and wrapping your arms around his waist securely. You hoped your embrace would show Daehyun just how grateful you were to have him in your life.
You knew he was close to crying now; the way he was breathing was a tell-tale sign. He managed to talk through it still. “I wanted to remove your burdens this year. That was what I wanted for my birthday. And I succeeded. But now that you’re like this, just remember today you can cry in front of me. I’ll catch all your tears. And I promise I’ll try to make you smile just as much as you have all week long. Besides, your Dad would want to see that smile today the most, wouldn’t he?”
You gripped onto his shirt, allowing the first wave of your emotions to crash upon him, Daehyun holding onto you, the anchor within your storm. He was right; it really was freeing to allow yourself to be this emotional in front of him today. When your tears stopped falling, you stared up at Daehyun, a watery smile crossing your lips. “Happy Birthday, Daehyun. I love you.”
“Love you too,” he replied, kissing your lips gently before grinning. “I have to admit, I’m pretty impressed with how I handled this. I did well huh?”
You giggled. “Very well. I’m so lucky to have you.”
“Lucky enough to marry me someday?” he wondered and you froze, unblinking in your gaze up at him. Daehyun’s smile faltered as he noticed your stuck expression.
“Wait, I-”
“Are you proposing right now? Because if so, the answer is yes.”
“Well, I was… well, uh… shoot.” Daehyun rubbed a hand through his hair at your sudden reply and let out an awkward laugh. “I wasn’t exactly proposing, Y/N. I don’t even have a ring.”
“I don’t care about a ring, I have you.”
Daehyun stared at you intently. “You’ll marry me?”
“Of course I would, there’s no one else better for me. I mean, who else plans something for their partner on their own birthday? Of course, I want to marry you.”
“Really?”
“Really!”
Daehyun slowly grinned, a shocked, elated laugh leaving him. “I wasn’t expecting that you would be my birthday gift this year but you can’t take it back now. Ring or not, you just agreed to be my fiancé.”
You laughed genuinely and noticed the smile on his lips was the biggest you had seen all holiday long. Daehyun had definitely succeeded with all of this, allowing yourself to embrace all the emotions of this day was better than trying to plan it out and avoid it.
And whilst you would always honour your emotions of the loss of your father, you now had an extra anniversary to celebrate with your fiancé. You were certain you would smile more every single year at Daehyun’s side on this special day.
_________________
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This book will concern itself least of all with those unrelated psychological researches which are now so often substituted for social and historical analysis. Foremost in our field of vision will stand the great, moving forces of history, which are super-personal in character. Monarchy is one of them. But all these forces operate through people. And monarchy is by its very principle bound up with the personal. This in itself justifies an interest in the personality of that monarch whom the process of social development brought face to face with a revolution. Moreover, we hope to show in what follows, partially at least, just where in a personality the strictly personal ends – often much sooner than we think – and how frequently the “distinguishing traits” of a person are merely individual scratches made by a higher law of development.
Nicholas II inherited from his ancestors not only a giant empire, but also a revolution. And they did not bequeath him one quality which would have made him capable of governing an empire or even a province or a county. To that historic flood which was rolling its billows each one closer to the gates of his palace, the last Romanov opposed only a dumb indifference. It seemed as though between his consciousness and his epoch there stood some transparent but absolutely impenetrable medium.
People surrounding the tzar often recalled after the revolution that in the most tragic moments of his reigns – at the time of the surrender of Port Arthur and the sinking of the fleet at Tsushima, and ten years later at the time of the retreat of the Russian troops from Galicia, and then two years later during the days preceding his abdication when all those around him were depressed, alarmed, shaken – Nicholas alone preserved his tranquillity. He would inquire as usual how many versts he had covered in his journeys about Russia, would recall episodes of hunting expeditions in the past, anecdotes of official meetings, would interest himself generally in the little rubbish of the day’s doings, while thunders roared over him and lightnings flashed. “What is this?” asked one of his attendant generals, “a gigantic, almost unbelievable self-restraint, the product of breeding, of a belief in the divine predetermination of events? Or is it inadequate consciousness?” The answer is more than half included in the question. The so-called “breeding” of the tzar, his ability to control himself in the most extraordinary circumstances, cannot be explained by a mere external training; its essence was an inner indifference, a poverty of spiritual forces, a weakness of the impulses of the will. That mask of indifference which was called breeding in certain circles, was a natural part of Nicholas at birth.
The tzar’s diary is the best of all testimony. From day to day and from year to year drags along upon its pages the depressing record of spiritual emptiness. “Walked long and killed two crows. Drank tea by daylight.” Promenades on foot, rides in a boat. And then again crows, and again tea. All on the borderline of physiology. Recollections of church ceremonies are jotted down in the same tone as a drinking party.
In the days preceding the opening of the State Duma, when the whole country was shaking with convulsions, Nicholas wrote: “April 14. Took a walk in a thin shirt and took up paddling again. Had tea in a balcony. Stana dined and took a ride with us. Read.” Not a word as to the subject of his reading. Some sentimental English romance? Or a report from the Police Department? “April 15: Accepted Witte’s resignation. Marie and Dmitri to dinner. Drove them home to the palace.”
On the day of the decision to dissolve the Duma, when the court as well as the liberal circles were going through a paroxysm of fright, the tzar wrote in his diary: “July 7. Friday. Very busy morning. Half hour late to breakfast with the officers ... A storm came up and it was very muggy. We walked together. Received Goremykin. Signed a decree dissolving the Duma! Dined with Olga and Petia. Read all evening.” An exclamation point after the coming dissolution of the Duma is the highest expression of his emotions. The deputies of the dispersed Duma summoned the people to refuse to pay taxes. A series of military uprisings followed: in Sveaborg, Kronstadt, on ships, in army units. The revolutionary terror against high officials was renewed on an unheard-of scale. The tzar writes: “July 9. Sunday. It has happened! The Duma was closed today. At breakfast after Mass long faces were noticeable among many ... The weather was fine. On our walk we met Uncle Misha who came over yesterday from Gatchina. Was quietly busy until dinner and all evening. Went padding in a canoe.” It was in a canoe he went paddling – that is told. But with what he was busy all evening is not indicated. So it was always.
And further in those same fatal days: “July 14. Got dressed and rode a bicycle to the bathing beach and bathed enjoyably in the sea.” “July 15. Bathed twice. It was very hot. Only us two at dinner. A storm passed over.” “July 19. Bathed in the morning. Received at the farm. Uncle Vladimir and Chagin lunched with us.” An insurrection and explosions of dynamite are barely touched upon with a single phrase, “Pretty doings!” – astonishing in its imperturbable indifference, which never rose to conscious cynicism.
“At 9:30 in the morning we rode out to the Caspian regiment ... walked for a long time. The weather was wonderful. Bathed in the sea. After tea received Lvov and Guchkov.” Not a word of the fact that this unexpected reception of the two liberals was brought about by the attempt of Stolypin to include opposition leaders in his ministry. Prince Lvov, the future head of the Provisional Government, said of that reception at the time: “I expected to see the sovereign stricken with grief, but instead of that there came out to meet me a jolly sprightly fellow in a raspberry-coloured shirt.” The tzar’s outlook was not broader than that of a minor police official – with this difference, that the latter would have a better knowledge of reality and be less burdened with superstitions. The sole paper which Nicholas read for years, and from which he derived his ideas, was a weekly published on state revenue by Prince Meshchersky, a vile, bribed journalist of the reactionary bureaucratic clique, despised even in his own circle. The tzar kept his outlook unchanged through two wars and two revolutions. Between his consciousness and events stood always that impenetrable medium – indifference. Nicholas was called, not without foundation, a fatalist. It is only necessary to add that his fatalism was the exact opposite of an active belief in his “star.” Nicholas indeed considered himself unlucky. His fatalism was only a form of passive self-defence against historic evolution, and went hand in hand with an arbitrariness, trivial in psychological motivation, but monstrous in its consequences.
“I wish it and therefore it must be —,” writes Count Witte. “That motto appeared in all the activities of this weak ruler, who only through weakness did all the things which characterised his reign – a wholesale shedding of more or less innocent blood, for the most part without aim.”
Nicholas is sometimes compared with his half-crazy great-great-grandfather Paul, who was strangled by a camarilla acting in agreement with his own son, Alexander “the Blessed.” These two Romanovs were actually alike in their distrust of everybody due to a distrust of themselves, their touchiness as of omnipotent nobodies, their feeling of abnegation, their consciousness, as you might say, of being crowned pariahs. But Paul was incomparably more colourful; there was an element of fancy in his rantings, however irresponsible. In his descendant everything was dim; there was not one sharp trait.
Nicholas was not only unstable, but treacherous. Flatterers called him a charmer, bewitcher, because of his gentle way with the courtiers. But the tzar reserved his special caresses for just those officials whom he had decided to dismiss. Charmed beyond measure at a reception, the minister would go home and find a letter requesting his resignation. That was a kind of revenge on the tzar’s part for his own nonentity.
Nicholas recoiled in hostility before everything gifted and significant. He felt at ease only among completely mediocre and brainless people, saintly fakers, holy men, to whom he did not have to look up. He had his amour propre, indeed it was rather keen. But it was not active, not possessed of a grain of initiative, enviously defensive. He selected his ministers on a principle of continual deterioration. Men of brain and character he summoned only in extreme situations when there was no other way out, just as we call in a surgeon to save our lives. It was so with Witte, and afterwards with Stolypin. The tzar treated both with ill-concealed hostility. As soon as the crisis had passed, he hastened to part with these counsellors who were too tall for him. This selection operated so systematically that the president of the last Duma, Rodzianko, on the 7th of January 1917, with the revolution already knocking at the doors, ventured to say to the tzar: “Your Majesty, there is not one reliable or honest man left around you; all the best men have been removed or have retired. There remain only those of ill repute.”
All the efforts of the liberal bourgeoisie to find a common language with the court came to nothing. The tireless and noisy Rodzianko tried to shake up the tzar with his reports, but in vain. The latter gave no answer either to argument or to impudence, but quietly made ready to dissolve the Duma. Grand Duke Dmitri, a former favourite of the tzar, and future accomplice in the murder of Rasputin, complained to his colleague, Prince Yussupov, that the tzar at headquarters was becoming every day more indifferent to everything around him. In Dmitri’s opinion the tzar was being fed some kind of dope which had a benumbing action upon his spiritual faculties. “Rumours went round,” writes the liberal historian Miliukov, “that this condition of mental and moral apathy was sustained in the tzar by an increased use of alcohol.” This was all fancy or exaggeration. The tzar had no need of narcotics: the fatal “dope” was in his blood. Its symptoms merely seemed especially striking on the background of those great events of war and domestic crisis which led up to the revolution. Rasputin, who was a psychologist, said briefly of the tzar that he “lacked insides.”
This dim, equable and “well-bred” man was cruel – not with the active cruelty of Ivan the Terrible or of Peter, in the pursuit of historic aims – What had Nicholas the Second in common with them? – but with the cowardly cruelty of the late born, frightened at his own doom. At the very dawn of his reign Nicholas praised the Phanagoritsy regiment as “fine fellows” for shooting down workers. He always “read with satisfaction” how they flogged with whips the bob-haired girl-students, or cracked the heads of defenceless people during Jewish pogroms. This crowned black sheep gravitated with all his soul to the very dregs of society, the Black Hundred hooligans. He not only paid them generously from the state treasury, but loved to chat with them about their exploits, and would pardon them when they accidentally got mixed up in the murder of an opposition deputy. Witte, who stood at the head of the government during the putting down of the first revolution, has written in his memoirs: “When news of the useless cruel antics of the chiefs of those detachments reached the sovereign, they met with his approval, or in any case his defence.” In answer to the demand of the governor-general of the Baltic States that he stop a certain lieutenant-captain, Richter, who was “executing on his own authority and without trial non-resistant persons,” the tzar wrote on the report: “Ah, what a fine fellow!” Such encouragements are innumerable. This “charmer,” without will, without aim, without imagination, was more awful than all the tyrants of ancient and modern history.
The tzar was mightily under the influence of the tzarina, an influence which increased with the years and the difficulties. Together they constituted a kind of unit – and that combination shows already to what an extent the personal, under pressure of circumstances, is supplemented by the group. But first we must speak of the tzarina herself.
Maurice Paléologue, the French ambassador at Petrograd during the war, a refined psychologist for French academicians and janitresses, offers a meticulously licked portrait of the last tzarina: “Moral restlessness, a chronic sadness, infinite longing, intermittent ups and downs of strength, anguishing thoughts of the invisible other world, superstitions – are not all these traits, so clearly apparent in the personality of the empress, the characteristic traits of the Russian people?” Strange as it may seem, there is in this saccharine lie just a grain of truth. The Russian satirist Saltykov, with some justification, called the ministers and governors from among the Baltic barons “Germans with a Russian soul.” It is indubitable that aliens, in no way connected with the people, developed the most pure culture of the “genuine Russian” administrator.
But why did the people repay with such open hatred a tzarina who, in the words of Paléologue, had so completely assimilated their soul? The answer is simple. In order to justify her new situation, this German woman adopted with a kind of cold fury all the traditions and nuances of Russian mediaevalism, the most meagre and crude of all mediaevalisms, in that very period when the people were making mighty efforts to free themselves from it. This Hessian princess was literally possessed by the demon of autocracy. Having risen from her rural corner to the heights of Byzantine despotism, she would not for anything take a step down. In the orthodox religion she found a mysticism and a magic adapted to her new lot. She believed the more inflexibly in her vocation, the more naked became the foulness of the old régime. With a strong character and a gift for dry and hard exaltations, the tzarina supplemented the weak-willed tzar, ruling over him.
On March 17, 1916, a year before the revolution, when the tortured country was already writhing in the grip of defeat and ruin, the tzarina wrote to her husband at military headquarters: “You must not give indulgences, a responsible ministry, etc. ... or anything that they want. This must be your war and your peace, and the honour yours and our fatherland’s, and not by any means the Duma’s. They have not the right to say a single word in these matters.” This was at any rate a thoroughgoing programme. And it was in just this way that she always had the whip hand over the continually vacillating tzar.
After Nicholas’ departure to the army in the capacity of fictitious commander-in-chief, the tzarina began openly to take charge of internal affairs. The ministers came to her with reports as to a regent. She entered into a conspiracy with a small camarilla against the Duma, against the ministers, against the staff-generals, against the whole world – to some extent indeed against the tzar. On December 6, 1916, the tzarina wrote to the tzar: “... Once you have said that you want to keep Protopopov, how does he (Premier Trepov) go against you? Bring down your first on the table. Don’t yield. Be the boss. Obey your firm little wife and our Friend. Believe in us.” Again three days late: “You know you are right. Carry your head high. Command Trepov to work with him ... Strike your fist on the table.” Those phrases sound as though they were made up, but they are taken from authentic letters. Besides, you cannot make up things like that.
On December 13 the tzarina suggested to the tzar: “Anything but this responsible ministry about which everybody has gone crazy. Everything is getting quiet and better, but people want to feel your hand. How long they have been saying to me, for whole years, the same thing: ’Russia loves to feel the whip.’ That is their nature!” This orthodox Hessian, with a Windsor upbringing and a Byzantine crown on her head, not only “incarnates” the Russian soul, but also organically despises it. Their nature demands the whip – writes the Russian tzarina to the Russian tzar about the Russian people, just two months and a half before the monarchy tips over into the abyss.
In contrast to her force of character, the intellectual force of the tzarina is not higher, but rather lower than her husband’s. Even more than he, she craves the society of simpletons. The close and long-lasting friendship of the tzar and tzarina with their lady-in-waiting Vyrubova gives a measure of the spiritual stature of this autocratic pair. Vyrubova has described herself as a fool, and this is not modesty. Witte, to whom one cannot deny an accurate eye, characterised her as “a most commonplace, stupid, Petersburg young lady, homely as a bubble in the biscuit dough.” In the society of this person, with whom elderly officials, ambassadors and financiers obsequiously flirted, and who had just enough brains not to forget about her own pockets, the tzar and tzarina would pass many hours, consulting her about affairs, corresponding with her and about her. She was more influential than the State Duma, and even than the ministry.
But Vyrubova herself was only an instrument of “The Friend,” whose authority superseded all three. “... This is my private opinion,” writes the tzarina to the tzar, “I will find out what our Friend thinks.” The opinion of the “Friend” is not private, it decides. “... I am firm,” insists the tzarina a few weeks later, “but listen to me, i.e. this means our Friend, and trust in everything ... I suffer for you as for a gentle soft-hearted child – who needs guidance, but listens to bad counsellors, while a man sent by God is telling him what he should do.”
The Friend sent by God was Gregory Rasputin.
“... The prayers and the help of our Friend – then all will be well.”
“If we did not have Him, all would have been over long ago. I am absolutely convinced of that.”
Throughout the whole reign of Nicholas and Alexandra soothsayers and hysterics were imported for the court not only from all over Russia, but from other countries. Special official purveyors arose, who would gather around the momentary oracle, forming a powerful Upper Chamber attached to the monarch. There was no lack of bigoted old women with the title of countess, nor of functionaries weary of doing nothing, nor of financiers who had entire ministries in their hire. With a jealous eye on the unchartered competition of mesmerists and sorcerers, the high priesthood of the Orthodox Church would hasten to pry their way into the holy of holies of the intrigue. Witte called this ruling circle, against which he himself twice stubbed his toe, “the leprous court camarilla.”
The more isolated the dynasty became, and the more unsheltered the autocrat felt, the more he needed some help from the other world. Certain savages, in order to bring good weather, wave in the air a shingle on a string. The tzar and tzarina used shingles for the greatest variety of purposes. In the tzar’s train there was a whole chapel full of large and small images, and all sorts of fetiches, which were brought to bear, first against the Japanese, then against the German artillery.
The level of the court circle really had not changed much from generation to generation. Under Alexander II, called the “Liberator,” the grand dukes had sincerely believed in house spirits and witches. Under Alexander III it was no better, only quieter. The “leprous camarilla” had existed always, changed only its personnel and its method. Nicholas II did not create, but inherited from his ancestors, this court atmosphere of savage mediaevalism. But the country during these same decades had been changing, its problems growing more complex, its culture rising to a higher level. The court circle was thus left far behind.
Although the monarchy did under compulsion make concessions to the new forces, nevertheless inwardly it completely failed to become modernised. On the contrary it withdrew into itself. Its spirit of mediaevalism thickened under the pressure of hostility and fear, until it acquired the character of a disgusting nightmare overhanging the country.
Towards November 1905 – that is, at the most critical moment of the first revolution – the tzar writes in his diary: “We got acquainted with a man of God, Gregory, from the Tobolsk province.” That was Rasputin – a Siberian peasant with a bald scar on his head, the result of a beating for horse-stealing. Put forward at an appropriate moment, this “Man of God” soon found official helpers – or rather they found him – and thus was formed a new ruling class which got a firm hold of the tzarina, and through her of the tzar.
From the winter of 1913-14 it was openly said in Petersburg society that all high appointments, posts and contracts depended upon the Rasputin clique. The “Elder” himself gradually turned into a state institution. He was carefully guarded, and no less carefully sought after by the competing ministers. Spies of the Police Department kept a diary of his life by hours, and did not fail to report how on a visit to his home village of Pokrovsky he got into a drunken and bloody fight with his own father on the street. On the same day that this happened – September 9, 1915 – Rasputin sent two friendly telegrams, one to Tzarskoe Selo, to the tzarina, the other to headquarters to the tzar. In epic language the police spies registered from day to day the revels of the Friend. “He returned today 5 o’clock in the morning completely drunk.” “On the night of the 25-26th the actress V. spent the night with Rasputin.” “He arrived with Princess D. (the wife of a gentleman of the bedchamber of the Tzar’s court) at the Hotel Astoria.”...And right beside this: “Came home from Tzarskoe Selo about 11 o’clock in the evening.” “Rasputin came home with Princess Sh- very drunk and together they went out immediately.” In the morning or evening of the following day a trip to Tzarskoe Selo. To a sympathetic question from the spy as to why the Elder was thoughtful, the answer came: “Can’t decide whether to convoke the Duma or not.” And then again: “He came home at 5 in the morning pretty drunk.” Thus for months and years the melody was played on three keys: “Pretty drunk,” “Very drunk,” and “Completely drunk.” These communications of state importance were brought together and countersigned by the general of gendarmes, Gorbachev.
The bloom of Raputin’s influence lasted six years, the last years of the monarchy. “His life in Petrograd,” says Prince Yussupov, who participated to some extent in that life, and afterward killed Rasputin, “became a continual revel, the durnken debauch of a galley slave who had come into an unexpected fortune.” “I had at my disposition,” wrote the president of the Duma, Rodzianko, “a whole mass of letters from mothers whose daughters had been dishonoured by this insolent rake.” Nevertheless the Petrograd metropolitan, Pitirim, owed his position to Rasputin, as also the almost illiterate Archbishop Varnava. The Procuror of the Holy Synod, Sabler, was long sustained by Rasputin; and Premier Kokovtsev was removed at his wish, having refused to receive the “Elder.” Rasputin appointed Stürmer President of the Council of Ministers, Protopopov Minister of the Interior, the new Procuror of the Synod, Raev, and many others. The ambassador of the French republic, Paléologue, sought an interview with Rasputin, embraced him and cried, “Voilà, un véritable illuminé!” hoping in this way to win the heart of the tzarina to the cause of France. The Jew Simanovich, financial agent of the “Elder,” himself under the eye of the Secret Police as a nightclub gambler and usurer – introduced into the Ministry of Justice through Rasputin the completely dishonest creature Dobrovolsky.
“Keep by you the little list,” writes the tzarina to the tzar, in regard to new appointments. “Our friend has asked that you talk all this over with Protopopov.” Two days later: “Our friend says that Stürmer may remain a few days longer as President of the Council of Ministers.” And again: “Protopopov venerates our friend and will be blessed.”
On one of those days when the police spies were counting up the number of bottles and women, the tzarina grieved in a letter to the tzar: “They accuse Rasputin of kissing women, etc. Read the apostles; they kissed everybody as a form of greeting.” This reference to the apostles would hardly convince the police spies. In another letter the tzarina goes still farther. “During vespers I thought so much about our friend,” she writes, “how the Scribes and Pharisees are persecuting Christ pretending that they are so perfect ... yes, in truth no man is a prophet in his own country.”
The comparison of Rasputin and Christ was customary in that circle, and by no means accidental. The alarm of the royal couple before the menacing forces of history was too sharp to be satisfied with an impersonal God and the futile shadow of a Biblical Christ. They needed a second coming of “the Son of Man.” In Rasputin the rejected and agonising monarchy found a Christ in its own image.
“If there had been no Rasputin,” said Senator Tagantsev, a man of the old régime, “it would have been necessary to invent one.” There is a good deal more in these words than their author imagined. If by the word hooliganism we understand the extreme expression of those anti-social parasite elements at the bottom of society, we may define Rasputinism as a crowned hooliganism at its very top.
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