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It was a drab and dreary evening when Mr. Samuel Metcalf, a well-known inhabitant of the corner seat at my club, began to expound upon the glories of all the Christmases of his youth. I had left wife and hearth to dine there that evening and was sitting in a wingback chair close by the fire, half nodding as it hissed and spat. It was December, and the sky beyond the windows would already have been quite dark, was it not for a pale yellow fog pressing itself against the panes. It was damp also; occasionally the pattering of a thin drizzle intervened, lending an especially dismal aspect to the world without.
Inside, all was comfort. The port wine was rich and warming; the fire was high and merry, with all its crackling; the furniture was of decently gleaming mahogany and all was lent a richness by the crimson paper lining the walls and the deep, soft Turkey carpet. Hence I was a little startled when Metcalf opened with, “What an evil night it is! Curse this dank misery. Do you remember what it was to be a boy, Radcliffe?”
My beard and whiskers had long since turned to gray; thus, his statement was less one of presumption than sincere mutual recollection, since his own pate was quite innocent of hair, his form given to stoutness and his visage to wrinkles. I merely inclined my head, certain there was more to follow, as indeed there was.
“Gray!” he said next. “Gray as cobwebs, and everything chill and damp. Some proper snow is what we need, Radcliffe! What happened to the winters of old? Everything dressed in white, with ice gleaming from the rooftops, the air crisp and clean, untainted by all these smuts and cinders. Throwing snowballs and skating on the Serpentine—ah, that was it! These miasmas and vapors are nothing to it. The rule of Jack Frost was far preferable—I say, don’t you agree?”
I could not suppress a chill, though I inhaled deeply of my pipe, exuding my own blue-gray vapor. “Thus men ever romanticize their youth.”
“Not you, I suppose? You prefer this foul fog? Why, one can hardly see one’s hand before one’s face! They say another man died yester-evening, for losing his way and falling into the river.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust, and well he may; for the stench of the befouled Father Thames had reached even here, and would be in our nostrils, I knew, the moment we stepped from the door.
I sighed, suddenly remembering the mad slip and dash of blades upon the white ice, its surface scarred by the delighted passing of so many boys and girls, the pinched faces, the red noses, the grins . . . I pushed the memory from me. “On the surface, the past may have been better,” I said, “but it could be more perilous also. And we have so many comforts now. The iron rail is bringing down the cost of coal—I gestured towards the fire—and progress must surely increase a thousand-fold, with our new queen on the throne, and—”
“Nonsense!” he cried. I did not protest, for such was ever Metcalf’s way. He was a man of busyness, and had never had the time, as he once explained to me, for any particular excess of manners. “It is all going to ruin, Radcliffe—you must admit it! Why, my good coat was only this morning waylaid by such a cloud of coal-smuts the finest laundress in London could not save it. No! Look at that window, now. What a little of Jack Frost’s breath could not do to cheer it, with a pattern of icy leaves? The sooner he should return, the merrier it shall be for all.”
“All?” I murmured the word, for I was thinking of something else. It had been the second time he had mentioned the name of Jack Frost, and I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.
“Then pray, tell me what of today is better,” he said, “since I see I cannot persuade you.”
I felt a chill, despite the proximity of the flame. “Very well,” I replied, still in the same drowsy murmur, and I took a sip of port wine and made up my mind. “I shall tell you, though not of what you are thinking. I shall tell you why it would perhaps be better for the name of Frost never to be spoken within these walls again, or of any other. For cold is as cold does, and a cold heart is something to be feared as well as—”
“What bosh you do speak this evening, sir!” he said, although his tone spoke of amusement. “Still, I shall listen, if you will only allow me to fill my glass.”
I did so, and the sight of the rich liquid, lent a fiery heart by the firelight, heartened me. I would tell my tale, I decided, though until that moment I had been uncertain of doing so. It was not really my story to tell, on one count; on another, I knew that even thinking upon it would make me feel colder still. And yet Metcalf settled back, his face lit with a ruddy glow, his eyes half hidden by the shadows cast by his wing-backed seat. Such is how tales should be told, I thought, by the warming fire; and so I began.
“My tale opens years ago, in 1788. A bitter frost began on the twenty-fifth of November, and continued some seven weeks. Its severity was such that even our great river was turned to iron in its grip. Ah, you do not have to impress upon me what a wonder that must have been, Metcalf; I saw it for myself. At first, a few intrepid souls ventured forth, half fearing, half laughing; and then others bolstered their resolve and followed. It was found that men could walk right across the river, and need no longer pay to use the bridges. Indeed, it was possible to walk from Fulham to Putney that year, so frozen over was the water. It was no mere convenience, but a novelty; and it gave the closing of that year and the opening of the next quite a festival air. As you stated, all was overspread with pure white; and yet it was not long to be so, for soon the river was bedecked with all colors, as it was given over to entertainments of every variety.”
“A frost fair? Alas, I did not see it.”
“Indeed, Metcalf! A frost fair was held that year, as in many before it. Gradually, everything designed for amusement or diversion crept onto the frozen river. There were fairground booths of all descriptions, puppet shows, turnabouts for the children, and every hue of hawker and peddler; even wild beasts were exhibited there, shivering though they must have been. Sheep and pigs were roasted and eaten upon the ice. A bear was baited, and drew all the multitudes who desired to witness such a thing. And walking among the rest was one Mister John Langton—known as Jack—a young fellow whose family was acquainted with my own. I was twenty-five, he a little younger; and he was yet unmarried, though he did not walk there alone. For although he stepped onto the Thames an eligible bachelor, when he stepped from it his heart was entirely lost.”
Metcalf snorted. “Do you tell me a story of the heart, Radcliffe? I had thought you above such frippery.”
I gave a slight bow. “All in good time, for I am forgetting our theme; that of the superiority, or otherwise, of the past. It was a time of merriment, as I have said, though I have neglected my part, which is to show that it was also a time of great want. For although the Thames became a stage for all the gaudy shows the city could boast, its banks were full of examples of the most abject misery. The bustling trade of the river was brought to a halt. Watermen and fishermen had no means of earning their bread, and corn and coal vessels alike were stilled. Prices rose, and the nights were cold, and fuel of any kind was hard to come by. All this resulted in the most desperate need amongst the poor, and though subscriptions were raised, they could not hope to fill the hungry maw of winter.
“Still, what of that? For the Thames was there, in all its gleaming whiteness, to lend a little cheer to those who most required it. Not a countenance was there to be seen upon its broad back that was not filled with delight, and so our young fellow set out, a smile upon his lips and coins in his pocket, to see what the season held for him.”
“A female, I suppose?”
“A female,” I agreed. “And such a female! The young lady was with her parents, as was proper, though fortunately for the fellow, he was known to her father; and so as he stood watching the printing presses which had been hauled onto the ice, staining their white paper with commemorations of the occasion, he found himself hailed and introduced to the gentler members of the family. In later years, he expressed to me how strange it was that he could bring himself to speak coherently. He told me of her sweet lip and soft smiles and her dimples and her shining eyes, and yet I still do not know if she were fair or dark. I only know, from his account, that she was a vision; and that he was the most fortunate man on earth to be the object of her attention as they wandered about. For he was the unworthy recipient to whom she gave her arm; and he rejoiced at the uncertainty of their steps upon the smooth surface, that she clung to him the more tightly.
“Adela was her name, though I knew from the way he spoke of her afterward, that he was already longing for her to change it to Mrs. Langton; and perhaps that was how he envisaged her, as a bride, all aglow in a gown the color of the ice.
“But before all that there were the booths to peruse, and jugglers to watch, and tumblers to behold; a coach trotting along the middle of the river to marvel at; and boys whirling about them on their skates to provide the cause of some pretty alarm. All was charming, save for a single incident, which promised to spoil the beauty of the whole.
“It occurred after Jack had reluctantly taken his leave of the lady, and began to make his return to the steadfast shore. A poor woman stood at the side of the river, her feet mired in the muddy banking, a ragged shawl clutched about her shoulders. Her nose ran with the cold and her face was pinched; she was a most unfortunate creature, and one who made a pitiful, if not somewhat distasteful sight, to those accustomed to revelry. They turned aside as well as they could to avoid her, though in doing so there arose some difficulty. For the mud was so melted and stirred by the passing of numerous feet that a plank had been placed to ease their egress; and the woman stood by it, ankle-deep in the filth, so that she could hold out her palm towards those who walked across.
“At once, our soft-hearted fellow put his hand to his pocket; but he discovered that the purchases he had made on behalf of the lady had left him with only a penny, which he required to pay his way across the plank. Thus he turned his eyes from the woman, who, seeing the indifference of one too many of her fellow-beings, gave way all at once to despair. She turned away, and in so doing, fell to her knees, while he stepped out onto the dry path.
“She wailed; she gained her feet; and then she rushed towards him and spat upon his boot. The fellows taking payment for the use of their plank chased her off at once, but the impression she had left upon Jack’s mind was not so easily effaced. For he could not cast off the notion that her anger had left some stain, not upon his attire, but upon his soul; and that some dreadful misfortune might follow what had surely amounted to a curse.”
“She should have been flogged.”
“Ah—is it possible to flog the rudeness from poverty? It is easier, perhaps, and more charitable, to give a little bread to those who need it. And yet I suspect it is because he had truly wished to do so that it weighed so heavily upon him. Still, he was comforted; for Miss Adela had not witnessed the event, and soon after, the lady of his heart consented to be his wife. They walked upon the ice once more before it melted away; they went there together, promised to each other, united in sincere love and adoration, and almost over-brimming with joy.”
Metcalf made a sort of harrumph at this, shifting in his seat, and I recollected that his was not the contempt of the loveless, but of one who had lost, his wife having died some years previously. More than anyone, he could fairly be said to be one who knows the ending of all such stories, and I hesitated before I went on.
“They were married in the spring,” I said, “and enjoyed perfect domestic felicity. The frosts had passed, and all was life. Still, within a very short time, his wife began to sicken. By the summer she had taken to her bed, and before the season was out he was called to her room, where the doctor feared for her life.
“Jack’s distress may be imagined. He chafed her hands; he implored God and all his angels to save her; he shed bitter tears. And yet her breath faltered in her lovely throat, and at last she beckoned him closer.
“He was silenced, he later told me, by the sight of her. Her cheeks were pale and shrunken, yet undiminished in beauty; her eyes shone as brightly as her very soul. And she opened her sweet lips and whispered to him, before she died: ‘Meet me at the frost fair.’ ”
I fell silent, and was suddenly conscious of the quiet room. The thought of death seemed to have lent substance to the air; it was heavy all about us. Then Metcalf sighed and the spell was broken.
“She went to her last eternal rest,” I said, “and he was plunged into despair. And yet not quite despair, for her final words remained, and he clung to them, and he waited for the winter, the season which had brought him his love. I saw him myself, sitting by the Thames, staring into the water and longing for the cold; for the beginnings of ice, like bridal lace, to form at its edges. And yet it did not come. There was to be no frost fair all that winter, and as one year gave way to the next he began to fade; even to wither. His coat hung loose upon his shoulders. His complexion turned pale with watching, and when he spoke his words came with difficulty, as if his mind, too, had begun to freeze.”
Metcalf tut-tutted. “But it was the same the year after, was it not? And the year after that. The days of decent winters were passed, as I have said.”
“They had,” I allowed. “For over twenty years, Jack Langton waited in vain. And then, in 1814, his hour finally came. It had been a long time by then since I had seen him, and I was shocked at the changes time had wrought. But I am running ahead.
“I saw the beginnings of the fair myself. At the end of January, enormous masses of ice floating down from the upper part of the river were trapped by the narrow arches of London Bridge. I walked there that evening to partake of the singular sight, and returned two days afterwards to find that severe frosts had turned the river into one solid surface, all the way down to Three Crane Stairs. I was not the first to discover it, however. Half of London was perambulating upon the ice, and their good cheer at such a novelty seemed to form a glowing cloud above it all. I confess, I never thought of Jack, and had not for several years. I simply stepped onto the gleaming surface, and tried to peer through it to glimpse the black depths beneath. It was fearful and wonderful; I had to suppress laughter as I walked along, seeing the booths and stalls all got up in streamers and ribbons, surrounded by revelers already partaking of gin or rum. It was as if Christmas, so soon lost, had returned to us again.
“I began to make my way along the grand mall that led between London Bridge and Blackfriars. They had named it ‘The City Road,’ and what a road it was! It was lined with stallholders selling toys labeled ‘bought on the Thames’; men and women danced reels to the wild playing of fiddles outside the drinking tents; the careless played rouge-et-noir or te-totem for coin; others played skittles or set their children on the swings. And yet not all was merriment. As I walked I saw, at first in glimpses and then plainly, that one fellow among us was not looking at the stalls; he was not even moving along the road. The fair-goers were edging about around him, the ladies holding their skirts clear, as if even his touch might be tainted. I went a little closer and realized he was sitting upon the ice: a dark figure clad, not only in black raiment, but in a veritable miasma of darkness. It spilled from him, a sense of bitterness and desolation, and I kept my gaze fixed on him as I went, to make certain he were not some spirit or ghost.
“Then my attention was drawn away, for downriver, men were leading a great gray beast onto the ice. Cries rang out of ‘elephaunt, elephaunt!’ I had never seen such a thing before, and I hurried to join the crowds being drawn in its wake like a tide.
“By the time I returned to the place, the sun was falling and the moon had risen, lending the ice a lambent glow as bewitching as it was peculiar. The sight of the gleaming expanse, the great dome of Saint Paul’s and all the sprawling life of London beyond, was one I shall never forget. The only blot upon the day was my memory of the man sitting on the ice, and I was relieved, as I walked once again along The City Road, that he was no longer there. Then, away to my left, I heard a shriek.
“I turned to see a lady wearing a fine watered silk starting back from some source of horror; her companion shouted an angry remonstrance. Others were watching also: a group of apprentices jeered; serving girls tittered behind their hands. And I saw what it was that had startled them.
“The same dark figure I had seen before was at their center, and he was dancing. He was dancing as if he were in a ballroom, with his back straight and his neck held high. As I watched, he advanced and retired; he bowed to some unseen partner; and then he reached out and clasped nothing but the air. There was no music and yet he danced on, his eyes half-closed, his expression beatific. It was only then that I realized it was none other than my old acquaintance, John Langton. But how changed! His cheeks were hollow and his eyes had sunk into their sockets. His nose was beak-like, his chin pointed; and his visage had taken on such a wax-like pallor that he almost appeared as one dead. He was so thin he minded me of a skeleton prancing there upon the ice.
“As he danced so intently, as far gone in his own oblivion as any Bedlamite, tears began to slip from his cheeks. He appeared so lost, and yet so sad and happy all at once, that although I stepped forward to hail him—to stop him—I found myself frozen. The moonlight had limned his features; his flying hair; the tears that lay upon his cheek. And as it did, I thought I saw someone in his arms after all. I caught only the merest suggestion of a form, and yet I suddenly knew it was a lady of uncommon loveliness; and all dressed in shining ice.
“My arms prickled. For the first time that day, I felt cold to my very bones. I found myself, instead of helping the man, backing away from him, and then I turned and walked away, trying to calm my beating heart; to drown the spectres that rose to haunt my thoughts in all the ordinary sights of the fair.
“I did not stop until I stood before one of the printing presses, which that year was producing the frontispiece for a book: Frostiana: or a History of the River Thames in a Frozen State. The word echoed through my mind like a whisper—Frostiana– but it was not the river I was thinking of. It was a shining and ethereal maid, clasped in the arms of her love.
“Meet me at the frost fair, she once said to him, and I do believe she had at last.”
“He was a madman,” Metcalf said, though his voice was soft. “And you were somewhat credulous, if I may say so, good fellow.”
“Perhaps,” I replied. “In any event, a day or so later the wind turned to the south, and soon after that rain began to fall. The ice plain thinned; black water could be heard welling from beneath, and soon loud cracks resounded from the ice, followed by the most unearthly moans.
The frost fair was at an end. Those who lingered soon saw their peril. Two young men ventured out onto a piece of ice which broke from the rest and carried them away; it tilted, and they sank into the river and were seen no more. I feared for Jack, my old acquaintance, for if any should overstay upon the fragile surface it was he; but I did not see him again until days afterwards. He had resumed his vigil at the water’s edge, sitting in the cold drizzle and staring out once more at the river.”
“The fair lasted only four days, did it not?”
“It did.”
“So what did the fellow do? He sounded half crazed already.”
“And yet he would not be deterred from his purpose. I do not think, really, that he was mad. It was more that his heart had grown colder than any heart was meant to be. Each winter that followed found him by the river. Each flake of snow brought hope; sunshine brought misery. I had not thought it possible he could become gaunter still, and yet he did, until one might glimpse death in his face.
“I brought myself to speak to him only once, thinking to turn him from his vigil. I sat at his side, and it was an odd thing, Metcalf, but I could still feel the bitterness that rose from him. It was not especially cold, not that day, but the chill crept into me all the same; I felt it curl itself about my bones. I did not shiver, though, until he turned and I saw his eyes.”
“What was wrong with them?”
I shuddered, despite the heat of the fire, which gave a sudden sharp crack, as if to remonstrate against my telling of another man’s tale. “They were cold,” I said simply, and I could not elaborate; I could not explain my impression of all the frozen lakes of hell reflected within them; the fact that I knew, despite Jack’s presence before me, that he was, in spirit, already there.
“He did not speak?” Even Metcalf looked discomfited.
“He did,” I said, and swallowed. I could still hear Langton’s voice, dry and harsh as any arid wilderness of the poles. “He said, ‘I believed the woman’s curse had fallen to Adela, but it had not; it had not. It was ever and always my own.” And with that he turned and resumed watching the river, which despite the coldness of his glare, steadfastly refused to freeze.
“I think I see the end of your story,” said Metcalf, “though I must say, dear fellow, I do not believe you have carried your point. A good winter would have been a blessing, would it not? He could have seen her then, or thought he did. It might have eased his heart.”
I bowed. “Perhaps you are right, after all. And yet I only meant to show that constantly longing for what is past—what we may not have again—is to waste everything that we have.” My tone was wistful, for as I spoke, I thought I heard the distant echo of the sound of my own youth: the scrape and hiss of skates on the ice; excited shouts; the laughter.
I sighed. “But you say, Metcalf, you see the end of the tale. It is, I am certain, quite as you imagine. Not long before the ascension of our good queen, old London Bridge was torn down. Its replacement had wider arches that could never trap the ice floating upon the river, as the older bridge had. Not only that, but the climate has grown milder, as you so forcibly remarked upon. The ice will not creep from the edges of the Thames again. The days of the frost fairs are done.”
“So what became of your friend?”
“They pulled him, dead, from the water, Metcalf, even as the new bridge took form. He had watched until he reached almost his seventieth year; until he knew all hope to be entirely lost.”
“Ah. A great pity.”
“It was,” I replied, “or it should have been, if that had been the end of the matter; but it was not. He was seen, you see. An acquaintance of mine swore that he had observed him by the river, in his accustomed place, staring into the water.”
“A mistake.”
“I thought so. The next day brought further news, however. A recently married couple, filled with affection for one another, were walking by the riverbank. They stopped to observe the progress of the lighters against the tide. They were seated there for some minutes, and then the lady turned to her husband and shrieked.”
Metcalf frowned.
“The man was dead. His eyes were open but they were blank and staring and a film had begun to creep across their surface, leeching them of color; like ice. And she saw that his skin had paled also, and when she touched him—she found he was frozen, Metcalf. Entirely frozen.”
“Are you saying—”
I gazed into the heart of the fire, at its angry glow. “I think Jack had taken him. He had made his heart turn cold—with his touch, perhaps—yes, I think that is possibly all it took.”
Metcalf let out a splutter that was not really laughter. “Really, my dear fellow, anyone may freeze by the Thames. It carries the air right from the very sea estuary.”
I half smiled. “And yet it was not so cold that the lady felt any discomfort,” I said. “And you see, he was not the last. Each winter, there are others. I have come to watch for it quite assiduously. I believe that John Langton –Jack—has become the thing of which you spoke so lightly earlier. He is Jack-in-the-frost; and it is by frost that he stops the breath. It always happens to a man, and it is always someone with much to lose, with a sweet wife left to mourn him.”
“Your tale is becoming a little outlandish, is it not?”
“Possibly. Probably. But I have seen it myself, with my own eyes. I have seen a man so frozen that his flesh was turned to adamant. I have read the accounts in the newspapers. I can no longer deny the truth of it. And I cannot help but wonder upon what the unfortunates were thinking, as they looked out at the river. Were they too remembering the winters of their youth? The days when the world was turned all to whiteness?”
“Now you are speculating.” Metcalf patted his hands against his knees and stood. “But I have lingered too long by this fire, dear fellow. At least there shall be no danger of my freezing. At least until I step into that damnable fog!”
I glanced at the window. For a moment, it did not appear foggy any longer; it was only dark. I suppressed a shudder as Metcalf took his leave. The fire was guttering; few remained at their cigars; it was almost time to depart. I went to the window, wondering if Mary was watching for me as I now watched Metcalf appear on the street below. The fog remained after all, yet I could see that his step was casual; he swung his cane. Then he paused, taking something from his pocket and pressing it into the hand of the pitiful urchin who earned his bread as a crossing-sweeper on the corner. Metcalf did not cross the road, however. He merely continued into the night, wrapping his great-coat a little more firmly about his neck as he was lost to view.
I leaned in closer until my breath clouded the glass. And then my eyes widened, for it continued to spread, a misty paleness making its way across the pane, melting away in places and thickening in others until before me was the most lovely pattern of ferns.
I started away; then I approached again and touched my fingers to the glass. It was cold; I found it was covered in a thin layer of ice. It began to melt under my touch, and I turned to the fire to see it still smoldering, still throwing out a heat that was more welcome than ever.
I turned about the room, looking at its several windows, as ice began to slowly make its way across every one, leaving in its wake those beautiful ferns of frost. I let out a long breath and it smoked through the air in front of me. My heart quailed; I caught hold of the back of a chair and swayed. My thoughts ran wildly. Perhaps I could stay here tonight. I could sleep in a chair; I could remain safe by the fire. And yet I knew that I would not, because Mary was waiting for me; Mary, my own dear, sweet wife; and I remembered then that Metcalf had no wife, that there would be no one to mourn him when he left this earth.
I took a steadying breath. I could not give way to phantasms and wild ideas; I must go home. And it was not here, after all, that was the haunt of Jack Frost; that was the river, and I resolved that I should not go anywhere near it on my homeward journey. And yet the thought remained—what if I had summoned him here, with my tale—with all my dreams of winters past?
I closed my eyes for a moment, reminding myself that I was a respectable fellow, and not one to be caught up in dreams and fancies. Metcalf’s words rang in my ears: credulous. Outlandish.
I went down the stairs, barely hearing my own footsteps. Instead, in spite of myself, there was a new sound playing about my ears, or rather an old one; and it grew louder as I approached the door, closer and more real. It was the rush of skates upon ice, the sound of an indifferent wind playing in the trees; the joyful cries of children playing in the snow.
I reached the door, hesitating before I opened it. When I did, I half expected to see snowflakes billowing in the air, but of course, there were none; nevertheless, it was a wonderland I looked upon. The lamps had been lit, and the fog was illumined with an interior glow, turning everything to paleness. There was nothing and no one to be seen, only the emptiness of that shining world. I thought for a moment I heard the crackling of footsteps somewhere ahead of me, each breaking free from crisply formed ice; then it stopped, and all was silence. Meet me at the frost fair, I thought, and I stepped into the whiteness that awaited.