“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.