Introduction
(From an appendix to “The Barn at Montcouvez”)
[These] are legends of French Flanders, a land so fecund in memories, so rich in traditions. Visit any one of its villages, any one of its hamlets, and people there will tell you these stories; there, among bizarre events, an energetic, somber and wild imagination sparkles, in which the influence of our foggy atmosphere, our cold and rigorous landscapes and our superstitious customs is recognizable.
In the warm climate of Spain, the peasants sing joyful seguidillas, an expression of the voluptuous indolence that gentle and fecund sun engenders; in Italy, an azure sky and a bewitching nature inspire amorous and tender canzonetti; but in Flanders, everything that surrounds us is grave, monotonous and austere in appearance; the eye sees nothing in the countryside but marshes, valleys and fields rich in agriculture but not very picturesque. The earth there only yields its fruits to persistent labor.
To make an impression on organs hardened by fatigue, and to interest people used to seeing nothing but severe scenery, it requires stories of sinister marvels, which acquire a kind of plausible in being attached to familiar objects and places. It requires stories in which terror is taken to an extreme, and which leave a profound impression in the memory. They are retold in the long winter evenings. At the moment when interest reaches its peak, the spinning-wheels stop; the silent circle draws tighter; nothing can any longer be heard but the deep, hoarse voice of the story-teller, while the gazes of those surrounding the speaker glance behind fearfully, as if the evil spirits of which mention has been made, evoked by the nocturnal tales, were standing there, terrible pitchforks in hand.