Michel de Notredame- Nostradamus, as he is known to the world- is remembered as an unnervingly accurate, if not optimistic, clairvoyant. Although his predictions have been subjected to numerous interpretations, few can deny that there are astounding similarities between what he foretold and what has come to pass. Those who knew the 16th century Frenchmen remembered more than just a psychic- but also a poet, philosopher, astrologer, physician to King Charles IX, advisor to Catherine de Medici, and reportedly, something of a curmudgeon.
On those occasions when Nostradamus was summoned by the king to minister to some infirmity, members of the royal court knew better than to greet him with anything but the most minimal salutation. This usually consisted of a simple nod followed by a brief “Monsieur Notredame.” One day a hapless little boy, encountering Nostradamus returning home from the castle, made the mistake of asking the pessimistic prognosticator whether or not he thought that it was going to rain.
“Indeed it will,” Nostradamus was quick to reply. “Rivers of blood shall pour forth from the heavens, and all who do not retreat to high ground shall be swept away in a seething red torrent. Then the thunder of doom shall shake the sky, the earth shall split open, and the demons of the abyss shall emerge to wreak devastation on all living creatures who remain.”
With a shriek, the child turned and ran screaming and crying all the way home to his mother.
Nostradamus rarely displayed any signs of mirth, but on seeing the terrified little boy bounding away as fast as he could, he was unable to suppress a soft chuckle. Glancing up at the sky, he noticed the thick, black storm clouds and realized that it actually was going to rain. There was nothing Nostradamus liked better than a good thunderstorm. By the time he reached his doorstep, he was drenched.
“Michel!” his wife remarked with mild shock as he entered the house. “You’re soaking wet!”
“How is my faithful companion this evening?” he began.
“I’m fine, Michel, thank-’’ His wife stopped in mid-sentence, suddenly realizing that her husband was not addressing her. A mangy, droopy-eared brown dog waddled over to where Nostradamus stood in the doorway and whimpering softly, tentatively sniffed his master.
“That’s a good boy, Le Pauvre.” Stooping down, he vigorously rubbed the dog’s bedraggled head.
“Hello, Michel,” his wife began again, a bit icily this time.
“Hello, Anne,” Nostradamus replied. Without further ado, he trudged across the den to the bedroom, sprinkling a trail of rainwater behind him. “I’ll be right back, my dear,” he called.
“Michel, you’re dripping all over the rug,” his wife protested.
“Perhaps I should shake myself, as Le Pauvre does,” he replied.
“Perhaps I should shake you,” Anne simmered.
After several minutes Nostradamus reappeared, draped in a black silk robe and carrying a thick, leather-bound tome under one arm. Tucked neatly over his left ear was a long goose quill. Sitting down in his familiar stiff oaken chair in the den, he opened the book upon his lap and stared solemnly into the blazing fireplace before him. Every few minutes, he took the quill from above his ear and penned a few lines.
“You know, Anne,” he remarked. “gazing upon the glowing embers in this hearth, one can’t but be reminded of the flames of Hell.”
Anne merely rolled her eyes, accustomed to such morbid observations.
“Michel,” she told him. “my mother is coming to visit next week. I just thought you should know.”
“A frequent source of my inspiration,” he muttered.
“What was that?” his wife asked.
“Nothing, dear,” he replied.
“Your dinner is ready,” she called.
Rising slowly and laboriously from his chair, Nostradamus set his pipe on the table and joined his wife in the dining room. He ate his meal with all the dignity and decorum one would expect from a renowned medium. Sitting with perfect posture, he slowly and delicately lifted each spoonful of potage to his lips, not lowering his head an inch or spilling a single drop. He proceeded with his fastidious suppertime ritual until his bowl was completely empty, although he paused every few spoonfuls to dab at an imaginary drop of soup with his napkin. Then pushing the bowl aside, he moved on to the leg of mutton, delicately nibbling back and forth until he had reduced it to bare bone. As if one cue, Le Pauvre appeared by his master’s side. Sitting up on his haunches, the dog raised his front paws suppliantly and gave a soft, pitiful whine. Without so much as turning his head to acknowledge him, Nostradamus nonchalantly tossed the bone in Le Pauvre’s direction. As the ossified projectile struck him squarely on the snout, the dog yelped and retreated to the corner of the dining room. This drew no reaction from Nostradamus.
Anne decided to break the silence. “How was your meal?” she began. “You haven’t said a word to me for the past half hour.”
“Of what relevance is food?” he answered flatly. “It can sustain us for but a short while. Soon we shall be dead, buried under cold, hard earth, and shall ourselves become food for worms.”
Lending a note of finality to his master’s dismal declaration, Le Pauvre let out a long, low, mournful howl.
“You and that miserable beast,” Anne said.
Nostradamus glowered at his wife. “And what is that supposed to mean?” he demanded.
“It wouldn’t kill you to be cheerful once in a while,” she answered.
“I am cheerful!” he snapped. “Besides,” he continued. “I do not control the future, I only predict it. It’s not my fault if what I see does not please you, Anne. Not that I would expect a woman to understand such matters.”
Anne put her hands on her hips defensively. “Not everything you’ve predicted has come to pass,” she countered matter-of-factly.
“Either it has, or it will, Anne,” he asserted.
“How about when you said that a juggernaut would crush the heretics?” she began. “You and your ridiculous metaphors.”
“Ridiculous nothing!” he insisted. “It will be on St. Bartholomew’s Day. Maybe not this one. Maybe not the next one. But soon enough.”
“Then there was that dreadful nonsense about an undersea tunnel connecting us with the English.”
Nostradamus’s patience was obviously wearing thinner with each reply. “In a few hundred years,” he said in his surliest tone. “I almost regret that I will not be around to tell you that I told you so.”
“You also said another plague would soon descend upon us,” Anne continued defiantly.
“Indeed I did,” he replied through clenched teeth. “And today you informed me that your mother was coming to visit.”
For several moments, Anne was too infuriated to speak. Her pursed lips quivered with rage. Then gradually her color changed from deep purple to light crimson. Pointing towards Le Pauvre she growled, “How fortunate that you and that miserable cur have such a fine rapport, since you and he will be spending the next few nights together.” Spinning around, she stormed off to the bedroom and slammed the door. Once again, Le Pauvre howled.
After a few days, all was back to normal in the Nostradamus household. Again the prophet was returning home from one of his frequent sojourns to the court of Charles IX. The hour was somewhat late and Anne had already retired for the evening. Nostradamus sensed that something was amiss when his somber canine companion didn’t shuffle up to greet him. He started heading for bed when he noticed, in the soft glow cast by his lantern, a quill and several sheets of paper left on the dining room table. Thinking Anne had been engaged in some correspondence, he decided to take a look at what she had written. On the first sheet were two quatrains. As he read, the expression of curiosity on his face turned to confusion, then outright indignation.
Though those in the past have returned to the dust
And crumbled castles lie under earth’s crust
One day a lifetime will last centuries
And the scythe of the Reaper will slowly rust.
Those fatalist fools who sternly warn
Of the bitter end, the world may scorn
Soon peace and joy will cover the land
And erstwhile prophets will sit forlorn.
“Anne!” he shouted, pounding his fist on the table. “Anne! Come here at once!”
Anne scurried out of the bedroom, wearing her nightgown. Le Pauvre followed close behind. “What is it Michel?” she asked, alarmed. “What is the matter?”
He pointed at the papers on the table. “Just what is this?” he demanded.
“I-I was just doing some writing,” Anne explained. “You’re always writing poetry, predictions and whatnot, so I thought I’d give it a try. Except I wanted to write something positive. I figured it was about time someone around here did.”
“Positive?” he repeated angrily. “It is positively rubbish! Peace and joy indeed!”
“Michel,” she said, trying to calm him. “You’re overreacting.”
“Do not tell me that I am overreacting. You have upset me greatly. And look what you have done to Le Pauvre. See how you have upset him, as well.”
With bright, eager eyes, the dog looked up at his master. Panting and wagging his tail excitedly, he gave two short, elated barks.
Nostradamus pointed a finger accusingly at the dog. “You stay out of this!” he commanded in his most autocratic tone. With a typical whimper, Le Pauvre turned tail and scampered under the dining room table, covering his eyes with his paws.
“Michel,” Anne continued. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted to do something. Besides, if you can make predictions, why can’t I?”
The Frenchman was steaming. “Who are you to upstage the great Nostradamus?” he thundered.
“Who are you to upstage the great Nostradamus?” she mimicked him.
“Bite you tongue, woman!” he roared.
“Bite your own tongue,” she retorted.
“Never before was man married to so saucy a wench as thou,” he said.
“Stop talking like an Englishman,” she told him.
“I’ve had enough of this conversation,” he fumed. He turned and headed back towards the door.
“Where are you going?” Anne asked.
“To visit with friends,” he grumbled.
“Michel, you have no friends,” she reminded him.
“Then I shall visit with enemies!” he snapped. “And when I return, I do not want to see those ridiculous ‘predictions’ of yours, nor do I ever want to catch you writing them again!” Exiting with a whoosh of air, he slammed the door.
“Don’t worry,” Anne said with the ghost of a smile. “You won’t.”
“And that’s how it all began.” The clerk tossed the book down on the counter neatly, as if waiting for the girl to inspect it. She stared at it a moment, a slight frown on her face, her lowered eyebrows betraying mounting skepticism. She was perhaps 17, plain-looking, with brown pig-tails, glasses and a face that had spent countless hours buried in a book. She squinted. “Is that a true story?” she asked.
The clerk motioned towards the book on the counter. “Read for yourself,” he suggested. “The Prophecies of Mrs. Nostradamus.”
“Well,” she hesitated. “I’ve never heard about anything like that before.”
The clerk held up his hands in compromise. “All right,” he said. “I’ll tell you what. Instead of $19.95 for this book, I’ll make it $16, and I’ll even throw in another ‘closet classic’ at no cost:
Shakespeare’s Secret Limericks.”
At that, the girl waved her hand disgustedly and turned to go. “Good-bye,” she called as she walked out the door.
“Hey, wait!” he shouted after her. “I was just about to bring out Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales: the Unexpurgated Version! If you though the original was raunchy, wait’ll you get a load of this. Hey! Come back!”
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