Three More Visitors, de Paul Stanley [français]

J'ai joué ces jours-ci au jeu Three More Visitors de Paul Stanley, publié en 2011 dans le cadre de la Speed-IF :

Three More Visitors est sorti en 2011 dans le cadre de la Speed-IF. Si j'en crois l'IFDB c'est le premier jeu de Paul Stanley, et son mieux noté.

J'ai pris beaucoup de plaisir à y jouer et j'ai agrémenté comme je le ferai systématiquement à l'avenir, mon transcript de notes et de réflexions sur le jeu comme sur l'I.F en général.

Le jeu est disponible à cette adresse :

https://ifdb.tads.org/viewgame?id=8ff0n6c5kt5hcs7

Voici mon transcript :

*

Christmas Eve! You tell Bob to go home early; tidy up a little, and lock up the office shortly after four. You look on the old brass plate, which still reads "Scrooge & Marley", probably for the last time.

After visiting the engravers to pick up your package, you spend a few hours simply walking the busy streets, soaking in the happy anticipation all around. Then a simple, but magnificent, dinner at Kettners and a gentle stroll home. Time for bed.

The restaurant is as old as Soho itself. Founded in 1867 by Auguste Kettner, chef to Napoleon III, a cook who was so fastidious that he thought frying bacon was an insult to the pig who had laid down its life, it opened its doors to the great and the good of Victorian high society in the same year that Charles Dickens published Great Expectations. English aristocracy in waistcoats, and in love, would bring their wives and their mistresses to try French cuisine for the first time – feasts of carp fillets à la Duxelle, fried gudgeon with asparagus in cream, devilled kidney and thick eel stews, all followed by apple and almond tarts for dessert. 

(https://www.paulratner.com/2018/01/kettners-the-soho-institution-with-a-wilde-history)

Three More Visitors

A Speed-IF Melodrama for New Year

by Paul Stanley

Release 2 (2012-01-10)

Inform v6.32 / Platypus release 4+

Courtyard

Not everyone is complimentary about this courtyard, or the house whose front door you now face. "A gloomy set of rooms" it has been called. But it has been your home these many years; it was the site, a decade past to this very day, of the great visions that changed your life forever. And so here you stay, and here you expect to end your days. The door is north.

Description peu "descriptive" mais plus narrative, en fait. On est d'emblée dans une conception non-utilitaire de l'espace intradiégétique.

>x courtyard

Courtyard

Not everyone is complimentary about this courtyard, or the house whose front door you now face. "A gloomy set of rooms" it has been called. But it has been your home these many years; it was the site, a decade past to this very day, of the great visions that changed your life forever. And so here you stay, and here you expect to end your days. The door is north.

>x door

A plain black door, dusted with soot, like any of a thousand plain dusty doors in this plain dusty city. A large door knocker sits in the centre, surrounded by a holly wreath.

>x house

A huge old house. Your late partner, Jacob Marley lived here until he died, and you have lived here ever since. You keep a small suite of rooms on the first floor, having given the rest over to your nephew and his family -- but they are out of town visiting your brother for Christmas. They begged you to go with them, but you have your own plans: you always visit the Cratchits for Christmas, and this year you have a most particular reason to keep that appointment.

>think about jacob

You'll have to do that yourself.

Cette lacune-là est un tout petit peu dommage ; cela aurait été l'occasion de rappeler les personnages et les événements de A Christmas Carol, que tout le monde n'a pas lu (moi, notamment).

Whisps of frosty mist nuzzle into the corners of the yard.

>think about cratchits

You'll have to do that yourself.

>i

You are carrying:

a door key

a package

>x package

You picked it up from the engravers earlier. The package is about six inches wide, and eight inches long, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. The label on it reads "E Scrooge Esq, to await collection". It's rather heavy. You catch a strange, sweet smell, carried on the mist.

>smell

A cold mist licks around the courtyard, smelling of damp and smoke -- and some other scent too, a sickly, cloying smell that you cannot quite place.

>l

Courtyard

Not everyone is complimentary about this courtyard, or the house whose front door you now face. "A gloomy set of rooms" it has been called. But it has been your home these many years; it was the site, a decade past to this very day, of the great visions that changed your life forever. And so here you stay, and here you expect to end your days. The door is north.

>n

(opening the door)

(unlocking the door)

As you push the door open and enter, you stop for a moment to look at the knocker. Who knows why, for you see it every day -- morning and evening, and it is unremarkable enough. But you can't forget how, on this very evening a decade ago, you saw it transformed into the very image of your late partner Jacob Marley: the first of the very strange and disconcerting events of that wonderfully disconcerting night.

La clé est inutile : on l'a sur soi dès le début du jeu, aucune raison de la perdre ou de se la faire prendre, et aucune raison de ne pas pouvoir ouvrir la porte (sauf si on lâche la clé avant d'essayer d'entrer ; mais pourquoi faire une telle chose ?). L'auteur aurait tout aussi bien pu relier la room "Courtyard" et l'intérieur de la maison, sans une porte entre les deux. J'interprète le fait qu'il ait choisi d'implémenter une porte et une clé comme la volonté de coller aux standards du genre avec des objets et une organisation de l'espace qui ne sont pas nécessaires, mais correspondent à une tradition.

So you glance at the knocker now, and you are shocked to see it, again, assume a once-familiar appearance. But this time the face is not Marley's, but almost your own, though one you have not seen for twenty, even thirty, years. It is the face of your brother, Mordecai.

Shivering slightly (whether from the cold, or the disconcerting behaviour of your door knocker, you could not say) you go through the door, light the candle that stands ready on the hall table, lock the door carefully behind you and climb the wide staircase to your chamber.

Bedroom

A leopard never quite changes its spots, and your bedroom is still plain by most standards, but that is how you like it. Nevertheless, you allow yourself a few hints of comfort if not luxury. The heavy green brocade curtains are closed. Your table has a few papers on it. Your bed is ready for you. The door, leading east, is closed.

>x papers

The papers are scattered on the table. You really should talk to Lucinda about cleaning up -- since she has been walking out with the Jameson boy she has become quite distracted. The only one of any moment is the letter you received this morning from your attorneys.

>read letter

Jarboe & Bungay

45 New Square

Lincoln's Inn

23rd December 1853

My Dear Mr Scrooge,

As presently drawn, your will leaves your whole estate to your brothers, and their issue. In practical terms, that means to your nephew and (if he still lives) your brother Mordecai.

We understand that you wish to amend the provisions of your will. Mr Robert Cratchit is to become a partner in the firm of Scrooge & Marley, and he is to inherit the partnership absolutely, the rest of your estate passing to your nephew.

We have accordingly prepared a revised will and partnership deed. If you would be good enough to raise the matter with Mr Cratchit, we look forward to seeing you on the twenty-seventh of this month, at our offices, at eleven o'clock in the forenoon, where the documents can be executed.

I beg to remain, Sir, your obedient and humble servant,

Wm Jarboe.

>get letter

You take the letter.

>l

Bedroom

The heavy green brocade curtains are closed. Your table has a few papers on it. Your bed is ready for you. The door, leading east, is closed.

Late as it is, you think you hear footsteps outside the window.

>x bed

An ancient four-poster, old-fashioned and heavily carved. Its only notable feature is the ancient tapestry which forms its canopy -- a a huge sun, its rays splashed to the four corners. The sheets and comforter are turned back.

You can definitely hear voices: indistinct, but it sounds like an old man and a young man.

>listen

You hear low voices in the yard, though it's hard to make out most of what they say.

Outside the window, a coarse, sly old voice. "You lad, where are you going?"

>look through window

(opening the curtains)

A the entrance to the yard, a pale youth is talking to an old man in a shabby top-coat with an astrakhan collar.

It's hard to make out more than a few words: something about "Mr Scrooge" and "the compliments of the season".

>d

You can't go that way. The door is east -- though you feel no desire to leave your room now.

The older man says something, but you can't make it out.

>e

You've no inclination to wander around the dark house.

The younger voice is raised indignantly, and you catch a few words -- "mistaken ... kind gentleman". Suddenly you recognise the voice: It is Bob Cratchit's son, Tiny Tim.

>talk to bob

That can only be done to something animate.

>talk to tiny tim

You can't see any such thing.

>l

Bedroom

The heavy green brocade curtains are open. Your table has a few papers on it. Your bed is ready for you. The door, leading east, is closed.

>open door

You open the bedroom door.

The old man is talking: "... grasping ... miserly ... I have found him out ..."

>e

You've no inclination to wander around the dark house.

The old man is talks, low and secretive. You can make out few words -- "Jarboe" perhaps and "visit". How can he know about Mr Jarboe's visit to you?

>scream

You think better of it; you need to hear what is being planned.

Tiny Tim's voice, quite clear: "Yes, Sir, I know that he visited, for my father told me of his visit."

>z

Time passes.

You cannot hear what the old man is saying.

>z

Time passes.

>listen

You hear low voices in the yard, though it's hard to make out most of what they say.

You wish you could hear what the old man is saying. Something about Italians? Something about a business that is to be sold? Something about Bob Cratchit being put out of the door?

>listen

You hear low voices in the yard, though it's hard to make out most of what they say.

Young Tim's voice, clear as a bell: "Is there nothing that can be done to stop him?"

>g

You hear low voices in the yard, though it's hard to make out most of what they say.

The old man is speaking in reassuring tones, but you can't catch any of the words.

>g

You hear low voices in the yard, though it's hard to make out most of what they say.

The old man reaches his hand into his pocket, and hands something to Tim Cratchit.

>g

You hear low voices in the yard, though it's hard to make out most of what they say.

The older man is talking excitedly. Something about a "concoction", something about slipping it into a drink.

>g

You hear low voices in the yard, though it's hard to make out most of what they say.

"Very well, Sir," you hear the Cratchit boy say, "I will do it."

>g

You hear low voices in the yard, though it's hard to make out most of what they say.

The old man says something, and taps his nose, but you cannot catch the words.

>g

You hear low voices in the yard, though it's hard to make out most of what they say.

The voices fade.

>g

All is silence, apart from the usual sounds of the city.

You feel very tired. It is time to go to sleep.

On est très passif au cours de cette séquence, mais elle est emblématique de tout le jeu : on sait quoi faire, on sait quelles actions feront progresser l'histoire. On peut parler de fiction interactive comme "lecture participative" ou "lecture engageante" quand les actions sont limitées, simples, ultra-évidentes, permettant simplement au joueur de lire une histoire en ayant l'agréable impression de collaborer à son déroulement. C'est comme tourner des pages, mais en plus actif ; on agit de manière intra-diégétique au lieu de simplement agir sur l'objet même qui est le support de l'oeuvre.

>sleep

You blow out the candle, and get into bed then settle down to go to sleep.

[Press Any Key]

You wake with a start. What is it that woke you? Perhaps only the church bell, chiming ... one ... two ... three-quarters ... no, the hour. One o'clock. You sit up in bed, alert as a cat before a mousehole.

>l

Bedroom (in the bed)

The heavy green brocade curtains are open. Your table has a few papers on it and a number of other objects besides. The door, leading east, is closed.

The door creaks open, and light -- as of a giant candle -- floods the room. And there, on the threshold, he stands. A spirit you have not seen for ten years, and yet familiar to you: the Ghost of Christmas Past.

>x ghost

A strange little person, in a white shift and a tall hat like a candle-snuffer, from under which light shines out. His appearence is mutable and inconstant; as you look at him now he resembles a portly old gentleman.

>talk to ghost

"I know you, spirit," you say. "I remember you."

"I am the spirit of Christmas past. Your past!"

>g

"What is it you have come to show me?" you ask.

"I am here to show you a beginning," says the ghost. "We are going to trace a noxious river to its poisoned source."

>g

"What must I do, then?"

"Just walk through the door."

"What? I can tell you what is outside the door: nothing but my own staircase, up which I climbed not much more than an hour ago!"

"So you may think," the spirit says enigmatically. "But you might be surprised."

>g

The spirit stays silent, and merely gestures towards the door.

The spirit gestures towards the door.

>go out

You get out of the bed.

Bedroom

The heavy green brocade curtains are open. Your table has a few papers on it and a number of other objects besides. Your bed is ready for you. The door is open to the east.

The ghost of Christmas past stands in the doorway.

The spirit gestures towards the door.

>out

The spirit ushers you through the door. But you feel yourself changed, diminished somehow. And instead of the staircase, you find yourself in a quite different place -- a room once just as well-known, but which you have not thought about these many years.

Parlour

Your mother's parlour, a cosy little room, spotlessly clean and smelling of wax and lavender. Sunlight is splashing bright patterns on the rug. Your mother is resting on her chaise longue.

A wooden box lies on the rug.

Your mother has kicked off her shoes, which lie beside the sofa.

>x mother

Earlier this morning you heard your father shouting at your mother. She must have been naughty, you suppose, for Father has had to hit her. She has been sobbing. And now she is lying on the chaise longue, resting with her eyes closed

>greet mother

That's not a verb I recognise.

>talk to mother

She is asleep.

Impression démentie par la suite du jeu et sans doute fausse dans l'absolu, mais très puissante et émouvante : l'idée que fondamentalement l'I.F ne consiste pas à parler à des PNJ mais à être seul, face à un décor ou face à des personnages avec qui il n'y aura pas de contact. Il y a beaucoup de jeux où il n'y a pas de PNJ du tout. Et encore plus où il y en a, mais avec qui les interactions sont ultra minimales ; soit qu'il n'y ait quasiment pas de dialogues, soit que ces dialogues se fassent au style indirect, tant pour le joueur ("tell John about the house", plutôt qu'une vraie réplique à choisir parmi un certain nombre) que pour les PNJ quand leurs propos sont résumés au lieu d'être rapportés mot pour mot (dans ce jeu, leurs propos SONT rapportés mot pour mot, il est vrai) — et cet aspect indirect renforce une impression de solitude, de distance. Ici on a pas de contact du tout avec sa mère : elle dort et on ne peut pas la réveiller, on ne peut rien faire que de la regarder, perdue dans ses rêves de femme battue comme on est soi-même perdu dans le rêve que nous fait vivre le Fantôme des Noëls passés. Cela produit (ou en tous cas cela a produit sur moi) une impression très forte, émotionnellement.

>wake mother up

You should let her sleep. She needs to rest.

>x box

A wooden box, about as long as your arm, and half as wide. There are letters burned into it. Because you are your mother's clever boy, you can read those letters. "E. PEEN: TOYMAKER". Your mother has given this box to you for Christmas, because you have been good all year. The box is closed.

>open it

You open the wooden box, revealing your toy hammer, your wooden peg and your wooden saw.

>take all

You take your mother's shoes and the wooden box.

>x shoes

Your mother's brown leather walking shoes.

The door opens, and a boy -- dressed just as you are in a sailor suit -- comes in: your twin brother, Mordecai.

>x mordecai

To a superficial glance -- or indeed, to even the most penetrating inspection by anyone other than your family -- there is no difference whatever between you and Mordecai. Not physically; but morally, in spirit, as souls -- you could not be more different.

Mordecai comes over. "I want that hammer, Ben," he says. "Give it to me now!"

>no

"No!" you say. "This is mine, and you are not having it." Mordecai stops momentarily, surpised that you are not immediately compliant.

>take hammer

You take the toy hammer.

Mordecai grabs the hammer from you. "Mine!" he says.

"No, Mordecai, it is mine. Mother gave it to me. I have been a good boy all year. You have not."

"Good boys get given presents. Bad boys take them!"

>i

You are carrying:

a wooden box (which is open)

your wooden peg

your wooden saw

your mother's shoes

Mordecai advances towards you with his hammer held high. "Now I have taken this," he says, "you must give me all your toys. You must do as I say or I will beat you and smash you, you vile boy." As he says those words "vile boy" he sounds just like Father. That is just what Father always says.

>attack mordecai

He dodges your blow.

Mordecai brings the hammer crashing down on your head, with a crack. For a moment you feel nothing. Then you find yourself on the floor. Your face is sticky, and your mouth tastes of sweet iron. Your brother, as usual, has made himself scarce.

>l

Parlour

Your mother's parlour, a cosy little room, spotlessly clean and smelling of wax and lavender. Sunlight is splashing bright patterns on the rug. Your mother is resting on her chaise longue.

Your mother stirs, and wakes. She looks down at you, and shrieks. "What on earth has happened, little Ben?" she says. "What have you done? Your face is covered in blood!"

>tell mother about mordecai

To converse in this game, use TALK TO [PERSON] (though in certain special situations, when you are asked a specific question, YES and NO could be useful).

Léger regret que l'auteur n'ait pas implémenté diverses façons de faire la même chose, mais après tout, le jeu a été fait de la cadre de la Speed-IF.

>talk to mother

You sob.

Your mother gathers you up in her arms. You feel her tears mixing with yours, and with the blood that covers your face. You turn to kiss her. As your lips touch her cheek she seems to liquify, like wax at a candle wick. And with her everything in the room seems to liquify too: chaise, rug, toys, all pouring away, until there is just you, and the spirit, in an empty room.

Parlour

Still, apparently, your mother's parlour -- or at least a room its size, and its shape, and with its window and door; but sadly altered. Dust and shadows have spread themselves thickly on every surface, and crept into every corner. The furniture is gone -- the floor bare apart from the rug, which incongruously remains. The door is west.

The ghost of Christmas past stands in the middle of the room.

>x rug

A threadbare carpet, faded red and blue -- and much stained.

>lift it

That's not a verb I recognise.

>take rug

The rug isn't something you can carry around.

Je me demande pourquoi j'ai voulu le soulever ou le prendre, alors qu'il était clair qu'il n'y aurait rien dessous et qu'il ne servirait pas à grand-chose dans l'histoire. Réflexe idiot en réponse : oui, mais alors pourquoi le jeu le mentionne-t-il ? J'ai du être perverti par les I.F où le jeu attend que l'on passe son temps à essayer toutes les actions possibles sur tous les objets, sans aucune justification intradiégétique. Ici ce n'est pas le cas ; le jeu ne nous propose, encore une fois, que de vivre l'aventure du début à la fin, sans grand suspens sur ce qu'il faut faire pour avancer dans l'histoire — mais le simple fait de taper des commandes est satisfaisant.

>w

As you step towards the door, you feel the room you are leaving dissolve into shadow, and the spirit with it. No way back now. You must return (you know it) to the present -- or at least to some possible version of the present. You are half expecting the sight that next meets your eyes ...

[Press any key]

Bedroom

Your room is transformed. The ceiling is hung with great boughs of holly, the berries glistening in the light of hundreds of candles. All around the room are piles of wonderful food: hams, great roasts, gilded turkies, piles of sugar plums and oranges, chocolates and candy-canes. A vast table is set with a white damask cloth, laden with dishes. In the midst of this a man with a deep green robe and a vast beard reclines on your bed, his head surrounded by a garland of ivy: the ghost of Christmas present.

The ghost of Christmas present lounges on your bed, bathed in brilliant sunlight from the canopy.

>x ghost

A giant of a man, with ruddy cheeks, chestnut curls and an auburn beard. He wears a holly-green velvet robe, trimmed with ermine.

>talk to him

"I recognise you, spirit," you say. "You are the Ghost of Christmas Past. I remember meeting you -- ten years ago now, and the good you did me then."

"Not I," replies the giant, "for I can be here just one Christmastide, and never again; but one of my brothers no doubt."

>g

"Why are you here? I am a changed man. There's not a man in London more devoted to you than I am. I have no further need of your help."

"So you might think," the spirit replies. "But you do need my help tonight: not to save you, this time, from yourself; but to save you, and others, from harm."

>g

"What sort of harm, spirit? And what should I do?"

"I will show you," says the Ghost. "Touch my robe, and I will show you."

>touch robe

As your hand brushes the spirit's robe, he takes you firmly by the hand. He opens the window, and, safe in his firm grasp you are launched headlong into the air.

You soar over tightly-packed streets through a grey London dawn.

A street in Camden

Frost glistens on the flagstones, and on the identical doorsteps of the identical houses in this neatly nondescript street. You stand outside number 17. Cast iron railings surround a basement area, painted black like every other house; a neat front door and whitened step. It is the house where your clerk, Bob Cratchit, lives with his family. The great City lies to the south. Steps lead down to the basement area.

Someone has dropped a sixpenny piece on the ground.

>x flagstones

Decorated with frost for Christmas.

>x houses

Not a wealthy area, to be sure -- but comfortable, prosperous, solid. Middling people, in middling houses, living middling lives of respectable domesticity.

>x piece

A silver sixpence.

>get it

You take the sixpence.

Je la prends sans savoir pourquoi, en soupçonnant qu'elle me servira plus tard — et effectivement il faudra la donner à un PNJ pour entrer quelque part. Dans la mesure où l'on ne peut pas revenir en arrière dans le jeu, je me demande ce qui serait arrivé si je ne l'avais pas pris ; est-ce que le jeu se serait arrêté, en m'affichant un message de défaite ? Je n'ai pas envie de vérifier.

>knock on door

The spirit stops you. "You are not bidden here, and I cannot think you would be welcome," he says.

What can he mean? You have been welcome here for many years.

>talk to ghost

"I do not understand," you say. "This is a house at which I have always been a most welcome guest?"

"You?" says the spirit. "I think not. Ebenezer Scrooge has always been welcome; but not you."

Ça c'est le passage de l'histoire que je n'ai toujours pas compris ; j'incarne Mordecai à ce moment-là ? pourquoi donc ? Ce n'était pas "nécessaire" pour une scène qui montre un futur à éviter.

>g

"Why have you brought me here?" you ask.

"Ask rather who it is I have brought here," he replies. "Once you understand that, the rest will be clear."

>g

"I do not understand you," you complain.

"That," says the ghost, "does not matter. My purpose is not that you understand me, but that you understand this." He gestures to the house.

>g

"What should I do, then?" you ask.

"The front door is barred to you; perhaps there is another way of finding out what is going on in the house," he replies.

>d

Basement yard

Like so many London houses, Bob Cratchit's is set half-down into the ground, with a dingy basement yard with space to store coal, and ash, and rubbish. Overlooking this dreary scene is the window of what you know is the kitchen, although it's so covered in thick frost that you can't see anything through it at the moment.

The spirit stands just behind you.

>talk to spirit

"The reason I have brought you here is beyond that window," says the ghost.

>g

"The reason I have brought you here is beyond that window," says the ghost.

"Do you think I brought you all this way for nothing?" says the ghost. "There is something here you need to see."

>clear window

The frosty window isn't something you can carry around.

>rub window

You rub at the frost. It burns your hands, but you manage to clear a small area, through which you can peep.

>look through window

You look into the Cratchits' kitchen. It is set for Christmas, with various delicacies arrayed on the table. Beyond it is a door through which you can see into the back parlour.

As you watch, you see a young man come in. It is Tiny Tim.

>look through window

Tim ladles two generous helpings of the punch into pewter mugs, and carries them through to the room beyond.

>look through window

The two men in the parlour raise their mugs. Oddly you have a premonition of what is to follow. More oddly still, instead of willing yourself to drop the mug on the floor, or throw it in the fire, you find yourself hoping that you will drink it. You find yourself taking positive pleasure in what you know will be a disaster. It is as if you are not yourself. As if you are a second version of yourself, and wish yourself harm.

Il semblerait que l'on soit effectivement Mordecai dans une espèce de schizophrénie onirique.

>look through window

The draught takes its effect. You and Bob look to be in excruciating agony. You grasp at your throats, tear at your collars and neckscarves, as the fatal liquid tears at your bowels. And yet you, Ebenezer Scrooge, watch your own death-pangs not merely dispassionately, but with positive delight.

>look through window

You and Bob lie quite still now. Anyone who knows death could say, instantly, that you are both quite dead. And watching this you feel not (as you should, as you know you should) horrified at your own demise and at the painful death of a beloved friend, but elated.

>look through window

Tim rushes over to his father. He bends over to listen to his father's breath. He reaches to feel his father's pulse. He tears the clothes from his father's chest, and puts his ear to it, listening for a heartbeat. All in vain. With tears streaming from his face he stands over the body.

>look through window

Tim dashes from the room, and you see him no more.

>look through window

Mrs Cratchit's tidy kitchen is empty. Beyond it you can see into the back parlour. Two corpses lie there: your own, and Bob Cratchit's.

>look through window

Mrs Cratchit's tidy kitchen is empty. Beyond it you can see into the back parlour. Two corpses lie there: your own, and Bob Cratchit's.

Above you, you hear the front door open then slam shut. A limping step works its way down to the street; you hear the tapping of a crutch as the steps recede.

>u

A street in Camden

Frost glistens on the flagstones, and on the identical doorsteps of the identical houses in this neatly nondescript street. You stand outside number 17. Cast iron railings surround a basement area, painted black like every other house; a neat front door and whitened step. It is the house where your clerk, Bob Cratchit, lives with his family. The great City lies to the south. Steps lead down to the basement area.

The figure of Tiny Tim fades into the distance.

>follow tim

That's not a verb I recognise.

>l

A street in Camden

Frost glistens on the flagstones, and on the identical doorsteps of the identical houses in this neatly nondescript street. You stand outside number 17. Cast iron railings surround a basement area, painted black like every other house; a neat front door and whitened step. It is the house where your clerk, Bob Cratchit, lives with his family. The great City lies to the south. Steps lead down to the basement area.

The spirit reaches towards you and touches you. As he does so you watch his arm shrivel, his robe darken. Before long you find yourself looking at a different ghost altogether -- a loose grey robe with a great cowl, which completely obscures the features of whoever, or whatever, is within. Only two piercing dark eyes, unblinking, give assurance (no, not so much assurance, "warrant" then) that the figure is more than a great empty sack. The ghost of Christmas future leans on a long, slender staff of bone or ivory, gripping it with a talon-like gloved hand.

[Press any key]

A street in Limehouse

Dusk is falling on the tightly-packed warehouses, taverns and doss-houses of Limehouse. To the south you can hear the gentle slapping of the river, the creaking of wet timber on piers and jetties. In this insalubrious alley, windows are either boarded or broken, or caked with dirt. To the west is an open doorway hung with red and gold lanterns, and painted with a dragon.

You are aware of the shade as a dim presence beside you.

A chinaman stands in front of the doorway, barring entrance.

>x chinaman

The man is Chinese. He's dressed in a sailor's fashion in cotton duck trousers and a rough shirt. He is muscular, self-possessed. He's reading a magazine.

>x magazine

A copy of Doom, issue III. A popular magazine, which contains lurid accounts of horrible murders and railway accidents, and even more lurid ghost stories. The man appears to have been engrossed in an account of a mining explosion. There is a picture (very fanciful, to your way of thinking) of a canary being lowered in a cage to see if there is gas in the mine.

>talk to ghost

The ghost of Christmas future does not seem to have any desire to speak.

>x houses

You can't see any such thing.

>x warehouses

A street in Limehouse

Dusk is falling on the tightly-packed warehouses, taverns and doss-houses of Limehouse. To the south you can hear the gentle slapping of the river, the creaking of wet timber on piers and jetties. In this insalubrious alley, windows are either boarded or broken, or caked with dirt. To the west is an open doorway hung with red and gold lanterns, and painted with a dragon.

You are aware of the shade as a dim presence beside you.

A chinaman stands in front of the doorway, barring entrance.

>talk to chinaman

"What is this place?" you ask.

The attendant looks at you suspiciously, and puts his magazine aside. "Who's asking? This is a private residence; the private residence of Mr Chu. Mr Chu is having a party for a few friends." You do not believe him.

>g

"I'm not a magistrate," you say.

The man looks at you suspiciously: "Answer stands," he says. "This is Mr Chu's place, and only for friends of Mr Chu. You best be about your business before I have to make you go."

The phantom turn towards you and gestures to your pocket, where (you now remember) you still have the coin you found outside Bob Cratchit's house.

Je n'aurais jamais pensé à donner cette pièce au chinois si le fantôme ne me l'avait pas suggéré... C'est le premier "puzzle" du jeu, et bien que ce soit le plus simple jamais conçu (il n'y a aucune autre possibilité que de donner cette pièce à l'homme) il surprend relativement car jusque là l'histoire avançait à peu près sur des rails. Le fait que l'auteur ait senti la nécessité de suggérer quoi faire au joueur laisse penser qu'il avait conscience de créer une rupture, si petite soit-elle.

>give coin to man

"Thank you, Sir," says the man. "You may go in."

Inside an opium den

A cavernous room, full of nooks and crannies, lit only by a brazier and a few oil lamps. All around the room people are lying. A thick, sickly smoke hangs over them, rising from the long opium pipes that each is smoking. A deep, stupefying torpor pervades everything. Time slowed to a crawl, reality replaced with phantoms and visions: the addicts are here, but not here; half alive in the half light.

You are aware of the shade as a dim presence beside you.

>talk to ghost

The ghost of Christmas future does not seem to have any desire to speak.

>smoke opium

That's not a verb I recognise.

>smoke

That's not a verb I recognise.

>eat opium

(taking Inside an opium den)

Inside an opium den isn't something you can carry around.

>x opium den

Inside an opium den

A cavernous room, full of nooks and crannies, lit only by a brazier and a few oil lamps. All around the room people are lying. A thick, sickly smoke hangs over them, rising from the long opium pipes that each is smoking. A deep, stupefying torpor pervades everything. Time slowed to a crawl, reality replaced with phantoms and visions: the addicts are here, but not here; half alive in the half light.

You are aware of the shade as a dim presence beside you.

>g

Inside an opium den

A cavernous room, full of nooks and crannies, lit only by a brazier and a few oil lamps. All around the room people are lying. A thick, sickly smoke hangs over them, rising from the long opium pipes that each is smoking. A deep, stupefying torpor pervades everything. Time slowed to a crawl, reality replaced with phantoms and visions: the addicts are here, but not here; half alive in the half light.

You are aware of the shade as a dim presence beside you.

>g

Inside an opium den

A cavernous room, full of nooks and crannies, lit only by a brazier and a few oil lamps. All around the room people are lying. A thick, sickly smoke hangs over them, rising from the long opium pipes that each is smoking. A deep, stupefying torpor pervades everything. Time slowed to a crawl, reality replaced with phantoms and visions: the addicts are here, but not here; half alive in the half light.

You are aware of the shade as a dim presence beside you.

The spirit walks over to an emaciated cripple, lying on a mattress, and gestures towards him. You have a sudden rush of recognition; this poor child of the devil is one you know well -- Bob Cratchit's son, Tiny Tim.

>talk to tim

Tiny Tim stirs in his sleep, but does not reply. He is deeply asleep, in the arms of the drug.

>g

Tiny Tim stirs in his sleep, but does not reply. He is deeply asleep, in the arms of the drug.

The phantom stands above Tim. It does not speak, and yet somehow its meaning is clear: you must talk to this boy (boy no more!) and find out what it is that has brought him here and, if it be possible, help him to find some peace.

>wake boy

You can't see any such thing.

>wake tim

He wakes up, and looks at you as if he has seen a ghost. "Have you come," he says, "for revenge!"

Tim looks at you in terror and shame. "How am I cursed for my terrible deeds," he says. "You and my father! Both dead! And by my hand!"

>talk to tim

"But why did you do it?" you ask.

"You have to believe me, whatever spirit or creature you are, I did not do it out of malice, but out of ignorance. A man -- now, curse him, my tormentor, beguiled me to do it. How I wish I had not; but I did it in the hope only of helping my father."

>g

"I believe you, my lad, when you say that you did what you did in ignorance, and not out of evil."

"But yet I did it," he says, "and it cannot be undone. So here I try to forget a little, and wait for kind death to bring a forgetfulness that will never pass."

The spirit reaches a hand towards you -- not so much a hand, as a claw -- little more than bones in a dark glove. It wraps you in its cloak, which smells like earth and mould. The earth begins to fill your mouth. You choke; you wake. The spirit shrinks, and hardens, and you find yourself staring at -- nothing more sinister than your own bedpost.

Bedroom (in the bed)

The heavy green brocade curtains are open and you are relieved to see clear winter sunshine filtering into the room, bearing some assurance that the night's visions are over. Your table has a few papers on it and a number of other objects besides, including -- quite remarkably -- a pair of ladies' brown leather walking shoes. The door is open to the east.

>x shoes

Your mother's brown leather walking shoes.

>get shoes

You take your mother's shoes.

Des chaussures qu'on a donc vues et prises initialement dans un rêve ou une vision produite par le fantôme des Noëls passés... Est-ce que cette dernière séquence du jeu est un rêve elle aussi ? Ou est-on totalement dans le merveilleux ? Cela n'a sans doute pas d'importance mais...

>i

You are carrying:

your mother's shoes

>x papers

The papers are scattered on the table. You really should talk to Lucinda about cleaning up -- since she has been walking out with the Jameson boy she has become quite distracted. The only one of any moment is the letter you received this morning from your attorneys.

>read letter

Even if you had the eyes of a younger man, you would not be able to read it from here.

>up

(getting out of bed)

You can't go that way. The door is east.

>read letter

Jarboe & Bungay

45 New Square

Lincoln's Inn

23rd December 1853

My Dear Mr Scrooge,

As presently drawn, your will leaves your whole estate to your brothers, and their issue. In practical terms, that means to your nephew and (if he still lives) your brother Mordecai.

We understand that you wish to amend the provisions of your will. Mr Robert Cratchit is to become a partner in the firm of Scrooge & Marley, and he is to inherit the partnership absolutely, the rest of your estate passing to your nephew.

We have accordingly prepared a revised will and partnership deed. If you would be good enough to raise the matter with Mr Cratchit, we look forward to seeing you on the twenty-seventh of this month, at our offices, at eleven o'clock in the forenoon, where the documents can be executed.

I beg to remain, Sir, your obedient and humble servant,

Wm Jarboe.

>take letter

You take the letter.

>l

Bedroom

The heavy green brocade curtains are open and you are relieved to see clear winter sunshine filtering into the room, bearing some assurance that the night's visions are over. Your table has a few papers on it and a number of other objects besides. Your bed stands placidly in its usual place. Who would think what scenes it witnessed last night? The door is open to the east.

>e

You leave your room, and head down the staircase, out of the front door, picking up a Christmas card that has been delivered while you were asleep, and off towards Camden, where you are bidden to celebrate the day with the Cratchits.

Smithfield

Smithfield Market is uncharacteristically quiet this morning, though the debris everywhere bears testament to the busy day that was had here yesterday, as all the sides of beef and pork, all the hams, all the geese and turkeys and ducks that London required to celebrate the day were carted around by the porters. Now there are just families in their best clothes, walking to church, or back from church, or off the the bakehouse with their roasts ready for the oven. The City itself lies to the south, but your way is to the north, up through Clerkenwell towards King's cross.

Some way ahead of you is a man who seems vaguely familiar.

>x man

It's hard to say from this distance, but he is definitely wearing an astrakhan coat, with a low hat pulled down low over his head. He seems to be heading north.

>call man

That's not a verb I recognise.

>n

King's Cross

You cannot accustom yourself to Mr Brunel's vast railway terminus. It is a hideously plain construction, as if some vast mill had crept here from Manchester or Huddersfield or Bradford and sat itself down on the edge of the City, like a charmless squatter.

You are no fuddy-duddy; but it astonishes you to think that young people take for granted the ability to make in just hours journeys that used to take days. Your first trip to London, as a young apprentice, was partly by horse, partly on foot. It took you four days; now you could complete it in three hours. Today, however, for once, it is silent; just a few people like you hurrying to luncheon appointments.

Your way lies to the west of the station.

The man you saw in Smithfield is still ahead of you, and heading west himself. He seems to be going faster than you. If only you had better walking shoes!

>wear shoes

Although it can hardly be said that they fit well, it gives you a remarkable sense of confidence to walk in your mother's shoes. You feel unaccountably stronger, faster, fleeter of foot.

>w

A street in Saint Pancras

The journey to Cratchit's is a Grand Tour of Railway Station architecture, and here we pass from Yorkshire Monolithic to the Classical. Euston Arch stands ahead, guarding the Euston Railway Terminus. Sooty, dirty, under this thin winter English sun it looks nothing at all like you imagine the Parthenon to be (when -- and it is rarely indeed -- you give any thought to such things); or rather it looks quite exactly and forlornly like some exotic Greek goddess transported in her indecent shift to spend the winter in the London sleet. Opposite it the goddess's older sister, St Pancras New Church, shivers just as uncomfortably. Your way lies north now, towards Camden and Bob Cratchit's house.

The suspicious man in the astrakhan coat is still in sight. He does not, as by now you half expected him to, head north, but disappears into an alley to the northeast.

J'ai lu le transcript du jeu par le club Floyd et apparemment il y a d'autres rooms à visiter si l'on décide de faire un détour, d'abandonner la poursuite du suspicious man pour faire un peu de tourisme. Je n'y ai même pas pensé, et à vrai dire, cette possibilité d'en quelque sorte mettre en pause la progression des événements pour visiter gratuitement quelques rooms est un tout petit peu dommage.

>ne

Alleyway, near St Pancras

Jerry-built tenements close in all sides of this blind alley. Here, there is no sign of Christmas cheer; just grimy windows, unwashed doorsteps, scraps and trash thrown anywhere in the street. You can see nobody at all; the place is quite deserted. It is just the sort of place where you might expect to find your brother: and indeed, he is here. Facing you. A mirror image, almost of yourself. Exactly like you in physical appearance, but in every other way different to the man you are now.

"So, dear brother Ebenezer," he says, "you have found me out! You have hobbled after me, no doubt to wish me a 'Merry Christmas' and a most prosperous New Year!"

>attack mordecai

You move to attack him. "You never could do it, Ben," he says, "and you never will be able to beat me. Time is precious, especially for you, since you have so little left; don't waste it."

>talk to mordecai

"Merry Christmas, Mordecai," you say through clenched lips. "I am glad that you are alive; less glad to find you unrepentant, unreformed."

"Humbug!" he cries. "There is nothing merry about this Christmas, or any Christmas, for me. And, if I have my way, nothing merry about it for you neither. And you are as glad to see me as you would be to see your winding-sheet and the sexton."

>g

"Not so, brother," you say, "for I will meet that good gentleman the sexton and his honest shroud with a light heart. And so I would greet you too, if I did not believe that you had a soul as black as these doors."

"And what of it?" he says. "What. Of. It. Are you become a prattling reverend in your dotage. I'm glad one of us has our wits about us still."

>g

"I mean to stop you," you say. "I could not stop you before, but I mean to do it now. By force if necessary. You will not dishonour the memory of our dear mother again."

"By force?" he sneers. "There's no fool like an old fool, they say, but surely no old fool can hold a candle up to you. You never could stop me, Ebenezer, and you are not going to stop me now. I would break you in a moment." He produces a swordstick.

>g

"Come now, Mordecai," you say. "There's no need for it to come to this, and on this day of all days."

"No!" he says. "For once I agree with you. Rest assured, old man, that I can and will break you like an insect under my heel at the time and place that suits me. But it is not this time, or place." He glances around. "These windows seem blind, but who knows what prying eyes and slippery tongues may lie behind them. But do not think to escape me, Ebenezer. I stand ready to strike; to strike once, and strike no more."

With that he pushes past you, roughly thrusting you aside, and runs out of the alley. You are alone.

>l

Alleyway, near St Pancras

Jerry-built tenements close in all sides of this blind alley. Here, there is no sign of Christmas cheer; just grimy windows, unwashed doorsteps, scraps and trash thrown anywhere in the street. You can see nobody at all; the place is quite deserted. The only way out is southwest.

>sw

A street in Saint Pancras

Euston Arch stands ahead, guarding the Euston Railway Terminus. Sooty, dirty, under this thin winter English sun it looks nothing at all like you imagine the Parthenon to be (when -- and it is rarely indeed -- you give any thought to such things); or rather it looks quite exactly and forlornly like some exotic Greek goddess transported in her indecent shift to spend the winter in the London sleet. Opposite it the goddess's older sister, St Pancras New Church, shivers just as uncomfortably. Your way lies north now, towards Camden and Bob Cratchit's house.

>n

A street in Camden

The flagstones are covered in frost, and on the identical doorsteps of the identical houses in this neatly nondescript street. You stand outside number 17. Cast iron railings surround a basement area, painted black like every other house; a neat front door and whitened step. It is the house where your clerk, Bob Cratchit, lives with his family. The great City lies to the south. The front door is east. Steps lead down to the basement area.

Someone has dropped a sixpenny piece on the ground.

>get piece

You take the sixpence.

>enter

More polite, perhaps, to knock on the door?

>knock on the door

The door opens, and Bob Cratchit opens it. "Merry Christmas, Mr Scrooge", he says. "You must be half frozen. Come in and warm by the fire downstairs." He leads you through a tidy hall, down some precipitous steps and into the back parlour. "Come and join me in a glass of punch, Sir," he says.

The Cratchits' back parlour

There is, of course, a front parlour; but it is more or less kept for weddings, christenings, funerals and the reception of grand, august, unfamiliar and official visitors. But you are an old friend, for whom the cosy back parlour will do much better.

A bright, clear fire burns in the grate. Mrs Cratchit has followed the latest fashion, and a fir tree decorated with ribbons, tinsel, sugared almonds and paper snowflakes stands in one corner of the room.

Mrs Cratchit's canary is in a cage in one corner of the room.

Bob stands before the hearth.

>talk to bob

"Bob," you say, "I had a most striking experience last night. I heard Tim talking to a man in my yard, and I believe he intends to put something in our punch: something that might harm us both."

"Oh, my dear Mr Scrooge," replies Bob, "I'm sure you must be mistaken, for my Tim wouldn't hurt a fly. You must have been dreaming."

>g

"I am really worried," you say. "I'm quite certain it was not merely a dream. It was all quite real. I know he means no harm, but he is being misled by others."

"Well," Bob says, "we can get to the bottom of this. Tim! Tim!" he shouts to the neigbouring room, "Has anyone given you anything to put in the punch?"

"Why, no father," the boy replies. "Nothing except sugar and spice and lemon which Ma Cratchit gave me this morning."

>g

You begin to broach your night's discoveries with Bob again, but but he looks at you as if you are mad, and you realise it is pointless.

"Well now," says Bob, "let us have some punch to warm us while we wait for the ladies to return with lunch. Tim! Tim! Will you fetch us two glasses of claret cup from the bowl in the kitchen? And one for yourself if you care to join us."

From the kitchen you hear Tim's reply, "Of course, father. I'll bring you some directly."

>g

You begin to broach your night's discoveries with Bob again, but but he looks at you as if you are mad, and you realise it is pointless.

"Mrs Cratchit and the girls (or at least such of them as are not already married and at home with their husbands) are across the road visiting a friend. I'm sure they will be back soon, and dinner won't be long in the making," Bob explains.

>g

You begin to broach your night's discoveries with Bob again, but but he looks at you as if you are mad, and you realise it is pointless.

Tim comes in, bearing two cups of claret cup in pewter tankards. He hands one to you, and one to his father.

>take all

"You would prefer mine? Well, I hope they are the same," says Bob. "But by all means, if you wish." He takes your punch, and gives you his. He looks at you as if you might be slightly mad!

>l

The Cratchits' back parlour

A bright, clear fire burns in the grate. Mrs Cratchit has followed the latest fashion, and a fir tree decorated with ribbons, tinsel, sugared almonds and paper snowflakes stands in one corner of the room.

Mrs Cratchit's canary is in a cage in one corner of the room.

Bob stands before the hearth.

You can also see Tiny Tim here.

Bob raises his mug. "A Merry Christmas, Mr Scrooge. And many more like them. Your very good health, Sir!"

>take bob's mug

"You would prefer mine? Well, I hope they are the same," says Bob. "But by all means, if you wish." He takes your punch, and gives you his. He looks at you as if you might be slightly mad!

Bob is standing with his mug poised, waiting for you to join him in his toast.

>talk to tim

You've done your best. It would be pointless to press him further.

You watch in consternation as Bob raises his mug to his lips and drinks.

The effect -- as you feared -- is almost instant. He holds his hands to his neck, as if it were being eaten from within. He collapse on the floor, writhes briefly in agony, and expires.

You see Tim's face whiten. He runs headlong past you, up the stairs, and towards a future that you have already glimpsed.

*** You failed to save Bob or Tiny Tim ***

Would you like to RESTART, RESTORE a saved game, UNDO your last move or QUIT?

> undo

The Cratchits' back parlour

[Previous turn undone.]

>slap mug

That's not a verb I recognise.

>pour mug

(your punch)

You drop the mug on the floor, spilling the punch.

Bob looks concerned. You can see he's going to have some explaining to do when Mrs Cratchit returns.

"Now, don't you worry about that Mr Scrooge," says Bob. "Tim can fetch you another one in a jiffy. Tim, my lad, be so good as to fetch Mr Scrooge a fresh mug of punch."

>talk to timù

You can't see any such thing.

>talk to tim

He's in the kitchen.

>w

You can't go that way.

Tim returns with a fresh mug of punch, and gives it to you.

>pour mug

(your punch)

The mug clatters to the ground, splashing punch everywhere.

"Oh my dear, Mr Scrooge, are you sure you are quite well? Tim, fetch another mug of punch for Mr Scrooge, please." Bob cannot hide his annoyance.

>n

You can't go that way.

Tim returns with yet another mug of punch.

"Third time's a charm, eh," says Bob.

>pour mug

(your punch)

You really cannot spill yet another mug of punch.

You watch in consternation as Bob raises his mug to his lips and drinks.

The effect -- as you feared -- is almost instant. He holds his hands to his neck, as if it were being eaten from within. He collapses on the floor, writhes briefly in agony, and expires.

You see Tim's face whiten. He runs headling past you, and towards a future that you have already glimpsed.

*** You failed to save Bob or Tiny Tim ***

Would you like to RESTART, RESTORE a saved game, UNDO your last move or QUIT?

> undo

The Cratchits' back parlour

[Previous turn undone.]

>give punch to canary

(your punch to the canary)

You put a drop of punch on you finger and hold it through the bars. The little bird flutters down, and takes a drop. The effect is almost instantaneous. The bird shrieks, and falls over, stone dead.

Bob looks concerned. "Oh my goodness me," he says, "what on earth is Mrs Cratchit going to say. I simply cannot understand it, the poor little thing is generally fond of a drop or two. What can have done it."

Tim is even more anxious. "Oh Sir!" he says. "Do not drink a drop of that punch. I did not mean any harm, I swear; I only did what I thought best. I meant to hurt nobody."

The whole story comes out then. How Tim met a stranger, who told him that by putting a drop of a strange, green liquid in the punch he would prevent disaster befalling his family; how he did as he was told, expecting nothing but good to come of it.

And so the story ends. Bob becomes a partner in the firm; Tim is saved from a life of addiction and misery. And Mordecai? Well, who knows. You like to think that he saw his plan fail. You would like to think that he repented and reformed; but whatever his fate, at least ...

Voilà le fameux second "puzzle", simplissime également, du jeu, et il m'a fallu chercher sur le net pour le trouver...

*** You saved yourself, Bob and Tiny Tim ***

*

Je reprends et développer ici ce que j'en ai pensé :

1) Le jeu a un excellent "flow" : on sait toujours quoi faire, au moins dans la première partie, qui est à mon sens presque une "fiction participative" ou de "lecture engageante" ; on sait quelles actions feront progresser l'histoire, elles sont limitées, simples, évidentes, permettant simplement au joueur de suivre l'histoire en ayant l'agréable impression de collaborer à son déroulement. C'est comme tourner des pages, mais en plus actif ; on agit de manière intra-diégétique au lieu de simplement agir sur l'objet même qui est le support de l’œuvre.

Les choses changent un peu, par la suite. Des puzzles apparaissent, étrangement simples, mais bel et bien là. Il y a une room où se trouve, au sol, une pièce de monnaie. Je l'ai ramassée, me doutant bien qu'elle aurait un rôle plus tard dans l'histoire, mais sans savoir réellement pourquoi – et effectivement il faudra la donner à un PNJ pour entrer quelque part. Dans la mesure où l'on ne peut pas revenir en arrière dans le jeu, je me demande ce qui serait arrivé si je ne l'avais pas pris ; est-ce que le jeu se serait arrêté, en m'affichant un message de défaite ? Je n'ai pas envie de vérifier. Quoi qu'il en soit, cette pièce est destinée à être donnée un PNJ, et cette action est suggérée par un autre PNJ (un fantôme, en l'occurrence). Très honnêtement je n'aurais jamais pensé à donner cette pièce au personnage si l'autre ne m'avait dit de le faire... C'est le premier "puzzle" du jeu, et bien que ce soit le plus simple jamais conçu (il n'y a aucune autre possibilité que de donner cette pièce à l'homme) il surprend relativement car jusque là l'histoire avançait à peu près sur des rails. Le fait que l'auteur ait senti la nécessité de suggérer quoi faire au joueur laisse penser qu'il avait conscience de créer une rupture, si petite soit-elle.

Il y a également une scène étrange, également, qui casse complètement ce "flow" (du moins, qui peut le casser) : on doit suivre un personnage, de rue en rue, sans le perdre de vue. J'ai lu le transcript du jeu par le Club Floyd et apparemment il y a d'autres rooms à visiter si l'on décide de faire un détour, d'abandonner la poursuite du suspicious man pour faire un peu de tourisme. Je n'y avais même pas pensé, et à vrai dire, cette possibilité d'en quelque sorte mettre en pause la progression des événements pour visiter gratuitement quelques rooms est un tout petit peu dommage. Pourquoi permettre au joueur de visiter des rooms alors qu'il est censé suivre un PNJ, et que le jeu l'a depuis son commencement encouragé à précisément jouer le jeu, à jouer son rôle, en suivant les événements tels qu'ils doivent se passer ?

2) En parlant des rooms : les descriptions (des rooms) sont dans l'ensemble peu "descriptives" justement, mais plutôt narratives, en fait (elles contiennent des considérations sur le caractère, la vie, l'histoire, les relations du personnage-joueur) . On est d'emblée dans une conception non-utilitaire de l'espace intradiégétique. Il n'y a aucun besoin de fouiller chaque meuble, de soulever des choses, d'exploiter l'espace et son contenu, pour avancer dans l'histoire. C'est l'histoire qui est au premier plan et non pas l'environnement ; le déroulé des événements, et non pas la proactivité du personnage-joueur.

Dans le même ordre d'idées, et à l'exception de la scène de course-poursuite évoquée plus haut, il n'y a aucune errance possible dans l'espace du jeu ; pas de rooms gratuites, qui sont là uniquement pour l'ambiance ou pour étoffer le contenu.

3) Je parlais plus haut des quelques puzzles. Concernant les objets, donc :  globalement les éléments de décor ne servent à rien, et je me suis surpris à essayer des actions parfaitement gratuites dessus ; il y a, dans une room, un tapis. J'ai essayé de le soulever, de regarder dessous. Sans résultat. Je me suis alors demandé pourquoi j'ai voulu le soulever ou le prendre, alors qu'il était clair qu'il n'y aurait rien dessous et qu'il ne servirait pas à grand-chose dans l'histoire. Réflexe idiot en réponse : oui, mais alors pourquoi le jeu le mentionne-t-il, ce satané tapis ? J'ai du être perverti par les I.F où le jeu attend que l'on passe son temps à essayer toutes les actions possibles sur tous les objets, sans aucune justification intradiégétique. Ici ce n'est pas le cas ; le jeu ne nous propose, encore une fois, que de vivre l'aventure du début à la fin, sans grand suspens sur ce qu'il faut faire pour avancer dans l'histoire – mais le simple fait de taper des commandes est satisfaisant.

Les objets sont donc relativement inutiles mais sont là quand même. Par exemple,  la clé de la maison : on l'a sur soi dès le début du jeu, et il n'y a aucune raison de la perdre ou de se la faire prendre ; aucune raison non plus de ne pas pouvoir ouvrir la porte (sauf si on lâche la clé avant d'essayer d'entrer ; mais pourquoi faire une telle chose ?). L'auteur aurait tout aussi bien pu relier la room "Courtyard" et l'intérieur de la maison, sans une porte entre les deux. J'interprète le fait qu'il ait choisi d'implémenter une porte et une clé comme la volonté de coller aux standards du genre avec des objets et une organisation de l'espace qui ne sont pas nécessaires, mais correspondent à une tradition.

C'est d'ailleurs le sentiment général qui se dégage du jeu : l'impression de joueur à une sorte d'hommage sans prétention à la bonne vieille fiction interactive, avec ses codes et ses pratiques, en même temps qu'à un classique de la littérature anglaise. Si Noël n'est pas propice à ce genre de choses familières et rassurantes, je ne sais pas ce qui l'est...