{"id":44949,"date":"2013-01-16T15:06:22","date_gmt":"2013-01-16T20:06:22","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=44949"},"modified":"2013-01-29T03:05:08","modified_gmt":"2013-01-29T08:05:08","slug":"the-stranger","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/01\/16\/the-stranger\/","title":{"rendered":"Sir George Douglas\u2019s \u201cThe Strange Visitor\u201d"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a>When my brother and I were small, our parents would read to us each evening. When it was my mother\u2019s turn, she generally read poetry. I don\u2019t know from which children\u2019s collection she read, but it was terrifying: in particularly heavy rotation (at my request) were \u201cDon\u2019t Care,\u201d in which the insouciant protagonist is made to care by being \u201cput in a pot \/ and boiled til he was done,\u201d \u201cOzymandias\u201d (I found the idea of the head lying in the sand frightening), and my favorite, \u201cStrange Visitor.\u201d<\/p>\n

When I decided to find the poem online, I came across several variations; in the original, compiled by the folklorist Sir George Douglas, the dialect is Scottish; in other adaptations (including that anthologized by George Jacobs) more modern English. The plot is always the same: a woman, sitting at her spinning wheel, wishes for company. A series of mismatched, disembodied parts come in\u2014knees, shoulders, neck, hands\u2014and the figure gives a series of gnomic answers to her questions. \u201cWhat have you come for?\u201d she asks at last. \u201cFOR YOU!\u201d the reader shouts, leaving any listening children in a state of blissful petrification. The following is Douglas\u2019s transcription, and his stage directions.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\n

A WIFE, was sitting at her reel ae night;
   And aye she sat, and aye she reeled, and aye she wished for company.<\/p>\n

In came a pair o\u2019 braid\u00a0braid soles, and sat down at the fireside;
   And aye she sat, etc.<\/p>\n

In came a pair o\u2019 sma\u2019\u00a0sma\u2019 legs, and sat down on the braid\u00a0braid soles;
   And aye she sat, etc.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

In came a pair o\u2019 muckle\u00a0muckle knees, and sat down on the sma\u2019\u00a0sma\u2019 legs;
   And aye she sat, etc.<\/p>\n

In came a pair o\u2019 sma\u2019\u00a0sma\u2019 thees, and sat down on the muckle\u00a0muckle knees;
   And aye she sat, etc.<\/p>\n

In came a pair o\u2019 muckle\u00a0muckle hips, and sat down on the sma\u2019\u00a0sma\u2019 thees;
   And aye she sat, etc.<\/p>\n

In came a sma\u2019\u00a0sma\u2019 waist, and sat down on the muckle\u00a0muckle hips;
   And aye she sat, etc.<\/p>\n

In came a pair o\u2019 braid\u00a0braid shouthers, and sat down on the sma\u2019\u00a0sma\u2019 waist;
   And aye she sat, etc.<\/p>\n

In came a pair o\u2019 sma\u2019\u00a0sma\u2019 arms, and sat down on the braid\u00a0braid shouthers;
   And aye she sat, etc.<\/p>\n

In came a pair o\u2019 muckle\u00a0muckle hands, and sat down on the sma\u2019\u00a0sma\u2019 arms;
   And aye she sat, etc.<\/p>\n

In came a sma\u2019\u00a0sma\u2019 neck, and sat down on the braid\u00a0braid shouthers;
   And aye she sat, etc.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

In came a great big head, and sat down on the sma\u2019\u00a0sma\u2019 neck.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat way hae ye sic braid\u00a0braid feet?\u201d quo\u2019 the wife.
\u201cMuckle ganging, muckle ganging\u201d (gruffly<\/em>).
\u201cWhat way hae ye sic sma\u2019\u00a0sma\u2019 legs?\u201d
\u201cAih-h-h<\/em>!–late–and wee-e-e<\/em>–moul\u201d (whiningly<\/em>).
What way hae ye sic muckle\u00a0muckle knees?
\u201cMuckle praying, muckle praying\u201d (piously).
\u201cWhat way hae ye sic sma\u2019\u00a0sma\u2019 thees?\u201d
\u201cAih-h-h!–late–and wee-e-e–moul\u201d (whiningly<\/em>).
\u201cWhat way hae ye sic big\u00a0big hips?
\u201cMuckle sitting, muckle sitting\u201d (gruffly<\/em>).
\u201cWhat way hae ye sic a sma\u2019\u00a0sma\u2019 waist?\u201d
\u201cAih-h-h!–late–and wee-e-e–moul\u201d (whiningly<\/em>).
\u201cWhat way hae ye sic braid\u00a0braid shouthers?\u201d
\u201cWi\u2019 carrying broom, wi\u2019 carrying broom\u201d (gruffly<\/em>)
\u201cWhat way hae ye sic sma\u2019\u00a0sma\u2019 arms?
\u201cAih-h-h!–late–and wee-e-e–moul\u201d (whiningly<\/em>).
\u201cWhat way hae ye sic muckle\u00a0muckle hands? \u201c
\u201cThreshing wi\u2019 an iron flail, threshing wi\u2019 an iron flail\u201d (gruffly<\/em>.)
\u201cWhat way hae ye sic a sma\u2019\u00a0sma\u2019 neck?
\u201cAih-h-h!–late–and wee-e-e–moul\u201d (whiningly<\/em>).
\u201cWhat way hae ye sic a muckle\u00a0muckle head?
\u201cMuckle wit, muckle wit (keenly<\/em>).
\u201cWhat do you come for?<\/p>\n

\u201cFOR YOU!\u201d (At the top of the voice, with a wave of the arm and a stamp of the feet<\/em>.)<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

The poem\u2019s theme\u2014that of Death, or the devil, coming to claim a soul\u2014is not uncommon in folklore.\u00a0It is sometimes called the coming for the dying story. I think what made this version particularly terrifying to me as a child (well, beyond the obvious) is the fact that the woman in question doesn\u2019t seem to have done<\/em> anything. At least in \u201cThe Golden Arm,\u201d crimes have been committed; in \u201cRumpelstiltskin\u201d or Faust stories, covenants have been broken. And she doesn\u2019t seem ill; at least, she\u2019s well enough to spin.<\/p>\n

Spinning, of course, is loaded with its own connotations, dating back at least to the Fates. And the idea of outsized or grotesque physical features is also common in fairy tale and myth (\u201cThe Three Spinners,\u201d after all, contains both.) But the combination here feels particularly sinister. Talking about the theme of claiming souls, in The Lore of Scotland<\/em>, Jennifer Westwood writes that the idea may have been inspired by the witchcraft panic (ended by the Witchcraft Act of 1563.) If so, it explains some of the story\u2019s menace.<\/p>\n

But I don\u2019t believe this is what so terrified me. Rather, it is the spinning woman\u2019s implacability. The parade of body parts, and the obscure answers to her questions, and the periodic wailing—Aih-h-h!–late–and wee-e-e–moul<\/em>—seem to phase her not at all. This in itself is horrifying; this is, well, normal<\/em>. And then there is that refrain: And aye she sat, and aye she reeled, and aye she wished for company<\/em>. Her wish for said company is such, it seems, that even the horrific is preferable to loneliness.<\/p>\n

The pleasure of hearing that poem arose from more than the satisfaction of strong emotion. It came from containment; from the fact that, after all, we could always turn on the light, and call for our parents if we got scared, and generally revel in the security of being well cared for. As an adult, it is easier to understand that aching loneliness is stronger even than fear. And that, whatever the historical and cultural trappings of a piece of folklore, there are reasons they persist.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

When my brother and I were small, our parents would read to us each evening. When it was my mother\u2019s turn, she generally read poetry. I don\u2019t know from which children\u2019s collection she read, but it was terrifying: in particularly heavy rotation (at my request) were \u201cDon\u2019t Care,\u201d in which the insouciant protagonist is made […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":178,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[4715],"tags":[7265,9680,9777,9774,165,3413,9776,9775],"class_list":["post-44949","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-the-poem-stuck-in-my-head","tag-fairy-tales","tag-folklore","tag-george-jacobs","tag-jennifer-westwod","tag-poetry","tag-scotland","tag-sir-george-douglas","tag-strange-visitor"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nSir George Douglas\u2019s \u201cThe Strange Visitor\u201d by Sadie Stein<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"January 16, 2013 \u2013 When my brother and I were small, our parents would read to us each evening. 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