For certain subjects one of the most valuable works of reference in all
Berlin was Miss Olivia Valentine's "Adress-buch," the contents of which
were self-collected, self-tested, and abounded in extensive information
concerning hotels and pensions, apartments and restaurants, families
offering German home life with the language, instructors, and courses of
lectures, doctors, dentists, dressmakers, milliners, the most direct way
to Mendelssohn's grave in the Alte Dreifaltigkeits-Kirchhof, how to find
lodgings in Baireuth during the Wagner festival, where to stay in
Oberammergau, if it happened to be the year of the Passion Play, and so
on, indefinitely.
Miss Valentine herself was a kind-hearted, middle-aged woman, who, as
the result of much sojourning in foreign lands, possessed an intelligent
knowledge of subjects likely to be of use to other sojourners, and who
was cordially ready to share the same, according to the needs of the
season. If it were November, people came asking in what manner they
could take most profitable advantage of a Berlin winter; if it were
approaching spring, they wanted addresses for Paris or Switzerland or
Italy. It was March now and Sunday afternoon. Mr. Morris Davidson sat by
Miss Valentine's table, the famous "Adress-buch" in his hand. "I suppose
you don't undertake starting parties for heaven?" he said, opening the
book. "Ah! here it is--'Himmel und Hölle.' I might have known it, you
are so thorough."
"If you read a little further," remarked Miss Valentine, "you will see
that 'Himmel und Hölle' is a German game."
"Oh yes, I remember now; we play it at our pension. It's that game where
you say 'thou' to the you-people, and 'you' to the thou-people, and are
expected to address strange ladies whom you are meeting for the first
time as Klara and Charlotte and Wilhelmine, with most embarrassing
familiarity, and it is very stupid if the game happens to send you to
heaven. I wonder if there really is such a locality? I've been thinking
lately I should like to go there; things don't seem to agree with me
very well here. I've closed my books, walked the Thiergarten threadbare,
sleep twelve hours out of twenty-four, do everything I've been told to
do, with no result whatever except to grow duller." The young man yawned
as he spoke. "Do excuse me; I've come to such a pass that I'm not able
to look any one in the face without yawning. All things considered, I am
afraid I shouldn't be any better off in heaven. I'm afraid I couldn't
stand the people, there must be so many of them. I want to get away from
people."
"I know exactly where to send you," said Miss Valentine. "I was thinking
about it when you came in. It isn't heaven, but it is very near it, and
it also begins with H; and you are sure to like it--that is, unless you
object to the ghost."
"Oh, not in the least; only is the rest of it all right? Things are not,
generally; either the drainage is bad or there is a haunted room, and
every one who sleeps in it dies, and of course one cannot help sleeping
in it, just to see how it is going to work."
"Nothing of the kind," returned Miss Valentine; "the drainage is
excellent; and as for the haunted room, I once shared it half a summer
with a niece and namesake of mine, and we were never troubled by any
unusual occurrence, and we are both in excellent health and likely to
remain so. The ghost is reported to have a Mona Lisa face, to be dressed
in black, with something white and fluffy at the neck and sleeves, gold
bracelets, a necklace and ring of black pearls, and she carries a rose.
If her appearance means death or misfortune, the rose is white; if she
is only straying about in a friendly way, the rose is red.
"The place is called the Halden--the Hill-side. I have taken the
precaution to state vaguely that it is in the neighborhood of Zurich; I
want to do all in my power to keep the spot unspoiled. There is so
little left in Switzerland that is not tired of being looked at--the
trees are tired, and the grass, and the waterfalls; but here is a sweet
hidden-away nook, where everything is as fresh as before the days of
foreign travel. I am going to provide you with the directions for
finding it."
She sat down by the writing-desk, and presently gave a slip of paper to
Morris Davidson, who put it carefully in his pocket-book.
"The castle of the Halden," Miss Valentine continued, "belonged to a
certain countess, by name Maria Regina. There is a tradition that one
night a mist coming down from the mountain concealed the castle from the
village, and when it lifted, behold! the countess and her entire
household had vanished forever, and not a word was ever heard from them
again. The ghost-lady is supposed to be a sister of the Countess Maria
Regina, and in some way connected with the death of a young Austrian
officer who figures as a lover in the story; just whose lover no one
seems to know, but it is surmised of Maria Regina's daughter, said to be
a very aristocratic and haughty young person. The castle remained closed
after this mysterious occurrence for about two hundred years, and then
an enterprising Swiss-German had it put in order for a summer hotel.
What are you doing? I believe you are making extracts from my
'Adress-buch.' Now that is something I never allow. I like to give out
information discriminately, with personal explanations."
The young man showed what he had written. "Just a hint or two for
Italy," he said. "I may go down there next week. If I do, I shall
certainly turn aside and tarry a little at your Halden. I should like
to try whether your ghost-lady would lead me into any adventure."
Miss Valentine did not see Morris Davidson again, but a few weeks later
she received a letter bearing a Swiss postmark:
"DEAR MISS VALENTINE,--I am here, and in order to give
complete proof of it I sacrifice my prejudice and write on
ruled paper, with purple ink and an unpleasant pen, that it
may be all of the Halden. The place is exactly what I wanted
and needed. I am so delighted to have it to myself. I am the
only guest in the castle, the only stranger in the town. I
came to stay a day; I intend now to stay a week. Yesterday,
my first whole day, was perfect. I went by train to
Mühlehorn, and walked from there to Wallenstadt, came back
for dinner, and in the afternoon climbed the hill to Amden,
where I found a hepatica in bloom, and had a beautiful view
of the sunset. This morning there is a mist on the mountains,
which is slowly rising, so I am using the time for
letter-writing. Mountain-climbing is not yet inviting, owing
to the snow; but, on the whole, the season of the year is not
at all unfavorable. The loneliness is what I like best. The
people do not interest me; I avoid them, and must appear in
their eyes even more deluded than I am to come to this
secluded spot at this unseasonable moment and be satisfied
with my own society--no, not my own society, but that of
these kind brotherly mountains. From a prosaic pedant I can
almost feel myself becoming an ecstatical hermit, and my soul
getting ready to
'smooth itself out a long cramped scroll.
Freshening and fluttering in the wind.'
What a solid satisfaction it is to have a few days free from
railroad travel! I have made a roundabout journey, coming
here by way of Dresden, Leipsic, Cologne, Bonn, Frankfort,
Heidelberg, Strasburg, Freiburg, Basel, and Zurich. It was
all pleasant, but I am glad it is over. Please never
advertise the Halden as a health-resort; let it remain a
complete secret between us two, so that when we wish to leave
everything and hermitize we may have the opportunity. If it
were not for betraying this secret, I should like to
recommend the castle for its generosity. At breakfast I have
put beside my plate a five-pound loaf of bread, one slice of
which is fifteen inches long by six wide, and thick _ad
libitum_ dimensions, the delicacy of which even a Prussian
soldier would call into question.
"I haven't attempted to tell you what I think of your Halden.
It is impossible. I simply give myself over to a few days of
happiness and rest; all too soon I shall have to face the
busy world again.
"Most gratefully yours,
"MORRIS DAVIDSON.
"P.S.--I have not yet seen the ghost-lady. I thought I heard
her footstep last night in the hall and a rustling at my
door. I opened it, half expecting to find a rose upon the
threshold. I found nothing, saw nothing."
The letter was dated March 13th, and contained a pressed hepatica. Some
two months later another letter came. It said:
"I am still here. My Italian journey melted into a Swiss
sojourn. If I stay much longer I shall not dare to go away, I
feel so safe under the care of these wonderful mountains.
What words has one to describe them, with their fulness of
content, of majesty and mystery? I go daily up the time-worn
steps behind the castle, throw myself on the grass, count the
poplar-trees rising from the plain below, try to make out
where earth ends and heaven begins as the white May clouds
meet the snow-drifts on the mountain-tops. I am working a
little again, but tramping a good deal more. I have not been
so happy since I was a boy. In a certain sense I have died
here, unaided by the apparition with the rose, unless,
indeed, she has come in my sleep, and that of course would
not count. I have died, because surely all that death can
ever mean is the putting away of something no longer needed,
and therefore we die daily--one day most of all. But although
I have never seen the ghost-lady, I have every reason to have
perfect faith in her existence. I was talking with our
landlord's aged mother about it to-day. She carefully closed
the door when the conversation turned in this direction,
begging me never to mention the subject before the servants,
and then in a half-whisper she gave me exactly the same
description that you did in Berlin."
Early in June a third letter came:
"Will you believe me when I say I have not only seen _Her_,
but _Them_; that I have sat with Them, and talked with
Them--the lost ladies of the Hill-side--with the Countess
Maria Regina, the proud daughter, the mysterious sister? No,
certainly you will not believe me.
"I write nothing here of the physical results of my stay.
Enough that I am ready for work; that I love my fellow-men;
that I no longer dread to go to heaven for fear of their
society; that I have formed an intimate friendship with the
village weaver and priest and postmaster; that when we part,
as we shall to-morrow, it will be affectionately and
regretfully.
"All this you know, or have guessed. What I am about to tell,
you do not know, and can never guess.
"It had been raining for a week. You remember what it is like
here when it rains--how damp, sticky, discouraging; how cold
the stone floor; how wet the fountain splashes when one goes
through the court to dinner. I was driven to taking walks in
the hall outside my room by way of exercise, and thus
discovered in a certain dark corner a low door to which I
eventually succeeded in finding a key. This door led me into
an unused tower dimly lighted, hung with cobwebs, and filled
with old red velvet furniture. I sat down on a sofa, and
before long became conscious that I was being gazed upon by
a haughty young woman, with an aristocratic nose, large dark
eyes, hair caught back by tortoise-shell combs under a
peculiar head-dress, having a gleam of gold directly on the
top. Her gown was of dark green, with white puffs let into
the sleeves below the elbows; around her tapering waist was a
narrow belt of jewels; the front of her corsage was also
trimmed with jewels. But the most distinctive feature of her
costume consisted in a floating scarf of old-rose, worn like
the frontispiece lady in some volume of 'Keepsake' or
'Token.' Imagine meeting such a being as this unexpectedly in
the long-closed tower-room of a castle after a week of Swiss
rain! I forgot time, weather, locality, individuality; I
began to think, in fact, that I myself might be the young
Austrian officer who was murdered. Presently I noticed that
my haughty young woman had a chaperon--a lady wearing a light
green picturesquely shaped hood; a kerchief of the same shade
bordered with golden tassels; a necklace of dark beads, from
which hung a crucifix. She was not pretty, but had very plump
red cheeks, and held a little dog. I learned, on nearer
acquaintance, that this was the Countess Maria Regina, and
as she then appeared so she had looked in the year 1695.
"We sat for a while silently regarding each other, Maria
Regina's cheek seeming all the time to grow deeper in color,
the point in which the green hood terminated more and more
distinct, the little dog making ready to bark, the daughter
with the floating scarf prouder and prouder, and I, as the
Austrian officer, hardly daring to move, lest the sister with
the rose should join the group, and that perhaps be the end
of me, when I had the happy thought of going in search of
her, and thus breaking the spell, and preventing the mischief
which might occur should she come uninvited. I left the sofa
and peered about, and could scarcely believe my eyes as I
came upon her standing by the tower window, pearls, black
gown, lace frills, and rose in hand, all there, although very
indistinct and shadowy, the Mona Lisa face looking discreetly
towards the wall.
"Now, my dear Miss Valentine, having related this remarkable
adventure, I am about to relate one even more remarkable. It
occurred this very evening, between seven and eight o'clock.
I had been off for the day with the village goat-boy and his
flock--the dear creatures, who have never had their bells
removed to be painted over with Swiss landscapes and offered
for sale as souvenir bric-à-brac. I had patted the goats
good-night and good-by, and going up to my room, thrown
myself into a reclining-chair, deliciously tired as one can
only be after a long day of Swiss mountain life. The door was
open, the room full of pleasant twilight, the three ladies
safe in their tower close by. I was thinking and wondering
about them, when I heard a rustling at the opposite end of
the room. Now, as you know, the place being spacious as a
banqueting-hall, objects at a distance, especially in the
half-light, might easily deceive one. This was what I thought
as I saw by the window a girlish form in black, with
something white at the neck and sleeves. I rubbed my hands
across my eyes, looked again, and, lo! my vision had vanished
completely, noiselessly, without moving from the spot; for
there had not been time to move. I sprang up and crossed the
room. On the window-ledge was a rose, and the rose was red.
"Another curious thing--the ghost-lady of the tower,
according to her own authority, was forty-nine in the year
1698. I don't know how ghosts manage about their age, but my
ghost of this evening couldn't have been over nineteen.
"Well, I have told my story. I wait for you to suggest the
explanation of the second part; the first will explain itself
when I bring to you, in a few days at most, and with the
hearty consent and approval of the castle's present
proprietor, the Countess Maria Regina, the haughty daughter,
the ghost-lady herself, as found on the rainy day in the
tower.
"I am so well, so happy, so rich in life and thoughts and
hopes! I owe it all to you, and I thank you again and still
again, and sign my last letter from the Halden with the sweet
salutation of the country, 'Grüss' Gott!'
"Devotedly yours,
"MORRIS DAVIDSON.
"_Midnight, June the first._"
In the same mail Miss Valentine received a letter from her niece and
namesake, who was travelling with friends from Munich to Geneva.
"MY DEAREST AUNT,--I can't possibly go to sleep without
telling you about this beautiful day. Of course you knew we
were going through Zurich, but you did not know we were
going to give ourselves the joy of stopping for a little
glimpse of the Halden country.
"We took a very early train this morning, and without waiting
at the village, went directly on that glorious ten-mile walk
to Obstalden, and dined at the inn 'Zum Hirschen.'
"You remember it--there where we tried to express ourselves
once in verse:
"The pasture-lands stretched far overhead,
And blooming pathways heavenward led,
As on the best of the land we fed
At the pleasant inn 'Zum Hirschen.'
"Above us, a sky of wondrous blue;
Below, a lake of marvellous hue;
And glad seemed life--the whole way through,
That day as we dined 'Zum Hirschen.'
"And that was how life seemed to-day, but we were wise enough
not to attempt poetry. When we got back to the village at
night, we climbed up to the castle for supper. I did so hope
to see your Mr. Davidson; unfortunately he had gone off for a
long tramp. You should hear die alte Grossmutter talk about
him; she can't begin to say flattering things enough. And
where do you think I went, Aunt Olivia? Into our old room, to
be sure--your Mr. Davidson's room now--the door was open,
and so I entered.
"Oh, the view from that window!--the snow-tipped mountain
over across the quiet lake, the little village, the castle
garden, with its terraces and bowers! I wanted you so much!
"Suddenly I had a feeling as if some one were coming, and
very gently I pushed aside the panel door, closed it behind
me, and descended in the dark--not a minute too soon, as it
proved, because, firstly, when I looked back there was a
light in the room above; and secondly, the rest of the party
had gone to the station, expecting to find me there, and I
arrived just in time to prevent us from missing the train.
"And, oh, dear Aunt Olivia, your Mr. Davidson has made some
wonderful discovery. Die alte Grossmutter couldn't resist
telling me, although she wouldn't tell me what it was; she
said he was intending to bring it, or them, to you as a
present, and he might be wishing to make it a surprise, and
it wasn't for her to go and spoil it all. Now what do you
suppose it can be? I am consumed with curiosity, and could
shed tears of envy. He doesn't know a word about the secret
stairway. Die alte Grossmutter hadn't thought to mention it.
Imagine that! So exactly like people who possess unusual
things not to appreciate them. When you build your house do
put in a secret stairway, they are so convenient. The castle
garden to-day was a perfect wilderness of roses; we brought
as many as we could back to Zurich, and one I left on the
window-ledge of our old room--an unsigned offering from a
past to a present occupant. It was a red rose too, and
therefore of particularly good omen at the Halden. I wonder
if your Mr. Davidson has found it yet, and is asking himself
how it came?
"And now, my dearest Aunt Olivia, I kiss you good-night, and
end my letter with the sweet salutation which we have been
hearing all day from peasant folk--'Grüss' Gott!'
"Lovingly, your namesake niece,
"OLIVIA.
"_Midnight, June the first._"