"Surely everyone is aware of the divine pleasures which attend a wintry fireside; candles at four o'clock, warm hearthrugs, tea, a fair tea-maker, shutters closed, curtains flowing in ample draperies to the floor, whilst the wind and rain are raging audibly without."
This is the writing of Thomas de Quincey in his 'Confessions of an Opium Eater.' Words which speak to us of comfort and security in a cold, dark winter. Summer may be hot and languid with its delights but the pleasures of an open hearth, a hearty fire, a comfortable room and tea poured by a 'fair tea-maker' are equally, if not more, attractive.
The author imagines a painter to save himself the trouble of too much verbal description, "Paint me, then, a room seventeen feet by twelve, and not more than seven and a half feet high." He imagines it a library. "Make it populous with books, and, furthermore, paint me a good fire, and furniture plain and modest, befitting the unpretending cottage of a scholar. And near the fire paint me a tea-table, and (as it is clear that no creature can come to see one on such a stormy night) place only two cups and saucers on the tea-tray."
He explains that no one else can come through the winter's night to his white cottage; a cottage he sets it in a valley eighteen miles from any town; a valley two miles long and three quarters of a mile in width surrounded by mountains some three to four thousand feet high. He is cut off from other human contact apart from his sole companion. He subtly develops her features as he focuses, very English like on his tea which he sees as a refined stimulant and the favourite beverage of the intellectual, "I usually drink tea from eight o'clock at night to four o'clock in the morning. And as it is very unpleasant to make tea or to pour it out for oneself, paint me a lovely young woman sitting at the table. Paint her arms like Aurora's and her smiles like Hebe's."
The picture is enticing. A man, an intellectual no doubt, cut off from the world with just a fair companion. Perhaps because of his time, de Quincey does not develop the possibilities but we are left with the enticing image of his fair companion, a lovely young woman, who sits with him at the tea table, a table plain and modest, perhaps such as Gustav Stickley might have wrought of plain sawn oak, and pours his tea. Is her hair long but neatly held, is her dress white or blue - it is surely long - are her fingers slender and her smile sweet?
Does the picture become, perhaps, a little more enticing as we focus on the image? Do we need the long dress - white or blue - does her hair need to be neatly held? It is the warmth and intimacy of the cottage and the fireside which speaks and the lovely young woman. Imagine it is yourself, comfortably seated there by the fire. Not in the casual so-called comfortable clothes of our age but the formal suiting of an older time, neck-tie or cravat, it matters not, but you are well attired in this unpretending cottage; you are seated by the fireside; outside it may well be snow, or black frost, or wind so strong that, "you may lean your back against it like a post." A Canadian winter or a Russian but bring to your ear just a little sound outside of cold wind to make the inside, and a fire warmed inside at that, a place of security, comfort and pleasure.
Do we then dispense with the young woman's clothing, the fireside is, after all, warm enough for that, do we not think this lack will add to our feelings of comfort and pleasure? Do we ask her to dispense with her clothing; will the observation of the careful disrobing in the warm glow of the fire add to our repose?
How then shall we visualise her? The author writes too sparsely. Is her hair fair or dark? Is it titian maybe? Is she tall, are her eyes blue? Is her bosom full, her hips wide and what of her intimate parts? Do we need more detail of those - careful words of a descriptive nature? What do we need to know to finish this picture of winter comfort? Does it need some speculation as to the cause of the happy scene? Let us think then.
Dr. Angorus Mutluyorsun shook the snow from his long riding cloak. It had been hard going across the pass. Not easy at the best of times but with the coming of winter verging on the treacherous but he had promised himself the pleasure of winter at Nareemburg accompanied by a particular and lovely young woman and he was not one to break his promises: certainly least of all those to himself. Hard going for a man driving a carriage. He should, of course, have brought servants. Their lack would result in the bother of seeing to the horses through the long winter but his desire had been clear and uncluttered. A winter at Nareemburg completely alone with Silene.
Silene, just the name brought numerous emotions to the surface of his mind. Lust of course, how could it not be so? But other tenderer emotions striving for dominance. It had been a bitter blow when she had married ________, a bitter blow after his own long suit. It had been icy daggers to him to imagine them together in the flower strewn wedding bed on that first night of their so unwelcome nuptials; it had pierced him to the heart to even think of that man untying the bows that had held her so pretty dress together and worst of all the deflowering of his so fair Silene by the unworthy _______. He had cried in anguish at the thought of her alone in bed with that man, the man who had bested him in the search for her hand. Could he not see in every waking moment her white limbs opening to receive that man, her lips seeking his, her hand seeking... the imagery too awful to contemplate but yet there in his mind. And to think of that man's lance taking a tilt at her maidenhead; the stabbing push and the eventual piercing - the pain and then the pleasure which he and not _______ should have been the perpetrator. The pain was his, a dagger through his heart.
Even on that black night, the darkest blackest night for him, a plan had begun to form. A stratagem slowly refined and polished over the hot, slow days of the summertime, a time when he had to endure observing Silene and her new husband walking in the shade, her parasol held high as her lovely tinkling laughter came to him at his window.
It had, in the event, all been so easy, a little trick and Silene had been in his carriage. A small, alleged restorative offered for her to drink but containing a draught of an opiate from the renowned chemist, Herr Gut____, a clatter through the narrow streets and out into the clear countryside and the long road to Nareemburg. Was he a fool to have despatched that message? So unnecessary. Would it not have been better if Silene had seemingly disappeared into thin air. But he had not wanted the putative husband merely to worry, to suffer the anguish of not knowing what had happened to his dear, dear young wife. No, it was far better that he should know the truth. How he would rail when he read the note and discover the intention but not know the place. _________ knew nothing of Nareemburg, did not know of the unpretending cottage, could search all through the cruel winter but would not find Silene and by then it would be too late - far too late. The deed would be done; more than done; done many, many times.
Inside his fur coat, carefully wrapped in silk was the phial; prepared so carefully by Herr Gut_______; Essencia, no less, but with a tincture of something more. Silene would be pliable: Silene would wish to be pliable; it would not be freely given but given it would be! Already the draught was at work. He had paused outside the town, on the long empty road as the horses had stamped and snorted and between Silene's pretty lips he had poured just a little of the laced Essencia. In her sleep she had drunk the sweetness. The conflict between loyalty and desire, between duty and passion, between love and lust would have begun.
The excitement of the ride, the icy road, the climbs and the passes, the several near mishaps and then the straight road across the valley floor with the snow swirling. At last the cottage in view in a sea of white. Silene had known none of this, had slept the sleep of the young and good, all wrapped in furs within the coach. The deep snow had been difficult on the lonely road, almost too deep to pass. He had left it late, very late. Such a terrible risk that he might have lost dear Silene, buried with him within the coach in drifts of snow. Frozen together until the spring thaw. But a prize so great, winter alone with Silene and that cursed ______ unable to reach Silene, even if her accursed could discover their whereabouts - which he could not!
Around the cottage a maelstrom of snow had swirled as he had lifted Silene gently from the coach and laid her within on the brass bed. Beautiful things, both Silene and the linen sheets upon the bed. It was the only bed in the cottage. That was in keeping with what he intended. She would not sleep alone.
He had stood looking down at Silene, at her fair features at rest in sleep, before tending, as a man must, to the welfare of the horses. The rubbing down and settling in the stables. A good feed at the end of a hard day. Beasts content to find themselves dry and warm together inside a familiar stable. Horses are herd animals - they like to be with other horses. He had lit a fire in his library.
" Dr. Mutluyorsun!" Her voice sleepy and soft. "Where, why?"
Let us move closer, let us hear his thoughts, the thoughts of the scholar obsessed with a woman. He has brought her to his lonely and, now, snowbound cottage. He has ensured all is well for the comfort of two persons. The logs are piled high, there is food and fine wine and a comfortable bed.
It was easy. Silene so trusting; so readily accepting my explanation with equanimity; that we had been unable to reach her husband, the way blocked, though we had tried another way, and another without success and had sought shelter, driven further and further from the town by the so dark clouds and approaching snow until reaching my scholarly retreat from the world; the weather terrible; she had clearly been fatigued, had slept and had missed the terrors of the journey; a blessing; was she recovered?
So sweet, so innocent and trusting; so beautiful; so desirable, her bosom rising and falling with her breath.
"Drink this; it is a restorative, dear Silene. Essencia no less. I am so sorry we are trapped here."
