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    The Short Stories Of Wilkie Collins: "Peace rules the day, where reason rules the mind."
    The Short Stories Of Wilkie Collins: "Peace rules the day, where reason rules the mind."
    The Short Stories Of Wilkie Collins: "Peace rules the day, where reason rules the mind."
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    The Short Stories Of Wilkie Collins: "Peace rules the day, where reason rules the mind."

    By Wilkie Collins

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    The short story is often viewed as an inferior relation to the Novel. But it is an art in itself. To take a story and distil its essence into fewer pages while keeping character and plot rounded and driven is not an easy task. Many try and many fail. In this series we look at short stories from many of our most accomplished writers. Miniature masterpieces with a lot to say. In this volume we examine some of the short stories of Wilkie Collins. William Wilkie Collins was born on January 8th 1824. Bullied as a child his escape was to tell the bully a story each night before going to sleep. It proved to be quite an education. Lauded as the Father of the Detective novel, Collins was the author of The Moonstone and The Woman In White among the thirty novels he wrote. A great friend and colleague of Charles Dickens (who regularly published him in his own magazines) Collins was also a playwright and prolific author of short stories. A sufferer of gout he used and became addicted to opium to combat the pain. Writing at the time of the Franco-Prussian War in 1870 he stated, "I begin to believe in only one civilising influence – the discovery one of these days of a destructive agent so terrible that War shall mean annihilation and men's fears will force them to keep the peace." Collins died on September 23, 1889 at 82 Wimpole Street, following a paralytic stroke. He is buried in Kensal Green Cemetery in London. Collected here for your reading pleasure are a selection of chilling, disturbing, but always entertaining stories from a man at the top of his craft and always aware of his effect on the minds of us mere mortals. Many of these stories are also available as an audiobook from our sister company Word Of Mouth. Many samples are at our youtube channel http://www.youtube.com/user/PortablePoetry?feature=mhee The full volume can be purchased from iTunes, Amazon and other digital stores. They are read for you by Richard Mitchley & Ghizela Rowe

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCopyright Group
    Release dateSep 24, 2013
    ISBN9781780005904
    The Short Stories Of Wilkie Collins: "Peace rules the day, where reason rules the mind."
    Author

    Wilkie Collins

    Wilkie Collins (January 8, 1824-September 23, 1889) was the author of thirty novels, more than sixty short stories, fourteen plays (including an adaptation of The Moonstone), and more than one hundred nonfiction pieces. His best-known works are The Woman in White, The Moonstone, Armadale, and No Name.

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    Reviews for The Short Stories Of Wilkie Collins

    3.5/5

    168 ratings18 reviews

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    • 4/5
      Countess Nerona, an Italian temptress, marries Lord Montbarry who was formally betrothed to a lovely English woman, Agnes Lockwood. No one is happy about this marriage. The newly marrieds embark on a honeymoon that takes them to Venice. In Venice they stay in a palace on the canal. Baron Rivar, the Countess' brother joins them and stays at the palace with them. Lord Montbarry becomes ill and dies. At the same time Ferrari, their courier, disappears never to return home again. Many years later the palace is turned into a hotel and the Countess, Miss Lockwood and other members of the Montbarry meet. Spending the night in Lord Montbarry's old room leaves family members sleepless and repelled - visions appear and horrid odors are emitted.
    • 3/5
      Not Collins' best, but certainly an engaging story.
    • 4/5
      A good ol' spine tingler from the 1800s, this story follows the fate of two women; the Countess Narona, an adventuress from the continent, and Agnes, a sweet innocent English girl. Okay, no, don't stop there. While the story does have certain cliches of its time, it is also a galloping good read.Collins allows the reader plenty of room for doubt on the character of the Countess, and while Agnes does use her femininity to save her a lot of trouble, when push comes to shove she shoves. The mystery of this story is very well done. It kept me guessing throughout to figure out what the exact mystery was, which ended up being a lot of fun.
    • 2/5
      Wilkie Collins has apparently written better books than this, and given he was a friend of Charles Dickens, he certainly moved in literary circles. The story builds up well, but the finale is a retelling of the murderous plot (that by this stage one could have guessed) that is retold in the form of a proposal for a play by the evil protagonist (or at least the first person we meet in the story). The "haunting" is rather light-weight, and the ending asks the reader is "there any explanation of the mystery of your own life and death". What does this mean? Is this a B-grade novel from the 1880s? It would seem so. Like Downton Abbey meets a PG-rated horror movie. Like any period horror movie where the build-up is ruined by the sight of the evil spirit or alien. It was scary until the spectre is revealed and then the climax is a slow-paced decline into lameness. It has some entertainment value, and some historical value, but the experience is ephemeral and rather wasted on the modern reader.
    • 3/5
      This book by Wilkie Collins was a disappointment to me after The Women in White. Th book starts good and one is hopeful to read a good mystery novel. However, the way the mystery is solved by Collins was a great disappointment to me.
    • 3/5
      2.5 stars Mr. Ferrari has disappeared and right around the same time, Lord Montberry has died of an illness. Lady Montberry is having a hard time dealing with things and Mrs. Ferrari is worried about her husband. There did actually seem to be a lot of activity in the book and it initially seemed like I was going to enjoy the writing style, but I got lost early on with so many characters and I had trouble figuring out who was who. It temporarily picked up for a bit in the second half, as the hotel was opened and the haunting(s?) happened. But then, I sort of lost interest again as the story wrapped up. The main plotline above IS the main plotline, which is what I remember, but being worried I was missing something, I looked it up after I finished reading, only to discover I missed some of the wrapup at the end (though I was happy I did catch the main plot)! I caught some of it (the wrapup), but missed some of the important bits. Most classics for me are hit or miss. This one sounded intriguing, but unfortunately it was a miss for me.
    • 3/5
      Not the best of Wilkie Collin's work. A clever little story about murder, madness and ghosts, it is nonetheless confusing with little impact emotionally. May have been very frightening when it was written, but hasn't aged well.
    • 4/5
      Wilkie Collins has written some gothic gems but this isn't one of them. All the ingredients are there but the plot and characterisation aren't particularly convincing. Still worth reading if you're into Wilkie Collins or fancy a gothic novel over Xmas time.
    • 2/5
      "The Haunted Hotel" does not live up to its title, as anything supernatural is but brief. I found this too slow-paced, with too much waffle, and too many characters. Just the odd good moment here and there has prompted me to rate this 2 stars instead of 1.
    • 3/5
      This was the first Wilkie Collins novel I've read, and though it didn't completely capture my interest, it wasn't without its charm. The foundation of the plot was promising and I do have to admit that much of the story's progression wasn't obvious or expected. Additionally, Collins employs some novel (particularly for the time) narrative devices that add a bit of spice to what is otherwise a rather straightforward accounting of the fictional events. The author's storytelling was at its best when he allowed mood to trump explication, and unfortunately those moments were far and few between. Interested in eventually trying some of his more well regarded novels. (As an aside- this was the book I've read in an electronic format).
    • 3/5
      This book is all about the plot, which Collins deftly builds towards its climax. It's a proper "page-turner", which keeps you wanting to read the next chapter to see what will happen. He also keeps you guessing as to whether the central mystery is of human devising or whether there really is a supernatural agency involved.

      Where the story is let down is in the use of stock characters and a lack of effective use of its setting.

      The conventional Gothic characters are used: Villainous Baron; Sinister Continental Lady; Aloof, Emotionless Lord; Wronged English Gentlewoman; and so on. There is little character development, with the best drawn being that of the apparently conflicted Countess Narona: is she really racked with guilt for obscurely guessed crimes? Is she a victim herself? Is she playing a part designed to further enmesh the innocent heroine? The Countess really carries the story and is by far the most interesting person in it.

      Then there is Venice, or the lack thereof. Having subtitled the story A Mystery of Modern Venice, apart from a couple of mentions of St Mark's Square, canals and gondolas, the setting could have been anywhere. I think Collins really missed an opportunity of building atmosphere: no chases through moonlit canals, no ghostly gondoliers, no introductions into Venetian society, whether high or low.

      A quick read, and an enjoyable one, but not a masterpiece.
    • 3/5
      There are some really good passages and ideas in here, and they would have worked stellarly in a short story, or perhaps a novella. As a novel, however, this story falls short. The premise is to elaborate and complicated the lead-up to the revelation is way, way to long. There's so much unnecessary explanation of relationships and a lot of completely pointless characers that are all related to one another and named the same thing as to maximize confusion. the suspensful ending makes up for some of it, but not enough.I expected more from Collins. This is not one of his better efforts.
    • 4/5
      "One person has, before now, been the means of innocently ripening the growth of evil in another. You have done that already - and you have more to do yet. You have still to bring me to the day of discovery, and to the punishment that is my doom. We shall meet again - and meet for the last time.'So intones the monstrously gothic and malicious figure of the Countess Narona to the 'evil genius of her life', pure-hearted Agnes Lockwood. The Countess lures Agnes' wealthy fiance into a short-lived marriage and life on the Continent, but then is haunted by guilt into seeking out punishment at the hands of her avenging angel. Both women are drawn to the scene of the crime in Venice, a grand palace recently converted by the Countess' brother-in-law into a hotel, and must face ghostly manifestations that will drive one of them mad with horror.Although over half of this brief novel is taken up with establishing the characters and setting the scene, Wilkie Collins' art of illustrating the nightmares of the tortured human mind as supernatural events in morbid settings is practiced to perfection. Do the family members of the late Lord Montbarry really feel his presence in the bedchamber where he died, or are they only sensitive to the history of the hotel? Has the Countess arranged her own downfall, troubled by her past 'wickedness', or is she the victim of a vengeance from beyond the grave? Collins of course leans towards the supernatural, but there is the usual Victorian rationalisation of female 'hysteria' lurking beneath - not to mention the contrast of the Countess' dark looks and strong sexuality against the conventional English beauty of the virginal Agnes. I bought 'The Haunted Hotel' together with a new Penguin print of 'The Woman in White', so this type of heavy-handed sexual metaphor in Collins' writing only made me roll my eyes.The narrative is rather contrived in places, especially the relocating of an entire wedding party to Venice, but that is perhaps to be expected of the mechanics of a ghost story. The device of enlisting Agnes as an amateur detective asked to investigate the disappearance of a friend's husband would have been convincing, not to mention making Agnes' character more proactive. I would also have liked to know more about the Countess' background, and linger over more detailed descriptions of Venice. However, the climactic scene in Agnes' hotel room and the subsequent discovery of the unpleasant truth are both gruesome and dramatic enough to carry the whole novel.
    • 3/5
      A strange woman comes to visit a doctor, claiming that she may have a strange malady, perhaps even madness. The doctor examines her, but can find nothing wrong. After she leaves, he is intrigued: who is this woman, and why does she think another - her former rival in love - is fated to be her undoing?Identity, madness, and fate are familiar themes to readers of Wilkie Collins' more famous books, The Moonstone and The Woman in White. This novella explores them all in a frenetic plot that I found somewhat compelling but far too melodramatic. Maybe I'm just too cynical or maybe Collins' last story really does show the state of his own doped-up brain, as the back cover of my edition suggests. Either way, I found it hard to find the story believable, and his characterizations of females in this story annoyed me more than they have in the past. I think I would have been more affected by it when I was a teenager, scared more easily by the atmosphere of the story. I would, however, recommend it as an interesting (and short) example of early mystery.
    • 4/5
      Written in 1878, The Haunted Hotel is a true example of the gothic/mystery genre. The story begins with an engagement between two people, but the catch is that the guy already has a fiancee. She gracefully lets him go to marry his current love. They decide to honeymoon in Venice, where a serious of mysterious events plagues the couple. Very well written, a little over-the-top as far as melodrama, but you'll LOVE the main character!
    • 4/5
      This was a fun read!
      Written around the late 1870's, it's a mysterious tale with a hint of the supernatural.
      The story is woven around around both the old and the young between the cities of London and Venice. Mr. Collins keeps the pace moving by revealing small pieces of the mystery at a time and then reeling the reader in with them.
      I thought that this tale would lean more towards the supernatural side, but the mystery was well conceived and told and I enjoyed myself anyway.
      Recommended!
    • 3/5
      This was an okay sort of mystery horror story. The supernatural element is very low key, it’s in no way in your face, but it is used well to keep the flow of the narrative going. The characters themselves are not deeply developed and it almost feels as if the book as an outline for a longer, fuller work. Not the most chilling ghost story, but entertaining all the same.
    • 4/5
      Synopsis: Lord Montbarry throws over Agnes Lockwood in favor of Countess Narona. However, life in Venice isn’t wonderful. Shortly after arriving in the city Mountbarry dies, leaving his wife a great deal of money. Agnes thinks the death is suspect and goes to the hotel owned by Montbarry and the Countess to investigate. She is visited by a disembodied head that looks like Montbarry and eventually finds his actual head hidden in a secret compartment in the room above.Review: Not only a good mystery, but a chilling ghost story, this story by Collins is another classic.

    Book preview

    The Short Stories Of Wilkie Collins - Wilkie Collins

    The Short Stories Of Wilkie Collins

    The short story is often viewed as an inferior relation to the Novel.  But it is an art in itself.  To take a story and distil its essence into fewer pages while keeping character and plot rounded and driven is not an easy task.  Many try and many fail. 

    In this series we look at short stories from many of our most accomplished writers.  Miniature masterpieces with a lot to say.  In this volume we examine some of the short stories of Wilkie Collins.

    William Wilkie Collins was born on January 8th 1824.

    Bullied as a child his escape  was to tell the bully a story each night before going to sleep.  It proved to be quite an education. 

    Lauded as the Father of the Detective novel, Collins was the author of The Moonstone and The Woman In White among the thirty novels he wrote. 

    A great friend and colleague of Charles Dickens (who regularly published him in his own magazines) Collins was also a playwright and prolific author of short stories. 

    A sufferer of gout he used and became addicted to opium to combat the pain.

    Writing at the time of the Franco-Prussian War in 1870 he stated, I begin to believe in only one civilising influence – the discovery one of these days of a destructive agent so terrible that War shall mean annihilation and men's fears will force them to keep the peace.

    Collins died on September 23, 1889 at 82 Wimpole Street, following a paralytic stroke. He is buried in Kensal Green Cemetery in London.

    Collected here for your reading pleasure are a selection of chilling, disturbing, but always entertaining stories from a man at the top of his craft and always aware of his effect on the minds of us mere mortals.

    Many of these stories are also available as an audiobook from our sister company Word Of Mouth can be purchased from iTunes, Amazon and other digital stores.  They are read for you by Richard Mitchley & Ghizela Rowe

    Index Of Stories

    The Dream Woman

    Chapter I – The First Narrative – Introductory Statement of the Facts by Percy Fairbank

    Chapter II

    Chapter III

    Chapter IV – The Second Narrative – The Hosteler’s Story. Told By Himself

    Chapter V

    Chapter VI

    Chapter VII

    Chapter VIII

    Chapter IX

    Chapter X

    Chapter XI

    Chapter XII

    Chapter XIII

    Chapter XIV – The Third Narrative – The Story Continued by Percy Fairbank

    Chapter XV

    Chapter XVI – Fourth (And Last) Narrative – Statement of Joseph Rigobert: Addressed to the Advocate Who Defended Him at his Trial

    The Traveller’s Story Of A Terribly Strange Bed

    The Dead Alive

    Chapter I – The Sick Man

    Chapter II – The New Faces

    Chapter III – The Moonlight Meeting

    Chapter IV – The Beechen Stick

    Chapter V – The News From Narrabee

    Chapter VI – The Limekiln

    Chapter VII – The Materials in the Defense

    Chapter VIII – The Confession

    Chapter IX – The Advertisement

    Chapter X - The Sherriff and the Governor

    Chapter XI – The Pebble and the Window

    Chapter XII – The End of It

    Wilkie Collins – A Short Biography

    The Dream Woman

    THE FIRST NARRATIVE

    INTRODUCTORY STATEMENT OF THE FACTS BY PERCY FAIRBANK

    CHAPTER I

    Hullo, there! Hostler! Hullo-o-o!

    My dear! why don't you look for the bell?

    I HAVE looked there is no bell.

    And nobody in the yard. How very extraordinary! Call again, dear.

    Hostler! Hullo, there! Hostler-r-r!

    My second call echoes through empty space, and rouses nobody, produces, in short, no visible result. I am at the end of my resources, I don't know what to say or what to do next. Here I stand in the solitary inn yard of a strange town, with two horses to hold, and a lady to take care of. By way of adding to my responsibilities, it so happens that one of the horses is dead lame, and that the lady is my wife.

    Who am I? - you will ask.

    There is plenty of time to answer the question. Nothing happens; and nobody appears to receive us. Let me introduce myself and my wife.

    I am Percy Fairbank, English gentleman, age (let us say) forty, no profession, moderate politics, middle height, fair complexion, easy character, plenty of money.

    My wife is a French lady. She was Mademoiselle Clotilde Delorge when I was first presented to her at her father's house in France. I fell in love with her, I really don't know why. It might have been because I was perfectly idle, and had nothing else to do at the time. Or it might have been because all my friends said she was the very last woman whom I ought to think of marrying. On the surface, I must own, there is nothing in common between Mrs. Fairbank and me. She is tall; she is dark; she is nervous, excitable, romantic; in all her opinions she proceeds to extremes. What could such a woman see in me? what could I see in her? I know no more than you do. In some mysterious manner we exactly suit each other. We have been man and wife for ten years, and our only regret is, that we have no children. I don't know what YOU may think; I call that, upon the whole, a happy marriage.

    So much for ourselves. The next question is - what has brought us into the inn yard? and why am I obliged to turn groom, and hold the horses?

    We live for the most part in France at the country house in which my wife and I first met. Occasionally, by way of variety, we pay visits to my friends in England. We are paying one of those visits now. Our host is an old college friend of mine, possessed of a fine estate in Somersetshire; and we have arrived at his house, called Farleigh Hall toward the close of the hunting season.

    On the day of which I am now writing, destined to be a memorable day in our calendar, the hounds meet at Farleigh Hall. Mrs. Fairbank and I are mounted on two of the best horses in my friend's stables. We are quite unworthy of that distinction; for we know nothing and care nothing about hunting. On the other hand, we delight in riding, and we enjoy the breezy Spring morning and the fair and fertile English landscape surrounding us on every side. While the hunt prospers, we follow the hunt. But when a check occurs, when time passes and patience is sorely tried; when the bewildered dogs run hither and thither, and strong language falls from the lips of exasperated sportsmen we fail to take any further interest in the proceedings. We turn our horses' heads in the direction of a grassy lane, delightfully shaded by trees. We trot merrily along the lane, and find ourselves on an open common. We gallop across the common, and follow the windings of a second lane. We cross a brook, we pass through a village, we emerge into pastoral solitude among the hills. The horses toss their heads, and neigh to each other, and enjoy it as much as we do. The hunt is forgotten. We are as happy as a couple of children; we are actually singing a French song when in one moment our merriment comes to an end. My wife's horse sets one of his forefeet on a loose stone, and stumbles. His rider's ready hand saves him from falling. But, at the first attempt he makes to go on, the sad truth shows itself - a tendon is strained; the horse is lame.

    What is to be done? We are strangers in a lonely part of the country. Look where we may, we see no signs of a human habitation. There is nothing for it but to take the bridle road up the hill, and try what we can discover on the other side. I transfer the saddles, and mount my wife on my own horse. He is not used to carry a lady; he misses the familiar pressure of a man's legs on either side of him; he fidgets, and starts, and kicks up the dust. I follow on foot, at a respectful distance from his heels, leading the lame horse. Is there a more miserable object on the face of creation than a lame horse? I have seen lame men and lame dogs who were cheerful creatures; but I never yet saw a lame horse who didn't look heartbroken over his own misfortune.

    For half an hour my wife capers and curvets sideways along the bridle road. I trudge on behind her; and the heartbroken horse halts behind me. Hard by the top of the hill, our melancholy procession passes a Somersetshire peasant at work in a field. I summon the man to approach us; and the man looks at me stolidly, from the middle of the field, without stirring a step. I ask at the top of my voice how far it is to Farleigh Hall. The Somersetshire peasant answers at the top of HIS voice:

    Vourteen mile. Gi' oi a drap o' zyder.

    I translate (for my wife's benefit) from the Somersetshire language into the English language. We are fourteen miles from Farleigh Hall; and our friend in the field desires to be rewarded, for giving us that information, with a drop of cider. There is the peasant, painted by himself! Quite a bit of character, my dear! Quite a bit of character!

    Mrs. Fairbank doesn't view the study of agricultural human nature with my relish. Her fidgety horse will not allow her a moment's repose; she is beginning to lose her temper.

    We can't go fourteen miles in this way, she says. Where is the nearest inn? Ask that brute in the field!

    I take a shilling from my pocket and hold it up in the sun. The shilling exercises magnetic virtues. The shilling draws the peasant slowly toward me from the middle of the field. I inform him that we want to put up the horses and to hire a carriage to take us back to Farleigh Hall. Where can we do that? The peasant answers (with his eye on the shilling):

    At Oonderbridge, to be zure. (At Underbridge, to be sure.)

    Is it far to Underbridge?

    The peasant repeats, Var to Oonderbridge? and laughs at the question. Hoo-hoo-hoo! (Underbridge is evidently close by, if we could only find it.) Will you show us the way, my man? Will you gi' oi a drap of zyder? I courteously bend my head, and point to the shilling. The agricultural intelligence exerts itself. The peasant joins our melancholy procession. My wife is a fine woman, but he never once looks at my wife and, more extraordinary still, he never even looks at the horses. His eyes are with his mind and his mind is on the shilling.

    We reach the top of the hill and, behold on the other side, nestling in a valley, the shrine of our pilgrimage, the town of Underbridge! Here our guide claims his shilling, and leaves us to find out the inn for ourselves. I am constitutionally a polite man. I say Good morning at parting. The guide looks at me with the shilling between his teeth to make sure that it is a good one. Marnin! he says savagely and turns his back on us, as if we had offended him. A curious product, this, of the growth of civilization. If I didn't see a church spire at Underbridge, I might suppose that we had lost ourselves on a savage island.

    CHAPTER II

    Arriving at the town, we had no difficulty in finding the inn. The town is composed of one desolate street; and midway in that street stands the inn, an ancient stone building sadly out of repair. The painting on the sign-board is obliterated. The shutters over the long range of front windows are all closed. A cock and his hens are the only living creatures at the door. Plainly, this is one of the old inns of the stage-coach period, ruined by the railway. We pass through the open arched doorway, and find no one to welcome us. We advance into the stable yard behind; I assist my wife to dismount and there we are in the position already disclosed to view at the opening of this narrative. No bell to ring. No human creature to answer when I call. I stand helpless, with the bridles of the horses in my hand. Mrs. Fairbank saunters gracefully down the length of the yard and does what all women do, when they find themselves in a strange place. She opens every door as she passes it, and peeps in. On my side, I have just recovered my breath, I am on the point of shouting for the hostler for the third and last time, when I hear Mrs. Fairbank suddenly call to me:

    Percy! come here!

    Her voice is eager and agitated. She has opened a last door at the end of the yard, and has started back from some sight which has suddenly met her view. I hitch the horses' bridles on a rusty nail in the wall near me, and join my wife. She has turned pale, and catches me nervously by the arm.

    Good heavens! she cries; look at that!

    I look and what do I see? I see a dingy little stable, containing two stalls. In one stall a horse is munching his corn. In the other a man is lying asleep on the litter.

    A worn, withered, woebegone man in a hostler's dress. His hollow wrinkled cheeks, his scanty grizzled hair, his dry yellow skin, tell their own tale of past sorrow or suffering. There is an ominous frown on his eyebrows, there is a painful nervous contraction on the side of his mouth. I hear him breathing convulsively when I first look in; he shudders and sighs in his sleep. It is not a pleasant sight to see, and I turn round instinctively to the bright sunlight in the yard. My wife turns me back again in the direction of the stable door.

    Wait! she says. Wait! he may do it again.

    Do what again?

    He was talking in his sleep, Percy, when I first looked in. He was dreaming some dreadful dream. Hush! he's beginning again.

    I look and listen. The man stirs on his miserable bed. The man speaks in a quick, fierce whisper through his clinched teeth. Wake up! Wake up, there! Murder!

    There is an interval of silence. He moves one lean arm slowly until it rests over his throat; he shudders, and turns on his straw; he raises his arm from his throat, and feebly stretches it out; his hand clutches at the straw on the side toward which he has turned; he seems to fancy that he is grasping at the edge of something. I see his lips begin to move again; I step softly into the stable; my wife follows me, with her hand fast clasped in mine. We both bend over him. He is talking once more in his sleep -  strange talk, mad talk, this time.

    Light gray eyes (we hear him say), "and a droop in the left eyelid, flaxen hair, with a gold-yellow streak in it - all right, mother! fair, white arms with a down on them, little, lady's hand, with a reddish look round the fingernails, the knife, the cursed knife, first on one side, then on the other aha, you she-devil! where is the

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