WILL the reader be kind enough to enter with us at once into the
subject of this story, as he does when, in the theatre, the curtain
rises upon a situation which the actors proceed to explain.
In the same way, we beg him to go with us straightway into the heart of
the locality which is the scene of this narrative;--yet there is this
difference, that in the theatre the curtain seldom rises upon an empty
stage; while in the present instance, the narrator and the reader are
to be for a few moments alone together.
The place into which we are thus conveyed, is sufficiently strange and
not particularly agreeable. It is a four-sided room, at first sight
apparently a regular square, but one of its angles is really more acute
than the others, as we observe the moment we notice the dark-colored
wooden ceiling whose projecting beams cross each other in a distinctly
irregular manner in the north-east corner.
This irregularity is made still more obvious by a wooden staircase
with a balustrade somewhat elaborately worked, and of a massive
character, seemingly of the end of the sixteenth century or the
beginning of the seventeenth. This staircase goes up six steps, pauses
at a small landing-place, turns a right angle, and after six steps
more ends abruptly in the wall. The arrangements of the building have
been changed; and it would have been natural to remove the staircase
at the same time, for it only encumbers the room. Why was this not
done? This, dear reader, is the question we put to each other. But,
notwithstanding this proof of respect or indifference, the apartment
which we are examining has retained all its ancient comforts. An
immense circular stove, in which no fire has been lighted for a long
time, serves as a pedestal for a very handsome clock of the style of
Boule, whose glasses, tarnished and almost iridescent with moisture,
throw out metallic reflections into the gloom. A handsome copper
chandelier of the Dutch fashion hangs from the ceiling, covered with
a coat of verdigris so thick, that it looks like a piece of malachite
work. Twelve wax candles, whole (with one exception), though yellow
with age, are still standing in the wide metallic sockets, whose size
has the advantage of not allowing a drop of wax to fall, and the
disadvantage of casting a deep shadow on the floor, while the light is
all reflected up to the ceiling.
The twelfth of the candles in this chandelier is three-fourths burnt
away. We happen to note this, friendly reader, because we are examining
everything with such minute attention. Otherwise we might very easily
have overlooked it, in consequence of the strange ornament which partly
covers the chandelier and its candles, and hangs along its branches in
opaque folds. Probably you take it to be a piece of gray cloth long ago
thrown over the fixture to protect the copper. Touch it, if you can
reach high enough. You see that it is an accumulation of spiders’ webs,
almost as compact as parchment, and loaded with dust.
These spiders’ webs are everywhere else too. They hang all over the
smoked frames of the large family portraits that fill three sides
of the room, and in the corners they are festooned with a sort of
regularity, as if some austere and industrious fate had assumed the
form of a spider, and undertaken to furnish hangings for these deserted
wainscots, complete enough to cover even the least crevice.
But of the spiders themselves you will not find one. The cold has made
them torpid, or killed them; and if you should be obliged--as I hope
you will not--to pass a night in this melancholy room, you would not
have even these industrious little creatures to keep you company.
The clock, whose tick-tack is not unlike the regular ticking of some
insects, is mute as they. Its hands have stood still upon the dial at
four o’clock in the morning, for God knows how many years.
I say four o’clock in the morning, for the reason that in the country
where we now are, the striking part of old timepieces indicates whether
the hours are those of the night or of the day--for there the days are
sometimes only five hours long, and the nights nineteen. If you were
fatigued with your journey and should sleep late, you might not know,
when you awoke, whether it was the next morning after your arrival, or
the next morning but one. If the clock were going it would tell you,
but it is not, and it is impossible to tell whether it could be made to
go.
Well; what country is it? We shall learn without having to go outside
the room. Along the whole length of the irregular wall, by which the
staircase is built, and which, like the three other sides, is more than
half covered with oaken wainscot, large maps are hung; very likely
because their shape rendered it a convenient place. They are longer
horizontally than their height, and accordingly just cover that part of
the wall above the wood-work. They seem to be banished here rather than
exhibited, and we shall have to go up the twelve steps of the staircase
ending in the wall, to convince ourselves that these long bands of
parchment, colored in the hardest tints, are maps, charts, and plans of
strong cities.
The staircase leads us precisely to the height of that one of these
maps representing the country, which was undoubtedly placed just there
for convenience of consultation; and also, perhaps, to hide the place
where a door has been built up.
This great green serpent in the middle of the picture is the Baltic
Sea. I presume that you recognize it from its resemblance to a dolphin
with a double tail, and from the innumerable indentations of its
_fiords_--narrow and winding gulfs that run far into the rocky
coast.
Don’t get lost on the side of Finland, which is there painted in
yellow ochre; look on the other shore for about the middle of Sweden
(painted red), and you will recognize, from its lakes, from its rivers
and mountains, the province of Dalecarlia, a region which was still
comparatively uncivilized at the time to which this story refers. It is
in the last century, towards the close of the kindly but troubled reign
of Adolphus-Frederick of Holstein-Gottorp, at one time the Protestant
Bishop of Lubeck, but who afterwards married Ulrica of Prussia, the
friend of Voltaire, the sister of Frederick the Great; in a word, as
far as we can judge, it is about the year 1770.
Rather later, we shall see the aspect of this country. You must be
satisfied at present, dear reader, to know that you are in a small, old
chateau, perched on a rock, in the very centre of a frozen lake, which
will naturally lead you to conclude that I have carried you there in
midwinter.
And now a last glance at this room while it is still ours; for, gloomy
and cold as it is, we shall soon have competitors for the use of it. It
is furnished with old chairs of wood, quite artistically carved, but
massive and inconvenient. One arm-chair, comparatively modern--that
is of the time of Louis XVI.--is covered with silk that has become
yellowed and stained, but it is still soft, and of a convenient shape
for sleeping; it looks out of place in the solemn company of the other
worm-eaten chairs, with their high backs, which, for more than twenty
years, have not been moved from the wall. To conclude, an old bed,
with four twisted columns and curtains of tattered silk, stands in the
corner opposite the staircase, and adds, by its dilapidated appearance,
to the gloomy and sinister aspect of the place.
But we must retire, reader. The door opens, and you must depend upon me
hereafter if you wish to know about the past and future events whose
theatre I have thus shown you.