VII.
THE reader has perhaps not forgotten that old Stenson lived in a pavilion at the end of the small second court, which, together with the outer enclosure, which was somewhat larger, and the buildings adjoining, composed the dilapidated manor of Stollborg. There was a legend connected with the original erection of this ancient castle. At the time of the first introduction of Christianity into Sweden, it was said to have grown out of the rock in one night, in consequenceof a vow of the pagan castellan, whose house (then built of wood) had nearly been blown off into the lake by an autumnal gale, and who had thereupon promised to embrace the new religion, if heaven would protect him securely from the wind. The roof of the house had already been carried away, but scarcely had he pronounced his vow, when a granite tower arose, as if by enchantment, from the rock. The castellan was forthwith baptized, and no hurricane could ever again harm his strongly and solidly-built habitation.
Notwithstanding this veracious history, the antiquaries of the country have the hardihood to assert that the square tower of Stollborg dates no further back than to the reign of King Birger, that is to the fourteenth century. However that may be, the chateau and its small domain, in the fifteenth century, became the property of a brave gentleman of the name of Waldemora. In the seventeenth century, Olaf de Waldemora became a favorite of Queen Christina, who, by arbitrarily alienating portions of the crown domains, conferred upon him considerable landed estates in this part of Dalecarlia. History does not name this Waldemora as a lover of the fantastic inheritrix of Gustavus Adolphus. Possibly, in some strait for money, the queen may have sold him these valuable estates at a low price. It is certain that at the reduction of 1680, when the energetic Charles XI. revised the titles of all grants of land, and reunited to the crown domain all that had been unlawfully alienated by his predecessors—a terrible but salutary measure, to which Sweden owes the endowment of her universities, schools, and magistracy, the creation of the post-office, the armyindelta, and other benefactions, for which the “old caps” had hardly forgiven the crown at the time of our story—at this time the titles of the Baron de Waldemora were found valid; he retained the great estates which he had inherited from his grandfather, and completed the embellishments of the new chateau, built by the latter upon the shore of the lake, and called by his name.
One tower was all that remained standing of the old family chateau. This tower appeared to be extremely lofty, in consequence of thegreat substructure of masonry built up to its base from the very edge of the water, but it was in fact but two stories high, and contained only the bear-room and the guard-room, which were on the ground-floor, almost on a level with the court, and two or three chambers above, where for twenty years, that is, ever since the door on the staircase had been built up, no person had entered. The rest of the manor had been rebuilt several times, and formed, what is called in Norway, agaard; or, in other words, an assembly of several families living in a community. Dwelling-rooms, kitchens, dining-rooms, stables, and store-rooms, in such communities, instead of being brought together as much as possible under one roof, as is the common practice, form separate buildings, each with a roof of its own; so that altogether they present the aspect of a numerous group of small houses entirely distinct from each other. Many customs prevail equally in Sweden and Norway, especially along the mountainous frontier of Dalecarlia. At the period when Stollborg, deserted for the new chateau, became a mere farmstead, there were severalgaards, similar to the one we have described, scattered through the country. As is commonly the case all over Sweden, and in all countries where they build in wood, these premises had often caught fire, and the more ancient of the little edifices still showed traces of it. Their charred ridge-poles and warped roofs were sharply defined, like black spectres, upon the white background of the mountain.
The court, surrounded by its mossy shed, which gave a unity—such as it was—to all these different buildings, and from whose eaves hung a glittering fringe of icy stalactites, thus presented the appearance of a group of abandoned Swiss chalets. The farm establishment had long ago been transferred elsewhere, and the whole manor had been left under the charge of Stenson, who no longer had any repairs made upon the worthless houses, which were now only used to store fodder and dry vegetables. The rough flags of the court were furrowed in all directions by a thousand irregular little hollows, ploughed by the violence of currents in thaws; not one of the doors was on its hinges,and it seemed as if, unless prevented by some vow as efficacious as that of the first castellan, the least gust of the winds of spring or fall would sweep the ruinous structures off into the lake.
The second court, which was in the rear of this one, was a modern addition, much less picturesque, but infinitely more comfortable. It had been built by the Baron Olaus de Waldemora at the time when he inherited the property of his brother Adelstan. He caused this second smallgaardto be erected for his faithful Stenson, so as to prevent the latter, who had a horror of the place, from going to live elsewhere. This addition consisted of another group of buildings, lower than the first, and upon the opposite slope of the rock. Their steep roofs rested at the back against the solid rock itself, and were constructed in the singular manner usual in that country, with a layer of pine logs well caulked with moss, covered with strips of birch-bark, over which is laid finally a bed of earth turfed on the top. This turf, on the roofs of rustic cottages in Sweden, is very carefully tended, as is well known, and is sometimes laid out like a garden with flowers and shrubs. The grass upon them is very thick and rich, and the cattle find it their choicest pasturage.
It was in this portion of the old manor, called especially thegaard, while the other was called the court, that Stenson had lived for twenty years. Of late, he had become so old and feeble that he hardly ever left his own house, which was well warmed, very neatly furnished, and painted on the outside of an iron-rust red. Here he was certainly very conveniently situated. His dwelling-rooms were separate from his nephew’s lodging, and he had a kitchen in one small edifice, and a dairy in another. This only served, however, to render the existence of the mysterious old man more monotonous and melancholy. It was observed, or at least it had been observed when the house was built, how careful he had been to have all the doors and windows looking away from the tower. The only communication between the two buildings was a small side-door, and to reach Stenson’s pavilion it was necessary to go through a narrow zigzag passage. It looked as ifhe had been afraid to have a door opening directly towards the tower, lest he should see it. But he may have barricaded himself in this way merely as a precaution against the west wind, which blew from that direction.
As if in confirmation of the reports current about him, it was extremely rare for Stenson to quit his house, unless to enjoy a little sunshine in the small orchard at the water’s edge. Even here he always turned his back to the tower as he walked, and when the declining sun threw the slender shadow of the weathercock upon his alleys, it was said that he would leave them and flee precipitately into his house, as if he were filled with horror and pain by this ill-omened shade. The free-thinkers of the new chateau—a major-domo and footmen of the modern sort—attributed his peculiarities to the excessive caution and timidity, carried almost to monomania, of a frail and sickly old man; but Ulphilas and his companions regarded them as the irrefragable proof that the gloomy old castle was haunted by evil spirits and frightful spectres. Never, for twenty years, they said, had Stenson crossed the court and entered the western gate. Whenever business called him to the new chateau, he went by way of the little orchard, at whose base his own boat used to lie in the summer.
The presence of the baron at the new chateau—his usual residence when he was not attending to his duties as a member of the Stendœrne, or Diet—made no changes in Stenson’s daily life; but still Ulphilas had for some days observed that his uncle was singularly agitated. He asked questions concerning the donjon, as if he was solicitous about the preservation of this accursed old giant. He inquired of Ulph whether he went there from time to time to ventilate the bear-room, at what hours his visits were made, and whether he had seen anything remarkable there. To-day, Ulph, not without remorse, but without hesitation, told him a lie; he shook his head and shrugged his shoulders as a sign that he had seen nothing new. In fact, Ulph had strong reasons for hopingthat Stenson, who was confined to his room by the cold, would not learn anything about what had happened; and he had heard the rattling of certain crowns intended for him, in the pocket of M. Goefle, without seeing any signs that the old vaults of Stollborg proposed to crumble with indignation for so small a matter. Without being greedy, Ulph did not dislike making a little money, and perhaps he was beginning to feel somewhat reconciled to the donjon.
After telling this direct falsehood, and serving his uncle’s second meal, he was going away, when the old man asked for a certain Bible which he seldom used, and which stood on a particular shelf of his library. Stenson directed him to place it before him on the table, and then motioned him to retire. Ulph, however, was curious to see what his uncle was about, and as he was very certain that he would not be heard, he came in again in a moment, and standing behind the old man’s chair, peeped over and saw him pass the knife at random between the leaves of the large book, and then open it, and look attentively at the verse where the point of the knife had stopped. Three times he tried this experiment; a practice half devout and half cabalistic, that prevails even among the Catholics of the north, for inquiring of the Almighty the secrets of the future, according to the interpretation of the words supposed to be indicated by destiny. When he had performed this ceremony, Stenson buried his face in his hands upon the closed book, as if to consult it with his brain, after having questioned it with his eyes; and Ulph went away, a good deal disquieted with the result of the experiment. He had read the three verses over his uncle’s head. They were these, in the order in which they had chanced to occur:
“Destruction and death say, We have heard the fame thereof with our ears.”
“Did I not weep for him that was in trouble? Was not my soul grieved for the poor?”
“A good man leaveth an inheritance to his children’s children; and the wealth of the sinner is laid up for the just.”
Detached verses from this mysterious and sublime book will generally adapt themselves to almost any meaning which the imagination is desirous of obtaining. Accordingly, old Sten, who had trembled at the first verse, and clasped his hands over the second, drew a long breath at the third, as if his oppressed soul was relieved. But Ulphilas, who had drank too much the night before to be a competent interpreter of the utterances of the sacred volume, asked himself with anguish whether the old Bible had not, under the form of some allegory too deep for his intelligence, disclosed to his uncle the secret of his falsehood.
He was aroused from his revery by the appearance of a new visitor in the court. This was Puffo, who had come to arrange for the evening’s performance with Christian. Puffo was not a demonstrative person; he did not like the country in winter, and he did not speak a word of Dalecarlian. But still he was in a very good humor just at the present moment, and for sufficient reasons. He bade Ulph good-day, in quite a friendly manner, while the latter was greatly surprised to see him enter the bear-room unceremoniously, as if he was quite at home there.
Puffo found Christian occupied in classifying the mineralogical specimens in his box.
“Well, master, what are you thinking of?” said he. “It’s no time now to be playing with those little pebbles; we must get ready for the piece this evening.”
“Parbleu!I know that very well,” replied Christian; “but what could I do without you? It is high time for you to show yourself. Where the devil have you been since yesterday?”
Puffo informed him—but without making any excuses for his absence—that he had finally found a good supper and good bed at the farm, that he had slept late, and having made acquaintance with a servant from the chateau, who was there, had told whom it might concern of the arrival of Christian Waldo at Stollborg. After breakfast the major-domo of the new chateau had sent for him, had talked to him very pleasantly, and informed him that the exhibition of marionettes wouldbe expected at eight precisely that evening. The major-domo had added:
“You will mention to your employer Christian, that his lordship wishes a very brilliant entertainment, and he begs him to be infinitely witty.”
“Excellent!” said Christian. “Plenty of wit, by order of his lordship the baron. Let him take care, lest I prove altogether too witty for him! But, Puffo, did you hear nothing about the baron’s illness?”
“Yes, he was ill last night, it appears,” replied the stroller, “but he has recovered. Perhaps he was only drunk, though the servants say he does not drink at all. But who’s going to believe that a man as rich as he is would cheat his stomach out of good liquor when he has it in his cellar?”
“I wager that you did not cheat yourself, Puffo, out of whatever came under your hand.”
“Faith,” said Puffo, “thanks to a servant who is in love with a little girl at the farm, and who invited me to eat at his table, I had some very decent brandy. It was corn brandy, rather rough, but it’s warming, and I slept capitally after it.”
“I am delighted at your windfall, Master Puffo; but we must go to work. Come, go at once and see that Jean has plenty to eat and drink, and then come back and receive your instructions. Hurry!”
Puffo went out, and Christian, not without a sigh, closed his box of minerals, and was opening that which contained theburattini, when the noise of sleigh-bells drew him to the window. It was not the doctor of laws returning so soon; it was the pretty blue and silver sleigh which had brought Margaret to Stollborg the evening before.
Must we confess it? Christian had forgotten the promise which that agreeable young lady had made to the apocryphal M. Goefle of repeating her visit next day. The truth is, that he had no longer considered this visit possible, on account of what had happened at the ball, and had consequently said nothing about it to M. Goefle. Perhaps he regardedthe whole adventure as inevitably ended, and perhaps he even wished to have it so; for to what could it lead, unless he should attempt to abuse the inexperience of a child, and so secure her contempt and her curse?
In the meanwhile, the sleigh was approaching; it was now ascending the hill of Stollborg, and Christian could see the pretty head of the young countess, half hidden in her ermine hood. What was to be done? Would he be courageous enough to shut the door in her face, or to send her word by Puffo that the doctor was absent? Pshaw! Ulph would tell her so of his own accord! He had only to keep quiet, and the sleigh would return as it had come. Christian remained at the window, so as to watch it descend the hill, but it did not descend. The door opened, Margaret entered, and the young man had barely time to close hastily the open box where the marionettes were indiscreetly exhibiting their great noses and smiling mouths.
“What, monsieur!” cried the young girl, with an exclamation of surprise, “are you still here? I did not expect that. I hoped that you would be gone.”
“Did you meet no one in the court?” said Christian, who was, perhaps, not sorry to throw the blame of this circumstance upon destiny.
“I saw no one,” said Margaret; “and, as my visit is secret, I came in very quickly, so that no one should see me. But, once more, Monsieur Goefle, you ought not to be here. The baron must know, by this time, who it was who ventured to defy him. I give you my word that you ought to go away.”
“Go away! You say that very cruelly. But you remind me that I really have gone away already. Yes, yes, be satisfied; I have gone never to return. M. Goefle has intimated to me that he might be involved in my difficulties, and I have promised him to disappear. You find me in the very act of packing up.”
“Oh! Go on, then; do not let me detain you.”
“Are you in such great haste never to hear me spoken of again? Very well, imagine that your wish is accomplished; that I have alreadyembarked for America at least, and am fleeing under full sail from my terrible enemy, while shedding a few tears at the memory of that first quadrille—the last, too, that I shall ever dance—”
“With me, not with others?”
“Who knows? The I who is speaking to you is a shade, a phantom, a mere reminiscence of what happened yesterday. The other I, about taking his departure, is the sport of the waves and of destiny. I care about him as much as I do for an inhabitant of the moon.”
“Good heavens! how gay you are, Monsieur Goefle! Do you know I am not so at all?”
“True,” said Christian, struck with Margaret’s sad expression; “I am ashamed to have spoken of myself, when I ought to have been expressing my anxiety about the consequences of the events of last evening. Will you be good enough to answer me, if I venture even now to make inquiries of you?”
“Oh, you are well entitled to do so, since chance has so fully informed you about my affairs already. My aunt reproved me severely last evening, and Mademoiselle Potin had orders to pack my trunks and take me back to Dalby to-day; but this morning everything is changed, and, after a private interview with the baron, who, she says, has quite recovered his health and good spirits, it was decided that I should remain, and should have nothing to do to-day, but to think about my toilet for this evening. By the way, have you heard that Christian Waldo is actually here? They say, indeed, that he is stopping at Stollborg. You must have met him, in that case. How is it—have you seen him?”
“Certainly.”
“Without his mask? Oh, how does he look? Has he really a death’s head?”
“Worse than that. He has a wooden head!”
“Oh no! You are joking.”
“Not in the least! To see him you would swear that his face had been whittled out of a block, with a dull knife. He looks like the ugliest of all his marionettes. Like this one, for instance!”
And Christian pointed to the grotesque physiognomy of a police officer that stuck out of the box, and which Margaret would probably have seen herself if she had not been so preoccupied.
“What, really!” said she, a little apprehensively. “And is that his conjuring-box? Does he occupy this room with you?”
“No; don’t be afraid, you will not see him. He has gone out, and he asked as a favor, of M. Goefle, to be allowed to leave his baggage here.”
“Poor fellow!” said Margaret, pensively; “and so he is as ugly as that! What stories people tell! Some persons who have seen him insist that he is handsome. And is he old?”
“Somewhere about forty-five. But what are you thinking about, and why are you so sad?”
“I don’t know—only I feel sad.”
“What—although you are to remain at the chateau, and see the marionettes this evening?”
“Ah! please, Monsieur Goefle, do not treat me quite so much like a child. Last night, at the ball, it is true that I was gay; I enjoyed myself and felt happy, because I thought I had once for all escaped from the baron. But to-day I see very well that my aunt has renewed her hopes, and I must meet again a man whom I shall always sincerely hate from this time forward. Did he not insult me in a cowardly manner yesterday? It is useless for my aunt to say that he was joking. One does not joke with a girl of my age as with a child. I have been trying to cure my wounded pride by persuading myself that he was delirious—that his nervous attack had already begun when he spoke so coarsely to me, and that is what my friends think also. But how do I know what will happen to-day, when I meet him? Whether he is ill-tempered or crazy, who will defend me if he insults me again? You will not be there, and nobody else will dare—”
“What! Nobody dare? But what sort of men have you around you then? And all those brave young fellows whom I saw last evening—”
“Yes, I believe they are brave. But they know nothing of me, and they may imagine I deserve such outrageous treatment from the baron. It is a poor recommendation for me to have been introduced into society by my aunt, since she has the reputation—although most surely it is undeserved—of sacrificing everything to political interests.”
“Poor Margaret!” exclaimed Christian, struck by the painful position of this lovely girl.
He was so evidently sincere, and without the least thought of offensive familiarity, that Margaret did not resent his taking her hand; and besides, he dropped it again immediately, as he thought of their relative positions.
“Well,” he said, “you must take some resolution or other, at any rate.”
“It is taken already. It is only the first step that costs. From this time I will affront the terrible Olaus whenever we meet; I will tell him what I think of him before all the world; I prefer to pass for a perfect demon of malice, rather than for the favorite of this Dalecarlian pasha. And, after all, I shall defend myself better alone; for, if you were present, I should be afraid of having you take my part at your own peril, and that would make me more acquiescent. But I will not forget any more for that, the good counsel you gave me, and the chivalrous way in which you repulsed that frightful baron. I do not know whether we shall ever see each other again, but wherever you are, you will always have my good wishes, and I will pray to God to make you happier than I am.”
Christian was extremely touched by the sincere and affectionate manner of this charming girl. He made no display of affected gallantry, but his expressions, and the very sound of his voice, revealed the deepest emotion.
“Kind Margaret!” he said, lifting her pretty hand to his lips. “I swear to you truly that I also will remember you. Ah! why am I not rich and noble? Perhaps then I should have power to help you, and most certainly I would do everything in the world to obtain the happiness of being able to do so. But I am nothing, so I can do nothing.”
“But I thank you just as much,” replied Margaret. “You seem to me like a brother that I have never known, whom God has sent to me for a moment in the hour of my distress. Let this short meeting be so considered, and we will say good-by, without despairing of the future.”
Margaret’s candor caused Christian to feel a sense of remorse. M. Goefle might return at any moment, and it would be impossible for the young countess, after having been so much struck with the similarity between the voices of the false uncle and false nephew, not to detect the entire absence of any such resemblance when she should see them together. Besides, it was certain that M. Goefle would not lend himself to any such deceit; and it pained Christian to think that Margaret would retain an unfavorable recollection of him. So he confessed the truth of his own accord, acknowledging that he had allowed himself, as he did not know her, to play a joke at her expense, by disguising himself in the doctor’s pelisse and cap, and pretending to be he. He added that he had deeply repented, upon discovering how angelic a nature it was that he had thus been trifling with. Margaret was a little displeased. She had had an instant’s revelation of the truth, when Christian’s voice first fell upon her ear at the ball; but his manner was so perfectly natural when he told her that he had heard everything from the next room, that she had dismissed all doubts from her mind.
“Ah!” she said, “how skilful you are in deceiving, and how easy it is to be duped by your explanations! I cannot be offended at your joke in itself, for I was guilty of an imprudence in coming here, and I was properly punished by a mystification. But what I am sorry for is that you should have carried on the deceit for so long, with so much assurance and such an appearance of candor.”
“Say with remorse, and a consciousness of guilt. One fault always occasions others, and—”
“And what? What more have you to confess?”
Christian had been on the very point of telling the whole truth. But he paused; for he remembered at that instant that at the name of Christian Waldo Margaret would fly, annoyed and indignant. He therefore resignedhimself to a half sincerity: to the young countess he continued to be Christian Goefle. But this dissimulation, which would have merely amused him with any one else, became extremely irksome when he saw her limpid eyes fixed on him with an expression of fear and reproach.
“I only meant to play with her,” he said to himself, “as one child might with another; but now, in spite of all we could do, sentiment has intervened, and the more honorable and delicate it is, the more guilty I feel—”
He became sad in his turn, and Margaret perceived it.
“Come,” she said, with a smile all radiant with goodness, “let us not allow any regrets to spoil our romantic meeting. We are about to part, but we do so with our kind feelings towards each other unchanged. You have not abused my confidence by turning me into ridicule; on the contrary, you have helped me to rely upon myself, and to struggle against an unfortunate destiny. Instead of feeling hurt and ridiculous, I feel that I am standing more firmly on my poor feet than I was yesterday at this hour.”
“That is true, is it not?” said Christian, warmly; “and I call heaven to witness—”
“Go on,” said Margaret.
“I call heaven to witness,” he repeated, with enthusiasm, “that I have been influenced by no selfish motive in anything I have done; that my only thought has been to promote your happiness.”
“I know it is so, Christian,” exclaimed Margaret, rising, and holding out her hand to him; “I know well that in me you have only beheld your poor sister in the sight of God. I thank you for it; and now I must say farewell, for your uncle will be coming back. He does not know me, and it will be quite useless to tell him that I have been here. But you may tell him whatever else you think proper. I am very sure that he will not work against me, and that he is as honorable and generous as yourself.”
“But still,” said Christian, who saw with regret the end of his romantic adventure rapidly approaching, “you came to say something tohim. Perhaps he ought to know it.”
“I came to ask him,” said Margaret, with a little hesitation, “to tell me plainly what my aunt’s intentions were in case of an open revolt upon my part. But that again was an act of cowardice, I do not require to know. Let her banish me, isolate me, imprison me, strike me—what does it matter? I will not yield, I promise you. I swear to you, I will never marry any man whom I cannot—esteem.”
Margaret dared not say love, and Christian was just as powerless to utter that word, but their eyes said it, and their cheeks glowed with a sympathetic blush. After conversing confidentially for an hour, their souls, in that brief glance, spoke to each other, and acknowledged their inward emotion, and yet neither of them was conscious of the fact; Margaret, because she did not know that she loved, and Christian, because he felt certain that he did not. And yet, when Margaret had stepped into her sleigh again, and when Christian could see her no longer, they were both conscious of a sudden pain, as if their hearts had been rent asunder. Tears, that she did not feel, coursed slowly down the young girl’s cheeks; while Christian, buried in confused reveries, sighed as deeply as if he had awakened from a dream of sunshine to find himself once more in the frigid winter. In order to watch the sleigh the longer, he went back to the bear-room, and stepped between the two sashes of the window, when a rustling behind him made him turn round, and he beheld a sight that filled him with amazement.
An old man, thin and pale, but with noble features, and carefully dressed in a gray suit of ancient fashion, was standing erect in the midst of the chamber, with a green branch in his hand. Christian had not heard him enter, and the figure, illumined by the declining sun, which, as it neared the west, was sending a red and dusty beam of light through the one long window of the sombre room, seemed a fantastic vision. His expression, moreover, was as singular as his unexpected presence. He seemed undecided; astonished, as it were, to find himselfin that place; and his small, glassy eyes inspected with amazement the changes which the new guests had made in the previous melancholy arrangements of the room. A moment’s reflection satisfied Christian that this strange apparition, instead of being a spectre, was probably old Stenson, come to wait upon M. Goefle and surprised at not finding him. But what was the meaning of that green branch, and why that timid and disappointed look?
It was, in fact, old Stenson; and his sight being as good as his hearing was poor, he had quickly noticed that the fire was burning, the table set, and the clock going. He did not move quickly, however, and Christian had time to draw back behind the folds of an old curtain, nibbled almost to a fringe by the mice, before the old man’s eye had reached the open window. From this hiding-place he could watch him without being seen. Stenson’s idea was that his nephew, of whose drunken habits he was aware, had, without notifying him, invited some of his boon companions to a Christmas revel in the bear-room. The height of his indignation no one but himself could have expressed. His first care was to put out of sight the traces of such scandalous disorder. He began by scattering all the live coals in the stove, so that the fire should go out of itself; and then, before either clearing off the table, or going to send the delinquent to do it, he stopped the pendulum of the clock, and put the hands back to four o’clock, where it had stood before the profane hand of Christian had set it going. Next, he turned and looked up, as if to count the candles in the chandelier, but the sun shone in his eyes, and he stepped forward to the window, probably to shut it.
At this moment, Christian, seeing that he was about to be discovered, came forward. But at this apparition, standing in a nimbus of the rays of the setting sun, Stenson, who was probably not the least superstitious member of his family, recoiled to the middle of the floor under the chandelier, with a countenance of such anguish, that Christian, forgetting the old man’s deafness, spoke to him kindly and respectfully, with the intention of reassuring him. But his voice waslost without awakening an echo, in the large and fast chilling room. Stenson fell on his knees before him, stretching out his arms as if to implore his protection or to bless him, and holding out, with a tremulousness that was almost convulsive, the cypress-bough, as one offers a votive palm-bough to some divinity.
“Why, my good man,” said Christian, raising his voice, and coming nearer, “I am not God, nor even the Christmas angel that comes in at the window or down the chimney. Get up! I am—”
But he stopped short, for a livid pallor overspread the old man’s face, which was already so wan. He perceived that his appearance had thrown Stenson into mortal terror, and drew back to allow him to recover himself. This the old man did in a measure, but only sufficiently to think of escaping. He dragged himself along for a few instants, and then rising up with difficulty, fled through the sleeping chamber, murmuring, as he went, disconnected words, without any distinguishable meaning. Christian, who supposed that he was suffering from some attack of mental disorder, brought on by old age or excessive religious devotion, refrained from following him, for fear of making him worse. There was a small slip of parchment fastened to the branch which the old man had let fall at his feet, and picking it up, he read the following three verses of the Bible, written upon it in a reasonably firm hand:
“Destruction and death say, We have heard the fame thereof with our ears.”
“Did I not weep for him who was in trouble? Was not my soul grieved for the poor?”
“A good man leaveth an inheritance to his children’s children, and the wealth of the sinner is laid up for the just.”
Christian had no time to employ his imagination in hunting for answers to this riddle. The day was rapidly drawing to a close. It was only half-past one in the afternoon, and already the transparent shadows of the snowy peaks around were lengthening upon the blue surface ofthe lake. It was a beautiful sight, and, had his affairs permitted, Christian would have loved to gaze upon it. These short northern days have aspects infinitely picturesque; and even at noon they are full of striking effects, as painters say, resulting from the obliquity of the sun’s rays, which cover the landscape with strong lights and shades, such as in other countries are only visible at morning and evening. This is probably the reason of the beautiful sunlight which northern travellers are so enthusiastic about. It is not alone the extraordinary landscapes, impetuous waterfalls, immense lakes and splendid auroras of Sweden and Norway, of which they retain such intoxicating recollections; quite as remarkable, they affirm, is the delicious purity of the atmosphere, in which even the most trifling objects assume a brightness and a charm of which nothing anywhere else can give an idea.
But our hero, while he observed the beauty of the heavens, observed also the swift decline of the day, and discerned, afar off, the actual preparations for the very entertainment for which, in fulfilment of his engagement, he was to be in part responsible. The chimneys of the new chateau were sending out thick columns of black smoke, that showed strongly against the evening sky, flecked with rosy and pearl-hued clouds. Gun-shots, repeated by the muffled echoes of the snowy hills, announced that the huntsmen were at work to supply the spits of those Pantagruelian fireplaces. Busy messengers on skates were speeding in all directions, crossing each other’s tracks, and occasionally falling headlong upon the ice of the lake. All the country round was being ransacked for everything it could furnish, from the monstrous back-logs that were to adorn the fires in every room of the house, down to the poor little white partridge, which had trusted to his winter’s garb to protect it from the sagacious eye of man, and the pitiless scent of the hunting-dog.
The fifth night of the Christmas festivities—for this was December 28th—promised to be a splendid one. Christian alone was not enjoying the prospect; he was becoming impatient for the return of Puffo.Having resumed his poor devil’s suit, pulled his abundant hair over his handsome forehead, and his steeple-crowned hat down over his eyes, he went to hunt up his subordinate in the court, in thegaard, and even in the kitchen, where he had so frightened Ulphilas the evening before. It never occurred to him to go down into the cellar. If he had, he would have discovered Puffo, established in the very paradise of his dreams.
He was about returning, when it occurred to him to explore Stenson’s little fruit-garden. With a preliminary glance, to be sure that the old overseer whom he had alarmed so much was not there, he descended the steep walk that led down to the edge of the lake. From this point he could see the whole length of thegaard, built along the slope that plunged down to the little bay. The old masonry was so well united to the rock, that one could hardly distinguish the natural from the artificial fortification, especially under their clothing of long wall-plants, crystallized by the frost, and hanging down below into the lake, where they were deeply imbedded in the ice. As he stood there, he tried to trace the route he had followed the day before, on his expedition into the secret passage of the bear-room. We promised the reader an account of this expedition, and this is the proper time for it.
It will be remembered that in setting out to hunt up something for supper, he had ventured into a passage hidden by a door very neatly fitted into the wood-work, and leading from under the stairs, which he supposed might conduct to the lodging of M. Stenson. Such was, however, by no means the case. After a few steps along a confined passage, Christian had come to a narrow staircase, steep, and obstructed with rubbish, as if no human foot had ascended it for a long time. At the foot of the staircase, which was very long, he had found an open door. Surprised at this free entrance to a passage apparently itself so mysterious, he was stepping through it, when a gust of wind extinguished his candle, and he was left in darkness. He still advanced cautiously a few steps, when the moon appeared from behind someclouds, and he saw that he was in a sort of cavern, or gallery, opening at intervals upon the lake. The water of the lake penetrated into this gallery, which seemed to be a natural excavation. He followed it for some distance, walking upon the ice the latter part of the way, until he reached, at last, a small wicket, over which he climbed without difficulty, and thus gained admittance first to the fruit-garden, and thence to M. Stenson’s gaard.
Christian at once recognized this little gate, flanked on either side by two young yew-trees, cut into a sugar-loaf shape; and, with this for a guide, he was able to recognize the principal points of his nocturnal expedition. Although he had no particular expectation of finding Puffo in that quarter, he passed through the fruit-garden, and walked along the lake around the outer cliffs, in the direction of the donjon. He was curious to see by daylight the path along which he had made his way the night before, partly by feeling, and partly by the light of the moon.
He soon came to the entrance of what he had taken for a grotto. It was, in fact, only a deposit of enormous blocks of granite, of that sort termed erratic boulders—that is, blocks isolated from their primitive location, and now lodged where they could not have been originally formed. The position of such boulders is due, it is supposed, to some primeval or modern cataclysm—a vast rush of waters, or the slow transportation of glaciers or icebergs—which has brought them from distant regions to their final resting-place. Those now in question were rounded, like so many enormous pebbles, and their capricious superposition, one above another, seemed to indicate that while whirled along by a tremendous force, they had been suddenly arrested and piled against the mica-schist mass of Stollborg, of which they thus became, as it were, buttresses or outworks. It was difficult to walk among them, on account of the snow, which, during the storm of the night before, had been swept, or rather rolled by the wind into great driftsor ridges, stretching, like a vast winding-sheet, along the range of boulders.
Christian found his progress so impeded, that he was about to retrace his steps, when he was struck by the picturesque aspect of the donjon towering above him, and withdrew a little to see it to better advantage. He tried, mechanically, to make out the position of the bear-room, and easily recognized it by its one window, about a hundred feet above the level of the lake, and fifty above the summits of the boulders. The cold was not very extreme, and Christian, who always carried a little drawing-book in his pocket, began an outline sketch of the tower, with its lofty escarpment in the rock below, and its chaos of gigantic boulders, which were flung together in such a way as to form—like the sandstone rocks at Fontainebleau—covered passages and galleries, whose effect was extremely fantastic.
While studying this characteristic scene, Christian heard some one singing, at first without paying much attention to the fact. It was a woman’s voice, and that of a rustic, true enough in intonation, but veiled, and sometimes tremulous, as of an infirm or aged person. She seemed to be chanting a kind of psalm, and, although monotonous, there was something agreeable in the melancholy air. This sad and quavering melody soothed the mind of the artist as it continued, and brought him into the very mood for understanding and representing the features of a locality with which the voice seemed to be in perfect harmony. The words of the chant were at first indistinct: but as Christian listened mechanically, he gradually recognized them as Swedish, pronounced with the Dalecarlian accent. Their meaning now seemed so strange, that he began to listen more attentively:
“I saw a tower, a square tower by the setting sun. Its gates look to the north. Drops of poison sweat from its openings. It is paved with serpents.
“The tree of the world embraces it; the strong ash-tree shakes. The great serpent bites the waves. The eagle screams; with its pale beak it tears the corpses; the ship of the dead is launched.
“Where are the Ases and the Alfes? They sigh by the entrance of the caves. The sun begins to be darkened; all things perish.
“But earth, green and beautiful, begins to brighten again from the east; the waters awake, the cascades flow.
“I saw a palace fairer than the sun upon the top of Gimli—I see it no more. The Vala falls again into the night.”
In these sombre poetical fragments Christian gradually recognized verses, arranged or repeated at random, from the antique poem called theVoluspa. This, considering the rustic pronunciation of the singer, he thought very extraordinary. Could it be that the peasants in that country had preserved a tradition of the sacred chants of the Scandinavian mythology? This seemed hardly probable, and yet who could have taught them to this woman? Christian, who, as a traveller, was curious on all subjects, resolved to find and cross-examine the singer, as soon as he had finished his sketch; but when he returned his album to his pocket a few moments afterwards, the voice had ceased. He looked all about, but could see no one. Supposing that she must be concealed behind the boulders, he proceeded to explore them, and found this not much easier than walking in the deep margin of the snow-drift outside. Within the expanse of the principal cavern, which followed the turns of the rock for some fifty steps, there was no footing except on a floor of ice, very slippery and wavy on the surface, as if the rippling water had been instantaneously frozen on some cold autumn night.
However, our adventurer succeeded in discovering the traces of his own steps, made the night before, when he imagined he was walking over fragments of bricks and tiles; and soon he found, also, the mysterious door, by which he had issued from the donjon. It was now fastened with two strong iron staples and a padlock, the key of which had been carried off. This must have been just done; the singer was undoubtedly some dependent, like Stenson and Ulphilas, who was employed about the old manor. She could not be far off, for he had heard her singing scarcely five minutes before, and she must have been behindthe boulders, for Christian could see over the lake in all directions, and from top to bottom of the cliffs at the base of the tower, and no one was visible. He now retraced his steps to leave the grotto, which, as it was only lighted by a natural opening in about the middle of its whole extent, was rather dark. Pausing for a moment under this natural opening, to look at the sky, he saw, between himself and the heavens, an object projecting over the rock from the smooth and naked flank of the donjon. This he quickly recognized as the under-side of the stone balcony that supported the double window of the bear-room, and which was so situated that any one, with a cord or ladder, might easily descend through the space between the rocks below, when he would at once find himself under cover in the vault which they formed just at this place.
Christian, always inclined to be romantic, immediately thought out a plan of escape to be adopted in case of siege or captivity in Stollborg. He scaled the irregular rocks that formed the sides of the grotto, and, with a good deal of exertion, climbed out through the opening which, he was satisfied, had not been made by the hand of man. This examination led him to reflect, as we have all had occasion to do at least once in our lives, that even in the most desperate situations chances occasionally occur so improbable that they seem to belong, not to real life, but to the world of the imagination. However, still bent upon pursuing the singer, he continued his examination amongst the boulders, between almost any two of which there was room for penetrating. Finding no one, he was just giving up the chase, when he heard the voice again, coming this time from much lower down than he had supposed it to be when he heard it in the first place. He went towards it, but as he approached the spot where he thought the mysterious rhapsodist must be stationed, the chant, which had suddenly ceased, like that of the cicada on the approach of man, was heard once more in another direction, and from much higher up, as if floating in the air above him. Raising his head, Christian now perceived, in the side of the donjon, a long fissure, half hidden by ivy, and extendingalmost vertically, from a window in the upper story, a good deal to the right of the window in the bear-room, down to a ruinous part of the wall, below which were some other masses of rock.
He even thought that he could see pieces of stone falling along this fissure, as if some person had just made their way into it; but, on approaching as near as he could, it seemed to him quite inaccessible, and he went further on.
And now the voice once more began its plaintive chant, and Christian—amused at first, but finally with a feeling of irritation—followed the singer from one place to another in the little chaos of granite rocks. He was constantly disappointed, until he really began to be somewhat startled. These savage verses, fragments of a gloomy apocalypse, disconnected and wild, as if inspired by delirium, had something frightful in them, when heard in that gloomy place, at that melancholy evening hour. Christian thought involuntarily of the water-witches who are the centre of all the legends of Sweden, and indeed of all popular beliefs throughout the north of Europe.
At last he persuaded himself that the voice must come from the tower itself. Perhaps some captive was hidden there in a secret dungeon. He called aloud three times, using at a venture the mythological name of Vala, that is Sibyl, which the singer, in her chant, had seemed to wish to appropriate. At this the voice became silent again, as if in confirmation of the superstitious belief of the country, that whenever you succeed in calling one of the malevolent or melancholy spirits who dwell among the mountains by its name, it is either frightened or consoled, and in either case is reduced to silence.
But still another thought haunted Christian, as he finally turned to go back to the tower by an outside path. He could not help asking himself whether one of the victims of the mysterious Baron Olaus, crazed with suffering, was not lamenting in a dungeon under his feet. However, he forgot all about this fantastic idea, when he found M. Goefle seated at table in the bear-room.
“Well,” said the lawyer, without troubling himself to rise, “you came near bringing me into a pretty scrape with your prank last evening. The baron, strange to say, did not mention a word about it; but the Countess Elveda absolutely would not believe me when I protested and swore that I had neither a nephew nor a natural child.”
“What, M. Goefle! did you disown a son who has done you so much honor?”
“I did indeed; it would have been quite impracticable for me to keep up the joke, or to assume the responsibility of such a mystification! Do you know that you did not escape observation by any means? Quite independently of the scene with your host, everybody seems to have been struck by your style and graces, the ladies especially. In the countess’s room I met five or six of the more fashionable ladies of the province, who were quite infatuated about you; and when I swore upon my honor that I had nothing whatever to do with this unknown, you should have heard their suppositions and commentaries! Some of them were inclined to suggest that it might have been Christian Waldo, of whom so many adventurous stories are told; but the prevailing opinion was that you were the prince royal, travelling incognito about his future kingdom.”
“Prince Henry, who is now at Paris?”
“Yes; and this served capitally to account for the baron’s nervous attack, for he detests the prince, and would naturally have been agitated on meeting him, by the conflict between his hate and resentment on the one hand, and the respect due to the future heir of the throne on the other.”
“But the Countess Elveda cannot have been deceived by such a silly idea as that?”
“Oh no, certainly not, she knows the prince too well; but she is extremely fond of quizzing, and she amused herself by pretending to these ladies that you were so much like our future monarch, that she did not know what to think. Only, as I was going out, she took me aside and said: ‘You are severe, my friend, in disowning this imprudentyoung man. For my own part, I thought him very agreeable, and if he does not resemble you in features, he takes after you at least in his wit and distinguished manners.’”
“Why, Monsieur Goefle, that is very flattering to me. But then she persists in believing me your son?”
“Without doubt; and the more I protested to the contrary, the more she laughed, and insisted that it was impossible for me to disown you, since you had so publicly presented yourself in society under my name. ‘The wine is drawn,’ she said, ‘and you must drink it.’ He is a roguish fellow, and is trying to plague you. It is a just punishment of the follies of our youth, to become the parents of ‘such terrible children!’ Please to observe the stain which you have brought upon my reputation! At last, to rid myself of you, I said that whether son or nephew, you had gone away; that I had packed you off in disgrace for having been disrespectful to his lordship the baron.”
“Very right, Monsieur Goefle: you did quite right; for, as to the baron, I don’t know whether I am dreaming, but I am really beginning to consider him almost as much of a Blue-Beard as the reports about him represent. I should have found out all about it, if I had had more time.”
“Ah! ah! really? Well, you must tell me all about it; but, in the meanwhile, have something to eat. It is after two o’clock, and you must be almost dead with hunger.”
“I? No, not at all. It seems to me as if I had just got up from table. Were we not eating until almost noon?”
“Well, but don’t you know that in such a cold climate as this you need to eat every two hours? I have just had coffee at the new chateau; this is dinner, now; at four, we will have coffee together; at six we will have the aftonward; that is, we will take some bread and butter and cheese, while waiting for supper.”
“Good heavens! how you keep at it! I knew perfectly well that that was the regimen of the fat burghers at Stockholm; but you, M. Goefle, whoare so slender still!”
“Well, do you want me to become a skeleton? I should very quickly, if I should vary from our customs. Believe me, you had better conform to them, or you will very soon be ill.”
“To enable me to obey you, M. Goefle, I need two things: time, and my assistant Puffo. Now, time is flying; and Puffo only appeared to me a moment, and then disappeared, perhaps not to return until to-morrow morning.”
“But could I not help you myself? What is to be done?”
“A good many things; but most of all, to decide upon our piece and run it over together, so that that animal, Puffo, may be ready to represent with me. He has a sufficiently good memory, if he can have one rehearsal before the performance; but now, as we have been travelling some days without doing anything, and as he is probably drunk to-night already—”
“Come, come! You have five hours before you—an immense quantity of time! More than I have needed, sometimes, to prepare a cause a great deal more complicated than your comedies of marionettes! I promise to help you, I tell you, but on condition that you will sit down and eat with me, for I don’t know anything more uncomfortable than to eat alone.”
“You will permit me to be pretty quick, then, won’t you?” said Christian, taking a seat opposite the lawyer, “and not to talk too much, for I shall need all my lungs this evening.”
“Very well, very well,” replied M. Goefle, cutting off for Christian an enormous piece of cold veal—a dish greatly esteemed by the middle classes in Sweden, when properly cooked; “but what were you saying to me just after you came in? What was it you would have discovered, if you had had a little more time?”
Christian related his adventure, and at the close of his story asked M. Goefle if he supposed the lower part of Stollborg contained any old prison.
“Upon my word I don’t know anything about it,” replied the advocate. “It is very possible that there may be some kind of cell in the great mass of masonry here under our feet, and if so, I have no doubt that it has been used as a prison. Our ancestors were not persons of very refined manners, and even yet our nobility have justiciary rights on their own domains.”
“And do you think it equally probable that this sub structure of the donjon may be serving as a prison now?”
“Who knows? What are you thinking of?”
“That possibly some person may be wickedly buried there, a still living victim of one of the thousand dark and secret crimes attributed to the vengeful baron.”
“Really, it would be strange enough to discover that!” said the lawyer, who had suddenly become thoughtful. “Are you sure you were not dreaming when you thought you heard the voice and strange songs?”
“Sure! how can you ask?”
“There is no knowing; you said yourself a little while ago that people are sometimes subject to hallucinations. Now the ear, as well as the eye, may become the medium of the illusion; and you ought to be aware—to be properly on your guard—to what an extent hallucinations prevail in Sweden, especially towards the north, where really, with two-thirds of the population, they are a sort of chronic condition.”
“Yes, I know that such visions become contagious when reinforced by superstition; but I beg you to believe that I have no faith in the witches or evil spirits of either lakes, torrents, or old castles, and that I could not be influenced, therefore, in any such way.”
“Nor I, assuredly. And yet—Well, Christian, there must be, independently of superstition, something inexplicable in the effects produced by the natural scenery and conditions of the north upon vivid imaginations. It is in the air; in the singular sounds that go ringing along the ice; in the mists, full of mysterious forms; in the marvellous mirage of our lakes, called thehagring, an extraordinary phenomenon which you must have heard of, and which you may see at any moment. Possibly something of it may resultfrom physical disorders in the circulation of the blood, induced by constantly passing out of the icy atmosphere into the over-heated air of our rooms, and the contrary. Anyhow, it is a fact that we find the most reasonable people, those in the most perfect health, the least credulous, even such as have passed the greater portion of their lives free from illusions, all at once becoming subject to them. Even I myself——”
“Go on, I beg you, M. Goefle—at least unless the subject is too painful; you are as white as your napkin.”
“I do really feel quite unwell. I have felt so two or three times to-day. What a poor machine is man! Anything that his reason cannot explain either frightens him or annoys him. Pour me out a good glass of port, Christian. Your health! I am glad, on the whole, that I declined the invitation to dine over yonder; I like better to be here with you in this gloomy room, that I can laugh at, after all—Well, as you are eating without being hungry to please me, and are listening to me in spite of your own business matters, I will tell you about my hallucination; it is at least as singular as yours:
“It was no longer ago than last evening, and in this very place where we now are. I was in the other room, quite absorbed in investigating a very interesting legal matter, while my little valet, after making me a good deal of trouble, at last condescended to go to sleep. I had intended to stay with him, by a great effort of patience, for a quarter of an hour or so; not more, for I was hungry, though I did not know that food had been brought. However, the demon of study, who has the art of making every pursuit interesting, even that of the law, took possession of me so completely, that I forgot everything, until my poor stomach was obliged fairly to shout into my ears that it was eleven o’clock at night.
“Well, I looked at my watch, and sure enough it was eleven o’clock. The truth is, that my housekeeper is in the habit of looking after me, and calling me to my meals, and I had quite forgotten that in this den of a place, left to the care of that lunatic of an Ulphilas, I should not be notified of anything whatever. Nils, as I told you, is a servantwhom Gertrude selected for me, so as to teach me the duties of the valet-de-chambre. Well, as I had fasted for full seven long hours, I got up at once, took the light and came into this room, where I found the dishes that you had brought on the table; I gave Ulphilas the credit of this rather late hospitality, and set about satisfying my appetite probably rather voraciously.
“You know already, my dear Christian, that this old ruin has the reputation of being haunted by the devil. At least, this is the opinion of the orthodox portion of the community, who account for the circumstance by affirming that it was used, not long ago, as a chapel by a Catholic lady, the Baroness Hilda, widow of Adelstan, the elder brother—”
“Of Baron Olaus de Waldemora,” said Christian, “but have the Dalecarlians such a horror of Catholicism as that?”
“They abominate it,” said M. Goefle, “as much as they did the reformed religion before the time of Gustavus Vasa. They are a race who neither love nor hate by halves. As to this demon who haunts Stollborg, old Stenson does not believe in it, but he does thoroughly believe in theGray Lady; who, he says, is nothing else than the spirit of the late baroness, who died in this room more than twenty years ago.
“An hour before, I had been laughing at apparitions, to reassure my little serving-lad; but you know how it is with dreams. Very often some careless word heard or spoken in the course of the day, and forgotten the next moment, proves to be the seed from which they blossom mysteriously, and without our own consciousness; and so we bear them in our minds until night, when, as soon as our eyes are shut and our reason is asleep, they rise up before our deluded vision in fantastic forms, endowed now with tenfold their real significance, and, perhaps, horror.
“It must be, it seems to me, that hallucinations—that is, waking dreams—obey exactly the same law. I had ended my supper, and was about lighting my pipe, when suddenly there swept through the room a shrill, melancholy sound, like that of the wind when it rushes through a doorsuddenly opened; the air was at the same time stirred and chilled, and the flames of the candles that stood upon the table flickered. At the moment, I happened to be looking towards the door of the vestibule, and seeing that this was firmly fastened and motionless, I supposed that Nils had awaked, and had opened the opposite door, that of the guard-room.
“‘Ah!’ I cried, as I got up, ‘there you are again! Do go to sleep, will you, you cursed little coward!’
“I stepped to the door, thinking that the little rascal had not ventured to open it wide, but had only set it ajar, to be sure I had not gone away. But this door was shut as tight as the other.
“Had the child closed it again when he saw that I was there, and had the slight sound he must have made escaped me, while I was looking for my pipe and refilling the stove? It was possible. I went into the guard-room, but Nils was fast asleep, with his little fists clenched. Evidently he had not stirred. I covered up the fire in the chimney, for fear of some accident, and came back into this room, where everything was still. The melancholy whistling was not repeated. I concluded that a gust of wind had come in through some open joint somewhere in the wood-work, and resumed my pipe, and the papers which I was examining for the baron.
“This business was a rather intricate and subtle law question, and was quite interesting to me, but I need not trouble you with it. All I need say is, that it involved a certain contract for the sale of property executed some time ago by Baron Adelstan; and that his name, as well as that of his wife Hilda de Blixen, were repeated in almost every sentence of the instrument. The names of this married couple, both of whom died in the flower of their age, one in a tragical and mysterious manner, and the other in this very room, and probably in that same unfurnished and dilapidated old bed in the opposite corner, may have made some impression upon my mind, of which I was not conscious. I was quite absorbed in my examination, and the fire in the stove was roaring well, when I thought I heard a creaking on the staircase, several times repeated. I was quite startled, and at the same time was so ashamed ofmy own emotion, that I would not even turn my head round to see what it was. It was not surprising that the damp old wood-work was beginning to feel the effects of the hot fire in the stove, and that it should occasionally emit these unaccustomed sounds.
“I went on with my reading again; but now, the creaking of the steps and the balustrade was followed by a different sound, not unlike the rasping of an iron tool on the wall, guided by a hand so feeble and uncertain, that it might easily have been mistaken, at moments, for the scratching of a rat among those old maps. I looked up, but seeing nothing, kept on with my work, for I would not permit myself to be disturbed by these unaccountable noises, peculiar to all such old rooms, and which are always occasioned in the simplest manner. It is silly to be searching for the causes of such things, when one has more important business to attend to.
“However, a third and still a different sound compelled me to turn round again, and look once more at the staircase. I could hear the large parchment map, that covers the built-up door, shaking and crackling in a singular manner. I saw it rise up repeatedly; it shook upon the rings by which it hangs, and stood out, as if some body, not unlike a human form, was moving behind it. For the moment, I was startled in good earnest. It was possible that some thief had managed to secrete himself there, and was waiting for an opportunity to spring out upon me. I jumped up hastily to take my sword from the chair, where I had laid it when I came in, but it was not there.”
“For a sufficient reason, I regret to say,” observed Christian. “It was at my side.”
“I do not know,” resumed M. Goefle, “whether I concluded that Ulphilas, with unusual neatness and solicitude, had put away the weapon. The truth is that I had not looked in my portmanteau, and had not been at all uneasy at not finding my clothes, which I had hung upon the back of the arm-chair. I am not in the habit of attending to such matters myself, and most probably had entirely forgotten having placed themthere. Not seeing the sword, I had time to collect myself a little, and to make up my mind that I was unnecessarily alarmed. Nobody could want to kill me, and if a robber had taken a fancy to my purse, the wisest course would be to let him have the small amount it contained without resistance.
“So I returned, and advanced towards the stairs, quite coolly and resolutely, I give you my word. And exactly at this moment it was that the hallucination took place. There, stay a moment, Christian! Look at that portrait; to the right of the window.”
“I have already tried to see it,” said Christian, “but the light is so bad where it hangs, and the flies or the damp have defaced it so much, that I could hardly make it out at all.”
“Well, then, take a light and look at it. It is getting dark, at any rate, and will soon be time to light up.”
Christian lit the three-branched candlestick that had been left on the table, stood up on a chair, and with the help of his album, which he held between his eyes and the flickering lights, proceeded to examine the picture carefully.
“I see it very indistinctly still,” he said. “It is a portrait of a rather tall woman, elegantly formed; she is seated, and wears a black veil, as is the custom with Swedish ladies in winter, to protect their eyes from the glare of the snow. I can see her hands, which are very well painted, and very beautiful. Ah! ah! the dress is pearl-gray satin, with bows of black velvet. Is it the portrait of the Gray Lady?”
“Exactly. It is the Baroness Hilda.”
“Let me see the face, then. There, I catch it now; it is handsome—an agreeable and sweet countenance. Stay, wait a moment, M. Goefle! That face inspires me with a feeling of sympathy; it moves me.”
“So you don’t care to listen to my story any longer?”
“That’s all;—yes, indeed I do. I am pressed for time, and yet your adventure interests me so much that I must hear the end of it. I’m ready.”
“Well, then,” continued the lawyer, “as my eyes again fell upon that great map of Sweden which is now so still, a human figure came out from under it, lifting it aside as one does a tapestry curtain. It was the figure of a tall and thin woman, not slender and beautiful, as the original of the portrait must have been, but livid and wasted, as if she had just risen from the tomb; and the gray dress, too, soiled, worn, and with the black ribbons unfastened and hanging loose, seemed to be trailing with it the very earth of the grave. My dear friend, so horrible, so frightful was this painful vision, that I closed my eyes to avoid seeing it. When I opened them again—but whether in a moment or in a second, I cannot say, for I took no account of time—the figure was standing upon the floor directly before me. She had descended the stairs—I had heard them creaking again—and was staring at me with haggard eyes, and with a fixity that I can only call cadaverous; so totally was it devoid of thought, interest, or even life. It was really a corpse standing upright there within two steps of me! As for me, I remained motionless, like one fascinated—a very ugly-looking object myself, probably—and with my hair standing up on my head, for what I know—”
“Upon my word,” said Christian, “a disagreeable apparition enough! I believe if I had been in your place, I should certainly have sworn, or broken something! Did this last long?”
“I don’t know; it seemed to me that it would never end. I shut my eyes again to lose sight of it; and when I reopened them, the spectre was moving towards the side of the bed. I can scarcely describe its further movements. It seemed as if it were opening the curtains, and bending down to speak to some being whom it saw there—invisible save to those ghastly eyes. Then it turned as if to open the window; though it did not really open it. And finally, it returned towards me. By this time I had somewhat recovered myself, and tried to make a deliberate examination of the face; but this was more than I could do. I could see nothing but those great dead eyes—it seemed as if I were powerless toremove my own from them. Besides, the phantom now passed me quickly. If it noticed me at all, it did not seem irritated or disturbed by my presence. It flitted uncertainly along the room; tried to return to the stairs, and appeared unable to find them. Then the fleshless hands began to feel along the walls, and suddenly it disappeared. Again a rush of wind ran whistling through the room, and rang in my ears; it ceased, and as, during the whole of this experience, I had been perfectly conscious of being in my right mind, I perceived at once the cessation of the unaccustomed sounds, together with the disappearance of the fantastic image.
“I felt of myself—there was no doubt as to my identity. I pinched my hand, and felt it perfectly. I looked at the bottle of rum, but I had hardly made a beginning upon it. Evidently I was neither in a trance nor intoxicated. Indeed, I no longer felt even an emotion of terror, and very coolly said to myself that I must have been asleep standing. I finished my pipe while reflecting upon the affair, and even indulged my imagination so far as to half wish to undergo another such hallucination, so that I might try to overcome it; but the phenomenon was not repeated, and I went very quietly to bed. It was some time before I fell asleep, but I experienced no other inconvenience.”
“But then,” said Christian, “what should have made you so uncomfortable just now, when you were only thinking the matter over?”
“Why, because the mind is so constituted, I suppose. There are emotional reactions. By hearing of delusions, you may become a little deluded yourself. Twice already, to-day, I have recalled stories of this kind, that are certainly either fables or dreams, and yet which embody great and mysterious moral truths.”