Chapter X: Front Matter (10)

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 of the 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 the _gaard_, 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 the _gaard_, 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 some clouds, 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 drifts or 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 the _Voluspa_. 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 behind the 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 extending almost 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 imprudent young 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, who are 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 the _hagring_, an extraordinary phenomenon which you must have heard of, and which you may see at any moment. Possibly something of it may result from 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 servant whom 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 the _Gray 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 door suddenly 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 of my 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 them there. 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 to remove 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.”

“How is that, M. Goefle?”

“Good heavens! it happened to my own father, who, like myself, was an advocate and professor of law, to see the ghost of a man who had been unjustly condemned to death more than ten years before, and who called upon him for justice to his despoiled children, and for the rehabilitation of his own memory. He saw this spectre at the foot of a gibbet which he was passing. He looked into the affair, found that the phantom had told the truth, instituted proceedings, and gained his cause. Doubtless the ghost was an illusion, but it was an appeal to my father’s conscience. Now, whence came that appeal? From the grave? Certainly not. From heaven? Who knows?”

“Well, M. Goefle, what do you conclude as to the apparition of last night?”

“Nothing at all, my dear friend, but I am none the less troubled, every little while, with the idea that the Baroness Hilda may perhaps have been the victim of a calumny, and that God has given permission, not that her soul should visit me, but that my own mind should be so strongly impressed with the recollection of her, as to bring her image before my eyes, and thus influence me to make researches into the truth of the matter.”

“But what was the charge brought against this famous baroness, then?”

“That she fabricated an audacious falsehood, with the design of depriving Baron Olaus of his rightful inheritance.”

“Will you please tell me that story, too, M. Goefle? I feel extremely curious about it, since you have seen this spectre.”

“Certainly, I intended to do so; and, fortunately, it is not long.

“Baron Magnus de Waldemora, who was commonly called ‘the great iarl’ (though ‘iarl’ means properly ‘count,’ the term is very commonly applied to all nobles of a certain rank and importance), had two sons. The elder, Adelstan, was quick, impetuous, and ardent in disposition, while the younger, Olaus, at present surnamed the Snow Man, was mild, affectionate, and studious. They were both tall, handsome, and strong, and together were their father’s pride. His fortune was considerable--an unusual advantage in our country, where the wealth of the nobility was immensely diminished by the reduction of 1680. The right of primogeniture does not prevail with us, but all the sons inherit equally. Still, even half of this inheritance was, it might seem, enough to satisfy either of the brothers, and if there was ever a young man who appeared incapable of jealousy it was Olaus--a youth of calm exterior, inclined to quiet raillery, for whom the father seemed to feel a sort of preference, and who was generally more liked than his elder brother.

“The latter was of a noble character, but his frankness was so great as sometimes to verge upon rudeness. He had early shown an active disposition, and had a passion for travelling and novelty. At thirty he had already been all over Europe, and, during his stay in France, had acquired certain philosophical views, which caused great apprehensions to the elder members of his family, and even to his father. His friends wished him to marry, and he agreed to do so, requiring only that his bride should be the choice of his heart. Accordingly he married a beautiful young lady whom he had known in France, the Countess Hilda de Blixen, an orphan of a noble Danish family, who had no other dowry than her mental attractions, her beauty, and her virtue. This was a great deal, you would say, and I am entirely of your opinion. It was also that of the old Baron Magnus, who, although at first disposed to disapprove of the connection as a mere love-match, soon learned to love and cherish his daughter-in-law.

“Some assert that Olaus was disappointed at this reconciliation, and that he had tried to make a quarrel between his father and Adelstan. It has been hinted, moreover, that Baron Magnus, who was a strong and healthy man, died in a very sudden manner. Both these charges are of old date, and absolutely without any proof.

“What is certain, however, is, that from the time of sharing the inheritance there existed a serious misunderstanding between the two brothers. My father himself was present during a certain discussion about the property, when Baron Adelstan spoke in the bitterest manner to Olaus, who had reproached him mildly for having lived so much at a distance from his family, neglecting his home duties and responsibilities, in order to gratify his taste for travelling.

“‘My father,’ he said, ‘never knew the value of your hypocritical affection. Perhaps he understands it only too well, now that he is in his grave!’

“The bitterness of this sarcasm, and the moderation with which Olaus received it, caused my father to express great disapproval of the frightful suspicion which the elder brother hinted. Adelstan said no more, but he never intimated that he had changed his opinion. Many utterances of his to the same effect are remembered, whose implications have remained without proof, but--at least as far as some persons about him are concerned--not without weight.

“Baron Magnus had not laid aside any such sums of money as would admit of the purchase by one brother from the other of either portion of the real estate, and the question of selling the lands and the chateau therefore came up. Olaus refused the income which his brother offered to settle upon him, notwithstanding that the amount was larger than he himself offered to Adelstan in case the lands should be adjudged to him. The plan of selling had, however, to be given up, for no purchasers came forward. This immense chateau, situated in a remote region on the confines of a wilderness, was no longer adapted to the requirements of modern society, whose tendency is to draw people to the capital, or southern provinces. My father, however, succeeded in making a clear statement of the whole revenues and expenses of the estate, and on this basis he fixed upon a proper figure for the annuity to be paid to the one brother, by whichever should continue in possession of the domain, and it was agreed to cast lots for the choice. The result was in favor of the elder brother.

“Olaus showed no vexation, but it is asserted that he was, in fact, extremely chagrined, and that he lamented to those in his confidence the unjust fate which drove away from the heritage of his fathers a person like himself, accustomed to a country life, and fond of quiet, in order to bestow this beautiful residence upon an inconstant and restless being like Adelstan. By such complaints, by the friendly familiarity of his manners, and by liberal gifts bestowed upon the numerous retainers of the house, he formed for himself a party of adherents who soon threatened to impede the elder brother in managing his affairs, and even in maintaining his domestic authority.

“My father, who was obliged to remain here some weeks, while concluding the settlement of the estate, perceived all this, but he had grown weary of these constant family dissensions, and probably he did less than justice to the frank and loyal character of the elder brother. He seems to have been very much influenced by the plausible manners and apparent goodness of heart of Olaus, and, except where questions of equity were concerned, in which case my father was rigorously impartial, the younger brother was his favorite. My father went away after having endeavored to arrange for the residence of both brothers at the chateau. Olaus was anxious to retain at least a foothold at Stollborg, but Adelstan refused to allow him this privilege, with a firmness that seemed somewhat harsh.

“As soon as Olaus left for Stockholm, where he proposed to establish himself, Adelstan sent for his wife, who, during these discussions about the property, had been residing with a friend at Falun, together with her young son, then only a few months old, and the young couple went to housekeeping at Waldemora. And now it was, after many suspicions and much gossiping talk, that a secret was discovered--or so it was stated--which the young people had hitherto concealed from the public. Baroness Hilda was said to be a Catholic. She had been brought up in France, and there--according to the stories in circulation--in compliance with the wishes of an aunt and the circle of her friends, had imprudently devoted herself to theological studies, and had been led away by the pride of knowledge to abjure the religion of her fathers, which she was taught to believe was of too recent date. It was even said that false miracles had been employed, so as to extort from her imprudent vows. On these points I can give you no information of any kind. I might have been acquainted with the baroness, but no opportunity occurred of bringing us together, and we never met. She is said to have been very intelligent, and thoroughly educated. It is quite possible that she may have changed her religion from conscientious motives and intellectual conviction; and, for my part, I acquit her on this charge with a great deal of philosophy. Unfortunately, the public could not be brought to do this. In Sweden, there is a very strong attachment to the established religion, and the dissenters are so few that they are at once marked out from the rest of the community. They are frequently rebuked, and even persecuted; not so cruelly as in less enlightened times, but with sufficient harshness to render their lives painful and miserable. The law even admits of their being exiled.

“A terrific scandal therefore arose, when it was discovered, or was supposed to be so, that the baroness, who had always been rather lax in her attendance at the parish church, had secretly erected a chapel to the Virgin Mary in this very old donjon; where, unable to command the services of a priest of her religion, she was in the habit of offering up special and private prayers of her own. This secret worship the peasants regarded as little better than sorcery. However, as the baroness did not attempt to make proselytes, and never spoke of her religion, the matter was gradually hushed up. She did a great deal of good, and her lovely character overcame many prejudices.

“The young couple had now been established at Waldemora for about three years, with their one son, whom they idolized. The sweet temper of the baroness had modified the slight harshness of her husband’s disposition, which arose from his uncompromising independence and integrity of character. They were beloved and appreciated; and both the retainers of the family and the neighbors were beginning to forget all about Olaus, notwithstanding the letters that he frequently wrote, so as to have the pleasure of signing himself ‘The poor exile!’ Pastor Mickelson, the minister of the parish, whose church you probably saw about half a league from here, was Olaus’s most faithful adherent. Olaus had always made a great display of piety; while Adelstan’s toleration was excessively vexatious to the pastor, who was somewhat fanatical in his Lutheranism. The baron, moreover, had exerted his influence to have a certain ceremony of the divine service discontinued: namely, the employment of a certain staff which the beadle used in his official duty of awakening those who fell asleep during the sermon. The question was brought before the bishop, who decided upon a compromise; the beadle was to be allowed to tickle the noses of the sleepers with a switch, but not to rap them over the head with the stick. The pastor never forgave Baron Adelstan for this assault upon his authority, and still less the young baroness, who was said to have laughed at this Dalecarlian method of enforcing devotion by blows with a staff. He never ceased annoying the young iarl and his wife, and was always stirring up against them the country people; themselves very prone to religious intolerance.

“In the meanwhile, the young couple persevered in trying to promote improvements on their estate. The baron was severe in dealing with abuses, and drove off without pity all persons of disreputable character; he also put an end to the shameful practice of inflicting stripes on servants, and to the humiliating relics of the past serfage of the country people. The Dalecarlian peasant is usually well disposed, but he is as far as possible from being a friend of progress. Many of them were loath to part with the old abuses, and found it difficult to reconcile themselves to asserting their personal dignity.

“One day--truly a most unhappy day--the baron was obliged to go to Stockholm on business; and as it was the time of the autumn rains, which made travelling difficult, and often impracticable, he was obliged to leave his wife behind at the chateau. As he was returning to his home in about a fortnight from this time, Baron Adelstan was assassinated in the gorges of Falun. He had travelled on horseback; and, in his impatience to see his beloved Hilda, had ridden on in advance, leaving his people to finish a meal which seemed to him rather too protracted. He was then thirty-three years old, and his widow twenty-four.