[When the Fiction-Writing Directorate stepped out from years of shadowy silence to embrace the brave new world of the internet and its values of authenticity and transparency, I set myself the task of telling the tragic and illuminating tale of Miss Callista Cornelius. Before I told much of the tale, however, I was viciously attacked by an unknown assailant. To my shame, I let my cowardice get the better of me, and fell silent.

Miss Cornelius, however, deserves better; and thus I shall resume her tale.

You may wish to re-read the first installment of this series. . . . → Read More: Miss Cornelius Meets the Director]]>

The Lovely and Brave Miss Cornelius

[When the Fiction-Writing Directorate stepped out from years of shadowy silence to embrace the brave new world of the internet and its values of authenticity and transparency, I set myself the task of telling the tragic and illuminating tale of Miss Callista Cornelius. Before I told much of the tale, however, I was viciously attacked by an unknown assailant. To my shame, I let my cowardice get the better of me, and fell silent.

Miss Cornelius, however, deserves better; and thus I shall resume her tale.

You may wish to re-read the first installment of this series. The investigations of Miss Cornelius, a persistent and inquisitive reportress, brought her too close to the truth of the Directorate (at that time, still shrouded in mystery). The Director sought to avert her attention by hiring her to write a terribly dull public relations piece: if he convinced her we were boring enough, surely she would turn her attentions away from our hallowed halls.

I proudly present Miss Cornelius’s notes. – G.T.]

November 16.

This dismal fortress looks no less dreary in the dawn light. If anything, the stone walls look even bleaker without the flickering candle-light to soften them. The air is cold and damp and smells faintly of old bacon. I do not know how I will be able to present this dismal pit in a positive light to complete my commission!! But I reminded myself of the critical investigations this work would fund: the sordid relationship between the insane asylum and the adjacent meat-packing plant, for example. I know what’s going on there; I just need to support myself while I find the truth!

I figured a brisk walk around the grounds before breakfast would remove the gloomy cobwebs from my mind, so I pulled on my jacket and headed down the stairs. But I was intercepted by Ethel Lee, who was just as stern and humorless in the dawn light as she had been last night. She shepherded me into the dining room for a grim breakfast (soggy waffle, cold tea, sullen companions!) and then directly to the Library for my interview with the Director.

I Meet the Director

The Director

Ethel Lee positively simpered at the Director when she introduced me. I have never seen such an extraordinary transformation in my life! Who would have thought that such a stern woman would giggle and blush like a schoolgirl when he thanked her for her services?

He is a striking man, to be sure, and has an undeniable presence. He has the most astonishing beard – I would not be surprised to find a whole nest of mice living in it! – and piercing eyes that miss nothing. The library itself was a dim and oppressive room, with shelf upon shelf of daughty and impenetrable tomes. An ugly portrait of an elderly gentleman hung on the wall; it was of the unsettling sort whose eyes seemed to follow one about the room. I shuddered and strove to ignore it.

He welcomed me warmly and thanked me for taking his commission. “Why,” he said, “the Directorate has labored for many years in the service of little-known authors. We yearn to bring their work to broader acclaim – and your pamphlet can only help us with our great work. Would you like me to read to you from one of our most beloved poets?”

I had no choice but to say yes. The Director opened the enormous book that lay before him on the great table, and began to read.

“This is called ‘The All Night Sea Fight,’ and was penned by the great McGonegal.” He cleared his throat.

Ye sons of Mars, come list to me,
And I will relate to ye
A great and heroic naval fight,
Which will fill your hearts with delight.

The fight was between the French Frigate “Pique” and the British Frigate “Blanche,”
But the British crew were bold and staunch;
And the battle was fought in West Indian waters in the year of 1795,
And for to gain the victory the French did nobly strive.

Oh, God! I thought back to the shrieks I thought I heard echoing through the night; perhaps some poor wretch had been forced to listen to more of this verse.

Surely this was a joke. I peered at the Director’s face, eager for any sign of levity or humor, but saw only an unholy enthusiasm.

It was about midnight when the Frenchman hove in sight,
And could be seen distinctly in the starlight;
And for an hour and a half they fired away
Broadsides into each other without dismay.

And with the rapid flashes the Heavens were aflame,
As each volley from the roaring cannons came;
And the incessant roll of musketry was awful to hear,
As it broke over the silent sea and smote upon the ear.

Oh, God. It continued, unceasingly, the Director’s voice rolling on like a flood, unstoppable and horrid. Think of the asylum, I reminded myself, but feared that if I listened to much more of this, I would be joining the ranks of the mad in their grisly and gristly end.

Then “Brave, my lads!” Captain Faulkner loudly cries,
“Lash her bowsprit to our capstan, she’s our prize”;
And he seized some ropes to lash round his foe,
But a musket ball pierced his heart and laid him low.

My Torment Continues Unabated

In desperation I cast my glance about the room, seeking any sort of solace or refuge; but there was no escape. Even the windows were shrouded with heavy drapes, through which no trace of light intruded. Just the bleakness of shelf after shelf of books, no doubt full of tedious horrors like the one being inflicted on me by the Director.

Then a yell of rage burst from the noble crew,
And near to his fallen body they drew;
And tears for his loss fell fast on the deck,
Their grief was so great their tears they couldn’t check.

I looked again at creepy portrait with the wandering eye; it alone broke up the nightmarish room.

To my disbelieving horror, it winked at me.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Miss Cornelius was a striking young woman, and it is an honor to present her notes to you.

Miss Callista Cornelius

November 15

Arrival at the Directorate. What a bore this job looks to be! I’ve been commissioned to write some sort of pamphlet about this stodgy old literary society, the sort of thing they give to their members around the holidays, and everyone stands awkwardly around . . . → Read More: Miss Cornelius Arrives]]>

As promised in my Introduction, a Brief History of the Fiction-Writing Directorate. From the notes of Miss Callista Cornelius, transcribed from the handwritten original and annotated by Gustav Tauszig. Posted despite acts of violence and coersion.

Miss Cornelius was a striking young woman, and it is an honor to present her notes to you.

Miss Callista Cornelius

November 15

Arrival at the Directorate. What a bore this job looks to be! I’ve been commissioned to write some sort of pamphlet about this stodgy old literary society, the sort of thing they give to their members around the holidays, and everyone stands awkwardly around pretending to admire the overpriced twaddle, covertly slipping extra brandy into their egg-nog. That sort of tiresome tripe. It galls me to have to write pap like this, when there are so many urgent investigations awaiting me in the City. My only consolation is knowing that this soul-deadening drudge-work will cover my expenses for many months — months that I’ll be free to apply myself to my journalistic investigations.

God only knows why they chose me. I’ve built my reputation on undercovering scandals: my story about the meat-packing plant (never again will sausage pass between these lips!), the shameful conditions of the zeppelin-workers, my expose of Mr. Fowler’s “science” of phrenology. I’m not known for this kind of puff-job. The money’s good, though, so what’s a girl to do?

[Several of Miss Cornelius's investigations had lead her to the farthest fringes of the Directorate, and my superiors, in their wisdom, thought it best to divert her before she stumbled upon something that might interest her. For Miss Cornelius had proven herself quite intrepid, and my superiors feared to arouse her predatory instincts. What better way than to pay her handsomely to write some boring drivel? Convince her of our dullness, and she would never seek the truth.

Or so they thought. --G.T.]

A Grim and Dreary Mansion

I arrived at the Directorate headquarters in the late afternoon, as dusk was creeping about. No doubt the place will look better in the daylight, but now it simply looks old and damp and drafty. There’s a dank little pond in front of the building, all scummed over and foul-smelling. I thought I saw something shift beneath the surface, but surely that was my imagination. I’m weary from the long trip here, that’s all, and already resentful about the idiocy of this task.

Buck up, Callie! You’re here to do a job, and you’re damn well going to do it right. Focus, girl.

It is hard to focus here, I must admit. Everything is so dim, and shadows seem to creep around in the corners, when you aren’t watching them. The staff — residents? members? I am not sure who they are, exactly — are also a bit eccentric. I was met by a skinny bug-eyed chap in a top hat and tails named Gustav [O, faithful reader, now you know that these journals are presented honestly! --G.T.], had an awkward tea with a stiff old battle-axe named Ethel Lee. (Note, check the name; Ethel Lee sounds vastly more cheerful than the dour and implacable woman I met. She sounds like she should be square-dancing, with rosy cheeks and lots of laughter, not shut up in this grim building.)

Callie! Get ahold of yourself. This is no time for flights of fancy. You’re a journalist, not a novelist.

To Sleep

Yes. So. I have been given a clean and simple room on the second floor. All is quiet in the building now, though occasionally I hear strange howls outside. “Just the wolves,” Ethel Lee told me, with a curious smile. They don’t sound like any wolves I’ve ever heard, but I sensed this was not the time to question her.

In the morning, I meet with the Director himself, and will have to feign interest in this society I have committed myself to write about. I must sleep well tonight; it will not do to fall asleep while he is talking.

Ugh, there’s another one of those howls, and I swear I hear something sloshing. My room looks out over the pond–but it is too dark to see anything.

I think I’ll leave the candle burning tonight; in fact, I think I’ll light a second, and a third, so that this room will not have so many flickering shadows. I shall feel like a right idiot in the morning, but better that than laying awake all night.

[It saddens me that Miss Cornelius did not feel more welcome and at home at the Directorate. Why, this is a splendid old place, full of laughter and warmth! Had I only known, I might have found a way to comfort her. Perhaps I could have sent an oil lamp to her room, along with a plate of chocolate biscuits and some warm milk. --G.T.]